_The same scene. M. and Madame Dupont are sitting together._
DUPONT. She’s determined to leave him, then?
MME. DUPONT. Quite determined.
DUPONT. And he?
MME. DUPONT. After the scene I told you of he went straight out of the
house and he hasn’t come back since.
DUPONT. He didn’t sleep at home last night?
MME. DUPONT. No.
DUPONT [_scornfully_] He has gone back to ‘maman,’ no doubt. [_He goes
to the window_].
MME. DUPONT [_after a pause_] Why do you keep looking out of that
window?
DUPONT. I’m watching the lawyer’s opposite. Caroline went in five
minutes ago. I’m terribly afraid Angèle won’t come. [_To himself_]
Confound Caroline. Who the Dickens can have got hold of that other
fifteen thousand francs? [_Joyfully_] There’s Angèle. Look. She’s going
in now. What did you say? Bless my soul, my daughters give me worry
enough. Yes: he has gone back to ‘maman.’ And you think this won’t blow
over, eh?
MME. DUPONT. I’m certain it won’t. Julie will never forgive him.
DUPONT [_almost with triumph_] That means a divorce then, eh?
MME. DUPONT. Yes. A divorce.
DUPONT. Ah! And who was the clever one this time, too, eh? Who was it?
MME. DUPONT. I don’t know.
DUPONT. Of course not. Well, _I_ was.
MME. DUPONT. In what way?
DUPONT. You say she’ll ask for a divorce?
MME. DUPONT. Unless he does.
DUPONT. Very well, then. Whichever way it is her money was settled
on herself, and our good Antonin will have to give back the thirty
thousand francs and my house. Thanks to me. Thanks to me. [_He rubs his
hands_].
_The maid comes in._
MAID. M. and Madame Mairaut.
DUPONT. Show them in. [_The maid goes out. To his wife_] Don’t go.
_M. and Madame Mairaut come in._
MME. MAIRAUT [_turning to the door and speaking to her husband, who
hangs back_] Are you coming in or are you not?
MAIRAUT. I’m coming. [_He closes the door_].
_Formal greetings are exchanged._
MME. MAIRAUT [_sitting down_] After what passed between us yesterday—
DUPONT [_with dangerous sweetness_] About Uncle Maréchal’s money?
MME. MAIRAUT [_appearing not to have heard_] After what passed between
us yesterday, I intended never to set foot in this house again.
DUPONT [_bowing_] It rested entirely with you, madame.
MME. MAIRAUT. Since then, however, grave differences have arisen
between our children.
DUPONT. Very grave.
MME. MAIRAUT. You know, then?
DUPONT. Yes.
MME. MAIRAUT. We are come therefore, my husband and I, in the name of
our son, formally to request your daughter, Madame Antonin Mairaut, to
return to her husband’s roof.
DUPONT. _His_ roof?
MME. MAIRAUT. To St. Laurent. My son awaits her there.
DUPONT. He’ll have to wait some time. My daughter will not return to
her husband. You are welcome to bring an officer of the Court to bear
witness to the fact. It will provide your son with a ground for his
divorce.
MME. MAIRAUT [_sweetly_] There is no question of a divorce.
DUPONT [_astonished_] What? No question of a divorce?
MME. MAIRAUT. None, monsieur.
DUPONT. In spite of my daughter’s refusal—
MME. MAIRAUT. In spite of her refusal.
DUPONT. In spite of what she has said to her husband?
MME. MAIRAUT. In spite of that, too.
DUPONT. In spite of anything she may do in the future?
MME. MAIRAUT. In spite of anything she may do. There is no question of
a divorce and there never will be.
DUPONT. On your part, you mean?
MME. MAIRAUT. On yours also. We shall give you no grounds. My son is
waiting for his wife to return to him. He is ready to receive her
whenever she sees fit to present herself.
DUPONT. Whatever she does?
MME. MAIRAUT. Whatever she does.
DUPONT. Even if—
MME. MAIRAUT. Even in that case. [_Movement of Mairaut_]. What is it,
my dear?
MAIRAUT. Nothing.
DUPONT. The truth is you would rather risk your son’s honor than give
back the thirty thousand francs.
MME. MAIRAUT [_still very sweetly_] After all, thirty thousand francs
is a considerable sum. [_Mairaut fidgets uneasily_].
DUPONT. Yesterday, when he went away, your son uttered certain threats.
MME. MAIRAUT [_still sweetly_] He has decided not to put them into
execution.
MME. DUPONT. You know, of course, that Julie will never agree—
MME. MAIRAUT. I can’t help that.
MME. DUPONT. All their lives they will be chained to one another. Young
as they are, they must give up the idea of having a home.
MME. MAIRAUT. Your daughter has only to return to her duty. Antonin
will receive her.
MAIRAUT [_breaking out_] No. I won’t have it. I have a word to say on
this.
MME. MAIRAUT. What’s the matter now? Pray speak if you have anything to
say.
MAIRAUT [_loudly_] What we are doing is an infamy.
MME. MAIRAUT. Hold your tongue.
MAIRAUT. I won’t.
MME. MAIRAUT. Hold your tongue, I tell you.
MAIRAUT. No. And don’t you try to shout me down. Do you hear?
MME. MAIRAUT. What’s taken the man? I’ve never seen him like this
before.
MAIRAUT. I tell you this is infamous! Infamous! I’ve thought so for a
long time, ever since the day you wouldn’t let me speak out about Uncle
Maréchal. I said nothing because I was afraid of you. For thirty years
I have said nothing. But now this is too much, and I say what I think.
It’s an infamy. Come what may, I will say it. Sit down. I tell you it’s
an infamy. Rogues have been meddling with these children’s lives too
long; it’s time for honest men to take a hand in them. I’m going to do
it.
MME. MAIRAUT. Pay no attention to him. He’s out of his senses.
MAIRAUT. Be silent, you. M. and Madame Dupont, this is what I have to
say to you. An effort must be made to reconcile Julie and Antonin. If
this is impossible, _I_ will pay you back the thirty thousand francs.
MME. MAIRAUT [_with a scream_] Good Heavens, what is he saying?
MAIRAUT. I will return the thirty thousand francs, and you’ll see after
that if my precious son won’t be the first to talk of a divorce.
MME. MAIRAUT [_to her husband_] You shall pay for this when we get home.
MAIRAUT. As you please. And now be off, and be quick about it. [_Madame
Mairaut goes out_]. Au revoir, M. and Madame Dupont. Do what you can
on your side, and I will try and make Antonin come and beg his wife’s
pardon.
DUPONT. Good evening, M. Mairaut.
MME. DUPONT. Count on me, M. Mairaut, and give me your hand. You’re a
good man.
MAIRAUT [_as he goes_] That’s all right. [_He goes_].
DUPONT. Are you really going to try?
MME. DUPONT. Yes.
DUPONT. But since old Mairaut is willing to give back the money.
MME. DUPONT. I won’t make up my mind to a divorce until I’m absolutely
convinced there’s no other way.
DUPONT. But there is no other way. You said so yourself.
MME. DUPONT. Are you sure you aren’t thinking more of your money than
of the happiness of your child?
DUPONT. I! Well, I declare! Are you taking a leaf out of old Mairaut’s
book?
MME. DUPONT [_gravely_] Perhaps so.
_Madame Mairaut returns._
MME. MAIRAUT. I have come back for two things. First, to advise you not
to count too much on my husband’s promise. Next, to thank you for the
fresh insult you have put upon us.
DUPONT. What insult?
MME. MAIRAUT. You don’t know, I suppose, to whom Mlle. Caroline has
given half her legacy?
DUPONT. No. But I shall be glad to learn.
MME. MAIRAUT. To your clerk, Courthezon.
DUPONT. Courthezon? It’s a lie!
MME. DUPONT. Courthezon!
MME. MAIRAUT. She has just told me so herself.
_Caroline comes in._
MME. DUPONT. { Caroline, is it really to Courthezon that
{ you’ve given the fifteen thousand
{ francs?
{
DUPONT. { You have given fifteen thousand francs
{ to Courthezon!
{
MME. MAIRAUT. { Isn’t it to Courthezon that you have
{ given the fifteen thousand francs?
CAROLINE. Yes.
DUPONT. You are crazy!
MME. DUPONT. What possessed you to do that?
MME. MAIRAUT. For his invention! An invention not worth twopence,
Antonin says.
MME. DUPONT. You think more of strangers than your own flesh and blood.
DUPONT. Just at the very time when my plant needed renewing.
MME. MAIRAUT. And when her brother-in-law is on the verge of
bankruptcy. Yes, mademoiselle, yes! And this money, which you give to a
crack-brained inventor who is nothing to you, might perhaps have saved
your sister from penury. That is all I have to say to you. Good bye.
[_She goes_].
DUPONT. Well! Perhaps now you’ll tell us why you have done this?
MME. DUPONT. What has taken you? How did such an idea come into your
head?
DUPONT. Do you imagine his invention will make your fortune?
CAROLINE. No.
DUPONT. Do you know anything at all about it?
CAROLINE. No.
MME. DUPONT. Did he ask you to lend him money?
CAROLINE. No.
DUPONT. Then you ought to be put in an asylum. You’re out of your
senses.
MME. DUPONT. I still can’t make out how you came to have such an idea.
CAROLINE [_beginning to cry_] I was unhappy.
DUPONT. What! You give away fifteen thousand francs to the first comer
because you are unhappy!
CAROLINE. I hope he will be grateful for what I have done for him, and
that—
DUPONT. Well?
CAROLINE. I am no longer young, I know; but he is not young either.
DUPONT. You think he will _marry_ you!
CAROLINE. Yes.
DUPONT. Then you don’t know—
MME. DUPONT. Hush.
CAROLINE. I can’t go on living alone. I am too wretched. For a long
time I have thought—when I saw M. Courthezon, so steady and careful and
quiet—I thought I could be happy with him. But I knew he would never
marry me without money, and there was only enough for Julie. The time
when I was most unhappy was when M. Antonin was here. He used to talk
to Julie. They took no notice of me. They used to kiss one another.
And though I don’t think I’m jealous, it made me very wretched. So
when this legacy came, and I knew M. Courthezon needed money for his
invention, I thought I would give him some.
MME. DUPONT. You should at least have given him some idea of what you
meant. It would have saved you from disappointment, my poor child.
DUPONT. You should have spoken to me. I could have told you why you had
nothing to hope in that quarter.
CAROLINE. Nothing to hope? But why? Why?
DUPONT. Because for twenty years Courthezon has been living with a
married woman. He does not speak of it, of course, but they have two
children.
CAROLINE [_faintly_] God have pity on me! [_She almost falls_].
MME. DUPONT. Caroline! My child!
DUPONT. My child. Come, come. You must be reasonable.
MME. DUPONT. You mustn’t cry like that.
CAROLINE [_sobbing_] No.
DUPONT [_to his wife_] This is your fault. We should have told her that
Courthezon—But you always said no.
MME. DUPONT. One can’t tell things like that to a young girl. And
afterwards, when she was grown up, it didn’t seem worth while. [_To
Caroline_] Don’t cry any more, dear.
CAROLINE [_stifling her sobs by a great effort_] I am not crying any
more.
DUPONT. There is only one thing to be done. We must try and get the
money back from Courthezon.
CAROLINE. No! No!
DUPONT. We shall see. [_He hurries out_].
CAROLINE. Stop him. Stop him, mother. Go at once. Stop him, I beg of
you.
MME. DUPONT. Very well, dear. [_She follows her husband_].
_Caroline is left alone for a moment. Then Angèle comes in._
ANGÈLE [_very tenderly_] Caroline, are you in trouble?
CAROLINE [_in a low voice_] Yes.
ANGÈLE. What about? Tell me.
