hoard my gold. (_He passes R. to chest_, _takes out key_, _and unlocks
it_.) They think my treasure and my very soul are locked up here. They
speak after the flesh, but they are right. See!
ARETHUSA. Her watch? the wedding ring? O father, forgive me!
GAUNT. Ay, her watch that counted the hours when I was away; they were
few and sorrowful, my Hester’s hours; and this poor contrivance numbered
them. The ring—with that I married her. This chain, it’s of Guinea
gold; I brought it home for her, the year before we married, and she wore
it to her wedding. It was a vanity: they are all vanities; but they are
the treasure of my soul. Below here, see, her wedding dress. Ay, the
watch has stopped: dead, dead. And I know that my Hester died of me; and
day and night, asleep and awake, my soul abides in her remembrance.
ARETHUSA. And you come in your sleep to look at them. O poor father! I
understand—I understand you now.
GAUNT. In my sleep? Ay? do I so? My Hester!
ARETHUSA. And why, why did you not tell me? I thought—I was like the
rest!—I feared you were a miser. O, you should have told me; I should
have been so proud—so proud and happy. I knew you loved her; but not
this, not this.
GAUNT. Why should I have spoken? It was all between my Hester and me.
ARETHUSA. Father, may I speak? May I tell you what my heart tells me?
You do not understand about my mother. You loved her—O, as few men can
love. And she loved you: think how she loved you! In this world, you
know—you have told me—there is nothing perfect. All we men and women
have our sins; and they are a pain to those that love us, and the deeper
the love, the crueller the pain. That is life; and it is life we ask,
not heaven; and what matter for the pain, if only the love holds on? Her
love held: then she was happy! Her love was immortal; and when she died,
her one grief was to be parted from you, her one hope to welcome you
again.
GAUNT. And you, Arethusa: I was to bring her little maid.
ARETHUSA. God bless her, yes, and me! But, father, can you not see that
she was blessed among women?
GAUNT. Child, child, you speak in ignorance; you touch upon griefs you
cannot fathom.
ARETHUSA. No, dearest, no. She loved you, loved you and died of it.
Why else do women live? What would I ask but just to love my Kit and die
for him, and look down from heaven, and see him keep my memory holy and
live the nobler for my sake?
GAUNT. Ay, do you so love him?
ARETHUSA. Even as my mother loved my father.
GAUNT. Ay? Then we will see. What right have I—You are your mother’s
child: better, tenderer, wiser than I. Let us seek guidance in prayer.
Good-night, my little maid.
ARETHUSA. O father, I know you at last.
SCENE II
GAUNT _and_ ARETHUSA _go out_, _L._, _carrying the candles_. _Stage
dark_. _A distant clock chimes the quarters_, _and strikes one_.
_Then_, _the tap-tapping of Pew’s stick is hear without_; _the key is put
into the lock_; _and enter_ PEW, _C._, _he pockets key_, _and is followed
by_ KIT, _with dark lantern_
PEW. Quiet, you lubber! Can’t you foot it soft, you that has daylights
and a glim?
KIT. All right, old boy. How the devil did we get through the door?
Shall I knock him up?
PEW. Stow your gab (_seizing his wrist_). Under your breath!
KIT. Avast that! You’re a savage dog, aren’t you?
PEW. Turn on that glim.
KIT. It’s as right as a trivet, Pew. What next? By George, Pew, I’ll
make your fortune.
PEW. Here, now, look round this room, and sharp. D’ye see a old
sea-chest?
KIT. See it, Pew? why, d’ye think I’m blind?
PEW. Take me across, and let me feel of her. Mum; catch my hand. Ah,
that’s her (_feeling the chest_), that’s the Golden Mary. Now, see here,
my bo, if you’ve the pluck of a weevil in a biscuit, this girl is yours;
if you hain’t, and think to sheer off, I’m blind, but I’m deadly.
KIT. You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head all the same. I’ll take
threats from nobody, blind or not. Let’s knock up the Admiral and be
done with it. What I want is to get rid of this dark lantern. It makes
me feel like a housebreaker, by George.
PEW (_seated on chest_). You follow this. I’m sick of drinking bilge,
when I might be rolling in my coach, and I’m dog-sick of Jack Gaunt.
Who’s he to be wallowing in gold, when a better man is groping crusts in
the gutter and spunging for rum? Now, here in this blasted chest is the
gold to make men of us for life: gold, ay, gobs of it; and writin’s
too—things that if I had the proof of ’em I’d hold Jack Gaunt to the
grindstone till his face was flat. I’d have done it single-handed; but
I’m blind, worse luck: I’m all in the damned dark here, poking with a
stick—Lord, burn up with lime the eyes that saw it! That’s why I raked
up you. Come, out with your iron, and prise the lid off. You shall
touch your snack, and have the wench for nothing; ay, and fling her in
the street, when done.
KIT. So you brought me here to steal did you?
PEW. Ay did I; and you shall. I’m a biter: I bring blood.
KIT. Now, Pew, you came here on my promise, or I’d kill you like a rat.
As it is, out of that door! One, two, three (_drawing his cutlass_), and
off!
PEW (_leaping at his throat_, _and with a great voice_). Help! murder!
thieves!
SCENE III
_To these_, ARETHUSA, GAUNT, _with lights_. _Stage light_. PEW _has_
KIT _down_, _and is throttling him_
PEW. I’ve got him, Cap’n. What, kill my old commander, and rob him of
his blessed child? Not with old Pew!
GAUNT. Get up, David: can’t you see you’re killing him? Unhand, I say.
ARETHUSA. In heaven’s name, who is it?
PEW. It’s a damned villain, my pretty; and his name, to the best of my
belief, is French.
ARETHUSA. Kit? Kit French? Never!
KIT (_rising_). He’s done for me. (_Falls on chest_.)
[PEW. Don’t you take on about him, ducky; he ain’t worth it. Cap’n
Gaunt, I took him and I give him up. You was ’ard on me this morning,
Cap’n: this is my way—Pew’s way, this is—of paying of you out.
ARETHUSA. Father, this is the blind man that came while you were abroad.
Sure you’ll not listen to _him_. And you, Kit, you, what is this?
KIT. Captain Gaunt, that blind devil has half-throttled me. He brought
me here—I can’t speak—he has almost killed me—and I’d been drinking too.
GAUNT. And you, David Pew, what do you say?]
PEW. Cap’n, the rights of it is this. Me and that young man there was
partaking in a friendly drop of rum at the _Admiral Benbow_ inn; and I’d
just proposed his blessed Majesty, when the young man he ups and says to
me: ‘Pew,’ he says, ‘I like you, Pew: you’re a true seaman,’ he says;
‘and I’m one as sticks at nothing; and damme, Pew,’ he says, ‘I’ll make
your fortune.’ [Can he deny as them was his words? Look at him, you as
has eyes: no, he cannot. ‘Come along of me,’ he says, ‘and damme, I’ll
make your fortune.’] Well, Cap’n, he lights a dark lantern (which you’ll
find it somewhere on the floor, I reckon), and out we goes, me follerin’
his lead, as I thought was ’art-of-oak and a true-blue mariner; and the
next I knows is, here we was in here, and him a-askin’ me to ’old the
glim, while he prised the lid off of your old sea-chest with his cutlass.
GAUNT. The chest? (_He leaps_, _R._, _and examines chest_.) Ah!
PEW. Leastways, I was to ’elp him, by his account of it, while he nailed
the rhino, and then took and carried off that lovely maid of yours; for a
lovely maid she is, and one as touched old Pew’s ’art Cap’n, when I ’eard
that, my blood biled. ‘Young man,’ I says, ‘you don’t know David Pew,’ I
says; and with that I ups and does my dooty by him, cutlass and all, like
a lion-’arted seaman, though blind. [And then in comes you, and I gives
him up: as you know for a fack is true, and I’ll subscribe at the
Assizes. And that, if you was to cut me into junks, is the truth, the
’ole truth, and nothing but the truth, world without end, so help me,
amen; and if you’ll ’and me over the ’oly Bible, me not having such a
thing about me at the moment, why, I’ll put a oath upon it like a man.]
ARETHUSA. Father, have you heard?
[GAUNT. I know this man, Arethusa, and the truth is not in him.
ARETHUSA. Well, and why do we wait? We know Kit, do we not?
KIT. Ay, Captain, you know the pair of us, and you can see his face and
mine.]
GAUNT. Christopher, the facts are all against you. I find you here in
my house at midnight: you who at least had eyes to see, and must have
known whither you were going. It was this man, not you, who called me
up: and when I came in, it was he who was uppermost and who gave you up
to justice. This unsheathed cutlass is yours; there hangs the scabbard,
empty; and as for the dark lantern, of what use is light to the blind?
and who could have trimmed and lighted it but you?
PEW. Ah, Cap’n, what a ’ed for argyment!
KIT. And now, sir, now that you have spoken, I claim the liberty to
speak on my side.
GAUNT. Not so. I will first have done with this man. David Pew, it
were too simple to believe your story as you tell it; but I can find no
testimony against you. From whatever reason, assuredly you have done me
service. Here are five guineas to set you on your way. Begone at once;
and while it is yet time, think upon your repentance.
PEW. Cap’n, here’s my respecks. You’ve turned a pious man, Cap’n; it
does my ’art good to ’ear you. But you ain’t the only one. O no! I
came about and paid off on the other tack before you, I reckon: you ask
the Chaplain of the Fleet else, as called me on the quarter-deck before
old Admiral ’Awke himself (_touching his hat_), my old commander.
[’David Pew,’ he says, ‘five-and-thirty year have I been in this trade,
man and boy,’ that chaplain says, ‘and damme, Pew,’ says he, ‘if ever I
seen the seaman that could rattle off his catechism within fifty mile of
you. Here’s five guineas out of my own pocket,’ he says; ‘and what’s
more to the pint,’ he says, ‘I’ll speak to my reverend brother-in-law,
the Bishop of Dover,’ he says; ‘and if ever you leave the sea, and wants
a place as beadle, why damme,’ says he, ‘you go to him, for you’re the
man for him, and him for you.’
GAUNT. David Pew, you never set your foot on a King’s ship in all your
life. There lies the road.
PEW. Ah, you was always a ’ard man, Cap’n, and a ’ard man to believe,
like Didymus the ’Ebrew prophet. But it’s time for me to go, and I’ll be
going. My service to you, Cap’n: and I kiss my ’and to that lovely
female.
‘Time for us to go,
Time for us to go,
And when we’d clapped the hatches on,
’Twas time for us to go.’
SCENE IV
KIT, ARETHUSA, GAUNT
ARETHUSA. Now, Kit?
KIT. Well, sir, and now?
