(_The same, with_ M. de Petitpré _and_ Mme. de Ronchard, _who enters
quickly_ C.)
PETITPRÉ
What is this I hear? Jean Martinel gone out?
MARTINEL
He is coming back very soon, sir.
PETITPRÉ
But why on earth did he go out on such an evening as this without a word
of explanation to his wife? [_Turns to_ Gilberte] You know nothing about
it, do you?
GILBERTE [_seated_ L. _of table_]
Father, I know nothing at all about it.
MME. DE RONCHARD
And without a word of explanation to the family! That is indeed a lack
of courtesy.
PETITPRÉ [_to_ Martinel]
And why has he acted in this way, sir?
MARTINEL
Your son knows as much as I do, sir; but neither of us can reveal it to
you. Moreover, your daughter has consented to wait until she can learn
all about it from her husband on his return.
PETITPRÉ
My daughter has consented--but I do not consent! Besides, it seems that
you alone were forewarned of this sudden departure.
MME. DE RONCHARD [_in agitation to_ Martinel]
It was to you they brought the letter, and you were the one who read it
first.
MARTINEL
You are correctly informed, Madame; a letter was delivered here, but I
would not shoulder the responsibility of this matter, and I showed the
letter to your son, sir [_turns to_ Petitpré], and asked his advice with
the intention of following it.
LÉON
The advice that I gave is exactly what my brother-in-law has done of his
own volition, and I esteem him all the more for it.
PETITPRÉ [_turns to_ Léon]
It is I who should have been consulted, not you. If Jean's action is
indeed excusable, his want of courtesy is absolutely unpardonable.
MME. DE RONCHARD
It is scandalous!
LÉON [_to_ M. Petitpré]
Yes, it would have been better to consult you, but the urgency of the
matter did not allow it. You would have discussed the matter; my aunt
would have discussed the matter; we should all have discussed the matter
the whole night long, and you know there are times when one cannot
afford to lose even seconds. Silence was necessary until Jean's return.
When he does return he will hide nothing from you, and I feel sure that
you will judge him as I myself have judged him.
MME. DE RONCHARD [_turns to_ Martinel]
But this letter, from whom did it come?
MARTINEL
Oh, I can tell you that. It came from a physician.
MME. DE RONCHARD
From a physician--a physician--then he must have a sick patient--and it
is on account of this patient that he made Jean come to him. But who is
the patient? Oh, ho! I surmise that it is a woman--that woman--his
former mistress, who has played this card today. Sick! I suppose she has
made a pretense of poisoning herself in order to show him that she loves
him still and will always love him. Oh, the little wretch! [_To_ Léon.]
This is the kind of people you stand up for! Yes, you!
LÉON
It would be only reasonable, my dear Aunt, not to air all these
revolting theories of yours in Gilberte's presence, especially when you
really know nothing at all.
GILBERTE [_rises_]
Do not speak any more about it, I pray you. Everything that I have heard
just now distresses me beyond measure. I will wait for my husband; I do
not wish to know anything except from his lips, as I have absolute
confidence in him. If misfortune has threatened us, I will not hear such
things talked of. [_Exit_ L, _accompanied by_ Petitpré. _Short
silence_.]
MME. DE RONCHARD [_turns to_ Léon]
Well, Léon, do you always win? You see what charming fellows these
husbands are--every one of them!
ACT II.
SCENE I.
Musotte's _bedroom, neatly furnished, but without luxury. Disordered bed
stands_ L. _A screen stands_ L. I. E., _almost hiding_ Musotte, _who
lies stretched at length upon a steamer-chair. Beside the bed is a
cradle, the head of which is turned up stage. On the mantelpiece and on
small tables at_ R. _and_ L. _are vials of medicine, cups, chafing-dish,
etc. A table stands_, R. I. E. Musotte _is sleeping_. La Babin _and_
Mme. Flache _stand_ C. _looking at her_.
LA BABIN [_in low tones_]
How she sleeps!
MME. FLACHE [_in the same voice_]
But she will not sleep long now, unless she is going into her last
sleep.
LA BABIN
Oh, there is no chance of that. That is enough to give one the horrors.
Fancy losing one's life for a child!
MME. FLACHE
But how can you prevent it? Death is as necessary as birth, or the world
would become too small for us all.
LA BABIN [_sits_ R. _of table_]
All people ought to die in the same way and at the same age--every one
of us; then one would know what to expect.
MME. FLACHE [_pours out some tea_]
What simple ideas you have, Madame Babin! Personally, I would rather not
know the hour of my death. I would sooner finish my life while sleeping
in the middle of the night--during slumber--without suffering--by a
sudden failure of the heart.
LA BABIN
Look at the sick woman. How silly of her to wish to rest upon that
steamer-chair as she has done. The doctor told her plainly that such an
effort would probably finish her.
MME. FLACHE [_sits_ L. _of table_]
Oh, I understand her motive. When a girl like her has a lover she
commits every kind of folly, and more especially, nurse, when they are
at all coquettish; but you country people do not know anything about
such things. They are coquettish through and through. That is the reason
she wished to look her prettiest. She was afraid of being thought ugly,
don't you understand? So I had to put on her _peignoir_, and tidy her
up, and arrange her hair just as I have done.
LA BABIN
Oh, these Parisians! It is necessary that they should have a hairdresser
even to the last gasp! [_A short silence_.] But will this gentleman of
hers come?
MME. FLACHE
I do not think so. Men are not overfond of obeying the calls of their
former mistresses at such times, and then, this lover of hers was
married to-day, poor fellow!
LA BABIN
Well, that is a joke.
MME. FLACHE
I should say so.
LA BABIN
Certainly, then, he won't come. In such a case would _you_ go to see a
man?
MME. FLACHE
Oh, if I loved him very much I should go.
LA BABIN
Even if you were marrying another the same day?
MME. FLACHE
Just the same. For such a combination of circumstances would pierce my
heart; would penetrate me with a strong emotion,--and, oh, I am so fond
of such emotions!
LA BABIN
Well, so far as I am concerned, I certainly would not go. I should be
too much afraid of the shock.
MME. FLACHE
But Doctor Pellerin asserts that the man will come.
LA BABIN
Do you know this physician well?
MME. FLACHE
Who, Doctor Pellerin?
LA BABIN
Yes; he has the air of a charming man of the world.
MME. FLACHE
Oh, yes; he is all that, but he is also a good physician. Then he is
such good company, and has such a smooth tongue. And you know he is not
physician to the Opera for nothing.
LA BABIN
That little puppy of a--
MME. FLACHE
A puppy! You don't very often find puppies among men of his caliber, and
then,-oh, how he used to love the girls! Oh, oh! Although, for the
matter of that, there are many physicians who are like him. It was at
the Opera that I first met him.
LA BABIN
At the Opera!
MME. FLACHE
Yes, at the Opera. You know, I was a dancer there for eight years. Yes,
indeed, even I--just as you see me, a dancer at the Opera.
LA BABIN
You, Madame Flache!
MME. FLACHE
Yes, my mother was a midwife, and taught me the business at the same
time that she taught me dancing, because she always said it was well to
have two strings to your bow. Dancing, you see, is all very well,
provided you are not too ambitious of appearing on first nights, but,
unhappily, that was the case with me. I was as slender as a thread when
I was twenty, and very agile, but I grew fat and scant of breath, and
became rather heavy in my steps; so when my mother died, as I had my
diploma as a midwife, I took her apartment and her business, and I added
the title of “Midwife to the Opera,” for all their business comes to me.
They like me very much there. When I was dancing, they used to call me
Mademoiselle Flacchi the première.
LA BABIN
Then you have been married since then?
MME. FLACHE
No, but a woman in my profession should always assume the title of
Madame for the sake of its dignity. You know, it gives confidence. But,
how about you, nurse, from what place do you come? You know, you have
only just come here, and nobody consulted me about engaging you.
LA BABIN
I am from Yvetot.
MME. FLACHE
Is this your first engagement as a nurse?
LA BABIN
No, my third. I have had two daughters and a little boy.
MME. FLACHE
And your husband, is he a farmer or a gardener?
LA BABIN [_Simply_]
I am not married.
MME. FLACHE [_laughing_]
Not married, and with three children! Upon my word, let me compliment
you; you are indeed precocious.
LA BABIN
Don't talk about it; it was not my will. It is the good God who does
these things. One cannot prevent it.
MME. FLACHE
How simple you are! Now you will probably have a fourth child.
LA BABIN
That's very possible.
MME. FLACHE
Well, what does your lover do? What is his business? Or perhaps you have
more than one?
LA BABIN [_with indignation_]
There has never been more than one. I give you my word, upon my hope of
salvation. He is a lemonade-seller at Yvetot.
MME. FLACHE
Is he a handsome fellow?
LA BABIN
I believe you, indeed! He is handsome! [_Confidentially_.] If I tell you
all this, it is only because you are a midwife, and a midwife in such
affairs as this is like a priest in the confessional. But you, Madame
Flache, you, who have been a dancer at the Opera, you must also have
had, surely--little love affairs--little intrigues?
MME. FLACHE [_evidently flattered, and in a dreamy tone_]
Oh, yes, one or two!
LA BABIN [_laughs_]
And have you never had--this sort of accident? [_Points to the cradle_.]
MME. FLACHE
No.
LA BABIN
How did that come?
MME. FLACHE [_rises and approaches the mantelpiece_]
Probably because I was a midwife.
LA BABIN
Well, I know one in your profession who has had five.
MME. FLACHE [_with contempt_]
She evidently did not come from Paris.
LA BABIN
That's true; she came from Courbevoie.
