Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson, page 414
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!
Macaire. One has a heart . . . and yet, Dumont, it can hardly have escaped your penetration that if I were to shift from this hostelry without a farthing, and leave my offspring to wallow — literally — among millions, I should play the part of little better than an ass.
Dumont. But I had thought . . . I had fancied . . .
Macaire. No, Dumont, you had not; do not seek to impose upon my simplicity. What you did think was this, Dumont: for the sake of this noble father, for the sake of this son whom he denies for his own interest — I mean, for his interest — no, I mean, for his own — well, anyway, in order to keep up the general atmosphere of sacrifice and nobility, I must hand over this dowry to the Baron Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest.
(Together: each shaking him by the hand . . .
Dumont. Noble, O noble!
Bertrand. Beautiful, O beautiful!
. . .)
Dumont. Now Charles is rich he needs it not. For whom could it more fittingly be set aside than for his noble father? I will give it you at once.
Bertrand. At once, at once!
Macaire (aside to Bertrand). Hang on. (Aloud.) Charles, Charles, my lost boy! (He falls weeping at L. table. Dumont enters the office, and brings down cash-box to table R. He feels in all his pockets: Bertrand from behind him making signs to Macaire, which the latter does not see.)
Dumont. That’s strange. I can’t find the key. It’s a patent key.
Bertrand (behind Dumont, making signs to Macaire). The key, he can’t find the key.
Macaire. O yes, I remember. I heard it drop. (Drops key.) And here it is before my eyes.
Dumont. That? That’s yours. I saw it drop.
Macaire. I give you my word of honour I heard it fall five minutes back.
Dumont. But I saw it.
Macaire. Impossible. It must be yours.
Dumont. It is like mine, indeed. How came it in your pocket?
Macaire. Bitten. (Aside.)
Bertrand. Sold again (aside) . . . You forget, Baron, it’s the key of my valise; I gave it you to keep in consequence of the hole in my pocket.
Macaire. True, true; and that explains.
Dumont. O, that explains. Now, all we have to do is to find mine. It’s a patent key. You heard it drop.
Macaire. Distinctly.
Bertrand. So I did: distinctly.
Dumont. Here, Aline, Babette, Goriot, Curate, Charles, everybody, come here and look for my key!
SCENE VI
To these with candles, all the former characters, except Fiddlers, Peasants, and Notary. They hunt for the key
Dumont. It’s bound to be here. We all heard it drop.
Marquis (with Bertrand’s bundle). Is this it?
All (with fury). No.
Bertrand. Hands off, that’s my luggage. (Hunt resumed.)
Dumont. I heard it drop, as plain as ever I heard anything.
Marquis. By the way (all start up), what are we looking for?
All (with fury). O!!
Dumont. Will you have the kindness to find my key? (Hunt resumed.)
Curate. What description of a key —
Dumont. A patent, patent, patent, patent key!
Macaire. I have it. Here it is!
All (with relief). Ah!!
Dumont. That? What do you mean? That’s yours.
Macaire. Pardon me.
Dumont. It is.
Macaire. It isn’t.
Dumont. I tell you it is: look at that twisted handle.
Macaire. It can’t be mine, and so it must be yours.
Dumont. It is not. Feel in your pockets. (To the others.) Will you have the kindness to find my patent key?
All. Oh!! (Hunt resumed.)
Macaire. Ah, well, you’re right. (He slips key into Dumont’s pocket.) An idea: suppose you felt in your pocket?
All (rising). Yes! Suppose you did!
Dumont. I will not feel in my pockets. How could it be there? It’s a patent key. This is more than any man can bear. First, Charles is one man’s son, and then he’s another’s, and then he’s nobody’s, and be damned to him! And then there’s my key lost; and then there’s your key! What is your key? Where is your key? Where isn’t it? And why is it like mine, only mine’s a patent? The long and short of it is this: that I’m going to bed, and that you’re all going to bed, and that I refuse to hear another word upon the subject or upon any subject. There!
Macaire (aside). Bitten.
Bertrand (aside). Sold again.
(Aline and Maids extinguish hanging lamps over tables, R. and L. Stage lighted only by guests’ candles.)
Charles. But, sir, I cannot decently retire to rest till I embrace my honoured parent. Which is it to be?
Macaire. Charles, to my —
Dumont. Embrace neither of them; embrace nobody; there has been too much of this sickening folly. To bed!!! (Exit violently R. U. E. All the characters troop slowly upstairs, talking in dumb show. Bertrand and Macaire remain in front C., watching them go.)
Bertrand. Sold again, captain?
Macaire. Ay, they will have it.
Bertrand. It? What?
Macaire. The worst, Bertrand. What is man? a beast of prey. An hour ago, and I’d have taken a crust, and gone in peace. But no: they would trick and juggle, curse them; they would wriggle and cheat! Well, I accept the challenge: war to the knife.
