PERSONS REPRESENTED
ROBERT MACAIRE
BERTRAND
DUMONT, Landlord of the “Auberge
des Adrets”
CHARLES, a Gendarme, Dumont’s supposed
Son
GORIOT
THE MARQUIS, Charles’s Father
THE BRIGADIER of Gendarmerie
THE CURATE
THE NOTARY
A WAITER
ERNESTINE, Goriot’s Daughter
ALINE
MAIDS, PEASANTS (Male and Female),
GENDARMES
The SCENE is laid in the Courtyard
of the “Auberge des Adrets”
on the frontier of France and Savoy. The time
1820. The Action occupies an interval of from
twelve to fourteen hours; from four in the afternoon
till about five in the morning
ACT I
The Stage represents the courtyard
of the “Auberge des Adrets.” It is
surrounded by the buildings of the inn, with a gallery
on the first story, approached, C., by a straight
flight of stairs. L.C., the entrance doorway.
A little in front of this, a small grated office,
containing business table, brass-bound cabinet, and
portable cash-box. In front, R. and L., tables
and benches; one, L., partially laid for a considerable
party
SCENE I
ALINE and MAIDS; to whom, FIDDLERS;
afterwards DUMONT and CHARLES. As the curtain
rises, the sound of the violins is heard approaching.
ALINE and the inn servants, who are discovered laying
the table, dance up to door L.C., to meet the FIDDLERS,
who enter likewise dancing to their own music.
Air: “Haste to the Wedding.”
The FIDDLERS exeunt playing into house, R.U.E.
ALINE and MAIDS dance back to table, which they
proceed to arrange
ALINE. Well, give me fiddles:
fiddles and a wedding feast. It tickles your
heart till your heels make a runaway match of it.
I don’t mind extra work, I don’t, so long
as there’s fun about it. Hand me up that
pile of plates. The quinces there, before the
bride. Stick a pink in the Notary’s glass:
that’s the girl he’s courting.
DUMONT (entering; with CHARLES).
Good girls, good girls! Charles, in ten minutes
from now what happy faces will smile around that board!
CHARLES. Sir, my good fortune
is complete; and most of all in this, that my happiness
has made my father happy.
DUMONT. Your father? Ah,
well, upon that point we shall have more to say.
CHARLES. What more remains that
has not been said already? For surely, sir, there
are few sons more fortunate in their father: and,
since you approve of this marriage, may I not conceive
you to be in that sense fortunate in your son?
DUMONT. Dear boy, there is always
a variety of considerations. But the moment is
ill chosen for dispute; to-night, at least, let our
felicity be unalloyed. (Looking off L.C.) Our
guests arrive: here is our good Curate, and here
our cheerful Notary.
CHARLES. His old infirmity, I fear.
DUMONT. But, Charles dear
boy! at your wedding feast! I should
have taken it unneighbourly had he come strictly sober.
SCENE II
To these, by the door L.C., the CURATE
and the NOTARY arm in arm; the
latter owl-like and titubant
CURATE. Peace be on this house!
NOTARY (singing). “Prove an excuse
for the glass.”
DUMONT. Welcome, excellent neighbours! The
Church and the Law.
CURATE. And you, Charles, let
me hope your feelings are in solemn congruence with
this momentous step.
NOTARY (digging CHARLES in the
ribs). Married? Lovely bride? Prove
an excuse!
DUMONT (to CURATE). I
fear our friend? perhaps? as usual? eh?
CURATE. Possibly; I had not yet observed it.
DUMONT. Well, well, his heart is good.
CURATE. He doubtless meant it kindly.
NOTARY. Where’s Aline?
ALINE. Coming, sir! (NOTARY makes for her.)
CURATE (capturing him).
You will infallibly expose yourself to misconstruction.
(To CHARLES.) Where is your commanding officer?
CHARLES. Why, sir, we have quite
an alert. Information has been received from
Lyons that the notorious malefactor, Robert Macaire,
has broken prison, and the Brigadier is now scouring
the country in his pursuit. I myself am instructed
to watch the visitors to our house.
DUMONT. That will do, Charles:
you may go. (Exit CHARLES.) You have considered
the case I laid before you?
NOTARY. Considered a case?
DUMONT. Yes, yes. Charles,
you know, Charles. Can he marry? under these
untoward and peculiar circumstances, can he marry?
NOTARY. Now, lemme tell
you: marriage is a contract to which there are
two constracting parties. That being clear, I
am prepared to argue categorically that your son Charles who,
it appears, is not your son Charles I am
prepared to argue that one party to a contract being
null and void, the other party to a contract cannot
by law oblige or constrain the first party to constract
or bind himself to any contract, except the other
party be able to see his way clearly to constract
himself with him. I donno if I make myself clear?
DUMONT. No.
NOTARY. Now, lemme tell
you: by applying justice of peace might possibly
afford relief.
DUMONT. But how?
NOTARY. Ay, there’s the rub.
DUMONT. But what am I to do?
He’s not my son, I tell you: Charles is
not my son.
NOTARY. I know.
DUMONT. Perhaps a glass of wine would clear him?
NOTARY. That’s what I want. (They go
out, L.U.E.)
ALINE. And now, if you’ve
done deranging my table, to the cellar for the wine,
the whole pack of you. (Manet sola, considering
table.) There! it’s like a garden.
If I had as sweet a table for my wedding, I would
marry the Notary.
SCENE III
The Stage remains vacant. Enter,
by door L.C., MACAIRE, followed by
BERTRAND with the bundle; in the traditional
costume
MACAIRE. Good! No police!
BERTRAND (looking off L.C.). Sold again!
MACAIRE. This is a favoured spot,
Bertrand: ten minutes from the frontier:
ten minutes from escape. Blessings on that frontier
line! The criminal hops across, and lo! the reputable
man. (Reading.) “’Auberge
des Adrets,’ by John Paul Dumont.”
A table set for company; this is fate: Bertrand,
are we the first arrivals? An office; a cabinet;
a cash-box aha! and a cash-box, golden
within. A money-box is like a Quaker beauty:
demure without, but what a figure of a woman!
Outside gallery: an architectural feature I approve;
I count it a convenience both for love and war; the
troubadour twang-twang; the craftsmen (Makes
as if turning key.) The kitchen window: humming
with cookery; truffles, before Jove! I was born
for truffles. Cock your hat: meat, wine,
rest, and occupation; men to gull, women to fool, and
still the door open, the great unbolted door of the
frontier!
BERTRAND. Macaire, I’m hungry.
MACAIRE. Bertrand, excuse me,
you are a sensualist. I should have left you
in the stone-yard at Lyons, and written no passport
but my own. Your soul is incorporate with your
stomach. Am I not hungry too? My body, thanks
to immortal Jupiter, is but the boy that holds the
kite-string; my aspirations and designs swim like
the kite sky-high, and overlook an empire.
BERTRAND. If I could get a full
meal and a pound in my pocket I would hold my tongue.
MACAIRE. Dreams, dreams!
We are what we are; and what are we? Who are
you? who cares? Who am I? myself? What do
we come from? an accident. What’s a mother?
an old woman. A father? the gentleman who beats
her. What is crime? discovery. Virtue? opportunity.
Politics? a pretext. Affection? an affectation.