MUSOTTE [_in a feeble voice_] Is no one there?
MME. FLACHE
She is awakening. There, there! [_Folds up the screen which hides the
long steamer-chair_.]
MUSOTTE
Hasn't he come yet?
MME. FLACHE
No.
MUSOTTE
He will arrive too late--my God! My God!
MME. FLACHE
What an idea! He will come.
MUSOTTE
And my little darling--my child?
MME. FLACHE
He is sleeping like an angel.
MUSOTTE [_after looking at herself in a hand-mirror_]
I must not look like this when he comes. Oh, God! Bring my child--I want
to see him.
MME. FLACHE
But if I show him to you he will wake up, and who knows if he will go to
sleep again.
MUSOTTE
Bring the cradle here. [_A gesture of refusal from_ Mme Flache.] Yes,
yes! I insist, [Mme. Flache _and the nurse gently bring the cradle to
her_.] Nearer, nearer, so that I can see him well--the darling! My
child, my child! And I am going to leave him! Soon I shall disappear
into the unknown. Oh. God, what agony!
MME. FLACHE
Now don't go worrying yourself like that; you are not as ill as you
think. I have seen lots worse than you. Come, come! you are going to
recover. Take away the cradle, nurse. [_They put the cradle again in its
place; then to the nurse_.] That will do, that will do. Watch me. You
know very well that it is only I who can quiet it. [_Sits near the
cradle, and sings a lullaby while rocking it_.]
“A little gray fowl
Came into the barn,
To lay a big egg
For the good boy that sleeps.
Go to sleep, go to sleep,
My little chicken!
Go to sleep, sleep, my chick!”
LA BABIN [_stands near the end of the mantelpiece, drinks the sugared
water, and slips loaf sugar into her pocket; aside_]
I must not forget the main thing. I have just seen in the kitchen the
remains of a leg of mutton, to which I should like to go and say a few
words. I am breaking in two with hunger just now.
MME. FLACHE [_sings softly_]
“A little black fowl
Came into the room,
To lay a big egg
For the good boy that sleeps.
Sleep, sleep, my little chicken,
Sleep, oh, sleep, my chick!”
MUSOTTE [_from the long chair, after moaning several times_]
Has he gone to sleep again?
MME. FLACHE [_goes toward_ Musotte]
Yes, Mademoiselle, just as if he were a little Jesus. Do you wish to
know what I think about him, this young man lying here? You will lead
him to the altar for his marriage. He is a jewel, like yourself, my
dear.
MUSOTTE
Do you really think him pretty?
MME. FLACHE
On the honor of a midwife, I have seldom brought into the world one so
pretty. It is a pleasure to know that one has brought to the light such
a little Cupid as he is.
MUSOTTE
And to think that in a few hours, perhaps, I shall see him no more; look
at him no more; love him no more!
MME. FLACHE
Oh, no, no! You are talking unreasonably.
MUSOTTE
Ah, I know it too well! I heard you talking with the nurse. I know that
the end is very near; this night, perhaps. Would the doctor have written
to Jean to come and see me on this evening--the evening of his
marriage--if I were not at the point of death? [_The bell rings_.
Musotte _utters a cry_.] Ah, there he is! it is he! Quick! quick! Oh,
God, how I suffer! [_Exit_ Mme. Flache C. Musotte _gazes after her.
Enter_ Dr. Pellerin, _in evening clothes_.]
SCENE II.
MUSOTTE [_despairingly_]
Ah! it is not he!
PELLERIN [_approaches_ Musotte]
Has he not come yet?
MUSOTTE
He will not come.
DR. PELLERIN
He will! I am certain of it; I know it.
MUSOTTE
No!
DR. PELLERIN
I swear it! [_Turns toward_ Mme. Flache.] Hasn't he answered the note
yet?
MME. FLACHE
No, Doctor.
DR. PELLERIN
Well, he will come. How is my patient?
MME. FLACHE
She has rested a little.
MUSOTTE [_in an agitated voice_]
All is over! I feel that I shall not rest any more until he comes, or
until I depart without having seen him.
DR. PELLERIN
He will come if you will go to sleep immediately and sleep until
to-morrow morning.
MUSOTTE
You would not have written to him to come this evening if I had been
able to wait until to-morrow morning. [_The bell rings_.] If that is not
he, I am lost--lost! [Mme. Flache _runs to open the door_. Musotte
_listens intently, and hears from below a man's voice; then murmurs
despairingly_.] It is not he!
MME. FLACHE [_re-enters with a vial in her hand_]
It is the medicine from the chemist.
MUSOTTE [_agitated_]
Oh, God! how horrible! He is not coming; what have I done? Doctor, show
me my child. I will see him once more.
DR. PELLERIN
But he sleeps, my little Musotte.
MUSOTTE
Well, he has plenty of time in the future for sleep.
DR. PELLERIN
Come, come, calm yourself.
MUSOTTE
If Jean does not come, who will take care of my child?--for it is Jean's
child, I swear to you. Do you believe me? Oh, how I loved him!
DR. PELLERIN
Yes, my dear little child, we believe you. But please be calm.
MUSOTTE [_with increasing agitation_]
Tell me, when you went away just now where did you go?
DR. PELLERIN
To see a patient.
MUSOTTE
That is not true. You went to see Jean, and he would not come with you,
or he would be here now.
DR. PELLERIN
On my word of honor, no.
MUSOTTE
Yes, I feel it. You have seen him, and you do not dare to tell me for
fear it would kill me.
DR. PELLERIN
Ah, the fever is coming back again. This must not go on. I don't wish
you to be delirious when he comes. [_Turns to_ Mme. Flache.] We must
give her a hypodermic injection. Give me the morphia. [Mme. Flache
_brings the needle and morphia, from the mantelpiece and gives it to_
Dr. Pellerin.]
MUSOTTE [_uncovers her own arm_]
But for this relief, I do not know how I should have borne up during the
last few days. [Dr. Pellerin _administers the hypodermic_.]
DR. PELLERIN
Now, you must go to sleep; I forbid you to speak. I won't answer you,
and I tell you of a certainty that in a quarter of an hour Jean will be
here. [Musotte _stretches herself out obediently upon the couch and goes
to sleep_.]
LA BABIN [_silently replaces the screen which hides_ Musotte]
How she sleeps! What a benediction that drug is! But I don't want any of
it. It scares me; it is a devil's potion. [_Sits near the cradle and
reads a newspaper_.]
MME. FLACHE [_in a low voice to_ Dr. Pellerin]
Oh, the poor girl, what misery!
DR. PELLERIN [_in the same tone_]
Yes, she is a brave girl. It is some time since I first met her with
Jean Martinel, who gave her three years of complete happiness. She has a
pure and simple soul.
MME. FLACHE
Well, will this Monsieur Martinel come?
DR. PELLERIN
I think so. He is a man of feeling, but it is a difficult thing for him
to leave his wife and his people on such a day as this.
MME. FLACHE
It certainly is a most extraordinary case. A veritable _fiasco_.
DR. PELLERIN
It is, indeed.
MME. FLACHE [_changes her tone_]
Where have you been just now? You did not put on evening dress and a
white cravat to go and see a patient?
DR. PELLERIN
I went to see the first part of the Montargy ballet danced.
MME. FLACHE [_interested, and leaning upon the edge of the table_]
And was it good? Tell me.
DR. PELLERIN [_sits_ L. _of table_]
It was very well danced.
MME. FLACHE
The new directors do things in style, don't they?
DR. PELLERIN
Jeanne Merali and Gabrielle Poivrier are first class.
MME. FLACHE
Poivrier--the little Poivrier--is it possible! As to Merali I am not so
much astonished; although she is distinctly ugly, she has her good
points. And how about Mauri?
DR. PELLERIN
Oh, a marvel--an absolute marvel, who dances as no one else can. A human
bird with limbs for wings. It was absolute perfection.
MME. FLACHE
Are you in love with her?
DR. PELLERIN
Oh, no; merely an admirer. You know how I worship the dance.
MME. FLACHE
And the _danseuses_ also, at times. [_Lowering her eyes._] Come, have
you forgotten?
DR. PELLERIN
One can never forget artists of your worth, my dear.
MME. FLACHE
You are simply teasing me.
DR. PELLERIN
I only do you justice. You know that formerly, when I was a young
doctor, I had for you a very ardent passion which lasted six weeks. Tell
me, don't you regret the time of the grand _fête_?
MME. FLACHE
A little. But reason comes when one is young no longer, and I have
nothing to complain of. My business is very prosperous.
DR. PELLERIN
You are making money, then? They tell me that you are giving dainty
little dinners.
MME. FLACHE
I believe you, and I have a particularly good _chef_. Won't you give me
the pleasure of entertaining you at dinner one of these days, my dear
Doctor?
DR. PELLERIN
Very willingly, my dear.
MME. FLACHE
Shall I have any other physicians, or do you prefer to come alone?
DR. PELLERIN
Alone, if you please. I am not fond of a third party. [_The bell
rings._]
MUSOTTE [_awakens_]
Ah, some one rang, run and see. [_Exit_ Mme. Flache. _A short silence._]
A VOICE [_without_]
Madame Henriette Lévêque?
MUSOTTE [_emitting an anguished cry_]
Ah, it is he! There he is! [_Makes an effort to rise. Enter_ Jean
Martinel.] Jean! Jean! At last! [_Springs up and stretches her arms to
him._]
SCENE III.
(_The same,--with_ Jean Martinel.)
JEAN [_comes rapidly forward, kneels near the long steamer-chair, and
kisses_ Musotte's _hands_]
My poor little Musotte! [_They begin to weep and dry their eyes; then
they remain silent and motionless. At last_ Jean _rises and holds up his
hand to_ Dr. Pellerin.]