GAUNT. I find you here in my house at this untimely and unseemly hour; I
find you there in company with one who, to my assured knowledge, should
long since have swung in the wind at Execution Dock. What brought you?
Why did you open my door while I slept to such a companion? Christopher
French, I have two treasures. One (_laying his hand on_ ARETHUSA’S
_shoulder_) I know you covet. Christopher, is this your love?
KIT. Sir, I have been fooled and trapped. That man declared he knew
you, declared he could make you change your mind about our marriage. I
was drunk, sir, and I believed him: heaven knows I am sober now, and can
see my folly; but I believed him then, and followed him. He brought me
here, he told me your chest was full of gold that would make men of us
for life. At that I saw my fault, sir, and drew my cutlass; and he, in
the wink of an eye, roared out for help, leaped at my throat like a
weasel and had me rolling on the floor. He was quick, and I, as I tell
you, sir, was off my balance.
GAUNT. Is this man, Pew, your enemy?
KIT. No sir; I never saw him till to-night.
GAUNT. Then, if you must stand the justice of your country, come to the
proof with a better plea. What? lantern and cutlass yours; you the one
that knew the house; you the one that saw; you the one overtaken and
denounced; and you spin me a galley yarn like that? If that is all your
defence, you’ll hang, sir, hang.
ARETHUSA. Ah! Father, I give him up: I will never see him, never speak
to him, never think of him again; I take him from my heart; I give myself
wholly up to you and to my mother; I will obey you in every point—O, not
at a word merely—at a finger raised! I will do all this; I will do
anything—anything you bid me; I swear it in the face of heaven.
Only—Kit! I love him, father, I love him. Let him go.
[GAUNT. Go?
ARETHUSA. You let the other. Open the door again—for my sake, father—in
my mother’s name—O, open the door and let him go.]
KIT. Let me go? My girl, if you had cast me out is morning, good and
well: I would have left you, though it broke my heart. But it’s a
changed story now; now I’m down on my luck, and you come and stab me from
behind. I ask no favour, and I’ll take none; I stand here on my
innocence, and God helping me I’ll clear my good name, and get your love
again, if it’s love worth having. [Now, Captain Gaunt, I’ve said my say,
and you may do your pleasure. I am my father’s son, and I never feared
to face the truth.
GAUNT. You have spoken like a man, French, and you may go. I leave you
free.
KIT. Nay, sir, not so: not with my will. I’m accused and counted
guilty; the proofs are against me; the girl I love has turned upon me.
I’ll accept no mercy at your hands.] Captain Gaunt, I am your prisoner.
ARETHUSA. Kit, dear Kit—
GAUNT. Silence! Young man, I have offered you liberty without bond or
condition. You refuse. You shall be judged. Meanwhile (_opening the
door_, _R._), you will go in here. I keep your cutlass. The night
brings counsel: to-morrow shall decide. (_He locks_ KIT _in_, _leaving
the key in the door_.)
SCENE V
GAUNT, ARETHUSA, _afterwards_ PEW
ARETHUSA. Father, you believe in him; you do; I know you do.
GAUNT. Child, I am not given to be hasty. I will pray and sleep upon
this matter. (_A knocking at the door_, _C._) Who knocks so late? (_He
opens_.)
PEW (_entering_). Cap’n, shall I fetch the constable?
GAUNT. No.
PEW. No? Have ye killed him?
GAUNT. My man, I’ll see you into the road. (_He takes_ PEW _by the
arm_, _and goes out with him_.)
SCENE VI
ARETHUSA
ARETHUSA. (_Listens_; _then running to door_, _R._) Kit—dearest! wait!
I will come to you soon. (GAUNT _re-enters_, _C._, _as the drop falls_.)
ACT IV.
_The Stage represents the Admiral’s house_, _as in Acts I. and III_. _A
chair_, _L._, _in front_. _As the curtain rises_, _the Stage is dark_.
_Enter_ ARETHUSA, _L._, _with candle_; _she lights another_; _and passes
to door_, _R._, _which she unbolts_. _Stage light_
SCENE I
ARETHUSA, KIT
ARETHUSA. Come, dear Kit, come!
KIT. Well, I’m here.
ARETHUSA. O Kit, you are not angry with me.
KIT. Have I reason to be pleased?
ARETHUSA. Kit, I was wrong. Forgive me.
KIT. O yes. I forgive you. I suppose you meant it kindly; but there
are some kindnesses a man would rather die than take a gift of. When a
man is accused, Arethusa, it is not that he fears the gallows—it’s the
shame that cuts him. At such a time as that, the way to help was to
stand to your belief. You should have nailed my colours to the mast, not
spoke of striking them. If I were to be hanged to-morrow, and your love
there, and a free pardon and a dukedom on the other side—which would I
choose?
ARETHUSA. Kit, you must judge me fairly. It was not my life that was at
stake, it was yours. Had it been mine—mine, Kit—what had you done, then?
KIT. I am a downright fool; I saw it inside out. Why, give you up, by
George!
ARETHUSA. Ah, you see! Now you understand. It was all pure love. When
he said that word—O!—death and that disgrace! . . . But I know my
father. He fears nothing so much as the goodness of his heart; and yet
it conquers. He would pray, he said: and to-night, and by the kindness
of his voice, I knew he was convinced already. All that is wanted, is
that you should forgive me.
KIT. Arethusa, if you looked at me like that I’d forgive you piracy on
the high seas. I was only sulky; I was boxed up there in the black dark,
and couldn’t see my hand. It made me pity that blind man, by George!
ARETHUSA. O, that blind man! The fiend! He came back, Kit: did you
hear him? he thought we had killed you—you!
KIT. Well, well, it serves me right for keeping company with such a
swab.
ARETHUSA. One thing puzzles me: how did you get in? I saw my father
lock the door.
KIT. Ah, how? That’s just it. I was a sheet in the wind, you see. How
did we? He did it somehow. . . . By George, he had a key! He can get in
again.
ARETHUSA. Again? that man!
KIT. Ay, can he! Again! When he likes!
ARETHUSA. Kit, I am afraid. O Kit, he will kill my father.
KIT. Afraid. I’m glad of that. Now, you’ll see I’m worth my salt at
something. Ten to one he’s back to Mrs. Drake’s. I’ll after, and lay
him aboard.
ARETHUSA. O Kit, he is too strong for you.
KIT. Arethusa, that’s below the belt! Never you fear; I’ll give a good
account of him.
ARETHUSA (_taking cutlass from the wall_). You’ll be none the worse for
this, dear.
KIT. That’s so (_making cuts_). All the same, I’m half ashamed to draw
on a blind man; it’s too much odds. (_He leaps suddenly against the
table_.) Ah!
ARETHUSA. Kit! Are you ill?
KIT. My head’s like a humming top; it serves me right for drinking.
ARETHUSA. O, and the blind man! (_She runs_, _L._, _to the corner
cupboard_, _brings a bottle and glass_, _and fills and offers glass_.)
Here, lad, drink that.
KIT. To you! That’s better. (_Bottle and glass remain on Gaunt’s
table_.)
ARETHUSA. Suppose you miss him?
KIT. Miss him! The road is straight; and I can hear the tap-tapping of
that stick a mile away.
ARETHUSA (_listening_). St! my father stirring in his room!
KIT. Let me get clear; tell him why when I’m gone. The door—?
ARETHUSA. Locked!
KIT. The window!
ARETHUSA. Quick, quick! (_She unfastens R. window_, _by which_ KIT
_goes out_.)
SCENE II
ARETHUSA, GAUNT _entering L._
ARETHUSA. Father, Kit is gone . . . He is asleep.
GAUNT. Waiting, waiting and wearying. The years, they go so heavily, my
Hester still waiting! (_He goes R. to chest_, _which he opens_.) That
is your chain; it’s of Guinea gold; I brought it you from Guinea.
(_Taking out chain_.) You liked it once; it pleased you long ago; O, why
not now—why will you not be happy now? . . . I swear this is my last
voyage; see, I lay my hand upon the Holy Book and swear it. One more
venture—for the child’s sake, Hester; you don’t think upon your little
maid.
ARETHUSA. Ah, for my sake, it was for my sake!
GAUNT. Ten days out from Lagos. That’s a strange sunset, Mr. Yeo. All
hands shorten sail! Lay aloft there, look smart! . . . What’s that?
Only the negroes in the hold . . . Mr. Yeo, she can’t live long at this;
I have a wife and child in Barnstaple. . . . Christ, what a sea! Hold
on, for God’s sake—hold on fore and aft! Great God! (_as thought the sea
were making a breach over the ship at the moment_).
ARETHUSA. O!
GAUNT. They seem quieter down below there . . . No water—no light—no
air—seven days battened down, and the seas mountain high, and the ship
labouring hell-deep! Two hundred and five, two hundred and five, two
hundred and five—all to eternal torture!
ARETHUSA. O pity him, pity him! Let him sleep, let him forget! Let her
prayers avail in heaven, and let him rest!
GAUNT. Hester, no, don’t smile at me. Rather tears! I have seen you
weep—often, often; two hundred and five times. Two hundred and five!
(_With ring_.) Hester, here is your ring (_he tries to put the ring on
his finger_). How comes it in my hand? Not fallen off again? O no,
impossible! it was made smaller, dear, it can’t have fallen off! Ah, you
waste away. You must live, you must, for the dear child’s sake, for
mine, Hester, for mine! Ah, the child. Yes. Who am I to judge? Poor
Kit French! And she, your little maid, she’s like you, Hester, and she
will save him! How should a man be saved without a wife?
ARETHUSA. O father, if you could but hear me thank and bless you! (_The
tapping of Pew’s stick is heard approaching_. GAUNT _passes L. front and
sits_.)
GAUNT (_beginning to count the taps_). One—two—two hundred and five
ARETHUSA (_listening_). God help me, the blind man! (_She runs to
door_, _C._; _the key is put into the lock from without_, _and the door
opens_.)
SCENE III
ARETHUSA (_at back of stage by the door_); GAUNT (_front L._); _to
these_, PEW, _C._
PEW (_sotto voce_). All snug. (_Coming down_.) So that was you, my
young friend Christopher, as shot by me on the road; and so you was hot
foot after old Pew? Christopher, my young friend, I reckon I’ll have the
bowels out of that chest, and I reckon you’ll be lagged and scragged for
it. (_At these words_ ARETHUSA _locks the door_, _and takes the key_.)
What’s that? All still. There’s something wrong about this room. Pew,
my ’art of oak, you’re queer to-night; brace up, and carry off. Where’s
the tool? (_Producing knife_.) Ah, here she is; and now for the chest;
and the gold; and rum—rum—rum. What! Open? . . . old clothes, by God! . . .
