FOURPLAYS^ 
 
 OF THE 
 
 FREE THEATER 
 
 AUTHORIZED 
 TRANSLATION BY 
 
 BARRETT H.CLARK 
 
 The Fossils 
 
 The Serenade 
 
 Fr an9oise' Luck 
 
 The Dupe
 
 J* 

 
 BARRETT H. CLARK 
 
 THE 
 CONTINENTAL DRAMA OF TO-DAY 
 Outlines for Its Study By Barrett H. Clark 
 
 Suggestions, questions, biographies, and bibliogra- 
 phies with outlines, of half a dozen pages or less 
 each, of the more important plays of Ibsen, Bjorn- 
 sen, Strindberg. Tolstoy, Gorky, TchekofF, An- 
 dreycff, Ilauptniann, Sudcrmann, Wedekind, Schnitz- 
 ler, \'on HotTmansthal, Becque, Le Maitre, Lavedan, 
 Donnay, Maeterlinck, Rostand, Hervieu, Giacosa, 
 D'Annunzio, Echegaray, and Galdos. While in- 
 tended to be used in connection with a reading of 
 the plays themselves, the book has an independent 
 interest. 12 mo. $1.50 net. 
 (Published by Henry Holt and Company, New York) 
 
 "Three Modern Plays from the French," 
 
 THE PRINCE D'AUREC, THE PARDON, 
 THE OTHER DANGER 
 
 Translated by Barrett H. Clark, with an introduc- 
 tion by Clayton Hamilton. 12 mo. Net $1.35. 
 (Published by Henry Holt and Company, New York) 
 
 THE LABYRINTH 
 
 A play in five acts, by Paul Hervieu. Authorized 
 translation by Barrett H. Clark and Lander Mac- 
 Clintock. 16 mo. Net $1.00. 
 
 (Published by B, W. Huebscii, New York) 
 
 I
 
 ^FOUR PLAYS OF THE 
 FREE THEATER 
 
 The Fossils By Francois de Curel 
 
 The Serenade By Jean Jullien 
 
 Francoise' Luck By Georges de Porto=Riche 
 
 The Dupe By Georges Ancey 
 
 PRODUCED AT THE THEATRE LIBRE 
 
 Translated with an Introduction 
 BY 
 
 BARRETT H. CLARK 
 
 Preface by Brieux of the French Academy 
 
 CINCINNATI 
 
 STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 
 1917 

 
 Copyright, 1914, by 
 
 STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 Copyright in England 
 
 First impression November, 191 4 
 Second impression February, 1917 
 
 VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY 
 
 BINQHAMTON AND NIW YORK
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Preface Brit 
 
 PAGE 
 V 
 
 Antoine and the " Free 
 
 Theater " ... Barrett II. Clark . . xi 
 
 The Fossils, a play in 
 
 four acts .... Francois de Cure! . . 5 
 
 The Serenade, a Bour- 
 geois study in three acts Jean JuUicn ... 85 
 
 Francoise' Luck, a com- 
 edy in one act . . . Gcor<rcs de Porto-Riche 149 
 
 The Dupe, a comedy in 
 
 five acts .... Georges Ancey . . .187
 
 PREFACE 
 
 Mr. Barrett H. Clark, 
 Berlin, 
 
 My Dear Colleague : 
 
 The Nineteenth Centur.y was an age which 
 strove in the pursuit of truth; during the last 
 twenty years that struggle became strikingly man- 
 ifest, for the theater itself was affected. 
 
 After the stupidities of Romanticism — with 
 its moonlit fortresses and factitious medievalism, 
 its poniards and poison-vials, its caverns and 
 towers, its chatelaines and sorcerers, its murders 
 and idle gossip, men began to feel the need of a 
 closer observation of the life about them. After 
 a period of narrow philosophic spirituality, there 
 arose the desire to examine with a critical eye that 
 which in the past had been accepted as a matter of 
 course. Science, which was the heritage of the 
 Nineteenth Century, rapidly became " experi- 
 mental." 
 
 As the French temperament was fertile ground 
 for the new ideas, beautiful plants and Howers 
 and great trees sprang up with a vigor which 
 seemed wholly spontaneous. 
 
 In the realm of philosophy it was Taine, in 
 medicine Claude Bernard, in science all the Posi- 
 tivists, who paved the way for the new literature. 
 Balzac was the fn-st. His work marks the tran- 
 sition between Romanticism and Naturalism. 
 
 V
 
 PREFACE 
 
 In him are the defects of exaggeration of both 
 schools. Certain conceptions and ideas of his are 
 at times childishly, monstrously distorted, suffi- 
 ciently so to rank him with the worst of his prede- 
 cessors, while at other times again he thinks and 
 writes with a power so violent and so audacious, 
 that none of his disciples has been able to equal 
 him — in spite of the fact that every follower is 
 prone to exaggerate the manner of his master. 
 Zola was to follow, however. 
 
 The theater — if we except certain plays of 
 that true precursor of the moderns, Kmile Augier, 
 and the occasionally inspired priests of Dumas 
 jils — was confined rigidly within certain time- 
 honored conventions, and lay like a lazybones In 
 a warm and comfortable bed. The theaters of 
 Paris all had their accepted and privileged pur- 
 veyors of amusement, and their intellectual sloth 
 was in turn communicated to the public — each 
 supporting the other. 
 
 Yet a deep-buried desire for something new ex- 
 isted somewhere in the mind of the public; it was 
 latent, unknown, unconscious — but it was so real, 
 so sincere, that when the first attempts to bring the 
 theater into a closer relation with life were 
 brought to the stage, these were greeted with cries 
 of joy and enthusiasm. 
 
 It is Antoine's chief glory to ha\e felt this de- 
 sire, to have been the first to bring it to its full 
 fruition. From the moment he made his appear- 
 ance, in the obscure little theater in the Passage 
 de TKlysec des Beaux-arts, dramatists brought 
 him plays in which they too had endeavored to do 
 away with the old conventions, and in which they 
 
 vi
 
 PREFACE 
 
 tried to affect the men and women of their day 
 through sincere work reflecting more clearly than 
 ever before the life of their time. All these 
 authors existed, no doubt, but their works were not 
 produced, their manuscripts were not even read, 
 and it is not diiiicult to believe that many of them 
 would have faltered and failed in the face of ever- 
 lasting discouragement, had it not been for An- 
 toine who, while not advertising them nor ex- 
 ploiting them, merely " placed " them, made them 
 feel that they existed, and helped them to realize 
 their individuality. Without attempting to guide 
 or directly influence them, his powerful personality 
 made itself felt even with the strongest-willed 
 and most independent of his co-workers. His un- 
 rufiled good humor in the face of the protestations 
 called down upon his head by the new-school 
 dramatists, his faith In himself and in his work, 
 his manner of accepting the most patent defeat as 
 the most brilliant of victories, his admirable fight- 
 ing^ spirit, his courage — all this, and other things 
 besides — made of the little band which consti- 
 tuted the original Theatre Libre, a living com- 
 pany, an insolent band of enthusiasts even, an 
 enemy of tinsel and false glory (and at times, it 
 rnust be confessed, of true glory, for It was occa- 
 sionally extreme In its attitude) but always ready 
 for a struggle, valiant in the cause of truth, of 
 beauty, of poverty, of Independence: fanatical and 
 brutal, too. In a word, it possessed those quali- 
 ties which attract and hold the attention of the peo- 
 ple at large. 
 
 Antolne was fortunate as a revolutionary in that 
 he was not in the least exclusive. By personal In- 
 
 vii
 
 PREFACE 
 
 clination and taste he believed in a realistic expres- 
 sion of life, yet his enthusiasm for the " play of 
 ideas " attracted him to Francois de Curel, and for 
 the love and sex drama to Georges de Porto-Riche. 
 
 I remember — with what a thrill ! — the many 
 pleasant and inspiring evenings I have spent in the 
 company of these enthusiasts. Pitiless like all 
 neophytes, violent as well, each of us was a sort 
 of Polyeucte, eager to smash the idols of the past. 
 
 The influence of the Theatre Libre upon the 
 development of the theater in France was enor- 
 mous. Even those who opposed it most bitterly, 
 tried later to imitate it, but as they lacked Faith, 
 that divinely essential Faith, they succeeded in imi- 
 tating only the technical methods: they were cap- 
 able only of copying what was of least value and. 
 in the apt words of Jules Eemattre, the result 
 was a " nouveau poncif " — " a re-hashing of stale 
 material." 
 
 Now Antoine — ^ who would believe it? — An- 
 toine is a timid man. You may take the word of 
 one who has known him intimately for a quarter of 
 a century. In the early days Antoine was seized 
 with fear in the presence of an audience. Those 
 thousand pairs of eyes, often enough hill of mock- 
 ery, at times distinctly hostile, were the source of 
 much uneasiness to the young actor. I must add 
 that at times there was imposed on him the difficult 
 task of flinging in the teeth of that public expres- 
 sions which were particularly daring and odious. 
 Then, in order to escape the gaze of that multitude, 
 he instinctivelv turned round one day, and contin- 
 ued to speak his lines, his back turned to the foot- 
 lights. Ihat seemed to cap the climax. At the 
 
 viii
 
 PREFACE 
 
 Comedle Francalse, the temple of dramatic con- 
 ventions, I know one Theatre Libre dramatist who 
 was once very much irritated because the actors, 
 wishing to please him, rehearsed with their backs 
 turned continually to the audience ! 
 
 Antoine's work produced more important and 
 lasting results. He it was who for the first time 
 introduced to the public a large number of drama- 
 tists hitherto unknown, many of whom it is certain 
 would otherwise never have had a hearing. He 
 was the first to bring Ibsen to France, and Fran- 
 gois de Curel into international renown. An- 
 toine showed us greater and finer possibilities in 
 staging, his mise en scene constituted a revolt 
 against the old-fashioned stage-sets, many of which 
 seemed an insult to the artistic sensibilities of the 
 spectator. He reduced the number of stage con- 
 ventions, he encouraged and successfully produced 
 the works of new authors, and taught the general 
 public to look for and appreciate dramatic work of 
 better quality and nobler inspiration than that to 
 which it had as a rule been accustomed. 
 
 It is not his fault if the public is but rarely of- 
 fered an opportunity to develop that better taste 
 which he did so much to improve, and which at 
 times seems likely to disappear for want of suflii- 
 cient nutriment I 
 
 Brieux. 
 
 IX
 
 SONNET A ANTOINE 
 
 " Le theatre? " me disiez-vous au coin de I'atre; 
 " Travail de fou dans la pousslere . . . Kspoirs 
 
 . . . Degout . . . 
 Pauvrete des moyens . . . On crie, on rage, on 
 
 bout . . . 
 (^a n'y est pas! . . . C'est du carton et c'est du 
 
 platre! " 
 
 Et puis, un souffle passe . . . et c'est un coin 
 bleuatre 
 
 Ou, pendant un instant, ^a y est, tout d'un coup ! 
 
 Et c'est qa, — cet instant qui console de tout, — 
 
 " C'est ca," me disiez-vous, Antoine, " le thea- 
 tre!'" 
 
 La Vie aussi, mon cher ami. Ce n'est que pour 
 Deux ou trois beaux instants de victoire ou 
 
 d'amour 
 Que le Heros reprend sans fin sa tentative. 
 
 Soit! Vous la reprendrez demain, grand obstine ! 
 Mais un de ces instants qui valent que Ton vive, 
 Je crois bien que, ce soir, Paris vous I'a donne ! 
 
 Edmond Rostand
 
 ANTOINE AND THE " FREE 
 THEATER " 
 
 The " Free Theater " was to the French drama 
 of the past quarter century what the Reformation 
 was to Christianity; Andre Antoine was its Martin 
 Luther. Like Luther, this energetic Frenchman 
 did not originate or invent his revolution, he merely 
 happened to live at a time when revolt was in the 
 air : both brought to a head a number of symptoms 
 and eventually formulated the ideas of their time 
 and fixed for future generations those ideas which 
 each had found and developed. To Antoine it 
 appeared that the drama of his day was fettered 
 with conventions of style, technic, and subject- 
 matter to such an extent that young dramatists 
 with new ideas and new ways of expressing them, 
 had little or no opportunity to produce their 
 works. The founding of his little troupe of ama- 
 teurs was a declaration of independence from the 
 " well-made " plays of Scribe and his followers. 
 The experiment was so successful that within less 
 than ten years it ceased to be of use, and died of 
 inertia. The forces Antoine was combatting ga\e 
 way before him, so that within less than twenty 
 years he found that as director of the Odeon 
 Theater — surely one of the most conventional of 
 Parisian playhouses ! — he was able to mount what 
 plays he pleased and in what manner seemed best 
 to him. 
 
 xi
 
 ANTOINE AND 
 
 The nineteenth century was one of the most fer- 
 tile periods in the history of the French stage. 
 Beginning with the Romanticists — Victor Hugo, 
 Dumas pere, Alfred de Vigny — contempor- 
 aneous with the " Vaudevillistcs," dominated by 
 the commanding Scribe, there arose two of the 
 most original and revolutionary of modern drama- 
 tists : Alexandre Dumas fils and £mile Augier. 
 They were the originators of the social " thesis " 
 play. The individual in conflict with society and 
 conventions was what interested these moralists; 
 their influence was later to be observed in the 
 works of Ibsen who, it will be seen, in turn con- 
 tributed largely to the ideas of the younger writers 
 of Antoine's movement. Yet the general trend of 
 the nineteenth century was toward the presenta- 
 tion of life molded into a more or less conven- 
 tional form. The school of Scribe, in which Vic- 
 torien Sardou was the greatest scholar, has fur- 
 nished models of technic which have remained to 
 this day. 
 
 At rare intervals there arose a dramatist who 
 endeavored to get a little closer to life, delve a lit- 
 tle deeper into human motives and paint with a 
 defter hand the manners of his day. Balzac, try- 
 ing to carry into the realm of the theater some of 
 that marvelous power of observation which is the 
 chief glory of his masterpieces of fiction, wrote 
 one play which was a forerunner of the Antoine 
 movement: " Mercadet " is undeniably crude, yet 
 its very crudity lends an air of actuality to it which 
 is lacking even in some of the best plays of Dumas 
 fils and Augier. Another novelist, later in the 
 
 xii
 
 THE " FREE THEATER " 
 
 century, turned to the theater: Zola's " Therese 
 Raquin " is a tragedy of remorse, which was to 
 exercise considerable influence over the younger 
 generation. At a time when the stage was domin- 
 ated by conventions, Henry Becque had the good 
 fortune to have his two masterpieces, " Les Cor- 
 beaux " and " La Parisienne " (" The Vultures " 
 and "The Woman of Paris") produced; these 
 uncompromising and occasionally brutal pictures, 
 especially the former, constitute, in the words of 
 James Huneker, the Bible of the Naturalist 
 School of drama. With a profound contempt for 
 formula and accepted tradition, for every trick of 
 the trade, Becque wrote with no other idea than to 
 create living people, allowing them only so much 
 of a plot as should be necessary to demonstrate 
 their thoughts and consequent acts. For many 
 years he unsuccessfully submitted his manuscripts 
 to managers, but in the 'eighties his efforts brought 
 forth fruit. Their intrinsic, apart from historical 
 value, is clearly seen in the fact that both plays 
 continue to draw large audiences at the Comedie 
 Francaise and the Odeon. 
 
 Antoine is a bourgeois, a bourgeois of the solid, 
 forceful, intelligent type of Brieux. With an al- 
 most brutal and dogged air of strength, he gives 
 the impression of one who — endowed with a 
 vision — will move mountains anci override his 
 subordinates without appearing to notice the re- 
 sult of his assiduity. Seated in his office at the 
 Odeon one evening, I was at liberty to observe at 
 close quarters his personal appearance. A tall 
 man, with a marked stoop, his small blue eyes set 
 
 xiii
 
 ANTOINE AND 
 
 wide apart, his large checks resting upon a stiff 
 high collar, he spoke with gruff geniality, and 
 straight to the point. 
 
 " The ' Theatre Tibre,' men Dieu ! It seems 
 like ancient history! Well — here's all the ma- 
 terial you want. Tve kept the files — in there is 
 a room full of letters! I may publish them some 
 day, but, vous savez? it's the devil of a job! 
 Take what you like. 
 
 " You asked me in your letter whether the 
 choice of typical plays of the ' Theatre Libre ' you 
 had made is a good one? Yes, Curel and An- 
 cey and Jullien are representative, while Porto- 
 Riche may serve to show something of the variety 
 I attempted to make in our programs. Brieux, of 
 course Brieux is ' Theatre Libre,' but I understand 
 he is already known in your country." 
 
 And briefly, but courteously, Antoine outlined 
 his ^Vork, in somewhat the following manner. 
 The main facts I have gleaned from stray articles 
 and historical compilations, but I have tried to 
 enter into the spirit of the subject from Antoine's 
 point of view, and make what reservations I am 
 forced to when that spirit seems in direct opposi- 
 tion to the truth. 
 
 Andre Antoine was born in 1858 at Limoges. 
 He was sent to school at Paris at an early age, but 
 was forced to go to work in an office at the age of 
 thirteen. In 1877 ^^ became an employee of the 
 Gas Company at Paris, where he remained, with 
 the exception of the years spent in military service, 
 until his resignation, ten years later, when he 
 founded his little theater. Antoine was always 
 deeply interested in theatrical matters; as a child 
 
 xiv
 
 THE " FREE THEATER " 
 
 he attended classses in declamation and acting, 
 and once aspired to enter the august Conserva- 
 toire, but failed to pass the preliminary examina- 
 tion. His vigorous natural acting, though lack- 
 ing the polish necessary for entrance into the 
 school of which he wished to become a member, 
 never failed to impress the small audiences gath- 
 ered together to witness the occasional amateur 
 productions organized by the young enthusiast. 
 From his little " Gymnase de la parole " he passed 
 into the " Cercle Gaulois," another, slightly more 
 ambitious, dramatic club. This club produced 
 conventional plays, against which Antoine was 
 soon to revolt. " Of what use " he said, " is it to 
 give plays which can be seen anywhere?" 
 Krauss, the director of the " Cercle," was unwill- 
 ing to produce new works, so that Antoine was 
 forced to secede and found what he called the 
 " Theatre Libre " — or Free Theater. In the tiny 
 improvised playhouse in the Rue de I'Elysee des 
 Beaux-Arts, on the " Butte de Montmartre," on 
 the evening of March 30, 1887, took place the 
 first production of the new society. " Made- 
 moiselle Pomme " by Duranty and Paul Alexis; 
 " Un Prefet," by Arthur Byl; " Jacques Damour," 
 by Leon Hennique after Zola ; and " La Cocarde," 
 by Jules Vidal — two comedies and tv/o " dramas," 
 each In one act — these constituted the opening 
 spectacle. With the exception of " Jacques 
 Damour," the performance was a failure. All 
 the heartrending mishaps Incident to amateur per- 
 formances seemed destined to occur on that fatal 
 night. Had it not been for the profound impres- 
 sion created by the Hennlque-Zola sketch, it is 
 
 XV
 
 ANTOINE AND 
 
 doubtful whether the Free Theater would have 
 continued. 
 
 Antoine had spent all his salary, and something 
 besides, to mount the first performance on March 
 30, but he determined to tempt Providence once 
 more, and on the next convenient payday, just two 
 months later, he presented two more plays: " La 
 Nuit Bergamesque," a verse comedy by the poet 
 Emile Bergerat, and a one-act " serious " play by 
 Oscar Metenier, " En Famille." The first per- 
 formance had attracted little attention, but that 
 in May brought among others, Francisque Sarcey, 
 Emile Zola, and Alphonse Daudet, " Contempo- 
 rary dramatic art," says one enthusiastic historian, 
 " was born that evening." But if that is a slight 
 exaggeration, we may be assured that Antoine be- 
 lieved that it had, for he resigned from his posi- 
 tion with the Gas Company in order to devote his 
 entire time and energy to the direction of his thea- 
 ter. Sending out an appeal to many writers who 
 thought they had original, unconventional plays, 
 plays which no manager in Paris was willing to ac- 
 cept at the time, he received a great many manu- 
 scripts during the summer of 1887. That sum- 
 mer was occupied with many cares: a new theater 
 — the " Gaite Montparnasse " — had to be fitted 
 up, subscriptions to a series of performances taken, 
 and no end of minor matters attended to. It is 
 recorded that Antoine carried his subscription 
 blanks to the homes of those who might be inter- 
 ested in the project, in order to save postage. 
 
 By October, Antoine had secured only thirty-five 
 subscriptions. In order to escape the vigilance of 
 the censor, his performances were made private: 
 
 xvi
 
 THE " FREE THEATER " 
 
 individuals voluntarily subscribed and were " in- 
 vited " to the theater. On October 12 was the 
 first regular subscription performance of the Free 
 Theater. " Soeur Philomene," a naturalistic play 
 based upon the novel by the brothers de Goncourt, 
 and " L'Evasion," a play in one act by Villiers de 
 risle Adam, made up that program. A month 
 later Antoine introduced to his audience one of the 
 typical Free Theater plays, " Esther Brandes," by 
 Leon Hennique. On December 23, the " Genre 
 Theatre Libre " became permanently fixed in Jean 
 Jullien's " La Serenade." 
 
 By this time the Theater began to attract wide- 
 spread attention, and before long it became a veri- 
 table storm-center of literary schools and sects. 
 The progressives and reactionaries took sides ag- 
 gressively, and battles waged. The result was a 
 happy one for Antoine and his theater. He 
 thrived on abuse and adverse criticism. Sarcey, 
 the exponent of the " well-made " play and despot 
 of the theatrical world, shrieked aloud that the 
 new pieces were simply not plays — by which he 
 meant that they were not plays of the Scribe-Sar- 
 dou school. Which they were not. 
 
 Not content with introducing French plays 
 alone, Antoine mounted Tolstoy's " The Power of 
 Darkness" (February 10, 1888). This aroused 
 a good deal of excitement.^ The production of 
 
 1 Before this play was produced, Antoine received a number 
 of letters from dramatists and critics. Among these were pro- 
 tests from three masters of the stage of the day. Emile Augier 
 says: "It is less a play than a novel in dialogue, the length of 
 which would render it insupportable on our French stage." 
 Dumas fils says: "From the point of view of our French stage, 
 I do not think Tolstoy's play possible. It is too pessimistic; 
 
 xvii
 
 ANTOINE AND 
 
 this play was of Incalculable benefit to the French 
 stage : it demonstrated first that a so-called " un- 
 dramatic " play could be made interesting and ef- 
 fective on the stage, and it paved the way for the 
 production of the masterpieces of foreign con- 
 temporary drama in a country which is to this day 
 only too ready to ignore foreign works on the 
 ground that France still leads the world in the 
 realm of the theater. 
 
 Antoine's productions of Tolstoy, Ibsen, Strind- 
 bcrg, and Bjornson, have done much for the edu- 
 cation of the modern French critic and theater- 
 goer, coming at a time when the country was so 
 far behind contemporary European dramatic liter- 
 ature. 
 
 The first season's significant contributions were 
 " La Serenade," of which further mention will be 
 made later, and " The Power of Darkness." Yet 
 a word should be said of Gustave Guiches and 
 Henry Lavedan, whose " quarts d'heure," — light 
 fragmentary scenes, satirical commentaries on so- 
 ciety — opened the way for these two dramatists, 
 and constituted a veritable theatrical debut. 
 Lavedan, later in " Le Nouveau jeu " and " Le 
 Prince d'Aurec " did little more than enlarge upon 
 his scenes and construct some sort of plot upon 
 which they might be strung. Gustave Guiches, 
 one of the most powerful of the less original 
 dramatic writers of to-day, if he did not follow in 
 the footsteps of his early collaborator, was at least 
 
 there is not a single sympathetic character . . ." Sardou says: 
 " It is cruelly beautiful atui essentially true, but it is written to 
 be read and not seen. In my opinion it is not playable. F-very- 
 thing that can be done to make it possible for the stage will re- 
 sult only in spoiling it. . . ." 
 
 xviii
 
 THE " FREE THEATER " 
 
 encouraged to write plays, which have been seen 
 on the best stages in Paris. 
 
 The end of the first subscription year found An- 
 toine poor in pocket, but correspondingly rich in 
 experience; the seven productions — in which sev- 
 enteen plays figured — had exhausted his small 
 capital, and again the indefatigable producer faced 
 a financial problem. Yet before the question be- 
 came very serious he found that the number of 
 subscribers had become so great that he had to find 
 a larger theater in order to accommodate them. 
 He then engaged the " Theatre des Menus- 
 Plalsirs," remodeled it, and started his second sea- 
 son. By this time the little band of amateurs, 
 under the dictatorial head of Antoine, had come to 
 be recognized as a highly efficient company of 
 original actors. The plays, owing to their sub- 
 ject-matter and unconventional treatment of new 
 themes, had attracted so much attention that even 
 old and hardened theater-goers flocked to the 
 Menus-Plaisirs, if only to scoff. 
 
 Late in the year 1888 Georges de Porto-Riche, 
 known previously to that time as the author of a 
 few slight volumes of poems and four or five not 
 very successful poetic dramas, saw his " Chance de 
 FranQoise " produced by the Free Theater. The 
 immediate success of this delicate little comedy 
 doubtless encouraged its author to write his great- 
 est play, " Amoureuse," which saw the stage not 
 long after. Another important play of the second 
 season was Leon Hennique's noble historical trag- 
 edy, " La Mort du Due d'Enghien." Neither 
 of these plays was what is known as the " genre 
 
 xix
 
 ANTOINE AND 
 
 Theatre Libre " — as Jullien's " La Serenade " 
 was — nor was Catulle Mendes' " La Reine Fiam- 
 mette," which was in verse. These plays, to- 
 gether with the Goncourts' " La Patrie en 
 danger," serve further to iUustrate that Antoine 
 was not trying to destroy the old so much as to 
 make way for the new, and at the same time, ac- 
 cept so much of the old as was sincere and beauti- 
 ful. However, Zola, with " Madeleine " con- 
 tinued the tradition of the Naturalists. Georges 
 Ancey, the author of " La Dupe," was trying his 
 wings with a three-act comedy, " Les Insepar- 
 ables." 
 
 The seasons from 1888 to 1893 inclusive 
 marked the period of greatest activity and con- 
 tributed the largest number of good plays of the 
 entire Antoine movement. About ninety plays 
 were produced, most of them new French works, 
 although Hauptmann, Ibsen, Turgenev, Bjornson, 
 Strindberg, and Tolstoy were represented by some 
 of their best works. 
 
 The season of 1889-90 was one of the most 
 fruitful and historically important of the series: 
 Ibsen's " Ghosts," Bricux's " Menages d'artistes," 
 and Jean Aicard's " Le Pere Lebonnard " were all 
 seen for the first time in France. Brieux cer- 
 tainly owes a great deal to Antoine. When he was 
 editing a small newspaper in Rouen he sent the 
 manuscript of his first play of distinct merit to the 
 new theater. Antoine accepted and played 
 " Menages d'artistes " and encouraged the young 
 author to send further plays. The next was 
 " Blanchette," one of the finest achievements of its 
 gifted and vigorous author. It is doubtful 
 
 XX
 
 THE " FREE THEATER " 
 
 whether Brieux would have continued to write his 
 second play had it not been for Antoine's encour- 
 agement. In his dedication of " Blanchette " 
 Brieux says: "My Dear Friend, For ten years 
 I peddled my plays to every manager in Paris; 
 more often than not, they were not even read. 
 Thanks to you, thanks to the ' Theatre Libre,' I 
 am at last able to learn my business as a dramatist, 
 and now here Is the second of my plays which you 
 have produced. I wish to thank you In public." 
 
 Jean Aicard, poet of the South, though not pri- 
 marily a dramatist, has written at least one play of 
 superlative merit: " Le Pere Lebonnard " has 
 been seen, since it was first produced by Antolne, In 
 nearly every theatrical center of the world, and still 
 remains In the repertory of the Comedle Francaise 
 and In that of the great Italian actor, Ermete 
 Novelh. 
 
 Pierre Wolff, one of the best-known dramatists 
 of to-day, was another whose plays were first ac- 
 cepted and produced at the Free Theater. In 
 France, " Le Secret de Polichinelle " and " Le 
 Ruisseau " are considered among the best and most 
 charming works of the day. In the United States 
 Madame Nazlmova played In M. Wolff's recent 
 comedy, " Les Marionettes." 
 
 Georges Courteline, Paul GInisty, Francois de 
 Curel, Albert Guinon, and Romain Coolus, un- 
 known In the early 'nineties, all debutants at the 
 Free Theater, have since achieved distinct success. 
 Of these, Curel is by all odds the most significant. 
 There Is little doubt that such writers as Courteline 
 and Coolus, and perhaps Guinon and GInisty, 
 would have attained the rank of " successful " 
 
 xxi
 
 ANTOINE AND 
 
 dramatists, but had it not been for the foresight 
 and determined energy of Antoine, Curel would 
 probably have never had a hearing. Antoine liter- 
 ally forced a hearing for the earlier works of this 
 writer. 
 
 The pioneer work of the Free Theater was soon 
 accomplished: in 1887 '^ small revolutionary pro- 
 test led by a comparatively obscure amateur, by 
 1894, it had begun to decline. So well had An- 
 toine combatted the conventions he had set him- 
 self to destroy, that seven years after the attack his 
 enemies had for the most part become friends or at 
 least distant admirers and sympathizers, or else 
 imitators. Many reasons have been suggested to 
 account for the decadence of the Theater: com- 
 mercialism, tours, lack of good actors for want of 
 funds, poor choice of plays — but the fact is that 
 the public had become accustomed to the novelty 
 of the ideas set forth by the new movement: every 
 one became in a sense revolutionary, so that there 
 was nothing to revolt against. 
 
 The commercial theaters, seeing that the plays 
 of the Free Theater dramatists were valuable, at 
 once received Brieux, Wolff, Curel, Porto-Riche, 
 and Courteline, with open arms. Fhe actors, 
 trained by Antoine, could not be kept together 
 on the small salaries which were the natural re- 
 sult of the very limited number of productions — 
 two only of each new play. They went forth and 
 without difficulty obtained lucrative positions in 
 many of the best theaters in Paris. 
 
 Realizing that his work was over, Antoine re- 
 signed in 1896, lca^'ing his theater — re-named 
 the " Theatre Antoine " — in the hands of Laro- 
 
 xxii
 
 THE " FREE THEATER " 
 
 chelle, and became an actor. But in 1906 he ac- 
 cepted the directorship of the Odeon. For over 
 seven years he struggled against insufficient subsi- 
 dies, and now has to his credit a large number of 
 new productions, besides some of the worthiest of 
 classical revivals as director of this government 
 theater. As this book is about to go to press, the 
 news comes from Paris that Antoine, worn out 
 with his gigantic task and ruined financially, has re- 
 signed.^ 
 
 Among the numerous followers of Antoine, 
 Lugne-Poe and his " Theatre de TOeuvre " should 
 first be mentioned. This society is one of the 
 most important in the world. For over twenty 
 years the indefatigable " Lugne " has made it a 
 point to introduce new and original French plays as 
 well as foreign works. These he has produced in 
 Paris for short runs, but his greatest contribu- 
 tion to the art of the theater has been his long 
 and extended tours: in Africa, England, South 
 America, Russia, Belgium, Germany, Servia — 
 
 2 In a letter to the Figaro, dated April 8, 1914, he writes to 
 the Minister of Public Instruction and Fine Arts: " M. le 
 Ministre: I regret that I have to ask you to accept my resig- 
 nation. The various solutions we discussed during the meet- 
 ing yesterday have not by this morning come to pass. It was 
 unavoidable that I should be unable to cope with these over- 
 whelming financial obligations. At this juncture I see no other 
 course open to me but the one I am pursuing. I leave the 
 Odeon with many regrets in spite of the seven abominable years 
 I have spent there. In spite of your kind assistance during these 
 past few days the production of ' Psyche ' [Moliere's] last night 
 cost me much more than the figure of the receipts. I must 
 therefore courageously face the prospect of giving up my dream 
 of a prosperous art-theater, and apply myself energetically to 
 solving a terrible problem wherein I shall lose my honor as a 
 business man and the decoration so kindly given me by the lib- 
 erality of the Government. Yours, etc., Andre Antoine." 
 
 xxiii
 
 ANTOINE AND 
 
 nearly every country except the United States. 
 Lugne-Poe it was who first introduced Maeterlinck, 
 to the French, and the world at large; he has like- 
 wise mounted hundreds of plays, among them the 
 most typical works of the German, Russian, and 
 Scandinavian schools. Of late, his special 
 matinees in Paris have afforded the somewhat blase 
 audiences of that city the opportunity of becoming 
 acquainted with Synge. The " Playboy of the 
 Western World," given in the " Theatre Antoine " 
 by the " Theatre de I'Oeuvre " in December 19 13, 
 served at least to open the eyes of the French to the 
 fact that there was a drama in Ireland, even if the 
 production left much to be desired. Lugne-Poe 
 determined to show his people that France was 
 not the only country in the world which was im- 
 portant theatrically, has continued fearlessly and 
 intelligently to force his compatriots to recognize 
 the value of the foreigners. 
 
 A word may be said at this point of a few other 
 similar ventures. The first, the " Cercle des 
 l^scholiers," founded at the same time as the Free 
 Theater, is a private association, founded by and 
 now under the leadership of M. Georges Bour- 
 don — of the " Figaro " — to whom I am indebted 
 for a good deal of information on his own theater 
 as well as on the Antoine venture. The " Theatre 
 d'Art," Carre's " Matinees du jeudi," Jacques 
 Rouche's " Theatre des Arts," and Jacques 
 Copeau's " Theatre du Vieux-colombier," foumled 
 about a year ago, may all be traced to the inlluence 
 of the Free Theater. 
 
 XXIV
 
 THE " FREE THEATER " 
 
 THE THEORY OF THE FREE THEATER 
 
 Antoine founded his Free Theater with the idea 
 of inducing new and original dramatists to present 
 works which the prejudice of managers and public 
 otherwise kept from the stage. The French stage 
 of the day was so conventional that only plays 
 written according to accepted standards would at- 
 tract audiences. At least, this is what the man- 
 agers thought — and the result was the same. 
 Together with conventional plays went conven- 
 tional acting and conventional stage-setting. 
 
 Antoine felt that all this was wrong, and he set 
 it right. Adolphe Thalasso briefly sums up the 
 " esthetique " of the new theater in his " Le Thea- 
 tre Libre " (Mercure de France, 1909) : " Plays 
 in which life supplies movement begin to take the 
 place of those in which movement supplied life. 
 Complicated plots give way to simple stories; the 
 play of intrigue is offset by the study of reality; 
 characters become natural, classic; the tragic and 
 comic are no longer mingled; the genres have be- 
 come distinct. Interminable, vagarious plays give 
 way to short, concise, rapid ones. The tirade dis- 
 appears; bombast and bathos are relegated to the 
 background ... no more ' raisonneurs ' . . . 
 facts alone explain the philosophy of the piece. 
 The eternally sympathetic and benevolent charac- 
 ter is likewise driven out. The authors go to the 
 very sources of life for the morality of their plays. 
 So much the worse for morality if their ' moral ' 
 is immoral! Such Is life — and the theater 
 should be not an amusement, but an Image of life. 
 Technical gymnastics are thrown aside : the hu- 
 
 XXV
 
 ANTOINE AND 
 
 man heart needs more than tricks of the trade in 
 order to be explained. . . . The theater of to-day 
 must be a revolt against that of yesterday. As in 
 all revolutions, there is a good deal of exaggera- 
 tion, for the new methods are driven home with 
 hammering blows. To attain the desired end, the 
 revolutionists overstep the limit, and in striking 
 down the guilty, the innocent are not spared." 
 
 This at least is a fairly accurate statement of 
 the theory of the Free Theater, but the theory, it 
 goes without saying, was not always lived up to. 
 Scribe and Sardou were too deeply imbedded in 
 the consciousness of the French nation to allow a 
 few reformers to escape their influence. The long 
 speeches, tirades, asides, and soliloquies which 
 the innovators scorned — in theory — are often to 
 be found in the earlier plays of JuUien, Curel, 
 Ancey, and Brieux. Yet those finer qualities — a 
 love of truth in the analysis of character, a desire 
 to get nearer to the life and motives of the average 
 human being which were encouraged by Antoine, 
 — were, in spite of occasional slips and back-slid- 
 ings, early manifested, and to this day have borne 
 rich fruit. 
 
 THE ACTING 
 
 The Free Theater evolved a style of acting all 
 its own. That style may be called Naturalistic. 
 Its greatest contribution was largely a negative 
 one. It constituted a protest against the Con- 
 servatoire, where the art of acting was handed 
 down by tradition from one famous actor to the 
 next. There was one way of acting Harpagon, 
 or Tartufe, or Phedre, and only one way; the 
 
 xxvi
 
 THE " FREE THEATER " 
 
 students at the Conservatoire received their in- 
 struction from pupils of Samson or Got or Talma, 
 who in turn had received them from the great 
 actors of their generation. The process tended 
 to eliminate originality, although it produced an 
 average of finished work which in the French 
 classics is at least admissible. But with the ad- 
 vent of a new school of drama, a new school of 
 acting was indispensable. 
 
 When Antoine dared to turn his back to the 
 audience, the audience jeered. To-day there is 
 scarcely an actor in Paris who has not learned from 
 Antoine. Antoine knew what he was about, and 
 so well did he insinuate his new ideas into the com- 
 pany, that before long his actors left him and en- 
 tered the large commercial theaters on the boule- 
 vards. Nearly every theater in Paris, including 
 the Comedie Francaise and the Odeon, either has 
 at present or has had within the past iew years, 
 at least one former Free Theater actor in its staff 
 of players. 
 
 THE DRAMATISTS 
 
 The mere enumeration of dramatic writers 
 whose first works (or first save one) were heard 
 at the Free Theater would fill four pages. Of 
 those dramatists who are to-day either in the 
 front rank of accepted playwrights may be men- 
 tioned: Brieux, Curel, Coolus, Courteline, Mar- 
 cel Prevost, Lucien Descaves, Lavedan, Porto- 
 Riche, Gustave Guiches, Andre Picard, Pierre 
 Wolff, Emile Fabre, Paul Ginisty, Armand Eph- 
 raim, and Jean Aicard. Among those who are no 
 longer writing, but who largely contributed to the 
 xxvii
 
 ANTOINE AND 
 
 founding of the movement and standardizing of 
 the new methods, are: Jean JuUien, Georges 
 Ancey, Paul Alexis, Emile Zola, Gaston Salandri, 
 Henry Ceard, Leon Hennique, the Goncourts, and 
 Villiers de I'lsle Adam. 
 
 Br'icux. — Eugene Brieux (born 1858 at Paris) 
 is a true son of the Free Theater. His first im- 
 portant play, " Menages d'Artistes " was fairly 
 successful, and the encouragement received from 
 this first production was largely instrumental in 
 starting his theatrical career. " Blanchette " 
 (1892) •"' Avas one of the greatest successes of the 
 day, and Is now frequently revived at the Comedie 
 Francaise and in the provinces. Brieux's vigor- 
 ous and straightforward manner of attacking the 
 social abuses of his time was in all likelihood fos- 
 tered by the freedom from restraint which was 
 the chief glory of the Free Theater. That 
 " Damaged Goods " and " The Red Robe " and 
 " The Three Daughters of M. Dupont " have 
 been accepted by the theater-going publics of the 
 most Important nations of the world is to some ex- 
 tent due to Antolne. 
 
 Franqois de Curel. — Viscount Franqols de Curel 
 (born 1854 at Metz) Is without doubt the most 
 original and clear-minded dramatist of recent 
 times. His comparatively few plays deal almost 
 exclusively with abnormal human characteristics; 
 were they not treated from the psychological view- 
 point and written in a literary though thoroughly 
 dramatic style they would be termed melodramas. 
 " L'Envers d'une Sainte," his first play, is an 
 
 3 " Blanchette " would have been included in the present vol- 
 ume had it not already appeared in the Fall of 1913: 
 "Blanchette and the Escape" (Luce). 
 
 xxviii
 
 THE " FREE THEATER " 
 
 extraordinary and noble study of a woman's con- 
 science; it is a distinct contribution to criminal psy- 
 chology. " Le Repas du Lion " is another study 
 in the grac^ual metamorphosis of a conscience. 
 His latest play (winter 19 14) " La Danse devant 
 le JMiroir " is one of the most daring and searching 
 analyses of the mind and heart of a young girl in 
 the realm of French drama; beside it, Henri Ba- 
 taille's " La Vierge folle " is pale and unconvinc- 
 ing. A slow worker, holding himself aloof from 
 society, from the world of the practical theater, 
 caring little for the conventions of the stage, Curel 
 is not a popular idol. He is respected by the 
 many, warmly appreciated by the few. 
 
 " Les Fossiles " was presented in its original 
 form at the Free Theater in 1892. The play 
 was badly cast so that the performance was a fail- 
 ure, but in 1900, after some revision, it was given 
 a fair hearing at the Comedie Fran^aise, and 
 achieved considerable success. " Les Fossiles " 
 comes the nearest of any of its author's plays to 
 the popular conception of what a play should be. 
 There is more action and less abstract psychology 
 in it than in any other Curel work, yet the basic 
 idea is never for a moment sacrificed for theatrical 
 effects. Curel, an aristocrat himself, is enough 
 of an artist to adopt a transcendental point of view 
 and comment upon the nobility of the time. " Les 
 Fossiles " is the story of a noble family which 
 gives up life, happiness and even individual honor 
 in order to save the family name. The aspira- 
 tions, struggles, above all, that undying, deep- 
 rooted desire to live in the future are pictured in 
 this play with unforgettable vividness. Besides be- 
 
 xxix
 
 ANTOINE AND 
 
 ing a comment on and a picture of life, the play 
 contains an ideal: Robert de Chantemelle in his 
 will and in his life, attempts to direct the energies 
 of his family from becoming fossilized to the 
 nobler realization of their duties to society and the 
 State. If the play contains a lesson at all it is 
 that. 
 
 Jeau Jullieu. — Jean J'-iHien (born at Lyon, 
 1 854) fixed the style of the Free Theater play once 
 for all in " La Serenade." His plays, and more 
 especially his theories "* — that " a play is a slice of 
 life presented artistically on the stage " is his best- 
 known — became at once a sort of confession of 
 faith for the Theater. " La Serenade " (1887) 
 stands for the younger generation, which stood for 
 the presentation in all its ugliness of the " other 
 side " of life. Its brutality, its exaggeration, its 
 sordidness, are not so much signs of a positive 
 philosophy of life, as a savage revolt against the 
 lay-figures of the conventional drama of the nine- 
 teenth century; Mme. Cottin would surely not have 
 been painted so black were the Little Nell heroines 
 of Augier and Scribe and Sardou not quite so 
 dazzlingly virginal. 
 
 Jullien, in this play as well as in his other im- 
 portant play, " Le Maitre," was too conscientious, 
 too unbending and uncompromising, to meet the 
 popular demand in theatrical goods, so that with 
 the close of the Free Theater his activity prac- 
 tically ceased. 
 
 Georges Ancey. — Georges Ancey (born i860 
 at Paris) like Jullien, was too independent to se- 
 cure and hold public favor. ^ et his power of ob- 
 
 ■* See " Le Theatre vi\ ant " (Charpentier, Paris, 1892). 
 XXX
 
 THE " FREE THEATER " 
 
 servation, his mordant satire, his trenchant and oc- 
 casionally overdrawn pictures of middle-class 
 family life, formed one of the greatest contri- 
 butions to the movement. " Les Inseparables " 
 (1889) and "L'Ecole des Veufs " (1889) are 
 splendid examples of Ancey's comic power, while 
 " La Dupe " ( i 89 1 ) presents him in the light of a 
 commentator on the darker side of human nature. 
 The play suffers from exaggeration of character 
 which at times seems all but puerile, but the true 
 tragedy of the situation, the inherent power and 
 irony of the story, the numerous striking scenes, 
 more than counterbalance the somewhat amateur- 
 ish shortcomings. 
 
 Georges de Porto-Riche. — Georges de Porto- 
 Riche (born at Bordeaux, 1849) while he did not 
 greatly aid the new movement, received help and 
 inspiration from it. His first success, " La Chance 
 de Franqoise " (1888) must surely have paved the 
 way for his masterpiece, " Amoureuse " (1891), 
 a play which has exercised as great an influence 
 upon the contemporary French drama as any other 
 of the late nineteenth century. Henry Bataille 
 and Maurice Donnay owe much to Porto-Riche. 
 
 Antoine's acceptance of " La Chance de Fran- 
 Qolse " was but another indication of his breadth of 
 view. He did not insist on sordid middle-class 
 dramas : his idea was to produce what seemed good 
 and original. Porto-Riche had a charming char- 
 acter study, Antoine liked it, and produced it. 
 His good judgment has by half a dozen revivals 
 at the best-known theaters of the capital been 
 amply justified. 
 
 XXXI
 
 ANTOINE AND 
 
 THE INFLUENCE OF THE FREE THEATER 
 
 The influence of Antoine's ideas on managers 
 was great and wide-spread. These were led to 
 inquire into the validity of the traditions they had 
 for so long blindly accepted, and cast aside what 
 was superfluous, A new generation of actors 
 arose which though it owed a good deal to its own 
 intelligence and initiative was yet decidedly in- 
 fluenced by Antoine. The vigorous acting of 
 Lucien Guitry, the exquisite and delicate art of 
 Madame Simone — to mention no others — seem 
 but the natural development from the little group 
 of amateurs which gathered together in 1887 in 
 the Rue de I'Elysee des Beaux-Arts. 
 
 " I believe," says Curel, " that the greatest serv- 
 ice rendered by the Free Theater was that of liber- 
 ating the modern P rench stage of all schools and 
 literary coteries. A day will come when greater 
 justice will be done our dramatic era, when the 
 full extent of its originality and independence will 
 be fully realized. rhe originality and independ- 
 ence of which I speak arc due for the most part to 
 the FVee Theater." 
 
 If the Free Theater has exercised the greatest 
 influence over the modern French stage, which it 
 has, we must not be too hasty to conclude that the 
 entire modern movement was due to Antoine. It 
 so happened that he came at the right time, that 
 the " dramatic crisis " would sooner or later have 
 precipitated some sort of revolution. Antoine 
 helped crystallize the ideas that were in the air. 
 He was far from a perfect manager, nor was his 
 judgment unerring. He was human enough, at 
 
 xxxii
 
 THE " FREE THEATER " 
 
 one time, to desire to leave the theater he had 
 founded, and become a salaried actor; at another, 
 he nearly ruined his theater by selecting plays 
 which were accommodated to the actors with little 
 reference to the merit of the piece. His produc- 
 tions at the Odeon (granted even that he was work- 
 ing at a terrible disadvantage) were often slip- 
 shod, unworthy even of those " commercial " thea- 
 ters he had so often ridiculed and whose conven- 
 tional methods he had spent the greater part of his 
 life in destroying. If he has done valuable work, 
 he has done harm; if he freed the stage from one 
 set of conventions he has gone a long way to im- 
 pose another set, which may in time be as injurious 
 as those he destroyed. Yet that is only what might 
 have been expected of a man who was — permit 
 the platitude — no more than human. Antoine's 
 work belonged to a particular period, and that 
 period was the turning-point in the history of the 
 modern French theater. While he was forced to 
 fight his way his work was sincere and for the 
 most part beneficial. If to-day other nations — 
 like Germany and Russia — have gone beyond 
 him, and if certain managers in his own land have 
 taken what was best from his work, he is not to 
 be blamed. For about ten years he was the best 
 and most influential producer in Europe, and a 
 revolutionary to whom the highest tribute should 
 be paid. 
 
 Antoine was the prophet of the transition: 
 Naturalism In fiction was bound to bring forth 
 Naturalism in the theater. Naturalism was a 
 passing phase: we have seen Its rise and fall. If 
 Antoine helped Naturalism in the theater to rise 
 xxxlli
 
 THE " FREE THEATER " 
 
 and fall, he has honestly done his share — a gen- 
 erous share — in the evolution of an art which is 
 advancing, although we are as yet unable to de- 
 termine toward just what end. 
 
 To MM. Brieux, Curel, and Antoine I owe my 
 deepest gratitude for a great deal of valuable in- 
 formation on the movement in which they played 
 so important a part. In numerous conversations 
 these gentlemen have been unsparing in time and 
 trouble, and afforded me an insight into their 
 work which I could not otherwise have enjoyed. 
 
 Barrett H. Clark. 
 
 XXXIV
 
 ALPHABETICAL LIST OF PLAYS PRO- 
 DUCED AT THE FREE THEATER 
 YEARS 1887-1896, INCLUSIVE ' 
 
 A bas le progres. Edmond de Goncourt. 
 L'Abbe Pierre. Marcel Prevost, 
 L'Affranchie. Maurice Biollay. 
 Ahasuere. Hermann Heijermans. 
 L'Amant de sa femme. Aurelien SchoU. 
 L'Amant du Christ. Rodolphe Darzens. 
 Amants eternels. Andre Corneau et H. Ger- 
 
 bault. 
 L'Ame Invisible. Claude Berton. 
 L'Ancien. Leon Cladel. 
 L' Argent. Emile Fabre. 
 L'Assomptlon de Hannele Mattern. Gerhart 
 
 Hauptmann. 
 Au temps de la Ballade. Georges Bols. 
 Le Balser. Theodore de BanvIUe. 
 La Belle au bols rev^ant. Fernand Mazade. 
 La Belle Operation. Julien Sermet. 
 Belle Petite. Andre Corneau. 
 Blanchette. Brieux. 
 Boubouroche. Georges Courteline. 
 Les Bouchers. I'ernand Icres. 
 Le Canard Sauvage. Ibsen. 
 La Casserole. Oscar Metenier. 
 La Chance de Franqoise. Georges de Porto- 
 
 Riche. 
 
 1 From " Le Theatre Libre" by Adolphe Thalasso (Mercure 
 de France, 1909). 
 
 XXXV
 
 LIST OF PLAYS 
 
 Les Chapons. Lucien Descavcs et Georges 
 Darien. 
 
 La Chevalerie Rustique. Giovanni Verga. 
 
 La Cocarde. Jules Vidal. 
 
 Le Coeur revelateur. Ernest Laumann. 
 
 Coeurs simples. Sutter-Laumann. 
 
 Le Comte Witold. Stanislas Rzewuski. 
 
 Conte de Noel. Auguste Linert. 
 
 Le Cor fleuri. Mikhael Ephraim. 
 
 Le Cuivre. Paul Adam et Andre Picard. 
 
 Dans le Guignol. Jean Aicard. 
 
 Dans le Reve. Louis Mullem. 
 
 Deux Tourtereaux. Paul Ginist)'^ et Jules 
 Guerin. 
 
 Le Devoir. Louis Bruyerre. 
 
 Dialogue inconnu. Alfred de VIgny. 
 
 La Dupe. Georges Ancey. 
 
 L'Echeance. Jean Jullien. 
 
 L'Ecole des Veufs. Georges Ancey. 
 
 Elen. Villiers de I'lsle Adam. 
 
 En Detresse. Henry Fevre. 
 
 En Famille. Oscar Metenler. 
 
 En I'attendant. Leon Roux 
 
 L'Envers d'une Sainte. Francois de Curel. 
 
 Esther Brandcs. Leon Hennique, 
 
 L'Etoile Rouge. Henry Fevre. 
 
 L'Evasion. Villiers de I'lsle Adam. 
 
 La Femme de Tabarin. Catulle Mendes. 
 
 Les Fenetres. Jules Perrin et Claude Cou- 
 turier. 
 
 La Fille d'Artaban. Alfred Mortier. 
 
 La Fille Elisa. Jean Ajalbert. 
 
 La Fin de Lucie Pellegrin. Paul Alexis. 
 
 La Fin du vieux temps. Paul Anthelm. 
 xxxvi
 
 LIST OF PLAYS 
 
 Les Fosslles, Frangois de Curel. 
 