Morality? an affair of latitude. Punishment?
this side the frontier. Reward? the other.
Property? plunder. Business? other people’s
money not mine, by God! and the end of life
to live till we are hanged.
BERTRAND. Macaire, I came into
this place with my tail between my legs already, and
hungry besides; and then you get to flourishing, and
it depresses me worse than the chaplain in the gaol.
MACAIRE. What is a chaplain?
A man they pay to say what you don’t want to
hear.
BERTRAND. And who are you after
all? and what right have you to talk like that?
By what I can hear, you’ve been the best part
of your life in quod; and as for me, since I’ve
followed you, what sort of luck have I had? Sold
again! A boose, a blue fright, two years’
hard, and the police hot-foot after us even now.
MACAIRE. What is life? A boose and the police.
BERTRAND. Of course, I know you’re
clever; I admire you down to the ground, and I’ll
starve without you. But I can’t stand it,
and I’m off. Good-bye: good luck to
you, old man! and if you want the bundle
MACAIRE. I am a gentleman of
a mild disposition, and, I thank my Maker, elegant
manners; but rather than be betrayed by such a thing
as you are, with the courage of a hare, and the manners,
by the Lord Harry, of a jumping-jack (He
shows his knife.)
BERTRAND. Put it up, put it up: I’ll
do what you want.
MACAIRE. What is obedience? fear.
So march straight, or look for mischief. It’s
not bon ton, I know, and far from friendly.
But what is friendship? convenience. But we lose
time in this amiable dalliance. Come, now, an
effort of deportment: the head thrown back, a
jaunty carriage of the leg; crook gracefully the elbow.
Thus. ’Tis better. (Calling.) House,
house here!
BERTRAND. Are you mad? We haven’t
a brass farthing.
MACAIRE. Now! But before we leave!
SCENE IV
To these, DUMONT
DUMONT. Gentlemen, what can a
plain man do for your service?
MACAIRE. My good man, in a roadside
inn one cannot look for the impossible. Give
one what small wine and what country fare you can
produce.
DUMONT. Gentlemen, you come here
upon a most auspicious day, a red-letter day for me
and my poor house, when all are welcome. Suffer
me, with all delicacy, to inquire if you are not in
somewhat narrow circumstances?
MACAIRE. My good creature, you
are strangely in error; one is rolling in gold.
BERTRAND. And very hungry.
DUMONT. Dear me, and on this
happy occasion I had registered a vow that every poor
traveller should have his keep for nothing, and a pound
in his pocket to help him on his journey.
DUMONT. I will send you what
we have: poor fare, perhaps, for gentlemen like
you.
SCENE V
MACAIRE, BERTRAND; afterwards
CHARLES, who appears on the gallery and
comes down
BERTRAND. I told you so. Why will you fly
so high?
MACAIRE. Bertrand, don’t
crush me. A pound: a fortune! With a
pound to start upon two pounds, for I’d
have borrowed yours three months from now
I might have been driving in my barouche, with you
behind it, Bertrand, in a tasteful livery.
BERTRAND (seeing CHARLES). Lord, a policeman!
MACAIRE. Steady! What is a policeman?
Justice’s blind eye. (To
CHARLES.) I think, sir, you are in the force?
CHARLES. I am, sir, and it was in that character
MACAIRE. Ah, sir, a fine service!
CHARLES. It is, sir, and if your papers
MACAIRE. You become your uniform. Have you
a mother? Ah, well, well!
CHARLES. My duty, sir
MACAIRE. They tell me one Macaire is
not that his name, Bertrand? has broken
gaol at Lyons?
CHARLES. He has, sir, and it is precisely for
that reason
MACAIRE. Well, good-bye. (Shaking
CHARLES by the hand and leading him towards the door,
L.U.E.) Sweet spot, sweet spot. The SCENEry
is.... (kisses his finger-tips. Exit CHARLES.)
And now, what is a policeman?
BERTRAND. A bobby.
SCENE VI
MACAIRE, BERTRAND; to whom, ALINE with
tray; and afterwards MAIDS
ALINE (entering with tray and proceeding
to lay table, L.). My men, you are in better
luck than usual. It isn’t every day you
go shares in a wedding feast.
MACAIRE. A wedding? Ah, and you’re
the bride.
ALINE. What makes you fancy that?
MACAIRE. Heavens, am I blind?
ALINE. Well, then, I wish I was.
MACAIRE. I take you at the word: have me.
ALINE. You will never be hanged for modesty.
MACAIRE. Modesty is for the poor:
when one is rich and nobly born, ’tis but a
clog. I love you. What is your name?
ALINE. Guess again, and you’ll
guess wrong. (Enter the other servants with wine
baskets.) Here, set the wine down. No, that
is the old Burgundy for the wedding party. These
gentlemen must put up with a different bin. (Setting
wine before MACAIRE and BERTRAND, who are at table,
L.)
MACAIRE (drinking). Vinegar, by the supreme
Jove!
BERTRAND. Sold again!
MACAIRE. Now, Bertrand, mark
me. (Before the servants he exchanges the bottle
for the one in front of DUMONT’S place at the
head of the other table.) Was it well done?
BERTRAND. Immense.
MACAIRE (emptying his glass into
BERTRAND’S). There, Bertrand, you may
finish that. Ha! music?
SCENE VII
To these, from the inn, L.U.E., DUMONT,
CHARLES, the CURATE, the NOTARY jigging; from the
inn, R.U.E., FIDDLERS playing and dancing; and through
door, L.C., GORIOT, ERNESTINE, PEASANTS, dancing likewise.
Air: “Haste to the Wedding.”
As the parties meet, the music ceases
DUMONT. Welcome, neighbours!
welcome, friends! Ernestine, here is my Charles,
no longer mine. A thousand welcomes. O, the
gay day! O, the auspicious wedding! (CHARLES,
ERNESTINE, DUMONT, GORIOT, CURATE, and NOTARY sit
to the wedding feast; PEASANTS, FIDDLERS, and MAIDS,
grouped at back drinking from the barrel.) O,
I must have all happy around me.
GORIOT. Then help the soup.
DUMONT. Give me leave: I
must have all happy. Shall these poor gentlemen
upon a day like this drink ordinary wine? Not
so; I shall drink it. (To MACAIRE, who is just
about to fill his glass.) Don’t touch it,
sir! Aline, give me that gentleman’s bottle
and take him mine: with old Dumont’s compliments.
MACAIRE. What?
BERTRAND. Change the bottle?
MACAIRE. Bitten! \
>
Aside.
BERTRAND. Sold again! /
DUMONT. Yes, all shall be happy.
GORIOT. I tell ’ee, help the soup!
DUMONT (begins to help soup.
Then, dropping ladle). One word: a matter
of detail; Charles is not my son. (All exclaim.)
O no, he is not my son. Perhaps I should have
mentioned it before.
CHARLES. I am not your son, sir?
DUMONT. O no, far from it.
GORIOT. Then who the devil’s son be he?
DUMONT. O, I don’t know.
It’s an odd tale, a romantic tale: it may
amuse you. It was twenty years ago, when I kept
the “Golden Head” at Lyons; Charles was
left upon my doorstep in a covered basket, with sufficient
money to support the child till he should come of age.