CAROLINE [_in an expressionless voice, but not angrily_]. No. It is
over now.
ANGÈLE. You won’t tell me?
CAROLINE [_coldly_] It would be useless.
ANGÈLE. Who knows? Come. I can see you have been crying.
CAROLINE. Yes. We are very unfortunate, Julie and I.
ANGÈLE. Julie?
CAROLINE. She is leaving her husband.
ANGÈLE. Why?
CAROLINE. They cannot go on living together any longer.
ANGÈLE. And you?
CAROLINE. I? [_She makes a gesture of hopelessness_].
_Julie comes in._
JULIE. I was looking for you, Caroline. I am going away sooner than I
expected. They say my husband is coming here. I do not wish ever to see
him again. So I am going.
CAROLINE. What will you do?
JULIE. I shall do as you do; hire a room somewhere and get work.
CAROLINE. What kind of work?
JULIE. I don’t know. Anything I can get.
CAROLINE. Don’t do that, Julie. Don’t! [_Deeply distressed_] If you
only knew!
JULIE. What?
CAROLINE. The wretchedness of living alone.
JULIE. I’m not afraid. I shall work so hard that I shall have no time
for moping.
CAROLINE. You will work. [_She sighs_]. It isn’t easy for a woman who
is alone to earn her living.
JULIE. Nonsense.
CAROLINE. I know what I’m talking about. Sometimes when I take my work
to the shop they refuse it with an insolent contempt they would never
dare to show to a man. It’s true. For I am doubly unprotected since I
am a woman and I need work.
JULIE. But in your own room, at least, you are free.
CAROLINE. Free! [_With a mirthless laugh_]. If that is freedom, give me
slavery.
JULIE. I shall have friends.
CAROLINE. Do you think so? The women will have nothing to do with you
because you’ll be a wife living apart from her husband, and because
you will be dull. And the men? What will people say if they visit you?
JULIE. Little I care what people will say.
CAROLINE. Still for your own sake you will have to send them away.
JULIE. What do you advise, then? That I should remain with my husband?
CAROLINE. Ah, Julie dear, you complain of not being loved as you wish
to be. What can _I_ say to that, I whom no man will ever take in his
arms? I who feel myself a thing apart, useless, absurd, incomplete.
You don’t know what a void that means for a woman: to have no one to
forgive, no one to devote herself to. And the world sneers at women for
remaining single. It makes their loneliness a reproach. Look at me,
hardly allowed to dispose of my own property, black looks all round me
because I have dared to use my own money in my own way.
JULIE. Poor Caroline.
CAROLINE. Yes. You may well pity me. And if I told you all. I turned to
religion for consolation. For a while it cheated my craving for love;
but it couldn’t give me peace, and it has only left me more bitter and
more disillusioned. For months I buoyed myself up on one last hope.
I was a fool. [_Weeping_] Ah, no one need tell me how absurd it was.
I know it well enough. I, at my age and in these clothes, much like
everyone else’s clothes, only everything looks ridiculous on me. _I_ to
fall in love! I must be crazy. Don’t laugh at me. I have suffered so
much. I knew he couldn’t love me, but I hoped he would be grateful for
what I—I only wanted his gratitude and his pity, no more, I swear to
you. And now it seems there is some other woman. [_A pause_]. Oh, what
good was it to guard my good name as a miser guards his gold if this
is all? No, Julie; don’t spoil your life a second time. If you cannot
resign yourself to living with your husband, at least don’t follow my
example. Don’t try to live my life. One of us is enough. Don’t try to
earn your bread. It is too hard, and men have made it too humiliating.
JULIE. But, Caroline, if people see me accepting hardship with courage,
living alone deliberately, because I choose, surely the dignity of my
life will make them respect me?
CAROLINE. No one will believe in the dignity of your life.
JULIE. Then it is monstrous! That is all I can say. Monstrous! And
since to pay for bread to eat and clothes to wear and a roof to cover
me I must either give myself to a husband I hate or to a lover whom,
perhaps, I may love, I choose the lover. If I must sell myself to
someone, I prefer to choose the buyer.
ANGÈLE. You are mad! Mad! Be reconciled to your husband. That is the
best thing you can do.
JULIE. So everybody says. Well, I tell you I will not. I will not.
ANGÈLE. You would soon be glad enough to have your married life back
again, bad as it may be; or even Caroline’s poverty.
JULIE [_scornfully_] You think so.
ANGÈLE [_passionately_] You don’t know what you are saying. You don’t
understand, Julie. You to talk like that! You to wish—Oh, you don’t
understand.
JULIE. You did it yourself.
ANGÈLE [_with great emotion_] Yes. I did it. But I would strangle
myself rather than begin it again. Julie, I entreat you. What am I to
say? How am I to stop you? I can’t tell you and Caroline all the shame
I have endured. Oh, don’t make me do that.
JULIE. Well, you’re happy _now_, at least.
ANGÈLE. Happy! When I went off with Georges—they told you, didn’t they?
Well, his people got him away from me. His mother was dying of grief.
Yes: I know that is not what you wish to hear, but I must tell you,
that you may understand how I came to fall as low as I did. I was left
alone with the child. I had to feed it, hadn’t I? You can understand
that, at least. But how? Work? I tried to get work. But they told me to
wait. How was I to wait? And then—my God! that I should have to tell
you all this—then I let myself go. [_She sobs_]. And afterwards—No:
I can’t speak of it. But you understand, Julie. You can guess. You
can imagine what my life was when you see that even now I can’t
bring myself to tell you about it. [_Mastering herself_]. You think
women—women like me—are happy because you see us laugh. But to laugh is
our trade. We are paid for that. And I swear to you often we would ask
nothing better than just to sit and cry. And you talk of _choosing_!
You poor child. Do you suppose we women _choose_? Oh, if you could but
know how one comes to loathe the whole world, to be wicked, _wicked_!
They despise us so. We have no friends, no pity, no justice. We are
robbed, exploited. I tell you all this anyhow, just as it comes, but
you understand, don’t you? And once you start downhill you can’t stop.
That is our life, the life of women like me. That is the slough in
which I have struggled ten years. No, no, Julie! No, little sister.
I implore you don’t do as I did. It is too horrible, too abject, too
degraded.
JULIE. Poor Angèle.
ANGÈLE. You understand, don’t you?
JULIE. Yes.
ANGÈLE [_rising_] I must go. Good-bye. I dare not look either of you in
the face again now that you know everything, now that I remember what I
once was. I knew you could never have anything more to do with me. But
I felt such a craving to be loved that I half fancied you, at least,
Caroline—I see I was wrong. Well, good-bye. 1 am going away. Forgive
me, both of you, for what I have done. Goodbye. [_She turns to the
door_].
CAROLINE. Angèle! [_A pause. Angèle turns at the door_]. I pity you
with all my heart. [_Another pause_]. May I kiss you? [_Angèle throws
herself into her arms_].
ANGÈLE. Caroline! My kind, good Caroline!
_The three sisters embrace with tears._
_Dupont, Antonin, and Mairaut come in._
ANTONIN [_pushed forward by his father. To Julie_] My dear wife, I have
come to ask you to forgive me.
JULIE. It is I who ask _you_ to forgive _me_. I was full of romantic
ideas. I thought marriage something quite different from what it is.
Now that I understand I will be reasonable. One must make allowances. I
will make some—to myself.
DUPONT. That’s right.
ANTONIN. That’s right. You can’t imagine how glad I am that you
understand me at last. It seems to me it’s only from today that our
marriage really begins.
JULIE. Perhaps.
ANTONIN. To celebrate our reconciliation I will give a grand dinner. I
will invite the Pouchelets, the Rambourgs, Lignol—
JULIE [_sadly, and with meaning_] Exactly—Lignol.
DUPONT. Ah, my children, everything comes right when once you make up
your mind to be like the rest of the world.
JULIE [_slowly_] Yes: like the rest of the world. I dreamed of
something better. But it seems it was impossible.
Damaged Goods
[Les Avariés]
Translated by John Pollock
_Before the play begins the manager appears upon the stage and says:—_
Ladies and gentlemen,
I beg leave to inform you, on behalf of the author and of the
management, that the object of this play is a study of the disease of
syphilis in its bearing on marriage.
It contains no scene to provoke scandal or arouse disgust, nor is there
in it any obscene word; and it may be witnessed by everyone, unless
we must believe that folly and ignorance are necessary conditions of
female virtue.
ACT I
_The doctor’s consulting room. To the right a large stained glass
window representing a religious subject. In front of this, on
pedestals, bronzes and statues. Parallel to it a large Louis XIV
writing table littered with papers and statuettes. Between the desk
and the window the doctor’s chair. On the other side an armchair
nearly facing the footlights and a stool. To the left the entrance
door, which, when opened, reveals a corridor lined with tapestries,
statues, and paintings. Beyond the door a large glass bookcase,
above which hang portraits of Wallace, Dupuytren, and Ricord. Busts
of celebrated physicians. A small table and two chairs. At the
back a small door. The room is sumptuously furnished and literally
encumbered with works of art._
_George Dupont, in great distress and ill at ease, enters by the door
at the back, takes his stick, gloves, and hat from the stool, and
sits down on the sofa before the writing table. He is a big fellow
of twentysix, with large, round eyes, and simple, but not ludicrous
appearance. A heavy sigh escapes him. The doctor, a man of forty,
with the ribbon of the Legion of Honor in the buttonhole of his frock
coat, follows and takes his seat. He gives the impression of a man of
strength and intellect._
GEORGE. Well, doctor?
DOCTOR. Well! There is no doubt about your case.
GEORGE [_wiping his forehead_] No doubt—How do you mean no doubt?
DOCTOR. I mean it in the bad sense. [_He writes. George turns pale, and
stays silent for a moment in terror. He sighs again_]. Come, come, you
must have thought as much.
GEORGE. No, no.
DOCTOR. All the same!
GEORGE [_utterly prostrated_] Good God!
DOCTOR [_stops writing and observes him_] Don’t be frightened. Out
of every seven men you meet in the street, or in society, or at the
theatre, there is at least one who is or has been in your condition.
One in seven, fifteen per cent.
GEORGE [_quietly, as if to himself_] Anyhow, I know what to do.
DOCTOR. Certainly. Here is your prescription. You will take it to the
chemist’s and have it made up.
GEORGE [_taking the prescription_] No.
DOCTOR. Yes: you will do just what everyone else does.
GEORGE. Everyone else is not in my position. I know what to do. [_He
raises his hand to his temple_].
DOCTOR. Five times out of six the men who sit in that chair before me
do that, perfectly sincerely. Everyone thinks himself more unfortunate
than the rest. On second thoughts, and after I have talked to them,
they realize that this disease is a companion with which one can live;
only, as in all households, domestic peace is to be had at the price of
mutual concessions. Come now, I repeat, there is nothing in all this
beyond the ordinary. It is simply an accident that might happen to
anybody. I assure you it is far too common to merit the name ‘French
disease.’ There is, in fact, none that is more universal. If you wanted
to find a motto for the creatures who make a trade of selling their
love, you could almost take the famous lines, ‘There is your master....
It is, it was, or it must be.’
GEORGE [_putting the prescription in the outer pocket of his coat_] But
I at least ought to have been spared.
DOCTOR. Why? Because you are a man of good position? Because you are
rich? Look round you. Look at these works of art; five are copies of
John of Bologna’s Mercury, six of Pigallo’s, three are reproductions—in
wax, to be sure—of the lost Wounded Love by Paccini; do you think that
all these have been presented to me by beggars?
GEORGE [_groaning_] I’m not a rake, doctor. My life might be held up as
an example to all young men. I assure you, no one could possibly have
been more prudent, no one. See here; supposing I told you that in all
my life I have only had two mistresses, what would you say to that?