He’s done me; he’s been before me; he’s bolted with the swag; that’s
why he ran: Lord wither and waste him forty year for it! O Christopher,
if I had my fingers on your throat! Why didn’t I strangle the soul out
of him? I heard the breath squeak in his weasand; and Jack Gaunt pulled
me off. Ah, Jack, that’s another I owe you. My pious friend, if I was
God Almighty for five minutes! (GAUNT _rises and begins to pace the
stage like a quarterdeck_, _L._) What’s that? A man’s walk. He don’t
see me, thank the blessed dark! But it’s time to slip, my bo. (_He
gropes his way stealthily till he comes to Gaunt’s table_, _where he
burns his hand in the candle_.) A candle—lighted—then it’s bright as
day! Lord God, doesn’t he see me? It’s the horrors come alive. (GAUNT
_draws near and turns away_.) I’ll go mad, mad! (_He gropes to the
door_, _stopping and starting_.) Door. (_His voice rising for the first
time_, _sharp with terror_.) Locked? Key gone? Trapped! Keep off—keep
off of me—keep away! (_Sotto voce again_.) Keep your head, Lord have
mercy, keep your head. I’m wet with sweat. What devil’s den is this? I
must out—out! (_He shakes the door vehemently_.) No? Knife it is
then—knife—knife—knife! (_He moves with the knife raised towards_ GAUNT,
_intently listening_, _and changing his direction as_ GAUNT _changes his
position on the stage_.)
ARETHUSA (_rushing to intercept him_). Father, father, wake!
GAUNT. Hester, Hester! (_He turns_, _in time to see_ ARETHUSA _grapple_
PEW _in the centre of the Stage_, _and_ PEW _force her down_.)
ARETHUSA. Kit! Kit!
PEW (_with the knife raised_). Pew’s way!
SCENE IV
_To these_, KIT
(_He leaps through window_, _R._, _and cuts_ PEW _down_. _At the same
moment_, GAUNT, _who has been staring helplessly at his daughter’s
peril_, _fully awakes_.)
GAUNT. Death and blood! (KIT, _helping_ ARETHUSA, _has let fall the
cutlass_. GAUNT_ picks it up and runs on_ PEW.) Damned mutineer, I’ll
have your heart out! (_He stops_, _stands staring_, _drops cutlass_,
_falls upon his knees_.) God forgive me! Ah, foul sins, would you blaze
forth again? Lord, close your ears! Hester, Hester, hear me not! Shall
all these years and tears be unavailing?
ARETHUSA. Father, I am not hurt.
GAUNT. Ay, daughter, but my soul—my lost soul!
PEW (_rising on his elbow_). Rum? You’ve done me. For God’s sake, rum.
(ARETHUSA _pours out a glass_, _which_ KIT _gives to him_.) Rum? This
ain’t rum; it’s fire! (_With great excitement_.) What’s this? I don’t
like rum? (_Feebly_.) Ay, then, I’m a dead man, and give me water.
GAUNT. Now even his sins desert him.
PEW (_drinking water_). Jack Gaunt, you’ve always been my rock ahead.
It’s thanks to you I’ve got my papers, and this time I’m shipped for
Fiddler’s Green. Admiral, we ain’t like to meet again, and I’ll give you
a toast: Here’s Fiddler’s Green, and damn all lubbers! (_Seizing_
GAUNT’S _arm_.) I say—fair dealings, Jack!—none of that heaven business:
Fiddler’s Green’s my port, now, ain’t it?
GAUNT. David, you’ve hove short up, and God forbid that I deceive you.
Pray, man, pray; for in the place to which you are bound there is no
mercy and no hope.
PEW. Ay, my lass, you’re black, but your blood’s red, and I’m all a-muck
with it. Pass the rum, and be damned to you. (_Trying to sing_)—
‘Time for us to go,
Time for us—’
(_He dies_.)
GAUNT. But for the grace of God, there lies John Gaunt! Christopher,
you have saved my child; and I, I, that was blinded with
self-righteousness, have fallen. Take her, Christopher; but O, walk
humbly!
* * * * *
CURTAIN
MACAIRE
A MELODRAMATIC FARCE
IN THREE ACTS
PERSONS REPRESENTED
ROBERT MACAIRE.
BERTRAND.
DUMONT, Landlord of the _Auberge des Adrets_.
CHARLES, a Gendarme, Dumont’s supposed son.
GORIOT.
THE MARQUIS, Charles’s Father.
THE BRIGADIER of Gendarmerie.
THE CURATE.
THE NOTARY.
A WAITER.
ERNESTINE, Goriot’s Daughter.
ALINE.
MAIDS, PEASANTS (_Male and Female_), GENDARMES.
The Scene is laid in the Courtyard of the _Auberge des Adrets_, on the
frontier of France and Savoy. The time 1800. The action occupies an
interval of from twelve to fourteen hours: from four in the afternoon
till about five in the morning.
* * * * *
NOTE.—_The time between the acts should be as brief as possible_, _and
the piece played_, _where it is merely comic_, _in a vein of patter_.
ACT I.
_The Stage represents the courtyard of the Auberge des Adrets_. _It is
surrounded by the buildings of the inn_, _with a gallery on the first
story_, _approached_, _C._, _by a straight flight of stairs_. _L. C._,
_the entrance doorway_. _A little in front of this_, _a small grated
office_, _containing business table_, _brass-bound cabinet_, _and
portable cash-box_. _In front_, _R. and L._, _tables and benches_;
_one_, _L._, _partially laid for a considerable party_.
SCENE I
ALINE and MAIDS; _to whom_ FIDDLERS; _afterwards_ DUMONT _and_ CHARLES.
_As the curtain rises_, _the sound of the violins is heard approaching_.
ALINE _and the inn servants_, _who are discovered laying the table_,
_dance up to door L. C._, _to meet the_ FIDDLERS, _who enter likewise
dancing to their own music_. _Air_: ‘_Haste to the Wedding_.’ _The_
FIDDLERS _exeunt playing into house_, _R. U. E._ ALINE _and_ MAIDS
_dance back to table_, _which they proceed to arrange_
ALINE. Well, give me fiddles: fiddles and a wedding feast. It tickles
your heart till your heels make a runaway match of it. I don’t mind
extra work, I don’t, so long as there’s fun about it. Hand me up that
pile of plates. The quinces there, before the bride. Stick a pink in
the Notary’s glass: that’s the girl he’s courting.
DUMONT (_entering_; _with_ CHARLES). Good girls, good girls! Charles,
in ten minutes from now what happy faces will smile around that board!
CHARLES. Sir, my good fortune is complete; and most of all in this, that
my happiness has made my father happy.
DUMONT. Your father? Ah, well, upon that point we shall have more to
say.
CHARLES. What more remains that has not been said already? For surely,
sir, there are few sons more fortunate in their father: and, since you
approve of this marriage, may I not conceive you to be in that sense
fortunate in your son?
DUMONT. Dear boy, there is always a variety of considerations. But the
moment is ill chosen for dispute; to-night, at least, let our felicity be
unalloyed. (_Looking off L. C._) Our guests arrive: here is our good
Curate, and here our cheerful Notary.
CHARLES. His old infirmity, I fear.
DUMONT. But Charles—dear boy!—at your wedding feast! I should have
taken it unneighbourly had he come strictly sober.
SCENE II
_To these_, _by the door L. C._, _the_ CURATE _and the_ NOTARY, _arm in
arm_; _the latter owl-like and titubant_
CURATE. Peace be on this house!
NOTARY (_singing_). ‘Prove an excuse for the glass.’
DUMONT. Welcome, excellent neighbours! The Church and the Law.
CURATE. And you, Charles, let me hope your feelings are in solemn
congruence with this momentous step.
NOTARY (_digging_ CHARLES _in the ribs_). Married? Lovely bride? Prove
an excuse!
DUMONT (_to_ CURATE). I fear our friend? perhaps? as usual? eh?
CURATE. Possibly: I had not yet observed it.
DUMONT. Well, well, his heart is good.
CURATE. He doubtless meant it kindly.
NOTARY. Where’s Aline?
ALINE. Coming, sir! (NOTARY _makes for her_.)
CURATE (_capturing him_). You will infallibly expose yourself to
misconstruction. (_To_ CHARLES.) Where is your commanding officer?
CHARLES. Why, sir, we have quite an alert. Information has been
received from Lyons that the notorious malefactor, Robert Macaire, has
broken prison, and the Brigadier is now scouring the country in his
pursuit. I myself am instructed to watch the visitors to our house.
DUMONT. That will do, Charles: you may go. (_Exit_ CHARLES.) You have
considered the case I laid before you?
NOTARY. Considered a case?
DUMONT. Yes, yes. Charles, you know, Charles. Can he marry? under
these untoward and peculiar circumstances, can he marry?
NOTARY. Now, lemme tell you: marriage is a contract to which there are
two constracting parties. That being clear, I am prepared to argue
categorically that your son Charles—who, it appears, is not your son
Charles—I am prepared to argue that one party to a contract being null
and void, the other party to a contract cannot by law oblige or constrain
the first party to constract or bind himself to any contract, except the
other party be able to see his way clearly to constract himself with him.
I donno if I make myself clear?
DUMONT. No.
NOTARY. Now, lemme tell you: by applying justice of peace might possibly
afford relief.
DUMONT. But how?
NOTARY. Ay, there’s the rub.
DUMONT. But what am I to do? He’s not my son, I tell you: Charles is
not my son.
NOTARY. I know.
DUMONT. Perhaps a glass of wine would clear him?
NOTARY. That’s what I want. (_They go out_, _L. U. E._)
ALINE. And now, if you’ve done deranging my table, to the cellar for the
wine, the whole pack of you. (_Manet sola_, _considering table_.)
There: it’s like a garden. If I had as sweet a table for my wedding, I
would marry the Notary.
SCENE III
_The Stage remains vacant_. _Enter_, _by door L. C._, MACAIRE, _followed
by_ BERTRAND _with bundle_; _in the traditional costume_
MACAIRE. Good! No police.
BERTRAND (_looking off_, _L. C._). Sold again!
MACAIRE. This is a favoured spot, Bertrand: ten minutes from the
frontier: ten minutes from escape. Blessings on that frontier line! The
criminal hops across, and lo! the reputable man. (_Reading_) ‘_Auberge
des Adrets_, by John Paul Dumont.’ A table set for company; this is
fate: Bertrand, are we the first arrivals? An office; a cabinet; a
cash-box—aha! and a cash-box, golden within. A money-box is like a
Quaker beauty: demure without, but what a figure of a woman! Outside
gallery: an architectural feature I approve; I count it a convenience
both for love and war: the troubadour—twang-twang; the craftsmen—(_makes
as if turning key_.) The kitchen window: humming with cookery; truffles,
before Jove! I was born for truffles. Cock your hat: meat, wine, rest,
and occupation; men to gull, women to fool, and still the door open, the
great unbolted door of the frontier!