There was no mark upon the linen, nor any clue but
one: an unsigned letter from the father of the
child, which he strictly charged me to preserve.
It was to prove his identity; he, of course, would
know the contents, and he only; so I keep it safe
in the third compartment of my cash-box, with the ten
thousand francs I’ve saved for his dowry.
Here is the key; it’s a patent key. To-day
the poor boy is twenty-one, to-morrow to be married.
I did perhaps hope the father would appear; there
was a Marquis coming; he wrote me for a room; I gave
him the best, Number Thirteen, which you have all
heard of; I did hope it might be he, for a Marquis,
you know, is always genteel. But no, you see.
As for me, I take all to witness I’m as innocent
of him as the babe unborn.
MACAIRE. Ahem! I think you said the linen
bore an M?
DUMONT. Pardon me; the markings were cut off.
MACAIRE. True. The basket white, I think?
DUMONT. Brown, brown.
MACAIRE. Ah! brown a whitey-brown.
GORIOT. I tell ’ee what,
Dumont, this is all very well; but in that case, I’ll
be danged if he gets my daater. (General consternation.)
DUMONT. O Goriot, let’s have happy faces!
GORIOT. Happy faces be danged!
I want to marry my daater; I want your son. But
who be this? I don’t know, and you don’t
know, and he don’t know. He may be anybody;
by Jarge, he may be nobody! (Exclamations.)
CURATE. The situation is crepuscular.
ERNESTINE. Father, and Mr. Dumont
(and you, too, Charles), I wish to say one word.
You gave us leave to fall in love; we fell in love;
and as for me, my father, I will either marry Charles
or die a maid.
CHARLES. And you, sir, would
you rob me in one day of both a father and a wife?
DUMONT (weeping). Happy faces, happy faces!
GORIOT. I know nothing about
robbery; but she cannot marry without my consent,
and that she cannot get.
GORIOT (exasperated).
I wun’t, and what’s more I shan’t.
NOTARY. I donno if I make myself clear.
DUMONT. Goriot, do let’s have happy faces!
GORIOT. Fudge! Fudge!! Fudge!!!
CURATE. Possibly on application
to this conscientious jurist, light may be obtained.
ALL. The Notary; yes, yes; the Notary!
DUMONT. Now, how about this marriage?
NOTARY. Marriage is a contract,
to which there are two constracting parties, John
Doe and Richard Roe. I donno if I make myself
clear?
ALINE. Poor lamb!
CURATE. Silence, my friend; you will expose yourself
to misconstruction.
MACAIRE (taking the stage).
As an entire stranger in this painful SCENE, will
you permit a gentleman and a traveller to interject
one word? There sits the young man, full, I am
sure, of pleasing qualities; here the young maiden,
by her own confession bashfully consenting to the
match; there sits that dear old gentleman, a lover
of bright faces like myself, his own now dimmed with
sorrow; and here (may I be allowed to add?) here
sits this noble Roman, a father like myself, and like
myself the slave of duty. Last you have me Baron
Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main de
la Tonnerre de Brest, the man of
the world and the man of delicacy. I find you
all permit me the expression gravelled.
A marriage and an obstacle. Now, what is marriage?
The union of two souls, and, what is possibly more
romantic, the fusion of two dowries. What is
an obstacle? the devil. And this obstacle? to
me, as a man of family, the obstacle seems grave;
but to me, as a man and a brother, what is it but
a word? O my friend (to GORIOT), you whom
I single out as the victim of the same noble failings
with myself of pride of birth, of pride of honesty O
my friend, reflect. Go now apart with your dishevelled
daughter, your tearful son-in-law, and let their plaints
constrain you. Believe me, when you come to die,
you will recall with pride this amiable weakness.
GORIOT. I shan’t, and what’s
more I wun’t. (CHARLES and ERNESTINE lead
him up stage, protesting. All rise except NOTARY.)
DUMONT (front R., shaking hands
with MACAIRE). Sir, you have a noble nature.
(MACAIRE picks his pocket.) Dear, me, dear me,
and you are rich.
MACAIRE. I own, sir, I deceived
you: I feared some wounding offer, and my pride
replied. But to be quite frank with you, you behold
me here, the Baron Henri-Frédéric de Latour de
Main de la Tonnerre de Brest,
and between my simple manhood and the infinite, these
rags are all.
DUMONT. Dear me, and with this
noble pride, my gratitude is useless. For I,
too, have delicacy. I understand you could not
stoop to take a gift.
MACAIRE. A gift? a small one? never!
DUMONT. And I will never wound you by the offer.
MACAIRE. Bitten! \
>
Aside.
BERTRAND. Sold again! /
GORIOT (taking the stage). But, look ’ee
here, he can’t marry.
GORIOT. Not without his veyther’s
consent! And he hasn’t got it; and what’s
more, he can’t get it: and what’s
more, he hasn’t got a veyther to get it from.
It’s the law of France.
ALINE. Then the law of France ought to be ashamed
of itself.
ERNESTINE. O, couldn’t we ask the Notary
again?
CURATE. Indubitably you may ask him.
NOTARY. Constracting parties.
CURATE. Possibly to-morrow at an early hour he
may be more perspicuous.
GORIOT. Ay, before he’ve time to get at
it.
NOTARY. Unoffending jurisconsult
overtaken by sorrow. Possibly by applying justice
of peace might afford relief.
GORIOT. I’ll go. I don’t mind
getting advice, but I wun’t take it.
MACAIRE. My friends, one word:
I perceive by your downcast looks that you have not
recognised the true nature of your responsibility as
citizens of time. What is care? impiety.
Joy? the whole duty of man. Here is an opportunity
of duty it were sinful to forego. With a word,
I could lighten your hearts; but I prefer to quicken
your heels, and send you forth on your ingenuous errand
with happy faces and smiling thoughts, the physicians
of your own recovery. Fiddlers, to your catgut!
Up, Bertrand, and show them how one foots it in society;
forward, girls, and choose me every one the lad she
loves; Dumont, benign old man, lead forth our blushing
Curate; and you, O bride, embrace the uniform of your
beloved, and help us dance in your wedding-day. (Dance,
in the course of which MACAIRE picks DUMONT’S
pocket of his keys, selects the key of the cash-box,
and returns the others to his pocket. In the end,
all dance out; the wedding-party, headed by FIDDLERS,
L.C.; the MAIDS and ALINE into the inn, R.U.E.
Manet, BERTRAND and MACAIRE.)
SCENE VIII
MACAIRE, BERTRAND, who instantly takes
a bottle from the
wedding-table, and sits with it, L.
MACAIRE. Bertrand, there’s
a devil of a want of a father here.
BERTRAND. Ay, if we only knew where to find him.
MACAIRE. Bertrand, look at me: I am Macaire;
I am that father.
BERTRAND. You, Macaire? you a father?
MACAIRE. Not yet, but in five
minutes. I am capable of anything. (Producing
key.) What think you of this?
BERTRAND. That? Is it a key?
MACAIRE. Ay, boy, and what besides?
my diploma of respectability, my patent of fatherhood.
I prigged it in the ardour of the dance
I prigged it; I change it beyond recognition, thus
(twists the handle of the key); and now...?
Where is my long-lost child? produce my young policeman,
show me my gallant boy.
BERTRAND. I don’t understand.