DOCTOR. That one would have been enough to bring you here.
GEORGE. No, doctor, not one of those two. No one in the world has
dreaded this so much as I have; no one has ever taken such infinite
precautions to avoid it. My first mistress was the wife of my best
friend. I chose her on account of him; and him, not because I cared
most for him, but because I knew he was a man of the most rigid morals,
who watched his wife jealously and didn’t let her go about forming
imprudent connections. As for her, I kept her in absolute terror of
this disease. I told her that almost all men were taken with it, so
that she mightn’t dream of being false to me. My friend died in my
arms: that was the only thing that could have separated me from her.
Then I took up with a young seamstress.
DOCTOR. None of your other friends had sufficiently reassuring morals?
GEORGE. No. You know what morals are nowadays.
DOCTOR. Better than anyone.
GEORGE. Well, this was a decent girl with a family in needy
circumstances to support. Her grandmother was an invalid, and there was
an ailing father and three little brothers. It was by my means that
they all lived. They used to call me Uncle Raoul—I was not so green as
to give my real name, you see.
DOCTOR. Oh! Your Christian name, well—besides, it is always safer.
GEORGE. Why, of course. I told her and I let the others know that
if she played me false I should leave her at once. So then they all
watched her for me. It became a regular thing that I should spend
Sunday with them, and in that sort of way I was able to give her a lift
up. Church-going was a respectable kind of outing for her. I rented
a pew for them and her mother used to go with her to church; they
liked seeing their name engraved on the card. She never left the house
alone. Three months ago, when the question of my marriage came up, I
had to leave her. They all cried over my going. I’m not inventing or
exaggerating: they all cried. You see, I’m not a bad sort. People do
regret me.
DOCTOR. You were very happy. Why did you want to change?
GEORGE [_surprised at the question_] I wanted to settle down. My
father was a notary, and before his death he expressed the wish that
I should marry my cousin. It was a good match; her dowry will help to
get me a practice. Besides, I simply adore her. She’s fond of me too.
I had everything one could want to make life happy. My acquaintances
all envied me. [_Miserably_] And then a lot of idiots must give me a
farewell dinner and make me gad about with them. See what has come of
it! I haven’t any luck, I’ve never had any luck! I know fellows who
lead the most racketty lives: nothing happens to them, the beasts! But
I—for a wretched lark—What is there left for a leper like me? My future
is ruined, my whole life poisoned. Well then, isn’t it better for me
to clear out of it? Anyway I shan’t suffer any more. You see now, no
one could be more wretched than I am. [_Crying_] No one, doctor, I tell
you, no one! [_He buries his face in his handkerchief_] Oh, oh, oh!
DOCTOR [_rising and going to him with a smile_] You must be a man, and
not cry like a child.
GEORGE [_still in tears_] If I had led a wild life and spent my time in
bars and going about with women, I should understand: I should say I
deserved it.
DOCTOR. No.
GEORGE. No?
DOCTOR. No. You would not say so: but it doesn’t matter. Go on.
GEORGE. Yes, I know I should. I should say I deserved it. But for
nothing! nothing! I have cut myself off from all pleasures. I have
resisted attractions as you would the devil. I wouldn’t go with my
friends to places of amusement: ladies I knew actually pointed me out
to their boys as an example. I stuck to my work: I forced myself to be
more regular in my habits. Why, my two friends helped me to prepare
for my law exams. I taught them to make me cram, and it’s thanks to
them that I got through. Oh, I should have liked to come home at four
o’clock in the morning with my coat-collar turned up, smoking a cigar
lit in some ballet-girl’s rooms! I’ve longed as much as anyone for the
taste of rouged lips and the glitter of blacked eyes and pale faces! I
should have liked larks and jolly suppers and champagne and the rustle
of lace and all the rest of it! I’ve sacrificed all that to my health,
and see what I’ve got for it. Ah, if I had known! If I had only known!
Then I should have let myself go; yes, altogether! That would have been
something to the good, anyway! When I think of it! When I think of the
beastliness, the frightful horrors in store for me!
DOCTOR. What’s all that nonsense?
GEORGE. Yes, yes, I know—hair falling out, camomile for a cocktail,
and a bath chair for a motor car with a little handle for the steering
wheel and a fellow shoving behind instead of the engine; and I shall
go, Gug, gug, gug, gug! [_Crying_] That’s what will be left of handsome
Raoul—that’s what they called me, handsome Raoul!
DOCTOR. My dear sir, kindly dry your eyes for the last time, blow your
nose, put your handkerchief in your pocket, and listen to me without
blubbering.
GEORGE [_doing so_] Yes, doctor; but I warn you, you are wasting your
time.
DOCTOR. I assure you—
GEORGE. I know what you are going to tell me.
DOCTOR. In that case you have no business here. Be off with you!
GEORGE. As I am here, I’ll listen, doctor. It’s awfully good of you.
DOCTOR. If you have the will and the perseverance, none of the things
you are dreading will happen to you.
GEORGE. Of course. You are bound to tell me that.
DOCTOR. I tell you that there are a hundred thousand men in Paris like
you, sound and in good health, I give you my word. Come now. Bath
chairs! You don’t see quite so many as that.
GEORGE [_struck_] Nor you do.
DOCTOR. Besides, those who are in them are not all there for the reason
you think. Come, come! You will not be the victim of a catastrophe any
more than the other hundred thousand. The thing is serious: nothing
more.
GEORGE. There, you see. It is a serious disease.
DOCTOR. Yes.
GEORGE. One of the most serious.
DOCTOR. Yes; but you have the good luck—
GEORGE. Good luck?
DOCTOR. Relatively, if you like; but you have the good luck to have
contracted just that one among serious diseases which we have the most
effective means of combating.
GEORGE. I know; remedies worse than the disease.
DOCTOR. You are mistaken.
GEORGE. You’re not going to tell me that it can be cured?
DOCTOR. It can.
GEORGE. And that I am not condemned to—
DOCTOR. I give you my word on it.
GEORGE. You’re not—you’re not making some mistake? I have been told—
DOCTOR [_shrugging his shoulders_] You have been told! You have been
told! No doubt you know all the ins and outs of the law of property.
GEORGE. Yes, certainly; but I don’t see what connection—
DOCTOR. Instead of being taught that, it would have been much better
if you had been told the nature of the disease from which you are
suffering. Then, perhaps, you would have been sufficiently afraid to
avoid contracting it.
GEORGE. But this woman was so—well, who could have thought such a thing
of her? I didn’t take a woman off the streets, you know. She lives in
the Rue de Berne—not exactly a low part of the town, is it?
DOCTOR. The part of the town has nothing to do with it. This disease
differs from many others; it has no preference for the unfortunate.
GEORGE. But this woman lives almost straight. One of my chums has a
mistress who’s a married woman. Well, it was a friend of hers. Her
mother—she lives with her mother—was abroad at the time. At first
she wouldn’t listen to me; then, finally, after I had spent a whole
half-hour persuading her I had to promise her a ring like one of her
friend’s before she would give way. She even made me take off my boots
before going upstairs so that the porter mightn’t hear.
DOCTOR. Well; if you had been taught, you would have known that these
circumstances are no guarantee.
GEORGE. That’s true; we ought to be taught.
DOCTOR. Yes.
GEORGE. At the same time it’s not a subject that can be broached in the
papers.
DOCTOR. Why not?
GEORGE. I can speak of my own knowledge, for my father used to own
a small provincial paper. If we had ever printed that word, the
circulation would have dropped like a stone.
DOCTOR. Yet you publish novels about adultery.
GEORGE. Of course. That’s what the public wants.
DOCTOR. You are right; it is the public that needs to be educated. A
respectable man will take his wife and daughters to a music-hall, where
they hear things to make a doctor blush. His modesty is only alarmed by
serious words.
GEORGE. And then, after all, what would one gain by being posted up
about this disease?
DOCTOR. If it were better understood it would be more often avoided.
GEORGE. What one wants is some means of avoiding it altogether.
DOCTOR. Oh! That is quite simple.
GEORGE. Tell me.
DOCTOR. It is no longer any concern of yours; but when you have a son
you will be able to tell him what to do.
GEORGE. What’s that?
DOCTOR. To love only one woman, to be her first lover, and to love her
so well that she will never be false to you.
GEORGE. That’s easy, isn’t it! And if my son does not marry till he is
twenty-eight, what then?
DOCTOR. Then, that he may run the least risk, you will tell him to go
to the licensed dealers—
GEORGE. With a guarantee from the government.
DOCTOR. And to choose them a little stale.
GEORGE. Why so?
DOCTOR. Because at a certain age they have all paid their toll. The
prettiest girl in the world can give all she has, not what she has no
longer. That is what you will tell your sons.
GEORGE. But do you mean that I can have children?
DOCTOR. Certainly.
GEORGE. Healthy ones?
DOCTOR. Perfectly healthy. I repeat: if you take proper and reasonable
care of yourself for the necessary length of time, you have little to
fear.
GEORGE. Is that certain?
DOCTOR. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred.
GEORGE. Then I shall be able to marry?
DOCTOR. You will be able to marry.
GEORGE. You’re not deceiving me, are you? You wouldn’t give me false
hopes? You wouldn’t—How soon shall I be able to marry?
DOCTOR. In three or four years.
GEORGE. What, three or four years? Not before?
DOCTOR. Not before.
GEORGE. Why? Am I going to be ill all that time? You said just now—
DOCTOR. The disease will no longer be dangerous to you yourself, but
you will be dangerous to others.
GEORGE. But, doctor, I am going to be married in a month!
DOCTOR. Impossible.
GEORGE. I can’t help it. The contract is all ready; the banns have been
published. I have given my word.
DOCTOR. Here’s a pretty patient! A moment ago you were feeling for your
pistol: now you want to be married in a month!
GEORGE. But I must!
DOCTOR. I forbid you.
GEORGE. You can’t mean that seriously. If this disease is not what I
imagined and if I can be cured, I shan’t commit suicide. If I don’t
kill myself, I must take up the ordinary course of my life. I must
fulfill my engagements: I must be married.
DOCTOR. No.
GEORGE. If my engagement were broken off it would be absolutely
disastrous. You talk of it like that because you don’t know. I didn’t
want to get married. I have told you—I had almost a second family;
the children adored me. It is my old aunt, who owns all the property,
who has pushed on the match. Then my mother wants to see me ‘settled’
as she says. The only thing in the world she wants is to see her baby
grandchildren, and she wonders twenty times a day whether she will live
long enough. Since the question first came up she simply hasn’t thought
of anything else; it’s the dream of her life. And then I tell you I
have begun to adore Henriette. If I draw back now my mother would die
of grief and I should be disinherited by my aunt. Even that isn’t all.
You don’t know my father-in-law’s character! He is a man of regular
high old principles; and he has a temper like the devil. What’s more,
he simply worships his daughter. It would cost me dear, I can assure
you. He would call me to account—I don’t know what would happen. So
there are my mother’s health, my aunt’s fortune, my future, my honor,
perhaps my life, all at stake. Besides, I tell you I have given my word.
DOCTOR. You must take it back.
GEORGE. Well, since you stick to it, even if that were possible, I
could not take back my signature to the contract for the purchase of a
notary’s practice in two months time.
DOCTOR. All these—
GEORGE. You won’t tell me that I have been imprudent because I have not
disposed of my wife’s dowry till after the honeymoon—
DOCTOR. All these considerations are foreign to me. I am a physician,
nothing but a physician. I can only tell you this: if you marry before
three or four years have elapsed you will be a criminal.
GEORGE. No, no, you are more than a physician: you are a confessor as
well. You are not only a man of science. You can’t observe me as you
would something in your laboratory and then simply say: ‘You have this,
science says that. Now be off with you.’ My whole life depends upon
you. You must listen to me; because when you know everything you will
understand the situation and will find the means to cure me in a month.
