Chapter XVII: Act III

_As the curtain rises, the Stage is dark and empty. Enter MACAIRE,
L.U.E., with lantern. He looks about_

SCENE I

MACAIRE, BERTRAND

MACAIRE (_calling off_). S'st!

BERTRAND (_entering L.U.E._). It's creeping dark.

MACAIRE. Blinding dark; and a good job.

BERTRAND. Macaire, I'm cold; my very hair's cold.

MACAIRE. Work, work will warm you: to your keys.

BERTRAND. No, Macaire, it's a horror. You'll not kill him; let's have no bloodshed.

MACAIRE. None: it spoils your clothes. Now, see: you have keys and you have experience: up that stair and pick me the lock of that man's door. Pick me the lock of that man's door.

BERTRAND. May I take the light?

MACAIRE. You may not. Go. (_BERTRAND mounts the stairs and is seen picking the lock of Number Thirteen._) The earth spins eastward, and the day is at the door. Yet half an hour of covert, and the sun will be afoot, the discoverer, the great policeman. Yet half an hour of night, the good, hiding, practicable night; and lo! at a touch the gas-jet of the universe turned on; and up with the sun gets the providence of honest people, puts off his nightcap, throws up his window, stares out of house--and the rogue must skulk again till dusk. Yet half an hour and, Macaire, you shall be safe and rich. If yon fool--my fool--would but miscarry, if the dolt within would hear and leap upon him, I could intervene, kill both, by heaven--both!--cry murder with the best, and at one stroke reap honour and gold. For, Bertrand dead----

BERTRAND (_from above_). S'st, Macaire.

MACAIRE. Is it done, dear boy? Come down. (_BERTRAND descends._) Sit down beside this light: this is your ring of safety, budge not beyond--the night is crowded with hobgoblins. See ghosts and tremble like a jelly if you must; but remember men are my concern; and at the creak of a man's foot, hist! (_Sharpening his knife upon his sleeve._) What is a knife? A plain man's sword.

BERTRAND. Not the knife, Macaire; O, not the knife.

MACAIRE. My name is Self-Defence. (_He goes upstairs and enters Number Thirteen._)

BERTRAND. He's in. I hear a board creak. What a night, what a night! Will he hear him? O Lord, my poor Macaire! I hear nothing, nothing. The night's as empty as a dream: he must hear him; he cannot help but hear him; and then--O Macaire, Macaire, come back to me. It's death, and it's death, and it's death. Red, red: a corpse. Macaire to kill, Macaire to die? I'd rather starve, I'd rather perish, than either: I'm not fit, I'm not fit for either! Why, how's this? I want to cry. (_A stroke, and a groan from above._) God Almighty, one of them's gone! (_He falls with his head on table, R. MACAIRE appears at the top of the stairs, descends, comes airily forward and touches him on the shoulder. BERTRAND, with a cry, turns, and falls upon his neck._) O, O, and I thought I had lost him. (_Day breaking._)

MACAIRE. The contrary, dear boy. (_He produces notes._)

BERTRAND. What was it like?

MACAIRE. Like? Nothing. A little blood, a dead man.

BERTRAND. Blood!... Dead! (_He falls at table sobbing. MACAIRE divides the notes into two parts; on the smaller he wipes the bloody knife, and folding the stains inward, thrusts the notes into BERTRAND'S face._)

MACAIRE. What is life without the pleasures of the table?

BERTRAND (_taking and pocketing notes_). Macaire, I can't get over it.

MACAIRE. My mark is the frontier, and at top speed. Don't hang your jaw at me. Up, up, at the double; pick me that cash-box; and let's get the damned house fairly cleared.

BERTRAND. I can't. Did he bleed much?

MACAIRE. Bleed? Must I bleed you? To work, or I'm dangerous.

BERTRAND. It's all right, Macaire; I'm going.

MACAIRE. Better so: an old friend is nearly sacred. (_Full daylight: lights up. MACAIRE blows out lantern._)

BERTRAND. Where's the key?

MACAIRE. Key? I tell you to pick it.

