Chapter III: Part 3

THE FATHER. Well, we can see enough here; there is the light from outside.

THE GRANDFATHER. Is it light outside?

THE FATHER. Lighter than here.

THE UNCLE. For my part, I would as soon talk in the dark.

THE FATHER. So would I. [_Silence._]

THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me the clock makes a great deal of noise....

THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. That is because we are not talking any more, grandfather.

THE GRANDFATHER. But why are you all silent?

THE UNCLE. What do you want us to talk about?--You are really very peculiar to-night.

THE GRANDFATHER. Is it very dark in this room?

THE UNCLE. There is not much light. [_Silence._]

THE GRANDFATHER. I do not feel well, Ursula; open the window a little.

THE FATHER. Yes, child; open the window a little. I begin to feel the want of air myself. [_The girl opens the window._]

THE UNCLE. I really believe we have stayed shut up too long.

THE GRANDFATHER. Is the window open?

THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather; it is wide open.

THE GRANDFATHER. One would not have thought it was open; there was not a sound outside.

THE DAUGHTER. No, grandfather; there is not the slightest sound.

THE FATHER. The silence is extraordinary!

THE DAUGHTER. One could hear an angel tread!

THE UNCLE. That is why I do not like the country.

THE GRANDFATHER. I wish I could hear some sound. What o'clock is it, Ursula?

THE DAUGHTER. It will soon be midnight, grandfather. [_Here the Uncle begins to pace up and down the room._]

THE GRANDFATHER. Who is that walking round us like that?

THE UNCLE. Only I! only I! Do not be frightened! I want to walk about a little. [_Silence._]--But I am going to sit down again;--I cannot see where I am going. [_Silence._]

THE GRANDFATHER. I wish I were out of this place.

THE DAUGHTER. Where would you like to go, grandfather?

THE GRANDFATHER. I do not know where--into another room, no matter where! no matter where!

THE FATHER. Where could we go?

THE UNCLE. It is too late to go anywhere else. [_Silence. They are sitting, motionless, round the table._]

THE GRANDFATHER. What is that I hear, Ursula?

THE DAUGHTER. Nothing, grandfather; it is the leaves falling.--Yes, it is the leaves falling on the terrace.

THE GRANDFATHER. Go and shut the window, Ursula.

THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather. [_She shuts the window, comes back, and sits down._]

THE GRANDFATHER. I am cold. [_Silence. The Three Sisters kiss each other._] What is that I hear now?

THE FATHER. It is the three sisters kissing each other.

THE UNCLE. It seems to me they are very pale this evening. [_Silence._]

THE GRANDFATHER. What is that I hear now, Ursula?

THE DAUGHTER. Nothing, grandfather; it is the clasping of my hands. [_Silence._]

THE GRANDFATHER. And that?...

THE DAUGHTER. I do not know, grandfather ... perhaps my sisters are trembling a little?...

THE GRANDFATHER. I am afraid, too, my children. [_Here a ray of moonlight penetrates through a corner of the stained glass, and throws strange gleams here and there in the room. A clock strikes midnight; at the last stroke there is a very vague sound, as of some one rising in haste._]

THE GRANDFATHER [_shuddering with peculiar horror_]. Who is that who got up?

THE UNCLE. No one got up!

THE FATHER. I did not get up!

THE THREE DAUGHTERS. Nor I!--Nor I!--Nor I!

THE GRANDFATHER. Some one got up from the table!

THE UNCLE. Light the lamp!... [_Cries of terror are suddenly heard from the child's room, on the right; these cries continue, with gradations of horror, until the end of the scene._]

THE FATHER. Listen to the child!

THE UNCLE. He has never cried before!

THE FATHER. Let us go and see him!

THE UNCLE. The light! The light! [_At this moment, quick and heavy steps are heard in the room on the left.--Then a deathly silence.--They listen in mute terror, until the door of the room opens slowly; the light from it is cast into the room where they are sitting, and the Sister of Mercy appears on the threshold, in her black garments, and bows as she makes the sign of the cross, to announce the death of the wife. They understand, and, after a moment of hesitation and fright, silently enter the chamber of death, while the Uncle politely steps aside on the threshold to let the three girls pass. The blind man, left alone, gets up, agitated, and feels his way round the table in the darkness._]

THE GRANDFATHER. Where are you going?--Where are you going?--The girls have left me all alone!

[_Curtain._]

INTERLUDE

BY FEDERICO MORE
TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY AUDREY ALDEN.

Copyright, 1920, by Stewart & Kidd Company. All rights reserved.

PERSONS

THE MARQUISE.
THE POET.

Application for permission to produce INTERLUDE must be addressed to
Pierre Loving, in care of Messrs. Stewart & Kidd Co., Cincinnati,
Ohio.

INTERLUDE

BY FEDERICO MORE

_Scene:_ A Salon.

MARQUISE [_entering_].

It is chic yet full of peril to be a marquise, betrothed
And on the brim of nineteen, with two whole years'
Devotion at the convent behind her. Well may the man
I am to marry place his faith in me.
And yet, I am obsessed with the sweet indecision
Of having met a poet who will shrive me in verse,
Drape my life with the vigor of his youth
Yet never kiss me.