DOCTOR. I can only tell you over and over again that no such means
exist. It is impossible to be certain of your cure—as far as one can be
certain—under three or four years.
GEORGE. I tell you that you must find one. Listen to me: if I am not
married, I shall not get the dowry. Will you kindly tell me how I am to
carry out the contract I have signed?
DOCTOR. Oh, if that is the question, it is very simple. I can easily
shew you the way out of the difficulty. Get into touch with some rich
man, do everything you can to gain his confidence, and when you have
succeeded, rook him of all he has.
GEORGE. I’m not in the mood for joking.
DOCTOR. I am not joking. To rob that man, or even to murder him, would
not be a greater crime than you would commit in marrying a young girl
in good health to get hold of her dowry, if to do so you exposed her to
the terrible consequences of the disease you would give her.
GEORGE. Terrible?
DOCTOR. Terrible; and death is not the worst of them.
GEORGE. But you told me just now—
DOCTOR. Just now I did not tell you everything. This disease, even
when it is all but suppressed, still lies below the surface ready to
break out again. Taken all round, it is serious enough to make it an
infamy to expose a woman to it in order to avoid even the greatest
inconvenience.
GEORGE. But is it certain that she would catch it?
DOCTOR. Even with the best intentions, I won’t tell you lies. No; it is
not absolutely certain. It is probable. And there is something else I
will tell you. Our remedies are not infallible. In a certain number of
cases—a very small number, scarcely five per cent.—they have no effect.
You may be one of these exceptions or your wife may be. In that case—I
will use an expression you used just now—in that case the result would
be the most frightful horrors.
GEORGE. Give me your advice.
DOCTOR. The only advice I can give you is not to marry. To put it in
this way, you owe a debt. Perhaps its repayment will not be exacted;
but at the same time your creditor may come down on you suddenly, after
a long interval, with the most pitiless brutality. Come, come! You are
a man of business. Marriage is a contract. If you marry without saying
anything, you will be giving an implied warranty for goods which you
know to be bad. That is the term, isn’t it? It would be a fraud which
ought to be punishable by law.
GEORGE. But what can I do?
DOCTOR. Go to your father-in-law and tell him the unvarnished truth.
GEORGE. If I do that, it will not be a delay of three or four years
that he will impose on me. He will refuse his consent for good.
DOCTOR. In that case, tell him nothing.
GEORGE. If I don’t give him a reason, I don’t know what he won’t do. He
is a man of the most violent temper. Besides, it will be still worse
for Henriette than for me. Look here, doctor; from what I have said
to you, no doubt you think I simply care for the money. Well, I do
think it is one’s primary duty to make certain of a reasonable amount
of comfort. From my youth upwards I have always been taught that.
Nowadays one must think of it, and I should never have engaged myself
to a girl without money. It’s perfectly natural. [_With emotion_] But
she is so splendid, she is so much better than I am that I love her—as
people love one another in books. Of course it would be a frightful
disappointment not to have the practice that I have bought, but that
would not be the worst for me. The worst would be losing her. If you
could see her, if you knew her, you would understand. [_Taking out
his pocket book_] Look here, here’s her photograph. Just look at it.
[_The doctor gently refuses it_]. Oh, my darling, to think that I must
lose you or else—Ah! [_He kisses the photograph, then puts it back in
his pocket_]. I beg your pardon. I am being ridiculous. I know I am
sometimes. Only put yourself in my place. I love her so.
DOCTOR. It is on that account that you must not marry her.
GEORGE. But how can I get out of it? If I draw back without saying
anything the truth will leak out and I shall be dishonored.
DOCTOR. There is nothing dishonorable about being ill.
GEORGE. Ah, yes. But people are such idiots. Even yesterday I myself
should have laughed at anyone I knew who was in the position that I am
in now. Why, I should have avoided him as if he had the plague. Oh, if
I were the only one to suffer! But she—she loves me, I swear she does,
she is so good. It will be dreadful for her.
DOCTOR. Less so than it would be later.
GEORGE. There’ll be a scandal.
DOCTOR. You will avoid a bigger one.
_George quietly puts two twenty-franc pieces on the desk, takes his
gloves, hat and stick, and gets up._
GEORGE. I will think it over. Thank you, doctor. I shall come back next
week as you told me to—probably. [_He goes towards the door_].
DOCTOR [_rising_] No: I shall not see you next week, and what is more
you will not think it over. You came here knowing what you had, with
the express intention of not acting by my advice unless it agreed
with your wishes. A flimsy honesty made you take this chance of
pacifying your conscience. You wanted to have someone on whom you could
afterwards throw the responsibility of an act you knew to be culpable.
Don’t protest. Many who come here think as you think and do what you
want to do. But when they have married in opposition to my advice the
results have been for the most part so calamitous that now I am almost
afraid of not having been persuasive enough. I feel as though in spite
of everything I were in some sort the cause of their misery. I ought
to be able to prevent such misery. If only the people who are the cause
of it knew what I know and had seen what I have seen, it would be
impossible. Give me your word that you will break off your engagement.
GEORGE. I can’t give you my word. I can only repeat: I will think it
over.
DOCTOR. Think over what?
GEORGE. What you have told me.
DOCTOR. But what I have told you is true. You cannot make any fresh
objections. I have answered those you have made. You must be convinced.
GEORGE. Well, of course you are right in thinking that I posted myself
up a bit before coming to see you. In the first place, is it certain
that I have the disease you think? You say so, and perhaps it is true.
But even the greatest doctors are sometimes deceived. Haven’t I heard
that Ricord, your master, used to maintain that this disease was not
always contagious? He produced cases to prove his point. Now you
produce fresh cases to disprove it. Very well. But I have the right
to think it over. And when I think it over, I realize the results you
threaten me with are only probable. In spite of your desire to frighten
me, you have been compelled to admit that my marriage will quite
possibly produce no ill results for my wife.
DOCTOR [_restraining himself with difficulty_] Go on. I will answer you.
GEORGE. You tell me that your drugs are powerful, and that for
the catastrophes you speak of to happen I must be one of the five
exceptions per cent. you allow, and that my wife must be an exception
too. Now, if a mathematician calculated the probabilities of the case,
the chance of a catastrophe would prove so small that, when the slight
probability of a disaster was set against the certainty of all the
disappointments and the unhappiness and perhaps the tragedies which my
breaking off the match would cause, he would undoubtedly come to the
conclusion that I was right and you were wrong. After all, mathematics
is more scientific than medicine.
DOCTOR. Ah, you think so! Well, you are wrong. Twenty cases identical
with yours have been carefully observed—from the beginning to the
end. Nineteen times—you hear, nineteen times in twenty—the woman was
contaminated by her husband. You think that the danger is negligeable:
you think you have the right to make your wife take her chance, as
you said, of being one of the exceptions for which we can do nothing!
Very well: then you shall know what you are doing. You shall know what
sort of disease it is that your wife will have five chances per cent.
of contracting without so much as having her leave asked. Take this
book—it is my master’s work—here, read for yourself, I have marked the
passage. You won’t read it? Then I will. [_He reads passionately_] ‘I
have seen an unfortunate young woman changed by this disease into the
likeness of a beast. The face, or I should rather say, what remained of
it, was nothing but a flat surface seamed with scars.’
GEORGE. Stop, for pity’s sake, stop!
DOCTOR. I shall not stop. I shall read to the end. I shall not refrain
from doing right merely for fear of upsetting your nerves. [_He goes
on_] ‘Of the upper lip, which had been completely eaten away, not a
trace remained.’ There, that will do. And you are willing to run the
risk of inflicting that disease on a woman whom you say you love,
though you cannot support even the description of it yourself? And
pray, from whom did that woman catch syphilis? It is not I who say
all this: it is this book. ‘From a man whose criminal folly was such
that he was not afraid to enter into marriage in an eruption, as was
afterwards established, of marked secondary symptoms, and who had
further thought fit not to have his wife treated for fear of arousing
suspicion.’ What that man did is what you want to do.
GEORGE. I should deserve all those names and worse still, if I were to
be married with the knowledge that my marriage would bring about such
horrors. But I do not believe that it would. You and your masters are
specialists. Consequently you fix the whole of your attention on the
subject of your studies, and you think that these dreadful, exceptional
cases never have enough light thrown on them. They exercise a sort of
fascination over you.
DOCTOR. I know that argument.
GEORGE. Let me go on, I beg. You have told me that one man in every
seven is a syphilitic, and further that there are a hundred thousand
such men going about the streets of Paris in perfect health.
DOCTOR. It is the fact that there are a hundred thousand who are not
for the moment visibly affected by their complaint. But thousands have
passed through our hospitals, victims to the most frightful ravages
that our poor bodies can endure. You do not see them: they do not exist
for you. Again, if it were only yourself who was in question, you might
take that line well enough. But what I affirm, and repeat with all the
strength of my conviction, is that you have no right to expose a human
being to this appalling chance. The chance is rare, I know: I know
still better how terrible it is. What have you to say now?
GEORGE. Nothing. I suppose you are right. I don’t know what to think.
DOCTOR. Is it as if I were forbidding you ever to marry when I forbid
you to marry now? Is it as if I were telling you that you will never be
cured? On the contrary, I give you every hope. Only I ask a delay of
three or four years, because in that time I shall be able to ascertain
whether you are one of those unhappy wretches for whom there is no
hope, and because during that time you will be a source of danger to
your wife and children. The children: I have not spoken to you about
them. [_Very gently and persuasively_] Come, my dear sir, you are too
young and too generous to be insensible to pity. There are things that
cannot fail to move you: it is incredible that I should not be able to
touch or to convince you. Indeed, I feel most deeply for you; but on
that account I implore you all the more earnestly to consider what I
say. You have admitted you have no right to expose your wife to such
torture: but there is not only your wife—there are her children, your
children, whom you may contaminate too. For the moment I will not think
of you or of her: it is in the name of those innocent little ones that
I appeal to you; it is the future of the race that I am defending.
Listen to me. Of the twenty marriages I spoke of only fifteen produced
children. They produced twenty-eight. Do you know how many of them
survived? Three: three out of twenty-eight. Above all else syphilis is
a child-murderer. Ah, yes! Every year produces a fresh massacre of the
innocents: Herod still reigns in France and all the world over. And
though it is my business to preserve life, I tell you that those who
die are the lucky ones. If you want to see the children of syphilitic
parents, go round the children’s hospitals. We know the type: it has
become classical. Any doctor can pick them out from the rest; little
creatures old from their birth, stamped with the marks of every
human infirmity and decay. You will find children with every kind of
affliction: hump-backed, deformed, club-footed, hare-lipped, ricketty,
with heads too big and bodies too small, with congenital hip-disease.
A large proportion of all these are the victims of parents who were
married in ignorance of what you now know. If I could, I would cry it
aloud from the housetops. [_A slight pause_] I have told you all this
without the slightest exaggeration. Think it over. Weigh the pro and
the con: tot up the sum of possible suffering and certain misery. But
remember that on the one side is your own suffering—and on the other
the suffering of other people. Remember that. Distrust yourself.
GEORGE. Very well. I give in. I will not be married. I will invent
some excuse. I will get it put off for six months. More than that is
impossible.
DOCTOR. I must have three years at least, if not four.
GEORGE. No, no. For pity’s sake! You can cure me before that.
DOCTOR. No, no, no!
GEORGE. Yes, you can. I implore you. Science can do everything.
DOCTOR. Science is not God Almighty. The day of miracles is past.