PELLERIN
Did I do well?
JEAN
You did indeed, and I thank you.
PELLERIN [_introduces them_]
Madame Flache, the midwife--the nurse--[_indicates the cradle with a
grave gesture_] and there!
JEAN [_approaches the cradle and lifts the little curtain, takes up the
child and kisses it on the mouth; then lays it down again_]
He is a splendid boy!
DR. PELLERIN
A very pretty child.
MME. FLACHE
A superb morsel--one of my prettiest.
JEAN [_in a low voice_]
And Musotte, how is she?
MUSOTTE [_who has heard him_]
I,--I am almost lost. I know surely that all is over. [_To_ Jean.] Take
that little chair, dear, and seat yourself near me, and let us talk as
long as I am able to speak. I have so many things to say to you, for we
shall never be together any more. I am so glad to see you again that
nothing else now seems of any importance.
JEAN [_approaching her_] Don't agitate yourself. Don't get excited.
MUSOTTE
How can I help being agitated at seeing you again?
JEAN [_sits on the low chair, takes_ Musotte's _hand_]
My poor Musotte, I cannot tell you what a shock it was to me when I
learned just now that you were so ill.
MUSOTTE
And on this day of all days! It must have shocked you greatly.
JEAN
What! Do you know of it then?
MUSOTTE
Yes, since I felt so ill, I kept myself informed about you every day, in
order that I might not pass away without having seen you and spoken to
you again, for I have so much to say to you. [_At a sign from_ Jean,
Mme. Flache, Pellerin, _and_ La Babin _exit_ R.]
SCENE IV.
(Musotte _and_ Jean.)
MUSOTTE
Then you received the letter?
JEAN
Yes.
MUSOTTE
And you came immediately?
JEAN
Certainly.
MUSOTTE
Thanks--ah! thanks. I hesitated a long time before warning
you--hesitated even this morning, but I heard the midwife talking with
the nurse and learned that to-morrow perhaps it might be too late, so I
sent Doctor Pellerin to call you immediately.
JEAN
Why didn't you call me sooner?
MUSOTTE
I never thought that my illness would become so serious. I did not wish
to trouble your life.
JEAN [_points to the cradle_]
But that child! How is it that I was not told of this sooner?
MUSOTTE
You would never have known it, if his birth had not killed me. I would
have spared you this pain--this cloud upon your life. When you left me,
you gave me enough to live upon. Everything was over between us; and
besides, at any other moment than this, would you believe me if I said
to you: “This is your child?”
JEAN
Yes, I have never doubted you.
MUSOTTE
You are as good as ever, my Jean. No, no, I am not lying to you; he is
yours, that little one there. I swear it to you on my deathbed; I swear
it to you before God!
JEAN
I have already told you that I believed you. I have always believed you.
MUSOTTE
Listen, this is all that has happened. As soon as you left me, I became
very ill. I suffered so much that I thought I was going to die. The
doctor ordered a change of air. You remember, it was in the spring. I
went to Saint-Malo--to that old relative, of whom I have often talked to
you.
JEAN
Yes, yes.
MUSOTTE
It was in Saint-Malo, after some days, that I realized that you had left
me a pledge of your affection. My first desire was to tell you
everything, for I knew that you were an honest man--that you would have
recognized this child, perhaps even have given up your marriage; but I
would not have had you do that. All was over; was it not?--and it was
better that it should be so. I knew that I could never be your wife
[_smiles_], Musotte, me, Madame Martinel--oh, no!
JEAN
My poor, dear girl. How brutal and hard we men are, without thinking of
it and without wishing to be so!
MUSOTTE
Don't say that. I was not made for you. I was only a little model; and
you, you were a rising artist, and I never thought that you would belong
to me forever. [Jean _sheds tears_.] No, no, don't cry; you have nothing
to reproach yourself with. You have always been so good to me. It is
only God who has been cruel to me.
JEAN
Musotte!
MUSOTTE
Let me go on. I remained at Saint-Malo without revealing my condition.
Then I came back to Paris, and here some months afterward the little one
was born--the child! When I fully understood what had happened to me, I
experienced at first such fear; yes, such fear! Then I remembered that
he was bone of your bone, and flesh of your flesh; that you had given
him life, and that he was a pledge from you. But one is so stupid when
one knows nothing. One's ideas change just as one's moods change, and I
became contented all at once; contented with the thought that I would
bring him up, that he would grow to be a man, that he would call me
mother. [_Weeps._] Now, he will never call me mother. He will never put
his little arms around my neck, because I am going to leave him; because
I am going away--I don't know where; but there, where everybody goes.
Oh, God! My God!
JEAN
Calm yourself, my little Musotte. Would you be able to speak as you do
speak if you were as ill as you think you are?
MUSOTTE
You do not see that the fever is burning within me; that I am losing my
head, and don't know longer what I say.
JEAN
No, no; please calm yourself.
MUSOTTE
Pet me; pet me, Jean, and you will calm me.
JEAN [_kisses her hair; then resumes_]
There, there; don't speak any more for a minute or two. Let us remain
quietly here near each other.
MUSOTTE
But I must speak to you; I have so many things to say to you yet, and do
not know how to say them. My head is beyond my control. Oh, my God! how
shall I do it? [_Raises herself, looks around her and sees the cradle._]
Ah, yes, I know; I recollect, it is he, my child. Tell me, Jean, what
will you do with him? You know that I am an orphan, and when I am gone
he will be here all alone--alone in the world! Poor little thing! Listen,
Jean, my head is quite clear now. I shall understand very well what you
answer me now, and the peace of my closing moments depends upon it. I
have no one to leave the little one to but you.
JEAN
I promise you that I will take him, look after him, and bring him up.
MUSOTTE
As a father?
JEAN
As a father.
MUSOTTE
You have already seen him?
JEAN
Yes.
MUSOTTE
Go and look at him again. [Jean _goes over to the cradle._]
JEAN
He is pretty, isn't he?
MUSOTTE
Everybody says so. Look at him, the poor little darling, who has enjoyed
only a few days of life as yet. He belongs to us. You are his father; I
am his mother, but soon he will have a mother no more. [_In anguish._]
Promise me that he shall always have a father.
JEAN [_goes over to her_]
I promise it, my darling!
MUSOTTE
A true father, who will always love him well?
JEAN I promise it.
MUSOTTE
You will be good--very good--to him?
JEAN
I swear it to you!
MUSOTTE
And then, there is something else--but I dare not--
JEAN
Tell it to me.
MUSOTTE
Since I came back to Paris, I have sought to see you without being seen
by you, and I have seen you three times. Each time you were with
her--with your sweetheart, your wife, and with a gentleman--her father,
I think. Oh, how I looked at her! I asked myself: “Will she love him as
I have loved him? Will she make him happy? Is she good?” Tell me, do you
really believe she is very good?
JEAN
Yes, darling, I believe it.
MUSOTTE
You are very certain of it?
JEAN
Yes, indeed.
MUSOTTE
And I thought so, too, simply from seeing her pass by. She is so pretty!
I have been a little jealous, and I wept on coming back. But what are
you going to do now as between her and your son?
JEAN
I shall do my duty.
MUSOTTE
Your duty? Does that mean by her or by him?
JEAN
By him.
MUSOTTE
Listen, Jean: when I am no more, ask your wife from me, from the mouth
of a dead woman, to adopt him, this dear little morsel of humanity-to
love him as I would have loved him; to be a mother to him in my stead.
If she is tender and kind, she will consent. Tell her how you saw me
suffer--that my last prayer, my last supplication on earth was offered
up for her. Will you do this?
JEAN
I promise you that I will.
MUSOTTE
Ah! How good you are! Now I fear nothing; my poor little darling is
safe, and I am happy and calm. Ah, how calm I am! You didn't know, did
you, that I called him Jean, after you? That does not displease you,
does it?
JEAN [_weeps_]
No, no!
MUSOTTE
You weep--so you still love me a little, Jean? Ah, how I thank you for
this! But if I only could live; it must be possible. I feel so much
better since you came here, and since you have promised me all that I
have asked you. Give me your hand. At this moment I can recall all our
life together, and I am content--almost gay; in fact, I can laugh--see,
I can laugh, though I don't know why. [_Laughs._]
JEAN
Oh, calm yourself for my sake, dear little Musotte.
MUSOTTE
If you could only understand how recollections throng upon me. Do you
remember that I posed for your “Mendiante,” for your “Violet Seller,”
for your “Guilty Woman,” which won for you your first medal? And do you
remember the breakfast at Ledoyen's on Varnishing Day? There were more
than twenty-five at a table intended for ten. What follies we committed,
especially that little, little--what did he call himself--I mean that
little comic fellow, who was always making portraits which resembled no
one? Oh, yes, Tavernier! And you took me home with you to your studio,
where you had two great manikins which frightened me so, and I called to
you, and you came in to reassure me. Oh, how heavenly all that was! Do
you remember? [_Laughs again_.] Oh, if that life could only begin over
again! [_Cries suddenly_.] Ah, what pain! [_To_ Jean, _who is going for
the doctor_.] No, stay, stay! [_Silence. A sudden change comes over her
face_.] See, Jean, what glorious weather! If you like, we will take the
baby for a sail on a river steamboat; that will be so jolly! I love
those little steamboats; they are so pretty. They glide over the water
quickly and without noise. Now that I am your wife, I can assert
myself--I am armed. Darling, I never thought that you would marry me.