POET [_entering_].

I was looking for you, madame.

MARQUISE.

Well, here I am.

POET.

Does the dance tire you or the music displease?

MARQUISE.

It has never before displeased me, and yet--now--

POET.

In a life
Happy as yours, joy is reborn,
Your moods are versatile, and charming, marquise....
Bad humor de luxe ... perhaps mere caprice....

MARQUISE.

Perhaps mere caprice ... perhaps; but I am prey
To something more profound, something warmer....

POET.

Have I not told you
That in happy lives such as your high-placed life
There is nothing of ennui, nothing to lead astray,
Nothing to spur you on, nothing to unfold,
Nor any dim wraith stalking by your side?

MARQUISE.

Ah, you have uttered my thought. I feel as though a ghost walked with
me.

POET.

And I could almost swear
You do not feel your grief molded as the phantom wills.

MARQUISE.

I do feel it. There is a spell,
An echo from afar.

POET.

Nerves ... the dance ... fatigue!
Too many perfumes ... too many mirrors....

MARQUISE.

And the lack of a voice I love.

POET.

Oh do not be romantic. Don't distort life.
Romance has always proved an evil scourge.

MARQUISE.

But you, a poet ... are not you romantic?

POET.

I? Never.

MARQUISE.

Then how do you write your verse?

POET.

I make poems
The way your seamstresses make your dresses.

MARQUISE.

With a pattern and a measure?

POET.

With a pattern and a measure.

MARQUISE.

Impossible! Poets give tongue to truth sublime.

POET.

Pardon, marquise, but it is folly
To think that poems are something more than needles
On which to thread the truth.

MARQUISE.

Truly, are they no more than that?

POET.

Ephemeral and vain, in this age
Poetry is woven of agile thought.

MARQUISE.

What of the sort that weeps and yearns most woe-begone?
Poignancy that is the ending of a poem?

POET.

All that
Is reached with the noble aid of a consonant
As great love is reached with a kiss.

MARQUISE.

And what of the void in which my soul is lost
Since no one, poet ... no one cries his need for me....

POET.

Do not say that, marquise. I can assure you....

MARQUISE.

That I am a motif for a handful of consonants?

POET.

Nonsense! I swear it by your clear eyes....

MARQUISE.

Comparable, I suppose, in verse to two clear diamonds....

POET.

You scoff, but love is very serious....

MARQUISE.

Love serious, poet? A betrothal, it may be, is serious,
Arranged by grave-faced parents with stately rites;
Yawns are serious and so is repletion.

POET.

But tell me, whence comes this deep cynicism?

MARQUISE.

Oh, do not take it ill. I say it but in jest,
Merely because I like to laugh at the abyss,
What do you think, poet?

POET.

Well, marquise, I must confess
That I am capable of feeling various loves.

MARQUISE.

Then you were born for various women.

POET.

No, I was born for various sorrows.

MARQUISE.

Or, by the same token, for various pleasures.

POET.

Sheer vanity! Women always presume
That their mere earthly presence gives men pleasure.

MARQUISE.

You are clear-witted
And a pattern of such good common-sense.
Who would believe
That a poet, dabbler in every sort of folly,
May turn discreet when mysterious love beckons?

POET.

Mysterious love? Marquise, that is not so.... Love has abandons
Irrestrainable.

MARQUISE.

And shame restrains them.

POET.

But what has shame to do with poetry?
It has no worth, it is a social value,
Value of a marquise, par excellence.

MARQUISE.

None the less, shame is a resigned and subtle justice,
The justice of women, poet.

POET.

Which is no justice at all.

MARQUISE.

Poet, the stones you throw
In your defeat, will fall upon your head.

POET.

That is my destiny. Your rising sun
Can never know the splendor of my sun that sets.

MARQUISE.

The fault is nowise mine....

POET.

True.... I am insane
And a madman is insane, marquise, although he reason.

MARQUISE.

Oh, reason, poet. I would convince you
That even a marquise may be sincere.

POET.

And I, my lady, I would fain believe it.

MARQUISE.

Believe it then, I beg of you.

POET.

But there is this:
A marquise might also lose her head.

MARQUISE.

True she might lose her head ... but for a rhyme?

POET.

Which, no matter how true, will always be a lie.

[_Pause._]

MARQUISE.

But why did you protest against my skepticism?

POET.

I riddled your words, but protested for myself.

MARQUISE.

So vain a reason, and so selfish?

POET.

A prideful reason.... I stand aghast before the abyss.

MARQUISE.

I see that all your love has been in verse.

POET.

No, marquise, but life
Cradles crude truths which the poet disdains.

MARQUISE.

And amiable truths which passion passes by.

POET.

But about which the dreamer's world revolves.

MARQUISE.

I do not dream, I wish....

POET.

I know well what I wish....

MARQUISE.

Well then, we wish that it should not be merely a consonant.

POET.

No, rather that it should be poetry.