GEORGE. Oh, you could, if you wanted to. I know you could. Invent
something, discover something! Try some new treatment on me. Double the
doses! Give me ten times the ordinary ones, if you like! I’ll stand
anything, absolutely. Only there must be some way of curing me in six
months. Look here, I can’t be responsible for myself after that. For
the sake of my wife and her children, do something.
DOCTOR. Nonsense.
GEORGE. If only you’ll cure me, I don’t know what I won’t do for you.
I’ll be grateful to you all my life. I’ll give you half my fortune. For
God’s sake, do something for me!
DOCTOR. You want me to do more for you than for all the rest?
GEORGE. Yes.
DOCTOR. Let me tell you, sir, that everyone of our patients, whether he
is the richest man in the land or the poorest, has everything done for
him that we can do. We have no secrets in reserve for the rich or for
people who are in a hurry to be cured.
GEORGE. Good-bye, doctor.
DOCTOR. Good-day.
ACT II
_George’s study. To the left a window. In front of the window a desk
of moderate size, facing away from the audience, and a writing chair.
On the desk a telephone. To the right of the desk an arm chair, a
small table with a work box and embroidery, and between the window
and the footlights a deep easy chair. At the back a dainty bookcase,
and in front of it a pretty table with flowers. At the back to the
right a door, and, nearer, a piano and a music stool. To the left
another door. Two small chairs._
_Henriette is sitting by the small table and working at a baby’s cap.
After a moment she holds it up on her hand._
HENRIETTE. Another little cap to send to nurse. How sweet my little
Germaine will look in it! Come, sweetheart, laugh at mother! Oh, my
love! [_She kisses the cap and goes on working_].
_George enters at the back._
GEORGE [_opening the door and taking off his coat in the hall_] Hullo!
Are you there? Are you there? Ha, ha, ha!
HENRIETTE [_rising gaily_] Oh, you know I recognized your voice.
GEORGE. What a story! [_Kissing her_] Poor little darling, was she
taken in, poor little woman! Ha, ha, ha!
HENRIETTE [_laughing too_] Don’t laugh like that!
GEORGE. ‘Hullo! Hullo! Madame George Dupont?’ [_Imitating a woman’s
timid voice_] ‘Yes, yes. I am here.’ I could feel you blushing at the
end of the wire.
HENRIETTE [_laughing_] I didn’t say ‘I am here’ in that voice. I simply
answered ‘Yes.’
GEORGE. ‘Hullo, Madame George Dupont. Is George there?’ [_Laughing_]
You were taken in! You can’t say you weren’t. [_In the woman’s voice_]
‘George is out. Who is it speaking to me?’ I could hardly keep it up.
‘Me, Gustave.’ You thought it was, too.
HENRIETTE. What is there astonishing in your friend Gustave telephoning?
GEORGE. And when I added [_imitating Gustave’s voice_] ‘How are you
this morning, dearest?’ you gave a ’What?’ all flustered, like that:
‘What?’
HENRIETTE. Yes, but then I guessed it was you.
GEORGE. I went into fits. What a lark! [_He sits down in front of
her on the arm of the chair close to the fireplace and watches her
happily_].
HENRIETTE [_sitting down and returning his glance_] What a funny little
fellow you are!
GEORGE. Me?
HENRIETTE [_gaily_] Do you think I don’t understand you, after knowing
you for fifteen years and being married to you a twelvemonth?
GEORGE [_curious_] Ah! well, go on. Say what you think of me.
HENRIETTE. To begin with, you’re anxious. Then you’re jealous. And
suspicious. You spend all your time in making a tangle of things and
then inventing ingenious ways of getting out of it.
GEORGE [_happy to hear himself talked about_] So that’s what you think
of me? Go on, let us have some more.
HENRIETTE. Isn’t it true?
GEORGE [_admitting it with a laugh_] Well?
HENRIETTE. Wasn’t it a trap that you set for me this morning?
GEORGE [_in the same tone_] No.
HENRIETTE. Yes; you wanted to be sure that I had not gone out. You
asked me not to go to the Louvre to-day.
GEORGE [_innocently_] So I did.
HENRIETTE. See how suspicious you are, even of me.
GEORGE. No; not of you.
HENRIETTE. Yes, you are. But you have always been, so I don’t mind. And
then I know at the bottom you feel things so keenly that it makes you
rather afraid.
GEORGE [_seriously_] I was laughed at so much when I was a boy.
HENRIETTE [_gaily_] Besides, perhaps you have reasons for not having
too much confidence in men’s friendships with their friends’ wives. Gay
deceiver!
GEORGE [_laughing_] I should like to know what you mean by that.
HENRIETTE. Suppose I had thought it was Gustave and answered: ‘Very
well, thanks. How are you, darling?’
GEORGE [_laughing_] Well, it is a trick that I shouldn’t like to try on
everyone. [_Changing the conversation_] By the way, as I came in Justin
spoke to me.
HENRIETTE. Well?
GEORGE. He says he wants a rise.
HENRIETTE. He has chosen a likely moment.
GEORGE. Hasn’t he? I asked him if the sale of my cigars was not enough
for him.
HENRIETTE. How did he take that?
GEORGE. He lost his temper and gave warning. This time I took him at
his word. He’s simply furious.
HENRIETTE. Good.
GEORGE. He’ll go at the end of the month and we shall be well rid of
him. Mother will be delighted. I say, she hasn’t wired, has she?
HENRIETTE. No.
GEORGE. Then she’s not coming back till to-morrow.
HENRIETTE. If she had her way, she would never leave our little girl.
GEORGE. You’re not going to be jealous, are you?
HENRIETTE. I’m a little anxious. Still, if there had been anything the
matter, I know your mother would have telegraphed to us.
GEORGE. We agreed that she should, if there was anything since
yesterday.
HENRIETTE. Perhaps after all we should have done better to keep baby
with us.
GEORGE. Oh, are you going to begin again?
HENRIETTE. No, no. Don’t scold. I know the air of Paris didn’t suit her.
GEORGE. You still think that the dust of my papers was better for her
than the air of the country.
HENRIETTE [_laughing_] No; I don’t.
GEORGE. Of course, there is the square, with the smell of fried fish
and all the soldiers.
HENRIETTE. Don’t tease. I know you are right.
GEORGE. Aha! I’m glad you admit that for once in a way.
HENRIETTE. Besides, nurse takes good care of her. She is a good girl.
GEORGE. And how proud she is to nurse the grand-daughter of her deputy.
HENRIETTE. Father is not deputy for that district. All the same—
GEORGE. All the same he is deputy for the department.
HENRIETTE. Yes; he is.
GEORGE. Can’t you hear her talking to her friends? [_Imitating the
nurse’s voice_] ‘Haven’t I had a bit of luck, neither? Yes, ma’am;
she’s our deputy’s daughter’s daughter, she is. She’s as fat as a calf,
the little duck; and that clever with it, she understands everything.
That’s not a bit of luck neither, isn’t it?’
HENRIETTE [_laughing_] You great silly! She doesn’t talk like that at
all.
GEORGE. Why not say at once that I can’t do imitations?
HENRIETTE. Now I didn’t say that.
GEORGE. As if mother would have engaged nurse for us if she had not
been absolutely certain that baby would be well looked after. Besides,
she goes down to see her every week, and she would have brought her
back already—
HENRIETTE. Twice a week sometimes.
GEORGE. Yes.
HENRIETTE. Ah, our little Germaine knows what it is to have a granny
who dotes on her.
GEORGE. Doesn’t she, though?
HENRIETTE. Your mother is so good. You know I adore her, too.
GEORGE. Runs in the family!
HENRIETTE. Do you know, the last time we went down there with her—you
had gone out somewhere or other—
GEORGE. To see that old sixteenth century chest.
HENRIETTE [_laughing_] Of course, your wonderful chest.
GEORGE. Well, what were you going to say?
HENRIETTE. You were out, and nurse had gone to mass, I think.
GEORGE. Or to have a drink. Go on.
HENRIETTE. I was in the little room, and your mother thought she was
alone with Germaine. But I could hear her: she was telling baby all
sorts of sweet little things—silly little things, but so sweet that I
felt laughing and crying at the same moment.
GEORGE. Didn’t she call her ‘my own little Saviour’?
HENRIETTE. Why, were you listening?
GEORGE. No; but that’s what she used to call me once on a time.
HENRIETTE. It was that day she said she was sure baby had recognized
her and laughed at her.
GEORGE. One day, too, I went into mother’s room here. The door was
ajar, so that she didn’t hear me come in; and I found her looking at
one of the little christening slippers she wanted baby to have, you
know.
HENRIETTE. Oh, yes.
GEORGE. And then she took it up and kissed it.
HENRIETTE. What did you say to her?
GEORGE. Nothing. I went out as softly as I could and blew a kiss to her
from the other side of the door.
HENRIETTE. When nurse’s letter came the other day, it didn’t take her
long to get ready and catch the 8.59.
GEORGE. However, there wasn’t anything the matter.
HENRIETTE. No; but still perhaps she was right. Perhaps I should have
gone with her.
GEORGE. Poor innocent little Henriette! You believe everything you are
told. Now I saw at once what was up. The nurse simply wanted to humbug
us into raising her screw. I bet she did. Look here, will you bet me
she didn’t? Come, what will you have? Look here. I bet you that lovely
necklace—you know, the one with the big pearl.
HENRIETTE. No; I should be too much afraid of winning.
GEORGE [_laughing_] Silly! I believe you think I don’t care for baby
as much as you do. Why, you don’t even know how old she is! No, no,
exactly! Let’s see. Aha! Ninety-one days and eight hours, there! [_He
laughs_]. Ah, when she can get on by herself, then we’ll have her back
with us. Six months more to wait.
HENRIETTE. Six months is a long time to wait. When I think that if you
had not put off our marriage for six months, we should have her back
now!
GEORGE. I have told you over and over again that I only did what was
right. Just consider; how could I marry when the doctor told me I had
traces of consumption?
HENRIETTE. Your doctor is a donkey. As if you looked like a consumptive!
GEORGE. Generally speaking, doctors are a bit that way, I grant.
HENRIETTE. And you actually wanted to wait three or four years.
GEORGE. Yes; to be quite certain I had nothing wrong with my lungs.
HENRIETTE. You call me innocent, me! And here were you, just because a
doctor—
GEORGE. But you know it seems that I really had the beginning of some
bronchial trouble. I used to feel something when I breathed rather
hard—like that, only a little harder. There, that’s it. There was a
sort of heaviness each side of my chest.
HENRIETTE. It wasn’t anything to put off our marriage for.
GEORGE [_getting up_] Yes, yes; I assure you I was right. I should
have been wrong to expose you to the chance of having a consumptive
husband. No; I’m not at all sorry we waited. Still, those specialists—I
can afford to laugh at them now. If I knew someone now who was ill,
I should tell him: ‘My dear chap, those bigwigs at forty francs a
consultation—well, just don’t you consult them, you know!’
HENRIETTE. That one wanted four years to cure you!
GEORGE. Hang it, doctors are only men. After all they must live; and
when their consultations are forty francs apiece, why, the more the
merrier.
HENRIETTE. And some quite unknown little doctor cured you in three
months!
GEORGE. Yes; he was quite unknown. The odd thing is I have absolutely
forgotten his address. I found it in the paper, I remember. I know
vaguely that it was somewhere near the Halles; but if I was to have my
head chopped off for it, I couldn’t find it again. Idiotic, isn’t it?
HENRIETTE. Consequently, Germaine is six months less old than she ought
to be.
GEORGE. What of that? We shall keep her so much the longer. She will be
married six months later, that’s all.
HENRIETTE. Oh, don’t speak of it. It’s odious to think even now that we
shall lose her some day.
GEORGE. Ah! I can see myself going up the steps of the Madeleine with
her on my arm.
