The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Art of Being Bored A Comedy in Three Acts:, by Edouard Pailleron:.

The Art of Being Bored
a Comedy in Three Acts:
by Edouard Pailleron:
Translated by Barret
H. Clark

Samuel French: Publisher
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Grammar. (La Grammaire). A farce in 1 act. By Labiche. An amusing and charming comedy by one of the greatest of 19th century French dramatists. 4 men, 1 woman. Price 35 cents.

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The Legacy. A comedy in 1 act. By Marivaux. A delicate high comedy of intrigue. Marivaux is one of the masters of old French comedy, and his play is full of deft touches of characterization. 2 women, 4 men. Price 35 cents.

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A Christmas Tale. A poetic play by Maurice Bouchor. A beautiful little miracle play of love and devotion, laid in 15th century Paris. 2 men, 2 women. Price 35 cents.

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The Art of Being Bored. (Le Monde ou l’on s’ennuie). A comedy in 3 acts. By Edouard Pailleron. 11 men, 9 women. Probably the best-known and most frequently acted comedy of manners in the realm of 19th century French drama. It is replete with wit and comic situations. For nearly forty years it has held the stage, while countless imitators have endeavored to reproduce its freshness and charm. Price 50 cents.

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The
ART OF BEING BORED

EDOUARD PAILLERON

The author of “Le Monde où l’on s’ennuie” was born at Paris in 1834. Besides this, his masterpiece, he wrote numerous comedies, sentimental and satirical. Pailleron is in no way concerned with problems or “ideas”; he is content to depict the foibles and affectations of society, framing his observations into a harmonious and unified whole. This play was first produced, at Paris, in 1881, and has since held the stage.

Owing to the large number of characters, some attention must be paid to the grouping of stage pictures. The stage-directions, if carefully followed, will supply sufficient information to enable the director to group the actors without difficulty.

ACT I

A drawing-room, with a large entrance at the back, opening upon another room. Entrances up and down stage. To the left, between the two doors, a piano. Right, an entrance down-stage; farther up, a large alcove with a glazed door leading into the garden, left; a table, on either side of which is a chair; to the right, a small table and a sofa, armchairs, etc.

Francois. (Looking among the papers which litter the table) It couldn’t be on top here—nor here. Revue Matérialiste ... Revue des Cours—Journal des Savants——

Lucy. Don’t ask; there’s no need. But it must be found, so look carefully. Go over every foot of ground from where you gave us our letters this morning, to this room. It couldn’t have fallen anywhere else. Please, please hunt for it! (She goes out)

Francois. (Alone, as he returns to the table) “Hunt, hunt?” Revue Coloniale—Revue Diplomatique—Revue Archéologique——

Paul. (Taking her hand) Sh! (To Francois, gravely) Is Madame la comtesse de Céran in the château at present?

Paul. (As before, coldly) Be good enough to announce to her that M. Raymond, Sub-prefect1 of Agenis, and Mme. Raymond, have arrived from Paris, and await her pleasure in the drawing-room.

Francois. Very well, M. le sous-préfet. (Aside) Newlyweds!—Shall I take Monsieur’s—? (He takes their bags and rugs, and goes out)

Jeanne. How is this, Monsieur, you are scold5ing me? (She throws herself into his arms, but he disengages himself, terrified)

Paul. Precisely! That time you struck exactly the right note. You surely haven’t forgotten all I told you in the train?

Paul. Very well, dear. I call you dear, as we are alone, but later on, before the guests, it must be merely Jeanne. The Comtesse de Céran has done me the honor of asking me to introduce my young wife to her, and of spending a few days here at her château. Mme. de Céran’s circle is one of the three or four most influential in Paris. We are not here to amuse ourselves. I come here merely a Sub-prefect; I am determined to leave a Prefect. Everything depends on her—upon us—upon you!

Paul. Of course, on you! Society judges a man by his wife, and society is right. Therefore be on your guard.—Dignity without pride: a knowing smile—ears and eyes open, lips closed! Oh, compliments, as many as you like, and quotations, short and authoritative: for philosophy try Hegel; for literature, Jean Paul; politics——

Paul. Neither do they, but that doesn’t make any difference. Cite Pufendorff and Machiavelli as if they were your own relatives, and talk about the6 Council of Trent as if you had presided over it. As for your amusements: music, strolls in the garden, and whist—that’s all I can allow. Your clothes must be chosen with great care, and as for Latin—use the few words I’ve taught you. In a week’s time I want it to be said of you: “Ah, that little Mme. Raymond will be the wife of a Cabinet Minister some day!” And in this circle, you know, when they say that a woman will be a Cabinet Minister’s wife, her husband is not very far from a portfolio.

Jeanne. But Mme. de Céran belongs to the opposition; what can you expect from her?

Paul. How simple you are! In the matter of political positions, there is only the slightest shade of difference between the Conservatives and their opponents: the Conservatives ask for places and their opponents accept them. No, no, my child, this is the place where reputations are made and unmade and made over again; where, under the appearance of talking literature and art, Machiavellian conspirators hatch their schemes: this is the private entrance to the ministries, the antechamber of the Academies, the laboratory of success!

Paul. It is the 1881 edition of the Hotel de Rambouillet: a section of society where everybody talks and poses, where pedantry masquerades as knowledge, sentimentality as sentiment, and preciosity as delicacy and refinement;—here no one ever dreams of saying what one thinks, and never believes what one says, where friendship is a matter of cold calculation, and chivalry and manners merely means to an end. It is where one swallows7 one’s tongue in the drawing-room just as one leaves one’s cane in the hallway: in short, Society where one learns the art of being serious!

Jeanne. But if everyone bores everyone else, what possible influence can it all have?

Paul. What influence? How simple you are! You ask what influence can boredom exert, here in this country? A great deal, I tell you. You see, the Frenchman has a horror of boredom amounting almost to veneration. Ennui is for him a terrible god whose worship is celebrated by good form. He recognizes nothing as serious unless it is in regulation dress. I don’t say that he practises what he preaches, but that is only a further reason for believing more firmly: he prefers believing to finding out for himself. I tell you, this nation, which is at bottom gay, despises itself for being so; it has forgotten its faith in the good common sense of its generous laughter; this sceptical and talkative nation believes in those who have little to say, this whole-hearted and amiable people allows itself to be imposed upon by pedantic false pride and the pretentious asininity of the pontiffs of the white dress necktie: in politics, in science, in art, in literature, in everything! These they scoff at, hate, flee as from a pestilence, yet they alone preserve for these things a secret admiration and perfect confidence! And you ask what influence has boredom? Ah, my dear girl, there are just two kinds of people in the world: those who don’t know how to bore themselves, and who are nobodies; and those who know how to bore themselves, and who are somebody—besides those who know how to bore others!

Jeanne. A week! Without speaking, without laughing, without being kissed by you!

Paul. That’s before company; but when we are alone—in the dark, oh, then! Why, it will be delightful; we’ll arrange secret meetings, in the garden, everywhere—just as we did before we were married—at your father’s, do you remember?

Jeanne. Very well, very well! (She opens the piano and plays an air from La Fille de Madame Angot)

Paul. Too late! (Jeanne changes the air she was playing into a Beethoven Symphony. Aside) Beethoven,—Bravo! (He listens to the music with profound satisfaction) Ah, it’s a fact that the only place for music is the Conservatoire!

Francois. Madame la Comtesse requests Monsieur le sous-préfet to wait five minutes for her: she is in consultation with Monsieur le baron Eriel de Saint-Réault.

Francois. I do not know, Monsieur, he is the son of the scientist whose father was so talented.

Paul. (Aside) Who has so many positions to dispose of! He’s the one!—Ah, M. de Saint-Réault is here, then. I presume Mme. de Saint-Réault is with him?

Francois. Yes, M. le sous-préfet; likewise the Marquise de Loudan and Mme. Arriégo, but these ladies are at present in Paris, following M. Bellac’s course—with Mlle. Suzanne de Villiers.

Paul. I don’t refer to the Duchess or to Miss Watson; or to Mlle. de Villiers: they are the family! I mean guests, like ourselves.

Francois. Oh, yes, M. le sous-préfet; M. Roger, the son of Mme. la comtesse, has just arrived to-day from his scientific investigations in the Orient. He is expected any moment.—Ah, and then M. Bellac, the professor, who is to spend a few days here when his lecture course is over—at least we hope so.

Paul. (Aside) Ah, that’s why there are so many ladies!—Very well, thank you.

Paul. Yes, and tell Mme. la comtesse not to hurry. (Francois goes out) Whew! You gave me a turn with that music! But you got out of it beautifully, changing Lecocq to Beethoven! Rather good, that!

Paul. I know better now! We still have five minutes; I’ll tell you a little about these people: it’s best to be on the safe side.

Paul. All right, then; what a child you are! I won’t be long: mother, son, friend, and guest,—everyone of them very serious!

Paul. Don’t worry, there are two who are not so serious. I have kept them for the last.

Jeanne. One moment, please, pay me first! (She counts on her fingers) Madame de Céran, one; her son Roger, two; Miss Lucy, three; the two Saint-Réault; one Bellac, one Loudan and one Arriégo, that makes eight! (She puts her cheek up to be kissed)

Paul. First, the Duchesse de Réville, the aunt, a handsome old lady who was a beauty in her day——

Paul. So they say! A bit brusque and direct—but an excellent lady and very sensible—as you’ll see. But last and best, Suzanne de Villiers! She, is not at all serious—it’s a fault with her.

Paul. Girl of eighteen, a tom-boy, chatter-box,11 free with her tongue and her manners—with a life-history that reads like a novel.

Paul. Well? Daughter of a widow—and that ass Georges de Villiers, another nephew of the Duchess; she adored him. A natural child.

Paul. The mother and father are dead. The child was left an orphan at the age of twelve with a princely heritage and an education to match. Georges taught her Javanese. The Duchess, who adores her, brought her into the home of Madame de Céran, who detests her, and gave her Roger for a tutor. They tried their best to keep her in a convent, but she ran away twice; they sent her back a third time and—here she is again! Imagine that state of affairs! And that’s the end of the story—good, isn’t it?

Paul. Silly! (The door at the back opens) Oh! Saint-Réault and Madame de Céran! No, she didn’t see us. Now—ahem—ready!

(Enter Mme. de Céran and Saint-Réault. They pause in the doorway, not seeing Paul and Jeanne.)