 Les Fourches caudines. Maurice Le Corbelller. 
 
 Les Freres Zemganno. Paul Alexis et Oscar 
 
 Metenler. 
 La Fumee puis la flamme. Joseph Caragull. 
 Grand-papa. Claude Berton. 
 La Grappin, Gaston Salandri. 
 L'Honneur. Henry Fevre. 
 Inceste d'ames. Jean Laurenty et Fernand 
 
 Hauser. 
 L'Inquietude. Jules Perrin et Claude Cour- 
 
 turier. 
 Les Inseparables. Georges Ancey. 
 Jacques Bouchard. Pierre Wolff. 
 Jacques Damour. Leon Hennique. 
 Jeune Premier. Paul Ginisty. 
 Leurs lilies. Pierre Wolff. 
 Lidoire. Georges Courteline. 
 Madeleine. Emile Zola. 
 Mademoiselle Fifi. Oscar Metenier. 
 Mademoiselle Julie. August Strindberg. 
 Mademoiselle Pomme. Paul Alexis et Dur- 
 
 anty. 
 Le Maitre. Jean Jullien. 
 Mariage d'argent. Eugene Bourgeois. 
 Les Maris de leurs lilies. Pierre Wolff. 
 Matapan. Emile Moreau. 
 Melie. Georges Docquois. 
 Le Menage Bresile. Romain Coolus. 
 Menages d'artistes. Brieux. 
 La Meule. Georges Lecomte. 
 Mirages. Georges Lecomte. 
 Le Missionairc. Marcel Luguet. 
 Monsieur Bute. Maurice BioUay. 
 xxxvii
 
 LIST OF PLAYS 
 
 Monsieur Lamblin. Georges Ancey. 
 
 La Mort du Due d'Enghien. Leon Hennique. 
 
 Myrane. Emile Bergerat. 
 
 La Nebuleuse. Louis Dumur. 
 
 Nell Horn. J. H. et J. Rosny. 
 
 La Nuit Bergamesque. Emile Bergerat. 
 
 Le Pain d'autrui. Armand Ephraim et Willy 
 
 Schultz. 
 Le Pain du Peche. Paul Arene. 
 La Patrie en danger. Edmond et Jules de 
 
 Goncourt. 
 La Peche. Henry Ceard. 
 Peche d'amour. Michel Carre et Georges 
 
 Loiseau. 
 La Pelote. Paul Bonnetain et Lucien Des- 
 
 caves. 
 Le Pendu. Eugene Bourgeois. 
 Le Pere Goriot. M. Tabarant. 
 Le Pere Lebonnard. Jean Aicard. 
 Pierrot assassin de sa femme. Paul Mar- 
 
 gueritte. 
 Le Poete et le Financier. Maurice Vaucaire. 
 La Prose. Gaston Salandri. 
 La Puissance des Tenebres. Tolstoi. 
 Les Quarts-d'heure. Gustave Guiches et 
 
 Henry Lavedan. 
 La Rancon. Gaston Salandri. 
 La Reine Fiammette. Catulle Mendes. 
 Les Resignes. Henry Ceard. 
 Les Revenants. Ibsen. 
 Rolande, Louis de Gramont. 
 La Serenade. Jean Jullien. 
 Seul. Albert Guinon. 
 Si c'etait . . . Paul Lheureux, 
 xxxviii
 
 LIST OF PLAYS 
 
 Simone. Louis de Gramont. 
 
 Soeur Philomene. Arthur Byl et Jules Vldal. 
 
 Soldat et mineur. Jean Malafayde. 
 
 Son petit coeur. Louis MarsoUau. 
 
 La Tante Leontine. Maurice Boniface et 
 
 Edouard Bodin. 
 Les Tisserands. Gerhart Hauptmann. 
 Tout pour I'honneur. Henry Ceard. 
 Un beau soir. Maurice Vaucaire. 
 Une Faillite. Bjornstjerne Bjornson. 
 Une Journee parlementaire. Maurice Barres. 
 Une nouvelle ecole. Louis Mullem. 
 Un prefet. Arthur Byl. 
 Valet de Coeur, Maurice Vaucaire. 
 
 xxxix
 
 REFERENCES 
 
 Among the great mass of contemporary criti- 
 cism, collected from periodicals, may be men- 
 tioned: Sarcey, Quarante ans de Theatre; Jules 
 Lemaitre, Impressions de Theatre; Emile Kaguet, 
 Propos de Theatre; and Edmond Stoullig, Les 
 Annates du Theatre et de la Musiqne. 
 
 Books and essays on the Free Theater: Adolphe 
 Thalasso, " Le Theatre Libre" (Mercure de 
 France) ; Augustin Filon, " De Dumas a Ros- 
 tand " (Colin); Jean Jullien, " Le Theatre 
 Vivant " (Charpentier) ; " Le Theatre Libre" 
 (privately printed brochure, Mai 1890). 
 
 Individual biographies of Brieux, Curel, Porto- 
 Riche, Courteline, Lucien Descaves, and Jean 
 Aicard, in the Celebrites d'/liijourd'hiii series 
 (Sansot) . 
 
 Further bibliographical and biographical ma- 
 terial in: George Moore, "Impressions and 
 Opinions" (Brentano) ; Barrett H. Clark, The 
 Continental Drama of To-day (Holt). Maga- 
 zines: The Drama, Nos. 2 and 11. 
 
 xl
 
 The Fossils 
 
 {Les Fossiles) 
 
 A Play in Four Acts 
 
 By 
 FRANCOIS DE CUREL 
 
 AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION BY 
 
 BARRETT H. CLARK 
 
 Produced for the first time in its original form, 
 at Paris in tlie Theatre Libre, November 2g, 
 1892; revived, in its present form, by the company 
 of the Theatre Frangais, in the Odeon Theater, 
 May 21, 1900.
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED: 
 
 The Duke of Chantemelle 
 
 Robert de Chantemelle 
 
 Nicolas 
 
 A Farmer 
 
 A Country Neighbor 
 
 A Servant 
 
 The Duchess de Chantemelle 
 
 Claire de Chantemelle 
 
 Helene Vatrin 
 
 A Nun 
 
 CASTS 
 
 The Duke de Chante- 
 melle 
 
 Robert de Chante- 
 melle 
 
 i8g2 
 MM. Antoine 
 
 Camis 
 
 Nicolas 
 
 ArquilHere 
 Pens-Aries 
 
 A Farmer 
 
 A Country Neigh- 
 bor 
 
 Gemier 
 
 A Servant 
 
 Verse 
 
 The Duchess de Chan- 
 temelle 
 
 Mmes Rpsnlf 
 
 Claire de Chante- 
 melle 
 
 Berthe Bady 
 Jeanne Dulac 
 Mereane 
 
 Helene Vatrin 
 
 A Nun 
 
 3
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 The Duke de Chante- 
 
 MELLE 
 
 Robert de Chante- 
 
 MELLE 
 
 Nicolas 
 
 A Farmer 
 
 A Country Neighbor. 
 
 A Servant 
 
 The Duchess de Ciian- 
 
 temelle 
 
 Claire de Chante- 
 
 MELLE 
 
 Helene Vatrin 
 
 A Nun 
 
 igoo 
 
 MM. Paul Mounet 
 
 Le Bargy 
 
 Laugler 
 
 Ravet 
 
 Joliet 
 
 Laty 
 
 Mmes. Pierson 
 
 Bartet 
 
 Wanda de Bencza 
 
 Delvair
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 ACT I 
 
 [A large country house in the Ardennes. — 
 A spacious zvainscotted room; to the right, 
 windows partially concealed by thick curtains; 
 to the left, a high fireplace between two doors. 
 At the back, a large doorway opening into a 
 vestibule. The paneling around this door, as 
 well as the walls of the, room, is covered with 
 panoplies, hunting trophies, old armor, gene- 
 alogical charts, and maps of ancient domains. 
 The furnishings are severe ; the room breathes 
 an air of feudalism. 
 
 It is evening; a single lamp gives out a 
 sickly light into the room. From time to time 
 the fire, zvhich is concealed for the most part in 
 ashes, shoots forth little flames. Outside, a 
 storm is beginning; the whistling of the wind is 
 heard. 
 
 Enter Claire. She looks quickly about her, 
 goes to the window and raises the curtain to 
 look into the night, but the inside shutters are 
 closed. She makes a little gesture of impa- 
 tience, then goes at once to the door at the back, 
 and is about to leave the room when a servant 
 enters carrying an armful of wood. She i)iter- 
 cepts him and asks^ 
 
 Claire. There is a carriage outside from 
 town; whose is it? 
 
 5
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Servant. The doctor's, Mademoiselle. 
 Claire. The doctor from Paris? 
 Servant. The doctor from Paris and the one 
 from town also. 
 
 Claire. But the consultation was not to take 
 place until to-morrow? 
 
 Servant. I heard the gentlemen telling Ma- 
 dame la duchesse that the doctor froin Paris has 
 to make a speech to-morrow before the yVcademy 
 of Science. So he telegraphed and said he would 
 come to-day. The telegram didn't arrive because 
 of the frost that broke all the wires this side of 
 Sedan. 
 
 Claire. Do you know whether the doctors are 
 to take dinner here? 
 
 Servant. Oh, no, Mademoiselle; they didn't 
 even unhitch their horses. When I was coming 
 up-stairs just now, I overheard them talking with 
 Madame la duchesse; they're probably gone by 
 this time. 
 
 Claire. Has my father come in yet? 
 Servant. I haven't seen any one. 
 Claire. Very well! 
 
 [She sits beside a table, dozvn-stage, and leans 
 upon it, meditatiiig. The servant puts the 
 wood by the fireplace, lays a log on the fire, 
 and goes out. After a mowetit, Claire rises, 
 opens the door at the bark, listens, then 
 comes back to the fireplace, standing before 
 it, her head resting upon the stone man- 
 tel. 
 Enter the Duchess at the back. Her ex- 
 pression is one of great sadness; her eyes 
 are red from cryi)ig. Claire turns round, 
 6
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 and the Duchess throws herself precipitately 
 into her arms.~\ 
 
 Duchess. Your poor brother! 
 
 Claire. Worse?! 
 
 Duchess. Yes ! We have to send him 
 south. He will never come back to us — I 
 know it ! 
 
 Claire. Is it that bad? 
 
 Duchess. The doctors gave him all sorts of 
 encouragement. I don't know whether he be- 
 lived them, but I knew well enough they weren't 
 telling the truth ! I saw them to their carriage, 
 and the moment they were saying Good-by — I 
 was on the steps, with snow on my feet, and I 
 was quite sure Robert was out of hearing, — I 
 asked them for the truth. 
 
 Claire. But if they're sending him south — ? 
 
 Duchess. He will never recover! Per- 
 haps the climate at Nice will prolong his life for 
 a few months — perhaps ! [Holding back her 
 tears.~\ Here, they told me, it was only a ques- 
 tion of days — 
 
 \_She falls into a chair, her face buried in a 
 handkerchief. Claire, standing as before 
 at the fireplace, is crying also, but she con- 
 trols her feelings.] 
 
 Claire. They must be exaggerating! 
 
 Duchess. Our only hope is in God! — 
 \_/Ifter a pause.] What a blow for your father! 
 
 Claire [dryly]. Yes, it is! But he will be 
 able to survive: hasn't he his hunting, his dogs, 
 his horses, and all that? 
 
 Duchess [icith severity]. Claire, you never 
 miss an opportunity of saying something dis- 
 
 7
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 agreeable about your father; why? You didn't 
 use to do that; I remember when you adored 
 him. Why have you changed so suddenly? 
 What—? 
 
 Claire [ejubarrassedli. I haven't changed — 
 perhaps I'm not so sympathetic and open as 
 when I was a young girl — that's all. You may 
 be sure I feel keenly for him. 
 
 Duchess. It will be terrible. His dogs and 
 horses will be of little use to him now. He 
 loves Robert, and then — he might perhaps have 
 had some consolation — ! If Robert had only 
 had a brother, if he weren't the only son; if our 
 name, the title of Duke, weren't about to die out 
 — do you understand? 
 
 Claire. Do I understand? [Tense ivith ex- 
 citement.] The Dukes of Chantemelle! Their 
 names are on every page of the history of France! 
 It's terrible to have Robert so near the end, — 
 to think that after his death all our glory, our 
 almost royal greatness, will be only a dream of 
 the past! If I am only a woman, I am proud 
 of the name of Chantemelle ! As proud as 
 Father! Oh, what he will suffer when he comes 
 in and hears the news! — Listen, Mother, I al- 
 ways intended never to get married, so that my 
 share of the family fortune would go to Rob- 
 ert: a Duke de Chantemelle must li^■e up to his 
 name ! — 
 
 Duchess. You are a true daughter of your 
 father — and Robert is like you, too: you live 
 in the past, it claims you, but you never realize 
 how much the present forgets you — Times have 
 changed ! — Let the Duke de Chantemelle cease 
 
 8
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 to exist, and the world will feel no loss. [^Sob- 
 bifig.] Only I, with my mother's heart — ! 
 
 [Robert enters, overhearing the last few 
 words, a witness of the distress of his 
 mother and sister. He is a man of distin- 
 guished bearing, with a pale face, feverish 
 eyes, hollow cheeks, and fiat chest. He 
 gives the impression of one who is fighting 
 bravely against disease and death.~\ 
 
 Robert. Courage, Mother! [Smiling sad- 
 ly.^ I'm still alive! 
 
 Duchess [rising in alarm]. My child! You 
 are not in the slightest danger! That Is, the 
 doctors said nothing definite ! You know what 
 they told you : a winter in Nice will give you new 
 life! 
 
 Robert. That's what you said. Mother: they 
 said that a winter in Nice would do me a great 
 deal of good, that was all! It's something, of 
 course! [Ironically.] Well, let us believe 
 them — 
 
 Duchess. Of course, we must believe them ! 
 They impressed it on me again just as they were 
 leaving. 
 
 Robert [impatiently]. Oh, very well! Has 
 Father come in yet? 
 
 Claire. No. The snow is so deep ! It's so 
 cold ! 
 
 Robert [with a sigh]. I can imagine what's 
 happened ! They must have shot a number of 
 boars; in this weather, it would be easy. Prob- 
 ably they wounded a big one, and chased him 
 along his bloody trail until dark, for leagues 
 and leagues ! I can see them now, tired out, 
 
 9
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 dragging one foot after the other — and the 
 wounded dogs, and the hunters with Icicles In 
 their beards. \^Suj}iiug agai}i.~\ And just one 
 year ago I was doing all that! 
 
 Claire [k,///; a forced snillc'~\. Do you re- 
 gret it, slipping over the icy places, with a dog 
 howling at your heels? 
 
 RoBKRT. Yes, I regret the times when we gal- 
 loped over the wide Helds, Claire, you and I, 
 and jumped the ditches and hedges — Now here 
 I am, a horseman good for nothing, who sees his 
 companion dashing away at full gallop over and 
 beyond the horizon — while I — 
 
 Claire [hoMiiig hack the teat si. His com- 
 panion — doesn't ride like that, any more, — 
 without him! [Overcome by Iter tears, quickly. ^ 
 If they didn't have good luck to-day Feather's 
 coming home In an awful humor. I'll have a 
 good fire built In his bed-room. [She goes out 
 immediately. 1 
 
 Robert [going to l/ie Duchess, ziho is trying 
 to assume an untroubled e.xpression. He takes 
 her hands, forces her to look into his face and, 
 after a short silence^. Now that we're alone, 
 Mother, no more ceremonies! I haven't any il- 
 lusions left about my condition; and you, you 
 don't hope — ! 
 
 Duchess. But I tell you — 
 
 Robert. Treat me like a man: I should be 
 the first Chantemelle to shrink before death! — 
 I once hoped for a different end, but this is only 
 a better occasion to show courage, moral courage: 
 not the kind that wins battles! 
 
 DucTiESS [/// an undertone^. You talk so 
 
 ID
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 cold-bloodedly ! Your giving in to a Power 
 against which no resistance is permitted is fear- 
 ful ! There are some times when that Power 
 which we ought to bless even when it strikes us — 
 [Breakififf out into sobs.^ Oh, I can't bear it! 
 I can't bear it! 
 
 Robert. My giving in is not so hard as you 
 think: I had foreseen the blow, I've been prepar- 
 ing for it during the past few weeks. My mind 
 is quite at ease — 
 
 Duchess [zcith an outburst of feeling]. Then 
 if you had to — leave us, you would regret noth- 
 ing? Your father? Your mother? Your sis- 
 ter? No one, nothing? [She sobs.1 
 
 Robert. I shall have terrible regrets! I can 
 hardly speak of them, when I think how much 
 energy I need. It would be a great deal easier 
 to brave out the whole thing! 
 
 [He throws himself into a cliair, exhausted, and 
 hides his face in his hands.] 
 
 Duchess. Poor child! 
 
 Robert [raises his head and speaks to him- 
 self~\. If I'm sick, I've got to come to that! — 
 Mother, I have a very serious matter to talk to 
 you about — the happiness of my last days de- 
 pends on it. I want you to promise me some- 
 thing. 
 
 Duchess [rising]. What is it?- 
 
 Robert. It's about Mademoiselle Vatrin — 
 
 Duchess [dryly]. I can't imagine what you 
 have to say about her. If it were about any one 
 else — She is a young woman without a sou, 
 whom I took care of because her mother was at 
 boarding-school with me. The girl owes every- 
 
 1 1
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 thing she has to mc, and I have even promised 
 her a small dowry! Until she finds a husband, 
 I am allowing her to associate with your sister: 
 Claire broods so much during the year I thought 
 it wise to let her have a friend of her own age. 
 See how grateful she is! 
 
 Robert [seated, his head bent over his knees, 
 his eyes fixed on the floor]. Mademoiselle 
 Vatrin is incapable of ingratitude. You must 
 have had some good reason tor getting her out of 
 the way that summer ! I doubt whether she has 
 forgotten your kindness. 
 
 Duchess. You doubt? — I should think I 
 did have good reasons for doing what I did! 
 Mademoiselle Vatrin was much too familiar with 
 you men, much too familiar for a young woman 
 of twenty-five ! I let her know she was over- 
 stepping the limits! Then she left. 
 
 Robert. She told me about it, and also that 
 you offered her a pension, which she refused. 
 
 Duchess. Did she tell you that? You?! By 
 what right? Why — ? 
 
 Robert [n^/;/^]. Yes, she was my mistress. 
 We loved one another deeply. What you called 
 her familiarity was merely what we failed to 
 have the presence of mind to hide. That was 
 why you didn't understand. 
 
 Duchess [deeply and strangely troubled, as 
 she takes his hands in hers]. Robert, you can- 
 not imagine, you will never know what I feel now, 
 when you tell me this ! 
 
 Robert. You suppose, do you, that I am go- 
 ing to beg you to let me marry her? No. 
 
 12
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 Helene knows what tremendous opposition she 
 would meet with from the family. 
 
 Duchess. Marry her? I never thought of 
 It. Why — ! I was so sad this evening, and 
 now I am so different. We should never lose 
 hope — 
 
 Robert. Your love for me, Mother, is won- 
 derful ! My love for that girl fills you with hap- 
 piness. Don't deny it, I see it in your face! It 
 is as if you considered that my love for her 
 formed a strong bond between me and — life ! 
 Well, if you're not too angry, I'm happy! 
 
 Duchess [beaming]. I am angry, and I 
 blame you very much. How can I keep from 
 blaming you for your irregular conduct — think 
 of it, she was one of Claire's own friends! 
 Your sister might have suspected! It was an in- 
 sult to her ! I don't want to scold you any more, 
 Robert, your life is so sad! I'm only too glad to 
 see you smile sometimes ! 
 
 Robert [smiling]. I know very well you are 
 not quite unforgiving. If you will be absolutely 
 frank for a single second, I'll show you that you 
 are very well satisfied with me. 
 
 Duchess. Satisfied that you seduced a young 
 woman under my very roof, a woman who was 
 under my protection ! A friend of your own 
 sister Claire?! 
 
 Robert. You can find many excellent reasons 
 to prove that I have done wrong, but there is an- 
 other matter — which is anything but unfortu- 
 nate — something that you are always thinking 
 about. 
 
 13
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Duchess [smiling]. All the time? 
 
 Robert. Well, yes! There, you're beam- 
 ing! Tell me now, why are you so glad? 
 
 Duchess. Why — ? 
 
 Robert. Yes, why? 
 
 Duchess [deciding to make some sort of an- 
 swer]. It might do some good — [After a 
 pause.] Have you ever noticed? I was very 
 unhappy — at one time, I thought there was 
 something between your father and Mademoiselle 
 Vatrin — I was so jealous and humiliated — ! 
 
 Robert. Mother! It was I all the time! 
 Oh, I was so happy! My happiness overflowed! 
 When a river overflows its banks, who can see 
 its usual course? — You were very tender just 
 now — and you had no idea why ! 
 
 Duchess. But I wasn't alone in my suspi- 
 cions: I am almost positive that Claire was 
 haunted with the same thought. Claire is so 
 pure and upright: she would never suspect with- 
 out good reason ! 7 here were at least some ap- 
 pearances — ! One day, Claire came to me, it 
 was six months ago — when my suspicions were 
 strongest — I was terribly tormented, I spied on 
 your father, even. — She told me she was tired 
 of Helene's company, that they didn't get along 
 well together, that she would be glad to get rid 
 of her. Of course she didn't tell me her sus- 
 picions in so many words: a young girl like that! 
 Then I couldn't question her, you understand! 
 Well, I was at my wits' end. I might have risked 
 my own peace of mind, but to expose my daugh- 
 ter to that — the day after. Mademoiselle Vatrin 
 left. 
 
 14
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 Robert. We weren't careful enough. Claire 
 is very sensitive and proud, and I shouldn't like 
 her to have found out about us — You see, 'uce 
 are the ones ! 
 
 Duchess. Yes, thank Heaven! But Claire 
 changed toward her father just as I did, from 
 that time on. Haven't you noticed how formal 
 and distant she is toward him ! She never says 
 nice things to him, nor gives him little surprises 
 as she used to ! She is even rather impudent at 
 times ! 
 
 Robert. Yes, I've noticed. Perhaps we can 
 insinuate that she was on the wrong scent. 
 
 Duchess. We must try, yes! I love your 
 father deeply, and my first duty is to make you 
 respect him. We must forget what I've said 
 here — it was an insult to him — . I shall re- 
 member only one thing: my almost scandalous joy 
 in finding out my mistake. 
 
 Robert \^serlous^y^^. Mother, it is to our in- 
 terest to forget these things — [/Jfter a pause, in 
 a lozv tone.] I still want to ask you for that 
 promise. It is this: I want to see Helene once 
 more before I die. Let her come here. I ad- 
 mit, I'm asking a great deal, but — 
 
 Duchess. It is a great deal! Do you 
 mean — ? Mademoiselle Vatrin, your — Ma- 
 demoiselle Vatrin under our roof? What if 
 Claire should meet her and they should talk — ! 
 Claire, your own sister ! Just think ! 
 
 Robert. Do you imagine that I should ask 
 you without considering the whole matter? I 
 confess it's a mad idea, but I must see her. If 
 you refuse, I'll go to her. 
 
 15
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Duchess. You! To her!? In your state, 
 all alone ! It would be your death ! 
 
 Robert [cxciU'dly']. A few weeks more or 
 less will make very little difference ! I beg you, 
 let her come ! Not only must I see her, but you 
 must welcome her yourself! 
 
 Duchess [zcith determination']. No! You 
 mustn't think of it ! 
 
 Robert. She is the mother of my son — 
 
 T)\JcnE%s>\^thiinderstriick']. A son ! My God, 
 Robert, what are you telling me?! A son! 
 
 Robert [ratJier ivarmly]. Having no per- 
 sonal fortune, I can't leave them anything. 
 Helene's life and the child's are therefore at your 
 mercy. I confide them to your care — my son ! 
 Think, Mother, where yours will be before long! 
 Treat mine a little as you would your own ! — 
 
 [He stops, gasping for breath, his hand on 
 his chest.~\ 
 
 Duchess [holding back the tears]. Rest, 
 Robert! We'll send your sister away for a day 
 or two : your father will take her ! Mademoiselle 
 Vatrin may come then, I shall treat her well. 
 The child — Oh, If I had suspected that when I 
 was so tormented about your father I couldn't 
 have stood it all ! When was he born ? 
 
 Robert. Two months ago — at Paris. 
 
 Duchess [hesitating]. What — ? Under 
 what name? I don't know what they do in such 
 a case? I mean, how did they name the child? 
 
 Robert [surprised]. Why, Vatrin, of course, 
 like his mother. — Now, my duty is to make pro- 
 vision for their future. I beg you on my knees 
 
 i6
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 to do this — But to call him anything but Va- 
 trin — ! 
 
 Duchess \_as if relieved of a great weight^. 
 Oh, Robert, I can breathe again! 
 
 [Enter the Duke, in hunting costume, followed 
 by a servant who lights a paper torch from 
 the fire, goes out and returns a moment later 
 with two lighted lamps; he goes out once 
 more to get the Duke's slippers. The stage 
 is brightly illuminated.^ 
 Duke. Good evening! 
 Duchess. You are late, Henri! 
 \^She kisses him with great tenderness, at which 
 
 he is surprised.^ 
 Robert [inquisitivelyl. What did you kill? 
 Duke. Don't say anything about that! We 
 had fearful luck ! When we got to the wood this 
 morning, we were on the trails of nearly thirty 
 boars. We were going to have the devil of a fine 
 chase ! 
 
 Robert [impatiently]. Did you kill any- 
 thing? 
 
 Duke. A little sow — weighed only a hun- 
 dred and twenty ! I put a bullet through her, 
 and the dogs finished up a quarter of an hour 
 later. 
 
 [Enter the servant, with the Duke's slippers. 
 
 — The fire burns brightly.] 
 Duchess. Here are your slippers; you 
 ought to change before the snow melts through 
 your overshoes; look how it's running! You're 
 in a regular puddle ! 
 
 Duke [sitting by the fireplace]. Lord, what 
 17
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 a splendid fire! That puts life into you! [He 
 stretches forth his feet, and the servant puts on 
 the slipper s.~\ 
 
 Robert. Is it snowing? 
 
 Duke. Hard: the branches of the trees are 
 beginning to break with the weight. We were 
 hard put to find our way this evening. 
 
 Servant \^rises, takes the hoots and leggings, 
 and is about to leave'\. Nicolas the forester 
 wishes to know whether he may see Monsieur? 
 
 Duke \^quickly^. Yes, yes, in the antecham- 
 ber; I'll see him — 
 
 Duchess. Receive him here, why not? 
 There's no reason why you should go running 
 after your foresters, tired as you are ! 
 
 Duke. I'm not tired! Very well, then! 
 [To the servant, annoyed.] Let him come in 
 here — [The servant goes out.] 
 
 Robert. Wasn't Nicolas with you to- 
 day? 
 
 Duke [embarrassed]. No, he was not. 
 
 Robert. You'll see: he's had plenty of boars 
 in his section of the forest all day, and he'll want 
 orders for to-morrow. 
 
 Duke. To-morrow is your consultation, you 
 know. I shan't go out. 
 
 Duchess. We have already had the consul- 
 tation: this evening. 
 
 Duke. What, without letting us know — ? 
 
 Duchess. Doctor Jaubert telegraphed that 
 he would have to come one day earlier on ac- 
 count of an official ceremony at which he has to 
 speak to-morrow. Because of the storms this side 
 of Sedan, the telegram was delayed. The doc- 
 
 i8
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 tors came quite unexpectedly, you see. We were 
 all so surprised! 
 
 Duke. Well, what did they have to say? 
 How was he ? 
 
 Duchess [with a gesture of despair]. Not 
 very well ! 
 
 Duke. Ah — ! 
 
 Robert. Not at all well, Faiher: you and I 
 won't kill many more boars together. 
 
 Duke [sadlyl. What did they advise? 
 
 Duchess. Go south as soon as possible. 
 
 Duke. South, where? Pau? Nice? — 
 
 Duchess. Nice. 
 
 l^Enter Nicolas. He stands in the doorway 
 at the hack, hat in hand.] 
 
 Nicolas. It's me, Monsieur le due — 
 
 Robert. Good evening, Nicolas, any boars? 
 
 Nicolas [coming dozen stage a little]. No, 
 Monsieur Robert, I've come here on business. 
 
 Robert. Great hunting weather, isn't it, 
 Nicolas? 
 
 Nicolas [shaking his head in affirmation]. 
 Fine, Monsieur Robert. Snow's falling in sheets! 
 If this keeps up, we can't take a dog out, or even 
 a beater! 
 
 Robert. Seems there's a good many boars 
 about this year, eh? 
 
 Nicolas. Oh, quite a few; nothing to com- 
 plain of. We had five wolves yesterday at Bois 
 Brule. 
 
 Robert. They were howling all night at the 
 end of the pond. I heard them from my bed. 
 [His eyes glistening.] Five of them! [JTith a 
 sigh.] Well, that's all over for me, Nicolas — 
 
 19
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Nicolas. Ah, Monsieur Robert, your health 
 isn't — ? 
 
 Robert [with a bitter laugh']. Ha! Hal 
 My health was never better ! 
 
 Duchess [putting her arm around his neck]. 
 Come, son, it's nearly time for dinner; let's not 
 keep your father. He must have a terrific appe- 
 tite. Good evening, Nicolas. 
 
 Nicolas. Good evening, Madame la du- 
 chesse. Hope you're better soon, Monsieur Rob- 
 ert! 
 
 [Robert thanks him zvilli a nod, and goes out 
 with his mother.] 
 
 Duke [standing zvith his back to the fire]. 
 Have you just come from town? 
 
 Nicolas. This instant, Monsieur le due. 
 
 Duke. Have you seen Mademoiselle Va- 
 trin ? 
 
 Nicolas. Yes, Monsieur le due: I'm afraid 
 Monsieur won't like it! 
 
 Duke. Come, out with it! Did she read my 
 letter? 
 
 Nicolas. Yes, of course, but — 
 
 Duke. Well? What then? 
 
 Nicolas. This: I went as Monsieur told me, 
 to the Hotel du Cheval-Blanc — 
 
 Duke. With your wife? 
 
 Nicolas. Naturally, because Monsieur ex- 
 plained that we were to take the child from 
 Mademoiselle Vatrin and keep it with us. — 
 Well, my wife was mighty cold traveling all day 
 in this weather — you see, it was only three weeks 
 since she had a baby, and she's still a little weak 
 — Well, I says to her, " What's the matter with 
 
 20
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 you? It's for Monsieur le due, and his son; ean't 
 spare any pains! " — 
 
 Duke. Yes, and was Mademoiselle Vatrin 
 waiting for you ? 
 
 Nicolas. That's it. She just got off the train 
 from Paris not a quarter of an hour ago — the 
 snow'd blocked all the trains. You ought to've 
 seen that baby ! Lord, he was hungry — like a lit- 
 tle dog at his soup, when my wife came, begging 
 Monsieur's pardon — 
 
 Duke. Then he's with you now — is he well? 
 
 Nicolas. Ah, Monsieur can be sure of that! 
 Just now by the fireplace I left him grinning at 
 my wife. 
 
 Duke. Then what are you talking about, 
 saying things aren't going well? It seems to me 
 that everything is perfect? 
 
 Nicolas. Everything's all right for the 
 youngster, but the mother, that's different ! 
 When I told her her room was ready, and says 
 to her to tell us a few days ahead when she was 
 coming, so as to have time to get things ready, 
 she answered — well, you ought to have heard 
 her! — she didn't want the room; she wasn't 
 coming more than two or three times a year, and 
 stay for an hour or so just to see the baby, and 
 she'd come when she liked, without letting us 
 know ahead of time. You could have knocked 
 me over with a feather to hear her talk the way 
 she did; 'specially as Monsieur le due had the 
 idea she was going to stay four or five days each 
 time. So I says to her, " Wait a minute ! Per- 
 haps Mademoiselle doesn't remember that the 
 house Is in the middle of the wood, no one hardly 
 
 21
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 ever comes here, and you could live here all year 
 and be safe. If my wife and I don't go around 
 telling tales, the squirrels'll be the only ones to 
 know the secret! " And she says to me, " I re- 
 member the house. I've been there often 
 enough, on my walks — the air is good for my 
 son — I don't know what you mean by the 
 rest — " 1 hat's what she said, Monsieur le due. 
 — I think she's leading you a merry chase, as 
 they say. I don't think that's nice of her, a bit. 
 I don't think either that things are going the way 
 Monsieur le due wanted 'em to go, about her room 
 and all that. 
 
 Duke. Did she send a letter? 
 
 Nicolas. No. Only she said she was going 
 back to Paris to-night. 
 
 Duke. Very well — I'll arrange to come 
 and see you to-morrow. [^Js Nicolas is about to 
 go the Duke intercepts him.^ Tell me, he's 
 good-looking — the youngster ? 
 
 Nicolas. Oh, yes! Should have heard my 
 wife when she was undressing him — fine set- 
 up! — Not a thing the matter with him — ! 
 
 Duke [smi/ing]. And his face? 
 
 Nicolas [^laughing^. His face! Oh, if I 
 dared talk about that to Monsieur le due, but if 
 Monsieur begins — ! Well, Monsieur, I'd like 
 to see Monsieur put his face next to the young- 
 ster's. People'll see the resemblance right off — 
 
 Duke [/'« a revery]. Take good care of him I 
 Good evening! 
 
 Nicolas goes out.^ 
 Enter the Duchess.^ 
 
 !3uKE. So he's worse? 
 
 22
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 Duchess [(/oes to the Duke, and takes his 
 hand with great feeling]. Worse than we imag- 
 ine, dear! 
 
 Duke [with concentrated rage]. Are we go- 
 ing to stand by with folded arms ? Can't we do 
 something? There are plenty of new remedies 
 — some of them kill at once, but there are some 
 that are absolutely miraculous! 
 
 Duchess, Nothing short of a miracle can 
 save Robert — his lungs are all eaten away! 
 
 Duke. The last of the Chantemelles! The 
 end of the family ! 
 
 Duchess [in despair]. Henri! 
 
 Duke. You know how I take those things 
 to heart! Others don't attach so much impor- 
 tance to them ! But that makes no difference to 
 me ! Let me mourn for our whole race in my 
 only son — my son ! 
 
 Duchess. I can think only of him — poor 
 child ! It wasn't so very long ago that he was 
 running about the park in short trousers. I re- 
 member how he used to come in with his burning 
 red cheeks, and his legs scratched by the thistles — 
 [She sobs.] So upright, and noble, and proud! 
 
 Duke. He is a worthy close to our glorious 
 line: Robert de Chantemelle! He is the last of 
 us ! The line will be dead ! [He accents this 
 last zvord in so strange a manner, that the Du- 
 chess quivers. They exchange glances.] 
 
 Duchess. Dead! [A pause.] Henri, why 
 do you look at me that way? Do you know — 
 something? 
 
 Duke. Something? What, Anne? What 
 are you alluding to ? 
 
 23
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Duchess. I? I alluded to nothing, it was 
 you — Robert hasn't the slightest suspicion that 
 you know his secret — 
 
 Duke [afic/rily]. 1 don't know anything about 
 it. Speak, tell me whether he has been saying 
 anything ! 
 
 Duchess. Robert has a son. 
 
 Duke. What are you — ? Robert, a son! 
 
 — And the mother — ? 
 Duchess. Helene Vatrin — 
 
 Duke. Do you mean — ? Are you sure? 
 
 Duchess. Robert told me so just now. 
 
 Duke [his eyes flashing, his fists clenched, 
 crosses to the other side of the stage]. The 
 damned prostitute! And Robert! Damned — 1 
 If he wasn't already half dead, I'd — 
 
 Duchess [terror-stricken, throws herself 
 into the Duke's arms, and prevents his going to 
 find Robert]. Henri! Henri! It's horrible! 
 Henri, you're not yourself! 
 
 Duke. Beautiful goings-on in this house! 
 They were very, very lucky I didn't discover 
 them — ! 
 
 Duchess. Henri, for Heaven's sake, be calm 
 
 — a scene with Robert would kill him ! 
 
 Duke. I'll spare him, but her — ! She's a — 
 a — 
 
 Duchess. She? A poor inexperienced 
 young girl we exposed to danger, little thinking — 
 We left her free all day long with a young man 
 about — it was perfect folly! When I think — ! 
 I thought I was doing her a fa\or, and 1 was the 
 cause of her ruin — 
 
 Duke. Damned women, with their sensitive- 
 24
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 ness! No, of course, you find her very Interest- 
 ing! — You don't seem to remember that Rob- 
 ert was with her at the very time the doctors or- 
 dered him to be most careful ! We wondered why 
 he — Your dear httle protegee! 
 
 Duchess. Henri, I refuse to argue about it, 
 unless you talk more calmly. You are entirely un- 
 just. Helene came to us a pure girl; if she leaves 
 ruined, whose fault is it? It's not at all gener- 
 ous of you to treat her the way you do, in order to 
 escape all the responsibility! 
 
 Duke [after a pause]. Very well ! There was 
 something inevitable in it all ! Of course, she may 
 have some excuse — those long walks with Robert 
 ' — we must have been blind ! 
 
 Duchess. We must have. — We owe some- 
 thing to her now. 
 
 Duke [scowling]. What? 
 
 Duchess. If not to her, to Robert's son; you 
 don't intend to abandon him, do you? 
 
 Duke [pensively]. Robert's son! 
 
 Duchess. It is no more than just that we 
 should look after him. 
 
 Duke. Of course ! His son — his — where 
 is he? 
 
 Duchess. With his mother, doubtless, in 
 Paris. 
 
 Duke [considering/, Jialf-smiling]. In 
 Paris — Don't you feci as if you'd like to — 
 kiss him? Good Lord, he's Robert's son, after 
 all! 
 
 Duchess. You are very good at bottom, dear ! 
 Now I am ready to tell you of the promise Robert 
 induced me make to him. He wants to see Hel- 
 
 25
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 ene once more before he dies ! I consented, be- 
 cause I was sure you would let him — [Gesture 
 from the Duke.] Will you? 
 
 Duke [quickly]. Very well, very well, it's not 
 a matter of great importance — [He zvalks about 
 the room.] Let her come — she may stay as long 
 as she likes, or go, or hang herself, for all I care ! 
 I'm interested in the child ! [Standing before his 
 ziife, his arms crossed.] Then Robert is not the 
 last of the Chantemelles ! 
 
 Duchess. You admit that the other — ? 
 
 Duke. Whether I admit it or not, he is ! 
 
 Duchess. You forget, the mother — 
 
 Duke, Nothing! But now I come to think 
 about it, she's not so bad; the fact that she — 
 
 Duchess. She might cause us a great deal of 
 trouble if she tried to force Robert to marry her — 
 but luckily, she is not thinking of doing that. My 
 talk with Robert led me to believe that she is really 
 quite sensitive on the point. Then Robert 
 wouldn't think of marrying her. 
 
 Duke [bniskly]. He might consider it, 
 though — 
 
 Duchess [surprised]. What? 
 
 Duke. Does this marriage seem something to 
 be avoided at any cost? 
 
 Duchess. Henri, you frighten me. Five 
 minutes ago, you were fearfully angry — you were 
 terrible — now you arc joking! This is not the 
 time for that! 
 
 Duke. I was angry live minutes ago, but what 
 leads you to suppose I am not now? At least, I 
 am not joking. 
 
 Duchess. Then you are serious? It's ridic- 
 26
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 ulous ! I admit, Helene Is a nice, intelligent, pre- 
 sentable girl — 
 
 Duke \^break'nig forth]. Still she's only 
 Helene, with all her niceness, and intelligence — 
 I don't care about that ! She has made you a 
 grandmother; keep that in mind, and then agree 
 with me that we ought to marry them. 
 
 Duchess. Ought to — ! 
 
 Duke. For the sake of the child! To make 
 him legally what he really is : a Chantemelle ! 
 
 Duchess. Henri, don't do it! Think of 
 Mademoiselle Vatrin as Claire's sister! Oh, no! 
 
 Duke. It's not pleasant to think about — by 
 any means! — But what can we do? We shall 
 both suffer, you and I — I more than you. I have 
 always wanted a grandson — and now I've found 
 him, I take him — 
 
 Duchess. Pick him up! Find him!! 
 
 Duke \^getting angry]. That's enough! I 
 want to — and when I say " I want," I'm deter- 
 mined to have — ! 
 
 Duchess. My wishes never had very much in- 
 fluence with you — / always wanted to live some- 
 where else! If you had consented to leave 
 your woods and live for part of the year in Paris, 
 Claire might have gone into society, chosen a hus- 
 band, and not have been exposed to all this — ! 
 Mademoiselle \'atrin would never have set foot 
 in the house, and Robert, instead of burying him- 
 self in the country and brooding over the past, 
 would probably have married, and you wouldn't 
 have been forced to pick up a grandson off the 
 streets — 
 
 Duke. Charming! I am to blame for every- 
 27
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 thing! I'm to blame for Robert's sickness! 
 Well, if my will has been the cause of evil, it's now 
 about to make reparation: Robert will marry 
 Mademoiselle Vatrin, take that as final. I'm not 
 going to allow any woman to influence me in a mat- 
 ter of this kind! 
 
 Duchess. Luckily Robert has a will of his 
 own. He sees this matter in the same light as I 
 do, and you can't domineer over him as you can 
 me : he's a man ! 
 
 Duke. He will consent. 
 
 Duchess. No ! 
 
 Duke. Here he is; let him decide, 
 
 [Enter Robert.] 
 
 Duke [approaching Jiim, Jus hands folded be- 
 hind Jiis back]. Ah, you gay young bird! 
 
 Robert [astonished]. Father! 
 
 Duke [good-hinnoredly]. I hear fine news 
 about you ! A great surprise for your old father 
 [frith a slight menace in his words.] who ought to 
 shoot you — 
 
 Duchess. Henri ! 
 
 Duke. But I shan't! I have something 
 else to consider now. [Seriously.] You have a 
 son. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for 
 perpetuating the family line, just at the moment 
 when it seemed about to end. Your son! I claim 
 him in order that our name shall survive: I am old 
 and you are — not well. At the same time, I shall 
 ask you to make a sacrifice — a big sacrifice, for 
 I know your — what people call — prejudice. 
 
 Robert. You want me to marry Helene? I 
 thought of that when I used to plan how to per- 
 petuate the family name — 
 
 28
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 Duke. Well? 
 
 Robert. Well, I love Helene — 
 
 Duke [fiercely]. I don't see how that detail 
 makes it more difficult! 
 
 Robert. It does. You treat this marriage as 
 a business transaction. Now, in considering your 
 proposal, I am thinking of the future of the woman 
 I love. Can you imagine her between Mother 
 and Claire? — The day she feels she is not abso- 
 lutely an equal among you, I shall take her away. 
 
 Duke. Your wife will be an equal ! 
 
 Robert. I am ready to marry her. I don't 
 think I owe you any thanks — my happiness has 
 nothing to do with this. We all want only one 
 thing — 
 
 Duchess. Not I, Robert! Your father 
 spoke of sacrifice ; well, the real sacrifice will be for 
 Claire and me. 
 
 Duke [with hauteur]. You have no idea 
 what you are talking of! 
 
 Duchess. You are both against me! I con- 
 sent, then, but let us say nothing more this evening. 
 — My daughter's companion her equal! Oh, no! 
 I hadn't thought of that! 
 
 [She goes out in high indignation.] 
 
 Robert. I'll follow her and give her to un- 
 derstand that there's nothing selfish in w^hat I am 
 doing — 
 
 Duke. Go, and don't let her say anything to 
 Claire ; we shall let her know at the last minute — 
 Two women in high dudgeon together — ! 
 
 Robert [smiling]. Ah, I should think so! 
 [He goes out.] 
 
 Duke [following him with his eyes]. If he 
 29
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 only knew I Well, he would kill me, but he would 
 think all the same that I govern my house with ad- 
 mirable foresight. And to think of that little 
 fellow, how quickly, how completely he has 
 changed the fate of this family! A crime? Per- 
 haps! We must not do things by halves, and the 
 old must help as well as the young! What differ- 
 ence whose is the child? Our blood runs in his 
 veins, and I can ask no more ! 
 
 [Curtain.] 
 
 30
 
 ACT II 
 
 [Sajne scene as in the first act. Through the 
 windows are seen a winter landscape, with a 
 bright sun shining upon it, a French garden cov- 
 ered with snow, straight paths bordered by 
 dark evergreens, the branches of which are dot- 
 ted with tufts of snow. The statues are en- 
 cased in a thin crust of ice; the water in the 
 ba-sin of the fountain is frozen, but the fountain 
 itself is running. Icicles cling to the sides of 
 the spout. In the distance is the forest tinged 
 with frost and snow, and glistening in the sun. 
 
 As the curtain rises, Robert is alone, waiting 
 near a window. He is carefully dressed, and 
 wears a flower. There is nothing indicative of 
 the negligent patient in his appearance. After 
 a few moments Claire enters, goes straight to 
 her brother, controlling her feelings, which are 
 apparently very turbulent.^ 
 
 Claire. Robert, I know whom you are wait- 
 ing for: Mother has just been to my room — 
 now I see why you have been so mysterious these 
 past two days ! To think that you are going to 
 marry Helene ! Oh, Robert! 
 
 Robert. Did Mother tell you why I am doing 
 so? 
 
 Claire. Of course! But to tell me that, after 
 I had Helene sent away! Poor Mother! She 
 
 31
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 murmured something about your loving that 
 woman, that they would consent to let you marry 
 her — then she burst out crying and went away. I 
 did not follow her to get further details. Robert, 
 I used to have great respect for you, for your 
 strength of character; you can have no idea how 
 hurt I am to hear this! 
 
 RoBKRT. My dear little Claire, Helene will be 
 here in a quarter of an hour — perhaps sooner: a 
 sleigh travels quickly in this weather — I'm not 
 very strong — let me be In peace until she comes; 
 she mustn't find me stretched out on the sofa, 
 gasping for breath. That's what will happen if 
 I am the least bit over-excited. 
 
 Claire. You can't get rid of me so easily as 
 that! I should be a very poor sister if I allowed 
 you to do what you wish, merely to avoid giving 
 you a little pain. You are not going to marry 
 Helene! 
 
 Robert. But Father wishes me to ! 
 
 Claire {^with horror^. He does! He must 
 be a fool! Give me a reason, at least! I defy 
 you, Father especially! I see I can wait for mv 
 reasons ! Do you know why Father wants you to ? 
 Do you? 
 
 Robert. Do you? 
 
 Claire [in a choked voice'\. Oh — T — what 
 shall I say? — 
 
 Robert. Father wants me to marry because 
 he cannot bear the idea of seeing me end the line 
 of Chantemelle ! 
 
 Claire [^embarrassed, lo lierself]. It's only a 
 pretense! [To Robert.] Couldn't you just as 
 well marry someone else? 
 
 32
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 Robert. I love her! 
 
 Claire. Poor Robert! 
 
 Robert. And she loves me ! Otherwise, she 
 would never think of marrying me ! 
 
 Claire. She hasn't a sou, she has no — 
 scruples — 
 
 Robert. You are very unjust — and besides, 
 it's useless to try to persuade me. Even if Helene 
 did deserve a little of what you hold against her, 
 I should marry her all the same. It happens that 
 the sacrifice is pleasant to me. That is all ! 
 
 Claire. A sacrifice for the sake of the family? 
 
 Robert. Yes, you should be able to under- 
 stand that! 
 
 Claire. Every one has his own Ideas about 
 family pride. 
 
 Robert. Oh ! 
 
 Claire. Our families ! See how well they are 
 treated nowadays! To have conquered provinces 
 for the country, to have governed them for cen- 
 turies, and then to lose every bit of influence — 
 why, Father can't even elect himself mayor of the 
 town here! How humiliating! And what you 
 must have suffered not to have been able to work 
 for the glory of your land ! How I pity you, when 
 I see you so Inconsolable ! And now you marry 
 Helene VatrIn in order to transmit to your chil- 
 dren the creeds and Ideas of us mummies ! 
 
 Robert \_crying out'\. Claire! Give me at 
 least the credit of believing that in the face of death 
 I know what I'm doing! I firmly believe that in 
 spite of this Inferior alliance, our family Is worth 
 perpetuating. This Duke de Chantemelle Is noth- 
 ing: ambassador, minister, prefect — nothing. I 
 
 Z3
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 am going to marry Helene because I am positive 
 that the country would otherwise lose a living and 
 valuable force — if the Dukes of Chantemelle dis- 
 appeared from the face of the earth — 
 
 Claire [ironicdllyl. I should not be at all 
 surprised if you had made that discovery since 
 you fell in love with Helene ! 
 
 Robert. It makes no difference if I did, so 
 long as it is true. 
 
 Claire [ironically']. Are we really of some 
 use? 
 
 Robert. Yes, because we are well-born. 
 Moral heredity is an incontestable fact. Cen- 
 turies of military bravery, intellectual culture, re- 
 finement, ought surely to produce the very best 
 sort of men and women. Nobility is not a preju- 
 dice : the aristocracy is a museum of all that is 
 best in chivalry ! 
 
 Claire [bitterly]. A museum as isolated as a 
 hospital! 
 
 Robert. That spreads the contagion of devo- 
 tion! Disinterested science, for example, the sort 
 that has nothing to do with dividends, exists only 
 among the aristocrats. In the United States, there 
 are wonderful inventors, but they have only one 
 end in view : to get as much money as possible ! 
 We must look to Europe, with its atmosphere of 
 the old aristocracy, to see great geniuses devoting 
 their lives to the good of humanity ! And to think 
 that the crude and simple chivalry of the Middle 
 Age was all the time preparing for the glorious 
 poverty of the great thinkers of to-day ! Granted 
 even that this is an exaggeration, the whole idea is 
 at least compatible with modern life. Do we 
 
 34
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 amount to nothing then in the France of to-day? 
 No, if we are forgotten and neglected and de- 
 spised, we at least repay ingratitude by showing the 
 true spirit of resignation ! 
 
 Claire [inspired by Robert's words]. How 
 true! How splendid! We «r^ something! The 
 poor live only because of us; we are not useful in 
 politics, but we know how to console those who 
 deny our very existence ! When the Fatherland is 
 in trouble, there is no question about the nobility 
 — those little marquis' who know nothing except 
 how to hunt and dance ! Robert, you are right, 
 we still have a part to play! 
 
 Robert. Forgive me then for wanting to live ! 
 Not myself, but in my race! 
 
 Claire. You have taught me what we owe to 
 the race, to our family. I was born in a hunting- 
 lodge. How often have you argued with me, 
 gently, never annoyed with me, about the breeding 
 of your dogs and horses: you ought at least then 
 to have the same respect for your family ! You 
 should want to live as you say you do, in your son, 
 but you must live too for your own sake : for the 
 sake of this body of yours, worn out by discourage- 
 ment. You need the strength and the will to be 
 useful even now! Let me receive Helene first. 
 Don't worry, I know exactly what to say to her ! 
 Ten minutes later, she will be gone, for ever. 
 Then we'll save you. 
 
 Robert. Why do you say you will save me? 
 I have only one hope, but not what you think. In 
 my future there is a tiny ray of brightness — a 
 single ray ! Tell me, what if our long empty hall- 
 ways resounded with the cry of a child, wouldn't 
 
 35
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 you be happy? I am, even to think of it! Tell 
 me, doesn't your instinct — ? 
 
 Clairk [seriously]. I did not come here to 
 talk about instinct ! I know whom to speak to 
 now; I'm wasting my breath here ! 
 
 [Enter the Duke and Duchess. 1 
 
 Duke [to Robert and Claire]. A little tiff? 
 
 Robert [to the Duke]. She is giving me 
 some plain advice about my marriage; I am not at 
 all satisfied with her attitude. Mother must have 
 told her everything. She just now refused to dis- 
 cuss the matter further with me. She intends to 
 talk with you. Tell her that in marrying Helena 
 I am acting according to your wishes. [Claire 
 listens in terror.] Mother, stay with me : I want 
 Helene to see the expression on my face when she 
 comes: the facade of the House of Chantemelle 
 must present a cheerful appearance. 
 