And look at our little one--how pretty he is, and how he grows! He is
called Jean after you. And I--I have my two little Jeans--mine--altogether
mine! You don't know how happy I am. And the little one walks to-day for
the first time! [_Laughs aloud, with her arms stretched out, pointing to
the child which she thinks is before her_.]
JEAN [_weeps_]
Musotte! Musotte! Don't you know me?
MUSOTTE
Indeed I know you! Am I not your wife? Kiss me, darling. Kiss me, my
little one.
JEAN [_takes her in his arms, weeping and repeating_]
Musotte! Musotte! [Musotte _rises upon her couch, and with a gesture to_
Jean _points to the cradle, toward which he goes, nodding “Yes, yes,”
with his head. When_ Jean _reaches the cradle,_ Musotte, _who has raised
herself upon her hands, falls lifeless upon the long steamer-chair._
Jean, _frightened, calls out_] Pellerin! Pellerin!
SCENE V.
(_The same:_ Pellerin, Mme. Flache, _and_ La Babin, _enter quickly_ R.)
PELLERIN [_who has gone swiftly to_ Musotte, _feels her pulse and
listens at the heart_]
Her heart is not beating! Give me a mirror, Madame Flache.
JEAN
My God! [Mme. Flache _gives a hand-mirror to_ Pellerin, _who holds it
before the lips of_ Musotte, _Pause_.]
PELLERIN [_in a low voice_]
She is dead!
JEAN [_takes the dead woman's hand and kisses it fondly, his voice
choked with emotion_]
Farewell, my dear little Musotte! To think that a moment ago you were
speaking to me--a moment ago you were looking at me, you saw me, and
now--all is over!
PELLERIN [_goes to_ Jean _and takes him by the shoulder_]
Now, you must go at once. Go! You have nothing more to do here. Your
duty is over.
JEAN [_rises_]
I go. Farewell, poor little Musotte!
PELLERIN
I will take care of everything this evening. But the child, do you wish
me to find an asylum for him?
JEAN
Oh, no, I will take him. I have sworn it to that poor, dead darling.
Come and join me immediately at my house, and bring him with you. Then I
shall have another service to request of you. But how about Musotte, who
is going to remain with her?
MME. FLACHE
I, Monsieur. Have no anxiety; I am acquainted with all that must be
done.
JEAN
Thank you, Madame. [_Approaches the bed; closes_ Musotte's _eyes and
kisses her fondly and for a long time upon her forehead_.] Farewell,
Musotte, forever! [_Goes softly to the cradle, removes the veil, kisses
the child and speaks to it in a firm voice which at the same time is
full of tears_.] I shall see you again directly, my little Jean!
[_Exit quickly_].
ACT III.
SCENE I.
(_Same setting as in_ Act I.)
(Monsieur de Petitpré, Mme. de Ronchard, M. Martinel, _and_ Léon.)
MME. DE RONCHARD [_walks about in an agitated manner_]
Seven minutes to midnight! It is nearly two hours since Jean left us!
LEON [_seated_ L.]
But, my dear Aunt, just allow a half hour in the carriage for going and
a half hour for returning, and there remains just one hour for the
business he had to attend to.
MME. DE RONCHARD
Was it so very long, then--the business that called him hence?
LEON
Yes, my dear Aunt; and now, why worry yourself by counting the minutes?
Your agitation will change nothing in the end, and will not hasten
Jean's return by a single second, or make the hands of the clock move
more quickly.
MME. DE RONCHARD
How can you ask me not to worry when my mind is full of anxiety, when my
heart is beating, and I feel the tears rising into my eyes?
LÉON
But, my dear Aunt, you know very well you do not feel as badly as that.
MME. DE RONCHARD
Oh, you irritate me!
MARTINEL [_seated near the table_]
Don't torment yourself, Madame. True, the situation is a rather delicate
one, but it need not disquiet you or frighten us, if we know how to
bring to its consideration at this moment coolness and reason.
LÉON
Just so, my dear Aunt, Monsieur Martinel speaks truly.
MME. DE RONCHARD [_crosses_ R.]
You ought to be beaten, you two! You know everything, and won't tell
anything. How annoying men are! There is never any means of making them
tell a secret.
MARTINEL
Jean will come presently and will tell you everything. Have a little
patience.
PETITPRÉ
Yes; let us be calm. Let us talk of other things, or be silent, if we
can.
MME. DE RONCHARD
Be silent! That is about, the most difficult thing--
A SERVANT [_enters_ R.]
A gentleman wishes to see M. Martinel.
MARTINEL [_rises_.]
Pardon me for a moment. [_To the servant._] Very well, I am coming.
[_Exit_ R.]
SCENE II.
MME. DE RONCHARD [_approaches servant quickly_]
Baptiste, Baptiste! Who is asking for M. Martinel?
SERVANT
I do not know, Madame. It was the hall porter who came upstairs.
MME. DE RONCHARD
Well, run now and look without showing yourself, and come back and tell
us at once.
PETITPRÉ [_who has risen at the entrance of the servant_]
No, I will permit no spying; let us wait. We shall not have to wait long
now. [_To the servant._] You may go. [_Exit servant._]
MME. DE RONCHARD [_to_ Petitpré]
I do not understand you at all. You are absolutely calm. One would think
that your daughter's happiness was nothing to you. For myself, I am
profoundly agitated.
PETITPRÉ
That will do no good. [_Sits near the table_ R.] Let us talk--talk
reasonably, now that we are a family party and Monsieur Martinel is
absent.
MME. DE RONCHARD [_Sits_ R.]
If that man would only go back to Havre!
LÉON [_Sits_ L. _of table_]
That would not change anything even if he could go back to Havre.
PETITPRÉ
For my part, I think--
MME. DE RONCHARD [_interrupts_]
Do you wish to hear my opinion? Well, I think that they are preparing us
for some unpleasant surprise; that they wish to entrap us, as one might
say.
PETITPRÉ
But why? In whose interest? Jean Martinel is an honest man, and he loves
my child. Léon, whose judgment I admire, although he is my son--
LEON
Thank you, father!
PETITPRÉ
Léon bears Jean as much affection as esteem. As to the uncle--
MME. DE RONCHARD
Don't talk about them, I pray. It is this woman who is seeking to entrap
us. She has played some little comedy, and she chooses to-day above all
others for its _dénouement_. It is her stage climax; her masterpiece of
treachery.
LÉON
As in “The Ambigu.”
MME. DE RONCHARD
Do not laugh. I know these women. I have suffered enough at their hands.
PETITPRÉ
Oh, my poor Clarisse; if you really understood them, you would have held
your husband better than you did.
MME. DE RONCHARD [_rises_]
What do you mean by “understanding” them? Pardon me--to live with that
roisterer coming in upon me when and whence he pleased--I prefer my
broken life and my loneliness--with you!
PETITPRÉ
No doubt you are right from your point of view of a married woman; but
there are other points of view, perhaps less selfish and certainly
superior, such as that of family interest.
MME. DE RONCHARD
Of family interest, indeed? Do you mean to say that I was wrong from the
point of view of the family interest--you, a magistrate!
PETITPRÉ
My duties as a magistrate have made me very prudent, for I have seen
pass under my eyes many equivocal and terrible situations, which not
only agonized my conscience but gave me many cruel hours of indecision.
Man is often so little responsible and circumstances are often so
powerful. Our impenetrable nature is so capricious, our instincts are so
mysterious that we must be tolerant and even indulgent in the presence
of faults which are not really crimes, and which exhibit nothing vicious
or abandoned in the man himself.
MME. DE RONCHARD
So, then, to deceive one's wife is not deceitful, and you say such a
thing before your son? Truly, a pretty state of affairs! [_Crosses_ L.]
LÉON
Oh, I have my opinion also about that, my dear Aunt.
PETITPRÉ [_rises_]
It is not almost a crime,--it is one. But it is looked upon to-day as so
common a thing that one scarcely punishes it at all. It is punished by
divorce, which is a house of refuge for most men. The law prefers to
separate them with decency--timidly, rather than drag them apart as in
former times.
MME. DE RONCHARD
Your learned theories are revolting, and I wish--
LÉON [_rises_]
Ah, here is Monsieur Martinel.
SCENE III.
(_The same, and_ Monsieur Martinel.)
MARTINEL [_with great emotion_]
I come to fulfill an exceedingly difficult task. Jean, who has gone to
his own house, before daring to present himself here, has sent Doctor
Pellerin to me. I am commissioned by him to make you acquainted with the
sad position in which Jean finds himself,--in which we all find
ourselves.
MME. DE RONCHARD
Ah, ha! Now, I am going to learn something!
MARTINEL
By a letter which you will read presently, we have learned this evening,
in this house, of a new misfortune. A woman of whose existence you are
all aware was at the point of death.
MME. DE RONCHARD
Did I not predict that she would do just this thing?
LÉON
Let M. Martinel speak, my dear Aunt.
MME. DE RONCHARD
And now that this woman has seen him, how does she feel--his dying
patient? Better, without a doubt?
MARTINEL [_quietly_]
She died, Madame, died before his eyes.
MME. DE RONCHARD
Died this evening! Impossible!
MARTINEL
Nevertheless, it is so, Madame.
LÉON [_aside_]
Poor little Musotte!
MARTINEL
There is a serious thing to be considered here. This woman left a child,
and that child's father is Jean.
MME. DE RONCHARD [_stupefied_]
A child!
MARTINEL [_to_ Petitpré]
Read the physician's letter, Monsieur. [_Hands_ Petitpré _the letter,
and_ Petitpré _reads it_.]
MME. DE RONCHARD
He had a child and he has never confessed it; has never said anything
about it; has hidden it from us! What infamy!