Mme. de Céran. No, no, no, my friend, not the first poll! Listen to me, 15-8-15 the first poll—— There was a secret ballot on that one and therefore on the second: it’s very simple!

Saint-Réault. Simple? Simple? Now the second poll, since I have only four votes on the12 second poll, with our nine votes on the first poll—that leaves us only thirteen on the second!

Mme. de Céran. And our seven on the first—that makes twenty on the second! Don’t you see?

Mme. de Céran. I repeat, beware of Dalibert and his Liberals. At present the Academy is Liberal—at present—at present! (They come down-stage, talking)

Saint-Réault. We must always be prepared, mustn’t we?—I’ll keep my eyes open.

Mme. de Céran. (Aside) There’s something at the bottom of all this! (Seeing Raymond, and going toward him) Ah, my dear Monsieur Raymond, I was forgetting all about you; pardon me!

Mme. de Céran. You are most welcome here, Madame! Consider yourself in the home of a friend. (Presenting them to Saint-Réault) Monsieur Paul Raymond, Sub-prefect of Agenis, Madame Paul Raymond, Monsieur le baron Eriel de Saint-Réault.

Paul. I am especially happy to make your acquaintance since, as a young man, it was my privilege to know your illustrious father. (Aside) He stuck me on my final examinations!

Mme. de Céran. You will find my house a trifle austere for a person of your youth, Madame. You have only your husband to blame for your stay here.—It has its moments of monotony, but you may console yourself with the thought that resignation means obedience, and that in coming here you had no choice.

Jeanne. (Gravely) As regards that, Mme. la comtesse, “To be free is not to do what one wishes, but what one judges to be best”—as the philosopher Joubert has said.

Mme. de Céran. (Looking approvingly at Paul) That is quite reassuring, my dear. But I think you will find that no matter how intellectual our circle may be, it is not lacking in esprit. Indeed this very evening you will find the soirée particularly interesting. Monsieur de Saint-Réault has been kind enough to offer to read to us from his unpublished work on Rama-Ravana and the Sanscrit Legends.

Mme. de Céran. After which I believe I can promise you something from Monsieur Bellac.

Mme. de Céran. An informal talk—ad usum mundi—a few words, gems of wisdom; and finally, the reading of an unpublished play.

Mme. de Céran. The first work of a young man14 —an unknown poet, who is to be introduced to me this evening and whose play has just been accepted by the Théâtre-Francais.

Paul. How fortunate we are to be able to enjoy among these charming people another of these wonderful opportunities that one finds nowhere except beneath your roof.

Mme. de Céran. Doesn’t this literary atmosphere frighten you, Madame? Your charms will be wasted at a soirée like this.

Jeanne. (Seriously) “What appears a waste to the vulgar is often a gain”—as M. de Tocqueville has said.

Mme. de Céran. (Looking at her in astonishment—aside to Paul) She is charming! (Saint-Réault rises, and goes toward the door) Saint-Réault, where are you going?

Saint-Réault. (As he goes) To the station—a telegram. Excuse me—I’ll be back in ten minutes. (He goes out)

Mme. de Céran. There is certainly something at the bottom of all this! (She looks among the papers on the table—to Jeanne and Paul) I beg your pardon! (She rings, and after a moment Francois appears) The papers?

Francois. M. de Saint-Réault took them away this morning. They are in his room.

Jeanne. (Quickly checking him and at the same time producing the Journal des Debats2 from her pocket and offering it to Mme. de Céran) This is to-day’s paper, Countess.

Mme. de Céran. With pleasure—I am curious15 about—please pardon me again! (She opens the paper and reads)

Paul. (To his wife) Bravo! Keep it up! The Joubert was excellent and the de Tocqueville—I say!

Mme. de Céran. (Reading) “Revel very ill.” Just what I thought. Saint-Réault isn’t losing much time. (Handing the paper to Paul) I found out what I wanted to know, thank you. But I shan’t keep you, you shall be shown to your rooms. We dine sharp at six; you know the Duchess is very punctual. At four tea is served; at five we take a stroll and at six have dinner. (The clock strikes four) Ah, four already, and here she is! (The Duchess enters, followed by Francois, who brings her chair and her work-basket. A maid brings tea. The Duchess sits in the chair placed for her) My dear Aunt, allow me to present——

Duchess. (Settling herself) Wait a minute—wait a minute. There! Present whom? (She looks through her lorgnette) It isn’t Raymond that you want to present, is it? I’ve known him for a long time.

Paul. (Advancing with Jeanne) No, Duchess, but Madame Paul Raymond, his wife,—if you please!

Duchess. (Gazing at Jeanne, who bows) She’s pretty—very pretty! With my Suzanne, and Lucy, despite her glasses, that makes three pretty women in my house—and heaven knows that’s not too many! (She drinks) And how on earth did a charming girl like you happen to marry that awful Republican?

Paul. Oh, well, like everyone else, when I was little. That is the measles of politics, Duchess, everybody has to have it.

Duchess. (Laughing) Ah, oh, ah, the measles! Isn’t he funny! (To Jeanne) And you, my dear, you like a joke once in a while, too?

Duchess. That isn’t very frivolous, but it’s better than nothing. Well, well—I like a little frivolity myself, especially in a person of your age. (To the maid) Here, take this away. (She hands her cup to the maid)

Mme. de Céran. (To the maid) Will you show Madame Raymond to her room, Mademoiselle? (To Jeanne) Your room is this way, just next to mine——

Mme. de Céran. Oh, no, I have put your husband over there on the other side, among the workers: my son, the Count and Monsieur Bellac, in the Pavilion, which we call—a little pretentiously, perhaps—the Pavillion of the Muses. (To Paul) Francois will show you the way. I thought you would be able to work better there.

Duchess. (To Mme. de Céran) If you think it pleases those two to separate them like that——

Jeanne. Perfectly, Madame la comtesse; and you know better than anyone else quid deceat, quid non. (She bows)

Duchess. (Seated near the table at the left, working at her fancy-work) Ah, she knows Latin! She ought to be congenial to the company!

Mme. de Céran. (Sitting down) What do you mean, Aunt? Revel is a second Saint-Réault. He holds at least fifteen positions: leader of the New School, for instance—a position which leads to any number of others! Just the thing for Roger. He returns to-day, and I’ve asked the Minister’s secretary to dinner this evening, you know.

Duchess. Yes, I should think so! A man of twenty-eight, who has never—done a foolish thing in his life, I’ll wager! It’s a perfect shame!

Mme. de Céran. At thirty he will enter the In18stitute, and at thirty-five the Chamber of Deputies.

Duchess. So you want to begin again with your son, and do with him as you did with his father?

Duchess. I say nothing about your husband: a dryasdust creature, with a mediocre intellect—!

Duchess. A fool who happened to know how to behave himself! You forced him into politics, you’ll admit that. And then, all you could make of him was Minister of Agriculture and Commerce. That isn’t much to boast about. But enough of him; Roger’s another matter: he has brains and spirit enough—or will have, God willing—or he’s no nephew of mine. That never occurred to you, did it?

Duchess. Ah, yes! Lucy, eh? They correspond, I know that. That’s fine! A young girl who wears glasses and has a neck like a——! And you call that thinking of his happiness!

Duchess. A sort of meteorite, who fell among us, intending to stop two weeks, and remained two years: a blue-stocking who writes letters to scholars and translates Schopenhauer!

Mme. de Céran. A rich, intellectual, highly-educated and well-born orphan, niece of the Lord-Chancellor, who recommended her: she would be a splendid wife for Roger, and——

Duchess. That English iceberg? Brrrr! Just19 to kiss her would freeze the nose off his face! But you’re on a false scent. In the first place Bellac has his eye on her—yes, the Professor! He’s asked me too many questions about her to leave any doubt in my mind. And what is more, she seems fond of him.

Duchess. Yes, Lucy,—like all the rest of you! You’re all mad over him. I know more about this than you do.—No, no! Lucy is not the woman for your son!

Duchess. I don’t deny it. I have brought Suzanne here for that very purpose. I arranged that he should be her tutor and her master, so to speak, in order that he might marry her,—and marry her he shall!

Mme. de Céran. Is of questionable origin, questionable attraction, without education and manners.

Duchess. Without family? The daughter of my poor Georges? My handsome, good, kind Georges!—And she’s your cousin after all!

Duchess. Natural? Aren’t all children natural? You amuse me! She’s been legally recognized! And good heavens, when the devil’s put his finger in the pie why shouldn’t the rest of us? Me, too, eh?

Mme. de Céran. The devil has put his finger in the pie, but not the way you think. You are on the false scent.

Duchess. Oh, the Professor! Yes, Bellac. You told me that. You think no woman can follow his lectures without falling in love with him?

Mme. de Céran. But Suzanne hasn’t missed a single lecture, Aunt, and she takes notes and corrects them and copies them—I tell you Suzanne is in earnest. And while he is speaking she never takes her eyes off him; she drinks in every word. And you think that is all for the sake of science! Nonsense, it isn’t the science she loves, it’s the scientist. That is as plain as day. You have only to watch her when she’s with Lucy. She is dreadfully jealous. And this recently acquired coquetry in a girl of her disposition—! She sighs, sulks, blushes, turns pale, laughs, cries——

Duchess. April showers! She’s just coming into bloom. She’s bored, poor child!

Duchess. Here? Do you think it’s amusing here? Do you suppose that if I were eighteen, I should be here, among all your old ladies and your old gentlemen? I should say not! I’d associate with young people all the time; the younger the better, the handsomer the better, the more admirers I had the better! There are only two things that women never grow weary of: loving and being loved! And the older I grow the more I realize that there is no other happiness in the world!

Duchess. More serious than love? Nonsense! Do you mean to say that when that is gone, there is any other happiness left? When we are old, we have false pleasures, just as we have false teeth,21 but there is only one true happiness, and that is love, love!

Duchess. The fault of my years! Women find romance but twice in their lives: at sixteen in their own hearts, at sixty in the hearts of others. Well, you want your son to marry Lucy; I want him to marry Suzanne. You say Suzanne is in love with Bellac; I say, Lucy. Perhaps we are both wrong; it is for Roger to decide.

Mme. de Céran. I feared he would not return in time. I was anxious about that place for him.

Duchess. And you missed one of the Professor’s lectures in order to see him that much sooner. Hm, that’s lovely!

Duchess. I don’t suppose it is for that Schopenhauer gentleman you are all dressed up like that, is it?