 Duchess [zvhile Robert goes to the inindow]. 
 I am so glad to see him happy! 
 
 [She joins Robert, and both watch for Helene.] 
 
 Duke [to Claire]. What Robert says is true: 
 he is going to marry because I want him to. 
 
 Claire [in an undertone]. This is more hor- 
 rible than I had ever imagined ! 
 
 Duke. What's the trouble? 
 
 Claire [indicating Robert]. I shan't tell you 
 here: come to my room! You will take pity on 
 him, or me — 
 
 Duke. Go to your room, I will follow you in 
 a moment. 
 
 Claire. I'his is my last word: before this 
 evening, one of us will have sent Mademoiselle 
 Vatrin out of the house; I hope it will be you! 
 
 36
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 [^She goes out, leaving the Duke petrified. 
 First he goes to the fireplace, then returns to 
 folloiv Claire, then hesitates, looking to- 
 ward his zcife and son. Robert calls to him.] 
 
 Robert. Listen! The bells! It's she! 
 
 l^The sound of approaching sleigh-bells is heard 
 outside.] 
 
 Duke [going to the zvindozc]. I do hear — 
 yes — 
 
 Robert [his face close to the zvindow]. Why 
 can't we see? There Is nothing so far as the eye 
 can reach across the snow. 
 
 Duke. She Is coming from the wood — you'll 
 see her turn when she comes around by the 
 stables — 
 
 Robert. Why the wood? It's much longer 
 that way ? 
 
 Duke. I wanted to give you a little surprise, 
 a present for not having written to her, and for 
 allowing your parents to inform her of the state 
 of affairs! She is coming from the forester's cot- 
 tage, where she has left the child with Nicolas' 
 wife, who has just recently had a child — she Is 
 going to nurse the little fellow. Nicolas and 
 his wife are splendid people and can keep the 
 secret — 
 
 Robert [interrupting]. It was very good of 
 you ! I'm going to see him — 
 
 Duke [intercepts him]. Do me the favor of 
 coming with your mother into the billiard-room 
 — wait until I call you. As head of the family 
 I wish to be the first to receive Mademoiselle 
 Vatrin: she is not yet aware that she is to be your 
 wife. You might appear a little too happy in 
 
 37
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 telling her about it; I shall tell her in quite an- 
 other manner. Her coming here shall not be a 
 triumphal entry; I am afraid she doesn't yet feel 
 the enormous responsibility that goes with our 
 name, which she will assume so easily. Let me, 
 at the very door of this house, explain what will 
 be expected of her. Then, Robert, she is yours! 
 — Go now — 
 
 [Robert and his mother go out. The Duke 
 looks out of the iv'nidozv an instant, then 
 comes hack to meet Helene. 
 Helene, dressed in a simple travelincj suit, enters. 
 She is pretty, but now appears timid and sad. 
 Seeing the Duke, she is about to faint; quiver- 
 ing with emotion, she leans against the door. 
 After a pause, the Duke turns to her.^ 
 Duke [dryly]. Come here! [She approaches 
 him, very much afraid.] Yes, it's I! Are you 
 surprised? The child's nurse just told you I had 
 gone away; well, she did as she was told. I 
 wanted to encourage you to come. You see, the 
 Duchess wrote you that Robert was very ill, and 
 authorized you to come — not a word from the 
 Duke — Robert, too, wanted to write, but I did 
 not let him. Now I have a piece of news to an- 
 nounce — Sit down! You're trembling — I'm 
 not angry with you ! You don't know what I am 
 going to tell you ! 
 
 Helene [wringing her hands; in a feeble 
 choked voice]. Oh, please! I was weak enough 
 to be your mistress almost as soon as I came here. 
 T was only twenty-two, I knew nothing. Monsieur 
 Robert was away then in Palestine; when he came 
 back I fell in love with him — and he knew it! 
 
 38
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 [She hides her face.'] Don't despise me! I love 
 him as deeply as a woman can love a man! His 
 love is the only thing that sustained me — I didn't 
 have the strength to leave you ! For two years I 
 lived a terrible life — I never saw you that I 
 didn't make up my mind to stop everything — 
 with you, I didn't dare ! I waited and waited, too 
 afraid to do anything! Then the baby came, and 
 I had to depend on you. But once I was away, I 
 wasn't afraid of you, and when the forester's wife 
 asked me to stay sometimes with her I had the 
 strength to refuse ! You see, I have a little cour- 
 age left — 
 
 Duke [brutally]. What are you talking 
 about? What has Robert's mistress to do with 
 Robert's father? Get rid of that idea! Robert 
 is madly in love with you ! Marry him ! 
 
 Helene [terror-stricken]. I? Marry Rob- 
 ert?! 
 
 Duke. You must. I want an heir to carry on 
 my name; now I have one ! I don't care by what 
 means, but I have one ! Never mind who or what 
 you are ! You are that heir's mother ! You love 
 my son, don't you? You wrote me a letter that 
 was rather touching some time ago, before the 
 child was born, and told me to take care of him in 
 case you died. There was nothing unreasonable 
 in that — of course we should look after the little 
 one. Now we want to make a duke of him — 
 give him our name, our fortune, everything! 
 
 Helene. There's not only my son to think 
 about, but Robert! He is your son, Robert! 
 Do you love him? And yet you talk of this mar- 
 riage ! 
 
 39
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Duke. Robert is my son, but the other Is 
 something to me also. Fate demands that I sac- 
 rifice one of them. One is young and full of hope, 
 the other we are already mourning — why should 
 I hesitate between the two? Furthermore, I have 
 promised that Robert shall marry you — refuse 
 him now ! Can't you see, he will aslc you ques- 
 tions; what will you tell him if he learns the truth? 
 Come now, everything is to your advantage : an 
 honorable name for yourself, a title for your son 
 — Robert's son. That little mite is everything! 
 I am willing to kill for his sake, if necessary! 
 Give him to us, for always, irrevocably ! Is it a 
 bargain? Don't answer yet ! You can't answer ! 
 Tell Robert! Meantime, you're in great danger. 
 Somehow, I can't imagine how, Claire has discov- 
 ered everything. She is opposed to all this. If 
 she says anything, the marriage cannot take place I 
 Robert would be broken-hearted, demand an ex- 
 planation, and I — Well, what could I an- 
 swer — ? 
 
 Helene. Then why did I come? 
 
 Duke. Claire doesn't know yet that there is a 
 child. She is more concerned with our traditions, 
 our long family line, than any of us, and perhaps 
 she will feel as deeply as I do about perpetuating 
 the name. I shall go and see her now, and in five 
 minutes everything will be arranged. 
 
 [He goes out by the doivn-stage door. Enter 
 Claire at the back, left. She stops on seeing 
 Helene.^ 
 
 Claire. My father is looking for me, isn't 
 he? [Helene makes a vague gesture.] Made- 
 
 40
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 moiselle, I am glad to have an opportunity of talk- 
 ing with you alone; as we have only a few mo- 
 ments, I shall go straight to the point! Robert is 
 not going to marry you — 
 
 Helene. I don't ask anything — I want to do 
 what will be best for Robert ! 
 
 Claire. To save him from disgrace is best 
 for Robert! I know who you are: one evening 
 last summer I was walking by the pond — you 
 were with Father in the boat, and neither of you 
 was any too careful — I was out all that night, a 
 few feet from you — once I was on the point of 
 asking for a place in the boat — I heard things 
 that made my blood run cold. In one second my 
 purity of mind was gone, my respect and affection 
 were killed ! That episode has blackened my life. 
 I had you sent away, but I felt just the same as be- 
 fore — the same torture. And now you have 
 come back to poison my life again! Your plan 
 will fail this time : I am going to tell Robert 
 everything! 
 
 Helene. And kill him ! 
 
 Claire. He will thank me for sparing him a 
 few days of life in a world where God allows such 
 things to happen ! 
 
 l^Enter the Duke. He takes in the situation 
 at a glance. He comes and stands between 
 them.] 
 
 Duke [-with severity"]. Claire, who asked you 
 to come ? You ought to have waited until I saw 
 you ! 
 
 Claire. I changed my mind. I couldn't think 
 clearly then about what you had determined to do. 
 
 41
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Even after I considered It, I couldn't understand. 
 I have now given up trying to persuade: I am 
 threatening! 
 
 Duke [violently']. Keep still ! 
 
 Claire. Nothing can make me keep still — 
 my conscience — 
 
 Duke [zvith blind fury']. Keep still, I tell you ! ! 
 Never mind about your conscience ! There are 
 certain things a daughter doesn't say to her father! 
 If you forget yourself again you'll end your days 
 in a convent, or else I'll turn you out of the 
 house — 
 
 Claire. I'd rather end my days in a convent, 
 or walk the streets, than breathe this atmosphere 
 of disgrace and shame — ! 
 
 Helene. Monsieur le due, I ought to leave; I 
 am willing not to see Robert, to be sent away — 
 I am willing — Only let Mademoiselle spare her 
 brother, and help you explain to him why I am 
 leaving. 
 
 Duke [after a moment' s rejection, to Helene, 
 sympathetically]. Let me have a word with her 
 in private ! [Helene nods. He conducts her to 
 the down-stage door, and sees her out. He then 
 returns to Claire.] Claire, I give in. For the 
 first time, you have called my authority into ques- 
 tion! You have your weapons, you can prevent 
 me from doing what I want to do. I shan't argue 
 further. Only know this: from now on there is 
 no intimacy between us ! 
 
 Claire. I expect to be unhappy. With my 
 courage — 
 
 Duke. That is your affair. You may as well 
 know what this blow will mean to Robert! Yes, 
 
 42
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 and to all of us! It is not hard to accuse your 
 father, and tell him how disgusted you are; you're 
 hardly more than a little boarding-school miss — 
 your mother was unwise enough to tell you every- 
 thing, a child of your age ! I am now talking to 
 you as I would to a judge, a righter of wrongs : 
 I have nothing to hide from you. Robert has a 
 son by Mademoiselle Vatrin. 
 
 Claire [to herself]. He! A Son?! 
 
 Duke. Whom we have decided to adopt, 
 make one of the fam.ily, in order not to let the 
 line die out. If the child had not lived, Robert 
 would think nothing more about the mother — 
 he would not marry her. For myself, I am open- 
 ing this house to a woman who bears in her 
 arms a sacred gift; I use the word " sacred" ad- 
 visedly. I want you to weigh the matter care- 
 fully. You blamed Robert for being selfish in 
 the face of death, and you blamed me because I 
 was sacrificing him to I don't know what mon- 
 strosities. Every word of that is false. Robert 
 is sacrificed, and so am I, but I haven't the right 
 to consider that for a moment. Both of us are 
 sacrificed, thank God ! to an ideal, an Ideal which 
 you are as anxious as we to preserve as best we 
 can ! 
 
 Claire. A son ! ! Poor Robert ! His eyes 
 were filled with tears when he told me how splen- 
 did it would be to have the empty corridors filled 
 with the voices of children! And to think I was 
 ignoble enough to appear dissatisfied with him ! 
 And the brutal way I answered ! That is what 
 he meant when he spoke of instinct! His love 
 as a father ! I thought he meant something 
 
 43
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 quite different ! How could I have been so mis- 
 taken ! Sometimes, at night, when I'm sitting by 
 the fire, while the wind whistles outside, and the 
 wolves howl just under the window, all at once 
 clear ringing voices come to me and I wake up 
 holding to my breast the end of a phantom — 
 it is that same instinct — then it goes away — 
 but it is always in Robert! Sometimes I almost 
 go crazy. Now you tell me there is a child ! It 
 may be near at this moment! Papa, why are you 
 looking at me that way? Is he in the house — 
 now ? ! 
 
 Duke. Almost: he is with Nicolas — go and 
 see him — I could not resist the temptation — 
 
 Claire. Can I? [Slowly.] Then it is no 
 longer a dream, a vision! Then I am killing a 
 real child, a child I could take in my arms, a 
 child Robert adores, his own flesh and blood! 
 Oh, if you had only heard him! He wants his 
 son to be perfect in everything, because a noble 
 birth gives one moral superiority! Poor boy! 
 He is forgetting the mother! No, he is not for- 
 getting her, he doesn't know! The mother! 
 Ha, what is her heritage, what does she bring 
 us? 
 
 Duke. What are you talking about? Most 
 of our ancestors were statesmen and celebrated 
 generals; I once dreamed of being great, like 
 them — but I've had to pass my life doing noth- 
 ing. I have tried to forget myself in hunting! 
 There is nothing like country life to soothe 
 wounded pride! During the war, I was no 
 longer a young man, so that I had to enlist as 
 a simple soldier or else stay home by iny own 
 
 44
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 fire-side. I enlisted, looking for great deeds to 
 do and a glorious death; I came home diseased 
 and defeated. I had added nothing to the honor 
 of our name. Now, for God's sake, don't let the 
 line die out! We can still work for the glory 
 of our country, the glory that has been handed 
 down to us, until one day a Chantemelle, more in- 
 telligent or more fortunate, shall arise and do 
 honor to us ! Don't you feel that basic desire to 
 live, to make some place in the world, to exist 
 afterwards — in others? 
 
 Claire [overcome]. Oh, Papa! with all 
 my soul! 
 
 Duke. No, you don't! Otherwise you would 
 have pitied me! Robert and I cannot last much 
 longer. Don't, don't take these visions of the 
 future from us ! 
 
 Claire. You think I am indifferent! I have 
 devoted myself, given up my life because of 
 these terrible agonies I have been going through! 
 [Bowing her head.] If you ask pity of me, you 
 must in turn at least pity me ! If I am to become 
 your — accomplice, I shall be in a terrible situa- 
 tion — pity me ! 
 
 Duke. You an accomplice? In what? You 
 have only to say nothing! 
 
 Claire. Isn't that terrible enough? Then I 
 shall have been the cause of this marriage! If 
 I say a word, it will not take place ! 
 
 Duke. If it does not take place you will be 
 the executioner of the race ! 
 
 Claire. That's what tortures me ! To put 
 such responsibility on the shoulders of a young 
 girl like me! What will happen to us if I don't 
 
 45
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 tell Robert? His child is our glory, the center 
 of all our ambitions, of our very life, everything! 
 But can we forget the mother? That woman! 
 Can't you see what a hell my life has been because 
 of her? Can't you see how afraid of you all I 
 have been? If she comes back, I shall never 
 live in peace again ! Yet I am willing to submit, 
 to be miserable, to bear the weight of shame and 
 responsibility which I have no right to bear. I, 
 the little boarding-school miss! What hope have 
 I? I wish I were dead! I wish I knew what 
 to do ! ! 
 
 Duke [solemnly]. Claire, I swear that you 
 ought to do this: it is your duty to obey the 
 head of your family. Why have I educated you 
 to look back to the glory of our house, if I now 
 ask something unworthy of the past? F^or that 
 reason, I beg you ! On my honor, on the honor 
 of my son who is about to die, I promise you 
 that this marriage will save our name! 
 
 Claire. I believe you. 
 
 Duke. Thank you, Claire! 
 
 Claire \_going to the door behind which 
 Helene is waiting]. Come, Helene ! 
 
 \_Enter Helene.] 
 
 I accept a great responsibility: I shall never 
 abandon the woman who is about to become Rob- 
 ert's wife! I cannot be expected to be a real 
 friend — an affectionate friend — but I promise 
 to be a devoted sister. When you are in trou- 
 ble come to me. 1 offer you this in all loyalty, 
 Helene ! 
 
 Duke. Let us go to Robert — ! 
 
 [He steps back, allozcing Helene and Claire 
 46
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 to pass him. Claire allows Helene to precede 
 her out of the room. Helene gives evidence 
 of extreme nervousness as the Duke and 
 Claire look at her. 
 
 The curtain falls only after the stage is 
 empty and the door closed.^ 
 
 [Curtain.] 
 
 47
 
 ACT III 
 
 [A villa in the Jicighhorhood of Nice, sit- 
 uated in the open country. The scene repre- 
 sents a large room elegantly but rather flashily 
 furnished, the kind usually found in rented 
 houses at seaside resorts. Doors to the right 
 and left. At the back, all the way across the 
 stage is a large bay zvindozu, through which 
 the sea appears sparkling under a brilliant sky. 
 To the left, outside, a reef with the foam of 
 waves breaking over it. 
 
 Robert is alone, stretched out on a sofa. 
 His legs are covered with a plaid blanket. He 
 appears to be asleep. Enter Helcne; she 
 closes the door noiselessly and approaches the 
 sofa on tip-toe. Robert opens his eyes and 
 speaks to her without turning his head.] 
 
 Robert. Is that you, Helene? 
 
 Helene [leaning over him and kissing his fore- 
 head]. Yes, Have you had a nice sleep? 
 
 Robert. Couldn't close my eyes! I tossed 
 about, thinking, always thinking! That attack 
 yesterday — If my mother hadn't happened to 
 come in the moment I lost consciousness, I should 
 have died — [Pressing his hand to his lips.] 
 There's always that taste of blood in my mouth! 
 The hemorrhage there, ready to choke me any 
 
 48
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 moment ! — What about this south that was go- 
 ing to cure me? This famous south! 
 
 Helene. We've been here hardly two weeks ! 
 It would be miraculous if already — 
 
 Robert [interrupting her]. My poor girl, 
 our marriage ! the first month isn't over yet — [A 
 long pause, during which he Jiolds her hand 
 pressed to his lips.] Why didn't they bring 
 Henri this morning? Where is he? 
 
 Helene. In front of the house, playing in 
 the sand. [Going toward the window.] Shall 
 I call and have him brought in? 
 
 Robert. Later! I have so many things to 
 ask you to take care of! My parents are old, 
 soon you will be the only one left. And you'll 
 need help so badly. [JFith an effort.] And — 
 dearest! It's impossible for me to conceive that 
 your happiness no longer depends on me alone! 
 
 Helene [gravely]. It is in your hands, Rob- 
 ert. 
 
 Robert. What do you mean? 
 
 Helene. Listen : I should never have spoken 
 of this unless you had begun. I should have 
 preferred to be miserable till the last. But since 
 you have opened the subject — Please, Robert, 
 arrange matters so that if — if I have to lose you, 
 I can go off with little Henri w^herever I wish. I 
 want a home of my own. 
 
 Robert [rising]. Leave the family? Here I 
 was deeply concerned because I was afraid you 
 would be left alone, and now you ask to be ! 
 
 Helene. W^ithout you, do you think I could 
 be anything else but alone? Among these peo- 
 ple whom I am afraid of ? Yes, afraid! Of the 
 
 49
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Duke especially! I should be completely at his 
 mercy! I don't even dare raise my voice against 
 him now ! Help me ! They despise me ! 
 
 Robert. I have never heard a word from 
 them to cause my wife to be ashamed or humili- 
 ated. I should never have allowed it ! 
 
 Helene. Not a word has been spoken! 
 They are forced to treat me as an equal, and 
 they do their duty! They are heroically polite, 
 so polite that when the slightest attention is paid 
 me, I blush with shame ! 
 
 Robert. You don't mean Claire? Claire is 
 very good to you, isn't she? 
 
 liELENE [ironically]. Tome? Claire? 
 
 Robert. Don't you think so? If it hadn't 
 been for her, perhaps we should never have been 
 married. Mother thought it her duty to raise 
 every imaginable objection: but Claire made God 
 knows what oath to her, and the objections dis- 
 appeared. After the ceremony, do you remem- 
 ber how she found occasion — awkwardly enough 
 — to say that she knew of the existence of the 
 child, and that he should not be kept from her 
 any longer out of respect for her? What made 
 my father decide to come ahead here and get 
 this house for us? Who went with him? Who 
 found this hidden retreat, where we can now en- 
 joy peace with our son for a little while? I think 
 we owe pretty nearly everything to Claire! 
 
 Helene. Do you think she has done all this 
 for my sake? She swallowed her dislike for me 
 for the sake of the baby, because that baby is 
 the future of her family; she would make any sac- 
 rifice for that! 
 
 50
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 Robert. Very noble of her! So much the 
 worse for those who disparage her for doing 
 it! The honor of manlcind is in itself a small 
 and insignificant handful of sacrifices, but it typi- 
 fies all that is sublime. 
 
 Helene [with dignity']. Very well, I can't 
 see it in that light ! I was born without your 
 ideas, your delicacy of feeling about those things ! 
 [^Becoming excited.] But do they think I have 
 no feelings at all ? They make me feel from morn- 
 ing to night that I am an inferior being, and must 
 be treated as such ! If I weren't a poor simple 
 fool — ! I must stand it all because I love! 
 
 Robert [/;/ consternat'wn]. Helene! The 
 idea ! To think you could imagine I was hurting 
 you by what I said ! This only goes to show how 
 easily you are offended! My parents don't feel 
 that way about you ! 
 
 Helene [ironically]. You think so? 
 
 Robert. Certainly. Why should Claire and 
 I hav-e different ideas from yours? Does our 
 education, which you had no opportunity of hav- 
 ing, make you an inferior creature? We all look 
 into the heavens at night: the stars belong to 
 every one ! You might at least humor me, and 
 let me preserve the illusion that keeps me alive ! 
 It is true, I am proud of my title! They say 
 that riches is merely accumulated labor; well, no- 
 bility is merely accumulated honor. Helene, 
 don't let me think that you despise the nobility: 
 it is your first duty to educate our child to re- 
 spect it. 
 
 Helene. My dear, I shall do my full duty 
 by the child, provided he remains my child, and 
 
 51
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 not the child of a tyrannical and jealous clan I 
 Believe me, O Robert! Could I talk so calmly 
 of the time when you won't be with us any longer, 
 if I didn't think I was standing at this moment 
 before the very gates of hell ? ! Save me ! Don't 
 let them drag me back with them to that dreary 
 home, where sad-faced members of the House of 
 Chantemelle live and look like antique armor! I 
 have loved you because you were the only one 
 in that place who had a heart like mine! It 
 would break that heart, Robert, if — 
 
 Robert. But why should I oppose my author- 
 ity to theirs? Legally they have no rights over 
 you ! They can't force you ! 
 
 Helene. I haven't the courage to resist! If 
 I went back to Chantemelle I should never leave ! 
 If I wanted to go away, they would all combine 
 against me, say I perjured myself, and then I 
 should be humble and say nothing — OK, it would 
 be horrible ! Save me from that, Robert ! 
 
 Robert. I am already sorry I made you my 
 nurse ! I can't promise you your liberty after you 
 are through with me ! I'll put it in my will that 
 you shall live where you like, and I'll tell Claire 
 about it. 
 
 Helene [anxiously]. Why speak to her? 
 She will never agree with you ! She will only op- 
 pose you and make you worse ! Only promise to 
 put that in your will: that will be enough. 
 
 Robert. Claire is not used to my doing things 
 without consulting her; I couldn't consent to 
 separating you from the family without speak- 
 ing to her and telling her my reasons for doing 
 so. Don't worry, she may disagree with me as 
 
 52
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 much as she pleases, I shall not give in: you have 
 my word for it! 
 
 [^Enter Claire. She has been out-doors, and 
 wears a zvalking-siiit; under her arm is a 
 card-board /;oa\] 
 
 Clairp: [taking off her gloves and hat]. The 
 sun is blinding. I went to the customs office to 
 sketch the reef, but the sea was a perfect blaze! 
 I could hardly see a thing! 
 
 Helene. What do you find so interesting 
 about the reef? Haven't you already three draw- 
 ings of it in your album? 
 
 Claire. That stone pinnacle which seems to 
 totter when the waves break over it fascinates me ! 
 It's like a fisherman standing in the water. 
 
 Robert. Or a shepherd guarding his sheep. 
 — Look, the flock is jumping about now ! 
 
 Claire [smiling]. Flock?! How common 
 that word would have sounded over there while 
 I was sketching! — I imagined — ! That boil- 
 ing tide — why, even in the calmest weather it 
 seems as if there were creatures beneath it forc- 
 ing it up, in order to rise up to the sun — Sirens, 
 maybe, who regret the times when they danced 
 and gamboled on the beach ! I'm sure they used 
 to live around my rock, those divine cruel crea- 
 tures ! 
 
 Robert [laughing']. Divine? Why? Because 
 they brought poor unfortunate sailors and cabin- 
 boys to their doom? 
 
 Claire. I'm afraid so! Yet I think they 
 weren't so dangerous as they are said to be ! 
 You remember once how a certain warrior who 
 was on a quest for some Golden Fleece or other, 
 
 53
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 allowed himself to be charmed by their song — 
 and did they make a meal of him? Of course 
 not! They filled him full of good counsels, and 
 conducted him to the island where he found the 
 treasure he was looking for. Another time, 
 among a number of shipwrecked wretches, was an 
 old man who had embarked to go and preach 
 the gospel of Christ Crucified to the savages; 
 in the very teeth of the cannibal goddesses, he 
 ■made public profession of his faith, and over- 
 came terrible opposition in the midst of the 
 storm — the revelers ate no more that night ! 
 The shining bodies and tresses of the Sirens, 
 green with seaweed, triumphantly escorted the 
 missionary to the shore whence he was going to 
 drive the idol; then they — the Sirens — idols 
 themselves, plunged back into the deep and ap- 
 peared no more. 
 
 Robert. What imagination! That must be 
 champagne foam around your reef! The sea is 
 positively going to your head ! 
 
 Claire. Make fun of me, that's right! If 
 the sea makes me romantic, what do the forests 
 do to you? When you come back to Chante- 
 melle after a long trip, the first thing you do is 
 run to the woods, all alone, dressed like a com- 
 mon thief, — and at night to hear you tell what 
 you found by all your dear old hedges — ! 
 
 Robert. Oh, the woods of Chantemellel 
 How often have I wandered about them! I've 
 never been really happy away from them ! But 
 that doesn't prevent my loving the sea ! The 
 woods and the sea have a great attraction for 
 me. I have always liked to hunt, and it wasn't 
 
 54
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 the mere killing of animals that I enjoyed: there 
 was something else. It was the thick under- 
 brush, the unknown! I used to listen, tingling 
 with joy, to the moaning of the wind, at first far- 
 off, then rushing on, wave after wave — grandly, 
 mysteriously — and all at once, the tops of the 
 birches would begin to wave high over my head, 
 and the pines and saplings would sway, and I was 
 in the midst of the whirlwind! Then to hear the 
 boars cracking the dry sticks, breaking through 
 hedges — you'd think they were the fauns of old 
 Greece ! Then the boar comes out into the open- 
 ing, a big black thing, hair bristling, tail twisted 
 up in a knot! There is your faun! And the 
 light tread of the wolves over the dead leaves! — 
 Head lowered, ears alert, digging round some 
 briar — he looks up, and then vanishes Heaven 
 knows where. And then the lantern reflections 
 of the foxes over the snow! Oh, to think of all 
 that now ! 
 
 Helene [seated a little distance from him, 
 and trying to attract attention to herself^. Yes, 
 you prefer the forests to the sea! 
 
 Robert. I like both, but not in the same way. 
 The aristocrat in me loves those old trees, as 
 old as we are, that spread their protecting arms 
 over the multitudes. Are we not the brothers 
 of the pines and giant hemlocks? I never wan- 
 der about among them without assuming their 
 splendid attitude of arrogance. I soar high above 
 the fields, drink in the light and the pure air and 
 proudly scatter acorns and pine-nuts to the fam- 
 ished countryside, — Here by the sea another be- 
 ing awakes within me ; the waves come in never- 
 
 55
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 ending procession and break, on the beach, each 
 decked out in diamonds by the sun — small in 
 calm weather, gigantic in the storm. Then I say 
 to myself, " Here is a far different image of man- 
 kind from what I get in the forests." The 
 uniformity of those waves, bearing forever the 
 burden of the fleets of the world, those waves that 
 are doomed to eternal unrest — there is some- 
 thing monotonous in all that, too monotonous for 
 my forester's instinct! Then I wonder whether 
 men can ever make their way through life like 
 the waves, without jostling, wrangling, and hurt- 
 ing one another. Then 1 am seized with fear: 
 I am afraid that the wave of humanity, if all men 
 are made equal, like the waves of the sea, will 
 continue to rise up and up, mysteriously attracted 
 from above ! — Here I am, part forester, part 
 man of the sea — the trees and the hedges and the 
 waves ! 
 
 Claire. Oh, Robert, how truly we are 
 brother and sister! From birth we have been 
 buried in the old chateau, discouraged because we 
 had nothing to do, looking to the winds and the 
 woods, the waves and the clouds to sing us the song 
 of life. I never read much, but I have heard it 
 said that everything nowadays is bad; yet these 
 forces in nature paint for me the life of the past. 
 You, you question them for the future — which of 
 us is right? 
 
 Robi:rt [^facing Claire^. I ! To speak of the 
 future and to die to-morrow is futile enough; 
 but I have a son, and I live in agony wondering 
 what his destiny will be. Poor little one, 1 fear 
 I have given him a mournful heritage in taking 
 
 56
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 him into this family ! Will he hav^e a place of 
 his own to breathe in and think, as I never had? 
 No, I never had that, even at Chantemelle ! I 
 have loved you all, but I was never able to talk 
 with you without getting into a dispute — oh, that 
 eternal wrangling! [Smiling. '\ I became a So- 
 cialist to spite Father, a Freethinker to spite 
 Mother, a Republican to spite you — and the 
 whole thing ended in recriminations ! When I 
 went to Paris to complete my studies, I was again 
 wofully out of place: nearly all my fellow-students 
 held radically different views from ours. / ought 
 to have been able to get along with them — but 
 I couldn't! I was more dogmatic with them than 
 Father is with us, more religious than Mother, 
 more Royalist than you. There are declasses of 
 high rank, as well as of low — I am one of the 
 former. I am Intellectually in sympathy with the 
 present generation, but my heart is with the past! 
 Wherever I go, half of me is an exile. I must 
 save my son from this torture ! 
 
 Claire. Of course you must! He w^ill never 
 be like you, who never dared be yourself except 
 alone with your books, who were afraid that the 
 living might perceive in you a radical, a revolu- 
 tionist against the family! He will keep up with 
 his times, — I am even willing to bury my dislikes 
 and become modern in order to be with him my- 
 self. But you will not object, will you, to my 
 keeping my old pride deep down in my heart? I 
 shall explain to him later all your ideas about the 
 nobility: the source of true chivalry! 
 
 Robert. In the joy of being a father, I had 
 hoped for that, and I finally brought you to 
 
 57
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 think as I did. But these last few days I have 
 been discouraged — I have to come down to earth 
 again! It may be that my sickness makes me be- 
 lieve I foresee the downfall of all our family, 
 while only / am dying. No matter! I'm only 
 too glad not to have to explain to my son all the 
 doubts that have arisen in me: that awful past 
 that seems like a drag on our future ! I confide 
 him to you, who are tall and dignified like the 
 pines, healthy and clear-seeing! My son will 
 have only to look about him to find the finest ex- 
 amples of honor and bigness of spirit: Father is 
 loyalty and probity incarnate, and you would never 
 tell a lie even to save your life! 
 
 Claire [agitated]. You may be sure of me: 
 I shall look after your son so well that not the 
 shadow of a base thought can reach him. 
 
 Helene [goes to Robert, takes him aside, 
 and speaks to him.] Oh, Robert! To confide 
 our son to the family before me, after your 
 promise! I thought I could trust you, Robert! 
 
 Robert [aside to Helene]. Oh, I'm terribly 
 sorry ! Forgive me, Helene ! You have my 
 word, and you may depend upon it more than 
 ever! 
 
 Helene [shrugging her shoulders, as she goes 
 to the zvindow]. There, I hear him crying! 
 [Looking out the windozv.] Oh, that nurse! — 
 Talk ahead about your grand ideas, Mama is 
 going to look after baby! 
 
 [She takes a garden-hat from the rack and goes 
 out.] 
 
 Robert [going to Claire]. Claire, Claire, 
 you speak about little Henri as if he had no 
 
 58
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 mother! There, you see, she's the one who really 
 takes care of him ! 
 
 Claire [s7}iilwg'\. Robert, you are to blame! 
 You tell us what you want done with the boy, and 
 you always speak to me about it in his mother's 
 presence. 
 
 Robert. I didn't mean to do that. I was 
 speaking to you both. But you are not kind to 
 Helene. What's the matter? Helene has been 
 telling me that after I'm gone It will be impos- 
 sible for her to live with you. She means to set- 
 tle where she will not be humiliated later on in 
 the presence of her son. 
 
 Claire [astonished]. She wants to take the 
 child away? Did she say that? What did you 
 say? 
 
 Robert. I'm sorry, but I told her she was 
 right. In my will, I shall make provision for her 
 to live independently. 
 
 Claire [at her zvits' end]. Robert, don't do 
 that! 
 
 Robert. I promised her. 
 
 Claire. Don't do it! 
 
 Robert. Claire, I am as sorry as you are to 
 have the child taken from the hereditary home; 
 there are certain sacred things I should have liked 
 him to grow up to feel; but you can't ex- 
 pect a woman of Hclene's age to remain buried 
 alive for the rest of her life! 1 he moment she 
 suffers from your contact, and says she does, I 
 want her to be left free. Won't she be free any- 
 way? I shall ask her, beg her, to stay at Chante- 
 melle, but who can force her against her wishes? 
 In a year's time, she might leave you, hating and 
 
 59
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 despising you all — all you have to do is make 
 her wish to be with you, by love, by affection. 
 
 Claire. Whatever you do, leave us the child! 
 Listen to me: I tell you, this is a matter of the 
 gravest importance ! 
 
 Robert. Let you have the child?! I once 
 asked you to take him, and you refused; now / 
 refuse! The child belongs to his mother, and if 
 Helene consents to abandon him, then I should be 
 the first — Why — ! 
 
 Claire. To have a Duke of Chantemelle 
 educated by Helene Vatrin — to have him grow 
 up with her ideas, out of sympathy with our be- 
 liefs, our faith?! Would you allow that? To 
 think that a creature like Helene could so deceive 
 you — ! Now I see what you meant when you 
 spoke about the uniformity of the waves and the 
 vision of a new mankind! Her ideas, the ideas 
 of a woman of the common people have taken 
 root in you ! You try to make those ideas fit in 
 with your own, you are blinded because they please 
 you — you are infected with them ! Robert, 
 come to yourself! Before your marriage, you 
 swore to me that if Helene were not the mother 
 of your child, you would not marry her! Now 
 you are sacrificing your son to her ! 
 
 Robert. Very well, admit that I am; you 
 forget one thing: our parents are getting old. 
 Llelene will of necessity be the only one left to 
 take care of her son ! There's the sacrifice ! 
 
 Claire. I am young, and I am stronger than 
 Helene! I offer my whole life, Robert, for your 
 son. 
 
 60
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 Robert [^struggling to dominate his emotion']. 
 Impossible ! 
 
 Claire. Then why did you speak to me, and 
 me alone, — not long ago, — when you were tell- 
 ing how the future Duke de Chantemelle ought 
 to be educated? Wasn't I the only one who un- 
 derstood? 
 
 Robert. Stop it! 
 
 Claire. Then in your opinion Helene is my 
 equal? 
 
 Robert. Claire, you are prejudiced against 
 Helene; and you have a right to judge: your life 
 has been spotless. But you must look at things 
 from a different point of view. You are no 
 longer a little girl. Remember, a w^oman may 
 make a slip and yet remain worthy of respect: 
 Helene is such a woman. 
 
 Claire. Don't leave your son with her! 
 
 Robert. Oh — ! Well? 
 
 Claire. Remember, Robert, remember, Ma- 
 demoiselle Vatrin was dismissed from Chante- 
 melle for misbehavior — 
 
 Robert. She loved me! 
 
 Claire [driven to despair]. Loved — every- 
 body!! 
 
 [Enter the Duke, from one of the rooms at the 
 side.] 
 
 Duke. Claire, are you mad? You shout — ! 
 I heard you from the smoking-room. You know 
 what the doctors say? You, too, Robert? 
 
 Claire. We are facing a greater danger than 
 that! Father, I was willing, as you were, for 
 Robert to marry — you know why, — you know 
 
 6i
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 what it cost me ! That was for the sake of the 
 family, for the future, for Henri: the hope of us 
 all. Well, that's over now, we have only to look 
 at the wreckage — and regret what we have done. 
 Why didn't we think of one simple thing, that 
 Henri before belonging to us belongs to his 
 mother? And last of all, here is Robert who is 
 going to make provision in his will for Helene to 
 leave us and take away her child ! 
 
 Duke [to Robert]. Is this true? 
 
 Robert. Yes. 
 
 Duke. Don't do it! 
 
 Robert. It is my right. 
 
 Duke. It is! But don't do it! 
 
 Robert. Give me a reason. 
 
 Duke. A thousand, if you like. 
 
 Claire [to the Duke]. I have told him — all 
 I could tell him ! 
 
 Duke. There are others! Helene's origin, 
 for instance — of course, we don't wish to re- 
 proach her — ! Things are done in these days 
 that make the blood run cold! Even if ours were 
 the most obscure of names, I should still say, 
 save our honor: don't leave it in the hands of that 
 woman ! 
 
 Robert. I refuse to allow you to insult 
 Helene ! 
 
 Duke [rising to his full hc'ujht]. You re- 
 fuse ? ! 
 
 Robert [making a great effort]. I am weak, 
 but you cannot bend me. If you say a single in- 
 sulting word against her, I'll leave the house and 
 take her with me ! 
 
 Duke. She is now out there in the garden; 
 62
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 let her come in and talk to me, face to face, about 
 her rights ! Let her dare ! Let her — ! 
 
 Claire. She will be a little less proud then ! 
 
 Robert. She will come here, to pack the 
 trunks and follow me ! 
 
 Duke. I shall keep the child, in spite of his 
 mother. 
 
 Robert. He is mine! 
 
 Duke. Ours ! 
 
 Robert. Mine! 
 
 Duke [menacingl. Ours! 
 
 Claire [frightened]. Father ! Listen to me ! 
 
 Duke [thrusting Claire aside]. You go away! 
 This is between us ! 
 
 Claire. Father! 
 
 Duke. Go! 
 
 [He takes Claire by the shoulders, and 
 thrusts her out of the room. She remains 
 behind the door, however, which is not quite 
 closed.] 
 
 Duke [goes quickly to Robert, overcome with 
 rage]. Now! She was mine before she was 
 yours! I committed the crime of letting you 
 marry her in order that the family might not die 
 out with you ! I don't intend to let you take 
 from us the child we have all paid so dearly for! 
 He belongs to the family; I forbid you to lay 
 hands on him! There! I think that is all! 
 [Suddenly calm and dignified.] Now, if you 
 think I should die, I am ready. 
 
 Robert [looks his father in the eyes for a long 
 time, then walks zvith unsteady steps toward the 
 door. As he is about to leave, he summons up 
 all his reserve strength]. One of us has to die! 
 
 63
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 \^He goes out, tottering. Claire is seen he- 
 hind the door; she receives hiin in her 
 arms.] 
 Duke [going to the window and calling]. 
 Helene, come here ! 
 
 Helene [outside]. Why? It's so lovely 
 outdoors. 
 
 Duke [stamping on the floor]. Come here! 
 [In a voice of thunder.] I tell you, come here ! 
 [He returns to the center of the room, and 
 stands waiting, his eyes fixed upon the door. 
 Enter Hclhie; the moment she sees the ex- 
 pression on the Dukes face, she is terror- 
 stricken.] 
 Duke [bruskly]. You have tried to steal 
 our child! — You bear one of the most honorable 
 names in France, you are rich and respected — 
 you ought to be satisfied. You have asked for 
 more, and you will now receive justice. I have 
 told everything to Robert. 
 
 Helene [sobbing]. My God! 
 Duke. My words have sacrificed a life: 
 either Robert's or mine — I don't know which. 
 I told Robert I was willing to die — he said that 
 one of us must, and he is right. He is now try- 
 ing to find a way that will avoid all scandal, and 
 he will succeed, I know he will ! 
 
 [Enter Claire. The Duke questions her zvith 
 
 a look.] 
 Claire. He says nothing! I wanted to talk 
 with him — he gave me such a look — ! I 
 didn't dare stay with him! He knows that I 
 knew everything — ! 
 
 Duke. Repeat it to him, word for word; 
 64
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 don't leave him ! The only honor in my crime 
 is that you, the soul of purity, are my accom- 
 plice! Go and tell him: he must not have the 
 shadow of a doubt! 
 
 [Enter the Duchess. 1 
 
 Duchess. What has happened? Robert is 
 terribly changed ! I found him nearly dead in a 
 chair! When he saw me, he got up and told me 
 he was leaving for Chantemelle to-night. I 
 couldn't argue with him ! 
 
 Claire [going to the Duke, and looking him 
 straight in the face]. That will kill him I It 
 was twenty degrees below zero there yesterday! 
 
 Duchess. I told him, but he wouldn't listen. 
 I told him I would find Helene for him, and his 
 face was — ! Now I remember, the moment I 
 pronounced Helene's name, he turned white as 
 snow! We can't let him go away like that! 
 Helene, why aren't you with him now? 
 
 Helene [in terror]. No, no, not now! No! 
 
 Duchess. Have you and Robert — ? Only 
 this morning you were talking together — What's 
 the matter? 
 
 [Helene gives a vague gesture.] 
 
 Duke. Helene had better stay here ! You 
 see she is very nervous. She's not well! She 
 can't go to him ! ! 
 
 Duchess [to the Duke]. Then you speak to 
 Robert, you have so much influence with him ! 
 
 DvKE [hesitating]. I? I can't go ! [Glanc- 
 ing at Claire significantly]. Claire, you ought to 
 speak to him. 
 
 Duchess. But why not you, Henri? Why, 
 you are nearly as pale as Helene ! Are you afraid 
 
 6S
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 of something? You, too, Claire! Your face is 
 changed ! 
 
 Claire. There's nothing strange, Mother! 
 I am afraid for Robert! 
 
 Duchess. Why do you look at your father 
 that way? What's the matter? You are hid- 
 ing something from me, all of you ! There is 
 some secret — what is it? Am T the only one in 
 the house not to know? Hclcne, tell me! 
 [Ht'lt'ue hides her face in her hands, sobbing, as 
 the Duchess looks at licr in silence.^ Helene, this 
 is not the first time I have asked you a question — 
 the last time you behaved as you do now — . Cry, 
 cry now, if you like, but you are going to tell me ! 
 
 Duke. Never mind her, I'll answer for her! 
 
 Claire [terrified]. Let me tell her! 
 
 Duchess. You, Claire? Last summer you 
 begged me to send her away from Chantemelle; 
 you gave me no reasons, and I asked for none. 
 We were face to face, both of us quivering with 
 fear. Your eyes spoke — spoke and told me — 
 what Robert has just found out ! It's too hor- 
 rible ! Such shame in our house ! And she has 
 married our son! And you, Claire, knew all the 
 time! And you never said a word! Oh, I don't 
 know what I — ! And you knew — ! 
 
 Claire. Mother, since I've known this se- 
 cret, I haven't had a moment's peace of mind — I 
 have sacrificed all to something that is greater than 
 we are — 
 
 Duchess. Nothing is more sacred than an 
 oath — you have no sense of honor if you be- 
 lieve otherwise ! 
 
 Claire. I was thinking only of the child. 
 66
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 Duchess. The child! Ha! The poorest 
 of peasants cries when he loses his son, and when 
 Robert dies you won't think of him — his son to 
 you is only a title! If the title is saved, you are 
 happy ! The child will live in glory and honor, 
 no matter what infamies are committed to save 
 the title! And all for a poor little bastard — 
 
 Duke. Don't insult the child! Robert will 
 not allow it ! 
 
 Duchess. Robert will not — ! [She breaks 
 out into tears.~\ Your own son, killed by you — 
 let him decide — don't ask anything of me — 
 
 [Enter Robert, his face deadly pale. He can 
 hardly walk; but he shows great strength in 
 his efforts. As soon as she sees him, the 
 Duchess assumes an attitude of outward 
 calm. Claire goes to him at once, and helps 
 him to walk.~\ 
 
 Robert. Let us forget ourselves for the time 
 being, and save little Henri: he is the family, 
 think of him! 
 
 Duchess. We'll do anything, only stay with 
 us ! 
 
 Robert. I am going to the Ardennes this 
 evening — I have presentiments, and I am never 
 mistaken about them: this time, I feel that death 
 is not far away, and when it comes I want to be 
 there, with my memories of the past: not only of 
 my youth, but of all our glorious past ! I feel 
 I have lived for centuries and centuries ! The 
 trip will doubtless cut short my life by a few days, 
 but I shall at least have shown you what devotion 
 to an ideal is ! 
 
 Duke. An ideal? 
 
 67
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Robert. Yours, ours: the honor of our name. 
 Helene and Claire and I are going. You may 
 stay here with Mother and the httle one, if you 
 like; you may bring little Henri back with you to 
 Chantemelle when the bad weather is over. 
 
 Claire. I am going with Robert. I — I ad- 
 mire him — so much! [To Hclhic.^ Come 
 Helene, we have to get ready, and help Robert — 
 Come — 
 
 [Helene follows Claire out of the room, ivalking 
 as if she were in a dream.] 
 
 Duke [riveted to the floor]. Robert, I have 
 abdicated! You are the head of the family! 
 Command, they will all obey you ! — Good-by ! — 
 
 [He picks up his hat and overcoat, and goes out 
 to the beach. The Duchess throws herself 
 into Robert's arms, convulsed with sobs.] 
 
 [Curtain.] 
 
 68
 
 ACT IV 
 
 [The same scene as in the first two acts. It 
 is night. The door upstage to the left ^ is 
 open; the passage formed by this door is trans- 
 formed into a chapel, brightly lighted by 
 candles where the body of Robert is exposed 
 upon a bier. 
 
 The Duchess and Claire are kneeling in 
 prayer before the bier. About them are numer- 
 ous peasants, men and women, who from time 
 to time cast a glance at the body and pray. 
 
 Down-stage to the left sits the Duke, his arms 
 resting on the table, his face buried in his hands. 
 Behind him, near the principal entrance to the 
 room, stands a servant in livery, who conducts 
 the peasants back and forth during the first part 
 of the act. — The peasants go first to the bier, 
 say a " Pater," then cross themselves and go 
 out. Some sprinkle holy water on the body. 
 
 For about a minute after the curtain rises, 
 no one speaks. — The visitors enter, then bow 
 ceremoniously to the Duke, who rarely raises 
 his eyes. 
 
 A large Farmer, as he leaves the bed, ap- 
 proaches the Duke and offers his condolence. 
 
 The Farmer is dressed in his best clothes.] 
 
 1 When the play was produced at the Theatre Libre, the bier 
 was placed up-stage, center, the head of the body touching the 
 back wall, the feet pointing toward the footlights. — Tr. 
 
 69
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 The Farmer. Ah, Monsieur le due, it's very 
 sad! Such a young man! And so strong! See 
 him galloping away all winter with his dogs! — 
 Maybe he v.ore himself out doing that? Why, 
 my wife was telling me only this morning, he 
 wasn't afraid of anything, not he! And last 
 Sunday, sick as he was, we saw him at High Mass 
 
 — and then he went to the cemetery to see the old 
 graves of his ancestors; and he didn't wear a hat 
 
 — he was there most a quarter of an hour! 
 There was no sense in that! He must 've done it 
 on purpose — 
 
 Duke. This Is a terrible blow for me, Renaud 
 
 — / ought to have been the first to go! 
 
 The FARNn:R. Oh, Monsieur le due is like a 
 rock yet! — Monsieur Robert used to come 
 around to the farm often — he liked us farmers, 
 and the animals too ! He'd 've been a fine master 
 to us later on ! 
 
 Duke. We shall do our best to have his son 
 resemble him; he must make the same friends for 
 Chantemelle as his father did! 
 
 [The Duke shakes hands ivith the Fanner, ivho 
 
 goes out. 
 After the peasants cease coming in, enter a 
 Neighbor. He zvears a fur rap and carries 
 a heavy cane; his thick boots and leather leg- 
 gings proclaim him a hunter. His trousers 
 and coat are of black cloth. The servant 
 points out the Duke to him.^ 
 The Neighbor [going to the Duke]. My 
 dear friend! [They shake hands cordially.] I 
 just heard the sad news this noon. Fd gone out 
 early in the morning shooting wild geese — when 
 
 70
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 I got back for lunch they told me. — So you didn't 
 arrive soon enough? 
 
 Duke, We arrived just an hour ago. 
 
 The Neighbor. It was over last night, wasn't 
 it? 
 
 Duke. We received the telegram at four in 
 the afternoon. 
 
 The Neighbor. Just in time to catch the 
 train? 
 
 Duke. Yes! 
 
 The Neighbor [tiirmng toward the body]. 
 He's there! Poor Robert! I'll go and see him 
 for the last time ! I don't like to disturb the 
 ladies; how are they? 
 
 Duke. Tired — utterly worn out — 
 
 The Neighbor. Mademoiselle Claire was 
 here, wasn't she? 
 
 Duke. Yes — she was admirable — my 
 daughter-in-law was here, too. 
 
 The Neighbor. If I can be of any service, 
 I—? 
 
 \_The Duke bows his head sadly, shakes hands 
 again with the Neighbor, who goes toward 
 the body. The Duke accompanies him. 
 The Duke is intercepted by a Nun who enters 
 through the door, down-stage to the left. 
 She ivas Robert's nurse during his last ill- 
 ness.] 
 
 The Nun. Monsieur le due, they tell me the 
 village blacksmith is waiting to close the coffin. 
 
 Duke. We've been here hardly an hour! 
 The Duchess wants to keep her son a little longer! 
 Must he — ? 
 
 The Nun. Yes! 
 
 71
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Duke. Try to keep the strangers out of the 
 way; I don't want any one by while his mother is 
 with him ! You may bring the men in a few mo- 
 ments — afterward ! 
 
 [ The Duke goes hack to his place. The Nun 
 tells the servant to admit uo one else, then 
 goes to Claire and zvhispers something to her, 
 while the servant sends the peasants out. 
 The Neighbor also leaves the room, then the 
 Nun. The Duchess remains at the foot of 
 the bier, oblivious of ichat is happening. 
 Claire goes to her father, and speaks zcith 
 him in an undertone.] 
 Clairi:. Father, they are going to close Rob- 
 ert's coffin — ! [Shozving him a sheet of paper 
 folded betzvcen the leaves of her prayer-book.'] 
 I want to read his will before us all, while he is 
 still with us. Then I shall tell you about his last 
 hours : not the agony, you know about that, but 
 his last wishes. They are worthy of him ! 
 
 Duke. You represent your brother: what you 
 wish shall be done. 
 
 Claire. Thank you. I am going to call 
 Helene — 
 
 \_She speaks a few words to the servant, who 
 
 goes out. At the same time the Duchess 
 
 rises, her face wet with tears, and joins her 
 
 husband. Claire comes to them.] 
 
 Duchess [looking toward the bier]. He 
 
 hasn't changed! He is sleeping! 
 
 Claire. He is ! He closed his eyes quietly 
 without the least struggle. His last thought was 
 the honor of the family — 
 
 Duchess. Was Helene there? 
 72
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 Claire. I called her toward the last. 
 
 Duchess. Did he recognize her? 
 
 Claire. He asked for her. 
 
 Duchess. Then she didn't go near him all 
 that week while he was sick? 
 
 Claire. Oh, yes, she was often with him; we 
 had no reason to send her away. Robert treated 
 her exactly as he had always done — there was 
 only one change in him : he had no desire to live — 
 
 Duchess [sobbintj/]. His prayer was an- 
 swered ! 
 
 Claire. Courage, Mother! You will need 
 a great deal to-day! I have sent for Helene: I 
 want you all to hear Robert's last wishes — 
 
 [The Duchess again kneels by the bier.^ 
 
 Duke. Your mother can't stand this — how 
 long will she be like that? 
 
 Claire. If she can only bear up until the 
 funeral is over ! 
 