BERTRAND. Macaire, I’m hungry.
MACAIRE. Bertrand, excuse me, you are a sensualist. I should have left
you in the stone-yard at Lyons, and written no passport but my own. Your
soul is incorporate with your stomach. Am I not hungry, too? My body,
thanks to immortal Jupiter, is but the boy that holds the kite-string; my
aspirations and designs swim like the kite sky-high, and overlook an
empire.
BERTRAND. If I could get a full meal and a pound in my pocket I would
hold my tongue.
MACAIRE. Dreams, dreams! We are what we are; and what are we? Who are
you? who cares? Who am I? myself. What do we come from? an accident.
What’s a mother? an old woman. A father? the gentleman who beats her.
What is crime? discovery. Virtue? opportunity. Politics? a pretext.
Affection? an affectation. Morality? an affair of latitude. Punishment?
this side the frontier. Reward? the other. Property? plunder.
Business? other people’s money—not mine, by God! and the end of life to
live till we are hanged.
BERTRAND. Macaire, I came into this place with my tail between my legs
already, and hungry besides; and then you get to flourishing, and it
depresses me worse than the chaplain in the jail.
MACAIRE. What is a chaplain? A man they pay to say what you don’t want
to hear.
BERTRAND. And who are you after all? and what right have you to talk
like that? By what I can hear, you’ve been the best part of your life in
quod; and as for me, since I’ve followed you, what sort of luck have I
had? Sold again! A boose, a blue fright, two years’ hard, and the
police hot-foot after us even now.
MACAIRE. What is life? A boose and the police.
BERTRAND. Of course, I know you’re clever; I admire you down to the
ground, and I’ll starve without you. But I can’t stand it, and I’m off.
Good-bye: good luck to you, old man! and if you want the bundle—
MACAIRE. I am a gentleman of a mild disposition and, I thank my maker,
elegant manners; but rather than be betrayed by such a thing as you are,
with the courage of a hare, and the manners, by the Lord Harry, of a
jumping-Jack—(_He shows his knife_.)
BERTRAND. Put it up, put it up: I’ll do what you want.
MACAIRE. What is obedience? fear. So march straight, or look for
mischief. It’s not _bon ton_, I know, and far from friendly. But what
is friendship? convenience. But we lose time in this amiable dalliance.
Come, now an effort of deportment: the head thrown back, a jaunty
carriage of the leg; crook gracefully the elbow. Thus. ’Tis better.
(_Calling_.) House, house here!
BERTRAND. Are you mad? We haven’t a brass farthing.
MACAIRE. Now!—But before we leave!
SCENE IV
_To these_, DUMONT
DUMONT. Gentlemen, what can a plain man do for your service?
MACAIRE. My good man, in a roadside inn one cannot look for the
impossible. Give one what small wine and what country fare you can
produce.
DUMONT. Gentlemen, you come here upon a most auspicious day, a
red-letter day for me and my poor house, when all are welcome. Suffer
me, with all delicacy, to inquire if you are not in somewhat narrow
circumstances?
MACAIRE. My good creature, you are strangely in error; one is rolling in
gold.
BERTRAND. And very hungry.
DUMONT. Dear me, and on this happy occasion I had registered a vow that
every poor traveller should have his keep for nothing, and a pound in his
pocket to help him on his journey.
MACAIRE (_aside_). A pound in his pocket?
BERTRAND (_aside_). Keep for nothing?
MACAIRE (_aside_). Bitten!
BERTRAND (_aside_). Sold again!
DUMONT. I will send you what we have: poor fare, perhaps, for gentlemen
like you.
SCENE V
MACAIRE, BERTRAND; _afterwards_ CHARLES, _who appears on the gallery_,
_and comes down_
BERTRAND. I told you so. Why will you fly so high?
MACAIRE. Bertrand, don’t crush me. A pound: a fortune! With a pound to
start upon—two pounds, for I’d have borrowed yours—three months from now
I might have been driving in my barouche, with you behind it, Bertrand,
in a tasteful livery.
BERTRAND (_seeing_ CHARLES). Lord, a policeman!
MACAIRE. Steady! What is a policeman? Justice’s blind eye. (_To_
CHARLES.) I think, sir, you are in the force?
CHARLES. I am, sir, and it was in that character—
MACAIRE. Ah, sir, a fine service!
CHARLES. It is, sir, and if your papers—
MACAIRE. You become your uniform. Have you a mother? Ah, well, well!
CHARLES. My duty, sir—
MACAIRE. They tell me one Macaire—is not that his name, Bertrand?—has
broken jail at Lyons?
CHARLES. He has, sir, and it is precisely for that reason—
MACAIRE. Well, good-bye. (_Shaking_ CHARLES _by the hand and leading
him towards the door_, _L. U. E._) Sweet spot, sweet spot. The scenery
is . . . (_kisses his finger-tips_. _Exit_ CHARLES). And now, what is a
policeman?
BERTRAND. A bobby.
SCENE VI
MACAIRE, BERTRAND; _to whom_ ALINE _with tray_; _and afterwards_ MAIDS
ALINE (_entering with tray_, _and proceeding to lay table_, _L._) My
men, you are in better luck than usual. It isn’t every day you go shares
in a wedding feast.
MACAIRE. A wedding? Ah, and you’re the bride.
ALINE. What makes you fancy that?
MACAIRE. Heavens, am I blind?
ALINE. Well, then, I wish I was.
MACAIRE. I take you at the word: have me.
ALINE. You will never be hanged for modesty.
MACAIRE. Modesty is for the poor: when one is rich and nobly born, ’tis
but a clog. I love you. What is your name?
ALINE. Guess again, and you’ll guess wrong. (_Enter the other servants
with wine baskets_.) Here, set the wine down. No, that is the old
Burgundy for the wedding party. These gentlemen must put up with a
different bin. (_Setting wine before_ MACAIRE _and_ BERTRAND, _who are
at table_, _L._)
MACAIRE (_drinking_). Vinegar, by the supreme Jove!
BERTRAND. Sold again!
MACAIRE. Now, Bertrand, mark me. (_Before the servants he exchanges the
bottle for the one in front of_ DUMONT’S _place at the head of the other
table_.) Was it well done?
BERTRAND. Immense.
MACAIRE (_emptying his glass into_ BERTRAND’S). There, Bertrand, you may
finish that. Ha! music?
SCENE VII
_To these_, _from the inn_, _L. U. E._, DUMONT, CHARLES, the CURATE, the
NOTARY jigging: from the inn, _R. U. E._, FIDDLERS playing and dancing;
and through door L. C., GORIOT, ERNESTINE, PEASANTS, dancing likewise.
Air: ‘Haste to the Wedding.’ As the parties meet, the music ceases
DUMONT. Welcome, neighbours! welcome friends! Ernestine, here is my
Charles, no longer mine. A thousand welcomes. O the gay day! O the
auspicious wedding! (CHARLES, ERNESTINE, DUMONT, GORIOT, CURATE, _and_
NOTARY _sit to the wedding feast_; PEASANTS, FIDDLERS, _and_ MAIDS,
_grouped at back_, _drinking from the barrel_.) O, I must have all happy
around me.
GORIOT. Then help the soup.
DUMONT. Give me leave: I must have all happy. Shall these poor
gentlemen upon a day like this drink ordinary wine? Not so: I shall
drink it. (_To_ MACAIRE, _who is just about to fill his glass_) Don’t
touch it, sir! Aline, give me that gentleman’s bottle and take him mine:
with old Dumont’s compliments.
MACAIRE. What?
BERTRAND. Change the bottle?
MACAIRE (_aside_). Bitten!
BERTRAND (_aside_). Sold again.
DUMONT. Yes, all shall be happy.
GORIOT. I tell ’ee, help the soup!
DUMONT (_begins to help soup_. _Then_, _dropping ladle_.) One word: a
matter of detail: Charles is not my son. (_All exclaim_.) O no, he is
not my son. Perhaps I should have mentioned it before.
CHARLES. I am not your son, sir?
DUMONT. O no, far from it.
GORIOT. Then who the devil’s son be he?
DUMONT. O, I don’t know. It’s an odd tale, a romantic tale: it may
amuse you. It was twenty years ago, when I kept the _Golden Head_ at
Lyons: Charles was left upon my doorstep in a covered basket, with
sufficient money to support the child till he should come of age. There
was no mark upon the linen, nor any clue but one: an unsigned letter from
the father of the child, which he strictly charged me to preserve. It
was to prove his identity: he, of course, would know the contents, and he
only; so I keep it safe in the third compartment of my cash-box, with the
ten thousand francs I’ve saved for his dowry. Here is the key; it’s a
patent key. To-day the poor boy is twenty-one, to-morrow to be married.
I did perhaps hope the father would appear: there was a Marquis coming;
he wrote me for a room; I gave him the best, Number Thirteen, which you
have all heard of: I did hope it might be he, for a Marquis, you know, is
always genteel. But no, you see. As for me, I take you all to witness
I’m as innocent of him as the babe unborn.
MACAIRE. Ahem! I think you said the linen bore an M?
DUMONT. Pardon me: the markings were cut off.
MACAIRE. True. The basket white, I think?
DUMONT. Brown, brown.
MACAIRE. Ah! brown—a whitey-brown.
GORIOT. I tell ’ee what, Dumont, this is all very well; but in that
case, I’ll be danged if he gets my daater. (_General consternation_.)
DUMONT. O Goriot, let’s have happy faces!
GORIOT. Happy faces be danged! I want to marry my daater; I want your
son. But who be this? I don’t know, and you don’t know, and he don’t
know. He may be anybody; by Jarge, he may be nobody! (_Exclamations_.)
CURATE. The situation is crepuscular.
ERNESTINE. Father, and Mr. Dumont (and you too, Charles), I wish to say
one word. You gave us leave to fall in love; we fell in love; and as for
me, my father, I will either marry Charles, or die a maid.
CHARLES. And you, sir, would you rob me in one day of both a father and
a wife?
DUMONT (_weeping_). Happy faces, happy faces!
GORIOT. I know nothing about robbery; but she cannot marry without my
consent, and that she cannot get.
(_All speak together_ . . .
DUMONT. O dear, O dear!
ALINE. What spoil the wedding?
ERNESTINE. O father!
CHARLES. Sir, sir, you would not—
. . . )
GORIOT (_exasperated_). I wun’t, and what’s more I shan’t.
NOTARY. I donno if I make myself clear?
DUMONT. Goriot, do let’s have happy faces!
GORIOT. Fudge! Fudge!! Fudge!!!
CURATE. Possibly on application to this conscientious jurist, light may
be obtained.
ALL. The Notary; yes, yes; the Notary!