MARTINEL
He would have told you in due time.
MME. DE RONCHARD
He would have told! That is altogether too strong--you are mocking us!
LÉON
But, my dear Aunt, let my father answer. I shall go and find Gilberte.
She will be dying of anxiety. We have no right to hide the truth from
her any longer. I am going to acquaint her with it.
MME. DE RONCHARD [_accompanying him to the door_]
You have a pleasant task, but you will not succeed in arranging matters.
LÉON [_at door_ L.]
In any case I shall not embroil them with each other as you would.
[_Exit_ L.]
SCENE IV.
(Petitpré, Martinel, _and_ Madame de Ronchard.)
PETITPRÉ [_who has finished reading the letter_]
Then, Martinel, you say that your nephew was ignorant of the situation
of this woman.
MARTINEL
Upon my honor.
MME. DE RONCHARD
It is incredible.
MARTINEL
I will answer you in a word. If my nephew had known of this situation,
would he have done what he has this evening?
PETITPRÉ
Explain yourself more clearly.
MARTINEL
It is very simple. If he had known sooner of the danger this woman was
in, do you think that he would have waited until the last moment, and
have chosen this very evening--this supreme moment--to say good-bye to
this poor, dying woman, and to reveal to you the existence of his
illegitimate son? No, men hide these unfortunate children when and how
they please. You know that as well as I, Monsieur. To run the risk of
throwing us all into such a state of emotion and threatening his own
future, as he has done, it would seem that Jean must be a madman, and he
is by no means that. Had he known sooner of this situation, do you think
that he would not have confided in me, and that I would have been so
stupid--yes, I--as not to avert this disaster? Why, I tell you it is as
clear as day.
MME. DE RONCHARD [_agitated, walks to and fro rapidly_ L.]
Clear as the day--clear as the day!
MARTINEL
Yes, indeed. If we had not received this piece of news as a bomb which
destroys the power of reflection, if we could have taken time to reason
the thing out, to make plans, we could have hidden everything from you,
and the devil would have been in it before you would have known
anything! Our fault has been that of being too sincere and too loyal.
Yet, I do not regret it; it is always better to act openly in life.
MME. DE RONCHARD
Permit me, Monsieur--
PETITPRÉ
Silence, Clarisse. [_To_ Martinel.] Be it so, Monsieur. There is no
question of your honor or of your loyalty, which have been absolutely
patent in this unfortunate affair. I willingly admit that your nephew
knew nothing of the situation, but how about the child? What is there to
prove that it is Jean's?
MARTINEL
Jean alone can prove or disprove that. He believes it, and you know that
it is not to his interest to believe it. There is nothing very joyful
about such a complication--a poor, little foundling thrusting himself
upon one like a thunderbolt, without warning, and upon the very evening
of one's marriage. But Jean believes that the child is his, and I--and
all of us--must we not accept it as he has accepted it, as the child's
father has accepted it? Come, now. [_A short silence._] You ask me to
prove to you that this child belongs to Jean?
MME. DE RONCHARD AND PETITPRÉ [_together_]
Yes!
MARTINEL
Then first prove to me that it is not Jean's child.
MME. DE RONCHARD
You ask an impossibility.
MARTINEL
And so do you. The principal judge in the matter, look you, is my nephew
himself. We others can do nothing but accept his decision.
MME. DE RONCHARD
But meanwhile--
PETITPRÉ
Silence, Clarisse. Monsieur Martinel is right.
MME. DE RONCHARD [_ironically_]
Say that again.
MARTINEL
There can be no better reason, Madame. [_To_ Petitpré.] I was quite sure
that you would understand me, Monsieur, for you are a man of sense.
MME. DE RONCHARD
And what am I, then?
MARTINEL
You are a woman of the world, Madame.
MME. DE RONCHARD
And it is exactly as a woman of the world that I protest, Monsieur. You
have a very pretty way of putting things, but none the less this is a
fact: Jean Martinel brings to his bride, as a nuptial present, on the
day of his marriage, an illegitimate child. Well, I ask you, woman of
the world or not, can she accept such a thing?
PETITPRÉ
My sister is in the right this time, Monsieur Martinel.
MME. DE RONCHARD
And by no means too soon.
PETITPRÉ
It is evident that a situation exists patent and undeniable, which
places us in an awkward dilemma. We have wedded our daughter to a man
supposedly free from all ties and all complications in life, and then
comes--what you know has come. The consequences should be endured by
him, not by us. We have been wounded and deceived in our confidence, and
the consent that we have given to this marriage we should certainly have
refused, had we known the actual circumstances.
MME. DE RONCHARD
We should have refused? I should say so--not only once, but twice.
Besides, this child, if Jean brings it into the house, will certainly be
a cause of trouble among us all. Consider, Gilberte will probably become
a mother in her turn, and then what jealousies, what rivalries, what
hatred, perhaps, will arise between this intruder and her own children.
This child will be a veritable apple of discord.
MARTINEL
Oh, no, no! he will not be a burden to anyone. Thanks to Jean's
liberality, this child's mother will have left him enough to live
comfortably, and, later, when he has become a man, he will travel, no
doubt. He will do as I have done; as nine-tenths of the human race do.
PETITPRÉ
Well, until then, who will take care of it?
MARTINEL
I, if it is agreeable. I am a free man, retired from business; and it
will give me something to do, something to distract me. I am ready to
take him with me at once, the poor little thing--[_looks at_ Mme. de
Ronchard] unless Madame, who is so fond of saving lost dogs--
MME. DE RONCHARD
That child! I! Oh, that would be a piece of foolishness.
MARTINEL
Yet, Madame, if you care to have him, I will yield my right most
willingly.
MME. DE RONCHARD
But Monsieur, I never said--
MARTINEL
Not as yet, true, but perhaps you will say it before very long, for I am
beginning to understand you. You are an assumed man-hater and nothing
else. You have been unhappy in your married life and that has embittered
you--just as milk may turn upon its surface, but at the bottom of the
churn there is butter of fine quality.
MME. DE RONCHARD [_frowns_]
What a comparison!--milk--butter--pshaw! how vulgar!
PETITPRÉ
But Clarisse--
MARTINEL
Here is your daughter.
SCENE V.
(_The same, and_ Gilberte _and_ Leon _who enter_ L.)
PETITPRÉ [_approaches Gilberte_]
Before seeing your husband again, if you decide to see him, it is
necessary that we should decide exactly what you are going to say to
him.
GILBERTE [_greatly moved, sits_ L. _of table_]
I knew it was some great misfortune.
MARTINEL [_sits beside her_]
Yes, my child; but there are two kinds of misfortune--those that come
from the faults of men, and those that spring purely from the hazards of
fate; that is to say, destiny. In the first case, the man is guilty; in
the second case, he is a victim. Do you understand me?
GILBERTE
Yes, Monsieur.
MARTINEL
A misfortune of which some one person is the victim can also wound
another person very cruelly. But will not the heart of this second
wounded and altogether innocent, person bestow a pardon upon the
involuntary author of her disaster?
GILBERTE [_in a sad voice_]
That depends upon the suffering which she undergoes.
MARTINEL Meanwhile, you knew that before Jean loved you, before he
conceived the idea of marrying you, he had--an intrigue. You accepted
the fact as one which had nothing exceptional about it.
GILBERTE
I did accept it.
MARTINEL
And now your brother may tell you the rest.
GILBERTE
Yes, Monsieur.
MARTINEL
What shall I say to Jean?
GILBERTE
I am too much agitated to tell you yet. This woman, of whom I did not
think at all, whose very existence was a matter of indifference to
me--her death has frightened me. It seems that she has come between Jean
and me, and will always remain there. Everything that I have heard of
her prophesies this estrangement. But you knew her--this woman did you
not, Monsieur?
MARTINEL
Yes, Madame, and I can say nothing but good of her. Your brother and I
have always looked upon her as irreproachable in her fidelity to Jean.
She loved him with a pure, devoted, absolute, and lasting affection. I
speak as a man who has deplored deeply this intrigue, for I look upon
myself as a father to Jean, but we must try to be just to everyone.
GILBERTE
And did Jean love her very much, too?
MARTINEL
Oh, yes, certainly he did, but his love began to wane. Between them
there was too much of a moral and social distance. He lived with her,
however, drawn to her by the knowledge of the deep and tender affection
which she bestowed upon him.
GILBERTE [_gravely_]
And Jean went to see her die?
MARTINEL
He had just time to say farewell to her.
GILBERTE [_to herself_]
If I could only tell what passed between them at that moment! Ah, this
wretched death is worse for me than if she were alive!
MME. DE RONCHARD [_rises_ R. _and goes up stage_]
I really do not understand you, my dear. The woman has died--so much the
better for you. May God deliver you from all such!
GILBERTE
No, my dear Aunt; the feeling I have just now is so painful that I would
sooner know her to be far away than to know her dead.
PETITPRÉ [_comes down_]
Yes, I admit that is the sentiment of a woman moved by a horrible
catastrophe; but there is one grave complication in the matter--that of
the child. Whatever may be done with it, he will none the less be the
son of my son-in-law and a menace to us all.
MME. DE RONCHARD
And a subject for ridicule. See what the world will say of us in a
little while.
LÉON
Leave the world to itself, my dear Aunt, and let us occupy ourselves
with our own business. [_Goes to Gilberte_.] Now, Gilberte, is it the
idea of the child that moves you so deeply?
GILBERTE
Oh, no,--the poor little darling!
PETITPRÉ
Such is the foolishness of women who know nothing of life.