Duchess. (Aside to Mme. de Céran) Bellac, that’s as plain as day! (To Lucy) Let me congratulate you, then. I have nothing to complain of, except those frightful glasses. Why do you wear such awful things?

Duchess. A nice reason! (Aside) Isn’t she practical! I detest practical people! She’ll pass, she’s not as thin as I thought she was! These English occasionally disappoint one pleasantly!

Mme. de Céran. How good it is to see you, my dear! (She holds out her hand, which he kisses)

Roger. What a long while it is since I’ve seen you!—Once more! (He kisses her hand again)

Duchess. No! No! On the cheek! You must kiss me on the cheek! That is one of the privileges of age—Look at him now! Same little fellow as ever! Oh, you’ve let your moustache grow; isn’t he charming!

Roger. Don’t let it disturb you, Mother, I shall do it at once!—Ah, how do you do, Lucy?

Roger. Oh, most interesting. Think of it, an almost unexplored country, a veritable paradise for the scholar, the poet, and the artist—but I wrote you all about that!

Duchess. Come, come, you can chatter when you two are alone! Tell me, aren’t you tired? Did you just arrive?

Lucy. Oh, I think I ought to go. I shall return in a few minutes. I’ll see you later.

(Lucy goes out. Roger accompanies her as far as the door to the left, while Mme. de Céran takes her place in the arm-chair, at the other side of the table.)

Roger. He questioned me as to the results of my trip and asked me to submit my report as soon as possible, promising me a reward on the day it was handed in. You can guess what that reward will be. (He touches the lapel of his coat, as if to show the ribbon of the Legion of Honor)

Mme. de Céran. Officer? That’s all very well, but I have something better. And then?

Roger. Then he asked me to convey to you his kindest regards, and begged you keep him in mind when that law came up for consideration by the Senate.

Mme. de Céran. I shall keep him in mind if he keeps me in mind.—You must set to work on your report at once.

Mme. de Céran. Good! It must be known that you have returned. I’ll have a paragraph sent to the papers.—And one thing more: those articles you sent back from the East were very good. But I noticed with astonishment a tendency toward—what shall I say?—imagination, “fine” writing; descriptions, irrelevancies—even poetry—(Reproachfully) Alfred de Musset, my son!

Mme. de Céran. The Duchess is joking, my dear. But be careful about poetry; never do it again! You are concerned with serious subjects; you must be serious yourself.

Roger. But I had no idea, Mother!—How can you tell when an article is serious?

Mme. de Céran. Your Aunt exaggerates, but take my advice: no more poetry!—And now, dinner at six. You have an hour to work on your report. I shan’t keep you any longer. Go to work, my dear.

Duchess. Just a moment! Now that this tender and affecting scene is over let us talk business, if you please. What about Suzanne?

Duchess. One of this winter’s crop! The season’s fad in scholars. A gallant knight from the Normal School, who makes love to the ladies, is made love to by them—and consequently makes a comfortable living. The Princess Okolitch, who is26 mad about him, like all the old ladies, conceived the idea of having him deliver a course of lectures in her salon, with literature as an excuse, and gossip as a result. It appears that your pupil, having seen all these grand ladies smitten with this young, amiable, and loquacious genius, has followed in the footsteps of her elders.

Duchess. It means that Suzanne is in love with this gentleman; now do you understand?

Duchess. It doesn’t take so long for a child to change into a woman, you know.

Mme. de Céran. I say that that young lady is openly courting favor with a man much too serious to marry her, but gallant enough to amuse her, and to have this going on under my own roof,—though it isn’t as yet scandalous—is decidedly improper.

Roger. But, Mother, you surprise me! Suzanne, a little child I left in short dresses, climbing trees, a child I used to punish with extra lessons, who used to jump on my knee and call me Daddy—— Come, come! It is impossible! Such demoralization at her age!

Duchess. Demoralization? Because she is in love! You are a true son of your mother, if there ever was one! At “her age”! You ought to have seen me when I was that old! There was a hussar, in a blue and silver uniform! He was superb! His brains were all in his sword-hilt! But at my27 age—! A young heart is like a new land: the discoverer is seldom the ruler. Now it seems—this Bellac—oh, it doesn’t seem possible, and yet—young girls, you know—- We must take care! (Aside) I don’t believe a word of it, but I’ll be on my guard!—And that is why I want you to do me the favor of burying your Tumuli and giving your attention to her, and her alone.

Suzanne. (Stealing up behind Roger, puts her hands over his eyes) Who is it?

Suzanne. How happy I am! Just think, I had no idea you were coming home to-day! Mme. de Saint-Réault told me just now at the lecture; so, without saying a word—I was right near the door—I whisked out and ran to the station!

Suzanne. Yes, all alone! Oh, it was fun! The funniest part—wait till I tell you! When I got to the ticket office I found I didn’t have a sou, and,28 what do you think?—a gentleman who was buying his ticket offered to buy one for me. Oh, he was a very nice young man! He happened to be going to St. Germain, too, and when he offered to buy my ticket, another man offered, too: a respectable-looking old gentleman,—and then another—and after him, any number of others, who were standing there. They were all going to St. Germain. “But, Mademoiselle, I beg you—I really cannot allow you to——” “Allow me—no, me,—I beg you, Mademoiselle!” I let the old respectable gentleman buy the ticket—for the sake of appearances.

Suzanne. But he was such a respectable old gentleman! And he was very nice to me! He helped me into the train. So nice of him! Of course, all the rest were, too; they all got into the compartment with us.—And it was so jolly! Such fun! They offered me their places, every one! They opened the window for me, and then fell all over themselves being nice to me! “This way, Mademoiselle! Not there, you’ll be in the sun!” And they pulled down their cuffs, and twirled their moustaches, and bowed and scraped as if I’d been some grand lady—Oh, it’s fun to go by yourself! And the respectable old gentleman kept talking all the time about his immense estates, but what did I care about that?

Suzanne. But the funniest thing of all was when we arrived, I found my purse in my pocket; I paid the respectable old gentleman for the ticket, made a pretty curtsey to the other gentlemen, and then I ran off. Oh, you should have seen how they29 all looked at me! (To Roger) Just as you do now! Why, what’s the matter? Kiss me again!

Mme. de Céran. (To the Duchess) There’s an impropriety even worse than the rest!

Suzanne. But he doesn’t know why—you’ll see if it wasn’t unfair. When I used to get bored in class, I sat near the door leading into the garden. Oh, it was so easy! I had a clever plan! When everything was as quiet as could be, I shouted at the top of my voice, “Long live the great Voltaire!” Sister Séraphine at once ordered me to leave the room. It was perfectly simple, and it only took a moment. One day when the sun was shining beautifully, I was looking out of the window, and all at once I shouted, “Long live Voltaire!” I listened, there was no answer. I shouted again, “Voltaire!” Silence again! Very much surprised, I turned around: the Mother Superior was there: I had30n’t heard her come in! Tableau! But she didn’t send me into the garden, oh, no! She sent me here! I didn’t care! I had had enough of that convent life.—I’m a woman now!

Mme. de Céran. Your conduct fails to reveal the fact.—Mme. de Saint-Réault must be very anxious about you.

Suzanne. Oh, the lecture was almost over: she will be here in a moment, with M. Bellac and the others. Oh, his lecture to-day——!

Suzanne. And the way those women applauded! And the crowd! And what wonderful gowns! It was like a wedding at Ste. Clotilde! It was—(Throwing a kiss) superb!

Suzanne. Superb! You ought to have heard those women! “Charming, charming!” Madame de Loudan was squeaking like a Guinea-pig. Ugh, ugh! I detest that woman!

Duchess. (Looking at Roger) Hm! (To Suzanne) Are those the notes you took at the lectures?

Duchess. (To Roger, picking up the notebook from the table, where Suzanne had left it on entering) Well, let’s see—(The clock strikes five) Oh, and my walk! (Aside to Roger) Now you understand Bellac’s role in this matter?

Duchess. Examine it, study it,—it’s a manuscript worth your while deciphering; that’s your profession.

Suzanne. Then it’s because you consider me a woman now, is it? Do you? Tell me, I want so much to know!

Roger. Yes, you are a woman now, and it is for that very reason that we must respect the conventions.

Roger. And there are other questions of propriety which you must consider. That is exactly what I was objecting to——

Suzanne. Oh, yes, I know, I have no manners. M. Bellac is never tired of telling me so!

Suzanne. But what can you expect? There is no help for it! It’s not my fault, I tell you, it’s not my fault. It is not so easy as you think; I made a vow with myself that when you came back you32 would find me just as formal as Lucy, that I would wear myself out learning!—Here I’ve been studying six months—and then all of a sudden you appear and, whist—there goes six months’ work for nothing!

Roger. Suzanne, Suzanne! I beg of you not to use words that you cannot possibly understand.

Suzanne. What? That I don’t understand? I tell you I adore you! You, you funny old thing, don’t you love me, too? Why are you so funny? Do you love me better than Lucy?

Suzanne. Then why do you write to her?—Oh, I know; you’ve written twenty-seven letters to her—I’ve counted them, twenty-seven!

Suzanne. And one more this morning. Were they all “nothing buts”? What was in that letter that came this morning?

Suzanne. That you would arrive on Thursday? Was that all, really? But why didn’t you write to me? Then I’d have been the first to see you.

Suzanne. Often? Ten times. And then nothing but little insignificant notes at the bottom of someone else’s letter—the kind you’d write to a baby. I’m not a baby any longer: I’ve been think33ing a lot these last six months; I’ve learned a heap of things.

Roger. What have you learned? (Suzanne leans against his shoulder and cries) Why, Suzanne, what’s wrong?

Suzanne. (Wiping her eyes and trying to laugh) And then I’ve worked—! Oh, how I worked! Piano, that horrid piano—I’m up to Schumann now, that’s proper enough, isn’t it?

Roger. You are attending Professor Bellac’s lectures, aren’t you? So he’s taken my place!

Suzanne. Tell me if you are; I’ll understand. I’m so jealous! But why should you be? You’re my father, aren’t you?

Suzanne. Oh, we’ve had enough reasonableness for to-day. (She ruffles his hair, laughing)

Suzanne. There, you said “dear.” Forfeit! (She sits on his knee and kisses him)

Suzanne. I’m an awful tease, am I not? Well, I’ll get my notebooks for you: they’ll calm us down a little. (She stops in the doorway and looks at him) Oh, here are the ladies and M. Bellac! What! Lucy in an evening gown? Wait one moment! (She runs out)

Duchess. Yes, I advise you to complain! See what I have found! (She takes a mounted photograph from between the leaves of Suzanne’s notebook)

(Enter Bellac, Madame Arriégo, Madame de Loudan, Madame de Saint-Réault, Madame de Céran, and Lucy.)

