_The Countess._ How do you do, Prince?
_Prince._ What, not out? Ah, I am fortunate, upon my word!
_Countess._ But you wrote me that you would come--
_Prince._ I wrote you that, really? Ah, that’s odd. Ah, ah, that
is amusing! Madame, your mother is well?
_Countess._ Very well--a little tired, that’s all--she’s just
going up to her room. But sit down.
_Prince_ (_seating himself_). Do you know what brings me here?
_Countess._ What?
_Prince._ I come to ask your advice. Imagine that I dined at the
Embassy. They got talking about little drawing-room comedies, about
_proverbes_ or parables, about those little things, you know,
that they play at private theatricals, and of the difficulty one
experiences in finding any that are not too hackneyed, that one has not
seen everywhere, and that are agreeable.
_Countess._ Yes--and then?
_Prince._ Very well, then. I was in rather a good humor; the
spirit was upon me to compose during the week one of those witty
trifles. A wager, serious enough, in fact, was connected with it.
Briefly, since yesterday I have been thinking, without boring myself
about other matters.
_Countess._ And you have hit upon something?
_Prince._ I have not yet thought of anything. But it will come. I
conceived the idea of talking it over with you. We will do the thing
together, if you are quite willing. It is very easy, you will see.
_Countess._ But I don’t know, for my part, that it is so very easy.
_Prince._ Positively. Nothing more simple. Will you try?
_Countess._ Mon Dieu, I should like to--but you must hold the pen.
_Prince._ That’s understood.
_Countess._ There, there’s paper and ink--blue ink; is that all
right?
_Prince._ Blue ink will do no harm. (_Places himself at a
centre-table._) There! Sit down in front of me, like a muse, and let
us begin without further ceremony, will you?
_Countess._ Very willingly--but it’s rather embarrassing, it seems
to me.
_Prince._ Not at all. It’s very easy. Always the same thing: Two
people who chat about the rain and about fine weather--more or less
wittily, as it happens to come. Well, are you ready?
_Countess._ Yes, yes--go on.
_Prince._ First we must write down the persons: “The Count, the
Countess ----,” is it not?
_Countess._ Yes, of course--but is this to be a _proverbe_?
_Prince._ Yes, it’s a _proverbe_.
_Countess._ But what _proverbe_? That must be decided first.
_Prince._ Oh! Mon Dieu, why? It’s of no use--it will develop
itself in time--it will evolve naturally from the conversation--it will
be the finishing touch.
_Countess._ So be it. Go on.
_Prince._ “The Count, the Countess. First scene--” Well?
_Countess._ Hé!
_Prince._ What is it they say?
_Countess._ But what is the subject?
_Prince._ There is no subject! It is a witty trifle, I told
you--a nothing--an improvisation without substance--a go-as-you-please
conversation--I am not proposing that you should write “The
Misanthrope,”[11] remember.
_Countess._ Yet it is necessary to know what they are to talk
about.
_Prince._ But about nothing--about trifles--you know how those
things are!
_Countess._ But, no, my dear Prince, I know nothing about it--and
no more do you, so it would seem.
_Prince._ Come, chère madame, do not let us quarrel. We said, “The
Count and the Countess,” is it not so? They are in the country--and the
Count is bored, I suppose--
_Countess._ Yes, that’s new enough.
_Prince._ I do not say that it must be new, but at any rate it is
a subject, since you must have one. So then, the Count is bored--and
the Countess--the Countess--
_Countess._ Is bored too, perhaps?
_Prince._ It’s an idea, and with that combination, too, may become
original enough. They are both bored--Well, you see, chère madame,
we are progressing. Let us pass on to the dialogue--That, that’s the
easiest--Once in the dialogue it will go by itself--“The Count--” The
Count--he enters, doesn’t he?
_Countess._ Quite right.
_Prince._ And in entering, he says--
_Countess._ He says?
_Prince._ What?
_Countess._ I am asking you.
_Prince._ Well--he might say, for instance, “Always alone, dear
Countess?”
_Countess._ I see nothing inappropriate in that.
_Prince._ It’s sufficiently the phrase of a bored man--“Always
alone, dear Countess?”
_Countess._ It’s a charming phrase--To which the Countess, who is
always alone, replies?
_Prince._ Wait--yes--perhaps--that is to say, no--that will not do.
_Countess._ Instead of entering the diplomatic service you ought
to devote yourself to literature--with your facility.
_Prince_ (_rising_). It is certain that I am too beastly
stupid--dumb as an animal--And then I am thinking of something
else--Oh, well, I am going!
_Countess._ No!
_Prince._ I assure you that at other times I had a sort
of wit--Inquire at the Embassy--they know--But I am altogether
changed--Good night, I am going.
_Countess._ No!
_Prince._ I am not going?
_Countess._ No, I tell you!
_Prince._ So be it. (_He sits down again._)
_Countess._ Let us return. Where were we?--“The Count, the
Countess--”
_Prince._ The truth is you ought to consider me a regular imbecile.
_Countess._ Is it the Count says that?
_Prince._ No, it is I.
_Countess._ Not at all--I find you only a little odd.