MACAIRE. Dear innocence, how
should you? Your brains are in your fists.
Go and keep watch. (He goes into the office and
returns with the cash-box.) Keep watch, I say.
BERTRAND. Where?
MACAIRE. Everywhere. (He opens box.)
BERTRAND. Gold.
MACAIRE. Hands off! Keep
watch. (BERTRAND at back of stage.) Beat slower,
my paternal heart! The third compartment! let
me see.
BERTRAND. S’st! (MACAIRE shuts box.)
No: false alarm.
MACAIRE. The third compartment. Ay, here
t
BERTRAND. S’st! (Same business.)
No: fire away.
MACAIRE. The third compartment: it must
be this.
BERTRAND. S’st. (MACAIRE
keeps box open, watching BERTRAND.) All serene:
it’s the wind.
MACAIRE. Now, see here! (He
darts his knife into the stage.) I will either
be backed as a man should be, or from this minute out
I’ll work alone. Do you understand?
I said alone.
BERTRAND. For the Lord’s sake, Macaire!
MACAIRE. Ay, here it is. (Reading
letter.) “Preserve this letter secretly;
its terms are known only to you and me; hence when
the time comes, I shall repeat them, and my son will
recognise his father.” Signed: “Your
Unknown Benefactor.” (He hums it over twice
and replaces it. Then, fingering the gold.)
Gold! The yellow enchantress, happiness ready-made
and laughing in my face! Gold: what is gold?
The world; the term of ills; the empery of all; the
multitudinous babble of the ’Change, the sailing
from all ports of freighted argosies; music, wine,
a palace; the doors of the bright theatre, the key
of consciences, and love’s love’s
whistle! All this below my itching fingers; and
to set this by, turn a deaf ear upon the siren present,
and condescend once more, naked, into the ring with
fortune Macaire, how few would do it!
But you, Macaire, you are compacted of more subtile
clay. No cheap immediate pilfering: no retail
trade of petty larceny; but swoop at the heart of
the position, and clutch all!
BERTRAND (at his shoulder). Halves!
MACAIRE. Halves? (He locks
the box.) Bertrand, I am a father. (Replaces
box in office.)
BERTRAND (looking after him). Well, I am damned!
DROP
ACT II
When the curtain rises, the night has
come. A hanging cluster of lighted lamps over
each table, R. and L. MACAIRE, R., smoking a cigarette;
BERTRAND, L., with a churchwarden: each with bottle
and glass
SCENE I
MACAIRE, BERTRAND
MACAIRE. Bertrand, I am content:
a child might play with me. Does your pipe draw
well?
BERTRAND. Like a factory chimney.
This is my notion of life: liquor, a chair, a
table to put my feet on, a fine clean pipe, and no
police.
MACAIRE. Bertrand, do you see
these changing exhalations do you see these blue rings
and spirals, weaving their dance, like a round of
fairies, on the footless air?
BERTRAND. I see ’em right enough.
MACAIRE. Man of little vision,
expound me these meteors! What do they signify,
O wooden-head? Clod, of what do they consist?
BERTRAND. Damned bad tobacco.
MACAIRE. I will give you a little
course of science. Everything, Bertrand (much
as it may surprise you), has three states: a vapour,
a liquid, a solid. These are fortune in the vapour:
these are ideas. What are ideas? the protoplasm
of wealth. To your head which, by the
way, is solid, Bertrand what are they but
foul air? To mine, to my prehensile and constructive
intellects, see, as I grasp and work them, to what
linéaments of the future they transform themselves:
a palace, a barouche, a pair of luminous footmen,
plate, wine, respect, and to be honest!
BERTRAND. But what’s the sense in honesty?
MACAIRE. The sense? You
see me: Macaire: elegant, immoral, invincible
in cunning; well, Bertrand, much as it may surprise
you, I am simply damned by my dishonesty.
BERTRAND. No!
MACAIRE. The honest man, Bertrand,
that’s God’s noblest work. He carries
the bag, my boy. Would you have me define honesty?
the strategic point for theft. Bertrand, if I’d
three hundred a year, I’d be honest to-morrow.
BERTRAND. Ah! don’t you wish you may get
it!
MACAIRE. Bertrand, I will bet
you my head against your own the longest
odds I can imagine that with honesty for
my spring-board, I leap through history like a paper
hoop, and come out among posterity heroic and immortal.
SCENE II
To these, all the former characters,
less the NOTARY. The fiddles are
heard without playing dolefully. Air:
“O dear, what can the matter
be?” in time to which the procession enters
MACAIRE. Well, friends, what cheer?
CURATE. The facts have justified
the worst anticipations of our absent friend, the
Notary.
MACAIRE. I perceive I must reveal myself.
DUMONT. God bless me, no!
MACAIRE. My friends, I had meant
to preserve a strict incognito, for I was ashamed
(I own it!) of this poor accoutrement; but when I see
a face that I can render happy, say, my old Dumont,
should I hesitate to work the change? Hear me,
then, and you (to the others) prepare a smiling
countenance. (Repeating.) “Preserve this
letter secretly; its terms are known only to you and
me: hence when the time comes, I shall repeat
them, and my son will recognise his father. Your
Unknown Benefactor.”
DUMONT. The words! the letter! Charles,
alas! it is your father!
CHARLES. Good Lord! (General consternation.)
BERTRAND (aside; smiting his brow). I
see it now; sublime!
CURATE. A highly singular eventuality.
GORIOT. Him? O well, then, I wun’t.
(Goes up.)
MACAIRE. Charles, to my arms!
(Business.) Ernestine, your second father waits
to welcome you. (Business.) Goriot, noble old
man, I grasp your hand. (He doesn’t.)
And you, Dumont, how shall your unknown benefactor
thank you for your kindness to his boy? (A dead
pause.) Charles, to my arms!
CHARLES. My father, you are still
something of a stranger. I hope er in
the course of time I hope that may be somewhat
mended. But I confess that I have so long regarded
Mr. Dumont
MACAIRE. Love him still, dear
boy, love him still. I have not returned to be
a burden on your heart, nor much, comparatively, on
your pocket. A place by the fire, dear boy, a
crust for my friend, Bertrand. (A dead pause.)
Ah, well, this is a different home-coming from that
I fancied when I left the letter: I dreamed to
grow rich. Charles, you remind me of your sainted
mother.
CHARLES. I trust, sir, you do
not think yourself less welcome for your poverty.
MACAIRE. Nay, nay more
welcome, more welcome. O, I know your (business)
backs! Besides, my poverty is noble. Political....
Dumont, what are your politics?
DUMONT. A plain old republican, my lord.
MACAIRE. And yours, my good Goriot?
GORIOT. I be a royalist, I be, and so be my daater.
MACAIRE. How strange is the coincidence!
The party that I sought to found combined the peculiarities
of both; a patriotic enterprise in which I fell.
This humble fellow ... have I introduced him?
You behold in us the embodiment of aristocracy and
democracy. Bertrand, shake hands with my family.
(BERTRAND is rebuffed by one and the other in dead
silence.)
BERTRAND. Sold again!
MACAIRE. Charles, to my arms! (Business.)
ERNESTINE. Well, but now that
he has a father of some kind, cannot the marriage
go on?