 Duke. How foolish we were, Claire, to think 
 that with a secret like this we could live together 
 happily! We can stand the strain now, and for 
 some time to come, but — after ? 
 
 Claire. Then Mother will not suffer so! 
 She loves you too much, she understands her re- 
 ligion too well to leave you. 
 
 Duke. But when I have to face Helene — 
 
 Claire. Helene will be no obstacle — 
 
 Duke. Is she going to leave? Then she's 
 not going to take the child? I am sure Robert 
 will not allow him to be in unsafe hands. But 
 if Helene goes away by herself, what will people 
 think? 
 
 Claire. Have no fear about that! Helene 
 73
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 will not leave here alone. The martyrdom you 
 think Mother will have to suffer will be borne by 
 some one else. 
 
 Duke. You, Claire? 
 
 Claire [repressing the tears']. Please don't 
 ask me ! — What 1 have to look forward to is too 
 terrible to think about. Robert himself will tell 
 you what we are going to do. When you hear 
 the words from his mouth then I shall tell you 
 what is to become of me. 
 
 [Enter Helcne. She stands in the center of 
 the room. The Duke and Claire are dozvn- 
 stage to the right.] 
 Claire. Helene, my mother wishes to see 
 you — there ! 
 
 [Helene goes to the bier. She zvaits there 
 
 for the Duchess, who is still on her knees. 
 
 At last the Duchess rises, and she and 
 
 Helene face each other. The Duchess holds 
 
 her hand out, with her eyes still on the 
 
 body ; Helene takes her hand for a moment. 
 
 Then the Duchess goes to Claire and the 
 
 Duke. They are grouped as follows: the 
 
 Duke leaning on the table down-stage to the 
 
 right; the Duchess seats herself to the left, 
 
 Helcne remains standing before the bier; 
 
 Claire, standing in the center, reads the 
 
 will. ] 
 
 Claire [the will in hand]. Here is Robert's 
 
 will. The beginning is like those old wills of our 
 
 forefathers — I can imagine him making a cross 
 
 for a signature! [Reading.] 
 
 " In the name of the Father and the Son and 
 the Holy Spirit, I, Robert Charles-Henri de 
 
 74
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 Chantemelle, about to appear before God, ask 
 pardon for all the wrongs I have committed 
 against my people, and do solemnly swear that I 
 bear in my heart not the slightest resentment 
 against any one of them, whosoever he may be. 
 I wish my father to know that I felt as deeply 
 as he at the thought of the disappearance of our 
 family. He forgot that he was a father only to 
 remember that he was a duke. He had the 
 strength to crush certain sacred sentiments, I to 
 forget vengeance — I thank God for taking my 
 life at a time when such vengeance became im- 
 possible for me. 
 
 " On my death, I ordain the following: 
 
 " I humbly beg my father and my mother to 
 continue their existence together in the true spirit 
 of Christian humility, after I am gone. I have 
 learned a valuable lesson from my mother, which 
 has greatly helped me, and taught me to die in 
 peace. 
 
 " Claire has nothing to reproach herself with 
 In regard to me. When at last she saw the im- 
 possibility of my surviving she fully realized her 
 responsibility. How willing she Is to expiate her 
 noble crime In trying to preserve the ancient glory 
 of our family ! 
 
 " I should be guilty of grave indelicacy were 
 I to record here what she has promised to do. 
 I leave it to her to explain In what way she Is 
 willing to sacrifice herself. Claire will be my 
 representative among you; I place Helene and 
 her child in Claire's hands. Whatever she shall 
 think best, will be my wish. 
 
 " I ask my parents to give to Helene the 
 75
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Chateau des Ecluses in Normandy. She promised 
 me to go there and consecrate her life to the educa- 
 tion of her son. She may be justly charged with 
 perjury if she deviates in the slightest degree from 
 this single end. I had the right to demand this 
 oath in return for the forgiveness I granted her." 
 [Hc'lene falls to he?' knees, then to the floor, over- 
 come. ~\ 
 
 " As soon as little Henri shall reach the age of 
 fifteen years, I authorize Helene to take him to 
 live in Paris for the sake of the superior educa- 
 tional facilities which are to be found only there. 
 The future Duke de Chantemelle must be well 
 educated: the idea that to his rank is to be added 
 personal worth must be inculcated in him. Noth- 
 ing should be neglected to make him a modern 
 man, in the deepest significance of the word: he 
 must love his country to-day, and understand its 
 glories and its greatness. We shall be lost if we 
 continue to prolong our hates and prejudices, 
 which in the times immediately following the 
 Revolution were quite pardonable, but which now- 
 adays are evidence only of laziness and selfish 
 egotism. The Revolution guillotined our fathers 
 who were at first so ready to sacrifice all for its 
 sake, but we use that argument as a pretext to com- 
 bat every attempt at social betterment. Let us 
 rather carry forward our own traditions by paying 
 for our well-intentioned errors with our lives, and 
 prove thereby that the nobility can at least furnish 
 an object-lesson of self-immolation, and pave the 
 way for the men of our time, too keen of mind, 
 and too forgetful of sentiment! When those who 
 are more unfortunate than we ask for more and 
 
 76
 
 THE FOSSILS 
 
 better conditions, let us be ready to put ourselves 
 at their head with the idea that those we are lead- 
 ing may fire upon us from behind ! The nobility 
 it seems to me has accomplished its ends and is a 
 thing of the past; it has been exploited too much 
 for the sake of wealth, and based too little upon 
 merit: it has ever remained closed to the great men 
 who have sprung from the people, and the people 
 have reciprocated. Before it finally disappears it 
 must by means of a pious lie give the same impres- 
 sion of grandeur of former times that is left by the 
 gigantic fossils which tell us of the greatness of 
 past ages ! 
 
 " Later, when my heir grows to manhood, I 
 ask that Claire tell him the manner of my death, 
 how his grandparents, his aunt, and his mother, 
 have sacrificed for him. In order that his name 
 should survive without a stain. He must under- 
 stand that this name, perpetuated by means of a 
 monstrous crime, should be borne with almost 
 superhuman dignity. I want Claire to repeat to 
 him what she said to me yesterday: ' Our lives 
 all end with yours. But what does that matter? 
 We have searched the whole field to find a little 
 flower!'" 
 
 Duchess [sobbing]. Robert! 
 
 Duke. His is the spirit of the race ! 
 
 Claire. There is something more: about me. 
 I promised Robert never to marry, and to live with 
 Helene all my life. 
 
 Duchess. No, no, Claire, not that! To 
 leave me all alone ! 
 
 Claire [cah7ily]. I made an oath to him! 
 [^Tiirning toward the bier.'\ Robert, again I swear 
 
 77
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 to follow your wife and your son wherever they 
 may go, and help them carry their name with 
 dignity through life. This I consider as a debt of 
 honor contracted in your favor the day I allowed 
 Helene to enter the family. She and I promise 
 to devote ourselves to the education of the child: 
 to make him first an honest man, and, better, 
 a man capable of dying for the sake of an idea — 
 as you said — and as you did — ! 
 
 Duchess. Claire — good-by! Let me say 
 good-by now : later, I couldn't ! 
 
 [Claire throivs herself into her another's arms. 
 They go tozvard the bier.^ 
 
 Duke [following them, makes a last prayer by 
 his son, then, after crossing himself, he goes 
 straight to Helene and looking her in the eyes says 
 in a calm, low voicel . Good-by — daughter ! 
 
 [He goes out.] 
 
 [Curtain.] 
 
 78
 
 The Serenade 
 
 {A Bourgeois Study) 
 
 Play in Three Acts 
 
 By 
 JEAN JULLIEN 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 BARRETT H. CLARK 
 
 Presented for the first time, in Paris, at the 
 Theatre Libre, December 23, 1887.
 
 To Henry Ceard 
 
 in grateful recognition 
 from his confrere 
 
 Jean Jullien.
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED: 
 
 Theodore Cottin, jeweler, j8 years old. 
 Calixte Poujade, Cottin's partner, ^5 years old. 
 Maxlme Champanet, 2^ years old. 
 Prosper Poujade, Poujade's nephew, 2y years 
 
 old. 
 DUMOULIN, 52 years old. 
 P'ouRNiER, servant. 
 A Customer. 
 
 Nathalie Cottin, Cottin's wife, jj years old. 
 Genevieve Cottin, Nathalie's daughter, 18 
 
 years old. 
 Celina Roulard, ig years old. 
 Leocadie Dumoulin, 43 years old. 
 Clemence, 18 years old. 
 Dodo, Theodore Cottin's son, g years old. 
 Country neighbors, servants. 
 
 The first act takes place in Cottin's jewelry 
 shop, Paris; the second at the Cottins' country 
 house; the third in the Cottins' dining room, Paris. 
 
 N.B. — The roles of Cottin and Poujade should 
 not be assumed by " comic " actors. 
 
 The theater should be dark.
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 ". . . This revolutionary Serenade, which 
 destroyed forever the conventional virgin- 
 ity of ingenues on the stage, and by its 
 happy delineation of the average bourgeois 
 created at once that type of play which 
 has since been termed the Theatre-Libre 
 play. . . ." (Henry Ceard, in Evene- 
 ment, October, 1891.) 
 
 ACT I 
 
 \_A jeweler's shop in the Palais-Royal. — At 
 the back a glazed door; right, a long table; a 
 door leading to the stair-case; down-stage, a 
 cash desk. — ^^fi, ^ round table, chairs, and a 
 door behind a portiere. — The furniture is 
 severe in style: dark wood with purple plush. 
 
 As the curtain rises, there is still some day- 
 light on the scene.'] 
 
 PoujADE \^seated before the cash desk, reading 
 a newspaper. Excitedly]. Another! This is 
 too much! — Prosper, did you hear about that 
 crime in the Rue des Vertus? 
 
 Prosper \_at the back, arranging jewel-boxes 
 upon a shelf]. No, Uncle. 
 
 PoujADE. Listen, my boy, and be warned once 
 for all on the comforts of marriage ! [Reading.] 
 " They had not been living on the best of 
 terms — " Ah! "Last night the neighborhood 
 
 85
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 was aroused by several revolver shots : the husband 
 had just fired upon the guilty pair when the neigh- 
 bors disarmed him. The lover was killed in- 
 stantly, the wife died two hours later." What do 
 you say to that, my lover? 
 
 Prosper. I say that there are evil women as 
 well as good; the main point is to choose wisely. 
 
 PoujADE. That's exactly where the wisest of 
 us are fooled, my dear Prosper: all women are 
 angels before marriage; afterward they're de- 
 mons ! Of course, I am the first to admit that Cot- 
 tin's daughter is perfect, adorable; she has — 
 every imaginable good quality; she's intelligent, 
 good-hearted — marry her, and then tell me what 
 you find out. 
 
 Prosper. Uncle, do you think that she — ! 
 Mademoiselle Genevieve is — 
 
 PoujADE [antlioritatively]. Let me finish! 
 In the matter of marriage I've had a little more 
 experience than you. I've escaped eleven mar- 
 riages in my life-time, and I thank God every day 
 for preserving me ! 
 
 Prosper. He was wrong to do it ! 
 
 PoujADE \^going to Prosper^. But don't you 
 see that some day or other with my quick temper 
 I might have done what that man in the Rue des 
 Vertus did? Bang! I'd have killed every one in 
 the affair and myself into the bargain! \^He 
 shrugs his shoulders and indicates by a gesture the 
 boxes ivhich Prosper has been arranging.'} An- 
 other wooden one — ? 
 
 [Enter DumouJin.~\ 
 
 Prosper [runs to him quickly. Smiling']. Ah, 
 Monsieur Dumoulin! 
 
 86
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 DUMOULIN [to Prosper]. How are you? 
 [To Poiijade, who has advanced from the cash 
 desk and stands holding out his hand.] How are 
 you, Monsieur Poujade? How is dear old Cot- 
 tin? And Madame Cottin, and Genevieve, and 
 Dodo; everybody? 
 
 Poujade. Splendid, Monsieur, splendid. 
 
 DuMOULiN. Good, good! How is business? 
 Always first-rate? Well, what can you expect, 
 changing parties this way, and with this set of 
 Deputies ! Say what you will, as long as they re- 
 fuse to make commercial laws for merchants, 
 and military laws for soldiers, they'll never get 
 anywhere. Every one to his trade ; then the tax- 
 payers are safe ! — Ah, the ladies at home told me 
 to ask whether Cottin had decided to go to the 
 country to-morrow? 
 
 Poujade. I'm sure I can't tell you. 
 
 Prosper. It depends on Madame, you know, 
 whether they go or not ; if she takes it into her head 
 to stay home, stay home she will. 
 
 DuMOULiN [looking at his watch]. I'm very 
 busy, and I'd like an answer. Is Cottin here? 
 Can I see him ? 
 
 Poujade. He's up-stairs, but he's told me 
 twice he doesn't want to be disturbed. Prosper, 
 go and rap at his door once more. 
 
 [Prosper goes out.] 
 
 DuMOULiN [maliciously]. I insist, because the 
 day after to-morrow I've made up my mind to fight 
 a duel with you at La Varenne. 
 
 Poujade. With me ? 
 
 DuMOULiN [laughing]. Yes, you: a duel to 
 death — for the seconds ! I want to see which of 
 
 87
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 us, with the same bait, will catch the most fish in 
 two hours! What do you say to that? 
 
 PoujADE. Not half bad ! You know every 
 corner, every shallow, every pool in the Marne, as 
 well as you do the shelves in your own shop ; and 
 you have nicknames for the fish. 
 
 DUMOULIN. We'll fish in the same place — 
 ril follow after you ! 
 
 PoujADE. Well, the fried fish you'll bring 
 home won't give any one indigestion ! 
 
 DuMOULiN [ziilh an air of oinniscicucc^. 
 We'll see, we'll see w^hether Normans are as good 
 as Gascons ! 
 
 Prosper [re-entering^. I rapped and rapped, 
 and Monsieur told me to go to the devil, and Ma- 
 dame said, " All right, all right, Monsieur will be 
 down in two minutes." 
 
 DuMOULlN. Hm! Family quarrel! I 
 oughtn't to interfere with a husband when he is so 
 occupied. Pll run along! I know what those 
 things are! Only this morning at my place, I had 
 one; and the reason — ! My wife wanted to put 
 on a yellow hat, said it was in style; you should 
 have heard her: " You haven't a grain of taste! 
 You're a tyrant! You never do anything for me ! 
 Is there a woman on earth as miserable as I ! — " 
 At your service. Monsieur Poujade; keep the duel 
 in mind. Good-by, Prosper. I'll look in again 
 to-morrow. 
 
 \^He shakes hands "ucith Prosper, and goes 0Ht.'\ 
 
 PoujADE [on the threshold]. Kind regards to 
 the ladies ! 
 
 [^Poujade and Prosper resume their places as 
 88
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 before. Footsteps are heard on the stairs. 
 Enter Cottin.^ 
 
 CoTTiN. Well, what V3 it? What is it you 
 want, Prosper? I have only a moment — 
 
 Prosper. Monsieur Dumoulin was here and 
 wanted to know if you were going to La Varenne 
 to-morrow, and Uncle told me to ask you — 
 
 PoujADE [interrupting]. Yes, the Dumoulins 
 it seems have organized a little party for Sunday 
 and they want to know if you'd like to go with 
 them. 
 
 Prosper [going to the door]. Shall I call him 
 back? 
 
 CoTTiN. Never mind. — How do I know 
 whether we're going to the country? How can 
 any one decide anything with Nathalie? A fish- 
 ing party! So you disturb me to tell me about a 
 thing like that? A fishing party with the Du- 
 moulins! If we go, they'll see us: they live next 
 to our villa ! — Pve been laying down the law to 
 my wife up-stairs for the last hour, and the mo- 
 ment I begin to get the upper hand you break in 
 and spoil everything! Now Pve got to start all 
 over again ! 
 
 PoujADE [going toward Cottin]. What's the 
 matter now? 
 
 CoTTiN [to Poiijade, at the foot of the stairs, as 
 Prosper goes back to his work]. Nothing new! 
 Same old thing! It's about Dodo! They're fill- 
 ing him so full of education that he won't know 
 anything; they'll kill him ! Think of it, a babe of 
 nine reciting fables ! You know, Poujade, now he 
 can't even talk! All day at his lessons! Scrib- 
 
 89
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 bling all the time I And that Monsieur Maxime 
 never leaves him, never does anything but scold his 
 pupil ! Are they going to make a professor of the 
 boy? Why on earth should he go into the Tech- 
 nical School if he's going to be a jeweler? And 
 they won't listen to me ! I wanted to send him to 
 boarding-school as I did his sister, and keep 
 him there till he was seventeen or eighteen — then 
 there wouldn't have been any question about all 
 this stuff now ! Nathalie went into hysterics. 
 No, don't make the child work, he's too delicate! 
 An education at the lycce wasn't good enough — 
 she had a thousand reasons. I had to give in. 
 
 PoujADE. And you a man of character! I 
 wouldn't let them pull my nose that way ! I'd say 
 "I want!" and I'd be obeyed!^ 
 
 CoTTlN. Of course, I don't know anything 
 about education and all that, so I ought to listen to 
 my wife. At bottom, I don't think she's all 
 wrong, but she exaggerates. If I'd had Latin 
 stuffed down my throat all day like Dodo, I'd have 
 gone crazy. Really, I'm worried about him. 
 
 PoujADE. Give in to your wife, old man, it's 
 your duty as a husband and father ! Struggle 
 with women? Never! \_Confid'ni(jly.^ But really, 
 Cottin, now I think of it, you can get rid of one of 
 your tyrants by marrying your daughter. 
 
 Cottin {^shrugging his shoulders]. You're 
 joking; she's too young anyway, and then you know 
 Genevieve is the dearest creature I have, and I'd 
 like to give her to my dearest friend. You're the 
 man, but unluckily you're a trifle too — old. [/« 
 an undertone.] Your heir! [Poiuling to Pros- 
 per.] 
 
 90
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 PoujADE. Not SO loud! If he heard you, 
 he'd be sick for joy. 
 
 COTTIN \_laughing'\. You think so? So much 
 the better! At least he'll not grow up to be an 
 old curmudgeon, like his uncle ! 
 
 \_Steps are heard on the stair-case. The voice 
 of a child outside sings~\ 
 
 Voice 
 
 " On dainty wing the butterfly 
 Floats from flow'r to flow'r — " 
 
 CoTTlN. Not so much noise, Monsieur Dodo, 
 please! {^The voice sounds nearer.] Poor little 
 martyr, must have some fun, I suppose ! 
 
 [^Cottin sits down near the cash desk. Enter 
 Dodo.] 
 
 Dodo. It's me! 
 
 l^He crosses the stage with his books under his 
 arm, and makes for the door on the opposite 
 side. He drops some books.] 
 
 CoTTiN. Where are you going, you young 
 vagabond? 
 
 Dodo. There. 
 
 CoTTiN. What are you going to do? 
 
 Dodo [picking up the books]. Work! Don't 
 I always have to work in this house? 
 
 COTTIN. Why there, in the little room? 
 
 Dodo. Mama told me to. 
 
 COTTIN. Another of her Ideas! — Weren't 
 you comfortable up-stairs? 
 
 DoDO. Mama said she wanted to keep an eye 
 on me, and every time she came down to the store 
 she wanted Monsieur Maxime to come down with 
 her! 
 
 PoujADE [who has gone upstage to Prosper, 
 91
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 returns to the cash dcsk^. What do you say to 
 that, Cottin? What have you to complain of? 
 
 CoTTiN [^w'lth resignatiou^. Nothing! [To 
 Dodo.] Is your mother coming down soon? 
 She must know I hav^e to go out with Poujade: we 
 have an appointment ! 
 
 Dodo. She'll be down soon. 
 
 [^He goes out slowly.] 
 
 Cottin. I tell you they're killing him! [He 
 shakes his head lugubriously, then turns round zvith 
 an air of determination.] Oh, Poujade, that mat- 
 ter of the diamonds — is it worth bothering about, 
 or shall we let it go? 
 
 Poujade. It's worth considering; if nothing 
 comes of it, we can let it go. 
 
 Cottin [impatiently; as he rises]. Why 
 doesn't Nathalie come? [To Prosper.] Pros- 
 per, go up and tell Madame to hurry. [Prosper 
 goes out.] Six o'clock ! She'll make us miss that 
 appointment! [Poujade goes out at the back.] 
 How tiresome women are, they're never on time ! 
 [Going to the door opening upon the stair-case.] 
 Nathalie! We're waiting for you, dear! 
 
 [Enter Madame Cottin, folloived by Maxime, 
 who carries some articles of clothing on his 
 arm.] 
 
 Mme. Cottin [sitting at the cash desk]. Here 
 I am ! Here I am ! You'd think the house was 
 on fire to hear you shout so ! 
 
 Cottin, Did you bring down my hat and coat 
 and umbrella? 
 
 [Poujade is meantime putting on his hat and 
 coat, up-stage.] 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Monsieur Maxime was kind 
 92
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 enough to bring everything: hat, coat, and um- 
 brella. 
 
 CoTTiN. Why do you trouble Monsieur Max- 
 ime? Wasn't Fournier there? 
 
 Mme. Cottin. I sent him to do some errands 
 for me. 
 
 Cottin [hurrying to Maxime who is in the cen- 
 ter of the stage^. I'm very, very sorry. Monsieur 
 Maxime ! I don't know why my wife imposes on 
 you so! [To Mme. Cottin.'] Oh, Nathalie, to 
 think of Monsieur Maxime's carrying my things ! 
 
 Maxime. Nonsense, Monsieur Cottin, I'm 
 only too glad to be of service to you I 
 
 Cottin [relieving Maxime of the clothes]. I 
 hear they've changed your working quarters in the 
 house; they've put you in the customers' waiting 
 room. 
 
 Maxime [passing to the left of Cottin, and help- 
 ing him put on his coat]. Yes, Madame thought 
 the room we had been using was too much exposed 
 to the brightness of the setting sun, that it would 
 be too hot in the evenings. 
 
 Cottin [interrupting]. What, Dodo's room 
 exposed to the setting sun? 
 
 Mme. Cottin [aside to her husband]. I told 
 him that as an excuse; I merely want to keep 
 watch. 
 
 Cottin [aside]. That's wise. [J loud.] 
 Yes, I think you'll be more comfortable down here. 
 [To Poujade.] Are you ready, Poujade? [To 
 Mme. Cottin.] That bill from Durandeau will 
 probably come; pay it. Then there's that insur- 
 ance agent's watch to be fixed. — Send for Madame 
 de Champtonnerre's necklace. That's all, I think. 
 
 93
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Sell as many chronometers as possible: they're not 
 worth a sou nowadays. [He starts to go, hut 
 comes back.] Excuse me, dear, I almost forgot 1 
 [He kisses her.] 
 
 Mme. Cottin. I forgive you. [She kisses 
 him. Cottin and Poiijade go out.] 
 
 MxME. Cottin [going toward Maxime, who 
 stands apart] . One for him ; two for you ! 
 
 [She kisses him on both cheeks.] 
 
 Maxime. You must be careful. What if he 
 had forgotten his handkerchief, or his cane — or 
 anything? 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Love doesn't think of such 
 things, Maxime. [She brings him down to the 
 cash desk, and makes him sit by her side.] Here, 
 sit next to me — close. I want to see you, hear 
 you, look at you — my poet ! Repeat to me again 
 some of those beautiful and graceful words that 
 carry me up into the clouds ; recite those love verses 
 you whispered to me the other evening: about 
 Spring, and the honeysuckles and the flowers — 
 
 Maxime [sulkily]. What put it into your head 
 to have me give my lessons here? Weren't we 
 much better in the other room? Any one might 
 find us here, a customer, a shop-keeper — 
 
 Dodo [entering]. M'sieu! — M'sieu! I've 
 copied the paragraph. What must T copy now? 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Dodo, you're awful; can't you 
 be good for two minutes? You're very naughty! 
 When Lm talking with your teacher, T don't want 
 to be interrupted. Copy the next paragraph and 
 don't disturb us ! 
 
 Dodo. Lve finished the chapter — I can't copy 
 the next paragraph. 
 
 94
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Begin with the next chapter. 
 
 Maxime [rising']. I'll show him — he can't 
 find the place. 
 
 Mme. Cottin [retaining Maxijue]. Don't go, 
 he's old enough to find out for himself. 
 
 Maxime. Do what your mother tells you : be- 
 gin the next chapter. I'll come and see how you're 
 getting on in a minute. 
 
 [Dodo goes out.^ 
 
 Mme. Cottin [to Maxiine, severely^. Now, 
 Monsieur, tell me what debauches you had last 
 night; where did you go? 
 
 Maxime. A number of us met and had our 
 monthly dinner — there was music, and we re- 
 cited poetry. 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Did you recite? 
 
 [Dodo, who had slowly made his retreat comes 
 back laughing. '\ 
 
 DoDO. There aren't any more chapters ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin [very angry]. Back again, 
 Dodo!? You're going to take your note-book. 
 Monsieur, and write out twice the whole conjuga- 
 tion, " I am a disobedient and rude boy." 
 
 Dodo. Well, I can't help it if the book stops ! 
 
 [He goes out, with tears in his eyes.~\ 
 
 Mme. Cottin. What did you recite ? 
 
 Maxime. The Serenade. 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Oh, The Serenade! How 
 they must have applauded ! Did they call you 
 back twenty times and carry you around in tri- 
 umph!? Oh, what a lovely poem it is ! So full of 
 love! And you recite it so passionately! I'll 
 never forget the night I heard it for the first time ! 
 Do you remember, Maxime? 
 
 95
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Maxime. Oh, I've repeated it so often — ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin [/■// the clouds]. It was a Sun- 
 day; we were in the country, at La Varenne, with 
 the Dumoulins and our cousins the Boulards. It 
 was night, we were on the terrace — a hot night, 
 and the air was full of perfume! I never had 
 such a lovely sensation! Your voice rippled like 
 a nightingale's — I was yours then, you had com- 
 pletely conquered me ! Don't you remember, aft- 
 erwards, among the young vines, the kisses — 
 
 Maxime [coldly]. Oh, so that was the day? 
 
 Mme. Cottin. And the Boulards and the 
 Dumoulins who were looking everywhere for us ! 
 What if they had found us ! 
 
 Maxime. I can't imagine what led you — 
 why, only a few steps away from your husband ! 
 
 IVIme Cottin, Can you think of such things at 
 a time like that? Think how careful w^e've had to 
 be since! To avoid any suspicion! 
 
 Maxime. Are you sure your husband suspects 
 nothing? 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Do you think he would act this 
 way if he did? 
 
 Maxime. No, but I think I see him hiding 
 something under his good-natured appearance. 
 Take care, he may be spying ! The way he gives 
 in to everything you ask — it may be a trap. I'd 
 feel sorry for you if he ever found out ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. I know he's a thousand miles 
 from suspecting anything. He thinks you are 
 very much interested in Dodo's education. In case 
 he heard or thought he saw anything suspicious, I 
 should simply deny everything, and he'd believe 
 me. 
 
 96
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 Maxime. But how about Poujade? 
 
 Mme. Cottin. He's more blind than my hus- 
 band! And blindness in an old bachelor is the 
 worst of all! Poujade! He'd swallow any 
 story you gave him. He's easier to deceive with 
 his fierce look than Cottin with his appearance of 
 kindness. Cottin knows women, but he doesn't 
 know Woman ! 
 
 Maxime. And his nephew? 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Hm! Ssh! [Aside]. 
 Speak of the devil — 
 
 [Enter Prosper, back. He looks for some- 
 thing in one of the show-cases.] 
 
 [Aloud to Maxijne]. Then you don't think a 
 whole chapter is too much to learn, Monsieur? 
 Please don't tire him out: his health isn't too 
 good, you know ! 
 
 Maxime. I shall follow your wishes, Madame. 
 
 [He goes out, left.] 
 
 Prosper [zvith a jewel-box in his hand]. Ma- 
 dame, I have looked everywhere, but I can't find 
 Fournier. 
 
 Mme. Cottin. That's not strange. If you'd 
 asked me I could have told you : I sent him on some 
 errands. What did you want him for? 
 
 Prosper. To go to the shop and get Madame 
 de Champtonnerre's necklace. 
 
 Mme. Cottin. That's too bad! You'd bet- 
 ter go to the shop yourself and get it. 
 
 Prosper [hesitating a moment]. That would 
 be the easiest way; I'll go at once. 
 
 [Prosper goes out. Mme. Cottin leaves the 
 cash desk and goes to the door, left, making a 
 sign to Ma.xime.] 
 
 97
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 [Re-cntt'r Maxime.^ 
 
 Mme. Cottin. One word more, Monsieur 
 Maxime I [She drops the portiere over the 
 door.] Leave him to write out his conjugation, 
 and come and talk with me. We have so little 
 time together! \^They sit down on chairs, next 
 each other.] 
 
 Maxime [/// at ease]. So you think this Mon- 
 sieur Prosper, who looks daggers at me all the 
 time, hasn't the least suspicion? Do you think 
 he hasn't heard by chance some of our foolish con- 
 versations, some stray word? 
 
 Mme. Cottin [laugJiing]. No! And the 
 reason is so simple that I wonder you haven't seen 
 it ! Do you know why Poujade's nephew is work- 
 ing in our shop? 
 
 Maxime. To learn the trade, isn't he? 
 
 Mme. Cottin. There's another reason. 
 
 Maxime. Perhaps his uncle hopes he'll suc- 
 ceed him some day? 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Come, you can guess; it's not 
 so hard. Poujade has a nephew, my husband has 
 a daughter; they are about the same age — 
 
 Maxime \^rising~\. He marry Genevieve ! ? 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Why not? 
 
 Maxime [taking Jiis chair to the table]. Of 
 course — why — not ? 
 
 Mme. Cottin [also rising]. Now do you see 
 why Prosper can't suspect us? He is very much 
 in love with Genevieve — 
 
 Maxime. Are you sure of that? 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Absolutely sure. If he does 
 look daggers at you, it's only because he thinks 
 you are trying to please me for another reason; 
 
 98
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 he believes you are a rival, that you're making love 
 to his sweetheart. Amusing, isn't it? 
 
 Maxime. Do you imagine that he thinks I'm 
 in love with Mademoiselle Genevieve? 
 
 Mme. Cottin. I'm sure of it, and further- 
 more I'll do my best to keep him thinking so. 
 The other evening, when I was talking with the 
 Boulards, I gave him to understand that you had 
 asked for Nini's hand in marriage, and that you 
 had not been refused. He was simply furious, 
 and left the room without saying a word! How 
 I laughed ! 
 
 Maxime [troubled]. You were wrong to do 
 that; see what an awkward position you put me in. 
 If you make it appear that I want to marry Made- 
 moiselle Genevieve, then I'll have to act the part, 
 and pretend to — 
 
 Mme. Cottin. So much the better. We'll 
 have so many more chances for meeting! It's so 
 much nicer to see you here than in that hotel where 
 we used to meet. 
 
 Maxime. But I'm in a nice fix with Mademoi- 
 selle Genevieve ! How can I make love to her 
 without asking her to marry me? I'm not very 
 good at being sentimental, and my platonic 
 love — !! What will she say? What will she 
 think of a lover who draws back the moment he 
 ought to propose ? I'll have to act a perfect cad ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. She won't object; you don't 
 know how simple these boarding-school girls are. 
 They don't know the A, B, C of love. I really 
 don't think you would stand the slightest chance 
 with her anyway. No offense? 
 
 Maxime. The idea ! 
 99
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 MiME. CoTTiN. Oh, your lordship, she has 
 made her choice ah^eady. Prosper is the man, and 
 I don't think it's a half-bad match. They're not 
 too much in love, and both will make excellent 
 shop-keepers. She may change some day, maybe 
 she'll find her Maxime ! Come here, kiss me ! 
 \^SJic kisses him, then resumes her plaec at the cash 
 desk, Maxime foUozi'ing her.] You haven't yet 
 told me how your evening ended? 
 
 Maxime. It was late — the night was a bit 
 chilly, so I went straight home, in company with 
 the stars of night, and went to bed. 
 
 Mme. Cottin. There were women at the ban- 
 quet, weren't there? Actresses — mm — wom- 
 en — ? 
 
 Maxime. No — really — not a single one. 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Not one? You're lying, there 
 were, I can see it in your eyes ! Don't try to deny 
 it! 
 
 Maxime. My dear Nathalie, I tell you — 
 
 [A custodier enters, after having examined at 
 some length the goods exhibited in the win- 
 dows.] 
 
 Customer [to Maxime], Monsieur, Pve seen 
 your big advertisements in the papers; chro- 
 nometers for twelve francs — guaranteed for two 
 years. May I see one? 
 
 Mme. Cottin [without moving or even turning 
 her head]. Monsieur, we haven't any just now; 
 we'll have some to-morrow. Come back then, will 
 you? 
 
 Customer. Well, you have those eighteen- 
 franc chronometers, at any rate? I see some over 
 there ! 
 
 ICG
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 Mme. Cottin [as before]. Yes, but they're 
 not guaranteed, I don't advise you to buy one of 
 those. 
 
 Customer. Well, how about the twenty-franc 
 ones? 
 
 Mme. Cottin [immovable]. They're not reli- 
 able. 
 
 Customer. I'll come back later, then. 
 
 [He goes out.] 
 
 Mme, Cottin [rises and goes to the center of 
 the stage, looking at the door]. To think that I 
 was born to be a jeweler's wife ! Argue with cus- 
 tomers, listen to their complaints, haggle over a 
 sou, or the price of a watch! I was never under- 
 stood! No one ever really understands me ! My 
 heart is bursting! Oh, Maxime, Maxime, you 
 don't love me, you have stopped loving me ! You 
 were with those women last night — I know you 
 were I 
 
 Maxime. But I tell you I wasn't! I re- 
 peat — ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. You're moody, Maxime, 
 you've been like that the past few days, you hardly 
 say a word, you're not the way you used to be, 
 during the first days. You don't talk the way you 
 did then! You seem afraid to be near me! Do 
 you — do you feel guilty ? 
 
 Maxime [coldly and without showing any en- 
 thusiasm]. How ridiculous! Nothing of the 
 kind! I've never been so happy in my life! 
 Haven't I everything I could wish for? To be 
 near you? ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. No, you're changed ! Before, 
 you'd have kissed me twenty times while you were 
 
 lOI
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 saying that! Maxime, I have a rival! I feel it! 
 Oh, I'm so miserable ! 
 
 [She falls on a chair near the table.'] 
 
 Maxime. Really, Nathalie, your jealousy is 
 ridiculous; you're not at all the same woman you 
 were; this is all nonsense. Do you imagine that 
 when I have you I can think of anything else? 
 Would I leave you? If I seem a little — out of 
 sorts to-day — it's because I have a headache. I 
 must have had a little too much champagne last 
 night. 
 
 Mme. Cottin [going to him]. And you 
 wouldn't tell me you were sick! Poor dear! 
 
 Maxime. It's only a simple headache. To- 
 morrow I'll be quite well. 
 
 Mme. Cottin. It's more than a simple head- 
 ache; you have a fever! Have some mint; I'll 
 get you some ! Or some brandy ! Or a glass 
 of Madeira! I'll get ready some tea for you! 
 
 [She runs to the door, right.] 
 
 NIaxime. No, please don't! Nathalie, 
 please ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Drink the tea; or I won't 
 believe a word of what you've said! 
 
 [The door-bell rings; enter Genevieve, fol- 
 lowed by a maid carrying a roll of music] 
 
 Genevieve [comes in smiling at her mother]. 
 Hello, Mama? [To Maxime.] How are 
 you. Monsieur? [Maxime hozvs.] Made- 
 moiselle says I've never been in such good voice 
 as to-day. I sang my big number three times; she 
 was delighted. She complimented me and said 
 what a pity it was I couldn't go on the stage ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin [not interested]. Singing 
 
 I02
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 teachers always say that! [To the maid, as she 
 goes out.'\ Marie, make the tea at once for 
 Monsieur Maxime, please. 
 
 Genevieve [to Maxime, "dcho is near the 
 table]. Sick, Monsieur Maxime? 
 
 Maxime. Your mother is too kind; it's merely 
 a headache. It's nothing at all! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Merely a headache that makes 
 him sad, out of sorts — Don't try to hide it, Mon- 
 sieur Maxime: you're sick, very sick. Isn't he, 
 Genevieve? 
 
 Genevieve. That's so. How pale you are ! 
 
 Maxime [laughing]. I have no time for sick- 
 ness ! 
 
 [Enter Cottin and Poujade. 
 
 Genevieve runs and kisses her father, then re- 
 turns to talk with Maxime]. 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Back again? [To Poujade.] 
 How about the diamonds? 
 
 Poujade. Ask Cottin. 
 
 Cottin [going to the cash desk and arranging 
 the papers]. No, you tell her ! 
 
 Poujade [center]. Well, Madame, a fresh 
 triumph for your husband! 
 
 Cottin [shrugging his shoulders]. You al- 
 ways put it that way ! I have nothing to do with 
 it, it's merely the House of Cottin-Poujade. 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Tell us, Poujade. 
 
 Poujade [advancing]. The moment the 
 other bidders saw Cottin, they retired from the 
 field ! The whole thing was over in two seconds ; 
 when he offered to give references, they made fun 
 of him: " Cottin, a man like M. Cottin, known 
 through all the business world of Paris for more 
 
 103
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 than thirty years for his financial integrity, a man 
 held in high esteem, a man to whom everybody 
 would like to be a debtor! Ask references from 
 Monsieur Cottin? It would be a disgrace to ask 
 for it!" 
 
 Cottin. Why, Poujade, they spoke of the 
 House, not me ! 
 
 Poujade [^go'ntg upstage]. House if you like, 
 but yours was the credit, you are the most impor- 
 tant part of the House ! 
 
 Cottin. No one can be in business as long as 
 I have and not get to be well known. There's no 
 need exaggerating! 
 
 Poujade \_tiinis round and sees Machnnc Cot tin 
 crossing the stage zvilli a cup of tisane,^ ivhicJi 
 she has just received from the maid]. Hello, 
 who's this tisane for? Is someone sick? 
 
 Genevieve. Yes — Monsieur Maxime. 
 Didn't you notice how badly he was looking? 
 
 Poujade. Why, what's the matter, Professor, 
 indigestion of Latin, or did you get choked on 
 Philosophy? 
 
 Cottin [rising quickly from his chair]. Mon- 
 sieur Maxime sick? My dear Monsieur! 
 
 Maxime [coming forzvard]. Nothing, Mes- 
 sieurs, only a slight headache. I have them from 
 time to time — 
 
 Cottin. You'd better go home and to bed; 
 that's the best thing to do. 
 
 Poujade [at the back]. Drink a big glass of 
 punch, hire a nurse, and sweat the whole thing 
 out of your system ! 
 
 1 A light hot drink, usually flavored with orange. 
 104
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 Mme. Cottin [eagerly]. You'd better go 
 home, Monsieur Maxime! Take my advice, 
 don't try to give your lesson this evening. 
 
 Genevieve \_giving him the cup of tisane']. 
 Drink, it down boiHng hot. 
 
 Maxime. I'll burn my mouth! 
 
 PoujADE. What's the difference? Drink it, 
 man! 
 
 Mme. Cottin [calling through the door, 
 right]. Fournier, Monsieur Maxime's hat and 
 coat, at once ! 
 
 Cottin [taking Maxime's hand]. You have 
 a fearful fever, don't take cold now. The 
 weather's changing, and you might easily come 
 down with bronchitis — and you can't fool with 
 bronchitis ! 
 
 PoujADE [shrugging his shoulders]. I know 
 how to treat bronchitis : a dozen punches ! 
 
 [Enter Fournier zvith Maxime's coat and hat. 
 Mme. Cottin and Genevieve help him put on 
 the coat.] 
 
 Mme. Cottin. There! 
 
 Genevieve [turning up his collar]. Keep 
 your neck covered. 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Yes, take care of your throat! 
 
 Maxime. Ladies, I'm quite embarrassed; I 
 can't tell you — 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Don't speak of it! Four- 
 nier, you go with Monsieur Maxime to his rooms. 
 
 [Fournier bows.] 
 
 Cottin. That's right, run along. If you 
 don't feel well enough, don't come to-morrow; take 
 a rest. Good-night ! 
 
 105
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 [Enter Dodo, having just licard the last words. '\ 
 
 Dodo. 
 
 " Vacation at last! 
 Our troubles are past! 
 Our teachers and books 
 In the fire we cast ! " 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Heartless little wretch! 
 What if he were to be very sick? 
 
 Genevieve. Yes, what if your teacher were 
 to have an awful fever? 
 
 Cottin [.w"w/)/v]. No, I think it'll be bron- 
 chitis if anything; I'll tell you why: bronchitis is 
 a disease of the vocal organs, and the vocal or- 
 gans are connected with the brain; that always 
 begins with a headache ! 
 
 PoujADE [laughing^. I'll tell you what's the 
 matter with him! I'll bet he had a high old time 
 last night, and wants to rest up for to-night 
 again ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Poujade, to say that about 
 Monsieur Maxime! 
 
 Poujade. There's nothing wrong in that! 
 Boys will be boys! It's only natural. You 
 needn't worry ! 
 
 Cottin [looking at his watch]. Hurry up, 
 dinner's ready, children, let's not keep the cook 
 waiting. 
 
 [He goes toward the stairs.] 
 
 Mme. Cottin [stays down-stage with Gene- 
 vieve. Poujade lights the gas at the back.] 
 Perhaps Poujade Is right? What if it were only 
 a pretext? 
 
 Genevieve. Oh, Mama, wouldn't he have 
 told the truth? 
 
 io6
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 Mme. Cottin. I'll soon know. [Aside, in 
 an undertone.^ Then you'll have me to deal 
 with, Monsieur Maxime ! 
 
 [Curtain.] 
 
 107
 
 ACT II 
 
 \_The terrace of a country house. Right, a 
 porch and a garden; down-stage, a table and 
 chairs. Left, the entrance to the house; the 
 lighted windows of the drawing-room are seen 
 from an angle. — A group of young girls and 
 young men are playing and conversing to- 
 gether. 
 
 It is night, and the trees are festooned with 
 lanterns; a large lantern is on the table; this 
 lights up the flower garden. 
 
 Madame Cottin, Genevieve, Madame Du- 
 moulin, Celina Boulard, C lenience, are seated 
 in a circle; Maxime, Prosper, and the other 
 young people stand behind the rest.^ 
 
 Maxime [to Celina]. Here's my basket; 
 What do I get? 
 
 Celina. Hm ! Charming young man 1 
 
 Genevieve. Forfeit! forfeit! That's the 
 third time it's been said! Try something else, 
 Cehna. 
 
 Celina. What do you want me to say? 
 
 Maxime. Nothing else, Mademoiselle, please! 
 What you have already said is too Battering to 
 have you take it back, [To Genevieve.] I give 
 the forfeit to Mademoiselle Celina. 
 
 Celina [to Prosper]. I pass the basket to 
 you, Monsieur Prosper; what do I get? 
 
 io8
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 Prosper \_glanc'uig at Maxime]. One pawn! 
 
 Maxime [^tuniing to Prosper^. A fool! 
 
 Prosper. They go together ! 
 
 Maxime [going up to Prosper^. I think a ht- 
 tle breeding would do you no harm ! 
 
 Prosper. And for yourself, a little less — ar- 
 rogance ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Now, Messieurs, what is the 
 matter? Is this the way you play at innocent 
 games? Monsieur Maxime, Prosper, please, 
 please: we're all friends here — no quarrels, 
 please ! 
 
 Maxime. Madame, your request is too rea- 
 sonable for me to refuse. [To Prosper.'] 1 
 shall be happy to discuss the matter with you later. 
 [Pie resumes his place behind Mme. Cottin.] 
 
 Genevieve. Messieurs, that wasn't at all 
 nice of you — to spoil our game. We don't know 
 now where we were — it's as bad as if we were 
 playing Rhymes. 
 
 Clemence. Oh, I'm tired of Charades, and 
 Rhymes, and Puns ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Maybe Monsieur Maxime 
 would be good enough to recite something? 
 
 Genevieve and Celina. Oh yes, Monsieur 
 Maxime ! 
 
 Maxime [maliciously]. Oh, not first! After 
 Monsieur! [Indicating Prosper.] 
 
 Prosper. As you please! 
 
 [He comes forward within the circle and turns 
 to Genevieve.] 
 
 " Triolet to the Girl I Love: " 
 
 " In the pleasant season of love — " 
 109
 
 FOUR PI.AYS 
 
 l^Entt'f Poiijcide and DumouUn, followed by 
 Cott'in. They come down-slayc conversing, 
 zihile Cot tin stops near the tabic] 
 
 PoujADE. You saw the pear (hey left! 
 Well, the ones they took were twice as big! 
 
 UuMOULiN [^stopping]. You don't mean 
 it! 
 
 PoujADE. Twice as big? No, some of them 
 were three times as big! If Pd caught them 
 stealing those pears, Pd give 'em a piece of my 
 mind ! 
 
 DUiMOULiN [continues walking again]. Yes, 
 I know you ! You wouldn't have left enough 
 to recognize ! 
 
 The Company. Ssh ! Ssh ! 
 
 Genevieve. Silence, Messieurs! There's 
 a recitation going on ! 
 
 PoujADE. Suppose we've got to listen ! 
 
 DuMOULiN. Let's hear it! 
 
 [Cottin sits by the small table, right; he leans 
 his elbozvs upon it. Dumoulin and Poujade 
 stand at tlie opposite side of the stage.] 
 
 Prosper [reciting in an awkward manner]. 
 
 " Triolet to the Girl I Love." 
 
 " Love's happy hour at last is come. 
 And through the forest sweetly sound 
 The songs of birds in harmony — 
 Love's happy hour at last is come ! 
 My love then from her cottage comes 
 She's charming as she minuets 
 And nods and am'rously coquets — 
 My love then from her cottage comes. 
 [frith a threatening glance at Maxinie.] 
 1 lO
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 " Two strutting cocks her favors court 
 And by her side their feathers preen; 
 One timid, one the other sort — 
 Two strutting cocks her favors court. 
 First one in tender strains holds forth, 
 The other sings a Serenade — 
 Two strutting cocks her favors court 
 And by her side their feathers preen. 
 [/« despair.] 
 
 " The fooHsh cock, with hand on breast 
 Awaits the other's fond advance: 
 ' Cocorico ! ' — he tries his best. 
 The foohsh cock with hand on breast! 
 He wins her, takes her far away, 
 Their quarrel ended that fair day: 
 The foolish cock with hand on breast — 
 The other killed himself — 'twas best! " ^ 
 l^He sits down, overcome.] 
 
 Celina. Bravo, Monsieur Prosper! That's 
 lovely! You're a poet, too! 
 
 PoujADE. Very nice, but too many repetitions 
 for me. Where did you come across that rig- 
 marole? 
 
 DuMOULlN. An Apologue, isn't it. Monsieur 
 Prosper? Who wrote it? 
 
 Maxime [answering for Prosper]. An author 
 who knows no more of the laws of prosody than of 
 courtesy. 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Your turn. Monsieur Maxime! 
 
 1 As the original is hardly poetic and, as Maxime says, not 
 in accordance with the laws of prosody, an approximation only 
 is attempted in the English rendering. — Tr. 
 
 I II
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 l^Poiijade and DumoiiUn go tip-stage, and return 
 by way of the table by which Cot tin is sit- 
 ting.] 
 
 Genevieve. Oh, yes, Monsieur Maximal 
 
 JVIaxime. I don't know a thing about such 
 learned matters ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Come now, recite the Seren- 
 ade for us ! 
 
 GENEVliiVE. Yes, the Serenade, the Serenade/ 
 
 Maxime. Not that, it's too trivial. 
 
 Genevieve. No, we want the Serenade/ 
 
 Maxime [advancing^. The Serenade: 
 
 Cottin [rising]. I agree with Monsieur 
 Champanet; let's have something else. 
 
 Genevieve. Why not? It's so sweet and 
 lovely! Yes, the Serenade! 
 
 Cottin. Too sweet and lovely for these young 
 people. When young girls are present, we should 
 choose more modest subjects! 
 
 Genevieve. Papa, you're wrong, the Seren- 
 ade — 
 
 Cottin [severely]. I am not mistaken! 1 
 tell you once for all I don't intend to have any such 
 fdth around here! In the presence of my chil- 
 dren ! 
 
 [The ladies rise.] 
 
 Mme. Dumoulin [to Mine. Cottin], My 
 dear, what is the matter with your husband to- 
 day? He is touchy ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin [center]. Some marauders 
 have made him angry, I suppose. [Speaking to 
 the young people.] Since you are not allowed to 
 recite, children, you'd better go into the drawing- 
 
 I 12
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 room; there you may sing and dance as much as 
 you like ! 
 
 l^The young men offer their arms to the ladies. 
 Mme. de Cottin chooses Maxime ostenta- 
 tiously; she speaks to him in a confiding way, 
 and once she kisses him. Cottin, who sees 
 this, rises, goes a little way toward them, then 
 returns to his place and sits down.] 
 
 DUMOULIN [continuing his conversation with 
 Poujade]. Then you use only white bait? 
 
 PoujADE. If you'll come down to my part of 
 the country, I'll show you how to fish ! 
 
 DuMOULiN. Yes, I know, in the Midi it's 
 easy — more fish than water, as you say — but, 
 tell me this, did any one ever catch a fifteen-pound 
 pike in your country? Well, I did. Monsieur, and 
 Boulard, who's here to-night, can tell you whether 
 I'm telling the truth or not — so can Cottin. 
 
 Cottin [troubled]. Yes, yes, that pike of 
 yours was fully fifteen pounds. 
 
 DuMOULlN. It was just before I got to No- 
 gent: I was sitting under the willows, fishing with 
 a long line. All at once I saw an enormous fish, a 
 female full of eggs; it darted from under the bank. 
 I said to myself, " Dumoulin, you'll never get 
 her ! " I saw her trick, then I had an idea — my 
 heart was thumping at a great rate — instinct, 
 Monsieur Poujade, instinct, it was! — Well, I 
 took my net, got down flat on my stomach — 
 
 Poujade. That's not fishingl 
 
 Dumoulin. Wait a moment! Whoop-la! 
 I plunge the net into the water in the twinkling of 
 an eye and hold it hard against the bank — I got 
 
 113
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 the pike ! But that wasn't the end : I had to haul 
 it up the side — it was mighty high — ask Mon- 
 sieur Cottin, he knows how high it was! 
 
 CoTTix [more and more troubled^. What 
 was high? 
 
 DuMOULiN. The bank where I caught the 
 pike. 
 
 Cottin. Still talking about that pike? 
 
 DuMOULlN. Then I took hold of the iron 
 frame of the net, and leaned over as far as I could 
 without falling, and brought it slowly toward me. 
 Half-way up I almost lost the fish — nearly fell 
 myself, too! — then I haul again, and there's the 
 fish lying on the bank ! I threw my coat over it, 
 rolled it up, and ran home with it. Fifteen 
 pounds it weighed! Cottin was there, he can tell 
 you if I'm lying! 
 
 Cottin. That pike, yes: fifteen pounds. 
 
 PoujADE. I know one better than that : a man 
 in our part of the country — 
 
 [Madame Diimoulin appears on the porcli.~\ 
 
 Mme. Dumoulin. Dumoulin, Dumoulin ! 
 
 DuMOULlN. One minute, Leocadie, we're talk- 
 ing important business! 
 
 Mme. Dumoulin [approacli'nuj iJu-m]. We 
 need you for the Quadrille. 
 
 Dumoulin, I don't know how to dance! 
 
 Mme. Dumoulin. No matter; you can learn, 
 it's not hard. 
 
 Dumoulin [m/;/^]. I've got to go, or she'll 
 never give me a moment's peace. You can tell me 
 your story afterward. 
 
 [He goes o«/.] 
 
 114
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 [During the following conversation, the piano 
 accompaniment to the Quadrille is heard.] 
 