DUMONT. Now, how about this marriage?
NOTARY. Marriage is a contract, to which there are two constracting
parties, John Doe and Richard Roe. I donno if I make myself clear?
ALINE. Poor lamb!
CURATE. Silence, my friend; you will expose yourself to misconstruction.
MACAIRE (_taking the stage_). As an entire stranger in this painful
scene, will you permit a gentleman and a traveller to interject one word?
There sits the young man, full, I am sure, of pleasing qualities; here
the young maiden, by her own confession bashfully consenting to the
match; there sits that dear old gentleman, a lover of bright faces like
myself, his own now dimmed with sorrow; and here—(may I be allowed to
add?)—here sits this noble Roman, a father like myself, and like myself
the slave of duty. Last you have me—Baron Henri-Frédéric de Latour de
Main de la Tonnerre de Brest, the man of the world and the man of
delicacy. I find you all—permit me the expression—gravelled. A marriage
and an obstacle. Now, what is marriage? The union of two souls, and,
what is possibly more romantic, the fusion of two dowries. What is an
obstacle? the devil. And this obstacle? to me, as a man of family, the
obstacle seems grave; but to me, as a man and a brother, what is it but a
word? O my friend (_to_ GORIOT), you whom I single out as the victim of
the same noble failings with myself—of pride of birth, of pride of
honesty—O my friend, reflect. Go now apart with your dishevelled
daughter, your tearful son-in-law, and let their plaints constrain you.
Believe me, when you come to die, you will recall with pride this amiable
weakness.
GORIOT. I shan’t, and what’s more I wun’t. (CHARLES _and_ ERNESTINE
_lead him up stage_, _protesting_. _All rise_, _except_ NOTARY.)
DUMONT (_front R._, _shaking hands with_ MACAIRE). Sir, you have a noble
nature. (MACAIRE _picks his pocket_.) Dear me, dear me, and you are
rich.
MACAIRE. I own, sir, I deceived you: I feared some wounding offer, and
my pride replied. But to be quite frank with you, you behold me here,
the Baron Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest, and
between my simple manhood and the infinite these rags are all.
DUMONT. Dear me, and with this noble pride, my gratitude is useless.
For I, too, have delicacy: I understand you could not stoop to take a
gift.
MACAIRE. A gift? a small one? never!
DUMONT. And I will never wound you by the offer.
MACAIRE (_aside_). Bitten.
BERTRAND (_aside_). Sold again.
GORIOT (_taking the stage_). But, look’ee here, he can’t marry.
(_All speak together_ . . .
MACAIRE. Hey?
DUMONT. Ah!
ALINE. Hey day!
CURATE. Wherefore?
ERNESTINE. Oh!
CHARLES. Ah!
. . . )
GORIOT. Not without his veyther’s consent! And he hasn’t got it; and
what’s more, he can’t get it: and what’s more, he hasn’t got a veyther to
get it from. It’s the law of France.
ALINE. Then the law of France ought to be ashamed of itself.
ERNESTINE. O, couldn’t we ask the Notary again?
CURATE. Indubitably you may ask him.
(_All speak together_ . . .
MACAIRE. Can’t they marry?
DUMONT. Can’t he marry?
ALINE. Can’t she marry?
ERNESTINE. Can’t we marry?
CHARLES. Can’t I marry?
GORIOT. Bain’t I right?
. . . )
NOTARY. Constracting parties.
CURATE. Possibly to-morrow at an early hour he may be more perspicuous.
GORIOT. Ay, before he’ve time to get at it.
NOTARY. Unoffending jurisconsult overtaken by sorrow. Possibly by
applying justice of peace might afford relief.
(_All speak together_ . . .
MACAIRE. Bravo!
DUMONT. Excellent!
CHARLES. Let’s go at once!
ALINE. The very thing!
. . . )
ERNESTINE. Yes, this minute!
GORIOT. I’ll go. I don’t mind getting advice, but I wun’t take it.
MACAIRE. My friends, one word: I perceive by your downcast looks that
you have not recognised the true nature of your responsibility as
citizens of time. What is care? impiety. Joy? the whole duty of man.
Here is an opportunity of duty it were sinful to forego. With a word, I
could lighten your hearts; but I prefer to quicken your heels, and send
you forth on your ingenuous errand with happy faces and smiling thoughts,
the physicians of your own recovery. Fiddlers, to your catgut! Up,
Bertrand, and show them how one foots it in society; forward, girls, and
choose me every one the lad she loves; Dumont, benign old man, lead forth
our blushing Curate; and you, O bride, embrace the uniform of your
beloved, and help us dance in your wedding-day. (_Dance_, _in the course
of which_ MACAIRE _picks_ DUMONT’S _pocket of his keys_, _selects the key
of the cash-box_, _and returns the others to his pocket_. _In the end_,
_all dance out_: _the wedding-party_, _headed by_ FIDDLERS, _L. C._;
_the_ MAIDS _and_ ALINE _into the inn_, _R. U. E._ _Manet_ BERTRAND
_and_ MACAIRE.)
SCENE VIII
MACAIRE, BERTRAND, _who instantly takes a bottle from the wedding-table_,
_and sits with it_, _L._
MACAIRE. Bertrand, there’s a devil of a want of a father here.
BERTRAND. Ay, if we only knew where to find him.
MACAIRE. Bertrand, look at me: I am Macaire; I am that father.
BERTRAND. You, Macaire? you a father?
MACAIRE. Not yet, but in five minutes. I am capable of anything.
(_Producing key_.) What think you of this?
BERTRAND. That? Is it a key?
MACAIRE. Ay, boy, and what besides? my diploma of respectability, my
patent of fatherhood. I prigged it—in the ardour of the dance I prigged
it; I change it beyond recognition, thus (_twists the handle of the
key_); and now . . .? Where is my long-lost child? produce my young
policeman! show me my gallant boy!
BERTRAND. I don’t understand.
MACAIRE. Dear innocence, how should you? Your brains are in your fists.
Go and keep watch. (_He goes into the office and returns with the
cash-box_.) Keep watch, I say.
BERTRAND. Where?
MACAIRE. Everywhere. (_He opens box_.)
BERTRAND. Gold.
MACAIRE. Hands off! Keep watch. (BERTRAND _at back of stage_.) Beat
slower, my paternal heart! The third compartment; let me see.
BERTRAND. S’st! (MACAIRE _shuts box_.) No; false alarm.
MACAIRE. The third compartment. Ay, here t—
BERTRAND. S’st! (_Same business_.) No: fire away.
MACAIRE. The third compartment: it must be this.
BERTRAND. S’st! (MACAIRE, _keeps box open_, _watching_ BERTRAND.) All
serene; it’s the wind.
MACAIRE. Now, see here! (_He darts his knife into the stage_.) I will
either be backed as a man should be, or from this minute out I’ll work
alone. Do you understand? I said alone.
BERTRAND. For the Lord’s sake, Macaire!—
MACAIRE. Ay, here it is. (_Reading letter_). ‘Preserve this letter
secretly; its terms are known only to you and me: hence when the time
comes, I shall repeat them, and my son will recognise his father.’
Signed: ‘Your Unknown Benefactor.’ (_He turns it over twice and replaces
it_. _Then_, _fingering the gold_) Gold! The yellow enchantress,
happiness ready-made and laughing in my face! Gold: what is gold? The
world; the term of ills; the empery of all; the multitudinous babble of
the change, the sailing from all ports of freighted argosies; music,
wine, a palace; the doors of the bright theatre, the key of consciences,
and love—love’s whistle! All this below my itching fingers; and to set
this by, turn a deaf ear upon the siren present, and condescend once
more, naked, into the ring with fortune—Macaire, how few would do it!
But you, Macaire, you are compacted of more subtile clay. No cheap
immediate pilfering: no retail trade of petty larceny; but swoop at the
heart of the position, and clutch all!
BERTRAND (_at his shoulder_). Halves!
MACAIRE. Halves? (_He locks the box_.) Bertrand, I am a father.
(_Replaces box in office_.)
BERTRAND (_looking after him_). Well, I—am—damned!
* * * * *
DROP.
ACT II.
_When the curtain rises_, _the night has come_. _A hanging cluster of
lighted lamps over each table_, _R. and L._ MACAIRE, _R._, _smoking a
cigarette_; BERTRAND, _L._, _with a church-warden_: _each with bottle and
glass_
SCENE I
MACAIRE, BERTRAND
MACAIRE. Bertrand, I am content: a child might play with me. Does your
pipe draw well?
BERTRAND. Like a factory chimney. This is my notion of life: liquor, a
chair, a table to put my feet on, a fine clean pipe, and no police.
MACAIRE. Bertrand, do you see these changing exhalations? do you see
these blue rings and spirals, weaving their dance, like a round of
fairies, on the footless air?
BERTRAND. I see ’em right enough.
MACAIRE. Man of little vision, expound me these meteors! what do they
signify, O wooden-head? Clod, of what do they consist?
BERTRAND. Damned bad tobacco.
MACAIRE. I will give you a little course of science. Everything,
Bertrand (much as it may surprise you), has three states: a vapour, a
liquid, a solid. These are fortune in the vapour: these are ideas. What
are ideas? the protoplasm of wealth. To your head—which, by the way, is
a solid, Bertrand—what are they but foul air? To mine, to my prehensile
and constructive intellects, see, as I grasp and work them, to what
lineaments of the future they transform themselves: a palace, a barouche,
a pair of luminous footmen, plate, wine, respect, and to be honest!
BERTRAND. But what’s the sense in honesty?
MACAIRE. The sense? You see me: Macaire: elegant, immoral, invincible
in cunning; well, Bertrand, much as it may surprise you, I am simply
damned by my dishonesty.
BERTRAND. No!
MACAIRE. The honest man, Bertrand, that God’s noblest work. He carries
the bag, my boy. Would you have me define honesty? the strategic point
for theft. Bertrand, if I’d three hundred a year, I’d be honest
to-morrow.
BERTRAND. Ah! Don’t you wish you may get it!
MACAIRE. Bertrand, I will bet you my head against your own—the longest
odds I can imagine—that with honesty for my spring-board, I leap through
history like a paper hoop, and come out among posterity heroic and
immortal.
SCENE II
_To these_, _all the former characters_, _less the_ NOTARY. _The fiddles
are heard without_, _playing dolefully_. _Air_: ‘_O dear_, _what can the
matter be_?’ _in time to which the procession enters_
MACAIRE. Well, friends, what cheer?
(_All speak together_ . . .
ALINE. No wedding, no wedding!
GORIOT. I told ’ee he can’t and he can’t.
DUMONT. Dear, dear me!
ERNESTINE. They won’t let us marry.
CHARLES. No wife, no father, no nothing!