Bertrand. Murder?
Macaire. What is murder? A legal term for a man dying. Call it Fate, and that’s philosophy; call me Providence, and you talk religion. Die? My, that is what man is made for; we are full of mortal parts; we are all as good as dead already, we hang so close upon the brink: touch a button, and the strongest falls in dissolution. Now, see how easy: I take you — (grappling him.)
Bertrand. Macaire — O no!
Macaire. Fool! would I harm a fly, when I had nothing to gain? As the butcher with the sheep, I kill to live; and where is the difference between man and mutton? pride and a tailor’s bill. Murder? I know who made that name — a man crouching from the knife! Selfishness made it — the aggregated egotism called society; but I meet that with a selfishness as great. Has he money? Have I none — great powers, none? Well, then, I fatten and manure my life with his.
Bertrand. You frighten me. Who is it?
Macaire. Mark well. (The Marquis opens the door of Number Thirteen, and the rest, clustering round, bid him good-night. As they begin to disperse along the gallery he enters and shuts the door.) Out, out, brief candle! That man is doomed.
Drop
ACT III
SCENE I
Macaire, Bertrand
As the curtain rises, the stage is dark and empty. Enter Macaire, L. U. E., with lantern. He looks about
Macaire (calling off). S’st!
Bertrand (entering L. U. E.). It’s creeping dark.
Macaire. Blinding dark; and a good job.
Bertrand. Macaire, I’m cold; my very hair’s cold.
Macaire. Work, work will warm you: to your keys.
Bertrand. No, Macaire, it’s a horror. You not kill him; let’s have no bloodshed.
Macaire. None: it spoils your clothes. Now, see: you have keys and you have experience; up that stair, and pick me the lock of that man’s door. Pick me the lock of that man’s door.
Bertrand. May I take the light?
Macaire. You may not. Go. (Bertrand mounts the stairs, and is seen picking the lock of Number Thirteen.) The earth spins eastward, and the day is at the door. Yet half an hour of covert, and the sun will be afoot, the discoverer, the great policeman. Yet, half an hour of night, the good, hiding, practicable night; and lo! at a touch the gas-jet of the universe turned on; and up with the sun gets the providence of honest people, puts off his night-cap, throws up his window, stares out of house — and the rogue must skulk again till dusk. Yet half an hour and, Macaire, you shall be safe and rich. If yon fool — my fool — would but miscarry, if the dolt within would hear and leap upon him, I could intervene, kill both, by heaven — both! — cry murder with the best, and at one stroke reap honour and gold. For, Bertrand dead —
Bertrand (from above). S’st, Macaire!
Macaire. Is it done, dear boy? Come down. (Bertrand descends.) Sit down beside this light: this is your ring of safety, budge not beyond — the night is crowded with hobgoblins. See ghosts and tremble like a jelly if you must; but remember men are my concern; and at the creak of a man’s foot, hist! (Sharpening his knife upon his sleeve.) What is a knife? A plain man’s sword.
Bertrand. Not the knife, Macaire; O, not the knife!
Macaire. My name is Self-Defence. (He goes upstairs and enters Number Thirteen.)
Bertrand. He’s in. I hear a board creak. What a night, what a night! Will he hear him? O Lord, my poor Macaire! I hear nothing, nothing. The night’s as empty as a dream: he must hear him; he cannot help but hear him; and then — O Macaire, Macaire, come back to me. It’s death, and it’s death, and it’s death. Red, red: a corpse. Macaire to kill, Macaire to die? I’d rather starve, I’d rather perish, than either: I’m not fit, I’m not fit, for either! Why, how’s this? I want to cry. (A stroke, and groan from above.) God Almighty, one of them’s gone! (He falls with his head on table, R. Macaire appears at the top of the stairs, descends, comes airily forward and touches him on the shoulder. Bertrand, with a cry, turns and falls upon his neck.) O, O, and I thought I had lost him. (Day breaking.)
Macaire. The contrary, dear boy. (He produces notes.)
Bertrand. What was it like?
Macaire. Like? Nothing. A little blood, a dead man.
Bertrand. Blood! . . . Dead! He falls at table sobbing. Macaire divides the notes into two parts; on the smaller he wipes the bloody knife, and folding the stains inward, thrusts the notes into Bertrand’s face.)
Macaire. What is life without the pleasures of the table!
Bertrand (taking and pocketing notes). Macaire, I can’t get over it.
Macaire. My mark is the frontier, and at top speed. Don’t hang your jaw at me. Up, up, at the double; pick me that cash-box; and let’s get the damned house fairly cleared.
Bertrand. I can’t. Did he bleed much?
Macaire. Bleed? Must I bleed you? To work, or I’m dangerous.
Bertrand. It’s all right, Macaire; I’m going.
Macaire. Better so: an old friend is nearly sacred. (Full daylight: lights up. Macaire blows out lantern.)