_Prince._ Odd! You are very kind--But no, really; I beg of you
to inquire at the Embassy--they will tell you that I do not lack
intelligence, and that at other times I had even a sort of inspiration.
_Countess._ But, my Prince, I have no need to inquire at the
Embassy, I have only to remember. I have known you to be extremely
brilliant, several months ago when you were making love to me.
_Prince._ Brilliant, no; but I was as good as another at any rate.
_Countess._ Yes, yes, I insist--You were a brilliant young man,
sparkling, dreadful!--(_She rubs her hands softly._)
_Prince._ You are making fun of me--I was not sparkling, but I had
some vivacity--and that was but two years ago! It is true that I had
only just arrived at Paris,--and that I had not yet passed under the
influence of the climate.
_Countess._ You believe it was the climate--
_Prince._ What will you have? It must assuredly have been
something--It isn’t age--I am not thirty years old--At any rate, I
think I shall leave Paris, and diplomacy as well--My mother sends for
me from Vienna--I received a letter from her this morning--I wanted,
also, to show it to you--
(_He fumbles about in his coat pocket and pulls out a letter
half-tangled in some black lace._)
_Countess._ What lace is that coming out of your pocket?
_Prince_ (_confused_). Lace? Oh! Do you see some lace?
_Countess._ This--But I say, my Prince, is not this one of my
veils, here?
_Prince._ One of your veils--here?--Are you sure?
_Countess._ Absolutely!--And I am going to take it back, too, if
you will allow me--That’s lace of great price, if you have your doubts
about it.
_Prince._ I implore you to believe, indeed, madame, that I did not
attach a mercenary value to it. But how do I come to have that veil
about me?
_Countess._ It is very easy to explain. I must have left it at the
Embassy on a visit, they charged you to return it to me, and with your
usual absent-mindedness, you forgot the commission.
_Prince._ That’s simple. I ask ten thousand pardons. It is
perfectly evident! You see I am not myself at all any more. All my
faculties--even my memory--are weakening. It is high time I go to
recover strength in my native air. You see what my mother tells me?
_Countess_ (_running through the letter_). She has the air of
a noble woman, your mother.
_Prince._ Yes. We two are very fond of each other. She advises
me not to have too much success, poor mother! She believes me always
irresistible.
_Countess._ Then you have been so, my prince?
_Prince._ Why, yes, a little, up to the day I had the honor of
meeting you--Well, what do you advise me?
_Countess._ To go, since your mother wishes to see you again.
_Prince._ That’s my advice, too, and to tell you the truth, I came
this evening specially to bid you good-by.
_Countess._ What! to bid me good-by?--And that _proverbe_?
What was the object of that joke?
_Prince._ That _proverbe_? Come, madame, I want the last
impression you receive of me to be pleasant. You will laugh. Here is
the history of that _proverbe_. You remember well enough that
which passed between us two years ago, after I had vainly offered you
my heart and my hand. It so happened that if I wished to continue to
regard you as a friend, I must sternly refrain from all allusions to
a love definitely repulsed. I gave you my word on the matter, and I
expected to have kept it scrupulously.
_Countess._ That is true.
_Prince._ Well, then, I made a mistake there. Excuse me, I swear
to you that I am going. My discretion and my reserve naturally made you
believe that I was cured of my love.
_Countess._ Naturally.
_Prince._ Yes. Well, it is a mistake. I love you always. I love
you like a fool, like a child, like an angel, like a savage, as you
will. Having decided to go away, I wished first to make one supreme
effort, a desperate one. The idea of that _proverbe_ came to
me. Under cover of that _proverbe_ I promised myself to set my
feelings before you, with so much fire, emotion, eloquence, wit, that
you would be infallibly softened, fascinated, and overcome. You have
seen how successful I was!--Isn’t it comic?--Now, madame, adieu.
_Countess._ Adieu, Prince.
_Prince._ One word more. Be gracious enough to tell me why you
refused to marry me. My proposal was, in fact, perfectly honest and
perfectly worthy of acceptance. Why did you repulse it with so much
decision? Was it from caprice, from antipathy, or did you have some
serious reason?
_Countess._ I had a serious reason.
_Prince._ You loved some one?
_Countess._ No one.
_Prince._ Then your heart was free, like your hand. You had
not been, you told me so yourself, particularly happy with your
husband--although he was charming, from what they say.
_Countess._ He was charming, altogether charming, sparkling and
irresistible--like you--in days gone by.
_Prince._ In short, you were not happy; consequently, you had no
occasion to torment yourself if you became unfaithful to the memory of
the dead. As for me I had a brilliant name, a fortune, a position. At
that time I was not ill and depressed as I am now. I was tolerable in
my person.
_Countess._ Very handsome, indeed.
_Prince._ I passed for a sufficiently lively talker. I made court
to you, if I remember, with--intelligence.
_Countess._ With much, much wit.
_Prince._ And you refused me!--Come, now, why?
_Countess._ You do not guess?
_Prince._ Not at all.
_Countess_ (_she takes his hand and looks him tenderly in the
eyes_). It is because I love dumb animals, my friend!