Chapter XVIII: 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.

MACAIRE. My dear sir, my friend and I, I regret to say, have an appointment in Lyons, or I could spend my life in this society. Charge your glasses: one hour to madness and to joy! What is to-morrow? the enemy of to-day. Wine? the bath of life. One moment: I find I have forgotten my watch. (_He makes for the door_.)

BRIGADIER. Halt!

MACAIRE. Sir, what is this jest?

BRIGADIER. Sentry at the door. Your passports.

MACAIRE. My good man, with all the pleasure in life. (Gives papers. _The_ BRIGADIER _puts on spectacles_, _and examines them_.)

BERTRAND (_rising_, _and passing round to_ MACAIRE’S _other side_). It’s life and death: they must soon find it.

MACAIRE (_aside_). Don’t I know? My heart’s like fire in my body.

BRIGADIER. Your name is?

MACAIRE. It is; one’s name is not unknown.

BRIGADIER. Justice exacts your name.

MACAIRE. Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest.

BRIGADIER. Your profession?

MACAIRE. Gentleman.

BRIGADIER. No, but what is your trade?

MACAIRE. I am an analytical chymist.

BRIGADIER. Justice is inscrutable. Your papers are in order. (_To_ BERTRAND.) Now, sir, and yours?

BERTRAND. I feel kind of ill.

MACAIRE. Bertrand, this gentleman addresses you. He is not one of us; in other scenes, in the gay and giddy world of fashion, one is his superior. But to-day he represents the majesty of law; and as a citizen it is one’s pride to do him honour.

BRIGADIER. Those are my sentiments.

BERTRAND. I beg your pardon, I—(_Gives papers_.)

BRIGADIER. Your name?

BERTRAND. Napoleon.

BRIGADIER. What? In your passport it is written Bertrand.

BERTRAND. It’s this way: I was born Bertrand, and then I took the name of Napoleon, and I mostly always call myself either Napoleon or Bertrand.

BRIGADIER. The truth is always best. Your profession?

BERTRAND. I am an orphan.

BRIGADIER. What the devil! (_To_ MACAIRE.) Is your friend an idiot?

MACAIRE. Pardon me, he is a poet.

BRIGADIER. Poetry is a great hindrance to the ends of justice. Well, take your papers.

MACAIRE. Then we may go?

SCENE IV

_To these_, CHARLES, _who is seen on the gallery_, _going to the door of Number Thirteen_. _Afterwards all the characters but the_ NOTARY _and the_ MARQUIS

BRIGADIER. One glass more. (BERTRAND _touches_ MACAIRE, _and points to_ CHARLES, _who enters Number Thirteen_).

MACAIRE. No more, no more, no more.

BRIGADIER (_rising and taking_ MACAIRE _by the arm_). I stipulate!

MACAIRE. Engagement in Turin!

BRIGADIER. Turin?

MACAIRE. Lyons, Lyons!

BERTRAND. For God’s sake.

BRIGADIER. Well, good-bye!

MACAIRE. Good-bye, good—

CHARLES (_from within_). Murder! Help! (_Appearing_.) Help here! The Marquis is murdered.

BRIGADIER. Stand to the door. A man up there. (_A_ GENDARME _hurries up staircase into Number Thirteen_, CHARLES _following him_. _Enter on both sides of gallery the remaining characters of the piece_, _except the_ NOTARY _and the_ MARQUIS.)

MACAIRE (_aside_). Bitten, by God!

BERTRAND (_aside_). Lost!

BRIGADIER (_to_ DUMONT). John Paul Dumont, I arrest you.

DUMONT. Do your duty, officer. I can answer for myself and my own people.

BRIGADIER. Yes, but these strangers?

DUMONT. They are strangers to me.

MACAIRE. I am an honest man: I stand upon my rights: search me; or search this person, of whom I know too little. (_Smiting his brow_.) By heaven, I see it all! This morning—(_To_ BERTRAND.) How, sir, did you dare to flaunt your booty in my very face? (_To_ BRIGADIER.) He showed me notes; he was up ere day; search him, and you’ll find. There stands the murderer.

BERTRAND. O, Macaire! (_He is seized and searched and the notes are found_.)

BRIGADIER. There is blood upon the notes. Handcuffs. (MACAIRE _edging towards the door_.)

BERTRAND. Macaire, you may as well take the bundle. (MACAIRE _is stopped by sentry_, _and comes front_, _R._)

CHARLES (_re-appearing_). Stop, I know the truth. (_He comes down_.) Brigadier, my father is not dead. He is not even dangerously hurt. He has spoken. There is the would-be assassin.

MACAIRE. Hell! (_He darts across to the staircase_, _and turns on the second step_, _flashing out the knife_.) Back, hounds! (_He springs up the stair_, _and confronts them from the top_.) Fools, I am Robert Macaire! (_As_ MACAIRE _turns to flee_, _he is met by the gendarme coming out of Number Thirteen_; _he stands an instant checked_, _is shot from the stage_, _and falls headlong backward down the stair_. BERTRAND, _with a cry_, _breaks from the gendarmes_, _kneels at his side_, _and raises his head_.)

BERTRAND. Macaire, Macaire, forgive me. I didn’t blab; you know I didn’t blab.

MACAIRE. Sold again, old boy. Sold for the last time; at least, the last time this side death. Death—what is death? (_He dies_.)

* * * * *

CURTAIN

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at the Edinburgh University Press