Mme. de Loudan. Ladies, there is only one thing to say about it all! M. Bellac was so eloquent that he was positively dangerous! But then—isn’t he always a little dangerous?

Mme. de Loudan. I’m simply mad about your genius! Yes, indeed, mad! And about you, too! Oh, I don’t hide it. I tell everyone about it! Brazenly! You are one of the gods on my Olympus! You have become a fetish to me!

Mme. Arriégo. You know, I have his autograph in my pocket! (Displays locket) There!

Mme. de Loudan. (Shows a pen which she carries in the bosom of her gown) And I carry one of his pens!

Mme. de Loudan. (To Mme. de Céran) Ah, Countess, I didn’t see you at the lecture to-day?

Mme. de Céran. (Introduces Bellac to her son) Monsieur Bellac—Count Roger de Céran!

Mme. Arriégo. No, she can have no idea! It was a burning flame, a fire of passion!

Mme. de Loudan. And so scientific! He is half psychologist, half dreamer; he plays with the scalpel as well as the lyre! It was—there was only one thing I couldn’t agree with: that the basis of love is instinct.

Mme. de Loudan. Instinct! The idea! Ladies, come, we must defend ourselves! Help me. Come to the rescue, Lucy!

Mme. de Loudan. That would be robbing the37 soul of its most precious possession: according to you, then, Lucy, nothing is good, or bad.

Lucy. (Coldly) There is no question about good or bad, Madame, it is merely a question of the existence of the species.

Mme. de Loudan. (Indignantly) Why, you’re stripping love of all its romance!

Mme. de Loudan. No one better than I knows the weaknesses of the flesh. Matter dominates and masters us! I know it, I feel it! But leave us at least the psychic refuge of pure ecstasy!

Mme. de Loudan. Be quiet, you’re a villain! I will not deny my god; that would be sacrilege. I’m very angry with you!

Mme. de Loudan. But when will that be? The entire world is waiting for that book! And you don’t say a word about it! You won’t even tell us the title!

Bellac. I am hurrying it through the press, and I count on its helping me to the honor to which I aspire.

Bellac. Poor Revel is on his last legs, you know. In the event of anything happening to him, I have announced myself as candidate for the position of director of the New School.

Bellac. Ladies, if Revel should die—which God forbid!—I recommend myself to your good graces, and your influence.

Duchess. You mustn’t ask me anything before dinner. The weakness of the flesh “dominates me,” as Madame de Loudan says. (The clock strikes) There, you have only fifteen minutes! Get dressed at once, and we’ll talk the matter over at table.

Duchess. That makes no difference to me. We dine sharp at six, whether he is here or not.

(Enter Suzanne, with her notebooks under her arm; she puts them on the table, right.)

Mme. de Céran. I am going to meet him. (To Bellac) My dear Professor, you will be shown to your room. (She rings and, a moment later, enter Francois)

Bellac. Pray don’t trouble, Countess, I have the good fortune to know the way. (Aside to Lucy) Did you get my letter?

Mme. de Loudan. In that gown? Are you not afraid of the seductive charm of this spring evening, my dear?

Mme. de Loudan. You are a true daughter of the Land of Fogs! I am very much afraid of the night air!

(Madame de Loudan goes out with Madame Arriégo, left. As Lucy starts to follow Madame de Céran into the garden, she is intercepted by Francois.)

Suzanne. (Picking up a pink paper which she has knocked off the table, while putting her notebooks on it. Aside) A pink paper! (She looks at the paper)

Suzanne. (Aside, quickly hiding the letter behind her back) That you were looking for this morning!

Lucy. (As she is leaving the room) Never mind looking for it now. (She goes out into the garden; Francois follows her)

Duchess. How’s this? You’re not ready yet? Nor you? What are you doing here?

Roger. (To the Duchess) Ah, these are the notebooks! Give them to me, Suzanne. (He goes to her, she hands them to him, looking at him in silence) What’s the matter with her?

(Roger goes to the Duchess, who is seated left. Suzanne, to the right of the table, tries without being seen to open the paper which she holds in her left hand.)

Duchess. (To Roger, drawing him toward her) Come here, closer—my eyes are bad——

Roger. (Lowering the notebooks, as he steals a glance at Suzanne. Suddenly he seizes the Duchess by the arm, and whispers) Aunt!

Roger. Look! But don’t turn your head! She’s trying to read something! A letter, you see! She’s trying to hide it, don’t you see?

Suzanne. (Who has opened the letter; reading) “I shall arrive Thursday.” (Astonished) From Roger! The one Lucy got this morning! (She looks at the letter) But why is it written that way, without any signature? (Continues reading)41 “This evening at ten; in the conservatory. Say you have a headache.” Ah!

Suzanne. (Surprised; puts the letter behind her back, and goes toward the Duchess) Yes, Aunt?

Suzanne. (Slipping the letter under the books on the table, as she goes toward the Duchess) Yes, Aunt?

Duchess. It’s in my room; hurry! (Suzanne goes out. To Roger) Quick! On the table!

Roger. No—oh, yes!—a pink paper. (He takes the letter and brings it to the Duchess, reading it as he walks) Oh!

Duchess. (Snatching the letter from him and reading it) From—? But it isn’t signed. And the handwriting——?

Roger. Yes, disguised. Oh, he’s a crafty one!42 But “I shall arrive Thursday” applies to me as well as to him!

Duchess. (Reading) “This evening at ten in the conservatory. Say you have a headache.” A rendezvous! (Giving him the letter) Quick, put it back, I hear her coming!

Duchess. Hurry up! (Roger resumes his position by the side of the Duchess) And be calm! Here she is. (Suzanne re-enters. The Duchess turns over the leaves in the notebook) Well, these are very good, very good!

(Suzanne goes to the table, takes the letter, glances through it, turning away as before.)

Roger. (Agitated) There are—well—er—certain—you have made wonderful progress—er—I am astonished—(Aside to Duchess, pointing to Suzanne) Aunt!

Duchess. (Aside) Yes, she’s picked it up again; I saw her. (The dinner-gong sounds) The second bell! Hurry and get dressed, Suzanne! You’ll never be ready in time.

(She goes up to Roger without saying a word and, looking him straight in the eye, takes her notebooks out of his hand, tears them and throws the pieces angrily to the floor; then she goes out.)

Duchess. (Looking out) Ah, here comes Toulonnier! And everybody, and dinner, too! Quick, go and dress! It will calm your nerves; you’re very pale.

(Enter Madame de Céran, Toulonnier, M. and Mme. de Saint-Réault and a moment later, Lucy, Madame de Loudan, Madame Arriégo, with Bellac in their midst.)

Mme. de Céran. (Introducing Toulonnier to the Duchess) The Secretary General, Aunt.

Duchess. My dear Monsieur Toulonnier, we were just going to sit down without you.

Toulonnier. I hope you will pardon me, my dear Duchess, but—business, you know! We are literally up to the ears in work. You’ll permit me to leave early, I trust?

Toulonnier. (To whom Mme. de Céran introduces Bellac) Monsieur! (He and Bellac shake hands and talk)

Duchess. Your Republican friend? Nonsense! A man who gives us twenty minutes of his time as if he were a king! The idea!

Duchess. I should think not! Keep him yourself! I’ll take little Raymond. He’s much more amusing.

Roger. Oh, something—I just overheard something in the corridor upstairs. It’s unbelievable.

Mme. de Céran. (Introducing to Toulonnier) Monsieur Paul Raymond, Sub-prefect of Agenis.

Raymond. Monsieur le Secrétaire-Géneral! (Introducing Jeanne) Madame Paul Raymond.

Roger. (Approaching Suzanne, who is conversing with Bellac) I must know! (Offering her his arm) Suzanne! (Suzanne looks at him coldly and takes the arm of Bellac, who is speaking with Lucy)

Duchess. What does this mean?—Come, Raymond, give me your arm. (Raymond approaches her) My friend, one must suffer much before one becomes a Prefect!

Duchess. You’re going to sit next to me at the table. We’ll slander the Government!

Paul. Oh, Duchess! And I one of her servants! Oh, no!—But there is nothing to prevent my listening to you!

ACT II

(Bellac, Toulonnier, Roger, Paul Raymond, Madame de Céran, Madame de Loudan, the Duchess, Suzanne, Lucy, Jeanne, seated in a semi-circle, listening to Saint-Réault, who is finishing his lecture.)

Saint-Réault. And make no mistake about it! Profound as these legends may appear because of their baffling exoticism, they are merely—my illustrious father wrote in 1834—elemental, primitive imaginings, in comparison with the transcendental conceptions of Brahmin lore gathered together in the Upanishads, or indeed in the eighteen Paranas of Vyasa, the compiler of the Veda.

Saint-Réault. Such, in simple terminology, is the concretum of the doctrine of Buddha.—And at this point I shall close my remarks.

Mme. de Loudan. You can’t always remain in the clouds. Come down to earth, Baron.

Saint-Réault. (Coming to table) One word more! (General surprise. The audience sits down in silence and consternation) Or, rather a favor!—This study of mine, of which, in spite of the narrow limits and popular character made necessary by my audience——

Saint-Réault. The importance will perhaps have been realised,—this study, I say, was in 1821, sixty years ago, begun, or—I will go so far as to say, discovered by the genius whose son I have the honor to be——

Saint-Réault. This trail which he has blazed, I, too, have followed, and not without distinction, if I may be permitted to say so. Another, coming48 after us, has tried to snatch a few words of wisdom from the eternal Verity of the Sphinx, until our time unfathomed in any theogony. I speak of Revel, highly esteemed both as scholar and gentleman. My illustrious father is dead, and Revel is not long for this earth—if he has not already passed away. Therefore I alone am left monarch of this new domain of science of which my father, Guillaume Eriel de Saint-Réault, was the discoverer. I, alone! (Looking at Toulonnier) May those who govern us, those who are invested with power and authority, those upon whom will devolve the delicate task of choosing a successor to our lamented colleague—whom perhaps we shall mourn to-morrow—may these eminent men (Looking at Bellac, who is speaking with Toulonnier) in spite of the more or less legitimate solicitations to which they are prey, make an impartial, enlightened choice, determined solely by the threefold requirements of age, aptitude and acquired experience—a choice of a successor worthy to my illustrious father, and of the great work which is his,—and of which, I repeat, I am the sole living representative.