MACAIRE. Angel, this very night:
I burn to take my grandchild on my knees.
GORIOT. Be you that young man’s veyther?
MACAIRE. Ay, and what a father!
GORIOT. Then all I’ve got to say is, I
shan’t and I wun’t.
MACAIRE. Ah, friends, friends,
what a satisfaction it is, what a sight is virtue!
I came among you in this poor attire to test you; how
nobly have you borne the test! But my disguise
begins to irk me: who will lend me a good suit?
(Business.)
SCENE III
To these, the MARQUIS, L.C.
MARQUIS. Is this the house of
John Paul Dumont, once of Lyons?
DUMONT. It is, sir, and I am he, at your disposal.
MARQUIS. I am the Marquis Villers-Cotterets
de la Cherté de Médoc. (Sensation.)
MARCAIRE. Marquis, delighted, I am sure.
MARQUIS (to DUMONT). I
come, as you perceive, unfollowed; my errand, therefore,
is discreet. I come (producing notes from breast-pocket)
equipped with thirty thousand francs; my errand, therefore,
must be generous. Can you not guess?
DUMONT. Not I, my lord.
MARQUIS (repeating). “Preserve this
letter,” etc.
MARCAIRE. Bitten!
BERTRAND. Sold again! (Aside.) (A pause.)
ALINE. Well, I never did!
DUMONT. Two fathers!
MARQUIS. Two? Impossible.
DUMONT. Not at all. This is the other.
MARQUIS. This man?
MARCAIRE. This is the man, my
lord; here stands the father. Charles, to my
arms! (CHARLES backs.)
DUMONT. He knew the letter.
MARQUIS. Well, so did I.
CURATE. The judgment of Solomon.
GORIOT. What did I tell ’ee? he can’t
marry.
ERNESTINE. Couldn’t they both consent?
MARQUIS. But he’s my living image.
MARCAIRE. Mine, Marquis, mine.
MARQUIS. My figure, I think?
MARCAIRE. Ah, Charles, Charles!
CURATE. We used to think his physiognomy resembled
Dumont’s.
DUMONT. Come to look at him, he’s really
like Goriot.
ERNESTINE. O papa, I hope he’s not my brother.
GORIOT. What be talking of? I tell ’ee,
he’s like our Curate.
CHARLES. Gentlemen, my head aches.
MARQUIS. I have it: the involuntary voice
of nature, at me, my son.
MACAIRE. Nay, Charles, but look at me.
CHARLES. Gentlemen, I am unconscious
of the smallest natural inclination for either.
MARQUIS. Another thought: what was his mother’s
name?
MACAIRE. What was the name of his mother by you?
MARQUIS. Sir, you are silenced.
MACAIRE. Silenced by honour.
I had rather lose my boy than compromise his sainted
mother.
MARQUIS. A thought; twins might explain it:
had you not two foundlings?
DUMONT. Nay, sir, one only; and,
judging by the miseries of this evening, I should
say, thank God!
MACAIRE. My friends, leave me
alone with the Marquis. It is only a father that
can understand a father’s heart. Bertrand,
follow the members of my family. (They troop out,
L.U.E. and R.U.E., the fiddlers playing. Air:
“O dear, what can the matter be?")
SCENE IV
MACAIRE, MARQUIS
MARQUIS. Well, sir?
MACAIRE. My lord, I feel for you. (Business.
They sit, R.)
MARQUIS. And now, sir?
MACAIRE. The bond that joins us is remarkable
and touching.
MARQUIS. Well, sir?
MACAIRE (touching him on the breast).
You have there thirty thousand francs.
MARQUIS. Well, sir?
MACAIRE. I was but thinking of
the inequalities of life, my lord: that I, who,
for all you know, may be the father of your son, should
have nothing; and that you, who, for all I know, may
be the father of mine, should be literally bulging
with bank notes.... Where do you keep them at
night?
MARQUIS. Under my pillow. I think it rather
ingenious.
MACAIRE. Admirably so. I applaud the device.
MARQUIS. Well, sir?
MACAIRE. Do you snuff, my lord?
MARQUIS. No, sir, I do not.
MACAIRE. My lord, I am a poor man.
MARQUIS. Well, sir? and what of that?
MACAIRE. The affections, my lord,
are priceless. Money will not buy them; or, at
least, it takes a great deal.
MARQUIS. Sir, your sentiments do you honour.
MACAIRE. My lord, you are rich.
MARQUIS. Well, sir?
MACAIRE. Now follow me, I beseech
you. Here am I, my lord; and there, if I may
so express myself, are you. Each has a father’s
heart, and there we are equal; each claims yon interesting
lad, and there again we are on a par. But, my
lord and here we come to the inequality,
and what I consider the unfairness of the thing you
have thirty thousand francs, and I, my lord, have
not a rap. You mark me! not a rap, my lord!
My lord, put yourself in my position; consider what
must be my feelings, my desires; and hey?
MARQUIS. I fail to grasp....
MACAIRE (with irritation).
My dear man, there is the door of the house; here
am I; there (touching MARQUIS on the breast)
are thirty thousand francs. Well, now?
MARQUIS. I give you my word of
honour, sir, I gather nothing; my mind is quite unused
to such prolonged exertion. If the boy be yours,
he is not mine; if he be mine, he is not yours; and
if he is neither of ours, or both of ours ... in short,
my mind....
MACAIRE. My lord, will you lay
those thirty thousand francs upon the table?
MARQUIS. I fail to grasp ...
but if it will in any way oblige you.... (Does
so.)
MARCAIRE. Now, my lord, follow
me: I take them up; you see? I put them
in my pocket; you follow me? This is my hat; here
is my stick; and here is my my friend’s
bundle.
MARQUIS. But that is my cloak.
MARCAIRE. Precisely. Now,
my lord, one more effort of your lordship’s
mind. If I were to go out of that door, with the
full intention follow me close the
full intention of never being heard of more, what would
you do?
MARQUIS. I! send for the police.
MARCAIRE. Take your money! (Dashing
down the notes.) Man, if I met you in a lane!
(He drops his head upon the table.)
MARQUIS. The poor soul is insane.
The other man, whom I suppose to be his keeper, is
very much to blame.
MARCAIRE (raising his head).
I have a light! (To MARQUIS.) With invincible
oafishness, my lord, I cannot struggle. I pass
you by; I leave you gaping by the wayside; I blush
to have a share in the progeny of such an owl.
Off, off, and send the tapster!
MARQUIS. Poor fellow! (Exit.)
SCENE V
MARCAIRE, to whom BERTRAND. Afterwards
DUMONT
BERTRAND. Well?
MARCAIRE. Bitten!
BERTRAND. Sold again!
MARCAIRE. Had he the wit of a
lucifer-match! But what can gods or men
against stupidity? Still, I have a trick.
Where is that damned old man?
DUMONT (entering). I hear you want me.
MARCAIRE. Ah, my good old Dumont, this is very
sad.
DUMONT. Dear me, what is wrong?
MARCAIRE. Dumont, you had a dowry for my son?
DUMONT. I had; I have: ten thousand francs.
MARCAIRE. It’s a poor thing,
but it must do. Dumont, I bury my old hopes,
my old paternal tenderness.
DUMONT. What? is he not your son?