LÉON
Well, father, why, if we have so many different views,--according as we
are spectators or actors in the course of events,--why is there so much
difference between the life of the imagination and the actual life;
between that which one ought to do; that which you would that others
should do, and that which you do yourself. Yes, what has happened is
very painful; but the surprise of the event, its coincidence with the
nuptial day makes it still more painful. We magnify--everything in our
emotion, when it is ourselves that misfortune touches. Suppose, for a
moment, that you had read this in your daily newspaper--
MME. DE RONCHARD [_seated_ L. _of table, indignantly_]
In my daily newspaper!
LÉON
Or in a romance. What emotion we should feel; what tears we should shed!
How your sympathy would quickly go out to the poor little child whose
birth was attained at the cost of his mother's life! How Jean would go
up in your esteem; how frank, how loyal, how stanch in his fealty you
would consider him; while, on the other hand, if he had deserted the
dying woman, and had spirited away the little one into some distant
village, you would not have had enough scorn for him, or enough insults
for him. You would look upon him as a being without heart and without
fear; and, you, my dear Aunt, thinking of the innumerable little bad
dogs who owe you their lives, you would cry out with forcible gestures:
“What a miserable scoundrel!”
MARTINEL [_seated_ L.]
That's perfectly true.
MME. DE RONCHARD
Dogs are worth more than men.
LÉON
Little children are not men, my dear Aunt. They have not had time to
become bad.
PETITPRÉ
All that is very ingenious, Leon, and your special pleading is
magnificent.
MME. DE RONCHARD
Yes, if you would only plead like that at the Palais.
PETITPRÉ
But this has nothing to do with a romance or with imaginary personages.
We have married Gilberte to a young man in the ordinary conditions of
life.
MME. DE RONCHARD
Without enthusiasm.
PETITPRÉ
Without enthusiasm, it is true, but nevertheless they are married, just
the same. Now, on the evening of his nuptials, he brings us a present--I
must say I do not care for a present which bawls.
LÉON
What does that prove, unless it is that your son-in-law is a brave man?
What he has just done--risked his happiness in order to accomplish his
duty--does it not say better than anything else could, how capable of
devotion he is?
MARTINEL
Clear as the day.
MME. DE RONCHARD [_aside_]
And this man from Havre admires him!
PETITPRÉ
Then you maintain that Gilberte, on the day, of her entry upon married
life, should become the adopted mother of the son of her husband's
mistress?
LÉON
Exactly; just as I maintain all that is honorable and disinterested. And
you would think as I do if the thing did not concern your daughter.
PETITPRÉ
No; it is an inexcusable situation.
LÉON
Well, then, what do you propose to do?
PETITPRÉ
Well, nothing less than a divorce. The scandal of this night is
sufficient.
MME. DE RONCHARD [_rises_]
Gilberte divorced! You don't dream of that, do you? Have all our friends
closing their doors on her, the greater part of her relatives lost to
her! Divorced! Come, come! in spite of your new law, that has not yet
come into our custom and shall not come in so soon. Religion forbids it;
the world accepts it only under protest; and when you have against you
both religion and the world--
PETITPRÉ
But statistics prove--
MME. DE RONCHARD
Pshaw! Statistics! You can make them say what you wish. No, no divorce
for Gilberte. [_In a soft, low voice_.] Simply a legal separation--that
is admissible, at least, and it is good form. Let them separate. I am
separated--all fashionable people separate, and everything goes all
right, but as to divorce--
LÉON [_seriously_]
It seems to me that only one person has a right to speak in this matter,
and we are forgetting her too long. [_Turns to Gilberte_.] You have
heard everything, Gilberte; you are mistress of your own judgment and of
your decision. Upon a word from you depend either pardon or rupture. My
father has made his argument. What does your heart say? [_Gilberte tries
to speak, but stops and breaks down_.] Think always that in refusing to
pardon Jean you wound me, and if I see you unhappy from your
determination to say no, I shall suffer exceedingly. Monsieur Martinel
asks from you at once an answer for Jean. Let us do better. I will go
and find him. It is from your lips; it is, above all, in your eyes, that
he will learn his fate. [_Brings her gently to the front of the stage_.]
My little sister, my. dear little sister, don't be too proud; don't be
too haughty! Listen to that which your chagrin murmurs in your soul.
Listen well, but do not mistake it for pride.
GILBERTE
But I have no pride. I do not know how I feel. I am ill. My joy has been
blighted, and it poisons me.
LÉON
Take care! It takes so little in such moments as these to make wounds
which are incurable.
GILBERTE
No, no! I am too much distressed. Perhaps I shall be hard, for I am
afraid of him and of myself. I am afraid of breaking off everything, or
of yielding everything.
LÉON
I am going to find Jean.
GILBERTE [_resolutely_]
No, I do not wish to see him. I forbid it!
LÉON
Let me tell you something, my little Gilberte: You are less intelligent
than I thought.
GILBERTE
Why?
LÉON
Because in such moments as these it is necessary to say yes or no at
once. [_Jean appears at door_ R.]
SCENE VI.
(_The same, and_ Jean Martinel _standing at door_ R.)
GILBERTE [_with a stifled cry_]
It is he!
LÉON [_goes up to_ Jean _and taking him by the hand_]
Welcome!
JEAN
I am like a prisoner awaiting the decision of his judges--whether it be
acquittal or death. The moments through which I have just passed I shall
never forget.
LÉON
Your uncle and I have said all that we had to say. Now speak for
yourself.
JEAN
I do not know how. It must be to my wife alone. I dare not speak before
you all. I ask but a moment. After that I go, and I shall leave the
house if my wife's attitude indicates that I ought. I shall do exactly
what she would have me. I shall become that which she may order. But I
must hear from her _own_ lips her decision as to my life. [_To_
Gilberte.] You cannot refuse me that, Madame. It is the only prayer that
I shall ever make to you, I swear, if this request to you remains
ungranted. [_They stand face to face and look at each other_.]
GILBERTE
No, I cannot refuse you. Father, Aunt, please leave me alone for a few
minutes with Monsieur Martinel. You can see that I am perfectly calm.
PETITPRÉ
But--but--
JEAN [_determinedly to_ M. Petitpré]
Monsieur, I shall not gainsay your will in anything. I shall do nothing
without your approval. I have not returned here to contest your
authority or to speak of rights; but I respectfully ask permission to
remain alone a few minutes with--my wife! Consider that this is perhaps
our last interview and that our future depends upon it.
MME. DE RONCHARD
It is solely the future of Gilberte which concerns me.
JEAN [_to_ Mme. de Ronchard]
I appeal simply to your heart, Madame; your heart, which has suffered.
Do not forget that your irritation and your bitterness against me come
from the misfortune that another man has inflicted upon you. Your life
has been broken by him. Do not wish the same for me. You have been
unhappy; married scarcely a year. [_Points to_ Gilberte.] Will you say
that she shall be married scarcely a day, and that later she shall talk
of her broken life--ceaselessly guarding in her mind the memory of this
evening's disaster? [_At a movement of_ Mme. de Ronchard.] I know you to
be kind, although you deny it, and I promise you, Madame, that if I
remain Gilberte's husband, I shall love you as a son, as a son worthy of
you.
MME. DE RONCHARD [_very much moved_]
A son! He has stirred me deeply! [_Whispers to_ Petitpré.] Come away,
let us leave them alone. [_Embraces_ Gilberte.]
PETITPRÉ [_to_ Jean]
Well, so be it, Monsieur. [_Rises and exit_ C., _offering his arm to_
Mme. de Ronchard.]
MARTINEL [_to_ Léon]
They are going to talk with that [_touches his heart_]; it is the only
true eloquence.
[_Exit with_ Léon C.]
SCENE VII.
(Gilberte and Jean.)
JEAN
You know all, do you not?
GILBERTE
Yes. And I have been deeply wounded.
JEAN
I hope you do not accuse me of lying or of any other dissimulation.
GILBERTE
Oh, no!
JEAN
Do you blame me for having left you this evening?
GILBERTE
I blame no one who does his duty.
JEAN
You did not know this woman--and she is dead.
GILBERTE
It is just because she is dead that she troubles me thus.
JEAN
Impossible; you must have another reason. [_With hesitation._] The
child?
GILBERTE [_quickly_]
No, no! don't deceive yourself. The poor little darling! it is not his
fault. No, I suffer from something which is peculiar to myself, which
can come only from me, and which I cannot confess to you. It is a sorrow
deep in my heart, so keen, when I felt it spring to birth under the
words of my brother and your uncle, that, should I ever experience it
again when living with you as your wife, I should never be able to
dispel it.
JEAN
What is it?
GILBERTE
I cannot tell it. [_Sits_ L.]
JEAN [_stands_]
Listen to me. It is necessary that at this moment there should not be
between us the shadow of a misunderstanding. All our life depends upon
it. You are my wife, but I admit that you are absolutely free after what
has happened. I will do as you wish. I am ready to agree to everything
you desire, even to a divorce if you demand it. But what will happen to
me after that I do not know, for I love you so that the thought of
losing you after winning you will throw me mercilessly into some
desperate resolve. [_Sees_ Gilberte _moved._] I do not seek to soften
you, to move you--I simply tell you the naked truth. I feel, and I have
felt during the whole night, through all the shocks and horrible
emotions of the drama that has just been enacted, that you hold for me
the keenest wound. If you banish me now, I am a lost man.
GILBERTE [_much moved_]
Do you really love me as much as that?
JEAN
With a love that I feel is ineffaceable.
GILBERTE
Did you love her?