(Everyone rises. Applause and general confusion. Meanwhile servants enter with refreshments.)

Virot. (Taking the General to the left) Well, Senator, if the House passes the law, will you vote it down?

(Together with the General, they go to greet the Duchess. Paul Raymond and Jeanne slip out of the room into the garden.)

Mme. de Céran. (To Saint-Réault) You surpassed yourself this evening, Saint-Réault!

Mme. de Loudan. Ah, Baron, Baron, what a world you have opened up to us! How captivating are these first stammering professions of primitive faith! And that Buddhist Trinity, oh, I’m quite mad about it!

Lucy. (To Saint-Réault) Pardon my boldness, Monsieur, but in your enumeration of the Sacred Books, it seemed to me that you omitted something.

Saint Réault. But those are not the Sacred Books, they are merely poems whose ancient origin rendered them objects of veneration to the Hindoos. They are works of literature, merely.

Saint-Réault. I merely give you the opinion of the Brahmins! You have another of your own?

Duchess. Follow them!—Wait, I’ll go with you—I need a breath of air myself; he’s put me to sleep with his Brahmins, the old fakir! (They go out)

Toulonnier. (To Saint-Réault) Very learned and full of new ideas—(In an undertone) I caught that hint of yours, my dear Baron. There was really no need. We are all on your side. (They shake hands)

Mme. de Céran. (To Saint-Réault) I beg your pardon! (Aside to Toulonnier) You won’t forget my boy?

Mme. de Céran. You understand, you will receive your six votes in the Senate. You under51stand also that on the publication of his report——

Paul. (To Jeanne, as they come in from the garden) That time they did see us!

Paul. We were almost caught before dinner. Twice would be too much! I don’t want to risk it.

Jeanne. Didn’t you promise to kiss me every time we were in the dark? Yes or no?

Paul. (Aside to Jeanne) The Countess! (Aloud) Really, Jeanne, you prefer the Bhagavata?

Mme. de Céran. Did you understand any of that mass of erudition, Madame? Poor Saint-Réault seemed particularly wordy and obscure this evening!

Jeanne. Well, after all, if faith requires science to support it, has not science some need of faith?—as Monsieur de Maistre has said.

Mme. de Céran. Very good indeed! I must introduce you to a gentleman who will be very useful to you: General de Briais, the Senator.

Mme. de Céran. Really, my dear Raymond, you are very fortunate. (Pressing Jeanne’s hand) And so am I! (To Jeanne) Good—I’ll introduce you to both!

Paul. Yes, my angel, but wait until the rest are gone! I’ll tell you: while the tragedy is being read!

Servant. (Announcing) Madame la baronne de Boines—Monsieur Melchior de Boines!

Baroness. (To Madame de Céran, who is about to receive her) Ah, my dear, am I in time?

Mme. de Céran. You are too late for Science, too early for Poetry! I am waiting for my poet.

Mme. de Céran. I know nothing whatsoever about him, but I am assured that this is his first work. Gaiac is bringing him—you know Gaiac, of the Conservateur? They should have been here at nine. I can’t imagine what keeps them.

Baroness. I shall profit by the circumstance, for I came to see neither scholar nor poet. I came to see him, my dear: Bellac! Think of it, I’ve never met him! He is so attractive, they tell me! Princess Okolitch is quite mad about him, you know. Where is he? Oh, show him to me, Countess!

Mme. de Céran. I was just looking for him, and I—(Seeing Bellac enter with Suzanne) There!

Baroness. How lovely he is, dear! Isn’t he handsome! And you let him go about with that young girl!

Mme. de Céran. (Aside—looking at Suzanne and Bellac) That’s strange——

Mme. de Céran. I doubt if you can at this moment. He must be hard at work. (Enter the Duchess and Roger. Aside, looking at these latter) What’s this—and with the Duchess?

Duchess. Tell me, isn’t someone going to read54 us some sort of nonsense this evening? Some tragedy——?

Duchess. Your reading is to be in the next room, isn’t it? Get the people out of here, will you? I shall need this room at once.

Gaiac. Will you ever forgive me, Countess? I was kept at the office. (Aside) I was writing up your soirée!—Monsieur des Millets, my friend the tragic poet, whose talent you will soon have an opportunity of appreciating.

Mme. de Céran. We are very happy, Monsieur, my guests and I, to be favored with your presence!

Mme. de Loudan. (Approaching him) A virgin triumph, Monsieur! How grateful we are!

Mme. de Céran. And this is your first attempt in the realm of the drama? Ah, well, maturity of years guarantees maturity of talent!

Gaiac. Ah, Des Millets has faith in his work! We must encourage those who have faith, should we not, ladies?

Mme. de Loudan. Of course! We must encourage the tragic form, must we not, General? Tragedy——

General. (Interrupting himself in his conversation with Virot) Eh? Oh, yes, tragedy! Horace! Cinna! Of course, we must! Tragedy is necessary for the masses—(To Des Millets) May we have the title?

Jeanne. (Aside to Paul) Five acts! How lovely! We’ll have plenty of time——!

Duchess. (To Madame de Céran) Lead out young Euripides and his press agent! Get rid of the lot of them!

Mme. de Céran. Now ladies, shall we go into the large drawing-room and hear the reading? (To Des Millets) Are you ready, Monsieur?

Mme. de Loudan. (Intercepting her) Oh, but first, Countess, let us—the ladies and me—carry out our little plot! (Going to Bellac, and saying with an air of supplication) Monsieur Bellac?

Bellac. (Graciously) The favor which you ask me becomes as nothing in comparison with the favor you do me in asking it so charmingly.

Mme. de Loudan. This poetic tragedy will doubtless occupy the remainder of the evening; it will certainly prove a fitting climax!—Please say a few words beforehand—as few as you like! Of course, Genius must not be overtaxed! But, please just a few words. They will be received like the Manna of old!

Mme. de Loudan. Come to our assistance, Lucy—you, his Muse! You plead with him!

Bellac. Nothing to suggest the school-room, the platform, or pedantry. Please, ladies, let it be an informal chat: ask me no questions.

Mme. de Loudan. (With clasped hands) Oh, Monsieur Bellac, tell us about your book!

Bellac. Irresistible supplications! And yet I must protect myself; until everyone shall have the opportunity of seeing my book, no one shall.

Bellac. Ah, Marquise, “Take care! There may be a secret!” as Fontenelle said to Mme. de Coulanges.

Bellac. This is neither the time nor the place, you will admit, ladies, to plumb the depths of certain of those eternal problems and mysterious enigmas of life and the Beyond which harass and torment noble souls, like your own!

Bellac. But, aside from this, I am quite at your service. There is one point, however, which comes to my mind, a point eternally discussed and never settled, upon which I ask your leave to say a few words.

Bellac. I shall speak, then with a threefold purpose:—first, to fulfill your request, ladies; (Looking at Mme de Loudan) to bring back a friend who has been led away.——

Baroness. (Aside to Mme. de Loudan, who modestly drops her eyes) That is you, my dear!

Bellac. (Looking at Lucy) And to combat an adversary who has proved exceedingly dangerous—in more ways than one.

Bellac. Concerning love!—The weakness which is a strength!—The sentiment which is a faith! The only religion, perhaps, which knows no scoffers!

Bellac. I spoke this morning—in the course of my lecture on German Literature at the Princess’s—of a certain philosopher who made instinct the basis and the rule of all our actions and all our thoughts.

Bellac. And now, ladies, I take occasion emphatically to declare that that opinion is not my opinion, and that I deny the theory with every fiber of my soul and being!

Bellac. No, ladies, no! Love is not, as the German philosopher has it, a purely specific passion; a deceitful illusion shackling mankind in order to work its own ends! No, a hundred times no! if we have souls!

Bellac. Leave to the Sophists and to vulgar natures such soul-stunting theories; do not even60 consider them; answer them with silence, the language of the outcast!

Bellac. God forbid I should go so far as to deny the sovereign influence of beauty over the uncertain wills of men! (Looking about him) I see too much about me by way of refutation to that argument!

Bellac. But above this material and mortal beauty, there is another, time-defying, invisible to the naked eye, which the soul of purity serenely contemplates and cherishes with an unearthly love. That love, ladies, is the true Love, the mingling of two spirits, their flight far from the terrestrial mire—into the infinite blue of the ideal!

Bellac. (Looking at her) That love, mocked at by some, unknown to most,—I declare, my hand on my heart, that it does exist! In the souls of the elect, as Proudhon says——

Bellac. A writer whom I am astonished to find myself quoting—I beg your pardons! In the souls of the elect, there is nothing of earth.

Bellac. (Bowing to the Duchess) And yet, it exists. Noble spirits have felt it, great poets sung its praises, and in the seats of Heaven, the apotheosis of our dreams, we see, enshrined about with61 haloes of ethereal brightness, those immortal figures, everlasting proof of an undying and psychic love: Beatrice, Laura——

Bellac. And their sisters of more recent date: Elvira, Eloa, and many others, known and unknown. That cohort of pure and unknown loves, is growing from day to day—I call all womankind to witness!

Bellac. The soul has a language all its own; its aspirations, its pleasures and its tortures belong to it: are its very existence. And if it be chained to the body, it is like the wing of a bird: in order to raise it to the heights!

Bellac. (Rising) This is what modern science ought to take into consideration—(Looking at Saint-Réault) that science which a leaden materialism drags down to earth—I shall add, since our venerable master and friend made an allusion not long since—perhaps a trifle over-hasty—to a loss which science, I hope, will not have to complain of—I shall add—(Looking at Toulonnier, to whom Saint-Réault is speaking) in fine, this is what he should teach to the youth who have been under the guidance of Revel, he—whoever he may be—who will be chosen to carry on the work; and not only (asking the pardon of our illustrious col62league) upon the insufficient authority vested in those who have “acquired the right,” or erudition, or age—ought he to base his claim, but upon the irresistible power of a mind imbued with the spirit of youth and of a fiery ardor which is not to be extinguished!

(Everyone rises. Confused murmurs of conversation. The ladies surround Bellac.)

Mme. de Loudan. How can one be angry with you? (Introducing the Baroness) Madame la baronne de Boines—another conquest! She is at your feet already!