BERTRAND (_with the box_). But it's a patent lock. Where is the key? You had it.

MACAIRE. Will you pick that lock?

BERTRAND. I can't; it's a patent. Where's the key?

MACAIRE. If you will have it, I put it back in that old ass's pocket.

BERTRAND. Bitten, I think. (_MACAIRE dancing mad._)

SCENE II

_To these, DUMONT_

DUMONT. Ah, friends, up so early? Catching the worm, catching the worm?

MACAIRE. Good morning, good morning! \ > _Both sitting on the table and BERTRAND. Early birds, early birds. / dissembling box._

DUMONT. By the way, very remarkable thing: I found that key.

MACAIRE. No!

BERTRAND. O!

DUMONT. Perhaps a still more remarkable thing: it was my key that had the twisted handle.

MACAIRE. I told you so.

DUMONT. Now, what we have to do is to get the cash-box. Hallo! what's that you're sitting on?

BERTRAND. Nothing.

MACAIRE. The table! I beg your pardon.

DUMONT. Why, it's my cash-box!

MACIARE. Why, so it is!

DUMONT. It's very singular.

MACAIRE. Diabolishly singular.

BERTRAND. Early worms, early worms!

DUMONT (_blowing in key_). Well, I suppose you are still willing to begone?

MACAIRE. More than willing, my dear soul: pressed, I may say, for time; for though it had quite escaped my memory, I have an appointment in Turin with a lady of title.

DUMONT (_at box_). It's very odd. (_Blows in key._) It's a singular thing (_blowing_), key won't turn. It's a patent. Someone must have tampered with the lock (_blowing_). It's strangely singular, it's singularly singular! I've shown this key to commercial gentlemen all the way from Paris: they never saw a better key! (_more business_). Well, (_giving it up and looking reproachfully on key_,) that's pretty singular.

MACAIRE. Let me try. (_He tries, and flings down the key with a curse._) Bitten!

BERTRAND. Sold again!

DUMONT (_picking up key_). It's a patent key.

Macaire (_to BERTRAND_). The game's up: we must save the swag. (_To DUMONT._) Sir, since your key, on which I invoke the blight of Egypt, has once more defaulted, my feelings are unequal to a repetition of yesterday's distress, and I shall simply pad the hoof. From Turin you shall receive the address of my banker, and may prosperity attend your ventures. (_To BERTRAND._) Now, boy! (_To DUMONT._) Embrace my fatherless child! farewell! (_MACAIRE and BERTRAND turn to go off, and are met in the door by the GENDARMES._)

SCENE III

_To these, the BRIGADIER and GENDARMES_

BRIGADIER. Let no man leave the house.

MACAIRE. Bitten! \ > _Aside._ BERTRAND. Sold again! /

DUMONT. Welcome, old friend!

BRIGADIER. It is not the friend that comes; it is the Brigadier. Summon your guests; I must investigate their passports. I am in pursuit of a notorious malefactor, Robert Macaire.

DUMONT. But I was led to believe that both Macaire and his accomplice had been arrested and condemned.

BRIGADIER. They were, but they have once more escaped for the moment, and justice is indefatigable. (_He sits at table, R._) Dumont, a bottle of white wine.

MACAIRE (_to DUMONT_). My excellent friend, I will discharge your commission, and return with all speed. (_Going._)

BRIGADIER. Halt!

MACAIRE (_returning: as if he saw BRIGADIER for the first time_). Ha! a member of the force? Charmed, I'm sure. But you misconceive me: I return, at once, and my friend remains behind to answer for me.

BRIGADIER. Justice is insensible to friendship. I shall deal with you in due time. Dumont, that bottle.

MACAIRE. Sir, my friend and I, who are students of character, would grasp the opportunity to share and--may one add?--to pay the bottle. Dumont, three!

BERTRAND. For God's sake! (_Enter ALINE and MAIDS._)

MACAIRE. My friend is an author: so, in a humbler way, am I. Your knowledge of the criminal classes naturally tempts one to pursue so interesting an acquaintance.

BRIGADIER. Justice is impartial. Gentlemen, your health.