Bertrand. Where’s the key?
Macaire. Key? I tell you to pick it.
Bertrand (with the box). But it’s a patent lock. Where is the key? You had it.
Macaire. Will you pick that lock?
Bertrand. I can’t: it’s a patent. Where’s the key?
Macaire. If you will have it, I put it back in that old ass’s pocket.
Bertrand. Bitten, I think. (Macaire dancing mad.)
SCENE II
To these, Dumont
Dumont. Ah, friends, up so early? Catching the worm, catching the worm?
(Sitting on the table dissembling box and dissembling box . . .
Macaire. Good-morning, good-morning!
Bertrand. Early birds, early birds.
. . . )
Dumont. By the way, very remarkable thing: I found the key.
Macaire. No!
Bertrand. O!
Dumont. Perhaps a still more remarkable thing: it was my key that had the twisted handle.
Macaire. I told you so.
Dumont. Now, what we have to do is to get the cash-box. Hallo! what’s that your sitting on?
Bertrand. Nothing.
Macaire. The table! I beg your pardon.
Dumont. Why, it’s my cash-box!
Macaire. Why, so it is!
Dumont. It’s very singular.
Macaire. Diabolishly singular.
Bertrand. Early worms, early worms!
Dumont (blowing in key). Well, I suppose you are still willing to begone?
Macaire. More than willing, my dear soul: pressed, I may say, for time; for though it had quite escaped my memory, I have an appointment in Turin with a lady of title.
Dumont (at box). It’s very odd. (Blows its key.) It’s a singular thing (blowing), key won’t turn. It’s a patent. Some one must have tampered with the lock (blowing). It’s strangely singular, it’s singularly singular! I’ve shown this key to commercial gentlemen all the way from Paris: they never saw a better key! (more business). Well (giving it up and looking reproachfully on key), that’s pretty singular.
Macaire. Let me try. (He tries, and flings down the key with a curse.) Bitten.
Bertrand. Sold again.
Dumont (picking up key). It’s a patent key.
Macaire (to Bertrand). The game’s up: we must save the swag. (To Dumont.) Sir, since your key, on which I invoke the blight of Egypt, has once more defaulted, my feelings are unequal to a repetition of yesterday’s distress, and I shall simply pad the hoof. From Turin you shall receive the address of my banker, and may prosperity attend your ventures. (To Bertrand.) Now, boy! (To Dumont.) Embrace my fatherless child! farewell! (Macaire and Bertrand turn to go off and are met in the door by the Gendarmes.)
SCENE III
To these, the Brigadier and Gendarmes
Brigadier. Let no man leave the house.
Macaire (aside). Bitten.
Bertrand (aside). Sold again.
Dumont. Welcome, old friend!
Brigadier. It is not the friend that comes; it is the Brigadier. Summon your guests: I must investigate their passports. I am in pursuit of a notorious malefactor, Robert Macaire.
Dumont. But I was led to believe that both Macaire and his accomplice had been arrested and condemned.
Brigadier. They were, but they have once more escaped for the moment, and justice is indefatigable. (He sits at table R.) Dumont, a bottle of white wine.
Macaire (to Dumont). My excellent friend, I will discharge your commission, and return with all speed. (Going.)
Brigadier. Halt!
Macaire (returning: as if he saw Brigadier for the first time). Ha? a member of the force? Charmed, I’m sure. But you misconceive me: I return at once, and my friend remains behind to answer for me.
Brigadier. Justice is insensible to friendship. I shall deal with you in due time. Dumont, that bottle.
Macaire. Sir, my friend and I, who are students of character, would grasp the opportunity to share and — may one add? — to pay the bottle. Dumont, three!
Bertrand. For God’s sake! (Enter Aline and Maids.)
Macaire. My friend is an author: so, in a humbler way, am I. Your knowledge of the criminal classes naturally tempts one to pursue so interesting an acquaintance.
Brigadier. Justice is impartial. Gentlemen, your health.
Macaire. Will not these brave fellows join us?
Brigadier. They are on duty; but what matters?
Macaire. My dear sir, what is duty? duty is my eye.
Brigadier (solemnly). And Betty Martin. (Gendarmes sit at table.)
Macaire (to Bertrand). Dear friend, sit down.
Bertrand (sitting down). O Lord!
Brigadier (to Macaire). You seem to be a gentleman of considerable intelligence.
Macaire. I fear, sir, you flatter. One has lived, one has loved, and one remembers: that is all. One’s Lives of Celebrated Criminals has met with a certain success, and one is ever in quest of fresh material.
Dumont. By the way, a singular thing about my patent key.
Brigadier. This gentleman is speaking.
Macaire. Excellent Dumont! he means no harm. This Macaire is not personally known to you?
Brigadier. Are you connected with justice?
Macaire. Ah, sir, justice is a point above a poor author.
Brigadier (with glass). Justice is the very devil.