Suzanne. And how warm he is! (Bellac looks for his handkerchief) You haven’t one? Here! (She gives him her handkerchief)

Suzanne. (To Bellac, as he returns her handkerchief) Oh, keep it, I’m going to get you a drink.

Mme. de Loudan. (Going toward the table be63fore which Saint-Réault spoke, upon which is a tray and glasses of sugar-and-water) Here, drink!

Mme. de Loudan. (Arriving with a glass of water) No! Let me! The god must pardon me: I can offer you only water, as the secret of Nectar-making is lost!

Mme. Arriégo. (Arriving with a glass of water) A glass of water, Monsieur Bellac?

Mme. de Loudan. Oh, he’ll choose Lucy, I know!—I’m so jealous!—No, mine! mine!

Suzanne. (Arriving with another glass of water and forcing it upon Bellac) No, no, he’ll take mine! Ha, ha! the fourth thief!

Duchess. At last! (To Madame de Céran) Take away your company—now is your chance!

Mme. de Céran. Come, ladies, our tragedy is about to be read! In the large drawing-room! After the reading we shall take tea in the conservatory.

General. (Still talking with Paul) Ah, yes, Countess, the tragedy!—You are right, one must encourage Art!—Five acts! Oh!

General. (Returning to Paul) Three years, you say, as Sub-prefect in the same place? And they say the government isn’t conservative!

Toulonnier. (To Madame de Loudan) That’s understood, Marquise! (To Madame Arriégo) At your service, my dear madame!

Toulonnier. (Giving him his hand) It is65 merely what is due you; you may count on us! (He goes off)

General. (As he comes down to Paul) And what is the spirit of your Department,3 my dear Sub-prefect? By Jove, you ought to know it, after three years!

Paul. Well, General, its spirit—why, it—the—its spirit—it hasn’t any!! (They go out at the back. As Suzanne passes the piano she runs her hand across the keys, making a terrible noise)

Duchess. (Stopping her and looking into her face) What is the matter with you?

Suzanne. (Stifling a sob) Oh, I feel so badly! (She goes into the large dining-room and slams the door violently after her)

Mme. de Céran. (To the Duchess) But what is the matter? (To Roger) Why aren’t you at work on your report? What has happened? Please?!

Duchess. (To Roger) Keep still! (To Madame de Céran) Listen to this: “I shall arrive Thursday——”

Duchess. You think! You think!—When it comes to accusing a woman,—it’s not enough to “think,” you must see, and when you have seen, and seen and seen again—then, well then, it’s not true anyway! (Aside) It’s good to say these things to the young!

Mme. de Céran. A rendezvous, what did I tell you?! Well, well, what more could be expected of her, after all? And in my house! Like a girl of the streets! Now, Duchess, what are you going67 to do, tell me that? I asked them to begin in there without me, but I can’t wait here all evening! I hear the poet; they’ve begun. Please, what are you going to do?

Duchess. Do? Stay here.—Quarter to ten; if she keeps the appointment she must come through here, and then I’ll see him.

Duchess. If she goes, my dear nephew? Well! I shall go too! And without saying a word, I’ll see where they go. And when I see how matters stand, then and then only, will it be time to act.

Mme. de Céran. It’s useless for you to wait, my dear, we are here. You have your Tumuli, run along! (She urges him to the door)

Roger. Please, mother!—I couldn’t write a line this evening, I am too—I don’t know what—I am very disturbed. My conscience tells me that I have not acted toward that young girl as I ought. I’m very—Think of it, Mother—Suzanne!—It would be awful—! I am in a fearful position.

Roger. I am her tutor; it is my duty to look after her moral welfare!—Think of my responsibility; that child’s honor is in my hands! It is a sacred charge placed in my keeping; if I violate my trust I should be worse than a criminal. And68 then you talk to me about Tumuli! Tumuli! Tumuli! The devil take the Tumuli!

Roger. And I say, if this is true, if that cad has dared take advantage of our hospitality and her innocence, I’m going straight to him and demand a public apology, do you hear?

Mme. de Céran. Oh, I’ll be careful enough; but if she persists, I shall give her my opinion on the subject! I’ll wait. (She sits down)

Duchess. Not long! Five minutes to ten! If she is going to have her headache, it is due about now. (The door at the back swings open slowly) Shhh——

Duchess. Oh, you needn’t say so to be polite; there are seventeen others who feel as you do! (Aside) What can she be up to?—It wasn’t interesting, was it?

Duchess. “Quite the contrary,” as you say to the person who asks you whether it hurt when he stepped on your foot?

Jeanne. Oh, not at all! There were some very interesting things—there was one beautiful line.

Jeanne. “Honor is like a god, a god which—” I’m afraid I misquote it, and spoil the effect.

Duchess. Keep it, my child, keep it! And now you’re running away like this in spite of the beautiful line?

Jeanne. I very much regret having to leave. (Aside) What shall I say? (Brightening) Oh!—it was either that I was so uncomfortable where I was sitting, or because it was so warm—I don’t feel very well!

Duchess. (After a short pause) That’s not surprising: there is an epidemic of headaches.

Duchess. I? No! One doesn’t have them at my age! You must do something for it, my child.

Jeanne. (Holding her head between her hands, and going toward the door) Oh, how it aches! Ah! (Aside) Paul will find an excuse to get away! (She goes out through the door leading to the garden)

Duchess. Possibly; you know how easily one may be mistaken, and one must never—(The door of the drawing-room opens) Ahh, this time!

Duchess. Yes, that’s the one. (The clock strikes ten. Lucy is now at the door) And in spite of that, you are determined to go?

Duchess. Another? No, not this time! Don’t you think so? Then all of them are—! Except Suzanne’s case! Come, now, there’s something in the air. She will not come! I’m willing to wager she won’t come. (The drawing-room door opens suddenly, and through it is heard a voice in the throes of tragic agony) There she is!

Suzanne. (Dropping on to a piano-stool, and abruptly turning to each person who addresses her) Well?

Suzanne. Yes, indeed: Miss Watson, the pink of perfection, the rara avis—she may do as she likes, but I——!

Mme. de Céran. Let me speak to her! But you Mademoiselle, run about the streets alone!

Suzanne. The way Lucy does! I suppose she doesn’t speak to him, does she? And to Monsieur, too! (Indicating Roger)

Suzanne. Let’s not talk about “in private!” When anyone has a secret, he writes it—(Aside to Roger between her teeth) in a disguised hand!

Suzanne. Well, Lucy speaks to whomever she73 likes; Lucy goes out whenever she wants to; Lucy dresses just as she likes. I want to do just like Lucy, because every one loves her!

Mme. de Céran. And do you know why everyone loves her, Mademoiselle? Because, in spite of her plainness—a necessary consequence of her nationality—she is serious, dignified and cultured—

Suzanne. (Rising) And what about me? Haven’t I been all that? For the last six months up to this very evening at five o’clock, I worked hard without resting, and I studied as much as she did; and I learned as much as she did: “objective” and “subjective” and all that! And what good did it all do me? Does anyone love me better for it? Doesn’t everyone always treat me just as if I were a little girl? Everyone!! Everyone!! (Looking sidewise at Roger) Who pays any attention to me? Suzanne, Suzanne!! What does Suzanne count for! And all because I’m not an old English woman!

Suzanne. Yes, defend her! Oh, I know what to do in order to please you! Here! (Taking the Duchess’s lorgnette and putting it up to her eyes and looking through it) How esthetic! Schopenhauer! The Ego, the non-Ego! Et Cetera, nyah! nyah!

Suzanne. Well, what can you expect from a “street gamin” like me! No wonder I don’t behave any better! (A little excited) Of course I misbehave! I do it on purpose and I’ll continue to do it!

Suzanne. I did go out with Monsieur Bellac, and I spoke with Monsieur Bellac, and I have a secret with Monsieur Bellac!

Suzanne. And he knows more than you do! And he’s more of a man than you are! And I like him better than you! I love him! I love him! I love him!

Mme. de Céran. I sincerely hope that you do not realize the gravity of what you are saying!

Mme. de Céran. Then listen to me! Before you commit any more of the follies you are threatening us with, think the matter over! You, least of all, Mademoiselle de Villiers, can afford to have a scandal connected with your name!

Suzanne. (Throwing herself into the Duchess’s arms and crying) Aunt! Aunt!

Duchess. There, there, Suzanne, my child! (To Mme. de Céran) That was considerate of you—to start that here! (To Suzanne) There, there, what is it you know? (She takes Suzanne on her knees)

Suzanne. (Weeping and talking at the same time) W-what? I—I don’t know! But I do know there is something against me—and there has been for a long time!

Suzanne. Nobody, everybody. People look at you and whisper and stop talking when you come into the room and kiss you, and call you poor little75 thing!—If you think children don’t notice those things!

Suzanne. And it was just the same at the convent! I knew I wasn’t like the other girls. Oh, I could see that. They always talked to me about my father and my mother, and why? Because I didn’t have any! And once, during recess, I was playing with a girl!—I don’t remember what I’d done to her—She was furious—and all of a sudden she called me “Miss Foundling!” She didn’t know what it meant, neither did I! Her mother had used the word in speaking about me. She told me afterward, after we had made up.—Oh, I was so unhappy! (Sobbing) We looked the word up in the dictionary, but we didn’t find anything—or we didn’t understand—(Angrily) What did they mean? What have I done that makes me any different from anybody else? That everything I do is bad? Is it my fault?

Suzanne. (Sobbing) Well, then, why does everybody blame me if it isn’t my fault? Here I seem to be in the way! I know I don’t want to stay any longer. I am going! Nobody loves me!

Roger. (Deeply moved) Why do you say that, Suzanne? It’s not so. Everybody here—I——

Suzanne. You!—Go away from me! I hate you and I never want to see you again! Never! Do you hear! (She goes toward the door leading into the garden)

Suzanne. Why? (She comes down to him) Why?? (Looking him in the eye) Why? I have a headache! (All rise. Suzanne goes out)

Roger. Merely to do as my aunt has suggested: get to the bottom of the affair. And I swear if that man—that if it’s true—if he has dared—!

Duchess. If he has, I’ll see that he marries her! (Following Suzanne) Only, if it isn’t true—well, we’ll see! Come! (She tries to make Mme. de Céran go out. Loud applause is heard from the adjoining room; indistinct murmurs of conversation and moving of chairs)

Duchess. What’s that I hear? Another beautiful line? No, it’s the end of the act. Quick, before they come in!!

(They go out. The door at the back opens. Through it are seen guests in groups, with Des Millets in the centre of one.)