MACAIRE. Will not these brave fellows join us?

BRIGADIER. They are on duty; but what matters?

MACAIRE. My dear sir, what is duty? duty is my eye.

BRIGADIER (_solemnly_). And Betty Martin. (_GENDARMES sit at table._)

MACAIRE (_to BERTRAND_). Dear friend, sit down.

BERTRAND (_sitting down_). O Lord!

BRIGADIER (_to MACAIRE_). You seem to be a gentleman of considerable intelligence.

MACAIRE. I fear, sir, you flatter. One has lived, one has loved, and one remembers: that is all. One's "Lives of Celebrated Criminals" has met with a certain success, and one is ever in quest of fresh material.

DUMONT. By the way, a singular thing about my patent key.

BRIGADIER. This gentleman is speaking.

MACAIRE. Excellent Dumont! he means no harm. This Macaire is not personally known to you?

BRIGADIER. Are you connected with justice?

MACAIRE. Ah, sir, justice is a point above a poor author.

BRIGADIER (_with glass_). Justice is the very devil.

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

BRIGADIER. Halt!

MACAIRE. Sir, what is this jest?

BRIGADIER. Sentry at the door. Your passports.

MACAIRE. My good man, with all the pleasure in life. (_Gives papers. The BRIGADIER puts on spectacles and examines them._)

BERTRAND (_rising and passing round to MACAIRE'S other side_). It's life and death: they must soon find it.

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

BRIGADIER. Your name is?

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

BRIGADIER. Justice exacts your name.

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

BRIGADIER. Your profession?

MACAIRE. Gentleman.

BRIGADIER. No, but what is your trade?

MACAIRE. I am an analytical chemist.

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

BERTRAND. I feel kind of ill.

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

BRIGADIER. Those are my sentiments.

BERTRAND. I beg your pardon, I----(_Gives papers._)

BRIGADIER. Your name?

BERTRAND. Napoleon.

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

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

BRIGADIER. The truth is always best. Your profession?

BERTRAND. I am an orphan.

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

MACAIRE. Pardon me, he is a poet.

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

MACAIRE. Then we may go?

SCENE IV

_To these, CHARLES, who is seen on the gallery going to the door of
Number Thirteen. Afterwards all the characters but the NOTARY and the
MARQUIS._

BRIGADIER. One glass more. (_BERTRAND touches MACAIRE, and points to CHARLES, who enters Number Thirteen._)

MACAIRE. No more, no more, no more.

BRIGADIER (_rising and taking MACAIRE by the arm_). I stipulate.

MACAIRE. Engagement in Turin!

BRIGADIER. Turin?

MACAIRE. Lyons, Lyons!

BERTRAND. For God's sake ...

BRIGADIER. Well, good-bye!

MACAIRE. Good-bye, good----

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

BRIGADIER. Stand to the door. A man up there. (_A GENDARME hurries up staircase into Number Thirteen, CHARLES following him. Enter on both sides of gallery the remaining characters of the piece, except the NOTARY and the MARQUIS._)

MACAIRE. Bitten, by God! \ > _Aside._ BERTRAND. Lost! /

BRIGADIER (_to DUMONT_). John Paul Dumont, I arrest you.

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

BRIGADIER. Yes, but these strangers?

DUMONT. They are strangers to me.

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

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

BRIGADIER. There is blood upon the notes. Handcuffs. (_MACAIRE edging towards the door._)

BERTRAND. Macaire, you may as well take the bundle. (_MACAIRE is stopped by sentry, and comes front, R._)

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

MACAIRE. Hell! (_He darts across to the staircase, and turns on the second step, flashing out the knife._) Back, hounds! (_He springs up the stair, and confronts them from the top._) Fools, I am Robert Macaire! (_As MACAIRE turns to flee, he is met by the Gendarme coming out of Number Thirteen; he stands an instant checked, is shot from the stage, and falls headlong backward down the stair. BERTRAND, with a cry, breaks from the Gendarmes, kneels at his side, and raises his head._)

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

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

CURTAIN

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