 PoujADE [to Cottin, who walks back and 
 forth]. I can't make you out, Cottin! No use 
 getting mad about one poor little pear you had 
 stolen from you, and looking out of sorts all day 
 long! Are you afraid they'll steal something 
 else? Poujade is here, and I'll tell you, if one of 
 them comes in my direction it'll be the last time ! 
 
 Cottin. You're a great one to talk, Poujade! 
 
 Poujx'\DE [sarcastically]. I notice that when 
 you're in a bad humor you seem mighty big and 
 mighty — the way you were just now. What's 
 the use, now? It's not worth while. 
 
 Cottin. Not worth while? The things they 
 did before my daughter! 
 
 Poujade [rising]. He's said the same things 
 twenty times before you ! 
 
 Cottin. That may be; perhaps he did use 
 to — that's not to-day ! 
 
 Poujade. What about to-day, old man? 
 
 Cottin [taking Poujade' s arm]. To-day, 
 Poujade, things are happening in my family that 
 are — terrible ! There's an awful comedy being 
 played right under my roof — I've seen it with my 
 own eyes. The thieves I want to get hold of are 
 not the ones around the garden; they can steal as 
 many pears as they like, I don't care a snap ! 
 They [indicating the drazving-room] are the ones 
 I'm after! You said I seemed mighty big and 
 strong; well, I'm only beginning: I'm going to 
 see this thing through — ! 
 
 Poujade. What? Who? 
 
 115
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 CoTTiN. Monsieur Champanet! Haven't 
 you noticed anything, Poujade? 
 
 PoujADE [evasively]. Nothing! Well, that 
 is, you'd have to be blind not to. For that matter, 
 your wife doesn't try to hide anything; she might 
 just as well tell everybody! 
 
 CoTTiN \_burstincj out]. How she could have 
 the audacity, the — 
 
 Poujade. What audacity is there in saying 
 that Monsieur Champanet is in \o\c with Gene- 
 \ieve? What if he does make love to her — so 
 long as he intends to marry her? It's plain 
 enough that's what he wants to do. Ask Prosper 
 what he thinks of it all? 
 
 CoTTiN. What? Does my wife say that? 
 That's outrageous ! It's only a trick to hide some- 
 thing else ! 
 
 Poujade [/rt//^/i/w^]. The idea! You are in 
 a bad humor! You'll kill the lot of us without 
 turning a hair! 
 
 CoTTiN \_confidincjly]. I say, Poujade, that 
 Champanet is Nathalie's lover! Now do you un- 
 derstand? 
 
 PoujADi: [smiliiuj']. Another of your itleas! 
 You're jealous! 
 
 CoTTiN. You fool, I know it! I'm sure! 
 Didn't you see them kiss just now? Right in 
 front of us ! 
 
 Poujade [surprised]. Nonsense! 
 
 CoTTlN. I was already suspicious; I noticed 
 little signs between them, a word or two now and 
 then — I was on the lookout. That gentleman 
 has always been a little too nice; he's taking too 
 much interest in Dodo's education! I began to 
 
 ii6
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 have doubts. I kept my eyes open to-night with- 
 out saying anything. Now I have sure proof. 
 
 PoujADE. You're making too much of this, 
 Cottin; you're too jealous — you only want to 
 make sure of what you suspect. Why didn't you 
 ever suspect me of being in love with your wife ? 
 
 Cottin. No, Poujade, you're an honorable 
 man; I'd never think that of you. But that 
 damned peacock, with his fine conversation, I tell 
 you, Fm sure about him. Pve seen! 
 
 Poujade [seriously]. Then you ought to 
 have killed him ! 
 
 Cottin [shrugging his shoulders']. There you 
 are all over again ! Kill him ! You don't kill a 
 man like that, right off ! Fm not a soldier ; have I 
 got the weapons ? 
 
 Poujade [walking away from Cottin]. Kill 
 him any way! Use your feet, your fists — knock 
 him over the head with a club! Good God! 
 [Coming back to Cottin.] What are you going 
 to do? 
 
 Cottin. Fm going to tell him — what a low 
 trick he's done, and then — well, I won't allow 
 him around on any pretext. And If I find him 
 with my wife again — 
 
 Poujade. Well? 
 
 Cottin [gravely]. He'll have me to deal 
 with! 
 
 Poujade, That may do for him, but how 
 about your wife — ? 
 
 Cottin [hesitating]. She — that's a hard 
 question; I want to punish her in a way she won't 
 soon forget. 
 
 Poujade [^r;?//y]. Kill her. 
 117
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 CoTTlN. Poujade, how can you say that? 
 Think! 
 
 Poujade \_rcturn'nig, sits by the tahlt']. The 
 moment you talk of extreme measures — why, 
 that's the only thing to do! If you're too weak 
 to do that, divorce her, old man, or else — 
 
 CoTTiN [m/;/^]. Why, I can't do that! 
 Think of the scandal, and the talk ! It would ruin 
 the business, not to mention — [He sits down 
 again on the chair, center. '\ 
 
 [Maxinie appears on the porch, cooling himself 
 after the dance. He goes toward the table 
 where Cot tin and Poujade are conversing.] 
 
 Maxime. Messieurs, the ladies have asked me 
 to tell you that they are starting a game where all 
 will be needed ; they want you to come in and be 
 banker. 
 
 Poujade [aside to Cottin]. Be a man now; 
 this is your chance ! 
 
 CoTTiN [aside, turning his back to Maxime]. 
 Not now : later ! 
 
 Poujade [aside to Cottin]. No, now! It's 
 high time! 
 
 Maxime. What shall I tell the ladies? 
 
 Poujade. They're in no hurry. Sit down a 
 little while here : Cottin has a few words to say to 
 you. 
 
 Maxime. At your service. [He sits down.] 
 
 Poujade. He would like to ask you a ques- 
 tion. A friend of ours has had trouble in his 
 family — he learned that his wife had a lover. 
 
 Cottin [aside to Poujade]. Oh, Poujade, not 
 now! 
 
 Poujade [aside to Cottin]. Leave it to me! 
 Ii8
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 [To Maxime.^ Our friend learned the truth, and 
 now he wants to punish his wife and the lover very 
 severely. You are a man of experience; how was 
 adultery punished in ancient times? 
 
 CoTTiN [aside to Pou']ade~\. There you are, 
 using strong words ! 
 
 Maxime. Well, they were primitive enough in 
 those days; sometimes the victims were drawn and 
 quartered; some were drowned, some bound to the 
 tails of horses, others were stripped and left to die 
 out-of-doors. The punishments varied according 
 to the development of civilization. Our civiliza- 
 tion, for instance, takes the attitude that in the ma- 
 jority of cases the husband is to blame; the erring 
 wife is nearly always forgiven. [Cot tin rises, and 
 walks about upstage.^ Before advising your 
 friend, I must know something about him, and finci 
 out how much he is to blame. 
 
 PoujADE. So you don't admit that the hus- 
 band has a right to kill the lover? 
 
 Maxime. Never! In good everyday French 
 that Is called murder. You must judge these 
 things not according to the anger of the husband; 
 furthermore, you can't do justice yourself in these 
 cases! 
 
 CoTTiN [who has slowly advanced tozvard Max- 
 ime^. I see. Monsieur Champanet, that you ad- 
 vise mercy; I agree with you. My reasons are not 
 the same as yours, but I think we agree at bottom. 
 
 Poujade [aside to Cottin]. Go on, give it to 
 him ! 
 
 ConiN. Monsieur, this evening as I was in the 
 hallway up-stairs, I saw a man come out of my 
 wife's room. 
 
 119
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 PoujADE [aside to Cot tin]. Go on ! 
 
 CoTTiN, That man of course was you: my 
 son's tutor, a friend of iny family, a man in whom 
 1 had the greatest confidence! 
 
 Maxime [rising]. Why, Monsieur Cottin, I 
 don't see the joke ! You think me capable — ? 
 
 Cottin. I saw you. Monsieur. Even if a 
 man is cowardly enough to deceive and outrage a 
 man, he ought at least to ha\e courage enough to 
 take the responsibility for what he has done! 
 
 PoujADE [iiside to Cottin]. Bravo, Cottin! 
 
 Maxime. Now, Monsieur Cottin, let me — 
 
 Cottin. No, Monsieur, no explanations! 
 You are my wife's lover ! Deny it if you dare ! 
 
 [Maxime retreats, bowing.] 
 
 PoujADE [rising zvith clenched fists]. Oh, if I 
 only — ! 
 
 Maxime. Very well, Monsieur — I — I ac- 
 knowledge it: I've abused your confidence, your 
 friendship — my life is at your disposal — 
 
 Cottin. What shall I do about it? 
 
 Maxime. Whatever you like. Only listen to 
 me first! 
 
 Cottin [quivering zvith anger]. No, Mon- 
 sieur, I don't want to hear another word from you; 
 you've lost the right to speak in the house that 
 you've dishonored. I don't want to hear you, or 
 see you; your damned (wic words and your open 
 honest face — they're all lies ! So you make me a 
 present of your life! Fine compensation, isn't it, 
 for taking away what was dearest in the world 
 to me !? 
 
 [Dodo appears on the porch, and shouts:] 
 
 DoiX). Papa, Monsieur Poujade, Monsieur 
 1 20
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 Maxime; Mama wants to know if you'll be much 
 longer? Everything's all ready; they're waiting 
 for you ! 
 
 CoTTiN [betzceen his teeth], I only want to 
 hear that you were for a moment carried away — 
 you didn't know what you were doing — that, that 
 the whole affair only lasted a short while ! 
 
 Dodo [stamping ziitJi his feet]. Papa, they're 
 waiting! Come right now! 
 
 [Dodo skips back indoors.] 
 
 CoTTiN [seriously]. His life! If I took it 
 would I be any better off? Could I ever forget 
 what I have suffered this past week? And after 
 this night? You can't understand what I feel in 
 a case like this; I've been honest and upright in 
 my business all my life, and now to have my 
 wife — I believed her so good, so pure ! — the 
 mother of my children — and this blackguard! 
 To think that my wife, whom I have respected and 
 loved for twenty-years, is no better than a woman 
 of the streets ! 
 
 [He falls into a chair.] 
 
 PoujADE. Come, come, Cottin, courage ! 
 You need it now more than ever ! 
 
 [Mine. Cottin descends the stairs from the 
 porch, and goes quickly to Cottin.] 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Oh, you men ! VVhat's the 
 matter? Afraid of thieves again? 
 
 Maxime [aside to Mme. Cottin]. Madame, 
 Monsieur Cottin knows everything! 
 
 Mme. Cottin [aside to Maxime]. You told 
 him ! I thought you were more of a man ! 
 You're a fool! 
 
 Maxime [to Mme. Cottin]. He saw us. 
 
 121
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Mme. Cottin [to Maxiine]. Deny it any- 
 way ! 
 
 PoujADE [hesitatingly, to Cottin']. You've 
 begun now, Cottin, better get it over with at once ! 
 
 Cottin [solemnly]. Madame, eighteen years 
 ago, Avhen I married you, you were a young girl 
 who had to worl<. hard for a living; you lived with 
 your mother in a little room in the Rue Vielle-du- 
 Temple. You were well educated, that's true, bet- 
 ter than girls of your position usually are, but on 
 my side — 
 
 MiMK. Cottin [impatiently]. Yes, yes, come 
 to the point ! 
 
 Cottin. The point is this, Madame: in re- 
 turn for my kindness, my love for you, my confi- 
 dence in you, you have deceived me, you have for- 
 gotten your duties as wife, as the mother of my 
 children and — 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Continue, dear, you're getting 
 very interesting. You might think we were at the 
 Ambigu." There's nothing funnier than to sec a 
 serious and reasonable man talking the way you 
 are now. 
 
 Cottin. Stop it! I'll have no more of your 
 impudence! I'm not myself, I tell you — just 
 now ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin [sarcastically]. You! Non- 
 sense ! When did you change ? Now, Theodore, 
 dear little Theodore, don't use strong language 
 and don't get angry. Don't you sec that people 
 have been playing a joke on you, telling this ab- 
 surd story? They've fooled you, because you're 
 a big jealous boy! Ask Poujade! 
 
 -A famous llicatcr where melodramas used (o be performed. 
 122
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 COTTIN [very excitedly]. You're no better 
 than a prostitute ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Sweet and flattering ! 
 
 COTTIN. Don't I know what I've seen with 
 my own eyes?! Was I mistaken?! Your lover 
 confessed to me. Did he he? Is everybody a 
 liar?! And now you come along with only your 
 word ? ! Do you think I'm going to take this lying 
 down? Am I an idiot? 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Idiot or not, you're a fool to 
 believe everything that's told you, and then invent 
 the rest yourself! 
 
 Cottin. I imagined the whole thing? I tell 
 you, I saw Monsieur steal out of your room last 
 night? Was 1 crazy? 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Last night? 
 
 Cottin. Yes, Madame, last night! At four 
 in the morning ! You know it as well as I ! 
 
 PoujADE [to himself]. Catch them red- 
 handed and they'd cry their innocence to Heaven! 
 
 Mme. Cottin [laughing]. Last night! I 
 swear by anything you want that not a single per- 
 son put foot in my room last night! 
 
 Cottin [ivith composure]. Madame, I can't 
 listen to any more of this. I thought that per- 
 haps you were both — forgetful, for a moment — 
 that you — slipped — I should have been glad to 
 have you repent. But I see you're both guilticr 
 than I had thought. 
 
 Mme. Cottin. But, Theodore, I swear 
 you're wrong! You must be dreaming! Mon- 
 sieur was not in my room! [Turning to Max- 
 ime.] Why don't you defend yourself, Mon- 
 sieur? 
 
 123
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Maxime [embarrassed]. No matter what you 
 may think, Monsieur, I must really — 
 
 CoTTiN [to Maxiine]. Shut up! That's all 
 you must really do ! 
 
 [Genevieve cotJies to the drawing-room ivin- 
 dow, leans out of it, and listens.] 
 
 CoTTiN [to his zvife]. Nathalie! Your de- 
 fense is useless ! You can't have any feelings, for 
 your children or your husband! To receive a 
 lover in your room ! A room that even I respect, 
 a room that connects with your daughter's room! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Now, dear, I — 
 
 COTTIN. You never thought that your own 
 daughter might — ! You're worse than the 
 w^orst ! You ought to be this moment on your 
 knees, and not try to find new lies — everything 
 condemns you. — He was with you yesterday ! 
 
 [Genevieve leaves the window, closing it, and 
 disappears quickly.] 
 
 Mme. Cottin [violently]. Do you want to 
 know the truth, Theodore, the whole truth? 
 Well, here it is, and God pity you ! Monsieur 
 Maxime is my lover, and yesterday is not the first 
 time I've received him. But — we've not seen 
 each other for over a week ! So there ! Isn't 
 that true, Maxime? [Maxime acknowledges this 
 by a bow of the head.] You see?! 
 
 Cottin [overcome]. I don't care where or 
 when — I know more now than I wanted to know 
 — keep the other details! It's enough that I'm 
 positive you have a lover. If you want to parade 
 your shame, do it, but not here ! My children are 
 not going to have such an example of mother-love 
 near them! Well, [Authoritatively.] you're going 
 
 124
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 to leave here at once, both of you; we'll find some 
 excuse to tell the others ! Neither of you is going 
 to set foot in this house again. Only honest peo- 
 ple have a right here ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Theodore ! 
 
 Maxime. Monsieur, listen to me — 
 
 Cottin. Haven't I the right to kill them both, 
 Poujade? I don't want to have any scandal, I 
 tell you. So get out ! I'm not going to have you 
 around here ! Out with you — into the streets, 
 anywhere — I don't care ! 
 
 \^Mme. Cottin goes upstage; Max'nne retreats 
 a few steps. 
 
 Genevieve comes in and thrones herself at her 
 father's feet.'\ 
 
 Genevieve. Papa ! Forgive her, Papa ! 
 
 Maxime. Genevieve ! 
 
 Cottin [to his wife']. Don't you want the 
 earth to swallow you up, when you see your 
 daughter, your pure and innocent daughter ask 
 forgiveness for you?! Get up, Genevieve darling, 
 your mother is not worth kneeling for. She has 
 soiled our love, yours and mine ! But you, you 
 are my consolation — your father needs you now ! 
 
 Poujade [going to Cottin]. For God's sake, 
 man, brace up ! Don't give in now ! 
 
 Genevieve. Papa, please, don't accuse 
 Mama — she's not to blame — 
 
 Maxime [advancing to Cottin]. Monsieur 
 Cottin, one word — 
 
 Cottin. Silence! My dear child, things are 
 happening now that you can't understand. I must 
 be firm — leave me! Don't make it harder; go 
 back and play your games. 
 
 125
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Genevieve. Papa, Papa ! I — I am the 
 only one who is to blame ! Forgive me! 
 
 CoTTiN. What's this? 
 
 Genevieve. Maxime — last night — It was 
 my room ! 
 
 CoTTlN \^aftcr a paiise^. Your — room? [//f 
 turns to Maxime, zclio tries to get azi'ay.'\ She 
 too!! You, God — [//f siezes Maxime by the 
 throat.~\ 
 
 PoujADE. Choke him ! 
 
 Genevieve [holding bark her father, and cling- 
 ing to him]. Papa, don't kill him! He is — 
 think of — my — child — ! 
 
 [Genevieve faints. Cottin releases Maxime. 
 Poll jade goes to Genevieve, placing her on a 
 chair.] 
 
 PoujADE. The last straw ! 
 
 Cottin [cursing them all]. Swine! Pm go- 
 ing ! Swine ! 
 
 [He goes out into the garden and disappears.] 
 
 PoujADE. Help! Help! Hey there! 
 Fournier, help ! Water ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin [going to Maxiine]. You love 
 her? 
 
 Maxime [briefly]. Yes! 
 
 Mme. Cottin [repulsing hiui]. Coward! 
 
 [She goes to Genevieve. 
 
 Friends and guests enter precipitately from the 
 house. DunioiiHn stops them on the porch.] 
 
 PoujADE. Why do you take so long? Pve 
 been waiting half an hour for you? Vinegar! 
 Salts! Brandy! The child's fainted I 
 
 [The company disperses; some come dozen- 
 stage by Genevieve.] 
 126
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 Prosper \^coming in at the back]. Made- 
 moiselle Genevieve fainted ! [Furiously, to 
 h[aximc.~\ Monsieur, you promised to have an 
 explanation with me. I'm waiting for it ! 
 
 Maxime. [trying to rid himself of Prosper]. 
 Mademoiselle Genevieve will be a mother in six 
 months ! Make love to her now ! 
 
 [Curtain.] 
 
 127
 
 ACT III 
 
 [// middle-class dining-room. — Right, a 
 porcelain stove; left, a side-board. A door at 
 the back, and one on each side of the room. — 
 A niiynber of pictures adorn the walls; there are 
 likewise plates hung from the moldings, exposi- 
 tion medals, shields and weapons, framed di- 
 plomas, etc. — A table, center, with places for 
 three.] 
 
 FouRNiER [alone, philosophizing]. The pate, 
 omelette, chicken — that will be enough if the 
 ladies don't get back from the country — but if 
 they do — ! Oh, what's the odds? They won't 
 be vxry hungry after that affair yesterday at La 
 Varenne! Think of it — ! 
 
 [He shrugs his shoulders and goes about his busi- 
 ness. 
 
 Enter Mme. Cottin hurriedly, follozved by 
 Genevieve. Both are in traveling attire.] 
 
 Mme. Cottin [excitedly]. Where is he, 
 Fournier? He isn't dead, is he, Fournier? Tell 
 me ! 
 
 Fournier. No, Madame, Monsieur is here. 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Oh, how relieved I ami 
 Genevieve, he's not dead ! What's he doing? 
 
 Fournier. Monsieur has locked himself in 
 his room since this morning. 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Who's looking after the shop ? 
 128
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 FouRNiER. Monsieur Poujade and his 
 nephew. They're both in a fearful humor; can't 
 say a word to them! Monsieur Poujade insulted 
 me twice this morning, twice ! I warn Madame, 
 If this continues I shan't stay! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. But have you seen Monsieur 
 this morning? 
 
 FouRNiER. No, Madame; when Monsieur 
 Poujade and I arrived by the first train, Monsieur 
 was already in his room. 
 
 [He goes up behind the table. ^ 
 
 Mme. Cottin \_to Genevieve']. What can he 
 do now? 
 
 Genevieve [frightened]. I don't know: 
 write ? 
 
 Mme. Cottin. He might kill himself — hang, 
 asphyxiate himself — anything! 
 
 FouRNlER [reassuringly]. I don't think Mon- 
 sieur contemplates suicide! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Never mind, Fournier; try to 
 find out what he's doing. Stop him, don't let him 
 do any harm to himself! 
 
 Fournier. Very well, Madame, Fll keep 
 watch. 
 
 [He goes out.] 
 
 Mme. Cottin [to Genevieve, who sits down, 
 overcome]. Poor Papa, poor Theodore! My 
 poor child, what have you done ! How could you 
 do such a thing, you a child we had so much trouble 
 to educate! We spared nothing for you, at the 
 convent, the expensive boarding-school ! You 
 were so modest ! Every time you heard a vulgar 
 expression you lowered your eyes ! And now we 
 find that Mademoiselle — so that's what your — 
 
 129
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Genevieve [intrepidly]. But, Mama, how 
 was I to know — ? 
 
 MiME. COTTIN [excitedly]. What you didn't 
 know ! Haven't I told you twenty times that you 
 should have no secrets from your mother? That 
 when a young man said things to you you should 
 let me knows and in any case never answer when he 
 made declarations to you ! We never tired of din- 
 ning it into your ears that all young men try to ruin 
 young girls — that you've got to shun them like the 
 plague ! You should never, never believe their 
 oaths and promises. And then if a young lady 
 happens to take a fancy to a young man, is that 
 any reason why — ? 
 
 Genevieve. No, Mama, I meant to say — I 
 meant if I'd known you loved him already — 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Since when does a mother have 
 to explain her actions to her daughter? And es- 
 pecially in a case like this? For that matter, Fm 
 not — but think of the awful situation for you! 
 How can you hope to marry ? Who will take you ? 
 
 Genevieve [rising]. Maxime! He's prom- 
 ised ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Promised!? [.-Iside.] He's 
 more underhanded than I thought him ! 'Fhe 
 traitor! 
 
 Genevieve [zvith grozving excitement]. Any- 
 way, is there anything so out of the way in a young 
 man's loving his fiancee before their marriage? 
 So long as they do intend to get married? It was 
 so exciting to have him make love to me in secret 
 — and he was so nice about it ! I loved him at 
 once, dreamed about him, thought of nothing in the 
 world but him ! One night, perhaps you remem- 
 
 130
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 ber? It was so beautiful, he recited the Serenade to 
 us, so sweetly and softly, I was in Heaven! Then 
 he came and whispered in my ear; I couldn't inter- 
 rupt him; he talked so wonderfully! I was his 
 from that time on; he could ask anything of me! 
 Well, he asked me to come to his rooms the next 
 day for my lesson — and I went ! 
 
 Mme, Cottin [sitting down, overcome'}. The 
 monster! I suspected something of the kind, but 
 I never thought he would dishonor you ! 
 
 Genevieve. There's nothing dishonorable — 
 Louise Bignolet — 
 
 Mme. Cottin. What about Louise Bignolet? 
 
 Genevieve. She had a baby before she was 
 married, and Hortense had a — lover when she 
 was still in boarding-school. Get married after- 
 ward, and everything's all right ! Of course, there 
 is a difference ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. What? 
 
 Genevieve \_in an undertone], Louise didn't 
 have a mother ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin [hiding her face]. What a 
 curse ! It's like Fate ! 
 
 Genevieve \_going to her mother, tenderly]. 
 Mama — 
 
 Mme. Cottin \_rises, thrusting Genevieve 
 aside]. Don't! My dearest child! I hear some 
 one ! It's probably your father ! Run away, 
 Genevieve, please leave us alone. 
 
 Genevieve. But, Mama — ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Go! [Genevieve goes out.] 
 Oh, God, give me the strength to persuade him ! 
 
 [Enter Maxime in great haste.] 
 
 Maxime. What's happened? 
 131
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Mme. Cottin [^rinin'uig to him]. Maxime! 
 He'll kill you! 
 
 Maxime. Let him kill me ! I've already 
 given him my life to dispose of! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Maxime, don't provoke him ! 
 When a quiet man like Theodore once loses his 
 head you can't tell what he'll do! Listen: so far 
 there's no great harm done. Go away, hide your- 
 self somewhere; don't stay here! 
 
 Maxime. But I've decided to stay! You 
 don't think for a moment I could live away from 
 you two ! I'm going to stay ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin {supplkatbigly]. If I'm noth- 
 ing to you any more, then for her sake, for my 
 daughter's sake ! 
 
 Maxime [touched]. Why speak of Gene- 
 vieve ? 
 
 Mme. Cottin. You love her — you love her 
 more than you do me, don't you? 
 
 Maxime [hcsitatiny]. Yes, I love her, 
 but it was always you I loved in her; I adored two 
 women in one ! Sometimes she was you, some- 
 times you were she — you were both one ! She 
 was to me the perfume of the flower, you were the 
 fruit! What a dream — ! Now that it has 
 flown, Nathalie, I have only to — die ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Maxime — I love you I 
 
 [Fonrtiicr opens the door half-zvay.] 
 
 Fournier. Madame, Monsieur Maxime, 
 you'd better go into the bed-room or the draw- 
 ing-room — hide yourselves! Here comes Mon- 
 sieur ! 
 
 Maxime \_firvily]. Good, we'll have it out 
 now ! 
 
 132
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Maxime, please come ! 
 
 Maxime. I'm going to stay ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. For Genevieve's sake — for 
 the sake of the child, come ! 
 
 [She tries to drag him out.'\ 
 
 Maxime [resisting^. No! 
 
 Cottin's Voice [outsidel^. Well, Fournier, 
 to-day or to-morrow: when you're ready! I'll 
 wait! 
 
 Fournier [/o Cottin']. I'm coming. Mon- 
 sieur, I'm coming. \_To Mme. Cottin and Max- 
 ime.] You'd better make up your minds — you 
 can come back later if you like. Just treat Mon- 
 sieur kindly, he's a good-hearted man if you handle 
 him right. 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Fournier is right; come, Max- 
 ime. 
 
 Maxime [allowing Mme. Cottin to take him 
 out into the next room]. Well — if you wish it! 
 
 Cottin's Voice [outside]. Fournier, are you 
 coming to help me ? ! 
 
 [All go out. 
 
 Enter Cottin in his traveling clothes; he does 
 not wear his decoration.^ He has valises 
 and blankets. Fournier likewise is burdened 
 with traveling paraphernalia.] 
 
 Cottin. Put the valise there — the cash-box 
 over here ! Now go and get the hat-box — Wait 
 a moment, go down to the shop and tell Poujade 
 to come up here. 
 
 Fournier. But, Monsieur, lunch isn't ready 
 yet. 
 
 1 Municipal honorary titles are indicated by decorations worn 
 on the lapel.
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 CoTTiN, It's not for lunch : I want to see him ! 
 
 [Foitrnier goes oiit.~\ 
 
 CoTTiN \^(ilo)ic~\. Don't want to forget any- 
 thing! \^He takes a note-book from his pockc't.] 
 Bills payable for the week: 2500, 120, 1500; 
 there's enough in the cash-box. The Champton- 
 nerre bill will be paid — Nathalie probably sent 
 that! [Raising his head a moment.] God! 
 Her deceit! And with a little Latin teacher! 
 And I accused him of working Dodo too hard! 
 And to have the whole lot fool mc, while I — 
 damned fool! [Resuming his ealeiilations.] 
 All right for bills payable ! I'll see about send- 
 ing a power of attorney for the dissolution of 
 partnership; advise Poujade to take his nephew as 
 partner — Prosper knows a good bit about busi- 
 ness ! Poor fellow, he lo\'ed Nini ! There's the 
 man she ought to have married ! They'd have 
 carrieci on the business — '' Cottin and Poujade "! 
 — they'd have made a mighty happy couple — 
 and now! [He rises.] Work and sweat your 
 life out for your children! — The house in the 
 country, furniture, they can do what they like with 
 them! I don't want to hear about them again! 
 [Center.] And to have a thing like this happen 
 to me, the calmest and easiest-going fellow ! in 
 me, the head of a family ! Me, an honorable busi- 
 ness man! There's not a person in Paris can say 
 a word against the firm ! And here I am forced 
 to run away like a bankrupt, and hide myself! 
 Oh, Nathalie, how you've abused my confidence, 
 my lo^•c ! 
 
 [Enter Poujade.] 
 
 134
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 PoujADE. What's the matter, old man, are 
 you going away? 
 
 CoTTiN. Dear old Poujade, yes, I'm going 
 away. I've been thinking the whole matter over 
 — I wandered about last night, trying to decide 
 whether to jump into the Marne or hang myself in 
 the Bois de Vincennes. At sunrise, I found my- 
 self in Paris. I was afraid and ashamed of my- 
 self. I said it would be foolish to benefit the 
 others in that way, for an honest man to kill him- 
 self and let the true culprits live. I don't want to 
 be around the place where I've been dishonored, 
 so I'm going away: abroad, to America. I don't 
 know where ! Here's a letter giving you final in- 
 structions about my affairs. [He gives Poujade 
 the letter.^ 
 
 Poujade [refusing to take ir]. Why, it's im- 
 possible ! 
 
 CoTTiN. My dear friend, I simply can't stand 
 all this; another shock like yesterday, and I'd go 
 crazy. I'd much better go away. 
 
 Poujade. It's not so bad as that! Just look 
 at it calmly! 
 
 CoTTiN. Calmly! Ha! What would you 
 do, cahnly, if you were in my shoes?! 
 
 Poujade [hesitating]. In your shoes? First 
 I'd have killed everybody, and then considered 
 later. But as you didn't have the strength of 
 character to do that, it's — a bit difficult. Let's 
 think it over ! 
 
 CoTTiN. Think as much as you like; the more 
 I think of it, the worse it seems. One of us has 
 to go — I'll sacrifice myself! 
 
 '^3S
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 PoujADE. You haven't the least idea what 
 you're thinking or talking about. Listen to me: 
 things aren't so bad as you make them out. For 
 the sake of your daughter's reputation you've got 
 to force the man who ruined her to marry her — 
 you have a legal right to kill him ! It's very 
 simple: marry them, forgive your daughter, legit- 
 imize the child, and then kill the man afterward if 
 you want to ! 
 
 CoTTlN. Kill him! {^Trying to evade the 
 question.^ What if she loves him? 
 
 PoujADE. She wouldn't love a man like that ! 
 
 CoTTiN. She's a child, she doesn't know any- 
 thing about life ! 
 
 PoujADE. Then it doesn't make a bit of dif- 
 ference one way or the other. Now, about your 
 wife. 
 
 CoTTiN. Don't talk about her! She's dis- 
 graced me! I don't want to see her again! 
 
 PoujADE. Kill her ! 
 
 CoTTiN \^outraged^. Once more, Poujade, 
 we're not butchers here. You keep on telling 
 me to kill her! Arrests! Scandal! Gossip! 
 Trials! Have that happen to a man who's led a 
 decent and honorable life for half a century! 
 No, no, not that! I don't want to hear anything 
 more! You can look after the business! Sell 
 it, make your own terms, I don't care! [Going 
 to the door and calling.] Fournier, bring my 
 baggage! [To Poujade, as he extends his hand 
 to him.] Good-by, old man! 
 
 PoujADE [turning his back to Cot tin]. I see 
 through your trick — you don't want to hear — 
 no!! You're leaving me your wife and daugh- 
 
 136
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 ter, your business, and then tell me, " Fix it up as 
 well as you can! " What if I went away, too? 
 
 CoTTiN. Can't you understand, the very sight 
 of this place is poison to me ! ? Hurry, Nathalie 
 may come in any moment ! Now read that. [He 
 hands him the letter.^ I'm going! \^He goes to- 
 ward the door. ^ Fournier! Fournier! 
 
 [/« coming hack, he catches sight of his wife, 
 who has just enter ed.~\ 
 
 Mme. Cottin [holding a handkerchief to her 
 eyes]. Theodore! 
 
 Cottin [in despair]. You see, Poujade? 
 What did I tell you? 
 
 Mme. Cottin [tearfully]. Theodore, if a 
 guilty woman has any right to be heard, listen to 
 me — please ! ! 
 
 [Cotti)i tiir)is around and makes as if to go 
 out.] 
 
 Poujade. Listen to what she has to say, Cot- 
 tin! 
 
 Cottin [firmly]. Never! 
 
 Mme. Cottin [falling to her knees]. Theo- 
 dore ! 
 
 Cottin [with dignity]. Don't imagine, Ma- 
 dame, I am one of those men you can soften by 
 tears ! Don't deceive yourself by thinking I'll be- 
 lieve your story! How do I know you haven't 
 always been faithless to me — since we were mar- 
 ried? How do I know you're not acting a part 
 this minute? No, I won't listen! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Theodore, don't go away! 
 Do anything you want to me; I'll bear it. I 
 know I don't deserve to be forgiven, you ought 
 to punish me — if you do, I'll not complain. I'm 
 
 137
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 asking you, imploring you, for Genevieve's sake, 
 not mine ! 
 
 CoTTiN [brutally']. I forbid you to mention 
 her name In my presence! Your own daughter 
 that you gave to your lover ! 
 
 MiME. COTTIN. Oh ! 
 
 COTTIN. I took you to be my faithful part- 
 ner; you deceived me. Therefore I have nothing 
 more to do with you ! Go back to the miserable 
 life you lived before I married you! But Gene- 
 vieve Is my daughter, my own flesh and blood, 
 she's dearest to me of anything on earth — and 
 you've ruined her ! Don't drag her in ! I won't 
 let you ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. I'm not trying to drag her In! 
 It's just for her happiness ! 
 
 [Enter Founiier.] 
 
 FouRNiER. Monsieur called me? 
 
 Cottin. Yes; take my bags down-stairs. 
 
 PoujADE. Cottin, think It over! Don't do 
 anything rash ! 
 
 Cottin [to Poujade]. I'm going to be firm! 
 [To Foiirmer.~\ Do what I tell you! [To 
 Mme. Cottin.] You — say what you have to 
 say, at once! I'm in a hurry! 
 
 [Foiirnier goes out.] 
 
 Mme. Cottin [rising]. Why are you leav- 
 ing ^ 
 
 Cottin. That's my affair ! I know what I'm 
 
 going to do. 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Then you're leaving us all ! 
 If you leave your daughter, what'U become of 
 her? Without any one to look after her — and 
 her child? 
 
 138
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 CoTTiN. She will have you ! You've guided 
 her beautifully so far — ! It will serve you 
 right ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin [after a pause]. Genevieve is 
 your child, your own flesh and blood ! Do you 
 want her to be the laughing-stock of the whole 
 neighborhood? And you! your daughter, with 
 her bastard, do you want her to be driven to the 
 streets? 
 
 Cottin [defending himself]. Of course — I 
 don't want her to be — 
 
 PoujADE. Well, if you leave — 
 
 Cottin [after a pause]. If I leave, that's no 
 reason why — 
 
 Mme. Cottin. You don't want it to be said, 
 Theodore, that you, the honorable Monsieur Cot- 
 tin, drove his daughter into a shameful life — just 
 because of his pride! 
 
 PoujADE [to Cottin]. Pure selfishness, I call 
 it! 
 
 Cottin [after a pause]. You think so? 
 
 PoujADE. Yes. Don't you see, Genevieve 
 will still bear your name? 
 
 Mme. Cottin. You're shirking your duties as 
 a father! 
 
 Cottin [sitting dozen, Jiis hands pressed to his 
 forehead]. Tell me, then, advise me, what shall 
 I do? 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Marry them. 
 
 PoujADE. Think it over afterward. 
 
 Cottin. Marry them? But what do we 
 know of this Champanet? He's a teacher, but 
 who is he ? Where does he come from ? He 
 hasn't a sou to his name ! 
 
 139
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 PoujADE. You haven't got many husbands to 
 choose from ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. Monsieur Champanet comes 
 from a very good family; some day he'll have a 
 noble name, and when his uncle dies he comes in 
 for a very respectable fortune. 
 
 Cottin \^necirly convinccd'\. Yes, yes, that's 
 all right. But this man is your lover ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin. So you want to make a scan- 
 dal? Everybody knows now that Monsieur 
 Champanet is Genevieve's lover. That wouldn't 
 lead them to suspect anything else. If you want 
 a scandal, very well, make one! Never mind 
 about your daughter and family! 
 
 Cottin [hesitating]. How about it, Poujade, 
 d'you think I ought to marry them off? 
 
 Poujade. I've told you — Kill 'em afterward 
 if you like. 
 
 Mme. Cottin [to Poujade, terrified]. Kill 
 Maxime?! 
 
 Poujade. Certainly. Hasn't a husband the 
 legal right to do that? 
 
 Mme. Cottin. But after the marriage? 
 
 Poujade [aside to Mme. Coiiin]. Between 
 you and me, marriage makes very little differ- 
 ence ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin [outraged]. Don't listen to 
 him, Theodore, marry them; and then if any one 
 has to make a sacrifice, let me! I'm to blame, her 
 mother : I'll go away — go into a nunnery — and 
 die there ! [She cries.] 
 
 Cottin [after a moment's reflection]. Pou- 
 jade, what do you think? 
 
 Poujade. That's one way. 
 140
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 CoTTiN [deciding:, 'nith determination^. 
 Well, if everybody wants it, marry them ! 
 
 Mme. Cottin [throzfinff herself into Cot tin's 
 arjns]. Oh, thank you! thank you! You're a 
 saint ! [She kisses his hands. Cottin rises, opens 
 the bedroom door, and his wife speaks to Gene- 
 vieve and Ala.xime.] Come here, children, thank 
 your father — he's forgiven you — you can marry 
 now ! 
 
 [Enter Genevieve precipitately; she throws 
 herself into her father's arms. Maxime fol- 
 lows her and stops at some distance.^ 
 
 Genevieve. Oh, Papa, how good you are — 
 and how happy I am! 
 
 Cottin [seriously'\. Monsieur, since you have 
 already taken my daughter, I give her to you as 
 your wife. She is yours! Take her away! 
 
 Maxime [hesitating^. I cannot accept! 
 
 Cottin [amazed']. Why, please? 
 
 Maxime. I — I am not worthy of her. 
 
 Cottin. You — ? 
 
 Maxime. I see very plainly that you despise 
 me : you tell me to " take her away " ! When I'm 
 her husband you will refuse to see her, you will de- 
 spise her because she is my wife. For the sake of 
 your family honor, give her a husband she won't 
 have to be ashamed of! 
 
 Cottin. But — the child? 
 
 Maxime. This is a matter which concerns her 
 whole life. 
 
 Cottin [solemnly]. Luckily for us, we don't 
 hold the same opinions as you. We have our 
 prejudices, and our old-fashioned ideas, and one 
 of them is that we insist on having our children 
 
 141
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 recognized by the father. You're going to marry 
 my daughter to make this possible — as Poujade 
 says — I insist, I command! If my daughter is 
 not happy, so much the worse for her; it's all her 
 own doing. I must confess that as a son-in-law, I 
 might do worse. And perhaps some day you'll 
 live down what you've done, but — 
 
 Genevieve. Papa, we love you so much! 
 We'll do anything — 
 
 COTTIN [in an undertone]. And what you've 
 done. Monsieur, is — is little better than — in- 
 cest ! 
 
 Maxime. You see, then. Monsieur, this mar- 
 riage is impossible. 
 
 CoTTiN [in great perplexity]. Yes — but 
 yet — 
 
 [Enter Fournier.] 
 
 CoTTiN [suddenly to Fournier]. What do 
 you want, Fournier? 
 
 Fournier. To serve lunch; it's twelve 
 o'clock. 
 
 CoTTlN. Leave us. — Wait a moment, bring 
 up my bags, Fm not going away. 
 
 Fournier [smiling]. I never took them 
 down. [He goes out.] 
 
 CoTTiN [considering]. Have them all here 
 — in the same house? With my daughter in her 
 position! Impossible! Everybody would talk 
 about it! What wouldn't Dumoulin say, and the 
 Boulards ! 
 
 Maxime. We are going to do our best to live 
 down the past, Monsieur Cottin — there's no need 
 to send any one away. 
 
 Cottin [to Poujade]. What do you think? 
 142
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 PoujADE. Do whatever you like; I've told 
 you what I think; I wash my hands of the whole 
 affair. 
 
 CoTTiN. Genevieve is not so much to blame 
 — I forgive her — she didn't know. [Indicating 
 Maxime.^ Perhaps I can forgive you some day. 
 And to think of the havoc you made in my home, 
 with my — ! [Looking at his wife.] Nathalie, 
 you are bound to me by oaths — Maxime swore 
 nothing! — my honor, the honor of the family — 
 they were in your keeping. A man can't forget 
 those things soon ! 
 
 PoujADE [shrugging his shoulders]. Why 
 not her too, while you're at it ! ! 
 
 CoTTiN. You really — ? 
 
 Genevieve [kissing her father]. Dear, dear 
 Papa! 
 
 CoTTiN [moved]. They're all against me! 
 [He puts his hand over his eyes and sobs.] 
 Nathalie! 
 
 Mme. Cottin [kissing Jiis hand]. You're 
 good ! You're generous ! 
 
 PoujADE [cynically]. I thought so ! 
 
 Cottin [to Maxime, zvho takes Genevieve by 
 the hand]. You have a great deal to answer 
 for! 
 
 [Enter Prosper hastily.] 
 
 Prosper. Monsieur, the Count de Melimbec 
 has come again for his chronometer. He insists 
 on seeing you ! 
 
 Cottin [ivith resignation]. Tell him to go to 
 the devil! To-day I'm going to be with my fam- 
 ily — my daughter is going to be married. [Ulth 
 a sigh.] 
 
 143
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Prosper [zcith amazemetitl. Mademoiselle 
 Genevieve — ! 
 
 CoTTiN [to Prosper']. That's so, poor Pros- 
 per ! We forgot about you altogether. [He 
 holds out his hand to /i/w.] 
 
 Mme, CoTTiN. Dear Prosper! 
 
 Genevieve. Poor Monsieur Prosper! 
 
 PoujADE [who has gone to his nephew; aside 
 to him]. Happy Prosper! 
 
 CoTTiN [a little cheered up]. Well, he'll be 
 of the family anyway, we'll give him cousin Bou- 
 lard, won't we? Cousin Boulard! Nice little 
 Celina ! I think you'll hit it off nicely, you two ! 
 
 PoujADE [aside]. Yes, that's a wonderful 
 plan, you old — ! 
 
 CoTTiN [to Poiijade, slapping him on the 
 shoulder]. You mountain bear, see, you don't 
 have to cut throats to have things turn out beau- 
 tifully! Nobody's dead. [Gravely.] Only I 
 make one condition to this marriage [All surround 
 Cottin] and that is that nothing's to be said about 
 it. We needn't have the neighborhood gossip- 
 ing! Ah! [He puts his decoration hack in his 
 button-hole.] Now, let's have lunch, children! 
 Fournier, three more places and some of our best 
 wine: we don't marry our daughters off every 
 day — ! [Fournier sets the extra places, and the 
 company sits at the table.] 
 
 Mme. Cottin [simply, to Ma.xime]. Sit by 
 me — son-in-law ! 
 
 [Curtain.] 
 
 144
 
 Francois e' Luck 
 
 (^La Chance de Francoise) 
 
 A Comedy in One Act 
 
 By 
 GEORGES DE PORTO-RICHE 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 BARRETT H. CLARK 
 
 Presented for the first time, in Paris, at the 
 Theatre Libre, December lo, 1888.
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED: 
 
 CAST AT 
 
 Theatre Libre 
 
 Marcel Desroches Henri Mayer 
 
 GuERiN Laury 
 
 Jean Antoine 
 
 Francoise Mmes. Sigall 
 
 Madeleine Lucy Manvel 
 
 CAST AT 
 
 Gymnase 
 
 Marcel Desroches Pierre Achard 
 
 GuERiN M. Breant 
 
 Jean L. Debray 
 
 Francoise Mmes. Julia Depoix 
 
 Madeleine Silviac 
 
 CAST AT 
 
 Comedie-Franqaise 
 
 Marcel Desroches Le Bargy 
 
 GuERiN Laroche 
 
 Jean Falconnier 
 
 Francoise Mmes. Bertiny 
 
 Madeleine Ludwig 
 
 The scene is Auteuil. The time is the present.
 
 FRANCOISE' LUCK 
 
 [J studio. At the hack is a door opening 
 upon a garden; doors to the right and left; also 
 a small inconspicuous door to the left. There 
 are a few pictures on easels. The table is Ut- 
 tered with papers, books, weapons, bric-a-brac, 
 here and there; chairs and sofas. It is eleven 
 o'clock in the morning.^ 
 
 Fran(,"OISE [a small woman, frail, with a mel- 
 ancholy look, at times rather mocking. As the 
 curtain rises she is alone. She raises and lowers 
 the window-blind from time to time]. A little 
 more ! There ! Oh, the sunlight ! How blind- 
 ing! [Glancing at the studio with an air of sat- 
 isfaction.] How neat everything is! [In at- 
 tempting to take something from the table, she 
 knocks some papers to the floor.] Well! [See- 
 ing a letter, among the papers which she is 
 picking up.~\ A letter! From M. Guerin — 
 [Reading.] " My dear friend, why do you per- 
 sist in keeping silence? You say very little of 
 the imprudent woman who has dared to become 
 the companion of the handsome Marcel! Do 
 you recompense her for her confidence in you, 
 for her courage? You are not at all like other 
 men: your frivolity, if you will permit the term, 
 your — " [Interrupting herself.] He writes the 
 word! [Continuing.] "Your cynicism makes 
 me tremble for you. Absent for a year! How 
 
 149
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 much friendship is gone to waste ! Why were we 
 thrust apart the moment you were married? 
 Why did my wife's health make sunlight an abso- 
 lute necessity for her? We are now leaving 
 Rome; in a month I'll drop in on you at Au- 
 teuil — " \^Intcrruptbig herself again.~\ Very 
 soon ! 
 
 [^Marccl appears at the back.'\ 
 
 " I am very impatient to see you, and very anx- 
 ious to see Madame Dcsroches. I wonder 
 whether she will take to me? I hope she will. 
 Take care, you ruffian, I shall cross-question her 
 carefully, and if I find the slightest cloud in her 
 happiness, her friend-to-be will be an angry man." 
 \^She stops reading^ and says to herself, sadly.] 
 A friend — I should like that! 
 
 Marcel [carelessly dressed. He is of the 
 type which usually appeals to women]. Ah, in- 
 quisitive, you read my letters? 
 
 P^RANCOISE. Oh, it's an old one — 
 
 Marcel [chaffing her]. From Guerin? 
 
 Francoise. I found it there, when I was put- 
 ting the studio in order. 
 
 Marcel [tenderly]. The little romantic child 
 is looking for a friend? 
 
 Francoise. I have so much to tell, so much 
 about my recent happiness ! 
 
 Marcel. Am I not that friend? 
 
 Francoise. You are the man I love. Should 
 I consult with you, when your happiness is at 
 stake? 
 
 Marcel. Too deep for me! [Yawning.] 
 Oh, Fm tired—! 
 
 Francoise. Did you come in late last night? 
 150
 
 FRANCOISE' LUCK 
 
 Marcel. Three o'clock. 
 
 Francoise. You were quiet about it, you 
 naughty man ! 
 
 Marcel. Were you jealous? 
 
 Francoise. The idea ! I am morally certain 
 that you love no one except your wife. 
 
 Marcel [sadly]. It's true, I love no one ex- 
 cept my wife — 
 
 Francoise [chaffing him in turn]. Poor Mar- 
 cel! 
 
 Marcel. I was bored to death at that supper; 
 I can't imagine why. — They all tell me I'm get- 
 ting stout. 
 
 Francoise. That's no reason why you 
 shouldn't please. 
 
 Marcel. God is very unjust. 
 
 Francoise. So they say! 
 
 Marcel [stretching out on a sofa]. Excuse 
 my appearance, won't you, Frangoise ? [Making/ 
 himself comfortable.] I can't keep my eyes open 
 any longer nowadays — The days of my youth — 
 Why, I was — [He stops.] 
 
 Francoise. You were just the right age for 
 marriage. 
 
 Marcel [as if to banish the idea]. Oh! [A 
 pause.] I'm sure you will get along well with 
 Guerin. Yours are kincired spirits — you're alike 
 — not in looks, however. 
 
 Francoise. Morally, you mean ? 
 
 Marcel. Yes — I'm flattering him by the 
 comparison. 
 
 Francoise. He's like this, then: sentimental, 
 a good friend, and an honest man. Yes, I think 
 I shall get along nicely with him. 
 
 151
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Marcel. What a sympathetic nature you 
 have ! You've never seen him, and you know him 
 already. 
 
 Fran(;oise. How long has he been married? 
 
 Marcel. He was born married 1 
 
 Francoise. Tell me. 
 
 Marcel. Ten years, I think. 
 
 Francoise. He's happy? 
 
 Marcel. Very. 
 
 Francoise. What sort of woman is she? 
 
 Marcel. Lively. 
 
 Francoise. Though \irtuous? 
 
 Marcel. So they say. 
 
 Francoise. Then Madame Guerin and the 
 handsome Martel — eh? 
 
 Marcel. A friend's wife? 
 
 Francoise. It's very tempting — [Marcel 
 seems to take this in had spirit; he is about to put 
 on his hat.] Are you going out? 
 
 Marcel. I lunch at the club. 
 
 Francoise. Very well. 
 
 Marcel. Fm all — a little nervous; I need a 
 breath of air. 
 
 Francoise. Paris air ! 
 
 Marcel. Precisely. 
 
 Francoise. And your work — ? 
 
 Marcel. Fm not in the mood. 
 
 Francjoise. There's only ten days before the 
 Salon : you'll never be ready. 
 
 Marcel. What chance have 1, with my tal- 
 ent? 
 
 FraN(,"OISE. You have a great deal of talent 
 — it's recognized everywhere. 
 
 Marcel. I did have — 
 152
 
 FRANCOISE' LUCK 
 
 [J pause.] 
 
 Francoise. Will you be home for dinner? 
 
 Marcel [tenderly]. Of course! And don't 
 let any black suspicions get the better of you : I'm 
 not lunching with anybody ! 
 
 Francoise. I suspect you ? ! 
 
 Marcel [gratefully]. 'Til later, then! [A 
 pause. Frankly.] Of course, I don't always go 
 where I tell you Fm going. Why should I worry 
 you? But if you think I — do what I ought not 
 to do, you are mistaken. Fm no longer a bach- 
 elor, you know. 
 
 Francoise. Just a trifle, aren't you? 
 
 Marcel. No jealousy, dear ! The day of ad- 
 ventures is dead and buried. Thirty-five mortal 
 years, scarcity of hair, a noticeable rotundity, and 
 married! Opportunities are fewer now! 
 
 Francoise [playfully]. Don't lose courage, 
 your luck may return — A minute would suffice. 
 
 Marcel [mournfully]. I don't dare hope. 
 
 Francoise. Married! You were never fated 
 to be a proprietor, you are doomed to be a ten- 
 ant. 
 
 Marcel [as he is about to leave, he sees a tele- 
 gram on the table]. Oh, a telegram, and you 
 said nothing to me about it ! 
 
 Francoise. I didn't see it. Jean must have 
 brought it while you were asleep. 
 
 Marcel. From Passy! I know that hand! 
 [Aside, laith surprise] Madame Guerin — 
 Madeleine! Well! [Reading.] "My dear 
 friend, I lunch to-day with my aunt Madame de 
 Monglat, at La Muette — as I used to. Come 
 and see me before noon, I have serious things to 
 
 153
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 talk over with you." [He slops reading; aside, 
 much pleased.^ A rendezvous ! And after three 
 years ! Poor Guerin ! — No ! It wouldn't be de- 
 cent, now ! No ! 
 