HENRIETTE. Why the Madeleine?
GEORGE. I don’t know. She’ll have on a great white veil and I shall
have an order in my buttonhole.
HENRIETTE. Indeed! Pray what will you have done to get an order?
GEORGE. I don’t know, but I shall have one. Say what you like, I
shall. What a glorious crowd there’ll be!
HENRIETTE. That’s all in the dim, distant future.
GEORGE. Ah, yes.
HENRIETTE. Yes, happily. [_Getting up_] Well, do you mind if I go and
pay my visits now?
GEORGE. Run along, run along. I shall work hard while you are out. Look
at all these papers! I shall be up to my eyes in them before you’re
downstairs. Good-bye.
HENRIETTE. Good-bye. [_She kisses him and goes out at the back by the
right_].
_George lights a cigarette, looks at himself in the glass, and throws
himself into the easy chair to the left, humming a tune. By way of
being more comfortable, he moves away the writing chair and puts his
feet on the desk, smoking and humming in perfect contentment. Madame
Dupont comes in by the door on the left._
GEORGE [_getting up_] Hullo! Why, mother! We had no wire, so we didn’t
expect you till to-morrow. Henriette has just gone out. I can call her
back.
MME. DUPONT. No; I did not want Henriette to be here when I came.
GEORGE. What’s the matter?
_The conversation that follows is broken by long silences._
MME. DUPONT. I have brought back the child and the nurse.
GEORGE. Is baby ill?
MME. DUPONT. Yes.
GEORGE. What’s wrong with her?
MME. DUPONT. Nothing serious; at least for the moment.
GEORGE. We must send for the doctor.
MME. DUPONT. I have just come from the doctor’s.
GEORGE. Good. I’m not going out. I’ll wait for him.
MME. DUPONT. I have seen him.
GEORGE. Ah, you found him in?
MME. DUPONT. I telegraphed to him from the country, took the child to
see him.
GEORGE. It was so urgent as that?
MME. DUPONT. After what the nurse’s doctor had told me, I wished to be
reassured immediately.
GEORGE. And after all there is nothing serious.
MME. DUPONT. For the moment.
GEORGE. When you got down there, how did you find baby?
MME. DUPONT Fairly well, but I sent for the doctor at once.
GEORGE. What did he say?
MME. DUPONT. That you must make a change; that the child must be
brought up on the bottle.
GEORGE. What an extraordinary idea.
MME. DUPONT. He told me that what she was suffering from might become
very serious. So without saying anything to nurse, I made her come with
me and we took the train back.
GEORGE. Well, what is the matter with the child?
MME. DUPONT [_after a thoughtful pause_] I do not know.
GEORGE. Didn’t you ask him?
MME. DUPONT. Yes.
GEORGE [_beginning to be anxious_] Well?
_A silence._
MME. DUPONT. He replied evasively.
GEORGE [_tonelessly_] He probably did not know himself.
MME. DUPONT [_after a silence_] Probably.
_During what follows they avoid looking at one another._
GEORGE. But our own doctor, didn’t he say—?
MME. DUPONT. It was not to him that I went.
GEORGE. Ah! [_A very long silence. Then lower_] Why?
MME. DUPONT. The nurse’s doctor had so terrified me.
GEORGE. Seriously?
MME. DUPONT. Yes: it is a disease—[_Silence_]
GEORGE [_in anguish_] Well?
MME. DUPONT. I asked him if the matter was too serious for our own
doctor to deal with.
GEORGE. What did he answer?
MME. DUPONT. That if we had the means it would be preferable to see a
specialist.
GEORGE [_trying to pull himself together_] And—where did he send you?
MME. DUPONT [_handing him a visiting card_] There.
GEORGE. He sent you to that doctor?
MME. DUPONT. Yes. Do you know him?
GEORGE. No—Yes—I think I have met him—I don’t know. [_Very low_] My God!
MME. DUPONT [_after a silence_] He is coming to speak to you.
GEORGE [_scarcely daring to pronounce the words_] Then is he anxious?
MME. DUPONT. NO. HE WANTS TO SPEAK TO YOU.
GEORGE. He wants to speak to me?
MME. DUPONT. Yes.
GEORGE [_resigning himself_] Very well.
MME. DUPONT. When he saw the nurse, whom I had left in the waiting
room, he called me back and said: ‘It is impossible for me to continue
attending on this child unless I can see its father and speak to him at
once.’ I answered ’Very well,’ and gave him your address. He will not
be long.
GEORGE [_to himself in a low voice_] My poor little child!
MME. DUPONT [_looking at him_] Yes, she is a poor little child.
GEORGE [_after a long silence_] Mother—
MME. DUPONT [_hearing the door opened_] Hush! [_A maid comes in and
speaks to her. To George_] It is he! [_To the maid_] Show him in. [_To
George_] I shall be there if you want me.
_She goes out by the left. The doctor enters by the right._
DOCTOR [_to the maid_] You will let me know here when the child wakes
up, will you not?
MAID. Yes, sir.
_She goes out._
GEORGE [_with the greatest emotion_] Good day, doctor: you don’t
recognize me?
DOCTOR [_simply: more discouraged than angry_] You—it is you. You
married and had a child after all I said to you. [_Almost to himself_]
Scoundrel.
GEORGE. Let me explain.
DOCTOR. I can listen to no explanation of what you have done.
_A silence._
GEORGE [_imploring him_] You will look after my little girl all the
same, won’t you?
DOCTOR [_shrugging his shoulders. Low_] Fool!
GEORGE [_not hearing_] I could only get my marriage put off six months.
DOCTOR. Enough, enough. That is not my business. I was wrong even to
show you my indignation. I should have left you to judge yourself. I am
here only concerned with the present and the future, with the child and
with the nurse.
GEORGE. She is not in danger?
DOCTOR. The nurse is in danger of being contaminated.
GEORGE. No, but—my child?
DOCTOR. For the moment the symptoms are not disquieting.
GEORGE. Thank you. [_More easily_] About the nurse—you were saying—Do
you mind if I call my mother? She knows more about these things than I
do.
DOCTOR. As you please.
GEORGE [_going to the door and coming back much moved_] There is one
thing I should like to ask you. Could you contrive that no one—my
wife—should know what has happened? If my poor wife knew that it was
I who was the cause—it is for her sake that I beg you. She is not to
blame.
DOCTOR. I promise you that I will do everything in my power to save her
from learning the real nature of the child’s illness.
GEORGE. Oh, thank you, thank you.
DOCTOR. You need not. If I tell lies, it will be for her sake and not
for yours.
GEORGE. And my mother?
DOCTOR. Your mother knows the truth.
GEORGE. But—
DOCTOR. Please, please. We have many very serious matters to discuss.
_George goes to the door and brings in his mother. She bows to the
doctor, makes a sign to him to be seated in the armchair near the
fireplace, and sits down herself on the chair near the little table.
George takes a seat to the left in front of the desk._
DOCTOR. I have written a prescription for the child which will, I hope,
improve its condition and prevent any fresh disorders. But my duty, and
yours, does not stop there. If it is not too late, the health of the
nurse must be protected.
MME. DUPONT. Tell us what we must do.
DOCTOR. She must stop giving milk to the child.
MME. DUPONT. You mean that we must change the nurse?
DOCTOR. No. I mean that the child cannot continue to be fed at the
breast either by this nurse or by any healthy nurse.
MME. DUPONT. Why?
DOCTOR. Because the child would communicate its complaint to the person
who gave it milk.
MME. DUPONT. But, doctor, if the baby is brought up on the bottle it
will die.
GEORGE [_breaking into sobs_] Oh, my poor little girl! Oh, my God, it’s
me! Oh! Oh!
DOCTOR. Careful treatment, with sterilized milk—
MME. DUPONT. That may succeed with healthy children, but at the age of
three months a sickly child such as ours cannot be fed by hand. Such a
child has all the more need of being fed at the breast. That is true?
DOCTOR. Yes; but—
MME. DUPONT. In that case you will realize that between the life of the
child and the health of a nurse I have no choice.
GEORGE [_sobbing_] Oh! Oh! Oh!
DOCTOR. Your affection leads you to express an incredible sentiment.
But it is not for you to choose. I shall forbid the child to be brought
up at the breast. The health of this woman does not belong to you.
MME. DUPONT. Nor the life of our child to you. If there is one way
to save its life, it is to give it every possible attention, and you
want me to treat it in a way that you doctors condemn even for healthy
children. My little one! You think I will let her die like that! Oh, I
shall take good care she does not. Neglect the one single thing that
can save her! It would be criminal. As for the nurse, we will indemnify
her. We will do everything in our power, everything but that. No, no,
no! Whatever can be done for our baby shall be done, cost what it may.
But that—You don’t consider what you are asking. It would be as if I
killed my child. [_Bursting into tears_] Oh, my little angel, my own
little Saviour!
_George has not stopped sobbing since he first began. At his mother’s
last words his sobs become almost cries. His anguish is pitiable to
see._
GEORGE. Oh, oh, oh! My little child! My little child! Oh, oh! [_In an
undertone_] Oh, what a scoundrel I am! What a criminal!
DOCTOR. Calm yourself, madam, I beg. You will not improve matters in
this way. Try to consider them coolly.
MME. DUPONT. You are right. I beg your pardon. But if you knew how much
this child is to me. I lost one at the same age. I am old and widowed—I
did not expect to live to see my grandchildren. You are right. George,
be calm—we will show our love by being calm. Now then, we will talk
seriously and coldly. But I warn you that you will not succeed in
making me consent to any but the very best conditions for the child. I
shall not let her be killed by being taken from the breast!
DOCTOR. This is not the first time I have found myself in this
situation, and I must begin by telling you that parents who have
refused to be guided by my advice have invariably repented of it most
bitterly.
MME. DUPONT. The only thing of which I shall repent—
DOCTOR. You are evidently unaware of what the rapacity and malice of
peasants such as this nurse are capable, especially against those
of superior station. In this case, moreover, her enmity would be
legitimate.
MME. DUPONT. Oh! What can she do?
DOCTOR. She can bring an action against you.
MME. DUPONT. She is far too stupid to think of such a thing.
DOCTOR. Others will put it into her head.
MME. DUPONT. She is too poor to pay the expenses of going to law.
DOCTOR. Then you propose to profit by her ignorance and her poverty?
Besides, she could obtain the assistance of the court.
MME. DUPONT. Never! Surely, never.
DOCTOR. Indeed? For my part I know at least ten such cases. In every
case where the fact was proved, judgment was given against the parents.
MME. DUPONT. Not in a case like this! Not where the life of a poor
innocent little child was at stake. You must be mistaken.
DOCTOR. Many of the facts have been identical. I can give you the dates.
GEORGE [_rising_] I have the law reports here. [_He takes a volume and
hands it to the doctor_].
MME. DUPONT. It is needless.
DOCTOR [_to George_] You can convince yourself. In one or two cases the
parents have been ordered to pay a yearly pension to the nurse; in the
others sums of money varying from three to eight thousand francs.
MME. DUPONT. If we had to fight an action, we should retain the very
best lawyer on our side. Thank heaven we are rich enough. No doubt he
would make it appear doubtful whether the child had not caught this
disease from the nurse, rather than the nurse from the child.
DOCTOR. Allow me to point out that such conduct would be atrocious.
MME. DUPONT. Oh, it is a lawyer’s business to do such things. I should
not have to say anything. In any case you may be sure that he would win
our suit.
DOCTOR. And have you considered the scandal that would ensue.
GEORGE [_turning to a page in the reports_] Here is the judgment you
were speaking of—six thousand francs.
DOCTOR. You can make Madame Dupont read it afterwards. Since you have
the reports there, kindly give me the volume before this. [_George
goes again to the bookcase. To Madame Dupont_] Have you thought of the
scandal?