Paul. (On the threshold of the door) That act is charming! Don’t you think so, General?

(Paul skilfully maneuvers so that he reaches the door leading to the garden and disappears through it.)

ACT III

Scene: A large conservatory lighted by gas. A tiny fountain playing in the center of a basin; furniture, chairs, clumps of shrubbery; large plants behind which one might easily slip and hide.

(The Duchess and Mme. de Céran enter, right. They look about stealthily and consult together in low tones.)

Duchess. Good! (She walks toward the center of the stage, then pauses) Three headaches!

Mme. de Céran. It’s atrocious that I should be forced to leave the poet to——

Duchess. Oh, well, your poet is reading his poetry! A poet who can read his poems is happy enough!

Mme. de Céran. But Roger’s conduct has disturbed me! I have never seen him act that way. What are you doing there, Aunt?

Mme. de Céran. He is in the garden somewhere—following her, watching for her. What will happen?—Oh, the poor little thing!—Why, Duchess! You are putting out the gas!

Duchess. Heavens, the less we are seen the more we’ll see. Three headaches,—and only one rendezvous! Aren’t you beginning to see, my dear?

Duchess. She? Well, you’ll see! They may come now as soon as they wish: everything’s ready.

Duchess. (Pushing Madame de Céran toward the plant at the right, down-stage) Just in time!—Come!

Duchess. (Hidden) I should think so! There is nothing else to be done but to listen! There! In that corner we’ll be snug as weasels. If it becomes necessary, we can come out, rest assured of that! Has somebody come in?

Paul. (Still in the corner, busied with something) Necessity is the mother of invention!—I’m just inventing a little necessity.

Paul. That! A little burglar alarm I’ve just installed. Yes, a piece of wood in the door-hinge. By this means, if anyone should come—oh, not any one in love,—that would be hardly likely in this place!—but someone who was trying to take refuge here and avoid the tragedy—there wouldn’t be any danger. He gives the door a push, there is a squeak and we—whht!—by the other door, eh? Isn’t that a clever invention? I tell you, we statesmen—! And now, Madame, since we are at last sheltered from the eyes of the world, I shed the responsibilities of the public man; the private citizen reappears, and is ready for the flight of sentiment too long concealed; I now permit you to call me Paul!

Paul. I am good because I am at peace; but, kissing me in the corridors, you know—the way you did when you came to unpack my trunk, that——

Paul. Never again, please! It’s entirely too imprudent for this house!—And what a place! Didn’t I tell you? It’s a shame that in order to become a Prefect one has to yawn himself to death in this palace of boredom!

Paul. (Sits down, then gets up and walks about, agitated) What a house! And the hosts, and the guests, and everybody else! And Madame Arriégo! And that poet! And the Marquise! And that English iceberg! And Roger the wooden man! The Duchess is the only one with any common-sense!

Paul. (Seating himself, and rising again as before) And the lectures and the Literature! And Revel’s candidacy! Clever old fox who keeps dying every evening and coming back to life every morning! (He starts to sit down, then he pauses) And Saint-Réault! Ah! Saint-Réault! And the Ramas-Ravanas and all the clap-trap about Buddha!

Paul. And the other one, he’s a wonder! Bellac of the many conquests, with his Platonic love!!

Paul. And old Phillippe-Auguste with his beautiful verse! Why, everybody has written verse! That’s no reason why he should read it! I’ve done it myself!

Paul. No, to a dentist! “Fill-iad, Or the Art of Filling Teeth.”—Poem in three hundred lines!—Thirty Francs—Listen!

Jeanne. What nonsense you talk! Who would83 ever believe it to see you in the drawing-room! (Imitating him) Ah, yes, Monsieur le sénateur, the tide of democracy—the treaties of 1815—Oh! Oh! OH!

Paul. (Imitating her) “I only did what you suggested!”—Ah, little Miss Saintliness with her little voice! Oh, you filled the Countess full—of Joubert and Latin and Tocqueville—your own manufacture, too!

Jeanne. Well, I don’t feel any remorse—A woman who puts us in separate rooms!

Jeanne. And it’s just horrid of her! Yes, she does it on purpose! A woman knows very well that new-married people always—have things to say to each other.

Paul. What a sweet voice you have! I heard it a little while ago—talking about the treaties of 1815! Soft, sweet, all-enveloping. Ah, the voice is the music of the heart—as Monsieur de Tocqueville says!

Paul. Oh, let me be a little nonsensical, please, dear! I’m so happy here! By Jove, just now I84 don’t care a rap whether I’m Prefect of Carcassonne or not!

Jeanne. It’s always “just now” with me, Monsieur! That’s the difference!

Paul. I have a lot of back accounts to settle before I even begin to collect for the present! When can we get away? Dear little girl, you don’t know how I adore you!

Mme. de Céran. (Going left) Well, it is a fortunate thing that they were interrupted.

Duchess. (Following her) I’m sorry they went—but the funny part is over now!

(Bellac enters right, at the back; Madame de Céran and the Duchess hide themselves, left.)

Duchess. In any case, it’s only a lark, a schoolgirl’s frolic! It can’t be that—(The door squeaks) There she is! Oh, my, how my heart beats! In cases like this, it’s better to be sure; one can never tell. Can you see her?

Mme. de Céran. (Peering out) Yes, it’s she; Roger will be here in a moment, on the lookout for them. Hadn’t we better show ourselves, Duchess?

Duchess. No, no. I want to see where they stand. I want to catch them red-handed.

Mme. de Céran. (Still looking) I’m dying of suspense—Décolletée—It’s certainly she.

Duchess. Oh, the little coquette! Let me see! (She looks through the leaves) What’s that?

(Paul and Jeanne re-enter, and Bellac and Lucy conceal themselves, right. Jeanne is behind Paul, holding him back.)

Paul. Yes, yes! Let me go a second! I want to see! Nobody could be here but lovers, at this hour;—and yet, in this house! No, that would be too much!

Paul. And the Professor—the English girl and the Professor! It’s impossible! Scandal! Would you believe it! An intrigue—a rendezvous! We’ll stay right here and see what happens!

Bellac. Here!—I beg your pardon! The conservatory is usually better lighted—I don’t know why, this evening—(He walks toward her)

Mme. de Céran. (Aside to the Duchess) Lucy!—But what about Suzanne? I’m sure I can’t make it out!

Lucy. But, M. Bellac, what do you mean by this? And your letter this morning? Why did you write me?

Bellac. Because I wanted to talk with you, my dear Miss Lucy. Is this the first time we have left the others and talked, and exchanged ideas?

Paul. (Struggling to control his laughter) Oh, exchange ideas! I never heard it called that before!

Bellac. Surrounded as I am here, what other means had I of speaking with you, alone?

Lucy. What other means? You might simply offer me your arm and leave the room with me. I’m no French girl!

Lucy. I may be in France, but I still do as I please. I have no use for secrets, much less such mysteries as this! You disguise your handwriting, you did not sign your name, you even wrote on pink paper—how French you are!

Bellac. How wonderful you are, austere Muse of Knowledge, superb Polymnia, proud nymph of the cold Pierian Spring—please sit down!

Lucy. No, no! Now see what all your precautions have come to; I have lost that letter!

Bellac. Nor my handwriting, nor my signature. You see I wasn’t so stupid after all! In any case, my intentions were good, my dear Miss Lucy. Forgive your Professor, your friend, and—and—Sit down, please!

Lucy. No! Tell me what you have to tell me with so much secrecy, and we’ll return to the drawing-room!

Bellac. (Detaining her) Wait! Why didn’t you come to my lecture this afternoon?

Lucy. Simply because I spent my time looking for that letter. What have you to say to me now?

Bellac. Are you very anxious to leave me?88 (He gives her a packet of papers tied with a red ribbon) There!

Bellac. Nothing—nothing.—I thought—Read this book in which I have put my inmost thoughts, and you will find that we are in perfect accord, I am sure—except upon one point—Oh, that question——!

Bellac. (Tenderly) Is it possible that you really do not believe in Platonic love?

Bellac. (Playing with the idea) I beg your pardon! More than friendship, better than love!

Lucy. Well, if it’s more than the one and better than the other, then it’s neither! And now, thank you once more; thank you a thousand times! But let us go back, shan’t we? (She starts to go)

Bellac. (Always holding her back) Please wait,89 I beg you!—Two words! Two words! Explain to me, tell me—it’s worth the trouble! Come, Lucy!

Lucy. Come, Bellac! (Becoming animated, as she passes to the right) But see, my friend, listen, M. Bellac—your Platonic love has absolutely no philosophical basis——

Lucy. If it is a fusion, it has no longer an individuality. I’ll explain my meaning! (She seats herself)

Lucy. I deny that any fusion is possible between love, which is based upon indivisibility, and friendship, which is largely composed of sympathy; that is to say, that in which the Ego becomes, in a way, the Non-Ego. I deny absolutely, absolutely——!

Duchess. (To Mme. de Céran) I have often heard people talk about love, but never that way!

Bellac. But, Lucy—Here’s an example: suppose two beings, two abstractions, two entities—any man, any woman,—who love each other, but with an ordinary physiological love—you follow me?

Bellac. Let us suppose these two in the following circumstances; they are alone at night, together—what would happen?

Bellac. Without fail—now pay close attention—without fail, this phenomenon will take place.

Bellac. (Gently holding her) No, no, you’ll see! They gaze fixedly into each other’s eyes, she feels his breath on her cheek, her hair brushes against his face——

Bellac. And then—and then, their Egoes mingle, independently of the Ego itself, an uninterrupted series of involuntary acts which, by a natural succession, progressing slowly and inevitably, hurls them, if I may be permitted the expression, into the maelstrom which, though foreseen, cannot be avoided—in which Reason and Soul are powerless!

Bellac. Listen, listen! Suppose now another couple and another love: a psychological, not a physiological love—an exception; you still follow me?

Bellac. (Bringing her back) Listen to me; there is the slightest shade of difference. Let me illustrate: they too gaze into each other’s eyes and they too——

Bellac. (Making her sit down) But—but—They are oblivious of physical beauty: it is their souls which commune. They no longer hear each other’s voices, but rather the palpitation of their thoughts! And then, finally, by an entirely different process—though springing from the same source—they too arrive at that obscure and turbulent state of mind in which the being is ignorant even of its own existence—a delicious atrophy of the Will which seems the summum and the terminus of human happiness; they leave the earth to awaken in a free Heaven, for their love transports them far above the murky clouds of earthly passion into the pure Ether of the sublimely Ideal! (A pause)

Bellac. (Passionately) Identical?! Oh, Lucy, you are cruel! Identical! You must understand that in this case it is entirely subjective.