 Francoise [aside~\. He seems to be waking 
 up ! 
 
 Marcel [aside]. They must have returned! 
 Franqoise was right — a minute would suffice ! 
 The dear girl ! 
 
 FKANroisi:. No bad news? 
 
 ^L•\RCEL [/';/ spile of himself]. On the con- 
 trary ! 
 
 Francoise. Oh! 
 
 NF'XRCEL [embarrassed]. It's from that Amer- 
 ican woman who saw my picture the other day 
 ■ — at Goupil's, you remember? She insists that 
 I give it to her for ten thousand francs. I really 
 think I'll let her have it. Nowadays you never 
 can tell — 
 
 Francoise. I think you would be very wise 
 to sell. 
 
 Marcel [handing her the telegram]. Don't 
 you believe me ? 
 
 Francoise. Absolutely. 
 
 [Marecl puts the telegram in his pocket. A 
 pause.] 
 
 Marcel [hesilalinq before lie leaves; aside]. 
 She's a darling; a perfect little darling. 
 
 Francoise. Then you're not going out? 
 
 Marcel [surprised]. Do you want to send 
 me away? 
 
 Francoise. If you're going out to lunch, you 
 had better hurry — the train leaves in a few min- 
 utes. 
 
 154
 
 FRANCOISE' LUCK 
 
 Marcel [^becoming suddenly affectionate^. 
 How can I hurry when you are so charming? 
 You're adorable this morning! 
 
 Francoise. D'you think so? 
 
 [// pause.] 
 
 Marcel [aside]. Curious, but every time I 
 have a rendezvous, she's that way! 
 
 Francoise. Good-by, then; I've had enough 
 of you! If you stay you'll upset all my plans. 
 Fd quite made up my mind to be melancholy and 
 alone. It's impossible to be either gay or sad with 
 you ! Run along! 
 
 Marcel [taking off his hat, which he had put 
 on some moments before], I tell you this is my 
 house, and this my studio. Your house is there 
 by the garden. 
 
 Francoise. Yes, it's only there that you are 
 my husband. 
 
 Marcel [contradicting her]. Oh! [Re- 
 proachfiilly, and zvitli tenderness.] Tell me, 
 Franqoise, why don't you ever want to go out with 
 me? 
 
 Francoise. You know I don't like society. 
 
 Marcel. I'm seen so much alone ! 
 
 Francoise. So much the better for you ; you 
 will be taken for a bachelor! 
 
 Marcel. One might think to hear you that 
 husband and wife ought ne\er to live together. 
 
 Francoise. Perhaps I should see you oftener 
 if we weren't married ! 
 
 Marcel. Isn't it a pleasure to you, Madame, 
 to be in the arms of your husband? 
 
 Francoise. Isn't it likewise a pleasure to be 
 able to say, " He is free, I am not his wife, he
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 is not my husband ; I am not his duty, a millstone 
 around his neck; I am his avocation, his love? If 
 he leaves me, I know he is tired of me, but if he 
 comes back, then I know he loves me." 
 
 Marcel. Francoise, you are an extremist! 
 
 Francoise. You think so? 
 
 Marcel. You are! 
 
 Francoise. And then — ? 
 
 Marcel. I know your philosophy Is nothing 
 but love. [J paiise-l You cry sometimes, don't 
 you? When I'm not here? 
 
 Francoise. Just a little. 
 
 Marcel. I must make you very unhappy! 
 When you are sad, don't hide it from me, Fran- 
 coise; one of your tears would force me to do any- 
 thing in the world for you. 
 
 Francoise. One, yes! But, many — ? 
 
 Marcel. Don't make fun of me: I am seri- 
 ous. If I told you that my affection for you Is as 
 great as yours, I — 
 
 Francoise. You would be lying. 
 
 Marcel. That may be ! But It seems to me 
 I adore you ! Every time I leave you, I feel so 
 lonely; I wander about like a lost soul! I think 
 that something must be happening to you. And 
 when I come home at midnight, and open the door, 
 I feel an exquisite sensation — Is that love? 
 You ought to know — you are so adept ! 
 
 Francoise. Perhaps. 
 
 Marcel [unthinkint/ly]. You know, Fran- 
 coise, one can never be sure of one's self. 
 
 Francoise. Of course! 
 
 Marcel. No one can say, " I love to-day, and 
 156
 
 FRANCOISE' LUCK 
 
 I shall love to-morrow." You no more than any 
 one else. 
 
 Francoise [offended]. I? 
 
 Marcel. How can you tell, whether in fif- 
 teen years — ? 
 
 Francoise. Oh, Fm a little child — I'm dif- 
 ferent from the others — I shall always love the 
 same man all his life. But go on, you were say- 
 ing — ? 
 
 Marcel. Nothing. I want you to be happy, 
 in spite of everything — no matter what may hap- 
 pen — no matter what I may do. 
 
 Francoise. Even if you should deceive me? 
 
 Marcel \_tenderly]. Deceive you? Never! 
 I care nothing about other women ! You are hap- 
 piness — not a mere pastime, 
 
 Francoise. Alas ! 
 
 Marcel. Why alas? 
 
 FRANgoiSE. Because It is easier to do without 
 happiness than pleasure. 
 
 Marcel [tenderly]. Oh, you are all that is 
 highest and best in my life — I prefer you to 
 everything else ! Let a woman come between us, 
 and she will have me to deal with ! Call it selfish- 
 ness, if you will, or egotism — but your peace of 
 mind is an absolute necessity to me ! 
 
 Francoise. You need not prepare me for the 
 future, you bad boy; I resigned myself to " possi- 
 bilities " some time ago. I'm inexperienced and 
 young in years, but I'm older than you. 
 
 Marcel. Shall I tell you something? I 
 never deserved you ! 
 
 Francoise. That's true. 
 
 157
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Marcel. When I think how happy you might 
 have made some good and worthy man, and 
 that — 
 
 Fran^OISE. Who then would have made me 
 happy? 
 
 Marcel. You are not happy now. 
 
 Fran(,"OISE. I didn't marry for happiness; I 
 married in order to have you. 
 
 Marcel. Fm a fool! — It would be nice, 
 wouldn't it, if I were an unfaithful husband! 
 
 Francoise. Fm sure you will never be that. 
 
 Marcel. Do you really think so? 
 
 FRANgoiSE. I am positive. What would be 
 the use in deceiving me? I should be so un- 
 happy, and you wouldn't be a bit happier. 
 
 Marcel. You are right. 
 
 Francoise. No, you will not deceive me. 
 To begin with, I have a great deal of luck. 
 
 Marcel [^nily]. Of course you have; you 
 don't know how much ! 
 
 Francoise [coqneltishly']. Tell me I 
 
 Marcel. What a child you are ! 
 
 Francoise. Fve run risks, haven't I? 
 
 Marcel. I should think so 1 Sometimes I 
 imagine that my happiness does not lie altogether 
 in those sparkling eyes of yours, and I try to fall 
 in love with another woman; I get deeper and 
 deeper for a week or two, and think I am terri- 
 bly infatuated. But just as I am about to take 
 the fatal leap, I fail: Francoise' luck, you see! 
 At bottom, Fm a commencer; I can't imagine what 
 it is that saves me — and you. Sometimes she 
 has done something to displease me, sometimes a 
 divine word from your lips — and a mere noth- 
 
 158
 
 FRAXgOISE' LUCK 
 
 ing, something quite insignificant! For instance, 
 Wednesday, I missed the train, and I came back 
 and had dinner with you. You see, Francoise' 
 luck! 
 
 Francoise. Then you're not going out to- 
 day, are you? 
 
 Marcel. Nor to-morrow; the whole day is 
 yours. We'll close the door ! 
 
 Francoise. Aren't you happy? 
 
 Marcel [kissing her behind the ear]. Hurry 
 up, you lazy child ! 
 
 Francoise. Fm not pretty, but I have my 
 good points. 
 
 Marcel. Not pretty? 
 
 Fran^'Oise. No, but I deserve to be. 
 
 [Madeleine appears at the back.^ 
 
 Madeleine. I beg your pardon! 
 
 \_Fra}icoise gives an exclamation of surprise 
 and escapes through the door to the right 
 without looking a second time at the visi- 
 tor.] 
 
 Marcel [surprised]. Madeleine! 
 
 [A pause.] 
 
 Madeleine [stylishly dressed. With an air 
 of bravura]. So this is the way you deceive 
 me! 
 
 Marcel [gaily]. My dear, if you think that 
 during these three years — 
 
 Madeleine. I beg your pardon for interrupt- 
 ing your little tete-a-tcte, Marcel, but your door 
 was open, and I found no servant to announce m.e. 
 
 Marcel. You know you are always welcome 
 here. 
 
 Madeleine. Your wife is very attractive. 
 159
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Marcel. Isn't she? Shall I introduce you? 
 
 Madeleine. Later — I've come to see yoii. 
 
 Marcel. I must confess your visit is a little 
 surprising. 
 
 AIadeleine. Especially after my sending 
 that telegram this morning. I thought I should 
 prefer not to trouble you. 
 
 Marcel [uncertain]. Ah! 
 
 Madeleine. Yes. 
 
 Marcel. Well? 
 
 Madeleine. Well, no! 
 
 Marcel. I'm sorry. [Kissing her liand.] 
 I'm glad to see you, at any rate. 
 
 Madeleine. Same studio as always, eh? 
 
 Marcel. You are still as charming as ever. 
 
 Madeleine. You are as handsome as ever. 
 
 Marcel. I can say no less for you. 
 
 Madeleine. I'm only twenty-eight. 
 
 Marcel. But your husband is fifty: that 
 keeps you young. How long have you been back? 
 
 Madeleine. A week. 
 
 Marcel. And I haven't seen Guerin yet ! 
 
 Madeleine. There's no hurry. 
 
 Marcel. What's the matter? 
 
 Madeleine. He's a bit troubled: you know 
 how jealous he is! Well, yesterday, when I was 
 out, he went through all my private papers — 
 
 Marcel. Naturally he came across some let- 
 ters. 
 
 Madeleine. The letters, my dear! 
 
 Marcel. Mine? 
 
 Madeleine. Yes. — [Geslnre from Marcel] 
 Old letters. 
 
 Marcel. You kept them ? 
 1 60
 
 FRANgOISE' LUCK 
 
 Madeleine. From a celebrity? Of course! 
 
 Marcel. The devil! 
 
 Madeleine. Ungrateful! 
 
 Marcel. I beg your pardon — 
 
 Madeleine. You can Imagine my explana- 
 tion following the discovery. Nly dear Marcel, 
 there's going to be a divorce. 
 
 Marcel. A — ! A divorce? 
 
 Madeleine. Don't pity me too much. After 
 all, I shall be free — almost happy. 
 
 Marcel. What resignation ! 
 
 Madeleine. Only — 
 
 Marcel. Only what? 
 
 Madeleine. He is going to send you his sec- 
 onds. 
 
 Marcel [^aily]. A duel ? — To-day ? You're 
 not serious? 
 
 Madeleine. I think he wants to kill you. 
 
 Marcel. But that was an affair of three years 
 ago ! Why, to begin with, he hasn't the right ! 
 
 Madeleine. Because of the lapse of time? 
 
 Marcel. Three years Is thj-ee years. 
 
 Madeleine. You're right: notv you are not 
 In love with his wife: you love your own. Time 
 has changed everything. Now your own happi- 
 ness is all-sufficient. I can easily understand your 
 indignation against my husband. 
 
 Marcel. Oh, I — 
 
 Madeleine. My husband Is slow but he's 
 sure, isn't he? 
 
 Marcel. You're cruel, Madeleine. 
 
 Madeleine. If it's ancient history for you, 
 it's only too recent for him ! 
 
 Marcel. Let's not speak about him! 
 i6i
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Madi:leIx\e. But he should be a very Inter- 
 esting topic of con\ersation just now! 
 
 Marcel. 1 hadn't foreseen his being so cut 
 up. 
 
 Madeleine. You must tell him how sorry 
 you are when you see him. 
 
 Marcel. At the duel? 
 
 Madeleine. Elsewhere ! 
 
 Marcel. Where? Here, in my house? 
 
 Madeleine. My dear, he may want to tell 
 you what he feels. 
 
 [A p(iHse.'\ 
 
 Marcel [aside, troubled^. The devil! — 
 And Francoise? [Anolhcr paiise.~\ Oh, a duel! 
 Well, I ought to risk my life for you; you have 
 done the same thing for me many times. 
 
 Madeleine. Oh, I was not so careful as you 
 were then. 
 
 Marcel. You are not telling me everything, 
 Madeleine. What put it into your husband's 
 head to look through your papers? 
 
 Madeleine. Ah! 
 
 Marcel. Well, evidently / couldn't have ex- 
 cited his jealousy. For a long time he has had 
 no reason to suspect me ! Were they my letters 
 he was looking for? 
 
 Madeleine. That is my affair! 
 
 Marcel. 1 hen 1 am expiating for some one 
 else? 
 
 Madeleine. I'm afraid so. 
 
 Marcel. Perfect! 
 
 Madei-EINE. Forgive me ! 
 
 Marcel [reproachfully]. So you are de- 
 ceiving him ! ? 
 
 162
 
 FRANgOISE' LUCK 
 
 Madeleine. You are a perfect friend to- 
 day! 
 
 Marcel. Then you really have a lover? 
 
 Madeleine. A second lover! That would 
 be disgraceful, wouldn't it? 
 
 Marcel. The first step is the one with the 
 worst consequences. 
 
 Madeleine. What are you smiling at? 
 
 Marcel. Oh, the happiness of others — ! 
 Well, let's have no bitterness. 
 
 Madeleine. No, you might feel remorse ! 
 
 Marcel. Oh, Madeleine, why am I not the 
 guilty one this time — you are always so beauti- 
 ful ! 
 
 Madeleine. Your fault! You should have 
 kept what you had! 
 
 Marcel. I thought you were tired of me. 
 
 Madeleine. You will never know what I 
 suffered; I cried like an abandoned shopgirl! 
 
 Marcel. Not for long, though? 
 
 Madeleine. Three months. When I think 
 I once loved you so much, and here I am before 
 you so calm and indifferent ! You look like any- 
 body else now. How funny, how disgusting life 
 is! You meet some one, do no end of foolish 
 and wicked and mean things in order to be- 
 long to him, and the day comes when you don't 
 know one another. Each takes his turn ! I 
 think it would have been better — [Gesture from 
 Marcel.] Yes — I ought to try to forget every- 
 thing. 
 
 Marcel. That's all buried in the past! 
 Wasn't it worth the trouble, the suffering that we 
 have to undergo now? 
 
 163
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Madeleine. You too! You have to re- 
 call—! 
 
 Makcel. I'm sorry, but I didn't begin this 
 conversation — 
 
 Madeleine. Never mind ! It's all over, let's 
 say nothing more about it! 
 
 Marcel. No, please! Let's — curse me, 
 Madeleine, say anything you like about me — I 
 deserve it all! 
 
 Madeleine. Stop ! Behave yourself, you 
 married man! What if your wife heard you! 
 
 Marcel. She? Dear child! She is much 
 too afraid of what I might say to listen. 
 
 Madeleine. Dear child! You cynic! I'll 
 wager you have not been a model husband since 
 your marriage ! 
 
 Marcel. You are mistaken there, my dear. 
 
 Madeleine. You are lying! 
 
 Marcel. Seriously; and I'm more surprised 
 than you at the fact — but it's true. 
 
 Madeleine. Poor Marcel! 
 
 Marcel. I do suffer! 
 
 Madeleine. Then you are a faithful hus- 
 band? 
 
 Marcel. I am frivolous and — compromis- 
 ing — that is all. 
 
 Madeleine. It's rather funny: you seem 
 somehow to be ready to belong to some one ! 
 
 Marcel. Madeleine, you are the first who has 
 come near tempting me. 
 
 Madeleine. Is it possible? 
 
 Marcel. I feci myself weakening. 
 
 Madeleine. Thank you so much for think- 
 164
 
 FRANCOISE' LUCK 
 
 ing of me, dear, — I appreciate it highly, but for 
 the time being, I'll — consider. 
 
 Marcel. Have you made up your mind? 
 
 Madeleine. We shall see later; I'll think it 
 over — perhaps! Yet, I rather doubt if — ! 
 You haven't been nice to me to-day, your open 
 honest face hasn't pleased me at all. Then you're 
 so carelessly dressed ! I don't think you're at all 
 interesting any more. No, I hardly think so ! 
 
 Marcel. But, Madeleine — 
 
 Madeleine. Don't call me Madeleine. 
 
 Marcel. Madame Guerin ! Madame Gue- 
 rin ! if I told you how much your telegram meant 
 to me ! How excited I was ! I trembled when I 
 read it! 
 
 Madeleine. I'll warrant you read it before 
 your wife? 
 
 Marcel. It was so charming of you ! 
 
 Madeleine. How depraved you are! 
 
 Marcel. How well you know me ! 
 
 Madeleine. Fool! 
 
 Marcel. I adore you ! 
 
 Madeleine. That's merely a notion of 
 yours ! You imagine that since you haven't seen 
 me for so long — I've just come back from a 
 long trip ! 
 
 Marcel. Don't shake my faith in you ! 
 
 Madeleine. Think of your duties, my dear; 
 don't forget — 
 
 Marcel. Of my children? I have none. 
 
 Madeleine. Of your wife. 
 
 Marcel [/« desperation]. You always speak 
 of her! 
 
 165
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Madeleine. Love her, my friend, and if 
 my husband doesn't kill you to-morrow, continue 
 to love her in peace and quiet. You are made 
 for a virtuous life now — any one can see that. 
 I'm flattering you when I consider you a libertine. 
 You've been spoiled by too much happiness, that's 
 the trouble with you ! 
 
 Marcel [tfyi>i{j to kiss her]. Madeleine, if 
 you only — ! 
 
 Madeleine \_evadiug li'nii]. Are you out of 
 your wits? 
 
 Marcel. Forgive me: I haven't quite for- 
 gotten — ! Well, if I am killed it will be for a 
 good reason. 
 
 Madeleine. Poor dear! 
 
 Marcel. It will! This duel is going to com- 
 promise you fearfully. Come now, every one will 
 accuse you to-morrow ; what difference does it 
 make to you? 
 
 Madeleine. I'm not in the mood! 
 
 Marcel. Now yon are lying! 
 
 Madeleine. I don't love you. 
 
 Marcel. Nonsense! You're sulking! 
 
 Madeleine. How childish! Don't touch 
 me!! You want me to be unfaithful to every- 
 body! Never! {^Chancjiug.'] Yet — ! No; it 
 would be too foolish ! Good-by ! 
 
 Marcel \^kissing her as she tries to pass him~\. 
 Not before — 
 
 Madeleine. Oh, you've mussed my hat; 
 how awkward of you! [Trying to escape from 
 Marcel's emhrace.~\ Let me go! 
 
 Marcel \^']okingly'\. Let you go? In a few 
 days! 
 
 1 66
 
 FRANgOISE' LUCK 
 
 Madeleine. Good-by! My husband may 
 come any moment — 
 
 Marcel. Are you afraid? 
 
 Madeleine. Yes, I'm afraid he might for- 
 give me ! 
 
 Marcel. One minute more ! 
 
 Madeleine. No! I have just time — I'm 
 going away this evening — 
 
 Marcel. Going away? 
 
 Madeleine. To London. 
 
 Marcel. With — him, the other? 
 
 Madeleine. I hope so. 
 
 Marcel. Who knows? He may be waiting 
 this moment for you at Madame de Montglat's, 
 your aunt's — 
 
 Madeleine. They are playing cards to- 
 gether — 
 
 Marcel. The way we are! What a fam- 
 ily! 
 
 Madeleine. Impudent! 
 
 Marcel. That's why you came. 
 
 Madeleine [about to leave]. Shall I go out 
 through the models' door, as I used to? 
 
 Marcel. If I were still a bachelor you 
 wouldn't leave me like this ! You would miss 
 your train this evening — I'll tell you that! 
 
 Madeleine. You may very well look at that 
 long sofa! No, no, my dear: not to-day, thanks! 
 
 Marcel. In an hour, then, at Madame de 
 Montglat's ! 
 
 Madeleine. Take care, or I'll make you meet 
 your successor! 
 
 Marcel. Then I can see whether you are still 
 a woman of taste ! 
 
 167
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Madkleine. Ah, men are very — I'll say the 
 word after I leave. \_She goes out through the 
 little door.'] 
 
 Marcel [alone']. " Men are very — !" If 
 we were, the women would have a very stupid time 
 of it! 
 
 [He is about to follow Madeleine.] 
 
 [Enter FrauQoisc.] 
 
 Francoise. Who was that stylish looking 
 woman who just left, Marcel? 
 
 Marcel [embarrassed], Madame Jackson, 
 my American friend. 
 
 Francoise. Well? 
 
 Marcel. My picture? Sold! 
 
 Francoise. Ten thousand? Splendid! 
 Don't you think so ? You don't seem very 
 happy! 
 
 Marcel. The idea! 
 
 [He picks up his hat.] 
 
 Fran(;"OISE [jealously]. Are you going to 
 leave me? 
 
 Marcel. I am just going to Goupil's and tell 
 him. 
 
 Francoise. Then I'll have to lunch all by my- 
 self? [Marcel stops an instant before the mir- 
 ror.] You look lovely. 
 
 Marcel [turning round]. I — 
 
 FRANgoiSE. Oh, you'll succeed — ! 
 
 [A pause.] 
 
 Marcel [enchanted, in spite of himself]. 
 What can you be thinking of! [Aside.] What 
 if she were after all my happiness?! [Reproach- 
 fully.] Now Francoise — 
 
 Francoise. I was only joking. 
 168
 
 FRANCOISE' LUCK 
 
 Marcel [ready to leave]. No moping, re- 
 member? I can't have that! 
 
 Fran^oise. I know ! 
 
 Marcel [tenderly. He stands at the thresh- 
 old. J side]. Poor child! — Well! I may 
 fail! 
 
 [He goes out, left.] 
 
 pRANgoiSE [sadly]. Where is he going? 
 Probably to a rendezvous. Oh, if he is! Will 
 my luck fail me to-day? Soon he'll come back 
 again, well satisfied with himself! I talk to him 
 so much about my resignation, I wonder whether 
 he believes in it? Why must I be tormented this 
 way forever? 
 
 [Enter Jean, zvith a visiting-card in his hand.] 
 
 Jean. Is Monsieur not here? 
 
 Francoise. Let me see! 
 
 [She takes the card.] 
 
 Jean. The gentleman is waiting, Madame. 
 
 Francoise. Ask him to come in. Quick, 
 now! 
 
 [Jean goes out.] 
 
 [Enter Guerin, at the back. As he sees I'^ran- 
 coise he hesitates before coining to her.] 
 
 Francoise [cordially]. Come in, Monsieur. 
 I have never seen you, but I know you very well, 
 already. 
 
 GuERiN [a large, strong man, with grayish 
 hair]. Thank you, Madame. I thought I should 
 find M. Desroches at home. If you will excuse 
 me — 
 
 Franc^^oise. I beg you — ! 
 
 GuERiN. I fear I am intruding: it's so early. 
 
 Fran^'OISE. You intruding In Marcel's home ? ! 
 169
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 GuERiN. Madame — 
 
 Francoise. My husband will return soon, 
 IVIonsieur. 
 
 GuERiN [briffhteniug]. Ah, good! 
 
 Francoise. Will you wait for him here in the 
 studio ? 
 
 GuERiN [advancingl. Really, Madame, I 
 should be very ungrateful were I to refuse your 
 kindness. 
 
 P'rancjoise. Here are magazines and news- 
 papers — I shall ask to be excused. [Js she is 
 about to leave.^ It was rather difficult to make 
 you stay ! 
 
 GuERiN. Forgive me, Madame. {Aside 
 ironically.^ Too bad — ! She's decidedly 
 charming! 
 
 {Having gone iip-stagc, Francoise suddenly re- 
 traces her steps.] 
 
 Francoise. It seems a little strange to you. 
 Monsieur — doesn't it? — to see a woman in this 
 bachelor studio — quite at home? 
 
 GUERIN. Why, Madame — 
 
 Francoise. Before leaving you alone — 
 which I shall do in a moment — you must know 
 that there is one woman who is very glad to know 
 you have returned to Paris ! 
 
 GuERiN. We just arrived this week. 
 
 Francoise. Good ! 
 
 GuERiN {ironically]. It's so long since I've 
 seen Marcel — 
 
 Francoise. Three years. 
 
 GuERlN. So many things have happened since ! 
 
 Fran(;0ISE. You find him a married man, for 
 one thing — 
 
 170
 
 FRANgOISE' LUCK 
 
 GUERIN. Happily married! 
 
 Francoise. Yes, happily! 
 
 GuERiN. Dear old Marcel ! I'll be so glad to 
 see him ! 
 
 Francoise. I see you haven't forgotten my 
 husband, Monsieur. Thank you ! 
 
 GuERiN. How can I help admiring so stout 
 and loyal a heart as his ! 
 
 Francoise. You'll have to like me, too ! 
 
 GuERiN. I already do. 
 
 Francoise. Really? Then you believe every- 
 thing you write ? 
 
 GuERiN. Yes, Madame. 
 
 Francoise. Take care ! This morning I was 
 re-reading one of your letters, In which you prom- 
 ised me your heartiest support. [Holding out her 
 hand to him.^ Then we're friends, are we not? 
 
 GuERiN \_after hesitating a ivhile, takes her 
 hand in his^. Good friends, Madame! 
 
 Francoise. Word of honor? 
 
 Guerin. Word of honor! 
 
 Francoise [sitting^. Then Fll stay. Sit 
 down, and let's talk! [Guerin is uncertain.] We 
 have so much to say to each other! Let's talk 
 about you first. 
 
 Guerin [forced to sit dozen]. About me? 
 ButI — 
 
 Francoise. Yes, about you ! 
 
 Guerin [quickly]. No, about jo/zr happiness, 
 your welfare — ! 
 
 Francoise. About my great happiness! 
 
 Guerin [ironically]. Let us speak about your 
 — existence — which you are so content with. I 
 must know all the happiness of this house! 
 
 171
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Francoise. Happy people never have any- 
 thing to say. 
 
 GuERiN. You never have troubles, I presume? 
 
 Francoise. None, so far, 
 
 GuERiN. What might happen? To-day you 
 are living peacefully with Marcel, a man whose 
 marriage with you was strongly opposed, it seems. 
 Life owes you no more than it has already given 
 you. 
 
 Francoise. My happiness is complete. I 
 had never imagined that the goodness of a man 
 could make a woman so happy! 
 
 GuERiN. The goodness — ? 
 
 Francoise. Of course ! 
 
 GuERlN. The love, you mean, Madame ! 
 
 Francoise. Oh, Marcel's love for me — 1 
 
 GUERIN. Something lacking? 
 
 Francoise. Oh, no ! 
 
 Guerin [interested]. Tell me. Am I not 
 your friend? 
 
 Francoise. Seriously, Monsieur, you know 
 him very well, — how could he possibly be in love 
 with me? Is it even possible? Me lets me love 
 him, and I ask nothing more. 
 
 Guekin. Nothing? 
 
 Francoise. Only to be allowed to continue to 
 do so. [Gesture from Guerin.] I am not at all 
 like other women. 1 don't ask for rights; but I 
 do demand tenderness and consideration. He is 
 free, I am not — I'll admit that. But I don't 
 mind, I only hope that we may continue as we are! 
 
 Guekin. Have you some presentiment, Ma- 
 dame ? 
 
 Francoise. I am afraid. Monsieur. My 
 172
 
 FRANCOISE' LUCK 
 
 happiness Is not of the proud, demonstrative va- 
 riety, it is a kind of happiness that is continually 
 trembhng for its safety. If I told you — 
 
 GuERiN. Do tell me ! 
 
 Francoise. Later! How I pity one who 
 loves and has to suffer for it! 
 
 GVERIN [surprised]. You — ! 
 
 Francoise. I am on the side of the jealous, 
 of the betrayed — 
 
 GuERiN [aside, and truly moved to sympathy']. 
 Poor Httle woman! [ITith great sincerity.] 
 Then you are not sure of him? 
 
 Francoise [growing more and more excite-d]. 
 He is Marcel ! Admit for a moment that he loves 
 me to-day — I want so to believe it ! — To-mor- 
 row will he love me? Does he himself know 
 whether he will love me then? Isn't he at the 
 mercy of whims, a passing fantasy — of the 
 weather, or the appearance of the first woman he 
 happens to meet? I am only twenty, and I am 
 not always as careful as I might be. Happiness 
 is so difiicult ! 
 
 GuERiN. Yes, It is. [To himself.] It is! 
 [To Francoise.] Perhaps you are conscientious, 
 too sincere? 
 
 Francoise. I feel that; yes, I think I am, but 
 every time I try to hide my affection from him, 
 he becomes indifferent, almost mean — as if he 
 were glad to be rid of some duty — of being 
 good! 
 
 GuERiN. So it's come to that! 
 
 Francoise. You see. Marcel can't get used to 
 the idea that his other life is over, dead and 
 burled, that he's married for good — that he must 
 
 173
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 do as others do. I do my best and tell him, but 
 my very presence only reminds him of his duties 
 as a husband. For instance [niterrKpting her- 
 self.] Here I am telling you all this — 
 
 GuERiN. Oh! — Please! 
 
 Francoise [with bitterness]. He likes to go 
 out alone at night, without me. He knows me 
 well enough to understand that his being away 
 makes me very unhappy, and as a matter of form, 
 of common courtesy, he asks me whether I should 
 like to go with him. I try to reason with myself, 
 and convince myself that he doesn't mean what he 
 says, but I can't help feeling sincerely happy when 
 once In a while I do accept his invitation. But the 
 moment we leave the house I see my mistake. 
 Then he pretends to be in high spirits, but I know 
 all the time he is merely acting a part; and when 
 we come home again he lets drop without fail some 
 hint about his having lost his liberty, that he took 
 me out in a moment of weakness, that he really 
 wanted to be alone. 
 
 GuERiN [^interrupting.'] And w'hen he does 
 go out alone — ? 
 
 Francoise. Then I am most unhappy; Fm 
 in torment for hours and hours. I wonder where 
 he can be, and then I fear he won't come back at 
 all. When the door opens, when I hear him come 
 in, Fm so happy that I pay no attention to what 
 he tells me. But I made a solemn promise with 
 myself never to give the slightest indication of 
 jealousy. My face is always tranquil, and what I 
 say to him never betrays what I feel. I never 
 knowingly betray myself, but his taking way, his 
 tenderness, soon make me confess every fear; then 
 
 174
 
 FRANCOISE' LUCK 
 
 he turns round and using my own confessions as 
 weapons, shows me how wrong I am to be so 
 afraid and suspicious. And when sometimes I 
 say nothing to him, even when he tries to make me 
 confess, he punishes me most severely by teUing 
 me stories of his affairs, narrow escapes, and all 
 his temptations. He once told me about an old 
 mistress of his, whom he had just seen, a very 
 clever woman, who was never jealous ! Or else he 
 comes in so late that I have to be glad, for if he 
 came in later, it would have been all night! He 
 tells me he had some splendid opportunity, and 
 had to give it up ! A thousand things like that! 
 He seems to delight In making me suspect and 
 doubt him ! 
 
 GuERiN. Poor little woman! 
 
 Fran(;'OISE. That's my life; as for my happi- 
 ness, it exists from day to day. [^JVith an air of 
 revolt.^ If I only had the right to he unhappy! 
 But I must always wear a smile, I must be happy, 
 not only in his presence, officially, but to the very 
 depths of my soul! So that he may deceive me 
 without the slightest feeling of remorse! It Is 
 his pleasure ! 
 
 \^She bursts into tears.~\ 
 
 GuERiN \^rising']. The selfish brute! 
 
 Francoise. Isn't my suffering a reproach to 
 him? 
 
 GuERiN. I pity you, Madame, and I think I 
 understand you better than any one else. I have 
 trouble not unlike your own; perhaps greater, in- 
 consolable troubles. 
 
 Francoise. If you understand me, Monsieur, 
 advise me. I need you ! 
 
 175
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 GuERiN [startled back into rcdlily]. Me, 
 your aid? I? [Aside.] No! 
 
 Francoise. You spoke of your friendship. 
 The time has come, prove that it is real! 
 
 GuERiN. Madame, why did I ever see you? 
 Why did I listen to you? 
 
 Francoise. What have you to regret? 
 
 GuERiN. Nothing, Madame, nothing. 
 
 Francoise. Explain yourself, Monsieur. 
 You — you make me afraid! 
 
 Guerin [tryinc/ to calm her suspicions'\. 
 Don't cry like that! There is nothing to behave 
 that vi^ay about ! Your husband doesn't love you 
 as he ought, but he does love you. You are jeal- 
 ous, that's what's troubling you. And for that 
 matter, why should he deceive you? That would 
 be too unjust — 
 
 Francoise [excitedl. Too unjust! You are 
 right, Monsieur! No matter how cynical, how 
 blase a man may be, isn't it his duty, his sacred 
 duty to say to himself, " I have found a good and 
 true woman in this world of deception; she is a 
 woman who adores me, who is only too ready to 
 invent any excuse for me! She bears my name 
 and honors it; no matter what I do, she is always 
 true, of that I am positive. I am always fore- 
 most in her thoughts, and 1 shall be her only love." 
 When a man can say all that. Monsieur, isn't that 
 real, true happiness? 
 
 Guerin [sobhingl. Yes — that is happiness! 
 
 Francoise. You are crying! [/I pause.'] 
 
 Guerin. My wife — deceived me! 
 
 Francoise. Oh! — [// pause.] Marcel — 
 
 Guerin. Your happiness is in no danger! 
 176
 
 FRANgOISE' LUCK 
 
 Yesterday I found some old letters, in a desk — 
 old letters — that was all ! You weren't his wife 
 at the time. It's all ancient history. 
 
 Fran^oise [aside]. Who knows? 
 
 GuERiN, Forgive me, Madame; your troubles 
 make me think of my own. When you told of the 
 happiness you can still give, I couldn't help think- 
 ing of what I had lost! 
 
 Francoise. So you have come to get my hus- 
 band to light a duel with you ? 
 
 GUERIN. Madame — 
 
 FRANgoiSE. You are going to fight him ? An- 
 swer me. 
 
 GUERIN. My life is a wreck now — I must — 
 
 Francoise. I don't ask you to forget; Mon- 
 sieur — 
 
 GuERiN. Don't you think I have a right — ? 
 
 Francoise. Stop ! 
 
 GuERlN. No, then; I shall not try to kill him. 
 You love him too much ! 1 couldn't do it now ! 
 In striking him I should be injuring you, and you 
 don't deserve to suffer; you have betrayed no one! 
 The happiness you have just taught me to know 
 is as sacred and inviolable as my honor, my un- 
 happiness. I shall not seek revenge. 
 
 FraN(^oise [gratefully]. Oh, Monsieur. 
 
 GUERIN. I am willing he should live, because 
 he is so dear, so necessary to you. Keep him. If 
 he wants to spoil your happiness, his be the blame ! 
 I shall not do it! It would be sacrilege! Good- 
 by, Madame, good-by. 
 
 [Giier'ui goes out, hack, Francoise falls into a 
 chair, sobbing.] 
 
 [Enter Marcel by the little door.] 
 177
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Marcel [aside, with a melancholy air^. Re- 
 fused to see me ! 
 
 Francoisk {distantly^. Oh, It's you! 
 
 Marcel [^ood-humoredly]. Yes, it's I. [A 
 pause. He goes toward her.~\ You have been 
 crying! Have you seen Guerin? He's been 
 here ! 
 
 Francoise. Marcel — 
 
 Marcel. Did he dare tell you — ! 
 
 Francoise. You won't see any more of him. 
 
 Marcel [astounded]. He's not going to 
 fight? 
 
 Francoise. He refuses. 
 
 Marcel. Thank you ! 
 
 Francoise. I took good care of your dignity, 
 you may be sure of that. Here we were together; 
 I told him the story of my life during the last year 
 ( — how I loved you — and then he broke down. — 
 When I learned the truth, he said he would go 
 away for the sake of my happiness. 
 
 Marcel. I was a coward to deceive that 
 man ! — Is this a final sentence that you pass on 
 me? 
 
 Francoise. Marcel ! 
 
 Marcel. Both of you are big! You have big 
 hearts! I admire you both more than I can say. 
 
 Francoise [incredulously]. Where are you 
 going ? To get him to light with you ? 
 
 Marcel [returning to her; angrily]. How 
 can I, now? After what you have done, it would 
 be absurd. Why the devil did you have to mix 
 yourself up in something that didn't concern you? 
 I was only looking for a chance to fight that duel! 
 
 178
 
 FRANCOISE' LUCK 
 
 Francoise. Looking for a chance? 
 
 Marcel. Oh, I — 
 
 Francoise. Why? 
 
 Marcel [between his teeth]. That's my af- 
 fair! Everybody has his enemies — his insults 
 to avenge. It was a very good thing that that 
 gentleman didn't happen across my path! 
 
 Francoise. How can you dare to recall what 
 he has been generous enough to forget? 
 
 Marcel. How do you know that I haven't a 
 special reason for fighting this duel? A legitimate 
 reason, that must be concealed from you ? 
 
 Francoise. You are mistaken, dear : I guess 
 that reason perfectly. 
 
 Marcel. Really? 
 
 Fran(^^oise. I know it. 
 
 Marcel [bursting forth]. Oh! Good!! 
 You haven't always been so frightfully profound ! 
 
 Francoise. Yes, I have, and your irony only 
 proves that I have not been so much mistaken in 
 what I have felt by intuition. 
 
 Marcel. Ah, marriage! 
 
 Francoise. Ah, duty ! 
 
 Marcel. I love Madame Guerin, don't I? 
 
 Francoise. I don't say that. 
 
 Marcel. You think it. 
 
 Francoise. And if I do? Would it be a 
 crime to think it? You once loved her — perhaps 
 you have seen her again, not very long ago. Do I 
 know where you go ? You never tell me. 
 
 Marcel. I tell you too much ! 
 
 Francoise. I think you do. 
 
 Marcel. You're jealous ! 
 179
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Francoise. Common, if you like. Come, you 
 must admit, Marcel, Madame Guerin has some- 
 thing to do with your excitement now? 
 
 Marcel. Very well then, I love her, I adore 
 her ! Are you satisfied now ? 
 
 Fran^^oise. You should have told me that at 
 first, my dear; I should never have tried to keep 
 you away from her. 
 
 [^Slw breaks into Icars.^ 
 
 Marcel. She's crying! God, there's my lib- 
 erty ! 
 
 Francoise [bitterly]. Your liberty? I did 
 not suffer when I promised you your liberty. 
 
 Marcel. That was your " resignation " ! 
 
 Francoise. You knew life, I did not. You 
 ought never to have accepted it ! 
 
 Marcel. You're like all the rest! 
 
 Francoise [inore excited]. Doesn't unhappi- 
 ness level us all ? 
 
 Marcel. I see it does! 
 
 Francoise. What can you ask for them? 
 So long as you have no great happiness like mine 
 you are ready enough to make any sacrifice, but 
 when once you have it, you never resign yourself 
 to losing it. 
 
 Marcel. That's just the difficulty. 
 
 Fran(J0ISE. Be a little patient, dear: I have 
 not yet reached that state of cynicism and subtlety 
 which you seem to want in your wife — I thought 
 I came near to your ideal once ! Perhaps there's 
 some hope for me yet: I have promised myself 
 that I should do my best to satisfy your ideal. 
 
 Marcel [juoved]. I don't ask that. 
 
 Francoise. You are right, I am very fool- 
 i8o
 
 FRANCOISE' LUCK 
 
 ish to try to struggle. What will be the good? 
 It will suffice when I have lost the dearest creature 
 to me on earth — through my foolishness, my 
 blunders ! 
 
 Marcel. The dearest creature — ? 
 
 Francoise. I can't help it if he seems so to 
 me ! 
 
 Marcel [disarmed]. You — you're trying 
 to appeal to my vanity ! 
 
 Francoise. I am hardly in the mood for jok- 
 ing. 
 
 Marcel [tenderly, as he falls at her feet]. 
 But you make me say things like that — I don't 
 know what — ! I am not bad — really bad! 
 No, I have not deceived you ! I love you, and 
 only you! You!! You know that, Francoise! 
 Ask — ask any woman ! ! All women ! 
 
 [// pause.] 
 
 Francoise [smiling through her tears]. Best 
 of husbands! You're not going out then? You'll 
 stay? 
 
 Marcel [in Francoise' s arms]. Can I go 
 now, now that I'm here? You are so pretty that 
 I — 
 
 Francoise. Not when I'm in trouble. 
 
 Marcel. Don't cry ! 
 
 Francoise. I forgive you ! 
 
 Marcel. Wait, I haven't confessed every- 
 thing. 
 
 Francoise. Not another word ! 
 
 Marcel. I want to be sincere ! 
 
 Francoise. I prefer to have you lie to me! 
 
 Marcel. First, read this telegram — the one 
 I received this morning. 
 
 i8i
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Fran^oise [surprised]. From Madame 
 Guerin? 
 
 Marcel. You saw her not long ago. Yes, 
 she calmly told me — 
 
 Francoise. That her husband had found 
 some letters! 
 
 Marcel. And that she was about to leave for 
 England with her lover. 
 
 Francoise. Then she is quite consoled? 
 
 Marcel. Perfectly. 
 
 Francoise. Poor Marcel! And you went to 
 see her and try to prevent her going away with 
 him? 
 
 Marcel. My foolishness was well punished. 
 She wouldn't receive me. 
 
 Francoise. Then I am the only one left who 
 loves you? How happy I am! 
 
 Marcel. I'll kill that love some day with my 
 ridiculous affairs! 
 
 Francoise [^ravclyl. I defy you! 
 
 Marcel [playfully]. Then 1 no longer have 
 the right to provoke Monsieur Guerin? Now? 
 
 Francoise [gaily]- You are growing old, 
 Lovelace, his wife has deceived you! 
 
 Marcel [lovingly]. Frangoise' luck! 
 [Sadly.] Married! 
 
 [Curtain.] 
 
 182
 
 The Dupe 
 
 (La Dupe) 
 
 A Comedy in Five Acts 
 
 By 
 GEORGES ANCEY 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 BARRETT II. CLARK 
 
 Produced for the first time, at the Theatre Libre, 
 21 December, 1891.
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED: 
 
 ORIGINAL CAST 
 
 Albert M. Antoine 
 
 Madame Viot Miles. Barny 
 
 Adele Henriot 
 
 Marie Dulac 
 
 The scene is the drawing-room in an apartment 
 at Paris. The time is the present.
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 ACT I 
 
 [Mme. Viot and Marie are on the stage as 
 the curtain rises.^ 
 
 Mme. Viot. And what If she is unwilling? 
 You know she is hard to handle. 
 
 Marie. If she is unwilling, then she must be 
 severely talked to. She's refused five or six very 
 favorable chances! And now here is this nice- 
 looking, wealthy young man of good family — it 
 would be very, very foolish to let him escape — 
 perhaps very Imprudent. Adele has 300,000 
 francs' dowry, I know, but she's twenty-three al- 
 ready; It's time she was married! 
 
 Mme. Viot. My dear child, you are abso- 
 lutely right. 
 
 Marie. You must admit that when it was a 
 question Oif finding me a husband I didn't give you 
 so much trouble. 
 
 Mme. Viot. You certainly didn't. You be- 
 haved beautifully ! 
 
 Marie. And yet, it Isn't very hard to see that 
 you prefer my sister to me. You don't dare scold 
 her. 
 
 Mme. Viot. I? Oh, Marie, I do everything 
 for you ! Your father always used to say to me : 
 " Madame Viot," he said, " you love Marie bet- 
 
 187
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 ter than Adele." Only the other day, in that busi- 
 ness about the will — 
 
 Marie. You're not going to blame me — ? 
 
 Mme. Viot. No, you dear child, and I'm only 
 too happy when I can do something for you. 1 do 
 everything in my power, and sometimes I'm even 
 unjust to Adele. I know she wouldn't like the 
 way I favored you, and if she knew that the day I 
 die — 
 
 Marie. Don't talk about it ! But then, you 
 see, Adele doesn't care about those things: money 
 is nothing to her. You have no reason to feel 
 sorry for her. 
 
 Mme. Viot. I don't. Now what shall I say 
 to Adele? 
 
 Marie. / don't know, you can think of some- 
 thing. Tell her, for instance, that M. Bonnet is 
 really a wonderful match. Then add that you de- 
 sire nothing better than her happiness, that that 
 is your sole reason for existence — tell her your 
 love for her ! We always say that to children 
 when we want them to do something. 
 
 Mme. Viot. Good. I'll follow your advice, 
 as I always do. You have so much common sense 
 — you see things so clearly! 
 
 Marie. Only remember not to drag me in; I 
 love Adele immensely. I don't want any of the 
 responsibility in this affair. 
 
 Mme. Viot. Well, you were the first, after 
 all, to mention this possible marriage, and per- 
 suaded me to do what I've done. It must suc- 
 ceed ! But not long ago — 
 
 Marie. Oh, l\Iama, you're quite mistaken. 
 I simply advised you to consider M. Bonnet. You 
 
 i88
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 know, he's acquainted with my husband; his fam- 
 ily may be able to help Gustave a little in a busi- 
 ness way. I said this marriage would be a good 
 stroke for us all. I said that it had to be. Out- 
 side that, I had nothing to do with the case. I al- 
 ways wanted to remain neutral, and neutral shall 
 I remain. I know nothing, and I don't want to 
 know anything. And to prove it, I again advise 
 you to act according to your own ideas. Above 
 all, don't imagine that I waited until you had al- 
 ready decided ! — For you haze decided, haven't 
 you? — 
 
 Mme. Viot. Yes — 
 
 Marie. No, I don't want to know! Now, 
 think well; it will be a big responsibility on your 
 part — giving Adele a husband she doesn't care 
 for. Look well into it all, and forget me: I 
 don't count. Adele is the only one who really 
 counts. Dear Adele! If I were you, I'd hesi- 
 tate a long time. — M. Bonnet — ! M. Bon- 
 net — ! 
 
 Mme. Viot. Of course, you're not forcing me 
 to decide ! But really I want it. It is a necessity. 
 I want it in spite of you. 
 
 Marie. Mama, there is only one thing I 
 really care about on earth : that you should love us 
 both. I believe that my sole reason for existing 
 is for your sake. 
 
 Mme. Viot. Dear child ! 
 
 Marie. Come now. Tell Adele to come 
 here. Tell her, too, all I told you to tell 
 her. 
 
 Mme. Viot [calling] — Adele — ! 
 
 [Enter Adele.] 
 
 189
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 [ To Adele.^ Look at me — your face — Yes, 
 you look nice. Fix your curls, there! Turn 
 round. Good. 
 
 Marie. Charming. 
 
 Adele. What's this, Mama? 
 
 Mme. Viot. You ought to know. M. Bon- 
 net, whom you've seen once or twice, has asked for 
 your hand in marriage. He's coming, and you're 
 to give us all your answer, 
 
 Adele. Who is this M. Bonnet? 
 
 Mme. Viot. You know very well : that young 
 man who danced with you at the Marcellins'. 
 
 Adele. I don't remember him. 
 
 Mme. Viot. No matter. Only keep this one 
 thing well in mind : my heart is set on this mar- 
 riage, which will be of great advantage to us all. 
 Just remember that, and be as nice as you can to 
 him. He's coming to make us a visit, just as if it 
 were an ordinary call. Talk with him, and be- 
 have sensibly. 
 
 Adele. Very well. Mama. 
 
 Marie. Dear sister! 
 
 Mme. Viot. There's the bell ! It's he ! Oh, 
 his name is Albert. 
 
 [Enter Albert Bonnet.^ 
 
 Ah, M. Bonnet! Adele, bring a chair — I 
 hope you are well, Monsieur? 
 
 Albert. Very well, Madame, and you? — 
 [To Marie. '\ How are you, Madame? Is M. 
 Chesneau well? 
 
 Marie. Perfectly, thank you, 
 
 Albert. Mademoiselle! 
 
 Adele. Monsieur! 
 
 Albert. I beg your pardon, Madame, for 
 190
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 coming so early, but I'm so busy now; I have a 
 great many important and pressing matters on 
 hand — I can scarcely find an hour to myself all 
 day long. But I so wanted to thank you for the 
 invitation you sent me not long ago for that dance 
 at the Marcellins', and I thought I should take ad- 
 vantage of a leisure moment — and perform a — 
 duty — which Is at the same time — a — pleasure 
 — yes, indeed — a — pleasure. I have no hesi- 
 tation in employing that expression; It Is even a 
 trifle feeble to express what I feel. It falls far 
 short of the truth — I assure you. For — w'ith 
 the exception of M. Chesneau, I have the good 
 fortune of finding all the family together. 
 
 Mme. Viot. Too good of you ! We are 
 really delighted to see you ! 
 
 Marie. Certainly! \_To /ldele.'\ Say some- 
 thing ! 
 
 Adele [to Marie]. What? [J pause.] 
 
 Mme. Viot. And — Your father Is quite 
 well? 
 
 Albert. Yes, Madame, fortunately — in 
 spite of this extraordinary cold weather. I won- 
 der if It will continue? 
 
 Mme. Viot. Oh, we certainly hope not. 
 
 Marie. A little rain will doubtless bring 
 milder weather. 
 
 Albert. But It's very disagreeable now; 
 streets dirty, sidewalks all slushy — are they not. 
 Mademoiselle? 
 
 Adele. Oh, of course. Monsieur! [They 
 laugh. A pause.] 
 
 Mme. Viot. And — your mother Is In good 
 health? 
 
 191
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Albert. Oh, always about the same. We 
 don't dare hope to have her with us much 
 longer. 
 
 Marie. Really? [J pause.'] 
 
 Mme. Viot. And your uncle Is not too 
 troubled with his gout? 
 
 Albert. I'm afraid he is. This weather, you 
 know — ! 
 
 Mme. Viot. Fortunately, your aunt is able to 
 take good care of him. What a splendid woman 
 your aunt is ! 
 
 Albert. Oh, yes. [A pause.'] 
 
 Marie. Our family is very lucky. Not one 
 of us troubled with gout. We all have fine consti- 
 tutions: my mother, myself, my sister — haven't 
 you, Adele? 
 
 Adele. Oh, yes, I'm always well. [^They 
 laugh again.] 
 
 Albert. I see. Mademoiselle has delicious 
 coloring — usually the sign of a robust constitu- 
 tion. 
 
 Mme. Viot. She is a great favorite with us, as 
 well she might be. I can truly say that she has 
 been well brought up according to all the good 
 principles of the family. You know, she speaks 
 three languages, almost as well as her mother- 
 tongue : English, Italian, and — and — Ger- 
 man. German is so difficult, you know — ! 
 
 Marie. I never could learn it! 
 
 Albert. A splendid thing, if Mademoiselle 
 ever marries a business man. We find very few 
 people in our employ who know that lan- 
 guage. 
 
 Mme. Viot. Indeed! And then, she plays 
 192
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 the piano very nicely. Won't you play us a little 
 something, and show M. Albert — ? 
 
 Albert. Ah, Mademoiselle, if you would be 
 so good ! I hardly dared ask — 
 
 Adele. You are too good, Monsieur, but I 
 really don't know anything to play. [She gig- 
 gle s.\ 
 
 Mme. Viot. We mustn't torment her. But 
 her favorite art, the one in which she shows most 
 talent, is painting — 
 
 Marie. My sister does some very good porce- 
 lain work. 
 
 Albert. Really? Might I see some- 
 thing — ? 
 
 Mi\iE. Viot. Dearie, show Monsieur that 
 plate you are just finishing. 
 
 Albert. I beg you ! 
 
 Adele [who has gone to get the plate'] . Here ! 
 
 Albert. How pretty, how pretty! 
 
 Mme. Viot. Not half bad ! 
 
 Albert. That little Cupid, up there — ! 
 