. . . )
CURATE. The facts have justified the worst anticipations of our absent
friend, the Notary.
MACAIRE. I perceive I must reveal myself.
DUMONT. God bless me, no!
MACAIRE. My friends, I had meant to preserve a strict incognito, for I
was ashamed (I own it!) of this poor accoutrement; but when I see a face
that I can render happy, say, my old Dumont, should I hesitate to work
the change? Hear me, then, and you (_to the others_) prepare a smiling
countenance. (_Repeating_.) ‘Preserve this letter secretly; its terms
are only known to you and me; hence when the time comes, I shall repeat
them, and my son will recognise his father.—Your Unknown Benefactor.’
DUMONT. The words! the letter! Charles, alas! it is your father!
CHARLES. Good Lord! (_General consternation_.)
BERTRAND (_aside_: _smiling his brow_). I see it now; sublime!
CURATE. A highly singular eventuality.
GORIOT. Him? O well, then, I wun’t. (_Goes up_.)
MACAIRE. Charles, to my arms! (_Business_.) Ernestine, your second
father waits to welcome you. (_Business_.) Goriot, noble old man, I
grasp your hand. (_He doesn’t_.) And you, Dumont, how shall your
unknown benefactor thank you for your kindness to his boy? (_A dead
Pause_.) Charles, to my arms!
CHARLES. My father, you are still something of a stranger. I hope—er—in
the course of time—I hope that may be somewhat mended. But I confess
that I have so long regarded Mr. Dumont—
MACAIRE. Love him still, dear boy, love him still. I have not returned
to be a burden on your heart, nor much, comparatively, on your pocket. A
place by the fire, dear boy, a crust for my friend, Bertrand. (_A dead
pause_.) Ah, well, this is a different home-coming from that I fancied
when I left the letter: I dreamed to grow rich. Charles, you remind me
of your sainted mother.
CHARLES. I trust, sir, you do not think yourself less welcome for your
poverty.
MACAIRE. Nay, nay—more welcome, more welcome. O, I know
your—(_business_) backs! Besides, my poverty is noble. Political . . .
Dumont, what are your politics?
DUMONT. A plain old republican, my lord.
MACAIRE. And yours, my good Goriot?
GORIOT. I be a royalist, I be, and so be my daater.
MACAIRE. How strange is the coincidence! The party that I sought to
found combined the peculiarities of both: a patriotic enterprise in which
I fell. This humble fellow . . . have I introduced him? You behold in
us the embodiment of aristocracy and democracy. Bertrand, shake hands
with my family. (BERTRAND _is rebuffed by one and the other in dead
silence_.)
BERTRAND. Sold again!
MACAIRE. Charles, to my arms! (_Business_.)
ERNESTINE. Well, but now that he has a father of some kind, cannot the
marriage go on?
MACAIRE. Angel, this very night: I burn to take my grandchild on my
knees.
GORIOT. Be you that young man’s veyther?
MACAIRE. Ay, and what a father!
GORIOT. Then all I’ve got to say is, I shan’t and I wun’t.
MACAIRE. Ah, friends, friends, what a satisfaction it is, what a sight
is virtue! I came among you in this poor attire to test you; how nobly
have you borne the test! But my disguise begins to irk me: who will lend
me a good suit? (_Business_.)
SCENE III
_To these_, _the_ MARQUIS, _L. C._
MARQUIS. Is this the house of John Paul Dumont, once of Lyons?
DUMONT. It is, sir, and I am he, at your disposal.
MARQUIS. I am the Marquis Villers-Cotterêts de la Cherté de Médoc.
(_Sensation_.)
MACAIRE. Marquis, delighted, I am sure.
MARQUIS (_to_ DUMONT). I come, as you perceive, unfollowed; my errand,
therefore, is discreet. I come (_producing notes from breast-pocket_)
equipped with thirty thousand francs; my errand, therefore, must be
generous. Can you not guess?
DUMONT. Not I, my lord.
MARQUIS (_repeating_). ‘Preserve this letter,’ etc.
MACAIRE. Bitten.
BERTRAND. Sold again (_aside_). (_A pause_.)
ALINE. Well, I never did!
DUMONT. Two fathers!
MARQUIS. Two? Impossible.
DUMONT. Not at all. This is the other.
MARQUIS. This man?
MACAIRE. This is the man, my lord; here stands the father; Charles, to
my arms! (CHARLES _backs_.)
DUMONT. He knew the letter.
MARQUIS. Well, but so did I.
CURATE. The judgment of Solomon.
GORIOT. What did I tell ’ee? he can’t marry.
ERNESTINE. Couldn’t they both consent?
MARQUIS. But he’s my living image.
MACAIRE. Mine, Marquis, mine.
MARQUIS. My figure, I think?
MACAIRE. Ah, Charles, Charles!
CURATE. We used to think his physiognomy resembled Dumont’s.
DUMONT. Come to look at him, he’s really like Goriot.
ERNESTINE. O papa, I hope he’s not my brother.
GORIOT. What be talking of? I tell ’ee, he’s like our Curate.
CHARLES. Gentlemen, my head aches.
MARQUIS. I have it: the involuntary voice of nature. Look at me, my
son.
MACAIRE. Nay, Charles, but look at me.
CHARLES. Gentlemen, I am unconscious of the smallest natural inclination
for either.
MARQUIS. Another thought: what was his mother’s name?
MACAIRE. What was the name of his mother by you?
MARQUIS. Sir, you are silenced.
MACAIRE. Silenced by honour. I had rather lose my boy than compromise
his sainted mother.
MARQUIS. A thought: twins might explain it: had you not two foundlings?
DUMONT. Nay, sir, one only; and judging by the miseries of this evening,
I should say, thank God!
MACAIRE. My friends, leave me alone with the Marquis. It is only a
father that can understand a father’s heart. Bertrand, follow the
members of my family. (_They troop out_, _L. U. E. and R. U. E._, _the
fiddlers playing_. _Air_: ‘_O dear_, _what can the matter be_?’)
SCENE IV
MACAIRE, MARQUIS
MARQUIS. Well, sir?
MACAIRE. My lord, I feel for you. (_Business_. _They sit_, _R._)
MARQUIS. And now, sir?
MACAIRE. The bond that joins us is remarkable and touching.
MARQUIS. Well, sir?
MACAIRE (_touching him on the breast_). You have there thirty thousand
francs.
MARQUIS. Well, sir?
MACAIRE. I was but thinking of the inequalities of life, my lord: that I
who, for all you know, may be the father of your son, should have
nothing; and that you who, for all I know, may be the father of mine,
should be literally bulging with bank notes. . . . Where do you keep
them at night?
MARQUIS. Under my pillow. I think it rather ingenious.
MACAIRE. Admirably so! I applaud the device.
MARQUIS. Well, sir?
MACAIRE. Do you snuff, my lord?
MARQUIS. No, sir, I do not.
MACAIRE. My lord, I am a poor man.
MARQUIS. Well, sir? and what of that?
MACAIRE. The affections, my lord, are priceless. Money will not buy
them; or, at least, it takes a great deal.
MARQUIS. Sir, your sentiments do you honour.
MACAIRE. My lord, you are rich.
MARQUIS. Well, sir?
MACAIRE. Now follow me, I beseech you. Here am I, my lord; and there,
if I may so express myself, are you. Each has the father’s heart, and
there we are equal; each claims yon interesting lad, and there again we
are on a par. But, my lord—and here we come to the inequality, and what
I consider the unfairness of the thing—you have thirty thousand francs,
and I, my lord, have not a rap. You mark me? not a rap, my lord! My
lord, put yourself in my position: consider what must be my feelings, my
desires; and—hey?
MARQUIS. I fail to grasp . . .
MACAIRE (_with irritation_). My dear man, there is the door of the
house; here am I; there (_touching_, MARQUIS _on the breast_) are thirty
thousand francs. Well, now?
MARQUIS. I give you my word of honour, sir, I gather nothing; my mind is
quite unused to such prolonged exertion. If the boy be yours, he is not
mine; if he be mine, he is not yours; and if he is neither of ours, or
both of ours . . . in short, my mind . . .
MACAIRE. My lord, will you lay those thirty thousand francs upon the
table?
MARQUIS. I fail to grasp . . . but if it will in any way oblige you . . .
(_Does so_.)
MACAIRE. Now, my lord, follow me: I take them up; you see? I put them
in my pocket; you follow me? This is my hat; here is my stick; and here
is my—my friend’s bundle.
MARQUIS. But that is my cloak.
MACAIRE. Precisely. Now, my lord, one more effort of your lordship’s
mind. If I were to go out of that door, with the full intention—follow
me close—the full intention of never being heard of more, what would you
do?
MARQUIS. I!—send for the police.
MACAIRE. Take your money! (_Dashing down the notes_.) Man, if I met
you in a lane! (_He drops his head upon the table_.)
MARQUIS. The poor soul is insane. The other man, whom I suppose to be
his keeper, is very much to blame.
MACAIRE (_raising his head_). I have a light! (_To_ MARQUIS.) With
invincible oafishness, my lord, I cannot struggle. I pass you by; I
leave you gaping by the wayside; I blush to have a share in the progeny
of such an owl. Off, off, and send the tapster!
MARQUIS. Poor fellow!
SCENE V
MACAIRE, _to whom_ BERTRAND. _Afterwards_ DUMONT
BERTRAND. Well?
MACAIRE. Bitten.
BERTRAND. Sold again.
MACAIRE. Had he the wit of a lucifer match! But what can gods or men
against stupidity? Still, I have a trick. Where is that damned old man?
DUMONT (_entering_). I hear you want me.
MACAIRE. Ah, my good old Dumont, this is very sad.
DUMONT. Dear me, what is wrong?
MACAIRE. Dumont, you had a dowry for my son?
DUMONT. I had; I have: ten thousand francs.
MACAIRE. It’s a poor thing, but it must do. Dumont, I bury my old
hopes, my old paternal tenderness.
DUMONT. What? is he not your son?
MACAIRE. Pardon me, my friend. The Marquis claims my boy. I will not
seek to deny that he attempted to corrupt me, or that I spurned his gold.
It was thirty thousand.
DUMONT. Noble soul!
MACAIRE. One has a heart . . . He spoke, Dumont, that proud noble spoke,
of the advantages to our beloved Charles; and in my father’s heart a
voice arose, louder than thunder. Dumont, was I unselfish? The voice
said no; the voice, Dumont, up and told me to begone.
DUMONT. To begone? to go?
MACAIRE. To begone, Dumont, and to go. Both, Dumont. To leave my son
to marry, and be rich and happy as the son of another; to creep forth
myself, old, penniless, broken-hearted, exposed to the inclemencies of
heaven and the rebuffs of the police.
DUMONT. This is what I had looked for at your hands. Noble, nobleman!