GEORGE [_coming back_] But, doctor, allow me to point out: in reports
of this kind the names are suppressed.
DOCTOR. They are not suppressed in court.
GEORGE. True.
DOCTOR. Are you sure that no paper would publish a full account of the
case?
MME. DUPONT. Oh, how infamous!
DOCTOR. You see what a horrible scandal it would be for you. [_George
nods_] A catastrophe, absolutely.
GEORGE. Particularly for a notary like me. [_He goes to get the other
volume_].
MME. DUPONT. We will prevent her from bringing an action. We will give
her what she wants.
DOCTOR. Then you will expose yourself to be indefinitely blackmailed. I
know one family which has paid hush-money of this kind for twelve years.
GEORGE. We could make her sign a receipt.
DOCTOR. In full settlement of all claims?
GEORGE. Exactly so. Here is the volume.
MME. DUPONT. She would be only too glad to go back to her people with
enough money to buy a little house and a plot of land. To a woman of
her position it would be wealth.
_The nurse comes in._
NURSE. Baby’s waked up, sir.
DOCTOR. I will come and see her. [_To Madame Dupont_] We will finish
what we were saying presently.
MME. DUPONT. Very well. Do you want the nurse?
DOCTOR. No, thank you.
_The doctor goes out._
MME. DUPONT. Nurse, just wait a minute. I want to speak to you. [_In an
undertone to her son_] I know how we can manage. If we warn her and she
agrees to stay, the doctor will have nothing more to say, will he?
GEORGE. I suppose not.
MME. DUPONT. I will promise her two thousand francs when she goes if
she consents to stay on as wet-nurse.
GEORGE. Is that enough, do you think?
MME. DUPONT. At any rate I will try. If she hesitates I will make it
more.
GEORGE. All right.
MME. DUPONT [_turning to the nurse_] Nurse, you know that baby is a
little ill.
NURSE. Oh no, ma’am.
MME. DUPONT. Indeed she is.
NURSE. I’ve looked after her as well as possible, I know I have, ma’am.
MME. DUPONT. I do not say you have not. But she is ill: the doctors say
so.
NURSE. That’s a fine story! As if doctors weren’t always finding
something, so that you mayn’t think they don’t know their business!
MME. DUPONT. But our doctor is a great doctor; and you have seen
yourself that baby has little pimples.
NURSE. Oh ma’am, that’s nothing but the heat of her blood. Don’t you
worry about it, I tell you it’s only the strength of her blood. It
isn’t my fault. I’ve always done everything for her and kept her that
clean and proper.
MME. DUPONT. No one says that it is your fault.
NURSE. Then what are you finding fault with me about? Ah, there isn’t
anything the matter with her. The pretty little darling, she’s a
regular town baby she is, just a bit poorly; but she’s all right, I
promise you.
MME. DUPONT. I tell you she is ill: she has a cold in her head and
there are sores at the back of her throat.
NURSE. Then that’s because the doctor scratched her with the spoon he
put into her mouth by the wrong end. And if she has a little cold, I
don’t know when she caught it, I’m sure I don’t: I always keep her that
well wrapped up, she has three thicknesses of things on. It must have
been when you came the time before last and opened all the windows in
the house.
MME. DUPONT. But I tell you that nobody is finding fault with you at
all.
NURSE. Oh yes, I know. That’s all very well. I’m only a poor country
girl.
MME. DUPONT. What do you mean?
NURSE. Oh, that’s all very well, it is.
MME. DUPONT. But I have told you over and over again that we have no
fault to find.
NURSE [_sticking to her idea_] I never expected any unpleasantness when
I came here. [_She begins to whimper_].
MME. DUPONT. We have no fault to find with you. Only we want to warn
you, you may catch the baby’s illness—
NURSE [_sulkily_] Well, if I do catch a cold, it won’t be the first
time I’ve had to blow my nose, I suppose.
MME. DUPONT. Perhaps you may get her pimples.
NURSE [_sneering_] Oh ma’am, we country folks haven’t got nice,
delicate, white skins like Paris ladies have. When you have to work in
the fields all day, rain or shine, you don’t need to plaster your face
all over with cream, I can tell you. No offence meant, but if you want
to find an excuse, that isn’t much of a one.
MME. DUPONT. What do you mean? What excuse?
NURSE. Oh yes, I know.
MME. DUPONT. What do you know?
NURSE. I’m only a poor country girl, I am.
MME. DUPONT. I have not the slightest idea what you mean.
NURSE. Oh, I know what I mean.
MME. DUPONT. Then tell me what you mean.
NURSE. Oh, what’s the good?
MME. DUPONT. Tell me, please? I insist.
NURSE. Oh, very well—
MME. DUPONT. Go on.
NURSE. Oh, all right. I may be only a poor country girl, but I’m not
quite so stupid as that. I know what it is you want. Just because
master’s cross at your having promised me thirty francs a month more if
I came to Paris. [_Turning to George_] Well, and what do you expect?
Mustn’t I have my own little boy looked after? And hasn’t his father
got to eat and drink? We’re only poor country folks, we are.
GEORGE. You’re making a mistake, nurse. There’s nothing at all the
matter. My mother was quite right to promise you the thirty francs
extra, and the only thing in my mind is that she did not promise you
enough. Now I have decided when baby is old enough to have a dry-nurse
and you leave us, just to show how grateful we are, to give you, er—
MME. DUPONT. We shall make you a present, you understand, over and
above your wages. We shall give you five hundred francs, or perhaps a
thousand. That is, of course, if baby is in perfectly good health.
NURSE [_stupefied_] You’ll give me five hundred francs—for
myself—[_Struggling to understand_] But you haven’t got to. We didn’t
agree to that.
MME. DUPONT. No.
NURSE [_to herself_] What’s up, then?
MME. DUPONT. It is simply because baby will require more attention. You
will have rather more trouble with her. You will have to give her her
medicine and so on. It may be a little difficult for you.
NURSE. Ah, I see. So that you may be sure I shall look after her well.
You say to yourself: ‘Nurse has an interest in her.’ I see.
MME. DUPONT. That is understood, then?
NURSE. Yes, ma’am.
MME. DUPONT. Very good. You will not come afterwards and complain of
the way we have treated you. We have warned you that the child is ill
and that you may catch her illness. To make up for that, and because
you will have more trouble with her, we will give you five hundred
francs when your time here is over. That is understood?
NURSE. But you said a thousand francs, ma’am.
MME. DUPONT. Very well; a thousand francs, then.
GEORGE [_passing to the right behind the other two and drawing his
mother aside_] It’s a pity that we can’t get her to sign that.
MME. DUPONT [_to the nurse_] So that there may be no misunderstanding
about the sum—you see I forgot just now that I said a thousand
francs—we will draw up a little paper which we shall sign on our side
and you will sign on your side.
NURSE. Very good, ma’am; I understand.
_The doctor comes back._
MME. DUPONT. Here is the doctor. You may go, nurse; that is all right.
NURSE. Yes, ma’am. [_To herself_] What’s up, then? A thousand francs?
What’s the matter with the baby? Has she got something bad, I wonder?
[_She passes to the left, between the desk and window, and goes out_].
DOCTOR. The condition is unchanged. There is no need for anxiety. [_He
sits down at the desk to write a prescription_].
MME. DUPONT. I am glad to tell you, doctor, that you can now devote
yourself to the baby and the nurse without misgiving. While you have
been away we have informed the nurse of the circumstances, and agreed
with her that she shall stay with us in return for a certain sum of
money.
DOCTOR. The disease which the nurse will almost infallibly contract in
giving her milk to the child is, I fear, too serious to be made the
subject of a bargain, however large the sum of money. She might be
completely crippled, even if she did not die of it.
MME. DUPONT. But she accepts.
DOCTOR. It is not only that she would be rendered incapable of serving
in future as wet nurse without danger to the infants she suckled. The
results of the disease to herself might be inconsiderable; but at the
same time, I repeat, they might, in spite of everything we could do,
cast a terrible blight upon her life.
MME. DUPONT. But I tell you she accepts. She has the right to do what
she pleases.
DOCTOR. I am not sure that she has the right to sell her own health,
but I am sure that she has not the right to sell the health of her
husband and of her children. If she contracts this disease, she will
almost certainly communicate it to both of them; and, further, the life
and health of any children she might afterwards have would be gravely
endangered. You understand now that it is impossible for her to make a
bargain of this kind. If the mischief is not already done, every effort
must be made to prevent it.
MME. DUPONT. You say: ‘If the mischief is not done.’ Can you not be
certain?
DOCTOR. Not as yet. There is a period of five or six weeks between
the moment of contracting the disease and the appearance of its first
symptoms.
MME. DUPONT. You think of nothing but the nurse. You do not think of
our poor little baby. What can we do? We cannot let her die.
GEORGE. We can’t, we can’t!
DOCTOR. Neither can you endanger the life of this woman.
MME. DUPONT. You are not defending our interests!
DOCTOR. I am defending those of the weakest.
MME. DUPONT. If we had called in our own doctor, he would have taken
our side.
DOCTOR. I doubt it. [_Rising_] But there is still time to send for him.
GEORGE. Mother! I beg you not to go, doctor.
MME. DUPONT [_supplicating him_] Oh, don’t abandon us! You can make
allowances—If you only knew what this child was to me! I feel as if I
had staved off death to wait for it. Have pity on us! Our poor little
girl—she is the weakest, surely. Have pity on her! When you saw her
tiny, suffering body, did you not feel any pity for her? Oh, I beseech
you!
GEORGE. Doctor, we implore you!
DOCTOR. Indeed I pity her and I will do everything in my power to save
her. But you must not ask me to sacrifice the health of a young and
strong woman to that of a sickly infant. I will be no party to giving
this woman a disease that would embitter the lives of her whole family,
and almost certainly render her sterile.
MME. DUPONT [_in a stifled voice_] Oh, are there not enough of these
peasants in the world!
DOCTOR. I beg your pardon?
MME. DUPONT [_in the same tone_] I said that if she had no more
children, there would only be the fewer to be unhappy.
DOCTOR. It is useless for us to continue this discussion.
MME. DUPONT [_rousing herself_] I shall not take your advice! I shall
not listen to you!
DOCTOR. There is one here already who regrets not having done so.
GEORGE. Yes, O God, yes!
MME. DUPONT [_more and more exalted_] I do not care! I do not care if
I am punished for it in this world and the next! If it is a crime, if
it is a sin, I accept all the responsibility, however heavy it may be!
Yes, yes! If it must be, I will lose my soul to save our child’s life,
our little one’s! I know that hell exists for the wicked: that is one
of my profoundest convictions. Then let God judge me—if I am damned, so
much the worse for me!
DOCTOR. I shall not allow you to take that responsibility. To enable
you to do so, my consent would be necessary, and I refuse it.
MME. DUPONT. What do you mean?
DOCTOR. I shall speak to the nurse and give her the fullest
particulars, which I am convinced you have not done.
MME. DUPONT. What! You, a doctor, would betray family secrets entrusted
to you in the strictest confidence! Secrets of this kind!
DOCTOR. The betrayal, if it is one, is forced on me by the law.
MME. DUPONT. The law! I thought you were bound to secrecy?
DOCTOR [_turning the pages of the volume of reports_] Not in this case.
Here is a judgment given by the court at Dijon: I thought that I might
have to read it to you. [_Reading_] ‘A doctor who knowingly omits to
inform a nurse of the dangers incurred by her in giving milk to a
syphilitic child may be held responsible in damages for the results
caused by her ignorance.’ You see that the law is against you, as well
as your conscience; and I may add that, even were it not so, I should
not allow you to be led by your feelings into committing such a crime.