 Mme. Viot. You might almost think it was 
 going to fly away ! 
 
 Albert. And he does, Madame — he does, 
 — very ingenious ! — He's flying to pluck a rose ! 
 So poetic! So graceful! 
 
 Mme. Viot. Yes, she's a very fair amateur. 
 
 Albert. Amateur? This Is not the work of 
 an amateur, Madame. This is the work of an 
 artist! 
 
 Marie. Isn't sister going to exhibit It at the 
 Salon? 
 
 Albert. I was just going to suggest that! 
 
 Mme. Viot. You are too good! 
 
 193
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Albert. I say merely what I think. You 
 know, I felt all along, before I came here, that 
 Mademoiselle was different from other young 
 ladies — the kind you meet at social gatherings. 
 We danced together at the Marcellins' — only too 
 little, for Mademoiselle Adele dances perfectly. 
 We spoke about travel, did we not? 
 
 Adele. Yes, I remember. [She laughs 
 
 Albert. That affair was very delightful. 
 And I can say, without appearing to exaggerate, 
 that your presence there went far to make it so. 
 Mademoiselle Adele is so charming, so amiable, 
 so refined, so — let us be frank — so pretty, that 
 to her alone was due the pleasure of that soiree. 
 What cleverness, and good sense ! And her 
 power of expressing things, her manner of speech 
 and carriage ! And that air of distinction — gets 
 it from her family — Mademoiselle comes of good 
 stock, assuredly! Distinction is a rara avis in 
 these days, too. It is all the more charming in 
 Mademoiselle, as it is allied with a wonderfully 
 equal temper and good humor — 
 
 Mme. ViOT. Monsieur — ! 
 
 Albert. Of course! I repeat: distinction of 
 bearing, in her manner of dressing. Mile. Adele 
 is perfection in everything! As for myself, Ma- 
 dame, I have occasion to meet many people in so- 
 ciety, and for as long as I can remember, I have 
 never met, among all the young ladies with whom 
 I have danced, a single one with the charming sim- 
 plicity of Mademoiselle. — But, I beg you, stop 
 me — I shall never end this talk. And yet: one 
 
 194
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 word more. It's about that pretty dress she wore 
 that evening at the Marcellins'. 
 
 MiME. ViOT. Do you notice such things, then? 
 
 Albert. I should think so! And how well 
 she wore it! There are so many people who 
 haven't the slightest idea how to wear clothes. 
 The same criticism certainly cannot be made in 
 her case; I shall never forget that pink dress — 
 
 Mme. Viot. It wasn't pink ! 
 
 Albert. Of course ! I was confusing It with 
 that of the lady next to her. It was blue 1 
 
 Mme. Viot. No — gray ! 
 
 Albert. Yes, gray! In the artificial light, 
 you know — ! 
 
 \_A pause of embarrassment.] 
 
 Marie. It's only natural, you know, that we 
 should be well dressed : we have a first-rate mo- 
 diste. 
 
 Albert. Oh, the modiste isn't everyt-hing. 
 [They laugh.~\ Well, now, I must be going, Ma- 
 dame. I am very sorry to have to leave you so 
 abruptly, but business is business! I have an Im- 
 portant engagement. Aladame ! Madame ! 
 Mademoiselle! [Albert goes o///.] 
 
 Mme. Viot [to Marie']. Charming, Isn't he? 
 
 Marie. Not half bad. 
 
 Mme. Viot [to A dele]. What do you think? 
 
 Adele. Well, Mama, M. Bonnet — 
 
 Mme. Viot. Well, what? M. Bonnet — ? 
 Can't you say something else? 
 
 Adele [bursting into tears]. I — I don't like 
 him. 
 
 Mme. \"iot. I'here you are crying! 
 195
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Adele. Please, please, Mama, not that man! 
 I haven't even talked with him, I have hardly seen 
 him — 
 
 Mme. Viot. It is not necessary to talk with 
 a young man before you're engaged to him. 
 
 Adele. That may be, but I don't love him. 
 There's something about him that revolts me. 
 He's not at all good-looking, and he's nearly 
 bald — 
 
 Mme. Viot. Well, if you're so particular 
 about those things — ! 
 
 Adei.k. Remember what you used to say to 
 me: to be happy in marriage you must have a hus- 
 band you love and who loves you. 
 
 Mme. Viot. Who says M. Bonnet doesn't love 
 you? If he wants to marry you, you must be at- 
 tractive to him ! 
 
 Adele. Or else I must be a good business 
 proposition ! 
 
 Mme. Viot. Who taught you to reason like 
 that? You're talking nonsense. At your age — I 
 
 Marie. Mama, Pvlama, the poor dear child! 
 
 Adele. You needn't think I've arrived at the 
 age of twenty-three without doing some thinking. 
 I have noticed so many of my girl friends and their 
 marriages — 
 
 Marie [to Mme. Fiot]. Insist! 
 
 Mme. Viot. You've been very badly brought 
 up, that's all. Now, about M. Bonnet: you know 
 your confessor recommended him strongly. And 
 when the Abbe Porel says something, you can take 
 his word for it. 
 
 Marie [to /J dele]. Do you mean to say he 
 doesn't know what he's talking about? 
 
 196
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 Mme. Viot. And think how well he knows 
 you! He baptized you, was with you when you 
 went to First Communion, and helped you with 
 your Catechism. It would be very strange if he 
 didn't know you through and through. He told 
 me that you and M. Bonnet were made for one an- 
 other, and after making inquiries about him, ^I 
 agree with the Abbe. M. Bonnet is thirty, he is 
 very charming, a good business man, intelligent, 
 and religious. He is the director of a fire^ insur- 
 ance company. The Central, I believe. He is very 
 easy to get along with. If you go about it care- 
 fully, you can lead him by the nose. He brings 
 a very neat little dowry, and has great promise for 
 the future. You might look a long time to find a 
 better family than his : his father was a judge, and 
 his mother has a brother whose wife is the daugh- 
 ter of a judge of the Commercial Tribunal; the 
 maternal grandfather of M. Bonnet's father was 
 the second husband of the daughter by his second 
 marriage of the celebrated lawyer, Rigault. They 
 are a splendid family: amiable, gracious, and well 
 educated. The other day I was talking with M. 
 Bonnet, your future great-uncle. I never saw so 
 delightful a man. He talked for a whole hour — 
 I couldn't get a word in edgewise. — Well, I have 
 set my heart on this marriage, because It is certain 
 to make a number of very pleasant connections 
 for every one of us. So, we are agreed, aren't 
 we? 
 
 Marie [to her mother']. Good! 
 
 Adele. But I don't love M. Bonnet! 
 
 Marie. Poor child ! 
 
 Mme. Viot. A nice answer! When you get 
 197
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 a good chance you must take it. Love comes aft- 
 erward. 
 
 Adele. But I have everything I need right 
 here, Mama. I am perfectly happy as I am. I'd 
 be wiUing never to marry, if I could always be with 
 you! 
 
 Mme. Viot. And never marry?! 
 
 Adele. I'm happy. I do as I like. Why not 
 wait, then? I can't bear the thought of leaving 
 my home, and you — all that I've loved. To 
 think of leaving — my own room, that I've fixed 
 up so prettily ! That may all seem foolish to you, 
 but I'm — sentimental — you yourself say 1 am I 
 When you live a long while in one place, you get 
 to love it, and when the time comes to leave, you 
 feel that you're leaving part of yourself there ! 
 I'd regret even our little walks together, and our 
 visits. I didn't mind if they were a little tiresome. 
 I'd feel very, very sorry not to hear old Rosalie 
 scold me in the morning, telling me it was time to 
 get up. 
 
 Mme. Viot. But you see, as soon as you 
 marry, I've decided to move. I'm going to let 
 you have this apartment and all the furniture. 
 I'm going to live opposite here, just above your 
 sister. 
 
 Adele. That isn't the same thing at all! 
 
 Marie. How affectionate of her! 
 
 Mme. Viot. Now stop this childishness! I'm 
 getting old, my dear. You can never tell who's 
 going to die and who's going to live on. I don't 
 want to risk not doing all my duty before I go — 
 my whole duty. lo look after a little girl of your 
 age is a great responsibility, and I want to get rid 
 
 198
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 of it. You may think it's easy watching you from 
 day to day! I'm losing what little leisure time I 
 have to myself before I die. We have to see you 
 around in society, inquire about all the young men 
 you dance with ! I'm thoroughly tired of the 
 whole business ! Always on the lookout for a hus- 
 band for you. Advice, gossip, everywhere — all 
 your friends want you to marry ! I'm tired too of 
 getting all dressed up two and three times a week, 
 climbing into a carriage late at night, and sitting 
 out long dances, and coming home, sick and tired, 
 at six in the morning ! 
 
 Adele. Oh, Mama, we're never later than 
 one ! 
 
 Mme. Viot. What? 
 
 Adele. Never. 
 
 Mme, Viot. At any rate, I'm ready to move 
 now. The landlord is increasing the rent; our 
 lease expires in April. In our new apartment 
 there'll be no room for you. If you aren't mar- 
 ried by the last of March — at the latest — here 
 I'll be with an apartment beyond my means on my 
 hands. And it'll be your fault if I have to pay a 
 hundred francs a term extra ! 
 
 Adele. You can afford it ten times over. 
 
 Mme. Viot. No, I can't afford it. And I 
 don't want you to say I can. I'd arranged to fix 
 up the new place and at last begin to economize. 
 Not long ago I saw a nice parlor set of furniture 
 that would fit in beautifully — red plush — 
 
 Adele. How ugly! 
 
 Mme. Viot. Perhaps it is, but it's cheap. 
 Now run along. Here's another bargain I'm go- 
 ing to lose, and it's your fault. Funny — you 
 
 199
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 really are a bother! After all I've done for you, 
 I expected you would be a little nice to me, more 
 devoted — ! 
 
 Adele. But, I — 
 
 Marie [to her mother'\. Come to the point. 
 
 MiME. ViOT [v'wlcutly^. I'm done with you! 
 I shan't argue another minute. You are going to 
 marry — 
 
 Adele. Mama ! 
 
 Mme. Viot. You are going to marry him I 
 You'll thank, me afterward. Don't say another 
 word, now — if you're going to cry, go and cry 
 in your own room. We know better than you 
 what sort of husband you need, — The idea ! 
 
 Marie. Poor dear! 
 
 Adele [aside to Marie~\. Thank you for de- 
 fending me ! 
 
 Marie. I understand how you feel! [Adele 
 goes out.^ 
 
 Mme. Viot. Thank you for helping me ! 
 
 Marie. You were perfectly right. 
 
 Mme. Viot. Well, that's over. What a stub- 
 born child she is! How different you girls are! 
 You're so good ! 
 
 Marie. Remember whom I'm named after: 
 the Virgin Mary ! 
 
 Mme. Viot. You're worthy the name. 
 
 Marie. Let's hope the marriage will be a 
 happy one ! 
 
 Mme. Viot. No matter what happens, I know 
 I have done my duty ! 
 
 [Curtain.] 
 
 200
 
 ACT II 
 
 [The scene is the same. A dele and Albert 
 are on the stage as the curtain rises.~\ 
 
 Adele. Then you're going out? 
 
 Albert. Yes, sweetheart, I must go to the of- 
 fice. 
 
 Adele. Just five minutes more ! That's a nice 
 sort of office to have, where you must go at night! 
 Just five minutes, dear. 
 
 Albert. Well, five minutes — no longer. 
 
 Adele. You good boy ! Sit down there now, 
 and don't move, while I have a good long look at 
 you. 
 
 Albert. Child! You might think we were 
 married only yesterday! 
 
 Adele. Dearest, we haven't been for so long, 
 you know — ! Hardly a year. We can still love 
 each other and not seem foolish, can't \ve? 
 
 Albert. Certainly, certainly. 
 
 Adele. And I do love you — how I love you ! 
 — funny, isn't it? 
 
 Albert. Funny? That you love me? 
 
 Adele. Yes. 
 
 Albert. I think you are a little — oli? 
 
 Adele. That's what you can't understand — 
 you don't know — [She laughs.'] 
 
 Albert. Why — ! 
 
 20I
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Adele. You're so ridiculous when you're sur- 
 prised. Look that way again — once more, 
 please ! Now I'll tell you everything. 
 
 Albert. Tell me — 
 
 Adele. It's funny that I love you now, because 
 I didn't use to — 
 
 Albert. When? 
 
 Adele, Before we were married — I couldn't 
 see anything in you. 
 
 Albert. Indeed? 
 
 Adele. Are you angry? 
 
 Albert. Of course not ! 
 
 Adele. I'll never forget the day you came to 
 pay a visit to Mama, and meet me. How I nearly 
 died laughing to myself — and crying, too, because 
 I knew well enough that I had to marry you. — 
 You don't hold that against me, do you? 
 
 Albert. Not in the least — I think it's very 
 amusing. 
 
 Adele. You made an awful impression on me, 
 with your bald head — oh, awful! Then you 
 seemed so embarrassed with that gold-headed cane 
 of yours ! And what a time you had making com- 
 pliments to me ! And what compliments they 
 were! "Mademoiselle, you paint superbly! — 
 Mademoiselle, you dance beautifully! " And my 
 dress, the one I wore to the Marcellins', the one 
 you perfectly remembered! And Mama asked 
 you what color it was, and then you forgot ! 
 What a slip ! How you amused me, and how I 
 laughed! Your answering that it was pink, and 
 then blue! Right now, I'll wager you don't know 
 what color it was ! Just tell me, and let's see 1 
 
 Albert. Well, it zcas blue ! 
 202
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 Adele \^laughi)ig loudly]. No! Gray! 
 Maker of compliments whether they're true or 
 not! 
 
 Albert. Of course, it was gray. 
 
 Adele. Now you remember. Gray, gray. 
 
 gray 
 
 Albert. Of course. 
 
 Adele. Then after that great success of yours, 
 you thought it was time you put an end to your 
 visit, you imagined I had had sufficient oppor- 
 tunity to observe your charms, your conversational 
 qualities. Then you got up, looking as though 
 you were afraid that perhaps you hadn't been quite 
 as brilliant as you had hoped to be. And then you 
 left, very ceremoniously. My dear, if you thought 
 for one instant that that day, when you put your 
 gold-headed cane in the umbrella-rack, you had 
 made the conquest of my affections, you were mis- 
 taken. Just after you went. Mama told me I was 
 to marry you, so that she could move at once. 
 Here she had to pay too much rent ! What a rea- 
 son ! 
 
 Albert. Your mother is a funny one ! 
 
 Adele. Then I cried — cried like a Mag- 
 dalen! I even kept it up till the day of my mar- 
 riage; even after, I had to have a little time to 
 become accustomed, to console myself. 
 
 Albert. But now you love me? 
 
 Adele. Do I ? ! 
 
 Albert. And how did it happen? 
 
 Adele. One evening, last summer, at 
 Mama's, in the country. It was four months 
 after our marriage. Up to that time, I was in a 
 whirlpool of thoughts and sensations — I couldn't 
 
 203
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 really collect myself. The first days, I didn't 
 know where I was : I was angry, all cut up — I 
 must have seemed queer to you? But I couldn't 
 help it. Everything seemed so new and so dis- 
 gusting. Yet one evening, you said something to 
 me, and It kept ringing in my ears. It seems per- 
 haps very commonplace, but you called me " Dear- 
 est," — so nicely, so sweetly, that — well — I 
 can't explain ! Then Mama and I left for the 
 country, where you came nearly every night, from 
 Paris. 7 hen I felt so queer : when you were there 
 I wished you were a long way off ; when you were 
 away, I wanted you near me. — Ask Mama, her 
 room was next to mine there. \_Laiigh'mg.'\ 
 She'll tell you that I called for you in the night! 
 When we talked together, your voice sounded 
 strange. There were moments when your voice 
 breaking the silence, made me feel faint. And 
 always the thought of your " Dearest " I It was 
 like a caress! At last, one June night, we took 
 a long walk In the park. The window of our 
 room had been open all day. It was filled with the 
 sweet perfume of the fields. How sweet It was! 
 I was quite intoxicated! And I kept talking and 
 talking, and you kissed me to make me stop ! 
 You took me In your arms, rudely, like my mas- 
 ter. Then I was afraid of nothing. FVom then 
 on, I had no more fear, no more misgivings. I 
 was your slave. I love you, I adore you ! Kiss 
 me, Albert! And — don't go to the office to- 
 night! 
 
 Albert. The little child! Come now, no 
 foolishness! I must go — 
 
 Adele. Is It so important — ? 
 204
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 Albert. A very pressing business matter. A 
 great deal depends on the result. 
 
 Adele. Go then, and come baclc quickly. 
 
 Albert. I'll go and come back immediately 
 ' — in fifteen minutes. 
 
 Adele. You are going to your office, aren't 
 you? 
 
 Albert. Where else should I go? Are you 
 jealous? 
 
 Adele \^laughhig^. I was only fooling. 
 Good-by ! 
 
 Albert. I'll come back soon. Good-by. 
 \^He goes out.'\ 
 
 Adele. I love him! [After a pause.] I 
 wonder if It's true what he said the other day, 
 that a woman should not love her husband too 
 blindly, that if she is really sensible and consider- 
 ate, she should be reserved, so that she can keep 
 him well in hand? To be a superior and intelli- 
 gent wife? Do like my sister? Every moment 
 be on the alert to look after your husband's wel- 
 fare, and in that way, get "around" him? If 
 you don't do that, he will get the better of you — 
 Then marriage is a struggle, where either the 
 husband or the wife must be the victor. The 
 people who say that have never loved ! No, I 
 won't follow their advice! I can't do it! It's 
 too sweet to let yourself be domineered over. I 
 know I'm only a little foolish wife. — Oh, here 
 comes Marie ! 
 
 [Efiter Marie.] 
 
 Marie. How nice it is to live so near! My 
 husband has gone to bed, and I thought I'd run 
 over to see you a moment. 
 
 205
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Adele. Your husband in bed so soon? At 
 
 this hour? Is he sick? 
 
 Marie. No, it's only a habit of his. 
 
 Adele [swiliug]. That you persuade him to 
 keep up ! 
 
 Marie. What? 
 
 Adele. Nothing. You must forgive me if I 
 sound foolish: I'm so happy! I think parents 
 are quite right in forcing their daughters to 
 marry. When girls are young, they have no 
 sense. Dear Albert ! 
 
 Marie. Is dear Albert here? 
 
 Adele. No, he's just gone to the office. 
 He'll be back at ten. 
 
 Marie. Oh, he goes out evenings, now? 
 
 Adele. Just to the office! 
 
 Marie. It's dangerous; even to the office! 
 
 Adele. You are too suspicious: I'm perfectly 
 sure of him. Of course, it's natural, you know: 
 some people are confiding, and others not. A 
 man must have some freedom. I should never 
 love a man who would do everything I liked. It's 
 nice once in a while to be refused. 
 
 Marie. Think so? 
 
 Adele. Yes — rather — or — well, I hardly 
 know. Just now I'm a little mad, I'm so happy! 
 
 Marie. Yet I advise you to refuse to let him 
 go out at night, no matter how good his excuse is. 
 This going to theaters, and cafes and clubs — clubs 
 above all — ! 
 
 Adele. But zvc love each other! [J pause.] 
 
 Marie. I was at Mme. Rousseau's to-day. 
 
 Adele. Indeed? 
 
 Marie. Yes. 
 
 206
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 Adele. What did the good Mme. Rousseau 
 tell you? 
 
 NIarie. a thousand things. 
 
 Adele. Secrets? 
 
 Marie. Oh, not at all ! She asked about 
 you, and then talked about your husband. 
 
 Adele. Did she? 
 
 Marie. What a singular woman she is. It 
 seems that she is always meddling with something 
 that doesn't concern her. 
 
 Adele. She certainly is ! 
 
 Marie. Of course, she seems to be very well 
 informed. She says some things that are not in 
 the least pleasant to hear. 
 
 Adele. Did she tell you anything like that 
 about Albert? 
 
 Marie. No, no, not about your husband — 
 
 Adele. Really? You look rather queer — 
 
 Marie. Of course not — 
 
 Adele {^leav'uig her woi-k^. I love Albert so 
 deeply that the slightest suspicion upsets me ter- 
 ribly. 
 
 Marie. Poor little dear! You're a perfect 
 darling! If he ever thought of being unfaithful 
 to you, he'd be the lowest of blackguards ! But 
 you have no cause for worry — 
 
 Adele. I'm not anxious. 
 
 Marie. And you're right. — \^A pause] 
 Proofs, real proofs are what are always needed 
 in time of danger. 
 
 Adele. I know that Mme. Rousseau said 
 something about my husband. 
 
 Marie. But it was all so foolish ! 
 
 Adele. Well, what did she say? 
 207
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Marie. Lies, of course. I ask you, how could 
 Albert, who loves you, have married you to pay 
 off his debts, and now keep his former mistress, 
 a woman of forty? 
 
 Adele. Did she say that? 
 
 Marie. Yes. 
 
 Adele. Let her then, I don't care I It's just 
 funny, that's all. 
 
 Marie. But that isn't all. Just imagine, she 
 says your husband was surprised with this woman 
 in his arms — 
 
 Adele. By whom? 
 
 Marie. By M. and Mme. Rousseau. 
 
 Adele. And what did M. Rousseau say? As 
 a rule, he is not inclined to treat things lightly. 
 
 Marie. He corroborates his wife, and adds 
 something. 
 
 Adele. What? 
 
 Marie. He declares that Albert has rented an 
 apartment for this woman not far from here, in 
 order to be near her. He even knows the lady's 
 name: Caroline — yes, I think that's it! What 
 gossiping scandal-mongers there are in this world! 
 
 Adele. Caroline? Caroline? 
 
 Marie. What's the matter with you? 
 
 Adele. I seem to remember something, my- 
 self. Something seemed peculiar, but I believed 
 Albert's explanations. Could it be true, then? 
 Are the Rousseaus right? One day, Albert was 
 at the office, I saw a letter that had come for 
 him — it was in his desk — it was from a woman 
 — signed " Caroline." I showed it to him, but 
 he swore that was ancient history. He seemed 
 very much surprised to see it; " That should have 
 
 208
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 been burned long ago," he said. He then told 
 me that he had never had anything to do with 
 her. He even laughed at what had happened, 
 and I remember that I laughed with him. Yet I 
 remember that the letter must have been written 
 quite recently: the ink seemed fresh. Where is 
 that letter? I'll show it to you. We must get 
 to the bottom of this now. — Where did I put it? 
 It began with "My Dear Albert" — Now I 
 can't find it! — And to think that another woman 
 has called him " My Dear Albert " ! Where 
 is it? 
 
 Marie. Don't bother so much about a little 
 gossip. There's really nothing the matter! 
 Don't cry about it — I can't bear to see you cry! 
 
 Adele. You're right: it's nothing at all. I 
 know Albert would not deceive me. The whole 
 thing's only a story made up by disagreeable peo- 
 ple. If you only knew how nice Albert is! Just 
 now, when we were talking together, he was so 
 open and frank! Could he have been thinking 
 of some one else at such a time? Could he de- 
 ceive me? Nonsense! [^Suddenly taking fright.^ 
 And yet — 
 
 Marie. Yet? 
 
 Adele. It's rather strange how certain things 
 come to mind at times ! — Only the other day — 
 I never thought of it before, yet it's clear now! — 
 Shall I always be thinking of something evil? 
 No, no, no — and yet — ? It's this: the other 
 day, I walked half-way to his office with him. 
 We got to the end of the Palais Royal garden — 
 under the little archway where there aren't any 
 shops, at the foot of the little stairway leading to 
 
 209
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 the Rue Vivienne, we passed a light-complexioned 
 woman, rather tall — she was smiling — as if 
 she were meeting a friend. I looked at my hus- 
 band. Funny, he was smiling, too. I remember 
 perfectly: then he kept on smiling at her. How 
 foolish I am! It's only my imagination, I know! 
 What if he did smile at her? Perhaps — well 
 
 — and if he did? Perhaps he didn't know her? 
 As any one might. But then people don't do it 
 
 — that way! Then something else ! As soon as 
 we'd go up the stairs, I left him. I had an er- 
 rand to do. As I was leaving, I saw him go back; 
 instead of going to the Bourse, he went the other 
 way! To join that woman we passed! 
 
 Marie. He may have gone to see his friend 
 Berard, who lives in the Rue Montpensier? 
 
 Adele. An old friend — yes, possibly — 
 probably — But no ! Then he would have gone 
 to the left. He didn't, he went after that woman 
 who had come down the stairs. — How awful! 
 He is deceiving me! I know it! And I loved 
 him so ! — What a fool I've been ! There wasn't 
 a day I didn't think of it, look forward to the 
 time he'd be coming hack from the office, to our 
 little dinner all to ourselves, and the evenings we'd 
 spend together. I was so happy, so confident! — 
 What a life I have before me ! — I never deserved 
 this blow ! 
 
 Marie. My dear Adele ! Don't go on that 
 way! If I had known all this was going to hap- 
 pen, I should never have repeated what I heard! 
 Now be brave. You really have no proofs, you 
 know. How do you know you're not the victim 
 of an awful lie? Ask your husband, be very care- 
 
 2IO
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 ful how — then you'll have time to decide what 
 you want to do. 
 
 Adele. You're right — I must first be posi- 
 tive — I must know. Perhaps I am jumping at 
 conclusions. — Sh ! There's his key in the lock! 
 ril speak to him. 
 
 Marie. My dear Adele, be calm, though. — 
 I'll leave you alone with him. Courage, now ! — 
 Oh, if I'd only known before! What a fool I 
 am! Will you forgive me? After all, I've only 
 done my duty as a sister. 
 
 [Enter Albert.'] 
 
 Albert. You here? [To Adele.] I'm very 
 
 sorry: I was kept — couldn't help it met a 
 
 friend — 
 
 Marie. I'm going — I must get to bed. 
 Eleven o'clock! It's high time! 
 
 Albert. Eleven! That's right. I've been 
 a whole hour! 
 
 Marie. Good night. Poor dear! How I 
 blame myself! 
 
 [She goes out.] 
 
 Albert. I really don't like coming in so late. 
 — Old friend got hold of me in the street, and 
 simply wouldn't let me go. I simply couldn't get 
 away. 
 
 Adele. Albert! 
 
 Albert. Yes? 
 
 Adele. Look me in the eyes ! — You're de- 
 ceiving me ! 
 
 Albert. Why — ! 
 
 Adele. You're deceiving me! 
 
 Albert. Adele, this is ridiculous — 
 
 Adele. Swear that you're not — ! 
 
 211
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Albert [embarrassed]. If you want me to — 
 of course I swear — 
 
 Adele. How absurd of me to ask you ! I 
 have only to look at you to see where you've been! 
 
 Albert. Why, what's the matter? 
 
 Adele [snatching of his collar and //V]. 
 You're not even dressed! This collar isn't fas- 
 tened ! The tie is not tied — 
 
 Albert. It was so warm in the street! 
 
 Adele. Not in the street! Deny it if you 
 can! 
 
 Albert. Well, then, I don't! And be 
 damned to you ! 
 
 Adele. My God, it's true ! And I adored 
 you ! I was yours, body and soul ! I lived only 
 for you ! Now, it's all over. — But I still have 
 some pride left! Don't imagine I'll stay here 
 now, live with you, and take care of you ! Never ! 
 I could never stand this! Now you may do what 
 you like! Spend my dowry on your woman if 
 you want! I won't be here — I'm going to my 
 mother! Good-by! All this — this — Oh — 
 help me — give me your arm — I — I can't — 
 
 [She falls on the sofa in a faint.] 
 
 Albert. Fainted! Adele, Adele! Poor lit- 
 tle woman ! — I am a beast ! A brute ! [// 
 pause.] Well, what now? [He rubs her hands, 
 while speaking.] The whole thing was absurd! 
 I told Caroline not to detain me! Now what'U 
 she do? Adele will go to her mother; she at 
 least will not refuse to see me ! Will she, though ? 
 Of course? And Adele loves me too well to 
 leave me. — Well, there's no great harm. She 
 had to find out, some day ! It's happened this 
 
 212
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 evening. I'm glad it's all over. We won't have 
 any more trouble on that score, then. It's really 
 much better this way. I like things perfectly 
 open. — Whew, my hand is tired — she doesn't 
 seem to be coming to. — I wonder what she'll say 
 when she sees me? Cry, I suppose, and make a 
 scene! — She's breathing regularly now. Good! 
 
 — No more danger. I think I'll spare her my 
 presence, and send the maid to look after her. 
 Be so delicate! — I'll make it all up to her later. 
 
 — Whew! I'm tired! [Yawning.] I'm going 
 to bed. 
 
 [He rings the hell, which is to the right of the 
 fireplace, and goes out.^ 
 
 [Curtain.] 
 
 213
 
 ACT III 
 
 l^Scene: The same as in I he preceding acts. 
 Mme. Viot, Marie, Adele, aiid Jlbcrt are 
 present.] 
 
 Albert. Have a nice dinner, Mother-in-law? 
 
 Mme. Viot. We always have nice ciinners at 
 your house. 
 
 Albert. Good. — I'm in splendid spirits, 
 aren't you? 
 
 Mme. Viot. I should think so! 
 
 Albert. This is indeed pleasant, now. [To 
 Adele.] Isn't it? And to think that three years 
 ago, she wanted to leave me, go back to her 
 mother! Do you remember, Adele? And for 
 what reason? Because I was not a model hus- 
 band! Heavens, Avho is a model in this life? 
 Not even you, in spite of your recent access of 
 religion ! 
 
 Adele. If I lack something, it is because the 
 good Lord isn't quite enough to insure my happi- 
 ness ! 
 
 Albert. Kiss me! How I love her! How 
 I love her! My life would be empty without her. 
 She is — she is an angel ! Dear Adele ! 
 
 Adeli:. It's all so strange. The evening I 
 left here, after I fainted, I swore I would never 
 put foot in the house again! 1 loathed, I hated 
 
 2 I JL
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 you ! But Mama talked and reasoned with me — 
 then I came back. I'm not sorry for it — that is 
 enough ! 
 
 Albert. Charming! 
 
 Mme. Viot. You may well say It! 
 
 Albert. And I do. — And your dear sister, 
 too. She doesn't say anything, but look at her: 
 working — 
 
 Marie. Yes. 
 
 Albert. Trousers for that youngster of 
 yours? 
 
 Marie. Yes. How fast he wears them out! 
 How much he costs me, just for his trousers! 
 The little rascal ! 
 
 Albert. Why didn't you bring him this even- 
 ing? We might have played soldiers! 
 
 Marie. When he's with you, he's so naughty! 
 
 Albert. But very amusing! Wouldn't it be 
 splendid to have a little fellow like that! [To 
 Adele.'] Ah, Adele — I don't blame you ! 
 
 Marie. Oh, well, let's hope — ! If you're 
 serious — ! 
 
 Albert [to Marie]. You, you're a great one ! 
 — When does your husband return from Mar- 
 seilles? 
 
 Marie. To-morrow. 
 
 Albert. I'll tell him what you said. [To 
 Mme. Viot.'] Don't you agree with me? And 
 you, dear Mother-in-law, you're simply wonder- 
 ful! It's not my fault if I don't understand life 
 as you do. I have the very devil of a disposition. 
 Really, you do carry your — how many ? — years : 
 forty? Forty-five? 
 
 Mme. Viot. Flatterer! 
 
 215
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Albert. But you like me to — to say these 
 little things, to you, eh? 
 
 Mme. Viot. Yes — I'd rather hear agree- 
 able than disagreeable things. 
 
 Albert. Ah! — Look, what's the dear lady 
 knitting now? A comfortable for me? 
 
 Mme. Viot. For the poor. 
 
 Albert. The poor! She's always thinking 
 of the poor! See here! I'm not going out this 
 evening, I'm going to stay with my mother-in-law! 
 No escapades to-day — bosom of the family and 
 conjugal love ! 
 
 Mme. Viot. Adorable boy! 
 
 Albert. But take care ! One compliment 
 too many and I'll take fright and go farther than 
 you like ! You laugh, but I'm serious. — When 
 you're too free with me, I'm not responsible — 
 
 Mme. Viot. What a dear! [Suddenly be- 
 coming pensive.] That's the way he's always 
 played on our feelings. You make us forget your 
 bad actions so soon ! 
 
 Albert. Who? 
 
 Mme. Viot. Tell me, you bad boy, how much 
 is left of my daughter's dowry ? Nothing! And 
 yours? And the money you got from your 
 parents? Not a sou! Between the two of you, 
 you've squandered nearly a million francs! You 
 have only your 15,000 francs' income to live on. 
 And who gets a half of that? I don't dare men- 
 tion the name! And I thought it was a great 
 stroke of business to marry my daughter to you! 
 
 Albert. That's funny! 
 
 Mme. Viot. You certainly ran through that 
 fortune fast enough. 
 
 216
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 Albert. Yes, fast enough! But then I'm a 
 good fellow. 
 
 Mme. Viot. Yes, you are! — You're not In 
 debt any longer, are you? You're not going to 
 come to me again, as you did six months ago, and 
 wheedle me into giving you my savings, for cer- 
 tain debts, gambling and others? Don't you ever 
 win at your club ? 
 
 Albert. Never! 
 
 Adele. Let's not talk about that, Mother. 
 It's so painful ! 
 
 Albert \_laiighing^. Ah, your mother! 
 Look at her face when she talks of money! 
 
 Mme. Viot. Oh, well, I — I must have money 
 to live on. A great deal ! You can never have 
 too much. But I'm quite happy now; this morn- 
 ing I did a good stroke of business. I had a neat 
 little pile of savings in my drawer; I took it to 
 my broker, laid it all on his desk — twenty-five 
 franc pieces, bills all tied together in little heaps 
 of ten. He looked at me over the top of his 
 spectacles — I took my time about it. After I'd 
 counted it all — and it took a long time ! — I said 
 to him: " Put it all in good solid stocks. Good 
 morning, M. Robillet! " He shook hands with 
 me and bowed! — That's the sort of thing, I say, 
 that's decidedly pleasant! 
 
 Albert. You are the queen of mothers-in- 
 law, and Adele is the queen of women ! Work, 
 my child! Respect the time-honored virtues: the 
 thimble, the thread, and the needle — " Of those 
 who worked for their daughters' trousseaux " — 
 Who said that? 
 
 Adele. Regnard, wasn't it? 
 217
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Mme. Viot. No, no: Beranger! 
 
 Albert. Yes, of course. 
 
 Mme. Viot. What charming songs he's writ- 
 ten, that Beranger! There's one my grandfather 
 used to sing, I remember. 
 
 Albert. Whew! They used to sing Beran- 
 ger to you ? 
 
 Marie. What was the song? 
 
 Albert. Sing it to us! 
 
 Mme. Viot. I don't remember it all. 
 
 Albert. The book is in my room, on the 
 shelf. [To Adcle.~\ Get it for your mother. 
 [A dele goes o///.] We'll sing it together: the 
 matriarch singing in the midst of her children! 
 The couplets of youth repeated in the accents of 
 maturity. Ha ! Ha ! — [He takes Mme. Viot 
 in his arms.~\ Now — ! Can you remember? 
 
 [Re-enter Adele with the book and a letter.^ 
 
 Adele [to Albert^. A note that was just 
 brought for you, 
 
 Albert [taking the letter']. Thanks. 
 
 Mme. Viot. [who has been reading]. 
 There, I knew it: " Lisette's Infidelities." 
 
 Albert. Yes, I remember it. 
 
 Mme. Viot: [singing, accompanied by Albert]. 
 
 " Oh, dear Lisette 
 Whose charms divine 
 Make my regret! 
 Oh, how I pine ! 
 Thy cold disdain 
 I clearly see : 
 My sorrow's vain, 
 Thou'rt false to me! 
 218
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 Albert, [sinking loudly, as he opens the let- 
 ter]. 
 
 " Lisette, Lisette, 
 Thou'rt false to me! 
 Long life, grisette! 
 Long life, Lisette, 
 So drink to our love. 
 
 Oh, Heavens — [He interrupts himself, terri- 
 fied.] Adele, Mme. Viot! NIme. Chesneau! 
 This Is horrible! If you don't save me, I'm 
 ruined ! 
 
 Adele. My God ! What is it ? Tell us ! 
 
 Marie. Tell us ! 
 
 Mme. Viot. What is it? 
 
 Albert. If I don't have 200,000 francs by 
 to-morrow morning, anything may happen to me ! 
 
 Mme. Viot. Why? 
 
 Albert. Why? Why? This is why — 
 well, it's not easy to say. Don't insist, please — 
 please ! I don't dare ! 
 
 Adele. Explain it; you must. What's the 
 trouble ? 
 
 Mme. Viot. We must know ! — 
 
 Albert. It's a regular whirlwind — once you 
 get started, there's no stopping! Horrible! — 
 That damned Caroline ! I told her no good would 
 come of it! She hasn't the sense of a child ! 
 
 Mme. Viot. Never mind that woman! Tell 
 us, now. 
 
 Albert. Here then: since you so insist. I 
 was terribly hard pressed for money, and at one 
 time or another I took 200,000 francs of the com- 
 pany's funds. 
 
 219
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 All. Oh! 
 
 Mme. Viot, Lovely surprise ! 
 
 Albert. If I don't refund the money to-mor- 
 row mornnig I'm ruined, dishonored, sent to jail! 
 The directors have written that they are coming 
 to inspect the office at eleven o'clock. They 
 won't handle me with kid gloves, I can tell you! 
 Swooping down on me like that! I'm not a regu- 
 lar thief, I suppose ! I always meant to put it 
 back, you know ! 
 
 Mme. Viot. They all say that, but they never 
 do it. 
 
 Albert. I couldn't, it wasn't my fault. I 
 counted on another affair — which didn't mate- 
 rialize. 
 
 Mme. Viot. My death, of course ! 
 
 Albert. No more than on anything else. 
 I'm not to blame. You'll pay, won't you? I 
 haven't a sou. Wait, yes: one hundred francs! 
 Say something, for the love of Heaven! 
 
 Mme. Vior. You're a good-for-nothing! 
 That's what I say ! 
 
 Albert. Madame! 
 
 Mme. Viot. A good-for-nothing, I repeat! 
 [In an altered voici'.^ But are you sure the di- 
 rectors are coming to-morrow? 
 
 Albert. Absolutely. 
 
 Mme. Viot. Fool ! 
 
 Albert. Instead of insulting me, you might 
 help me parry the blow. Now, Mme. Viot, an- 
 swer me: I've got to get out of this. Loan me 
 200,000 francs! Only till to-morrow, till noon! 
 Just let me have them in the safe when they come. 
 I'll give them to you an hour after the directors 
 
 220
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 leave. That's an Idea! Come, say something — 
 yes or no? I don't Hke you to be saying nothing 
 at all !^ 
 
 Adele. Let Mama have time to collect her 
 thoughts, dear. Meantime, perhaps we can think 
 of another way out of the difficulty. 
 
 Albert. You know very well there Is no 
 other. 
 
 Adele. That's true : we have nothing. I see 
 no way out — unless — yes, that will pay part of 
 it — perhaps Mama will consent to pay the rest. 
 
 Albert. What do you mean? 
 
 Adele. Why, if my dowry is all gone, I still 
 have my laces — worth about 15,000 francs — 
 then there are my jewels. 
 
 Albert. Good! Where are they? 
 
 Adele. In the desk drawer. 
 
 Albert. I'll get them. [He goes out.'] 
 
 Marie. Poor child! This is awful! To 
 have to sell your jewels, at your age ! It's a pity ! 
 
 Adele. What else can we do? We have no 
 time to lose, I'll sell them In the morning. 
 
 [Albert re-enters.] 
 
 [To Albert]. You have them? 
 
 Albert. All. 
 
 Adele. Lay them on the table. Now give 
 me a pencil and paper. Thanks. Lamp is low! 
 [She turns up the zvick.] There. — 200,000 
 francs, you say? Here's my diamond necklace. 
 [iriiile she is speaking, Marie hands her the 
 je-zvel boxes which she opens.] What can I get 
 for it? 25,000, let us say! How beautiful they 
 are, this one especially! [To Marie.] Pretty, 
 aren't they? Here's the bracelet: 4000. Now 
 
 221
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 the cameo necklace — I've worn it only twice 
 — 4,000. Ear-rings: 5,000. [Takitig them 
 off.] They stick, a little — not used to coming 
 offl [Taking of her rin^s.] Now the rings; 
 the turquoises: 2,000. — I want to keep the ruby, 
 it's my engagement ring! 
 
 Mme. Viot. Pleasant souvenir! 
 
 Albert. Sell it anyway! 
 
 Adele. No, I don't want to sell it ! 
 
 Mme. Viot. Pll buy back your earrings! For 
 the sake of the family, I don't want you to part 
 with them. Put them on again. 
 
 Adele. Thank you ! Thank you ! 
 
 Mme. Viot. Don't thank me. 
 
 Adele. That makes 55,000 francs I can fur- 
 nish. That's all. Now, Mama? 
 
 Mme. Viot. Don't try to argue with me : I 
 shan't pay a sou ! 
 
 Adele. You refuse?! It's impossible! 
 
 Albert. Now, Madame ! — 
 
 Mme. Viot. Not a word from you, you miser- 
 able sneak! 
 
 Albert. Can't you listen to reason? 
 
 Mme. Viot. No impudence, please ! 
 
 Albert. I'm no more impudent than you. 
 
 Mme. Viot. What's that? 
 
 Albert. No more impudent than you, I say! 
 
 Mme. Viot. You repeat it? I'm going home ! 
 
 Albert. Sulky! 
 
 Mme. Viot. Sulky?! Sulky?! 
 
 Albert. Yes! 
 
 Mme. Viot. Take care, young inan! I'll 
 take hold of you — ! 
 
 Albert. Scratch me, won't you? 
 222
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 Mme. Viot \_going toward Albert']. Yes, I 
 will! I'll — ! 
 
 Marie [interfering]. Mama! What a dis- 
 graceful scene ! What if any one should come in ! 
 Really — ! 
 
 Adele. We're all very much upset — let's put 
 an end to this. We must find 145,000 francs 
 now. 
 
 Mme. Viot. I won't pay a sou ! I won't see 
 your grandfather's good money slip through this 
 sieve ! The poor old man would blush from 
 Heaven if he saw me doing it! 
 
 Albert. Then, Madame, I shall be dishon- 
 ored! 
 
 Mme. Viot. I won't pay, so there! If you 
 were a real man, you would have blown your 
 brains out twenty times by now instead of lower- 
 ing yourself by asking me for the money ! 
 
 Albert. My dear good lady, you're losing 
 your senses. 
 
 Mme. Viot. Don't you call me your " dear 
 good lady " ! If I'm losing my senses, isn't it 
 enough to make me with an idiot like you, — ? 
 
 Albert. But think of the good name of the 
 family! 
 
 Mme. Viot. The good name of the family has 
 nothing to do with the case. Monsieur! Any one 
 can tell you that ! Every one knows my husband 
 was a judge, that my grandfather was an advocate 
 at Paris and my brother a notary. They will keep 
 up our good name ! The disgrace will be yours, 
 and yours only ! 
 
 Albert. Then you really refuse? Good! 
 I know what to do now ! 
 
 223
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Adele. Mama, he's going to kill himself! 
 
 Albert. No: I'm going to Brussels. 
 
 Mme. Viot. Am I not right, Marie? 
 
 Marie. I think you had better pay. Mama 
 ■ — for the sake of your grandson — 
 
 Albert [to Mme. Fiot]. You can afford it, 
 you're rich! You admit having 600,000 francs, 
 but you have a million ! 
 
 Mme. Viot [furiously']. I'm not rich ! — And 
 what If I were? I couldn't keep my money long, 
 Heaven knows! "You're rich!" Lovely! 
 Haven't I plenty of ways to spend my money? 
 That fool carriage, which I never use — that you 
 force me to keep for the sake of appearances! 
 Only this morning do you know what I paid my 
 architect? A hundred and fifteen francs just for 
 fixing the roof ! 
 
 Adele. But that's not what we're discussing, 
 Mama ! 
 
 Mme. Viot. And the taxes ! What taxes the 
 Government makes me pay! They're a pack of 
 thieves! This is a fine Republic that Monsieur 
 there helps support! Ha! — Meantime, I pay! 
 The big fortunes of twenty years ago are hardly 
 enough to run a poor man's family now. And 
 you talk of getting more money out of me! It's 
 ridiculous, l^verybody's against me ! Not one 
 of you takes my side! At my age there's only 
 one thing for me to do: live in the desert or the 
 work-house ! That's a fine idea now. Then 
 you'd be rid of me. I could get along on a thou- 
 sand francs a year, and then you could squander 
 my fortune to your heart's content! 
 
 224
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 Marie. Well, if you ask my advice, I'll tell 
 you what I think. 
 
 Mme. Viot. Thank you, dear children. I'll 
 tell you one thing, though : in my father's house, no 
 one would have dared raise his voice against 
 mother, — the way you're doing this moment. 
 You should have heard your poor uncle trying to 
 discuss and advise. 
 
 Marie. Wouldn't they let him even when they 
 asked for his advice? 
 
 Mme. Viot. Not even then ! My father 
 would have sent him to his room, and told him to 
 mind his own business. But times have changed, 
 no one respects his parents nowadays — ! 
 
 Adele. But we respect you. Mama ! 
 
 Mme. Viot [furiously]. You don't! You 
 don't respect me ! I'm going home, sell my furni- 
 ture, lock the door, and leave — to-morrow morn- 
 ing — 
 
 Albert. For the work-house ! 
 
 Mme. Viot. No, for my house in the country, 
 at Romilly. I'm going to spend the rest of my life 
 in the woods — with the animals — that treat me 
 better than human beings ! There at least I 
 won't be troubled with children who take all my 
 money — sons-in-law that insult and disgrace me ! 
 
 Albert. Good! Then don't pay! It was 
 only for your sake I said anything about this mat- 
 ter. Now I know what to do. I'm going to live 
 in Brussels, where I have good friends. I'll be- 
 gin all over again. I won't listen to any more of 
 your rigmaroles! Not a bit of it. I exposed the 
 whole situation to you : frankly, honestly, ami- 
 
 225
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 cably. Now I wash my hands of it. Only, I 
 must confess that I am greatly surprised. I had 
 thought that a good sensible woman like you 
 would have preferred to make a small temporary 
 sacrifice to having a son-in-law in Belgium ! You 
 could have had your money back any time you 
 cared to ask for it. It would be in the bank, as 
 safe as could be. But I shan't say anything more : 
 if you're tired of my sermonizing, so am I. Bet- 
 ter come to some decision among yourselves. I 
 give you an hour ! 
 
 [He pours out a glass of zvatcr for himself.'} 
 
 Mme. Viot. You are giving us a sermon now ! 
 
 Albert. Do you want me to go? 
 
 Adele. No, stay. Don't listen to him. 
 Mama ! Really, you're not very generous ! 
 
 Mme. Viot. What? Aren't you satisfied with 
 his having squandered your whole dowry? Do 
 you want him to squander your inheritance? 
 
 Adele. His interests just now are greater than 
 mine. You say that we don't keep together very 
 well as a family. You've told me twenty times 
 that the members of a family ought to help one 
 another in times of danger. You ought to prac- 
 tise what you preach ! Think of the dishonor this 
 affair would be to all of us. Think of your grand- 
 son too; you have no right to compromise his 
 future. He will marry some day, he will try to 
 marry into an honorable family, lle'll not be 
 able to: people won't allow their daughters to 
 form alliances with such as we are. — You must 
 pay, you see. Our honor, our peace of mind, 
 forces you to do it, not to speak of our reputation 
 and even our common material interests. If I 
 
 226
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 can't persuade you, then just think it all over to 
 yourself. What would father have done? 
 
 Mme. Viot. Your father? 
 
 Adele. Father would have payed. 
 
 Mme. Viot [aflcr a pause']. Do what you 
 like, only I warn you, you shan't touch my stocks 
 in the Eastern Railway. • 
 
 Albert. But those are the easiest to dispose 
 of at once. 
 
 Mme. Viot. You shan't touch them ! 
 
 Adele. Then where can we get the money? 
 
 Mme. Viot. Ask Marie, she knows about my 
 business affairs. 
 
 Marie. I know nothing whatsoever. — My 
 time is spent only in being with you and loving you. 
 Mama ! 
 
 Adele. How are we to go about raising the 
 money? Do you get immediate cash on notes? 
 
 Mme. Viot. Ask your husband! He knows 
 about notes ! 
 
 Adele. Very well. — You said the other day 
 that you had 100,000 francs' worth of Eastern 
 Railway stocks at your broker's. 
 
 Marie. A hundred and seven thousand five 
 hundred. 
 
 Mme. Viot. I think I said something about 
 not touching those stocks 1 
 
 Adele. Well, we — 
 
 Mme. Viot. Try the Audaliisiau Railz^ay, not 
 the others. 
 
 Adele. Arc they good? I don't know. Al- 
 bert, you ought to? 
 
 Albert. No, they don't move. Can't sell 
 them ! 
 
 227
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 MiME. ViOT. How's that? They went down 
 lately — they certainly do move ! 
 
 Albert. We're joking! 
 
 Mme. Viot. Well, then, sell the Eastern 
 Stocks, if you insist! Only you're robbing me; I 
 will say that. 
 
 Adele [zcr///;/^]. 107,500 plus 55,000. That 
 makes — 
 
 Mme. Viot. Ha ! 
 
 Adele [licsitcititicjf]. 160 
 
 Mme. Viot. 162,500! 
 
 Adele. There are still 42,500 francs needed. 
 We'll get that from your other holdings: 
 Orleans Railicay, Paris-Lyons, Mediterranean, 
 etc. 
 
 Mme. Viot. What about the Andalusian 
 Railway? 
 
 Adele [without listening/]. That makes 205,- 
 000 francs. — Five thousand too much ! 
 
 Mme. Viot [satirically]. And some more 
 while you are about it ! 
 
 Adele. What's the matter? 
 
 Mme. Viot. Your addition is wrong. 
 
 Albert [embarrassed]. No, it's right. I 
 took 205,000 francs from the office — I said 200,- 
 000 before, because it was a convenient sum. 
 
 Adele. See, Mother? 
 
 Mme. Viot. I do see. But I refuse to give 
 the extra 5000 francs! 
 
 Adele. What are 5000 francs when you're 
 already paying 145,000? 
 
 Mme. \'i()r [cahnly]. I refuse! 
 
 Adele. For the sake of your grandchild! 
 228
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 Mme. Viot. I refuse ! 
 
 Marie. The stocks are in your desk in the ht- 
 tle parlor! 
 
 Mme. Viot \_thro'wing her keys on the floor]. 
 There ! Take my keys. You're robbers ! 
 Now, whoever of you two dares pick up the keys, 
 I swear before the Lord I will disinherit! — 
 
 [Marie, zvJio has stooped to pick up the keys, 
 quickly rises.] 
 
 Adele \_picking them up. — To Albert]. 
 Come ! 
 
 [Adele and Albert go out.] 
 
 Marie [after a pause]. Let's at least follow 
 them. We don't want them to turn everything up- 
 side down ! 
 
 Mme. Viot. Of course not. 
 
 Marie. When we're alone, we must have a 
 little talk. 
 
 Mme. Viot. About what? 
 
 Marie. The future. A thing like this might 
 happen more than once with a son-in-law like 
 Albert. He'd ruin us all! 
 
 Mme. Viot. But what can we do about it? 
 
 Marie. Of course, I advise against divorce — 
 it would be against the Church, but a separa- 
 tion — ! 
 
 Mme. Viot. No, no, no. Once lose hold of 
 Albert, and I'd never see my money again ! 
 
 Marie. Would you prefer to have him run 
 through another 200,000? 
 
 Mme. Viot. Besides, you can't get a separa- 
 tion for that reason. 
 
 Marie. We're quite within our rights. Two 
 229
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 or three times Albert has brought this mistress 
 here — this summer — I know it ! — While you 
 and Adele were at Romilly ! 
 