MARCAIRE. Pardon me, my friend.
The Marquis claims my boy. I will not seek to
deny that he attempted to corrupt me, or that I spurned
his gold. It was thirty thousand.
DUMONT. Noble soul!
MARCAIRE. One has a heart....
He spoke, Dumont, that proud noble spoke, of the advantages
to our beloved Charles; and in my father’s heart
a voice arose, louder than thunder. Dumont, was
I unselfish? The voice said no; the voice, Dumont,
up and told me to begone.
DUMONT. To begone? to go?
MARCAIRE. To begone, Dumont,
and to go. Both, Dumont. To leave my son
to marry, and be rich and happy as the son of another;
to creep forth myself, old, penniless, broken-hearted,
exposed to the inclemencies of heaven and the rebuffs
of the police.
DUMONT. This is what I had looked for at your
hands. Noble, noble man!
MARCAIRE. One has a heart ...
and yet, Dumont, it can hardly have escaped your penetration
that if I were to shift from this hostelry without
a farthing and leave my offspring to wallow literally among
millions, I should play the part of little better than
an ass.
DUMONT. But I had thought ... I had fancied....
MARCAIRE. No, Dumont, you had
not; do not seek to impose upon my simplicity.
What you did think was this, Dumont: for the sake
of this noble father, for the sake of this son whom
he denies for his own interest I mean,
for his interest no, I mean, for his own well,
anyway, in order to keep up the general atmosphere
of sacrifice and nobility, I must hand over this dowry
to the Baron Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main
de la Tonnerre de Brest.
DUMONT. Noble, O noble! \
>
Together: eachshaking him by
BERTRAND. Beautiful, O beautiful! / the hand.
DUMONT. Now Charles is rich he
needs it not. For whom could it more fittingly
be set aside than for his noble father? I will
give it you at once.
BERTRAND. At once, at once!
MACAIRE (aside to BERTRAND).
Hang on. (Aloud.) Charles, Charles, my lost
boy! (He falls weeping at L. table. DUMONT
enters the office and brings down cash-box to table
R. He feels in all his pockets: BERTRAND from
behind him making signs to MACAIRE, which the latter
does not see.)
DUMONT. That’s strange. I can’t
find the key. It’s a patent key.
BERTRAND (behind DUMONT, making
signs to MACAIRE). The key, he can’t
find the key.
MACAIRE. O, yes, I remember.
I heard it drop. (Drops key.) And here it is
before my eyes.
DUMONT. That? That’s yours. I
saw it drop.
MACAIRE. I give you my word of honour I heard
it fall five minutes back.
DUMONT. But I saw it.
MACAIRE. Impossible. It must be yours.
DUMONT. It is like mine, indeed. How came
it in your pocket?
MACAIRE. Bitten! (Aside.)
BERTRAND. Sold again! (Aside)
... You forget, Baron, it’s the key of
my valise; I gave it you to keep in consequence of
the hole in my pocket.
MACAIRE. True, true; and that explains.
DUMONT. O, that explains.
Now, all we have to do is to find mine. It’s
a patent key. You heard it drop.
MACAIRE. Distinctly.
BERTRAND. So I did: distinctly.
DUMONT. Here, Aline, Babette,
Goriot, Curate, Charles, everybody, come here and
look for my key!
SCENE VI
To these, with candles, all the former
characters, except FIDDLERS,
PEASANTS, and NOTARY. They hunt for
the key
DUMONT. It’s bound to be here. We
all heard it drop.
MARQUIS (with BERTRAND’S bundle).
Is this it?
ALL (with fury). No.
BERTRAND. Hands off, that’s my luggage.
(Hunt resumed.)
DUMONT. I heard it drop, as plain as ever I heard
anything.
MARQUIS. By the way (all start up), what
are we looking for?
ALL (with fury). O!!
DUMONT. Will you have the kindness to find my
key? (Hunt resumed.)
CURATE. What description of a key
DUMONT. A patent, patent, patent, patent key!
MACAIRE. I have it. Here it is!
ALL (with relief). Ah!!
DUMONT. That? What do you mean? That’s
yours.
MACAIRE. Pardon me.
DUMONT. It is.
MACAIRE. It isn’t.
DUMONT. I tell you it is: look at that twisted
handle.
MACAIRE. It can’t be mine, and so it must
be yours.
DUMONT. It is NOT. Feel
in your pockets. (To the others.) Will you
have the kindness to find my patent key?
ALL. O!! (Hunt resumed.)
MACAIRE. Ah, well, you’re right. (He
slips key into DUMONT’S pocket.)
An idea: suppose you felt in your pocket?
ALL (rising). Yes! Suppose you did!
DUMONT. I will not feel in my
pockets. How could it be there? It’s
a patent key. This is more than any man can bear.
First, Charles is one man’s son, and then he’s
another’s, and then he’s nobody’s,
and be damned to him! And then there’s
my key lost; and then there’s your key!
What is your key? Where is your key? Where
isn’t it? And why is it like mine, only
mine’s a patent? The long and short of it
is this: that I’m going to bed, and that
you’re all going to bed, and that I refuse to
hear another word upon the subject or upon any subject.
There!
MACAIRE. Bitten! \
>
Aside.
BERTRAND. Sold again! /
(ALINE and MAIDS extinguish hanging
lamps over tables, R. and L. Stage lighted only by
guests’ candles.)
CHARLES. But, sir, I cannot decently
retire to rest till I embrace my honoured parent.
Which is it to be?
MACAIRE. Charles, to my
DUMONT. Embrace neither of them;
embrace nobody; there has been too much of this sickening
folly. To bed!!! (Exit violently R.U.E.
All the characters troop slowly upstairs, talking
in dumb show. BERTRAND and MACAIRE remain in
front C., watching them go.)
BERTRAND. Sold again, captain?
MACAIRE. Ay, they will have it.
BERTRAND. It? What?
MACAIRE. The worst, Bertrand.
What is man? a beast of prey. An hour
ago, and I’d have taken a crust and gone in peace.
But no: they would trick and juggle, curse them:
they would wriggle and cheat! Well, I accept
the challenge: war to the knife.
BERTRAND. Murder?
MACAIRE. What is murder?
A legal term for a man dying. Call it Fate, and
that’s philosophy; call me Providence, and you
talk religion. Die? Why, that is what man
is made for; we are full of mortal parts; we are all
as good as dead already, we hang so close upon the
brink: touch a button, and the strongest falls
in dissolution. Now, see how easy: I take
you (grappling him).
BERTRAND. Macaire O no!
MACAIRE. Fool! Would I harm
a fly, when I had nothing to gain? As the butcher
with the sheep, I kill to live; and where is the difference
between man and mutton? pride and a tailor’s
bill. Murder? I know who made that name a
man crouching from the knife! Selfishness made
it the aggregated egotism called society;
but I meet that with a selfishness as great.
Has he money? Have I none great powers,
none? Well, then, I fatten and manure my life
with his.
BERTRAND. You frighten me. Who is it?
MACAIRE. Mark well. (The MARQUIS
opens the door of Number Thirteen, and the rest, clustering
round, bid him good-night. As they begin to disperse
along the gallery he enters and shuts the door.)
Out, out, brief candle! That man is doomed.