JEAN
I did indeed love her. I experienced a tender attachment for a gentle
and devoted girl. [_In a low voice, with passion._] Listen: that which I
am going to tell you is unworthy, perhaps infamous, but I am only a
human being, feeble as anyone else. Well, just now, in the presence of
this poor, dying girl, my eyes were filled with tears and my sobs choked
me--all my being vibrated with sorrow; but at the bottom of my soul, in
the depths of my being, I thought only of you.
GILBERTE [_rises quickly_]
Do you mean that?
JEAN [_simply_]
I cannot lie to you.
GILBERTE
Well, do you know what made me suffer just now when my brother told me
of this intrigue and death? I can tell it to you now. I was jealous! It
was unworthy of me, wasn't it? Jealous of this poor, dead woman! But he
spoke so well of her as to move me, and I felt that she loved you so
much that you might find me perhaps indifferent and cold after her, and
that hurt me so! I had so much fear of experiencing that that I thought
of renouncing you.
JEAN
And now?--Gilberte! Gilberte!
GILBERTE [_extends her hands_]
I am here, Jean! take me!
JEAN
Ah, how grateful I am. [_Kisses her hands; then immediately after, with
emotion._] But here another anguish seizes me. I have promised this poor
woman to take and cherish this child in my own home. [Gilberte _makes a
movement_.] That is not all. Do you know what her last thought, her last
prayer was? She entreated me to commend the child to you.
GILBERTE
To me!
JEAN
To you, Gilberte.
GILBERTE [_profoundly moved_]
She did this, the poor woman? Did she believe that I would take--
JEAN
She hoped it, and in that hope her death was made easier.
GILBERTE [_in exalted mood, crosses_ R.]
Yes, I will take it! where is it?
JEAN
At my house.
GILBERTE
At your house? You must go to it immediately.
JEAN
What! leave you now, at this moment?
GILBERTE
We will go together, since I was to have accompanied you to your house
this evening.
JEAN [_joyously_]
Oh, Gilberte! But your father will not let us go.
GILBERTE
Well, do you know what we must do, since my packing is finished, and my
maid awaits me at your house? You must carry me off.
JEAN
Carry you off?
GILBERTE
Give me my cloak and let us go. All can be explained tomorrow. [_Shows
the cloak that she had left upon the chair in the first act._] My cloak,
please.
JEAN [_picks up the cloak quickly and throws it over her shoulders_]
You are the most adorable creature! [Gilberte _takes his arm and they go
toward door_ R.]
SCENE VIII.
(_Enter_ Mme. de Ronchard, M. Petitpré, M. Martinel, _and_ Léon C.)
MME. DE RONCHARD
Well, what are they doing? Are they going away now?
PETITPRÉ
Why, what does it mean?
GILBERTE
Yes; father, I am going away. I am going with my husband; but I shall be
here to-morrow to ask pardon for this hurried flight, and to explain to
you the reason for it.
PETITPRÉ
Were you going without saying good-bye to us--without embracing us?
GILBERTE
Yes, in order to avoid more discussions.
LÉON
She is right. Let them go.
GILBERTE [_throws herself upon_ Petitpré's _neck_]
Till to-morrow, father; till to-morrow, my dear Aunt. Good night, all; I
have had enough of emotion and fatigue.
MME. DE RONCHARD [_goes to_ Gilberte _and embraces her_]
Yes, run along, darling--there is a little one over there who waits for
a mother!
_Curtain._
THE LANCER'S WIFE AND OTHER TALES
THE LANCER'S WIFE
It was after Bourbaki's defeat in the east of France. The army, broken
up, decimated and worn out, had been obliged to retreat into
Switzerland, after that terrible campaign. It was only the short
duration of the struggle that saved a hundred and fifty thousand men
from certain death. Hunger, the terrible cold, and forced marches in the
snow without boots, over bad mountainous roads, had caused the
_francs-tireurs_ especially the greatest suffering, for we were without
tents and almost without food, always in front when we were marching
toward Belfort, and in the rear when returning by the Jura. Of our
brigade, that had numbered twelve hundred men on the first of January,
there remained only twenty-two pale, thin, ragged wretches, when at
length we succeeded in reaching Swiss territory.
There we were safe and could rest. Everybody knows what sympathy was
shown to the unfortunate French army, and how well it was cared for. We
all gained fresh life, and those who had been rich and happy before the
war declared that they had never experienced a greater feeling of
comfort than they did then. Just think. We actually had something to eat
every day, and could sleep every night.
Meanwhile, the war continued in the east of France, which had been
excluded from the armistice. Besançon still kept the enemy in check, and
the latter had their revenge by ravaging the Comte Franché. Sometimes we
heard that they had approached quite close to the frontier, and we saw
Swiss troops, who were to form a line of observation between us and the
Germans, set out on their march.
But this hurt our pride, and as we regained health and strength the
longing for fighting laid hold of us. It was disgraceful and irritating
to know that within two or three leagues of us the Germans were
victorious and insolent, to feel that we were protected by our
captivity, and to feel that on that account we were powerless against
them.
One day, our captain took five or six of us aside, and spoke to us about
it, long and earnestly. He was a fine fellow, that captain. He had been
a sub-lieutenant in the Zouaves, was tall and thin and as hard as steel,
and during the whole campaign had given a great deal of trouble to the
Germans. He fretted in inactivity and could not accustom himself to the
idea of being a prisoner and of doing nothing.
“Confound it!” he said to us, “does it not pain you to know that there
are a lot of uhlans within two hours of us? Does it not almost drive you
mad to know that those beggarly wretches are walking about as masters in
our mountains, where six determined men might kill a whole troop any
day? I cannot endure it any longer, and I must go there.”
“But how can you manage it, Captain?”
“How? It is not very difficult! Just as if we had not done a thing or
two within the last six months, and got out of woods that were guarded
by men very different from the Swiss. The day that you wish to cross
over into France, I will undertake to get you there.”
“That may be; but what shall we do in France without any arms?”
“Without arms? We will get them over yonder, by Jove!”
“You are forgetting the treaty,” another soldier said; “we shall run the
risk of doing the Swiss an injury, if Manteuffel learns that they have
allowed prisoners to return to France.”
“Come,” said the captain, “those are all poor reasons. I mean to go and
kill some Prussians; that is all I care about. If you do not wish to do
as I do, well and good; only say so at once. I can quite well go by
myself; I do not require anybody's company.”
Naturally we all protested, and as it was quite impossible to make the
captain alter his mind, we felt obliged to promise to go with him. We
liked him too much to leave him in the lurch, since he had never failed
us in any extremity; and so the expedition was decided on.
II.
The captain had a plan of his own, a plan he had been cogitating over
for some time. A man in that part of the country, whom he knew, was
going to lend him a cart, and six suits of peasants' clothes. We could
hide under some straw at the bottom of the wagon, which would be loaded
with Gruyère cheese. This cheese he was supposed to be going to sell in
France. The captain told the sentinels that he was taking two friends
with him to protect his goods, in case anyone should try to rob him,
which did not seem an extraordinary precaution. A Swiss officer seemed
to look at the wagon in a knowing manner, but that was in order to
impress his soldiers. In a word, neither officers nor men made it out.
“Get on,” the captain said to the horses, as he cracked his whip, while
our men quietly smoked their pipes. I was half suffocated in my box,
which only admitted the air through some holes in front, while at the
same time I was nearly frozen, for it was terribly cold.
“Get on,” the captain said again, and the wagon loaded with Gruyère
cheese entered France.
The Prussian lines were very badly guarded, as the enemy trusted to the
watchfulness of the Swiss. The sergeant spoke North German, while our
captain spoke the bad German of the “Four Cantons”; so they could not
understand each other. The sergeant, however, pretended to be very
intelligent, and in order to make us believe that he understood us, they
allowed us to continue our journey, and after traveling for seven hours,
being continually stopped in the same manner, we arrived at a small
village of the Jura, in ruins, at nightfall.
What were we going to do? Our only arms were the captain's whip, our
uniforms, the peasants' blouses, and our food the Gruyère cheese. Our
sole riches consisted in our ammunition, packets of cartridges which we
had stowed away inside some of the huge cheeses. We had about a thousand
of them, just two hundred each; but then we wanted rifles, and they must
be _chassepots_; luckily, however, the captain was a bold man of an
inventive mind, and this was the plan that he hit upon:
While three of us remained hidden in a cellar in the abandoned village,
he continued his journey as far as Besançon with the empty wagon and one
man. The town was invested, but one can always make one's way into a
town among the hills by crossing the table-land till within about ten
miles of the walls, and then by following paths and ravines on foot.
They left their wagon at Omans, among the Germans, and escaped out of it
at night on foot, so as to gain the heights which border the river
Doubs; the next day they entered Besançon, where there were plenty of
_chassepots_. There were nearly forty thousand of them left in the
arsenal, and General Roland, a brave marine, laughed at the captain's
daring project, but let him have six rifles and wished him “good luck.”
There he also found his wife, who had been through all the war with us
before the campaign in the east, and who had been only prevented by
illness from continuing with Bourbaki's army. She had recovered,
however, in spite of the cold, which was growing more and more intense,
and in spite of the numberless privations that awaited her, she insisted
on accompanying her husband. He was obliged to give way to her, and all
three, the captain, his wife, and our comrade, started on their
expedition.
Going was nothing in comparison to returning. They were obliged to
travel by night, so as to avoid meeting anybody, as the possession of
six rifles would have made them liable to suspicion. But in spite of
everything, a week after leaving us, the captain and his “two men” were
back with us again. The campaign was about to begin.
III.