 Mme. Viot. But what will people say? 
 
 Marie. That you are making the best of a bad 
 job. It was an unwise marriage. I advised you 
 against it, God knows ! 
 
 [They go out, left.'] 
 
 [Curtain.] 
 
 230
 
 ACT IV 
 
 \^The same scene as in the preceding acts. 
 Adele is present. Marie enters a moment 
 later. '\ 
 
 Marie. How are you? 
 
 Adele. Well, thanks, dear. Sit down. 
 
 Marie. I'm not in the way? 
 
 Adele. No, no. Albert is still at the office. 
 I felt a little lonely, all by myself. 
 
 Marie. I wanted to say something about Al- 
 bert. How is he behaving? 
 
 Adele. He's lovely, very kind and consider- 
 ate just now. He seems very much cut up over 
 what's happened. I feel that he bitterly repents 
 it, and is doing everything he can to make amends 
 for that affair of nearly a year ago. 
 
 Marie. Yes. — 
 
 Adele. The other evening he took me to the 
 theater — that's an indication. He doesn't do it 
 often. Heaven knews ! That's a sure sign of his 
 repentance. 
 
 Marie. How about the money he owes 
 Mama? Does he think about that — ever? 
 
 Adele. I'm always talking to him about It. 
 I have to be very careful, for he doesn't like to be 
 reminded. But business is business — this year 
 hasn't been a very good one for us : stocks haven't 
 been paying dividends. So you understand — 
 
 231
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Marie. Yes, It Is bothersome. Of course If 
 we were only sure of the future, everything would 
 be all right. Unfortunately, we're not. Who 
 knows? A character of his sort — not sure of 
 himself, you know — then that woman, who 
 seems to have a greater hold on him than ever. 
 And that money-box, always within his reach, to 
 which he alone has the key! I'm afraid to think 
 oflt!^ 
 
 Adele. Let's not say anything about It, 
 please ! 
 
 Marie. But we must! 
 
 Adele. Why? We can do nothing. 
 
 Marie. We can discuss the matter. 
 
 Adele. Discuss? 
 
 Marie. Yes. 
 
 Adele. What do you mean by that? 
 
 Marie. I mean — that Mama thinks so too. 
 I'm only speaking for her, you understand? If 
 I were the only one concerned, why then — ! 
 Such matters don't Interest me personally In the 
 least! 
 
 Adele. Dear sister! 
 
 Marie. How I've had to take your part 
 against Mama ! Do you know, she blames you 
 now for everything — just as If It were your fault, 
 dear! 
 
 Adele. Poor Mama ! She'll never forgive 
 me for all this trouble. But It's really not been 
 my fault. 
 
 Marie. I said we might discuss ways and 
 means in order to guard against another catas- 
 trophe In the future. The best plan would be a 
 simple separation from your husband. 
 
 232
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 Adele. You want me to apply for a separa- 
 tion? What would Albert do without me? 
 
 Marie. Think, my dear, think. It's for your 
 good. Really, you're not in love with your hus- 
 band. What if he should play some new pranks 
 
 — think what would happen? We've all suf- 
 fered, you especially, from his reckless extrava- 
 gance — and poor Mama ! She's broken-hearted 
 to see all her savings go like this. It's taken her 
 nearly a year to recover from that last shock. 
 She's aged ten years ! She had such a splendid 
 appetite, and now she hardly eats anything at all. 
 She's merely the wreck of her former self. 
 [Overcome with emotion.^ What — what if we 
 should lose her? ! 
 
 Adele. But Mama Is very well. 
 
 Marie. There you're mistaken. 
 
 Adele. Not at all! 
 
 Marie. My heart tells me I know the truth. 
 You, for instance, what state do you imagine you 
 are in now? 
 
 Adele. I'm very well. 
 
 Marie. Very well? My dear sister, don't 
 deceive yourself: you've changed vastly. Mama 
 and I have spent many a sleepless night worrying 
 about you — your hollow cheeks, sunk eyes, 
 those awful headaches of yours! You look like 
 a little martyr! You might easily succumb to new 
 shocks — the life your husband is leading might 
 
 — what if we should lose you? If God were to 
 take you from us ! I'm sick at the very thought ! 
 No, no, not that! to lose you, little sister! I can't 
 even think of it! — Make It a legal separation, 
 do! 
 
 233
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Adele. Don't be alarmed, dear, I'm per- 
 fectly well. 
 
 Marie. A sister's heart cannot be mistaken! 
 
 Adele. But it is, for I'm in perfect health. 
 
 Marie. Really? 
 
 Adele. Yes! 
 
 Marie. Then — 
 
 Adele. Let's not say anything more about 
 it — 
 
 Marie. You certainly are to be pitied, I 
 understand your troubles and worries. This 
 everlasting wrangling is a terrible thing in a family 
 like ours. The situation is very critical. Now, 
 you're a reasonable person; I ask you, have you 
 the right to drag your mother and sister into all 
 this? Sacrifice us? 
 
 AdJble. What — you? 
 
 Marie [sweetly]. Yes, me ! You really must 
 have some consideration for others. I at least 
 have some rights. And our dear mother — whom 
 God spare to us a long while yet ! — cannot live 
 forever! I can't allow Albert to go on squan- 
 dering money as he does, and endanger my 
 own future. On Mama's death I am to get 300,- 
 000 francs. Up to now, your share only has been 
 touched — but a man like your husband wouldn't 
 stop short of taking the whole fortune. Your 
 nephew too must not be forgotten. He mustn't 
 be deprived of his share. No, Mama is no longer 
 young, and I must think of these things. We 
 must keep a careful guard on the money that re- 
 mains — the money that will one day be ours — 
 and see that Mama doesn't use it up. What do 
 you say? Tell me. 
 
 234
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 Adele [energetically, after a pause]. No, I 
 shall not ask for a separation! 
 
 Marie. You're wrong, child. 
 
 Adele. But you're considering only the 
 financial side of the question. 
 
 Marie. What other side is there — in your 
 relations with Albert? 
 
 Adele. A great deal that you don't seem to 
 take into account. First there is love, the basis of 
 family life. 
 
 Marie. Money is the basis of family life. 
 
 Adele. I don't agree with you. — Then there's 
 my duty as a Christian wife: I should stand by 
 my husband and obey him — 
 
 Marie. How about your mother? 
 
 Adele. Not now ! Anyway, I want Albert ! 
 
 Marie. A man of his sort! 
 
 Adele [nettled]. Yes, a man of his sort! I 
 advise you not to say anything against him. He's 
 very intelligent, and he's a hard and faithful 
 worker. That engine he invented — it was all in 
 the papers — not every one can do that ! 
 
 Marie [also nettled]. Do you say that for 
 my husband's benefit? 
 
 Adele. For him — and everybody, my dear. 
 
 Marie. Gustave's name has not appeared in 
 the newspapers, but he might have it if he liked ! 
 
 Adele. What did he invent? 
 
 Marie. You persist in attacking him? 
 
 Adele. You attacked Albert; I don't see why 
 I shouldn't do the same to Gustave? 
 
 Marie. But — 
 
 Adele [tenderly]. Let's drop it, please. Al- 
 bert is good to me, tender and loving. Some- 
 
 235
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 times he caresses me, and says my hair is prettier 
 than hers — the other's. And I'm so grateful! 
 I think him charming, and he's my husband. 
 
 Marie. What difterence does that make? 
 
 Adele. I love him ! If you want to know the 
 whole truth: I've struggled hard — I may be 
 weak — but I am In the right, I believe — I be- 
 long to him body and soul, in spite of his infi- 
 delity — I simply can't do without him. 
 
 Marie [disgusted]. Oh! 
 
 Adele. It's all very well for you to talk, with 
 a husband like yours! 
 
 Marie. If Gustave ever deceived me, all 
 would be over between us ! 
 
 Adele. Well, I forgave my husband. I once 
 thought of leaving him, when I first learned the 
 truth, — put an end to everything in true dramatic 
 style. I tried to go away, but you and Mama per- 
 suaded me to return to him. Even then I strug- 
 gled against my inclinations, I hardly spoke a word 
 to him, — avoided him. I even went to my con- 
 fessor about it. My youth, my enthusiasm — all 
 — in time I again became his wife, and I was only 
 too happy to find that he still had some affection 
 for me ! 
 
 Marie. But think of your situation now! To 
 think that Albert brazenly speaks to you about his 
 mistress, in your ordinary conversation! Con- 
 sider what your love will lead you to! You're 
 only a tool in his hands — you're bound hand and 
 foot. See what your weakness has already cost 
 you ! How much more may it cost! Now if you 
 would only consent to a separation — 
 
 Adele. No, no, no, I'll not consent. That 
 236
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 would be too terrible. I feel positive of that. I 
 am a little ashamed, and I do suffer; perhaps I'm 
 condemning myself to a life of torture, to ruin and 
 misery — but I don't care. Call it passion, worse 
 than passion; Albert is necessary to my life. You 
 may tell that to Mama, to your husband, to every- 
 body. Your " financial " questions don't inter- 
 est me. And then, you ought to leave me with my 
 husband, for you gave him to me ! 
 
 Marie [after a paiise^. Very well! I'm not 
 the only one concerned. I am authorized to say 
 that if you don't consent to an immediate separa- 
 tion, Mama will have nothing further to do with 
 you. 
 
 Adele. Mama? 
 
 Marie. Yes — she is very angry with you. 
 Now what do you say ? 
 
 Adele. So much the worse ! 
 
 Marie. Good. Only I advise you to per- 
 suade your husband to pay his debt. Pressure 
 may be brought to bear on him. 
 
 Adele. You are right. It will be very hard, 
 but I'll do my best. I'll sacrifice, if need be. 
 
 Marie. You know my feelings toward you, 
 dearest. Don't consider me: I've done my best 
 to smooth things over. You don't blame me, do 
 you? I'd be so sorry! 
 
 Adele. No, my dear sister, I know your love 
 for me ! 
 
 Marie. Kiss me. 
 
 Adele \_kissing her]. With all my heart! 
 
 Marie. And now, good-by. Speak to your 
 husband. 
 
 Adele. As soon as he comes. 
 237
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 [Alarie goes o///.] 
 
 Adele. Mama have nothing more to do with 
 me? How queer that sounds ! When I was a lit- 
 tle girl and heard about children falling out with 
 their parents, it seemed ridiculous — especially on 
 the part of the children. Now here / am! And 
 am I really to blame? Not to see Mama any 
 more ! I remember when she took me to school, 
 and scolded me in the street: "Walk quickly 
 now, or we'll be late ! " If I could only make Al- 
 bert pay! He could if he wanted to. I'll speak 
 to him to-night. I hope I'm successful this time I 
 There he is — courage ! 
 
 [Enter Albert.'] 
 
 Adele. Good evening, dear! 
 
 Albert. Good evening. 
 
 Adele. I'm so glad to see you ! 
 
 Albert. Is dinner nearly ready? 
 
 Adele. It isn't time yet. No — only half 
 past six. 
 
 Albert. I'm very busy: I must go out. 
 
 Adele. I'll have dinner hurried. 
 
 Albert. Please. 
 
 Adele. You'll like the dinner — too bad you 
 haven't much time. There's some lovely lamb, 
 with potatoes — and — what do you think? 
 Souffle with apricots! You like that, don't you? 
 
 Albert. Yes, yes. 
 
 Adeij:. See how I think of you! But that's 
 not all. I made a great find at the Bon Marche. 
 Guess? 
 
 Albert. I'm no good at guessing. 
 
 Adele. Ties: the kind you like — satin, that 
 you tie yourself. 
 
 238
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 Albert. Like Colin's? 
 
 Adele. Isn't that the kind you hke? 
 
 Albert. Oh, yes, they're as good as any other. 
 
 Adele. They're beautiful shades: two blue 
 ones with white spots, two black ones with blue 
 figures. You can wear one for this evening. 
 Would you like to see them? 
 
 Albert. I don't care. Leave them in my 
 room. 
 
 Adele. I got you some gloves too — you'll 
 like them — 
 
 Albert. Yes, yes, good! 
 
 Adele. Nice of me, wasn't it? You can't say 
 I don't take good care of you, can you? — Why 
 don't you kiss your wife? 
 
 Albert. There ! [He kisses her perfunc- 
 torily. A pause. ^ 
 
 Adele. Business picking up? Are you more 
 hopeful? 
 
 Albert {reading a newspaper]. About the 
 same. 
 
 Adele. No rise? 
 
 Albert. No rise, no rise. You can't tell. 
 Business is business, it changes from day to day. 
 I don't like to discuss these matters with women: 
 they understand nothing about it all. Let me read 
 my paper. I'm out of humor! [A pause.] 
 
 Adele. I know it's not pleasant, but while 
 we're on the subject, you must remember that we 
 owe Mama money: 150,000 francs, of which we 
 haven't paid back one sou. 
 
 Albert. I advise you to ask for money now 1 
 Caroline asked for some this morning — Ha ! 
 
 Adele. It isn't for myself ! Mama has the 
 239
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 right to ask for her money. [Fcry quietly. 1 
 That money was a loan, not a gift! 
 
 Albert. Your mother is an old miser — I'll 
 not trouble with her! 
 
 Adele. Mama wants to keep the family for- 
 tune intact. She's very conservative about it; she 
 belongs to the old school. She would never get 
 over it if the fortune at her death were less than 
 what it was when she inherited it. It's only to her 
 credit that she feels as she does. 
 
 Albert. I tell you she's an old miser! 
 
 Adele. That doesn't make us any less her 
 debtors. You can't imagine how worried I am 
 over this. You know how I economize! My 
 household expenses are very small, I wear dresses 
 for three years, our table is quite modest — two 
 courses at each meal — . And yet 1 can't save up 
 enough to pay back more than a fraction. If you 
 could only let me have a little more money. You 
 spend a great deal yourself — I'm not blaming 
 you — that's your affair, — only if you could econ- 
 omize a little? If I could just give back a thou- 
 sand francs ! It would be a load off my shoulders ! 
 Think if she'd have nothing more to do with us — 
 
 Albert. I'll pay everything back in due time. 
 Meanwhile she may do what she likes. Do you 
 want me to kill myself with work in order to Hatter 
 a millionaire? 
 
 Adele. My dear good sister — 
 
 Albert. "Good" sister! Another of your 
 notions! 
 
 Adele. However that may be, Marie told me 
 just now that Mama was very angry with us. 
 
 Albert. She can't disinherit you, can she? 
 240
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 There's the law, that's all that's necessary. I 
 have a regular contract, thank God! 
 
 Adele. You might try to be on good terms 
 with her I 
 
 Albert. To be grateful? Rot! 
 
 Adele. No, but I love Mama, and I want to 
 avoid a rupture. 
 
 Albert. Ha ! Ha ! 
 
 Adele [insisting]. Yet — we owe her 150,- 
 000 francs. Think of it — if we could only — 
 
 Albert [getting angry]. That's enough! 
 And your mother can go hang! She's been stingy 
 enough lately. When I used to be in need of 
 money, I managed to extract fifteen louis from 
 her — when she was in the mood — . There was 
 nothing wrong in that: I merely followed the ex- 
 ample of your " good " sister. She knows how 
 to exploit the old lady. She knows every move- 
 ment — she keeps mighty close watch! How do 
 you know but that she'll take the 150,000 francs 
 that are still due us? By God, if I felt sure of 
 that I'd wring your sister's neck, that dear sister 
 who bears, as she says, the same name as the Holy 
 Virgin ! Little good it does me if I ask for money 
 occasionally. Of course, yon don't care, you're 
 always up in the clouds ! It doesn't affect you ! / 
 have responsibilities and worries, I have two house- 
 holds to support! With you and Caroline — ! 
 The pair of you! — If I only had your dowry 
 now — ! Ha! It's taken flight — not much, for 
 that matter — a little two-by-four dowry that kept 
 us hardly two years ! And now here your mother 
 comes asking for her cursed money ! Why 
 doesn't she ask me to support her, your sister, your 
 
 241
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 brother-in-law, your nephew — the whole crew?! 
 I see they're trying to make a fool of me. That's 
 what they're doing! Let's cut it short now: I 
 won't be the stalking horse for the family — I 
 
 Ax)ELE. How can you say that, dear? 
 
 Albert. I repeat it: the stalking-horse of the 
 whole family 1 And I thought I was doing a good 
 stroke of business! Such — such indelicacy I 
 And she spends all her time casting that damned 
 150,000 francs in my teeth. A pretty state of 
 affairs! And how I get blamed, whew! Simply 
 because they did me a favor any one would do ! 
 As a rule when any one obliges a friend, he has 
 the common decency not to make the obligation 
 felt. The lender tries to make the borrower for- 
 get. It should be a pleasure to do a fellow-being 
 a service — the offer should be repeated! It's 
 one of the joys of life, and I pity the people who 
 can't see it in that light. But this business, oh, 
 my 1 And with me, who have been brought up 
 where people have some delicacy of sentiment — 
 Ha! 
 
 Adele. You have no reason to complain. 
 
 Albert. Of course I have. How can I live 
 with people who don't understand me? I'm pay- 
 ing back that money merely by remaining among 
 you. And a fine family you are! Sitting around 
 all day knitting socks — with no culture, no knowl- 
 edge of the world. A mother who Is a miser, a 
 sister not very different from her — a brother-in- 
 law — ! Savages! — And do you imagine that 
 you are anything remarkable? Pretty? You've 
 lived so long with your mother that you've begun 
 to look like her. 1 sometimes mistake you for 
 
 242
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 her! Intelligent, splrituelle? You do nothing but 
 make trouble in the family, and get me disliked! 
 You join them to make my life miserable! If 
 you want to know the truth, you're a little fool, 
 with your love and your whimpering and your 
 prayers and your priests and your God! Good 
 Lord ! — And — Then our having no children — ! 
 You — !i 
 
 Adele. Albert! 
 
 Albert. Now about your mother — ! 
 
 Adele [crying, but vjith energy]. No, no, 
 stop it ! You have no right to say such terrible 
 things about people who never did you wrong! I 
 know you don't love nw — but I won't allow you 
 to say those things about my family — Never ! 
 
 Albert [furiously]. And I tell you your 
 mother is an old scarecrow, do you hear? 
 
 Adele [choking]. I advise you not to say any- 
 thing more about my mother before me — ! Nor 
 before any one else! You are the last one who 
 has a right to! You know what might be said of 
 you — ! 
 
 Albert [eurac/ed']. What? 
 
 Adele. You know very well. 
 
 Albert. Say it! 
 
 Adele. I wouldn't take the trouble! I 
 wouldn't ! 
 
 Albert. Go on — I'd just like to hear. 
 
 Adele. Very well, then — you have — stolen 
 — There ! 
 
 1 The exact lines ("Ton bon Dieu ! . . . Couche done avec, 
 puisque tu I'aimes tant ! II te fera peut-etre un enfant, lui ! 
 Dire que tu n'as pas meme ete capable de faire un enfant!") 
 are of a brutality so revolting that I have substituted a milder 
 line, containing something of the spirit of the original. — Tr.
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Albert \_menadngly^. I'm a thief? I'm a 
 thief? Now I'll show you how I appreciate the 
 information ! 
 
 /Vdele [terrified]. What — what are you go- 
 ing to do ? 
 
 Albert. I'm a thief, am I ? 
 
 [He seizes her by the shoulders.] 
 
 Adele. Albert — Albert — Don't ! 
 
 Albert. If you want to know: I detest you, 
 hate you ! Get out, now ! Tv e seen enough of 
 you ! You damned — ! 
 
 Adele. Let go ! Let go ! You're hurting 
 me ! You have no right to treat me like this ! 
 Oh!— Help! I'm—! 
 
 Albert [throiung her to the floor]. There I 
 
 Adele [in agony]. Oh! [Albert sits down, 
 Adele slowly rises.] 
 
 Albert [as if about to throw her down again]. 
 Get out. 
 
 [Adele goes out at the back.] 
 
 Albert [calmly lighting a cigarette]. Feel re- 
 lieved! [Dreamily]. I suppose she'll ask for a 
 separation now ! 
 
 [Curtain.] 
 
 244
 
 ACT V 
 
 [ The same scene as in the preceding acts. 
 Adele, Mme. Viot, and Marie are present.^ 
 
 Mme. Viot. And how are you this evening, 
 dear? 
 
 Adele. Still a bit sick — it's my stomach. 
 
 Mme. Viot. Come, now, it's nothing serious. 
 You imagine much worse than it is. How you 
 worry! At my age I don't like to hear about sick- 
 ness, you know. Don't pull that long face — be 
 gay. We've come up to talk over a serious mat- 
 ter. 
 
 Adele. All right, Mama. 
 
 Marie. Poor child! 
 
 Mme. Viot. What are you working at? 
 
 Adele. I'm knitting a vest for the poor. 
 
 Mme. Viot. Lay it aside and listen to us. 
 Marie, will you begin? 
 
 Marie. No, Mama, I'd rather you did. In 
 questions of money I'm so stupid. 
 
 Adele. It's about money? Still? 
 
 Mme. Viot. Yes. For six months you've been 
 separated from your husband — your eyes were 
 opened at last. You've been living practically 
 with us, but now you must establish yourself 
 permanently, so that the rights of all of us shall 
 not suffer. At first I had thought of taking you 
 with us, but our habits, our manner of living, are 
 
 245
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 so different ! You are, you must admit, a little 
 hard to get along with — you are wilful, head- 
 strong — we couldn't get on well, I fear. Then 
 if I took you it would be as much as a confession of 
 defeat before the world, and I don't want people 
 to imagine that anything's wrong — for the salce 
 of the good name of the family. In case they do 
 suspect, I don't want to have it said that I was to 
 blame. Here's what we've decided, your sister 
 and I : we want you to live here, by yourself, com- 
 fortably and respectably. 
 
 Marie. Each of us in his own home — that's 
 the best way. 
 
 Mme. Viot. It's easy to see that you can't count 
 on that 2,000 francs' alimony your husband should 
 pay you. I know very well he can't afford the 
 money. We've therefore arranged to allow you 
 an income of 5,000 francs a year. The capital 
 will be yours: about 150,000 francs — your share 
 of the family fortune. That's the easiest way: 
 then I shan't be bothered with continual requests 
 for assistance. You may have your breakfasts 
 with me. Isn't that fair? 
 
 Adele. Yes, Mama, I see — 
 
 Mme. Viot. You don't seem very satisfied. 
 We've made out a complete budget for you. Lis- 
 ten: 5,000 francs a year is 416 francs 30 cen- 
 times a month. That's a good round sum ! 
 Household expenses for yourself and two serv- 
 ants — 
 
 Adele. I'll not need the butler. 
 
 Mme. Viot. And stay alone with the maid? 
 Never! You must think of appearances! This 
 money Is not for amusements, you understand — 
 
 246
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 not to allow you to knit vests for the poor — you 
 must live so that no one can point a finger at us. 
 To continue : household expenses for you and two 
 servants: 150 francs. That's plenty. Wages: 
 130 francs. That leaves 136 — say 130. 
 Clothes: nothing — nothing, too, for the upkeep 
 of the house. As you make your own dresses, and 
 take good care not to burn too much gas — you'll 
 have more than enough. For that matter, you'll 
 be richer than I ! But you can't do as you did at 
 my place at lunch to-day — order a boiled egg 
 when there were plenty of fried potatoes. An 
 egg is an egg. 
 
 Adele. I wasn't feeling well this morning — 
 
 Mme. Viot. We'll let that pass. Now for your 
 present lease : I'll leave that to you. I hope you 
 will allow me to pay as little as possible. You 
 see, you're really living on us. Don't forget that ! 
 
 Adele. No, Mama, I shan't. Only, while 
 we're on the subject, there's one thing I should like 
 to say. If I keep this apartment, 5,000 francs 
 will be nothing at all — if I continue to live in the 
 same style as before. With all your money, 
 couldn't you afford — ? 
 
 Mme. Viot. No, certainly not — if you begin 
 to beg again — 
 
 Adele. Consider that I've said nothing, if you 
 get angry with me ! 
 
 Mme. Viot. Well, I am. You're always that 
 way: you're never satisfied. Haven't I done 
 enough for you? If your children cost you as 
 much as mine, I advise you to have very few ! 
 That is, if you'd like to have a bite to eat in your 
 old age ! 
 
 247
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Adele [sobbiug.l Mama, Mama, are you 
 blaming me for all that's happened? I can't say 
 a thing now, it seems, without your flying into a 
 rage ! It's dreadful. 
 
 MiME. VioT. It's more dreadful to be drained 
 of your money, the way I've been! 
 
 Adele. Is that my fault? 
 
 Mme. Viot. Perhaps it's mine? I advise you 
 to complain ! I've had a fine time between you 
 and that husband of yours ! A fine specimen you 
 brought into the family ! 
 
 Adele. Who picked him out for me? 
 
 Mme. Viot. You should have resisted, or else 
 managed to get along with him better, instead of 
 always taking his part against me! You've ad- 
 mired him so much that you begin to look like him ! 
 When I look at you, I tell you, I think it's he him- 
 self—! 
 
 Adele. But — 
 
 Mme. Viot. Of course, in one way he's a nice 
 fellow — I can't deny that. He always behaved 
 very decently to me. Only, like all men, he had 
 to be led with a string. You spoiled him, you let 
 him go — through your own weakness. You 
 thought him wonderful, distinguished! When I 
 think of a daughter of mine being so — so much 
 the slave of her passions — Oh ! Like a common 
 woman of the streets! That's the ruination of 
 families! You think it's all very well — you 
 didn't have to pay the piper! You just put your 
 hand in other people's pockets — ! 
 
 Adele. Mama! 
 
 Marie [apparoiily much moved]. Now, 
 now! — 
 
 248
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 Mme. Viot. To think of all I was going to do 
 with my money — I had a splendid opportunity — 
 some stocks your poor father bought dirt-cheap 
 just after the Revolution of '48. I had a lot of 
 Bank of France stocks — I'd saved up for twenty 
 years to buy them. Everybody said I was very 
 lucky to get them. My friend, Mme. Renaudy, 
 would have given anything to have them ! Then 
 the Andaliisian Railway — no, those you let me 
 keep ! Thanks ! Then the Paris-Lyons, Medi- 
 terranean, and the Orleans Railway! And 
 the Eastern! Thanks to you, the fortune laid up 
 by generation after generation of honest men, and 
 which I was proud to guard, has now dwindled so 
 that I am actually ashamed — it's never happened 
 before in our family — and now! — while I was 
 administering it — ! 
 
 Adele [sobbing]. I — I wish I had died 
 long ago, and spared you all this trouble you're 
 now blaming me for ! 
 
 Mme. Viot [furiously]. Good Heavens, 
 there are times when I wonder whether it wouldn't 
 have been better! 
 
 Adele [sadly]. Oh! 
 
 Marie. Mama ! Think of what you're say- 
 ing! Poor Adele ! 
 
 [J long pause.] 
 
 Mme. Viot. Now, for all these reasons you are 
 to have 5,000 francs' income, and not another sou 
 — you ought to be thankful for that! I ask only 
 one thing: that you will leave the capital — 
 150,000 francs — to Marie. You understand? 
 To no one else ! I don't want that money to go 
 out of the family. Enough has gone already. 
 
 249
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Marie. I don't want to take advantage of 
 your generosity, dear. I ask only one thing of 
 Heaven: to take me before it does you. I 
 couldn't survive you! I couldn't! 
 
 MiME. ViOT. Then, you agree? 
 
 Adele. Yes, Mama. 
 
 MiME. ViOT. No dividing the capital! No 
 remembrances or presents? 
 
 Adele. No, Mama. 
 
 Mme. Viot. It's nine o'clock, I'm going home 
 — I have to figure up my accounts. Oh, here are 
 300 francs, you may pay me back out of your al- 
 lowance. \^Pointing to the notes she has given 
 Adi'le.^ Count them — I might be cheating 
 you ! — To-morrow we'll begin our new life : come 
 to lunch. You may have boiled eggs. Good- 
 night. Don't be extravagant, now ! 
 
 Marie [/o /J dele]. Good-night, dear. I'm 
 going home : my husband's waiting for me. 
 
 [Mine. Viot and Marie kiss Adele, and go out.] 
 
 Adele. Five thousand francs ! How can I 
 ever live on it? And they told me w^hen I was 
 married I should have a hundred thousand a year 
 some day! Five thousand! Well, I must do my 
 best! [A pause.] And he? What is he do- 
 ing? What will become of him? Marie says 
 her husband is waiting for her — I must stay here 
 alone! — If I only heard something of him! — 
 But if I must become used to the thought of doing 
 without him, 1 must. I shall, in time. I've been 
 pretty philosophical about it all lately. My life 
 from now on will be lonely, 1 see that, but quiet 
 and peaceful. I can at least take care of the lit- 
 tle money I have, — That's something. What is 
 
 250
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 the matter with me to-night? I'm a coward! — 
 Where can he be? What is he doing? 
 
 [Enter Albert, looking aged and ill-kempt.] 
 
 Adele. You?! 
 
 Albert. Yes, I. Don't call! You have 
 nothing to be afraid of — 
 
 Adele. If Mama knew — ! 
 
 Albert. She's safe at home by now. I'll not 
 stay long. 
 
 Adele. Why have you come ? 
 
 Albert. First to find out how you were: — 
 you're not well, are you? 
 
 Adele. No — but you can't stay here ! 
 
 Albert. Stop, I have something important to 
 say to you. I see my presence is disagreeable to 
 you — so I'll stay only a moment. — You must 
 have forgiven me by now? You know I was all 
 out of humor that day ! I'm not usually like that ! 
 You don't blame me, do you? Do you? 
 
 Adele [after a pause]. How do I know? 
 
 Albert. See — you don't really blame me. — 
 [J pause.] 
 
 Adele [looking at him]. What is the mat- 
 ter? 
 
 Albert. Things haven't gone well. I've had 
 no luck. I'm not like every one. 
 
 Adele. What do you mean? 
 
 Albert. Ah, that's so: you're not to be en- 
 vied, yourself ! 
 
 Adele. Now, what have you come for? 
 
 Albert. Well — may I sit down? 
 
 Adele. Yes. 
 
 Albert. After the separation I went on with 
 my work at the office. Then — well, I was 
 
 251
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 unfortunate — the cash-box — Oh, nothing much 
 this time: 10,000 francs! I was found out and 
 shown the door. They were decent enough to 
 me — they didn't let it get about. Only I was 
 out of a job. Then I lived from hand to mouth 
 — translated, addressed envelopes for circulars. 
 See that pamphlet on the table? I wrote the ad- 
 dress. Didn't you recognize my writing? — 
 Then I — I've come to ask you to loan me a lit- 
 tle — until I get on my feet again. Only till 
 then! Your mother must give you an allowance? 
 It would be a great help to me. If I don't have 
 300 francs to-night, God only t;nows what'U hap- 
 pen to me ! 
 
 Adele. Three hundred francs! That's a 
 whole month's allowance. I don't keep things on 
 the scale we used to ! 
 
 Albert. Is that all you have ? 
 
 Adele. Not a sou more! Mama gave me a 
 capital of 150,000 francs! Figure it up! 
 
 Albert. Then you can't let me have any- 
 thing? 
 
 Adele. If I did, how could I live? 
 
 Albert. There's your mother! [A paiise.^ 
 
 Adele. Tell me the truth: are those 300 
 francs for yourself? 
 
 Albert [vivaciously]. Yes, yes. Don't imag- 
 ine they're for her! I promise, I never see her! 
 
 Adele. There's no need defending yourself so 
 hotly! If it's true, why I — 
 
 Albert. Well — 
 
 Adele. Be frank, I'd rather you were. 
 
 Albert [after a pause]. Well, yes, it is for 
 her! 
 
 252
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 Adele. Ah ! 
 
 Albert. Jealous? What difference can that 
 make to you now? We're separated. But you 
 needn't think I'm happy. What scenes, what 
 wailing — pitched battles! [Sobbing.] This 
 morning she left me ! Stay with me, Adele ! 
 Don't send me away! You are good! It's a 
 great relief to confide in you ! — Yes, she left me. 
 I went there this morning at eleven, as I usually 
 do, for lunch. I kissed her, and then she asked 
 me the first thing whether I had the 300 francs 
 I'd promised. I told her I hadn't. Then, with- 
 out a word, she said: " Get out, you old fool! " 
 — She, she who told me I was the dearest being 
 to her in the world! My God, Adele! I don't 
 know what to do ! — 
 
 Adele [after a pause]. There, there, don't 
 go on like that! Here's your money, take it! 
 
 Albert. You're an angel! You understand 
 me! 
 
 Adele. Yes, I do understand you — better 
 than you imagine. You love that woman the way 
 I have loved you ! 
 
 Albert. Thank you, thank you. You are 
 good! If you knew what it cost me to ask you 
 for money ! I was afraid of your mother. — Now 
 let's talk about something else. — How are you? 
 Stomach still trouble you? You don't look very 
 sick. Do you take good care of yourself? 
 
 Adele. Yes — only you had better go now. 
 If Mama were to know I had received you, and 
 given you money, she Avould never forgive me. 
 
 Albert. One minute more! It's so com- 
 fortable here. You don't seem to realize it, but 
 
 253
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 I'm mighty glad to see you again! And are you 
 glad—? 
 
 Adele [ivith deep fccli}i(f]. T am! 
 
 Albert [^aily]. Tell me, your mother — ? 
 
 Adele. Yes, my mother? 
 
 Albert. She's not nice to you, eh? 
 
 Adele. She must lay the blame on some one 
 for all the money she's lost. She blames me for 
 having married you — she says I was too easily 
 influenced by you. She was right, too. You 
 knew how to get anything you liked from me — 
 I'd have let you get every sou I had. But I be- 
 lieve all women who loved as I did are like me. 
 My mother is wrong in putting all the blame on 
 me. I have suffered — ! 
 
 Albert. But with all her money — and she 
 has more than you think — she's allowed you only 
 5,000 francs? The old — ! 
 
 Adele [smilinffl. Not a sou more. 
 
 Albert. You might occasionally get a little 
 more. 
 
 Adele. Yes, but what a time I'd have ! 
 Mama is positively ferocious. 
 
 Albert. I'm really surprised she doesn't ask 
 you to cut down expenses ! 
 
 Adele. She does! 
 
 Albert. No? 
 
 Adele. Yes, she does. 
 
 Albert. Well, I never! Such stinginess! 
 
 Adele. They are a little careful! It's sim- 
 ply their nature. 
 
 Albert. Not much like me! 
 
 Adele [smiling gcuiaily^. I should think not! 
 254
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 Albert. Makes you laugh, doesn't it? 
 
 Adele. It all seems so long ago. 
 
 Albert, Poor dear! Always so patient and 
 sweet! — And I, I'm not really so terrible, after 
 all. Luck's been against me, that's all. You 
 know I loved you — infinitely more than I did the 
 other. My pleasantest hours have been passed 
 with you. But, then, you can't fight against 
 your destiny, that has been my misfortune. Dear 
 Adele. 
 
 Adele [troubled]. Don't let's think of the 
 past. We must be reasonable — you must go 
 now — 
 
 Albert. So soon? 
 
 Adele. Yes, you must. No good will come 
 of our staying together. 
 
 Albert. I'll go, then, but not before I've 
 kissed you and thanked you. I owe you at least 
 that! Will you let me? 
 
 Adele [aUo'vcing him to kiss her]. If you 
 like. 
 
 Albert. On the neck — as I used to, when I 
 was in a good humor — remember? [He kisses 
 her.] Nice, eh? 
 
 Adele [overcome]. Stop, stop, Albert! 
 [Recoiling.] Stop, now ! 
 
 Albert [looking at her, and understanding 
 her feelings]. What? Can you really — ? 
 You know — we might — see one another from 
 time to time? Nothing would please me better! 
 
 Adele [terrified]. No, no! You mustn't! 
 What would — ? Then I — 
 
 Albert. Yes? 
 
 255
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 Adele [in an undertone]. You want to take 
 advantage of my weakness, get money from me 
 — as before ! YouVe not losing sight of those 
 150,000 francs! You've once driven me to mis- 
 ery and despair, but you won't a second time ! 
 
 Albert. That thought never entered my 
 head! 
 
 Adele. Perhaps not to-day — but it would 
 come to that ! 
 
 Albert [approaching her~\. You are not very 
 kind!^ 
 
 Adele. Go away, please ! 
 
 Albert. I'm going, I'm going. — Good-by! 
 
 Adele. Good-by ! [Stopping him on the 
 threshold.] Still, if you absolutely need to see 
 me sometimes — for a good reason — ? 
 
 Albert [ironically]. A good reason? 
 
 Adele. Don't come here — Mama might see 
 you, or the servants — 
 
 Albert. Where, then? 
 
 Adele. Write me a note and arrange a meet- 
 ing-place. Perhaps I'll go — I'll think it over. 
 
 Albert. Good! But where can I meet you? 
 
 Adele. I don't know — it makes no differ- 
 ence. 
 
 Albert. The devil! Out of the question at 
 my place. It's a tiny hole in the BatignoUes dis- 
 trict. No! I shouldn't allow my wife to be 
 humiliated there! Perhaps — I've been thinking 
 of setting up a ground-floor apartment. But I'm 
 not very sure. I must decide — might see you 
 then!? Oh, I insist on paying all the rent! 
 Good, that's it, then ! As soon as I can have you 
 there, I'll write. You'll not have to wait long! 
 
 256
 
 THE DUPE 
 
 But you will come, won't you? Promise! Good! 
 See you soon, then! [He goes oiit.^ 
 
 Adele [after a pause]. But will he write? 
 
 [Curtain.] 
 
 END OF THE PLAY 
 
 257
 
 A SELECTED LIST 
 
 OF 
 
 DRAMATIC 
 LITERATURE 
 
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 DRAMATIC LITERATURE 
 
 The Antigone of Sophocles 
 
 By PROF. JOSEPH EDWARD HARRY 
 
 An acting I'ersion of this most perfect of all dramas. 
 A scholarly ivork in readable English. Especiallly 
 adaptable for Colleges, Dramatic Societies, etc. 
 
 Post Express, Rochester: 
 
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 STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 
 
 ii 
 
 European Dramatists 
 
 By ARCHIBALD HENDERSON 
 Author of "George Bernard Shaw: His Life and Works." 
 
 In the present ivork the famous dramatic critic and 
 
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 has the happy faculty of making his biographical 
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 Photogravure frontispiece, handsomely printed and 
 bound, large i2mo Ket, $l.so
 
 DRAMATIC LITERATURE 
 
 At Last 
 
 You May Understand 
 
 Cj, £, o. 
 
 Perhaps once in a generation a figure of commanding 
 greatness appears, one through whose life the history of 
 his time may be read. There is but one such man to- 
 day. 
 
 George Ben/ard Shaw 
 
 HIS LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 A CRITICAL BIOGRAPHY (Authorized) 
 
 By 
 ARCHIBALD HENDERSON, M.A.Ph.D. 
 
 Is virtually the story of the social, economic and 
 aesthetic life of the last twenty-five years. It is a sym- 
 pathetic, yet independent interpretation of the most po- 
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 find here the key to all that is baffling and elusive in 
 Shaw; it is a cinematographic picture of his mind with a 
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 combined to produce this universal genius. 
 
 The press of the ivorlJ has united in its praise; let us 
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 STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 
 
 A Few Critical Reviews of 
 
 George Bernard Shaw 
 
 His Life and Works 
 A Critical Biography (Authorized) 
 By ARCHIBALD HENDERSON, M.A., Ph.D. 
 The Dial: 
 
 "In over five hundred pages, with an energy and 
 carefulness and sympathy which deserve high com- 
 mendation. Dr. Henderson has presented his subject 
 from all conceivable angles." 
 The Bookman: 
 
 "A more entertaining narrative, whether in biog- 
 raphy or fiction, has not appeared in recent years." 
 The Independent: 
 
 "Whatever George Bernard Shaw may think of his 
 Biography the rest of the world will probably agree 
 that Dr. Henderson has done a good job." 
 Boston Transcript: 
 
 "There is no exaggeration in saying it is one of the 
 most entertaining biographies of these opening years 
 of the Twentieth Century." 
 Bernard Shaw: 
 
 "You are a genius, because you are somehow sus- 
 ceptible to the really significant and diiferentiating 
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 Maurice Maeterlinck: 
 
 "You have written one of the most sagacious, most 
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 ing * * * sound and brilliant, full of keen insight and 
 happy turns of statement. * * * This service Professor 
 Henderson's book does perform; and I incline to call it 
 a great one."
 
 DRAMATIC LITERATURE 
 
 Short Plays 
 
 By MARY MAC MILLAN 
 To fill a long- felt ivant. All have been successfully 
 
 presented. Suitable for Jf'omen's Clubs, Girls' Schools, 
 
 etc. While elaborate enough for big presentation, they 
 
 may be given very simply. 
 
 Review of Reviews: 
 
 "Mary MacMillan offers 'Short Plays,' a collec- 
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 clubs, girls' schools, and home parlor production. 
 Some are pure comedies, others gentle satires on 
 women's faults and foibles. 'The Futurists,' a skit 
 on a woman's club in the year 1882, is highly amus- 
 ing. 'Entr' Act' is a charming trifle that brings two 
 quarreling lovers together through a ridiculous pri- 
 vate theatrical. 'The Ring' carries us gracefully back 
 to the days of Shakespeare; and 'The Shadowed Star,' 
 the best of the collection, is a Christmas Eve tragedy. 
 The Star is shadowed by our thoughtless inhumanity 
 to those w'ho serve us and our forgetfulness of the 
 needy. The Old Woman, gone daft, who babbles in 
 a kind of mongrel Kiltartan, of the Shepherds, the 
 Blessed Babe, of the Fairies, rowan berries, roses and 
 dancing, while her daughter dies on Christmas Eve, is 
 a splendid characterization." 
 
 Boston Transcript: 
 
 "Those who consigned the writer of these plays to 
 solitude and prison fare evidently knew that 'needs 
 must' is a sharp stimulus to high powers. If we find 
 humor, gay or rich, if we find brilliant wit; if we 
 find constructive ability joined with dialogue which 
 moves like an arrow ; if we find delicate and keen 
 characterization, with a touch of genius in the choice 
 of names; if we find poetic power which moves on 
 easy wing — the gentle jailers of the writer are justi- 
 fied, and the gentle reader thanks their severity." 
 
 Salt Lake Tribune: 
 
 "The Plays are ten in number, all of goodly length. 
 We prophesy great things for this gifted ilramatist." 
 
 Bookseller, News Dealer & Stationer: 
 
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 A Poetic Drama 
 By MARGARET DOUGLAS ROGERS 
 
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 "Well written and attractive." 
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 "A very beautifully written portrayal of the old 
 story of Pandora." 
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 mythological story, is a valuable addition to the dramas 
 of the day." 
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 out its stage possibilities. Told by Mrs. Rogers in 
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 Salt Lake Tribune: 
 
 "The tale is charmingly wrought and has possibil- 
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 DRAMATIC LITERATURE 
 
 Lucky Pehr 
 
 By AUGUST STRINDBERG 
 
 Authorized Translation by I'elma Sivanston Iloi^ard. 
 
 An allegorical drama in five ads. Compared favorably 
 
 to Barrie's "Peter Pan" and Maeterlinck's "The Blue 
 
 Bird.'' 
 
 /Rochester Post Express: 
 
 Strindberg lias written many pla\s which might be 
 described as realistic nightmares. But this remark does 
 not apply to "Lucky Pehr." * * * This drama is one 
 of the most favorable specimens of Strindberg's 
 genius. 
 
 New York World: 
 
 "Pehr" is lucky because, having tested all things, 
 he finds that only love and duty are true. 
 
 New York Times: 
 
 "Lucky Pehr" clothes cynicism in real entertain- 
 ment instead of in gloom. And it has its surprises. 
 Can this be August Strindberg, who ends his drama 
 so sweetly on the note of the woman-soul, leading up- 
 ward and on ? 
 
 Worcester Gazette: 
 
 From a city of Ohio comes this product of Swedish 
 fancy in most attractive attire, attesting that the pos- 
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 sons ever given. 
 
 Boston Globe: 
 
 A popular drama. * * * There is no doubt about 
 the book being a delightful companion in the library. 
 In charm of fancy and grace of imagery the story may 
 not be unfairly classed with "The Blue Bird" and 
 "Peter Pan." 
 Photogravure frontispiece of Strindheri^ etched by 
 
 Zorn. Also, a reproduction of I'elma Sivanston Iloivard's 
 
 authorization. 
 
 Handsomely bound. Gilt top Net, $1.50
 
 STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 
 
 Easter 
 
 (A Play in Three Acts) 
 AND STORIES BY AUGUST STRINDBERG 
 
 Authorized translation by Velma Scansion Iloicard. 
 In this i(:ork the author reveals a broad tolerance, a rare 
 poetic tenderness augmented by an almost di-vine under- 
 standing of human frailties as marking certain natural 
 stages in evolution of the soul. 
 Louisville Courier=Journal : 
 
 Here is a major key of cheerfulness and idealism 
 — a relief to a reader who has passed through some 
 of the author's morbid pages. * * * Some critics find 
 in this play (Easter) less of the thrust of a distinctive 
 art than is found in the author's more lugubrious 
 dramas. There is indeed less sting in it. Neverthe- 
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 all confusion to harmony. 
 The Nation: 
 
 Those who like the variety of symbolism whic'n 
 Maeterlinck has often employed — most notably in the 
 "Bluebird" — will turn with pleasure to the short stories 
 of Strindberg which Mrs. Howard has included in her 
 volume. * * * The>' are one and all div^erting on ac- 
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 Bookseller: 
 
 "Easter" is a play of six characters illustrative of 
 
 human frailties and the effect of the divine power 
 
 of tolerance and charity. * * * There is a symbolism, 
 
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 work that make a direct appeal to the cultured. * * * 
 
 T/ie Dial: 
 
 One play from his (Strindberg's) third, or sym- 
 bolistic period stands almost alone. This is "Easter." 
 There is a sweet, sane, life-giving spirit about it. 
 Photogravure frontispiece of Strindberg etched by 
 Zorn. Also, a reproduction of Velma Sivanston Hoivard's 
 authorization. 
 Handsomely bound. Gilt top Net, $1.50
 
 DRAMATIC LITERATURE 
 
 On the Seaboard 
 
 By AUGUST STRINDBERG 
 
 The Author's g^reatest psychological novel. Author- 
 ized Translation bs Elizabeth Clarke Westergren. 
 American^Scandinavian f(eview: 
 
 "The description of Swedish life and Swedish scen- 
 ery makes one positively homesick for the Skargard 
 and its moods. 
 Worcester Evening Gazette: 
 
 "Classes in Psychology in colleges, and Medical stu- 
 dents considering Pathology would derive much infor- 
 mation from the observations and reflections of the 
 commissioner who holds the front of the stage whereon 
 are presented sciences as new to the readers of to-day 
 as were those which Frederick Bremer unfolded to the 
 fathers and mothers of critics and observers in this 
 first quarter of the Twentieth Century." 
 Detroit Tribune: 
 
 "Hans Land pronounced this novel to be the only 
 work of art in the domain of Nietzschean morals yet 
 written which is destined to endure." 
 Cincinnati Times=Star: 
 
 "It reejuires a book such as 'On the Seaboard' to 
 show just how profound an intellect was housed in the 
 frame of this great Swedish writer." 
 New Haven Leader: 
 
 "His delineations are photographical exactness with- 
 out retouching, and bear always a strong reflection of 
 his personality." 
 Indianapolis News: 
 
 "The story is wonderfully built and conceived and 
 holds the interest tight." 
 American Review of Reviews: 
 
 "This version is characterized by the fortunate use 
 of idiom, a delicacy in the choice of words, and great 
 beauty in the rendering of descriptive passages, the 
 translation itself often attaining the melody of poetry 
 * * * You may read and re-read it, and every read- 
 ing will fascinate the mind from a fresh angle." 
 Soutti Atlantic Quarterly: 
 
 "Only a most unusual man, a genius, could have 
 written this book, and it is distinctly worth reading." 
 Handsomely bound, uniform luilh Lucky Pehr and 
 Easter Net, $1.2^
 
 STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 
 
 The Hamlet Problem and Its Solution 
 
 By EMERSON VENABLE 
 
 Tjie tragedy of Hamlet has never been adequately in- 
 terpreted. Tivo hundred years of eritical discussion has 
 not sufficed to reconcile conflicting impressions regarding 
 the scope of Shakespeare's design in this, the first of his 
 great philosophic tragedies. JVe belie've that all those 
 students icho arc interested in the study of Shakespeare 
 ivill find this volume of great value. 
 The Louisville Courier-=JournaI : 
 
 "Mr. Venable's Hamlet is a 'protagonist of a drama 
 of triumpiiant moral achievement.' He rises through 
 the play from an elected agent of vengeance to a 
 man gravely impressed with 'an imperative sense of 
 moral obligation, tragic in its depth, felt toward the 
 world.' " 
 E. H. Sothern: 
 
 "Your ideas of Hamlet so entirely agree with my 
 own that the book has been a real delight to me. I 
 have always had exactly this feeling about the char- 
 acter of Hamlet. I think you have wiped away a 
 great many cobwebs, and I believe your book will 
 prove to be most convincing to many people who may 
 yet be a trifle in the dark." 
 The Book News Monthly: 
 
 "Mr. Venable is the latest critic to apply himself 
 to the 'Hamlet' problem, and he offers a solution in 
 an admirably written little book which is sure to at- 
 tract readers. Undeterred by the formidable names 
 of Goethe and Coleridge, Mr. Venable pronounces un- 
 tenable the theories which those great authors pro- 
 pounded to account for the extraordinary figure of 
 the Prince of Denmark. * * * Mr. Venable looks in 
 another direction for the solution of the problem. 
 * * * The solution offered by the author is just the 
 reverse of that proposed by Goethe. * * * From Mr. 
 Venable's viewpoint the key to 'Hamlet' is found in 
 the famous soliloquies, and his book is based upon 
 a close study of those utterances which bring us with- 
 in the portals of the soul of the real Hamlet. The 
 reader with an open mind will find in Mr. Venable a 
 writer whose breadth of view and searching thought 
 gives weight to this competent study of the most inter- 
 esting of Shakespearean problems." 
 l6mo. Silk cloth Net, $l.oo
 
 DRAMATIC LITERATURE 
 
 HOW TO WRITE 
 
 Moving Picture Plays 
 
 By W. L. GORDON 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 What is a motion picture? How are moving pictures 
 produced? What is necessary to write photoplays? 
 Prices paid for plays. Kind of plays to write. Kind 
 of plays to avoid. Single reels, double reels, etc. Prepa- 
 ration of manuscript. The plot and how to obtain it. 
 Title of play. Synopsis. Cast of characters. Scenario. 
 Leaders of Sub-Titles. Letters, Clippings, etc. What 
 constitutes a scene. Continuity of scenes. Stage settings 
 and properties. Entrance and exit of characters. Cli- 
 max. Limitations of camera. Length of play. Review. 
 Time required to write a play. How and where to sell 
 plays. A complete sample play illustrating every point 
 treated upon in the instructions. A full list of over 
 twenty prominent film-producing companies wanting and 
 buying plays. 
 
 The following extracts from letters of satisfied writers, 
 addressed to the author, are very convincing and be- 
 speak the value of this exhaustive treatise: 
 
 " Have been successful in placing three plays, and am 
 awaiting news of two additional ones. Am certain I 
 would never have had that much success if I had not fol- 
 lowed your instructions." 
 
 " Your instructions entirely satisfactory. I think that 
 any one with common sense can make a very nice income 
 through moving picture play-writing. My first scenario 
 has been accepted, and I desire to thank you." 
 
 " You might be interested to know that my first scenario 
 completed according to your instructions was accepted by 
 the Essanay Film Co." 
 
 '■ Instructions well worth the money. Sold my first 
 scenario to the Edison Co." 
 
 Handsomely bound in DeLuxc Cloth Net, $3.00

 
 AA 001 295 925 o