DROP
ACT III
As the curtain rises, the Stage is
dark and empty. Enter MACAIRE,
L.U.E., with lantern. He looks about
SCENE I
MACAIRE, BERTRAND
MACAIRE (calling off). S’st!
BERTRAND (entering L.U.E.). It’s
creeping dark.
MACAIRE. Blinding dark; and a good job.
BERTRAND. Macaire, I’m cold; my very hair’s
cold.
MACAIRE. Work, work will warm you: to your
keys.
BERTRAND. No, Macaire, it’s
a horror. You’ll not kill him; let’s
have no bloodshed.
MACAIRE. None: it spoils
your clothes. Now, see: you have keys and
you have experience: up that stair and pick me
the lock of that man’s door. Pick me the
lock of that man’s door.
BERTRAND. May I take the light?
MACAIRE. You may not. Go.
(BERTRAND mounts the stairs and is seen picking
the lock of Number Thirteen.) The earth spins eastward,
and the day is at the door. Yet half an hour
of covert, and the sun will be afoot, the discoverer,
the great policeman. Yet half an hour of night,
the good, hiding, practicable night; and lo! at a touch
the gas-jet of the universe turned on; and up with
the sun gets the providence of honest people, puts
off his nightcap, throws up his window, stares out
of house and the rogue must skulk again
till dusk. Yet half an hour and, Macaire, you
shall be safe and rich. If yon fool my
fool would but miscarry, if the dolt within
would hear and leap upon him, I could intervene, kill
both, by heaven both! cry murder
with the best, and at one stroke reap honour and gold.
For, Bertrand dead
BERTRAND (from above). S’st, Macaire.
MACAIRE. Is it done, dear boy?
Come down. (BERTRAND descends.) Sit down beside
this light: this is your ring of safety, budge
not beyond the night is crowded with hobgoblins.
See ghosts and tremble like a jelly if you must; but
remember men are my concern; and at the creak of a
man’s foot, hist! (Sharpening his knife upon
his sleeve.) What is a knife? A plain man’s
sword.
BERTRAND. Not the knife, Macaire; O, not the
knife.
MACAIRE. My name is Self-Defence. (He goes
upstairs and enters Number
Thirteen.)
BERTRAND. He’s in.
I hear a board creak. What a night, what a night!
Will he hear him? O Lord, my poor Macaire!
I hear nothing, nothing. The night’s as
empty as a dream: he must hear him; he cannot
help but hear him; and then O Macaire,
Macaire, come back to me. It’s death, and
it’s death, and it’s death. Red,
red: a corpse. Macaire to kill, Macaire to
die? I’d rather starve, I’d rather
perish, than either: I’m not fit, I’m
not fit for either! Why, how’s this?
I want to cry. (A stroke, and a groan from above.)
God Almighty, one of them’s gone! (He falls
with his head on table, R. MACAIRE appears at the
top of the stairs, descends, comes airily forward
and touches him on the shoulder. BERTRAND, with
a cry, turns, and falls upon his neck.) O, O, and
I thought I had lost him. (Day breaking.)
MACAIRE. The contrary, dear boy. (He produces
notes.)
BERTRAND. What was it like?
MACAIRE. Like? Nothing. A little blood,
a dead man.
BERTRAND. Blood!... Dead!
(He falls at table sobbing. MACAIRE divides
the notes into two parts; on the smaller he wipes the
bloody knife, and folding the stains inward, thrusts
the notes into BERTRAND’S face.)
MACAIRE. What is life without the pleasures of
the table?
BERTRAND (taking and pocketing notes).
Macaire, I can’t get over it.
MACAIRE. My mark is the frontier,
and at top speed. Don’t hang your jaw at
me. Up, up, at the double; pick me that cash-box;
and let’s get the damned house fairly cleared.
BERTRAND. I can’t. Did he bleed much?
MACAIRE. Bleed? Must I bleed you? To
work, or I’m dangerous.
BERTRAND. It’s all right, Macaire; I’m
going.
MACAIRE. Better so: an old
friend is nearly sacred. (Full daylight: lights
up. MACAIRE blows out lantern.)
BERTRAND. Where’s the key?
MACAIRE. Key? I tell you to pick it.
BERTRAND (with the box).
But it’s a patent lock. Where is the key?
You had it.
MACAIRE. Will you pick that lock?
BERTRAND. I can’t; it’s a patent.
Where’s the key?
MACAIRE. If you will have it, I put it back in
that old ass’s pocket.
BERTRAND. Bitten, I think. (MACAIRE dancing
mad.)
SCENE II
To these, DUMONT
DUMONT. Ah, friends, up so early? Catching
the worm, catching the worm?
MACAIRE. Good morning, good morning! \
>
Both sitting on the table and
BERTRAND. Early birds, early birds. / dissembling
box.
DUMONT. By the way, very remarkable thing:
I found that key.
MACAIRE. No!
BERTRAND. O!
DUMONT. Perhaps a still more
remarkable thing: it was my key that had the
twisted handle.
MACAIRE. I told you so.
DUMONT. Now, what we have to
do is to get the cash-box. Hallo! what’s
that you’re sitting on?
BERTRAND. Nothing.
MACAIRE. The table! I beg your pardon.
DUMONT. Why, it’s my cash-box!
MACIARE. Why, so it is!
DUMONT. It’s very singular.
MACAIRE. Diabolishly singular.
BERTRAND. Early worms, early worms!
DUMONT (blowing in key).
Well, I suppose you are still willing to begone?
MACAIRE. More than willing, my
dear soul: pressed, I may say, for time; for
though it had quite escaped my memory, I have an appointment
in Turin with a lady of title.
DUMONT (at box). It’s
very odd. (Blows in key.) It’s a singular
thing (blowing), key won’t turn.
It’s a patent. Someone must have tampered
with the lock (blowing). It’s strangely
singular, it’s singularly singular! I’ve
shown this key to commercial gentlemen all the way
from Paris: they never saw a better key! (more
business). Well, (giving it up and looking
reproachfully on key,) that’s pretty singular.
MACAIRE. Let me try. (He tries, and flings
down the key with a curse.)
Bitten!
BERTRAND. Sold again!
DUMONT (picking up key). It’s a
patent key.
Macaire (to BERTRAND).
The game’s up: we must save the swag. (To
DUMONT.) Sir, since your key, on which I invoke
the blight of Egypt, has once more defaulted, my feelings
are unequal to a repetition of yesterday’s distress,
and I shall simply pad the hoof. From Turin you
shall receive the address of my banker, and may prosperity
attend your ventures. (To BERTRAND.) Now, boy!
(To DUMONT.) Embrace my fatherless child! farewell!
(MACAIRE and BERTRAND turn to go off, and are met
in the door by the GENDARMES.)
SCENE III
To these, the BRIGADIER and GENDARMES
BRIGADIER. Let no man leave the house.
MACAIRE. Bitten! \
>
Aside.
BERTRAND. Sold again! /
DUMONT. Welcome, old friend!
BRIGADIER. It is not the friend
that comes; it is the Brigadier. Summon your
guests; I must investigate their passports. I
am in pursuit of a notorious malefactor, Robert Macaire.
DUMONT. But I was led to believe
that both Macaire and his accomplice had been arrested
and condemned.
