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\^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 PUBLISHED BY STEWART & KIDD COMPANY CINCINNATI 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: "He has done his work well." "Professor Harry has translated with a virile force that is almost Shake- spearean." "The difficult task of rendering the choruses into English lyrical verse has been very cred- itably accomplished." Argonaut, San Francisco: "Professor Harry is a competent translator not only because of his classical knowledge, but also be- cause of a certain enthusiastic sympathy that shows itself in an unfailing choice of words and expression." 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