plays [81]
MARQUIS. Well, sir?
MACAIRE. Do you snuff, my lord?
MARQUIS. No, sir, I do not.
MACAIRE. My lord, I am a poor man.
MARQUIS. Well, sir? and what of that?
MACAIRE. The affections, my lord, are priceless. Money will not
buy them; or, at least, it takes a great deal.
MARQUIS. Sir, your sentiments do you honour.
MACAIRE. My lord, you are rich.
MARQUIS. Well, sir?
MACAIRE. Now follow me, I beseech you. Here am I, my lord; and
there, if I may so express myself, are you. Each has the
father's heart, and there we are equal; each claims yon
interesting lad, and there again we are on a par. But, my lord -
and here we come to the inequality, and what I consider the
unfairness of the thing - you have thirty thousand francs, and I,
my lord, have not a rap. You mark me? not a rap, my lord! My
lord, put yourself in my position: consider what must be my
feelings, my desires; and - hey?
MARQUIS. I fail to grasp . . . .
MACAIRE (WITH IRRITATION). My dear man, there is the door of the
house; here am I; there (TOUCHING, MARQUIS ON THE BREAST) are
thirty thousand francs. Well, now?
MARQUIS. I give you my word of honour, sir, I gather nothing; my
mind is quite unused to such prolonged exertion. If the boy be
yours, he is not mine; if he be mine, he is not yours; and if he
is neither of ours, or both of ours . . . in short, my mind . .
. .
MACAIRE. My lord, will you lay those thirty thousand francs upon
the table?
MARQUIS. I fail to grasp . . . but if it will in any way
oblige you . . . . (DOES SO.)
MACAIRE. Now, my lord, follow me: I take them up; you see? I
put them in my pocket; you follow me? This is my hat; here is my
stick; and here is my - my friend's bundle.
MARQUIS. But that is my cloak.
MACAIRE. Precisely. Now, my lord, one more effort of your
lordship's mind. If I were to go out of that door, with the full
intention - follow me close - the full intention of never being
heard of more, what would you do?
MARQUIS. I! - send for the police.
MACAIRE. Take your money! (DASHING DOWN THE NOTES.) Man, if I
met you in a lane! (HE DROPS HIS HEAD UPON THE TABLE.)
MARQUIS. The poor soul is insane. The other man, whom I suppose
to be his keeper, is very much to blame.
MACAIRE (RAISING HIS HEAD). I have a light! (TO MARQUIS.) With
invincible oafishness, my lord, I cannot struggle. I pass you
by; I leave you gaping by the wayside; I blush to have a share
in the progeny of such an owl. Off, off, and send the tapster!
MARQUIS. Poor fellow!
SCENE V
MACAIRE, TO WHOM BERTRAND. AFTERWARDS DUMONT
BERTRAND. Well?
MACAIRE. Bitten.
BERTRAND. Sold again.
MACAIRE. Had he the wit of a lucifer match! But what can gods
or men against stupidity? Still, I have a trick. Where is that
damned old man?
DUMONT (ENTERING). I hear you want me.
MACAIRE. Ah, my good old Dumont, this is very sad.
DUMONT. Dear me, what is wrong?
MACAIRE. Dumont, you had a dowry for my son?
DUMONT. I had; I have: ten thousand francs.
MACAIRE. It's a poor thing, but it must do. Dumont, I bury my
old hopes, my old paternal tenderness.
DUMONT. What? is he not your son?
MACAIRE. Pardon me, my friend. The Marquis claims my boy. I
will not seek to deny that he attempted to corrupt me, or that I
spurned his gold. It was thirty thousand.
DUMONT. Noble soul!
MACAIRE. One has a heart . . . He spoke, Dumont, that proud
noble spoke, of the advantages to our beloved Charles; and in my
father's heart a voice arose, louder than thunder. Dumont, was I
unselfish? The voice said no; the voice, Dumont, up and told me
to begone.
DUMONT. To begone? to go?
MACAIRE. To begone, Dumont, and to go. Both, Dumont. To leave
my son to marry, and be rich and happy as the son of another; to
creep forth myself, old, penniless, broken-hearted, exposed to
the inclemencies of heaven and the rebuffs of the police.
DUMONT. This is what I had looked for at your hands. Noble,
nobleman!