MACAIRE. One has a heart . . . and yet, Dumont, it can hardly have
escaped your penetration that if I were to shift from this hostelry
without a farthing, and leave my offspring to wallow—literally—among
millions, I should play the part of little better than an ass.
DUMONT. But I had thought . . . I had fancied . . .
MACAIRE. No, Dumont, you had not; do not seek to impose upon my
simplicity. What you did think was this, Dumont: for the sake of this
noble father, for the sake of this son whom he denies for his own
interest—I mean, for his interest—no, I mean, for his own—well, anyway,
in order to keep up the general atmosphere of sacrifice and nobility, I
must hand over this dowry to the Baron Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main
de la Tonnerre de Brest.
(_Together_: _each shaking him by the hand_ . . .
DUMONT. Noble, O noble!
BERTRAND. Beautiful, O beautiful!
. . .)
DUMONT. Now Charles is rich he needs it not. For whom could it more
fittingly be set aside than for his noble father? I will give it you at
once.
BERTRAND. At once, at once!
MACAIRE (_aside to_ BERTRAND). Hang on. (_Aloud_.) Charles, Charles,
my lost boy! (_He falls weeping at L. table_. DUMONT _enters the
office_, _and brings down cash-box to table R._ _He feels in all his
pockets_: BERTRAND _from behind him making signs to_ MACAIRE, _which the
latter does not see_.)
DUMONT. That’s strange. I can’t find the key. It’s a patent key.
BERTRAND (_behind_ DUMONT, _making signs to_ MACAIRE). The key, he can’t
find the key.
MACAIRE. O yes, I remember. I heard it drop. (_Drops key_.) And here
it is before my eyes.
DUMONT. That? That’s yours. I saw it drop.
MACAIRE. I give you my word of honour I heard it fall five minutes back.
DUMONT. But I saw it.
MACAIRE. Impossible. It must be yours.
DUMONT. It is like mine, indeed. How came it in your pocket?
MACAIRE. Bitten. (_Aside_.)
BERTRAND. Sold again (_aside_) . . . You forget, Baron, it’s the key of
my valise; I gave it you to keep in consequence of the hole in my pocket.
MACAIRE. True, true; and that explains.
DUMONT. O, that explains. Now, all we have to do is to find mine. It’s
a patent key. You heard it drop.
MACAIRE. Distinctly.
BERTRAND. So I did: distinctly.
DUMONT. Here, Aline, Babette, Goriot, Curate, Charles, everybody, come
here and look for my key!
SCENE VI
_To these with candles_, _all the former characters_, _except_ FIDDLERS,
PEASANTS, _and_ NOTARY. _They hunt for the key_
DUMONT. It’s bound to be here. We all heard it drop.
MARQUIS (_with_ BERTRAND’S _bundle_). Is this it?
ALL (_with fury_). No.
BERTRAND. Hands off, that’s my luggage. (_Hunt resumed_.)
DUMONT. I heard it drop, as plain as ever I heard anything.
MARQUIS. By the way (_all start up_), what are we looking for?
ALL (_with fury_). O!!
DUMONT. Will you have the kindness to find my key? (_Hunt resumed_.)
CURATE. What description of a key—
DUMONT. A patent, patent, patent, patent key!
MACAIRE. I have it. Here it is!
ALL (_with relief_). Ah!!
DUMONT. That? What do you mean? That’s yours.
MACAIRE. Pardon me.
DUMONT. It is.
MACAIRE. It isn’t.
DUMONT. I tell you it is: look at that twisted handle.
MACAIRE. It can’t be mine, and so it must be yours.
DUMONT. It is not. Feel in your pockets. (_To the others_.) Will you
have the kindness to find my patent key?
ALL. Oh!! (_Hunt resumed_.)
MACAIRE. Ah, well, you’re right. (_He slips key into_ DUMONT’S
_pocket_.) An idea: suppose you felt in your pocket?
ALL (_rising_). Yes! Suppose you did!
DUMONT. I will not feel in my pockets. How could it be there? It’s a
patent key. This is more than any man can bear. First, Charles is one
man’s son, and then he’s another’s, and then he’s nobody’s, and be damned
to him! And then there’s my key lost; and then there’s your key! What
is your key? Where is your key? Where isn’t it? And why is it like
mine, only mine’s a patent? The long and short of it is this: that I’m
going to bed, and that you’re all going to bed, and that I refuse to hear
another word upon the subject or upon any subject. There!
MACAIRE (_aside_). Bitten.
BERTRAND (_aside_). Sold again.
(ALINE _and_ MAIDS _extinguish hanging lamps over tables_, _R. and L._
_Stage lighted only by guests’ candles_.)
CHARLES. But, sir, I cannot decently retire to rest till I embrace my
honoured parent. Which is it to be?
MACAIRE. Charles, to my—
DUMONT. Embrace neither of them; embrace nobody; there has been too much
of this sickening folly. To bed!!! (_Exit violently R. U. E._ _All the
characters troop slowly upstairs_, _talking in dumb show_. BERTRAND
_and_ MACAIRE _remain in front C._, _watching them go_.)
BERTRAND. Sold again, captain?
MACAIRE. Ay, they will have it.
BERTRAND. It? What?
MACAIRE. The worst, Bertrand. What is man? a beast of prey. An hour
ago, and I’d have taken a crust, and gone in peace. But no: they would
trick and juggle, curse them; they would wriggle and cheat! Well, I
accept the challenge: war to the knife.
BERTRAND. Murder?
MACAIRE. What is murder? A legal term for a man dying. Call it Fate,
and that’s philosophy; call me Providence, and you talk religion. Die?
My, that is what man is made for; we are full of mortal parts; we are all
as good as dead already, we hang so close upon the brink: touch a button,
and the strongest falls in dissolution. Now, see how easy: I take
you—(_grappling him_.)
BERTRAND. Macaire—O no!
MACAIRE. Fool! would I harm a fly, when I had nothing to gain? As the
butcher with the sheep, I kill to live; and where is the difference
between man and mutton? pride and a tailor’s bill. Murder? I know who
made that name—a man crouching from the knife! Selfishness made it—the
aggregated egotism called society; but I meet that with a selfishness as
great. Has he money? Have I none—great powers, none? Well, then, I
fatten and manure my life with his.
BERTRAND. You frighten me. Who is it?
MACAIRE. Mark well. (_The_ MARQUIS _opens the door of Number Thirteen_,
_and the rest_, _clustering round_, _bid him good-night_. _As they begin
to disperse along the gallery he enters and shuts the door_.) Out, out,
brief candle! That man is doomed.
* * * * *
DROP
ACT III
SCENE I
MACAIRE, BERTRAND
_As the curtain rises_, _the stage is dark and empty_. _Enter_ MACAIRE,
_L. U. E._, _with lantern_. _He looks about_
MACAIRE (_calling off_). S’st!
BERTRAND (_entering L. U. E._). It’s creeping dark.
MACAIRE. Blinding dark; and a good job.
BERTRAND. Macaire, I’m cold; my very hair’s cold.
MACAIRE. Work, work will warm you: to your keys.
BERTRAND. No, Macaire, it’s a horror. You not kill him; let’s have no
bloodshed.
MACAIRE. None: it spoils your clothes. Now, see: you have keys and you
have experience; up that stair, and pick me the lock of that man’s door.
Pick me the lock of that man’s door.
BERTRAND. May I take the light?
MACAIRE. You may not. Go. (BERTRAND _mounts the stairs_, _and is seen
picking the lock of Number Thirteen_.) The earth spins eastward, and the
day is at the door. Yet half an hour of covert, and the sun will be
afoot, the discoverer, the great policeman. Yet, half an hour of night,
the good, hiding, practicable night; and lo! at a touch the gas-jet of
the universe turned on; and up with the sun gets the providence of honest
people, puts off his night-cap, throws up his window, stares out of
house—and the rogue must skulk again till dusk. Yet half an hour and,
Macaire, you shall be safe and rich. If yon fool—my fool—would but
miscarry, if the dolt within would hear and leap upon him, I could
intervene, kill both, by heaven—both!—cry murder with the best, and at
one stroke reap honour and gold. For, Bertrand dead—
BERTRAND (_from above_). S’st, Macaire!
MACAIRE. Is it done, dear boy? Come down. (BERTRAND _descends_.) Sit
down beside this light: this is your ring of safety, budge not beyond—the
night is crowded with hobgoblins. See ghosts and tremble like a jelly if
you must; but remember men are my concern; and at the creak of a man’s
foot, hist! (_Sharpening his knife upon his sleeve_.) What is a knife?
A plain man’s sword.
BERTRAND. Not the knife, Macaire; O, not the knife!
MACAIRE. My name is Self-Defence. (_He goes upstairs and enters Number
Thirteen_.)
BERTRAND. He’s in. I hear a board creak. What a night, what a night!
Will he hear him? O Lord, my poor Macaire! I hear nothing, nothing.
The night’s as empty as a dream: he must hear him; he cannot help but
hear him; and then—O Macaire, Macaire, come back to me. It’s death, and
it’s death, and it’s death. Red, red: a corpse. Macaire to kill,
Macaire to die? I’d rather starve, I’d rather perish, than either: I’m
not fit, I’m not fit, for either! Why, how’s this? I want to cry. (_A
stroke_, _and groan from above_.) God Almighty, one of them’s gone!
(_He falls with his head on table_, _R._ MACAIRE _appears at the top of
the stairs_, _descends_, _comes airily forward and touches him on the
shoulder_. BERTRAND, _with a cry_, _turns and falls upon his neck_.) O,
O, and I thought I had lost him. (_Day breaking_.)
MACAIRE. The contrary, dear boy. (_He produces notes_.)
BERTRAND. What was it like?
MACAIRE. Like? Nothing. A little blood, a dead man.
BERTRAND. Blood! . . . Dead! _He falls at table sobbing_. MACAIRE
_divides the notes into two parts_; _on the smaller he wipes the bloody
knife_, _and folding the stains inward_, _thrusts the notes into_
BERTRAND’S _face_.)
MACAIRE. What is life without the pleasures of the table!
BERTRAND (_taking and pocketing notes_). Macaire, I can’t get over it.
MACAIRE. My mark is the frontier, and at top speed. Don’t hang your jaw
at me. Up, up, at the double; pick me that cash-box; and let’s get the
damned house fairly cleared.
BERTRAND. I can’t. Did he bleed much?
MACAIRE. Bleed? Must I bleed you? To work, or I’m dangerous.
BERTRAND. It’s all right, Macaire; I’m going.
MACAIRE. Better so: an old friend is nearly sacred. (_Full daylight:
lights up_. MACAIRE _blows out lantern_.)
BERTRAND. Where’s the key?
MACAIRE. Key? I tell you to pick it.