BRIGADIER. They were, but they
have once more escaped for the moment, and justice
is indefatigable. (He sits at table, R.) Dumont,
a bottle of white wine.
MACAIRE (to DUMONT). My
excellent friend, I will discharge your commission,
and return with all speed. (Going.)
BRIGADIER. Halt!
MACAIRE (returning: as if
he saw BRIGADIER for the first time). Ha!
a member of the force? Charmed, I’m sure.
But you misconceive me: I return, at once, and
my friend remains behind to answer for me.
BRIGADIER. Justice is insensible
to friendship. I shall deal with you in due time.
Dumont, that bottle.
MACAIRE. Sir, my friend and I,
who are students of character, would grasp the opportunity
to share and may one add? to
pay the bottle. Dumont, three!
BERTRAND. For God’s sake! (Enter ALINE
and MAIDS.)
MACAIRE. My friend is an author:
so, in a humbler way, am I. Your knowledge of the
criminal classes naturally tempts one to pursue so
interesting an acquaintance.
BRIGADIER. Justice is impartial. Gentlemen,
your health.
MACAIRE. Will not these brave fellows join us?
BRIGADIER. They are on duty; but what matters?
MACAIRE. My dear sir, what is duty? duty is my
eye.
BRIGADIER (solemnly). And Betty Martin.
(GENDARMES sit at table.)
MACAIRE (to BERTRAND). Dear friend, sit
down.
BERTRAND (sitting down). O Lord!
BRIGADIER (to MACAIRE).
You seem to be a gentleman of considerable intelligence.
MACAIRE. I fear, sir, you flatter.
One has lived, one has loved, and one remembers:
that is all. One’s “Lives of Celebrated
Criminals” has met with a certain success, and
one is ever in quest of fresh material.
DUMONT. By the way, a singular thing about my
patent key.
BRIGADIER. This gentleman is speaking.
MACAIRE. Excellent Dumont! he
means no harm. This Macaire is not personally
known to you?
BRIGADIER. Are you connected with justice?
MACAIRE. Ah, sir, justice is a point above a
poor author.
BRIGADIER (with glass). Justice is the
very devil.
MACAIRE. My dear sir, my friend
and I, I regret to say, have an appointment in Lyons,
or I could spend my life in this society. Charge
your glasses: one hour to madness and to joy!
What is to-morrow? the enemy of to-day. Wine?
the bath of life. One moment: I find I have
forgotten my watch. (He makes for the door.)
BRIGADIER. Halt!
MACAIRE. Sir, what is this jest?
BRIGADIER. Sentry at the door. Your passports.
MACAIRE. My good man, with all the pleasure in
life. (Gives papers. The
BRIGADIER puts on spectacles and examines them.)
BERTRAND (rising and passing round
to MACAIRE’S other side). It’s
life and death: they must soon find it.
MACAIRE (aside). Don’t I know?
My heart’s like fire in my body.
BRIGADIER. Your name is?
MACAIRE. It is; one’s name is not unknown.
BRIGADIER. Justice exacts your name.
MACAIRE. Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main
de la Tonnerre de Brest.
BRIGADIER. Your profession?
MACAIRE. Gentleman.
BRIGADIER. No, but what is your trade?
MACAIRE. I am an analytical chemist.
BRIGADIER. Justice is inscrutable. Your
papers are in order. (To
BERTRAND.) Now, sir, and yours?
BERTRAND. I feel kind of ill.
MACAIRE. Bertrand, this gentleman
addresses you. He is not one of us; in other
SCENEs, in the gay and giddy world of fashion, one
is his superior. But to-day he represents the
majesty of law; and as a citizen it is one’s
pride to do him honour.
BRIGADIER. Those are my sentiments.
BERTRAND. I beg your pardon, I (Gives
papers.)
BRIGADIER. Your name?
BERTRAND. Napoleon.
BRIGADIER. What? In your passport it is
written Bertrand.
BERTRAND. It’s this way:
I was born Bertrand, and then I took the name of Napoleon,
and I mostly always call myself either Napoleon or
Bertrand.
BRIGADIER. The truth is always best. Your
profession?
BERTRAND. I am an orphan.
BRIGADIER. What the devil! (To MACAIRE.)
Is your friend an idiot?
MACAIRE. Pardon me, he is a poet.
BRIGADIER. Poetry is a great
hindrance to the ends of justice. Well, take
your papers.
MACAIRE. Then we may go?
SCENE IV
To these, CHARLES, who is seen on the
gallery going to the door of
Number Thirteen. Afterwards all the
characters but the NOTARY and the
MARQUIS.
BRIGADIER. One glass more. (BERTRAND touches
MACAIRE, and points to
CHARLES, who enters Number Thirteen.)
MACAIRE. No more, no more, no more.
BRIGADIER (rising and taking MACAIRE by the arm).
I stipulate.
MACAIRE. Engagement in Turin!
BRIGADIER. Turin?
MACAIRE. Lyons, Lyons!
BERTRAND. For God’s sake ...
BRIGADIER. Well, good-bye!
MACAIRE. Good-bye, good
CHARLES (from within). Murder! Help!
(Appearing.) Help here! The
Marquis is murdered.
BRIGADIER. Stand to the door.
A man up there. (A GENDARME hurries up staircase
into Number Thirteen, CHARLES following him. Enter
on both sides of gallery the remaining characters
of the piece, except the NOTARY and the MARQUIS.)
MACAIRE. Bitten, by God! \
>
Aside.
BERTRAND. Lost! /
BRIGADIER (to DUMONT). John Paul Dumont,
I arrest you.
DUMONT. Do your duty, officer.
I can answer for myself and my own people.
BRIGADIER. Yes, but these strangers?
DUMONT. They are strangers to me.
MACAIRE. I am an honest man:
I stand upon my rights: search me; or search
this person, of whom I know too little. (Smiting
his brow.) By heaven, I see it all! This
morning (To BERTRAND.) How,
sir, did you dare to flaunt your booty in my very
face? (To BRIGADIER.) He showed me notes; he
was up ere day; search him, and you’ll find.
There stands the murderer.
BERTRAND. O, Macaire! (He
is seized and searched and the notes are found.)
BRIGADIER. There is blood upon
the notes. Handcuffs. (MACAIRE edging towards
the door.)
BERTRAND. Macaire, you may as
well take the bundle. (MACAIRE is stopped by sentry,
and comes front, R.)
CHARLES (re-appearing).
Stop, I know the truth. (He comes down.) Brigadier,
my father is not dead. He is not even dangerously
hurt. He has spoken. There is the would-be
assassin.
MACAIRE. Hell! (He darts across
to the staircase, and turns on the second step, flashing
out the knife.) Back, hounds! (He springs up
the stair, and confronts them from the top.) Fools,
I am Robert Macaire! (As MACAIRE turns to flee,
he is met by the Gendarme coming out of Number Thirteen;
he stands an instant checked, is shot from the stage,
and falls headlong backward down the stair. BERTRAND,
with a cry, breaks from the Gendarmes, kneels at his
side, and raises his head.)
BERTRAND. Macaire, Macaire, forgive
me. I didn’t blab; you know I didn’t
blab.
MACAIRE. Sold again, old boy.
Sold for the last time; at least, the last time this
side death. Death what is death?
(He dies.)
CURTAIN