If you do not consent to have the child fed by hand, I shall either
speak to the nurse or give up the case.
MME. DUPONT. You dare to threaten us! Oh, you know the power that your
knowledge gives you! You know what need we are in of your services and
that if you abandon us perhaps our child will die! And if we give way
to you, she will die all the same! [_Wildly_] O my God, my God, why
cannot I sacrifice myself? Oh, if only my aged body could take the
place of this woman’s young flesh, and my poor dry breasts give to our
child the milk that would save her life! With what joy I would give
myself up to this disease! With what rapture I would suffer the most
horrible ravages that it could inflict on me! Oh, if I could but offer
myself, without fear and without regret!
GEORGE [_flings himself into her arms with sobs and cries of_] Mother!
Mother! Mother!
_They weep._
DOCTOR [_to himself, moved_] Poor people! Poor people!
MME. DUPONT [_sitting down with an air of resignation_] Tell us what we
must do.
DOCTOR. Keep the nurse here as dry-nurse so that she may not carry the
infection elsewhere. We will feed the child by hand, and I beg you
in all sincerity not to exaggerate the danger that will result from
the change. I have every hope of restoring the baby to health in a
short space of time; and I assure you that I will use every possible
effort to bring about a happy conclusion. I will call again to-morrow.
Good-day.
MME. DUPONT [_without moving_] Thank you, doctor.
GEORGE [_going to the door and shaking hands_] Thank you, thank you.
[_The doctor goes out. George comes back and goes to his mother with
outstretched arms_] Mother!
MME. DUPONT [_repulsing him_] Let me be.
GEORGE [_checking himself_] Are we not unhappy enough, without hating
one another?
MME. DUPONT. It is God who visits upon your child the sins of its
father.
GEORGE [_raising his shoulders gloomily_] You believe that: when there
is not a man alive so wicked and unjust as to commit such an act!
MME. DUPONT. Oh, I know you believe in nothing.
GEORGE. Not in that kind of God.
_The nurse, who comes in by the left soon after the doctor has
gone out, appears._
NURSE. If you please, ma’am, I’ve been thinking: I would rather go away
at once and only have the five hundred francs.
MME. DUPONT. What do you say? You want to leave us?
NURSE. Yes, ma’am.
GEORGE. But ten minutes ago you didn’t want to.
MME. DUPONT. What has happened?
NURSE. I’ve been thinking.
MME. DUPONT. Thinking! About what?
NURSE. Well, I want to go back to my baby and my husband.
GEORGE. But ten minutes ago—there must be something else.
MME. DUPONT. Evidently there is something else.
NURSE. No, ma’am.
MME. DUPONT. But there must be!
NURSE. Well then, I’m afraid that Paris doesn’t suit me.
MME. DUPONT. How can you tell without waiting to try?
NURSE. I’d rather go back home at once.
MME. DUPONT. At least tell us why.
NURSE. I have told you. I’ve been thinking.
MME. DUPONT. What about?
NURSE. I’ve been thinking.
MME. DUPONT. Oh, don’t say that over and over again! ’I’ve been
thinking, I’ve been thinking.’ What have you been thinking about?
NURSE. About everything.
MME. DUPONT. Can’t you tell us about what?
NURSE. I tell you: about everything.
MME. DUPONT. Idiot!
GEORGE [_stepping in front of his mother_] Let me speak to her.
NURSE. I know we’re only poor country folk.
GEORGE. Listen to me, nurse. Just now you were not only satisfied
with your wages, but you were afraid we were going to send you away.
In addition to your wages we have promised to give you a large sum
of money at the end of your time here—and now you want to leave us,
at once! Come now, you must have some sort of reason. Has anyone been
doing anything to you?
NURSE. No, sir.
GEORGE. Well then?
NURSE. I’ve been thinking.
GEORGE [_exasperated_] Don’t go on repeating that silly thing! What do
you mean by it? [_Gently_] Come, come, tell me why you want to go away.
[_Silence_] Eh?
NURSE. I have told you.
GEORGE. One might as well talk to a block of wood.
MME. DUPONT [_coming forward_] But you have no right to leave us.
NURSE. Yes, I want to go away.
MME. DUPONT. I shall not allow you to go!
GEORGE. Oh well, let her go; after all we can’t keep her by force. [_To
the nurse_] Since you want to go, you shall go: but I can only say that
you’re as stupid as a cow.
NURSE. I don’t mind if I am.
GEORGE. I shall not pay you for the month that has just begun, and you
will pay for your own railway ticket.
NURSE. We’ll see about that.
GEORGE. Yes, you will see. You’ll see this moment, too! Be off with
you, I don’t want you any longer. Now then!
MME. DUPONT. Don’t fly into a rage, George. [_To the nurse_] You don’t
mean it seriously, nurse, surely?
NURSE. I would rather go back home at once and only have my five
hundred francs.
GEORGE. What’s that?
MME. DUPONT. What are you talking about?
GEORGE. Five hundred francs?
MME. DUPONT. What five hundred francs?
NURSE. The five hundred francs you promised me, to be sure!
GEORGE. We never promised you anything of the sort!
NURSE. Yes, you did.
MME. DUPONT. Yes, when you had finished nursing the baby and if we were
satisfied with you.
NURSE. No, you said you would give me five hundred francs when I left.
Now I’m going away, so I want them.
MME. DUPONT. You will please not address me in that tone, you
understand.
NURSE. You’ve only got to give me my money and I shan’t say a word more.
GEORGE. Oh, that’s it, is it? Very well, I discharge you on the spot.
Now, then, be off with you.
MME. DUPONT. I should think so, indeed.
GEORGE. Off you go!
NURSE. Give me my five hundred francs.
GEORGE [_pointing furiously at the door_] Take your blasted carcase out
of this. Do you hear?
NURSE. Hullo, hullo! You speak to me a bit more politely, can’t you?
GEORGE. Will you get out of this, or have I got to send for the police?
NURSE. The police! What for, eh, what for?
GEORGE. To chuck you out, you—
NURSE. Well, and what am I? I’m only a country girl, I am. I may be a
bit stupid—
MME. DUPONT. Stupid! I should think you were. You have no more brains
than a mule.
NURSE. I may be stupid, but I’m not—
MME. DUPONT [_interrupting_] You have no more heart than a stone. You
are a wicked woman.
GEORGE. You’re no better than a thief.
NURSE. Oh, a thief am I? I should like to know why.
GEORGE. Because you’re trying to get money that isn’t yours.
MME. DUPONT. Because you are deserting our baby. You are a wicked woman.
GEORGE. Do you want me to put you out? [_He takes her by the arm_].
NURSE. Oh, that’s it, is it? So you want me to tell you why I’m going?
GEORGE. Now then, out with it.
MME. DUPONT. Well, why is it?
_Henriette enters at the back. In the noise of the quarrel no one
perceives her._
NURSE. Very well, then. I’m going away because I don’t want to catch
your beastly diseases here.
MME. DUPONT. Be quiet, will you?
GEORGE. Shut up, can’t you?
NURSE. Oh, you needn’t be afraid; everyone knows about it. Justin
listened at the door to what your doctor was saying and told me what
was up. Oh, I may be stupid, but I’m not so stupid as that. I’m going
to have my money and get out of this.
GEORGE. Shut up!
MME. DUPONT [_taking her by the arm_] Hold your tongue, I tell you.
NURSE. Let me go! Let me go! I know your brat’s not going to live. I
know it’s rotten through and through because its father’s got a beastly
disease that he caught from some woman of the streets.
_Henriette, with two hoarse cries, falls to the ground in a fit of
nervous sobbing._
GEORGE [_rushing towards her_] My God!
_Henriette eludes him and pulls herself up with disgust, hatred, and
horror depicted all over her._
HENRIETTE [_shrieking like a mad woman_] Don’t touch me! Don’t touch
me!
ACT III
_The doctor’s room in the hospital where he is chief physician. The
doctor enters with a medical student, both in their hospital clothes,
and takes off his apron while talking._
DOCTOR. By the way, my dear fellow, is the gentleman we passed in the
passage waiting for you?
STUDENT. No, not for me.
DOCTOR. Then it’s my deputy. Do you know this name? Where did I put his
card? [_He looks on his desk_] Ah, here. ‘Loches, deputy for Sarthes’?
STUDENT. That’s the famous Loches.
DOCTOR. Ah, yes, deputy for Sarthes. A regular orator, isn’t he?
STUDENT. Tremendous, I believe.
DOCTOR. That’s the man we want then. He busies himself a great deal
with social questions?
STUDENT. Just so.
DOCTOR. I suppose he wants to start an agitation in the Chamber in
favor of the laws for which we have been clamoring so long. No doubt he
means to post himself up first. This is what he writes: ‘Loches, deputy
for Sarthes, presents his compliments’ etc. ... would be much obliged if
I would see him to-morrow, Sunday: not for a consultation.
STUDENT. It’s very likely he has some idea of the sort.
DOCTOR. Now that I have a deputy I will post him up, I can assure you.
That’s why I have had the case from St. Charles’ ward and number 28
brought here.
STUDENT. Shall you want me?
DOCTOR. Not at all, my dear fellow. Good-bye.
STUDENT. Good-bye, sir.
DOCTOR [_calling to the other as he goes out_] Would you mind telling
them to show in M. Loches? Thanks very much. Good-bye.
_The student goes out._
_Loches enters and bows. The doctor motions him to be seated._
LOCHES. I must thank you for being so kind as to receive me out of
your regular hours. The business that brings me here is peculiarly
distressing. I am the father-in-law of M. George Dupont. After the
terrible revelation of yesterday, my daughter has returned to me with
her child and I have come to ask you to be so good as to continue
attending on the infant, but at my house.
DOCTOR. Very good.
LOCHES. Thank you. Now, as to the scoundrel who is the cause of all
these misfortunes.
DOCTOR [_very gently_] You must excuse me, but that is a subject on
which I cannot enter. My functions are only those of a physician.
LOCHES [_in a thick voice_] I ask your pardon, but I think when you
have heard me for a moment, you will agree with me. I shall not trouble
you with the plans of vengeance I formed yesterday, when my poor
daughter fled to me with her child in her arms after the revelation
that you know. You will excuse me if I speak to you in this state—oh,
I can scarcely contain my indignation! I had intended to talk of this
calmly: but when I think of that man and of his infamous conduct—the
brutal, cowardly blow he has struck at me and mine—I cannot control
myself—I, I—. It is abominable! My daughter! A girl of twenty-two!
Twenty-two!
_A silence._
DOCTOR. I understand and respect your feelings; but, believe me, you
are not in a fit state to form any decision at this moment.
LOCHES [_with an effort_] Yes, yes: I will command myself. All last
night I spent in profound reflection, and after rejecting the ideas I
mentioned, this is the conclusion to which I have come in conjunction
with my daughter: we desire to obtain a divorce as soon as possible.
Consequently I have come to ask you for the certificate which will be
the basis of our action.
DOCTOR. What certificate?
LOCHES. A certificate attesting the nature of the disease which this
man has contracted.
DOCTOR. I regret that I am unable to furnish you with such a
certificate.
LOCHES. How is that?
DOCTOR. The rule of professional secrecy is absolute.
LOCHES. It is impossible that it should be your duty to take sides with
a criminal against his innocent victims.
DOCTOR. To avoid all discussion, I may add that even were I free, I
should refuse your request.
LOCHES. May I ask why?
DOCTOR. I should regret having helped you to obtain a divorce.
LOCHES. Then just because you hold this or that theory, because your
profession has rendered you sceptical or insensible to the sight of
misery like ours, my daughter must bear this man’s name to the end of
her life!
DOCTOR. It would be in your daughter’s own interest that I should
refuse.
LOCHES. Indeed! You have a strange conception of her interest.