BERTRAND (_with the box_). But it’s a patent lock. Where is the key?
You had it.
MACAIRE. Will you pick that lock?
BERTRAND. I can’t: it’s a patent. Where’s the key?
MACAIRE. If you will have it, I put it back in that old ass’s pocket.
BERTRAND. Bitten, I think. (MACAIRE _dancing mad_.)
SCENE II
_To these_, DUMONT
DUMONT. Ah, friends, up so early? Catching the worm, catching the worm?
(Sitting on the table dissembling box and dissembling box . . .
MACAIRE. Good-morning, good-morning!
BERTRAND. Early birds, early birds.
. . . )
DUMONT. By the way, very remarkable thing: I found the key.
MACAIRE. No!
BERTRAND. O!
DUMONT. Perhaps a still more remarkable thing: it was my key that had
the twisted handle.
MACAIRE. I told you so.
DUMONT. Now, what we have to do is to get the cash-box. Hallo! what’s
that your sitting on?
BERTRAND. Nothing.
MACAIRE. The table! I beg your pardon.
DUMONT. Why, it’s my cash-box!
MACAIRE. Why, so it is!
DUMONT. It’s very singular.
MACAIRE. Diabolishly singular.
BERTRAND. Early worms, early worms!
DUMONT (_blowing in key_). Well, I suppose you are still willing to
begone?
MACAIRE. More than willing, my dear soul: pressed, I may say, for time;
for though it had quite escaped my memory, I have an appointment in Turin
with a lady of title.
DUMONT (_at box_). It’s very odd. (_Blows its key_.) It’s a singular
thing (_blowing_), key won’t turn. It’s a patent. Some one must have
tampered with the lock (_blowing_). It’s strangely singular, it’s
singularly singular! I’ve shown this key to commercial gentlemen all the
way from Paris: they never saw a better key! (_more business_). Well
(_giving it up and looking reproachfully on key_), that’s pretty
singular.
MACAIRE. Let me try. (_He tries_, _and flings down the key with a
curse_.) Bitten.
BERTRAND. Sold again.
DUMONT (_picking up key_). It’s a patent key.
MACAIRE (_to_ BERTRAND). The game’s up: we must save the swag. (_To_
DUMONT.) Sir, since your key, on which I invoke the blight of Egypt, has
once more defaulted, my feelings are unequal to a repetition of
yesterday’s distress, and I shall simply pad the hoof. From Turin you
shall receive the address of my banker, and may prosperity attend your
ventures. (_To_ BERTRAND.) Now, boy! (_To_ DUMONT.) Embrace my
fatherless child! farewell! (MACAIRE _and_ BERTRAND _turn to go off and
are met in the door by the_ GENDARMES.)
SCENE III
_To these_, _the_ BRIGADIER _and_ GENDARMES
BRIGADIER. Let no man leave the house.
MACAIRE (_aside_). Bitten.
BERTRAND (_aside_). Sold again.
DUMONT. Welcome, old friend!
BRIGADIER. It is not the friend that comes; it is the Brigadier. Summon
your guests: I must investigate their passports. I am in pursuit of a
notorious malefactor, Robert Macaire.
DUMONT. But I was led to believe that both Macaire and his accomplice
had been arrested and condemned.
BRIGADIER. They were, but they have once more escaped for the moment,
and justice is indefatigable. (_He sits at table R._) Dumont, a bottle
of white wine.
MACAIRE (_to_ DUMONT). My excellent friend, I will discharge your
commission, and return with all speed. (_Going_.)
BRIGADIER. Halt!
MACAIRE (_returning: as if he saw_ BRIGADIER _for the first time_). Ha?
a member of the force? Charmed, I’m sure. But you misconceive me: I
return at once, and my friend remains behind to answer for me.
BRIGADIER. Justice is insensible to friendship. I shall deal with you
in due time. Dumont, that bottle.
MACAIRE. Sir, my friend and I, who are students of character, would
grasp the opportunity to share and—may one add?—to pay the bottle.
Dumont, three!
BERTRAND. For God’s sake! (_Enter_ ALINE _and_ MAIDS.)
MACAIRE. My friend is an author: so, in a humbler way, am I. Your
knowledge of the criminal classes naturally tempts one to pursue so
interesting an acquaintance.
BRIGADIER. Justice is impartial. Gentlemen, your health.
MACAIRE. Will not these brave fellows join us?
BRIGADIER. They are on duty; but what matters?
MACAIRE. My dear sir, what is duty? duty is my eye.
BRIGADIER (_solemnly_). And Betty Martin. (GENDARMES _sit at table_.)
MACAIRE (_to_ BERTRAND). Dear friend, sit down.
BERTRAND (_sitting down_). O Lord!
BRIGADIER (_to_ MACAIRE). You seem to be a gentleman of considerable
intelligence.
MACAIRE. I fear, sir, you flatter. One has lived, one has loved, and
one remembers: that is all. One’s _Lives of Celebrated Criminals_ has
met with a certain success, and one is ever in quest of fresh material.
DUMONT. By the way, a singular thing about my patent key.
BRIGADIER. This gentleman is speaking.
MACAIRE. Excellent Dumont! he means no harm. This Macaire is not
personally known to you?
BRIGADIER. Are you connected with justice?
MACAIRE. Ah, sir, justice is a point above a poor author.
BRIGADIER (_with glass_). Justice is the very devil.
MACAIRE. My dear sir, my friend and I, I regret to say, have an
appointment in Lyons, or I could spend my life in this society. Charge
your glasses: one hour to madness and to joy! What is to-morrow? the
enemy of to-day. Wine? the bath of life. One moment: I find I have
forgotten my watch. (_He makes for the door_.)
BRIGADIER. Halt!
MACAIRE. Sir, what is this jest?
BRIGADIER. Sentry at the door. Your passports.
MACAIRE. My good man, with all the pleasure in life. (Gives papers.
_The_ BRIGADIER _puts on spectacles_, _and examines them_.)
BERTRAND (_rising_, _and passing round to_ MACAIRE’S _other side_). It’s
life and death: they must soon find it.
MACAIRE (_aside_). Don’t I know? My heart’s like fire in my body.
BRIGADIER. Your name is?
MACAIRE. It is; one’s name is not unknown.
BRIGADIER. Justice exacts your name.
MACAIRE. Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest.
BRIGADIER. Your profession?
MACAIRE. Gentleman.
BRIGADIER. No, but what is your trade?
MACAIRE. I am an analytical chymist.
BRIGADIER. Justice is inscrutable. Your papers are in order. (_To_
BERTRAND.) Now, sir, and yours?
BERTRAND. I feel kind of ill.
MACAIRE. Bertrand, this gentleman addresses you. He is not one of us;
in other scenes, in the gay and giddy world of fashion, one is his
superior. But to-day he represents the majesty of law; and as a citizen
it is one’s pride to do him honour.
BRIGADIER. Those are my sentiments.
BERTRAND. I beg your pardon, I—(_Gives papers_.)
BRIGADIER. Your name?
BERTRAND. Napoleon.
BRIGADIER. What? In your passport it is written Bertrand.
BERTRAND. It’s this way: I was born Bertrand, and then I took the name
of Napoleon, and I mostly always call myself either Napoleon or Bertrand.
BRIGADIER. The truth is always best. Your profession?
BERTRAND. I am an orphan.
BRIGADIER. What the devil! (_To_ MACAIRE.) Is your friend an idiot?
MACAIRE. Pardon me, he is a poet.
BRIGADIER. Poetry is a great hindrance to the ends of justice. Well,
take your papers.
MACAIRE. Then we may go?
SCENE IV
_To these_, CHARLES, _who is seen on the gallery_, _going to the door of
Number Thirteen_. _Afterwards all the characters but the_ NOTARY _and
the_ MARQUIS
BRIGADIER. One glass more. (BERTRAND _touches_ MACAIRE, _and points to_
CHARLES, _who enters Number Thirteen_).
MACAIRE. No more, no more, no more.
BRIGADIER (_rising and taking_ MACAIRE _by the arm_). I stipulate!
MACAIRE. Engagement in Turin!
BRIGADIER. Turin?
MACAIRE. Lyons, Lyons!
BERTRAND. For God’s sake.
BRIGADIER. Well, good-bye!
MACAIRE. Good-bye, good—
CHARLES (_from within_). Murder! Help! (_Appearing_.) Help here! The
Marquis is murdered.
BRIGADIER. Stand to the door. A man up there. (_A_ GENDARME _hurries
up staircase into Number Thirteen_, CHARLES _following him_. _Enter on
both sides of gallery the remaining characters of the piece_, _except
the_ NOTARY _and the_ MARQUIS.)
MACAIRE (_aside_). Bitten, by God!
BERTRAND (_aside_). Lost!
BRIGADIER (_to_ DUMONT). John Paul Dumont, I arrest you.
DUMONT. Do your duty, officer. I can answer for myself and my own
people.
BRIGADIER. Yes, but these strangers?
DUMONT. They are strangers to me.
MACAIRE. I am an honest man: I stand upon my rights: search me; or
search this person, of whom I know too little. (_Smiting his brow_.) By
heaven, I see it all! This morning—(_To_ BERTRAND.) How, sir, did you
dare to flaunt your booty in my very face? (_To_ BRIGADIER.) He showed
me notes; he was up ere day; search him, and you’ll find. There stands
the murderer.
BERTRAND. O, Macaire! (_He is seized and searched and the notes are
found_.)
BRIGADIER. There is blood upon the notes. Handcuffs. (MACAIRE _edging
towards the door_.)
BERTRAND. Macaire, you may as well take the bundle. (MACAIRE _is
stopped by sentry_, _and comes front_, _R._)
CHARLES (_re-appearing_). Stop, I know the truth. (_He comes down_.)
Brigadier, my father is not dead. He is not even dangerously hurt. He
has spoken. There is the would-be assassin.
MACAIRE. Hell! (_He darts across to the staircase_, _and turns on the
second step_, _flashing out the knife_.) Back, hounds! (_He springs up
the stair_, _and confronts them from the top_.) Fools, I am Robert
Macaire! (_As_ MACAIRE _turns to flee_, _he is met by the gendarme
coming out of Number Thirteen_; _he stands an instant checked_, _is shot
from the stage_, _and falls headlong backward down the stair_. BERTRAND,
_with a cry_, _breaks from the gendarmes_, _kneels at his side_, _and
raises his head_.)
BERTRAND. Macaire, Macaire, forgive me. I didn’t blab; you know I
didn’t blab.
MACAIRE. Sold again, old boy. Sold for the last time; at least, the
last time this side death. Death—what is death? (_He dies_.)
* * * * *
CURTAIN
* * * * *
* * * * *
Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty
at the Edinburgh University Press