The first night of his arrival, the captain began it himself. Under the
pretext of examining the country round, he went along the highroad. I
must tell you that the little village which served as our fortress was a
small collection of poor, badly built houses, which had been deserted
long before. It lay on a steep slope, which terminated in a wooded
plain. The country people sold wood; they sent it down the ravines,
which are called _coulées_ locally, and which led down to the plain, and
there they stacked it into piles, which were sold thrice a year to the
wood merchants. The spot where this market was held was indicated by two
small houses by the side of the highroad, which served for
public-houses. The captain had gone down there by one of these
_coulées_.
He had been gone about half an hour, and we were on the lookout at the
top of the ravine, when we heard a shot. The captain had ordered us not
to stir, and only to come to him when we heard him blow his trumpet. It
was made of a goat's horn, and could be heard a league off, but it gave
no sound, and in spite of our cruel anxiety, we were obliged to wait in
silence, with our rifles by our side.
To go down these _coulées_ is easy, you need only let yourself glide
down; but it is more difficult to get up again. You have to scramble up
by catching hold of the hanging branches of the trees, and sometimes on
all fours, by sheer strength. A whole mortal hour passed, and still the
captain did not come, nothing moved in the brushwood. The captain's wife
began to grow impatient; what could he be doing? Why did he not call us?
Did the shot that we had heard proceed from an enemy, and had he killed
or wounded our leader, her husband? They did not know what to think, but
I myself fancied that either he was dead or that his enterprise was
successful. I was merely anxious and curious to know which.
Suddenly, we heard the sound of his trumpet, and were much surprised
that instead of coming from below, as we had expected, it came from the
village behind us. What did that mean? It was a mystery to us, but the
same idea struck us all, that he had been killed, and that the Prussians
were blowing the trumpet to draw us into an ambush. We therefore
returned to the cottage, keeping a careful lookout, with our fingers on
the trigger and hiding under the branches. But his wife, in spite of our
entreaties, rushed on, leaping like a tigress. She thought that she had
to avenge her husband, and had fixed the bayonet to her rifle. We lost
sight of her at the moment that we heard the trumpet again, and a few
moments later we heard her calling out to us:
“Come on! come on! he is alive! it is he!”
We hastened on, and saw the captain smoking his pipe at the entrance of
the village, but strangely enough he was on horseback.
“Ah!” said he to us, “you see that there is something to be done here.
Here I am on horseback already; I knocked over a uhlan yonder, and took
his horse; I suppose they were guarding the wood, but it was by drinking
and swilling in clover. One of them, the sentry at the door, had not
time to see me before I gave him a sugarplum in his stomach, and then,
before the others could come out, I jumped on to the horse and was off
like a shot. Eight or ten of them followed me, I think, but I took the
crossroads through the wood; I have got scratched and torn a bit, but
here I am. And now, my good fellows, attention, and take care! Those
brigands will not rest until they have caught us, and we must receive
them with rifle bullets. Come along; let us take up our posts!”
We set out. One of us took up his position a good way from the village
of the crossroads; I was posted at the entrance of the main street,
where the road from the level country enters the village, while the two
others, with the captain and his wife, took up positions in the middle
of the village, near the church, whose tower served for an observatory
and citadel.
We had not been in our places long before we heard a shot followed by
another; then two, then three. The first was evidently a
_chassepot_,--one recognized it by the sharp report, which sounds like
the crack of a whip,--while the other three came from the lancers'
carbines.
The captain was furious. He had given orders to the outpost to let the
enemy pass, and merely to follow them at a distance if they marched
toward the village, and to join me when they had gone well between the
houses. Then they were to appear suddenly, take the patrol between two
fires, and not allow a single man to escape, for posted as we were, the
six of us could have hemmed in ten Prussians, if needful.
“That confounded Piédelot has roused them,” the captain said, “and they
will not venture to come on blindfold any longer. And then I am quite
sure that he has managed to get wounded himself somehow or other, for we
hear nothing of him. It serves him right; why did he not obey orders?”
And then, after a moment, he grumbled in his beard: “After all, I am
sorry for the poor fellow; he is so brave and shoots so well!”
The captain was right in his conjectures. We waited until evening,
without seeing the uhlans; they had retreated after the first attack,
but unfortunately we had not seen Piédelot either. Was he dead or a
prisoner? When night came the captain proposed that we should go out and
look for him, and so the three of us started. At the crossroads we found
a broken rifle and some blood, while the ground was trampled down. But
we did not find either a wounded man or a dead body, although we
searched every thicket. At midnight we returned without having
discovered anything of our unfortunate comrade.
“It is very strange,” the captain growled. “They must have killed him
and thrown him into the bushes somewhere; they cannot possibly have
taken him prisoner, as he would have called out for help. I cannot
understand it all.” Just as he said that, bright, red flames shot up in
the direction of the inn on the highroad, which illuminated the sky.
“Scoundrels! cowards!” shouted the captain. “I will bet that they have
set fire to the two houses in the market-place, in order to have their
revenge, and then they will scuttle off without saying a word. They will
be satisfied with having killed a man and setting fire to two houses.
All right. It shall not pass over like that. We must go for them; they
will not like to leave their illuminations in order to fight.”
“It would be a great stroke of luck if we could set Piédelot free at the
same time,” said some one.
The five of us set off, full of rage and hope. In twenty minutes we had
got to the bottom of the _couleé_, and had not yet seen anyone when
within a hundred yards of the inn. The fire was behind the house, and so
all that we saw of it was the reflection above the roof. However, we
were walking rather slowly, as we were afraid of a trap, when suddenly
we heard Piédelot's well-known voice. It had a strange sound, however,
for it was at the same time dull and vibrant, stifled and clear, as if
he was calling out as loud as he could with a gag in his mouth. He
seemed to be hoarse and panting, and the unlucky fellow kept exclaiming:
“Help! Help!”
We sent all thoughts of prudence to the devil and in two bounds were at
the back of the inn, where a terrible sight met our eyes.
IV.
Piédelot was being burned alive. He was writhing in the middle of a heap
of fagots, against a stake to which they had fastened him, and the
flames were licking him with their sharp tongues. When he saw us, his
tongue seemed to stick in his throat, he drooped his head, and seemed as
if he were going to die. It was only the affair of a moment to upset the
burning pile, to scatter the embers, and to cut the ropes that fastened
him.
Poor fellow! In what a terrible state we found him. The evening before
he had had his left arm broken, and it seemed as if he had been badly
beaten since then, for his whole body was covered with wounds, bruises,
and blood. The flames had also begun their work on him, and he had two
large burns, one on his loins, and the other on his right thigh, and his
beard and his hair were scorched. Poor Piédelot!
Nobody knows the terrible rage we felt at this sight! We would have
rushed headlong at a hundred thousand Prussians. Our thirst for
vengeance was intense; but the cowards had run away, leaving their crime
behind them. Where could we find them now? Meanwhile, however, the
captain's wife was looking after Piédelot, and dressing his wounds as
best she could, while the captain himself shook hands with him
excitedly. In a few minutes he came to himself.
“Good morning, Captain, good morning, all of you,” he said. “Ah! the
scoundrels, the wretches! Why, twenty of them came to surprise us.”
“Twenty, do you say?”
“Yes, there was a whole band of them, and that is why I disobeyed
orders, Captain, and fired on them, for they would have killed you all.
So I preferred to stop them. That frightened them, and they did not
venture to go further than the crossroads. They were such cowards. Four
of them shot at me at twenty yards, as if I had been a target, and then
they slashed me with their swords. My arm was broken, so that I could
only use my bayonet with one hand.”
“But why did you not call for help?”
“I took good care not to do that, for you would all have come, and you
would neither have been able to defend me nor yourselves, being only
five against twenty.”
“You know that we should not have allowed you to have been taken, poor
old fellow.”
“I preferred to die by myself, don't you see! I did not want to bring
you there, for it would have been a mere ambush.”
“Well, we will not talk about it any more. Do you feel rather easier?”
“No, I am suffocating. I know that I cannot live much longer. The
brutes! They tied me to a tree, and beat me till I was half dead, and
then they shook my broken arm, but I did not make a sound. I would
rather have bitten my tongue out than have called out before them. Now I
can say what I am suffering and shed tears; it does one good. Thank you,
my kind friends.”
“Poor Piédelot! But we will avenge you, you may be sure!”
“Yes, yes, I want you to do that. Especially, there is a woman among
them, who passes as the wife of the lancer whom the captain killed
yesterday. She is dressed like a lancer, and it was she who tortured me
the most yesterday, and suggested burning me. In fact it was she who set
fire to the wood. Oh! the wretch, the brute--Ah! how I am suffering! My
loins, my arms!” and he fell back panting and exhausted, writhing in his
terrible agony, while the captain's wife wiped the perspiration from his
forehead. We all shed tears of grief and rage, as if we had been
children. I will not describe the end to you; he died half an hour
later, but before that he told us in which direction the enemy had gone.
When he was dead, we gave ourselves time to bury him, and then we set
out in pursuit of them, with our hearts full of fury and hatred.
“We will throw ourselves on the whole Prussian army, if it be needful,”
the captain said, “but we will avenge Piédelot. We must catch those
scoundrels. Let us swear to die, rather than not to find them, and if I
am killed first, these are my orders: all the prisoners that you make
are to be shot immediately, and as for the lancer's wife, she is to be
violated before she is put to death.”
“She must not be shot, because she is a woman,” the captain's wife said.
“If you survive, I am sure that you would not shoot a woman. Outraging
her will be quite sufficient. But if you are killed in this pursuit, I
want one thing, and that is to fight with her; I will kill her with my
own hands, and the others can do what they like with her if she kills
me.”
“We will outrage her! We will burn her! We will tear her to pieces!
Piédelot shall be avenged, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth!”
V.