Paul. (Who, with Jeanne, comes out from the hiding-place) Platonic love! Ha! Ha!

Duchess. (Leaving her hiding-place; aside) Naughty children! Just wait! (Quietly approaching them)

Paul. Oh, he’s a regular Tartufe,4 with his double-meanings! (Imitating Bellac) “My dear Mademoiselle; Love is a double concept”——

Paul. “But there is the slightest shade of a difference—Let me illustrate”——

Duchess. (Laughing) Ha! Ha! Those ridiculous children! They’re nice, but they deserve a lesson! I have to laugh! Oh—Lucy—think of it!—She’s all right! Ah, well, now do you see how matters stand! Suzanne—the rendezvous—the letter——

Duchess. She thought it was Roger’s letter to Lucy; that is why she was so jealous, so furious!

Duchess. We haven’t come to that yet! Meanwhile, go and take care of your tragic poet, and Revel’s successor! I’ll find your son for you, and see that he gets back his honor! All’s well that ends well! I’m not nervous now, after all this ado about nothing! But now it’s over; let’s go!

Duchess. Who? (Struck with an idea) Oh! (To Mme. de Céran, placing her in a corner, left) Go back to the drawing-room; I’ll tell you later.

Duchess. (Still urging her out) I’ll tell you everything. Quick now, before—— You can’t——

Duchess. Who can it be? Roger, who is spying on Suzanne, or Suzanne, who is spying on Roger? (Looking to the right) Yes, it’s he, my Bartolo—(Looking to the left) And my little jealous girl, who thinks Roger is with Lucy, and who would like to see how things are coming on. That’s it. Headache number three: total quite correct! Oh, if Fortune doesn’t make something out of this, she is insufferably stupid! (Carefully turning down the gas) We need a little added effect!

Suzanne. (Hiding) I knew very well when he had finished walking around the garden he would end here in the conservatory; he couldn’t miss it!

Roger. (As he hides) She’s here, I saw her come in! I knew very well when she had finished walking around the garden she would end here in the conservatory!—Now I know what to expect!

Roger. She’s giving him a signal! Oh, if I only dared, I’d take his place, since he hasn’t come. That’s the way to find out how they feel toward one another!

Suzanne. He thinks I’m Lucy!—Oh, I should like to know what he’d say to her!

Duchess. Ahh!—Good! They’re off! (She disappears behind the plants at the back, left)

Suzanne. (Aside—angrily) Yes, I got your letter! I got it! And you had no idea that I did, either! (To Roger; sweetly) How else should I have come to meet you?

Roger. (Aside) “Meet you”—! This is plain enough!—Oh, the poor child—Now we’ll see!—(To Suzanne) I was so afraid you wouldn’t come, my dear——

Suzanne. (Aside) “My dear!” Oh! (To Roger) And yet you saw me leave the drawing-room a moment ago, my dear!

Roger. (Aside) They’re on very familiar terms, aren’t they? There’s no denying that! I’ve got to96 know! (To Suzanne) Why don’t you come nearer? (He approaches her)

Suzanne. (Aside) Oh, he’ll notice that I’m smaller than Lucy. (She sits down) This way!

Roger. (Aside) Oh-ho! “Very much!” Strange she does take me for Bellac! My voice is nothing like his—well, let’s see how this will come out. (He sits beside her and, turning his back) How good of you to come!—You love me just a little bit dear?

Roger. (Sitting beside her again) Let me be near you, as I used to be! (He takes her hand)

Roger. No, it’s you!—Can it be—? (Aside) We’ll see! (To Suzanne) Are you afraid?

Roger. (Aside, agitated) What? More? Well!—(Aside) Then you’re not afraid?

Roger. (Aside) With—! So the cad has gone as far as that! I’ll get to the bottom of this! It’s my duty! Her moral welfare is in my hands. (To Suzanne) Well! In that case, why do you avoid me? (He draws her to him)

Roger. My poor child! Then it was true? Oh, Suzanne, Suzanne! How you have hurt me!—Well, he’s coming—I’ll wait for him!

Suzanne. I was there when she was asking the servant about it! You don’t mean to say—? And I found it.

Suzanne. Yes, and I knew everything!—Headache, and rendezvous and all that. And I wanted to see; so I came and you took me for her——

Suzanne. (Keeping back her tears) Yes, you! you!—You took me for her, you told her you loved her!—Yes, you did!—Then why did you tell me you didn’t love her? You told me just now—and that you weren’t going to marry her.—Why did you tell me that? You shouldn’t have done that! Marry her if you want;—but you shouldn’t have told me. That wasn’t right—if you loved her—you shouldn’t have—— (Throwing herself in his arms) You shouldn’t have! Oh, don’t marry her! Don’t marry her!

Roger. I swear! It was sent to Lucy by Bellac! Now I understand: you thought—just as I did—— Oh, I see everything now!—Oh, my dear Suzanne, what an awful fright you gave me! It was fearful!

Roger. What about? Oh—it’s absurd—don’t ask—it was base of me. Forgive me, I beg you, forgive me!

Suzanne. Then I don’t understand at all. Only tell me you won’t marry her, and I’ll believe you.

Roger. Of course I won’t. What a child you99 are! Don’t cry, wipe your eyes, my dear Suzanne, there’s nothing to cry about!

Suzanne. (Sobbing) You know how jealous I am. You—you can’t understand that! I saw this evening, when I tried to make you jealous by talking with M. Bellac, that you didn’t seem to care at all. You didn’t care anything about me!

Suzanne. To kill him? (Puts her arms around his neck) How nice you are! Then you thought—?

Roger. Let’s not say any more about that, it’s all over, forgotten, the past is dead. Let’s begin all over again: from my arrival—How are you, Suzanne? How are you, dear? It’s been so long since I’ve seen you! Come to me, dear, the way you used to! (He seats himself with her beside him)

Suzanne. Oh, Roger, how nice you are! What lovely things you say! You love me better than you love her, then?

Roger. (With feeling) Love you! But isn’t it my duty to love you? As a relative, as a tutor, as an honest man? Love you! When I read that letter I don’t know what happened to me—then I understood how deep my feelings were—yes, I love you, my dear child, my divine creature! More than I ever imagined I did! And I want you to know—(Tenderly)—don’t you feel that I love you deeply, dear little Suzanne?

Roger. The way you look at me—I frightened you—you don’t believe me—I’m not used to100—I’m not used to saying tender things, I’m awkward—I don’t know how to say those things—one’s emotions are influenced by maternal training and you know my mother; she has made a dryasdust scientist of me. Science has been my sole preoccupation—You have been my sole distraction—the one ray of sunshine in my dreary youth. You have only me and I have only you—and I, my dear child, whom else have I to love but you?—And I didn’t know! You have charmed me as one is charmed by a child!—With your simplicity, with your grace! I was your teacher, but your pupil as well. While I was nursing your mind to blossom forth into thought, you were planting seeds of tenderness in my heart. I taught you to read, you taught me to—love! It was your tiny pink fingers, the silk of your golden hair that woke my heart to its first kisses! You crept into my heart then, and you have grown now until your soul has filled mine! (Pause) Now do you believe me?

Roger. No, stay, stay! There’s no better place than this. I have so much to tell you. My heart is so full! I don’t know why I tell you all this—It’s true—It’s so good to say these things—Ah, Suzanne—stay! Dear Suzanne—(He holds her)

Suzanne. No, no,—I don’t know. I don’t understand. Please, let’s go away from here!

Duchess. And do you know why? It is because neither of you can see what’s as clear as day! (She turns up the gas) There!

Roger. (Not understanding at first) My bride—Suzanne! (He looks at his aunt, then at Suzanne) Ohh! It’s true,—I love her!

Duchess. (Joyously) Nonsense! Even when it’s as clear as day? (To Suzanne) And how about you?

Duchess. It seemed—that you could see all the time! Women’s eyes are a little better than men’s, eh? That idea of mine to turn down the gas was splendid. So everything’s going nicely now? Well, there is only your mother to see!

Duchess. Oh, it will be a little difficult!—Here102 she is! Here they all come—The whole tragedy! Shh! Not a word! Leave everything in my hands, I’ll take care of it. What’s all this?

(Enter Madame de Céran, des Millets, surrounded by ladies, the General, Bellac, Lucy, Madame de Loudan, Madame Arriégo, Paul and Jeanne; and the others.)

General. Yes, indeed! An excellent line! “The”—how does it go? “Honor is like a god which hath one altar only!”

Saint-Réault. (To his wife, showing her paper) Yes, at six o’clock. Oh, I have M. Toulonnier’s promise!

Mme. de Céran. (Aside) That confirms the103 appointment. Good!—But why—? (Enter Toulonnier) Ah—At last!

Mme. de Céran, Bellac, and Saint-Réault. (Showing the papers) But the papers!

Toulonnier. (Showing his telegram) It will appear in to-morrow’s Official! (To Saint-Réault, sympathetically) Believe me, I feel deeply——!

Duchess. (Aside, looking at Toulonnier) He knew it before he came this evening! He’s a good one—I too have some important news to announce!

Duchess. First, the engagement of our friend, Miss Lucy Watson, to Professor Bellac!

Lucy. None is necessary, because there is nothing to repair! However, my ideas and my inclinations are in perfect harmony. (She gives her hand to Bellac)

Duchess. My fortune and my family name will be hers! My adopted daughter, Mademoiselle Suzanne de Villiers de Réville.

Mme. de Céran. Oh, I’m not saying—and yet—(To Roger) Consider, Roger——

Duchess. (Looking about her) Number two! There remains—(To Paul) Come here, will you? What reparation are you going to make?

Duchess. But, since you didn’t say too much evil of me, I’ll forgive you. You’ll be Prefect——

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FOOTNOTES:

1 A prefect is the officer in charge of the administrative affairs of the Department, one of the ninety-six divisions of France.

2 The “Journal Amusant” is a comic paper, the “Journal des Debats” a very old and conservative organ.

3 Modern France is divided into ninety-seven “Departments” which roughly correspond to the states in the United States.

4 The principal character in Moliere’s famous comedy, “Tartufe,” a hypocrite, whose name has become proverbial.

5 Roger uses the familiar “tu.”

6 She uses the formal “vous.”

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