MARQUISE.

Suppose that it were so, would it content you?

POET.

It is enough for me, and yet I fear
That this pale poetry, untried, unlived,
Can have no driving urge.

MARQUISE.

Why then should we refuse to live it?

POET.

I shall tell you. It is not in high-born taste
To trifle with a heart.
The love of a marquise is the problematic
Love of elegance and froth,
And like other love a sort of mathematic
Love of addition, subtraction and division.
It is not rude passion, fierce, emphatic,
Song and orchestral counterpoint of life.
It is what the world would name platonic,
Love without fire, without virility,
With nothing of creation, nothing tonic,
One-step love, love of society.
And I will have none of this love sardonic,
None of its desperate futility.

MARQUISE.

I do not fear you though you are a poet,
And I say things to you, no other ears would endure.
You were not born, poor anchorite,
To say to a woman: "Be mine."
And such is your secret vanity,
You are a servile vassal of your own Utopia.
You pretend to transform women
Into laurel branches meaningless,
And with your cynic's blare
You thread upon the needle of your pride
Dregs from the utter depths of the abyss.

POET.

Marquise, a poet's love has led you astray.

MARQUISE.

Oh, don't be vain and fanciful. I swear
That in my placid life, happiness brings no joy.
What I longed for was a love, profound and mature,
The profound love of a poet come to being,
And not the incongruities of adolescence in verse....
The radiant synthesis of a pungent existence
And not the disloyalties of a dispersed dream.
What woman has not dreamed of loving a poet
Who would be conqueror and conquered all in one?
What woman has not wished to be humble and forgiving
With the man who sings the great passions he has known?
We need you poets.... We are tormented by the desire
Of a harmonious life, filled with deep sound,
With the vigor and strength of wine poured out
Into bowls of truths, deep with the depth of death.
We crave no water, lymphatic, pure,
In glasses of wind, frail as life.
Better the vintage of the rich
Served in vile glasses of gold. And if the mind be coarse,
Perchance the hands will glitter with many stones.
And if I may not have a fragrant and well-ordered nest
Filled with clear rhythm and little blond heads,
Then let me have my palace where luxurious pleasure
Lends to love of earth, grief and deep dismay.
Why do you not love living, poets? Why is it,
The dullard who nor loves nor lives poaches your kisses?

POET.

I do not comprehend, marquise. Why love living,
If that is to live loving? We know that life and love
Are wings forever fledging out
In a bird neither swan nor hawk.
I am resigned to my unequal destiny, for I know
That my two eyes cannot perceive the same color.
For even when there is calm, anxiety arises
And then, I am not master, not even of my pain.
I would be your friend, but there are obstacles,
Captious dynamics, that put a check upon my words.
I yield to the dumb pride of my huge torment,
The song without words, the sonorous silence,
And I do not desire any one to penetrate
The garden wherein flowers the mystery I adore.

MARQUISE.

Conserve your mysteries, poet; they will have no heirs.

POET.

Death is the heir of everything impenetrable.

MARQUISE.

But only during life do the words of the sphinx
Possess a meaning for our ears.

POET.

I am terror-stricken by the sphinx.

MARQUISE.

Coward! The sun blinds him who cannot hearken to the sphinx.

[_Sounds of music in the distance._]

POET.

Does not the music tempt you?

MARQUISE.

It does, and I feel sure
My lover must be waiting. Will you come with me?

POET.

No, thanks. I shall remain and think of what has died.

MARQUISE.

May you have the protection of my defunct illusion.

[_She goes out._]

[_Curtain._]

MONSIEUR LAMBLIN

A COMEDY

BY GEORGE ANCEY
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY BARRETT H. CLARK.

CHARACTERS

LAMBLIN.
MARTHE.
MADAME BAIL.
MADAME COGE.
SERVANT.

First published in the _Stratford Journal_, March, 1917. Reprinted by
permission of Mr. Barrett H. Clark.

MONSIEUR LAMBLIN

A COMEDY BY GEORGE ANCEY

Translated from the French by Barrett H. Clark.

[_A stylish drawing-room. There are doors at the back, and on each
side. Down-stage to the right is a window; near it, but protected
by a screen, is a large arm-chair near a sewing-table. Down-stage
opposite is a fire-place, on each side of which, facing it, are a
sofa and another large arm-chair; next the sofa is a small table,
and next to it, in turn, a stool and two chairs. This part of the
stage should be so arranged as to make a little cozy-corner. The
set is completed by various and sundry lamps, vases with flowers,
and the like._

_As the curtain rises, the servant enters to Lamblin, Marthe and
Madame Bail, bringing coffee and cigarettes, which he lays on the
small table._]

LAMBLIN [_settling comfortably into his chair_]. Ah, how comfortable it is! Mm--! [_To Marthe._] Serve us our coffee, my child, serve us our coffee.

MARTHE [_sadly_]. Yes, yes.

LAMBLIN [_aside_]. Always something going round and round in that little head of hers! Needn't worry about it--nothing serious.--Well, Mother-in-law, what do you say to the laces, eh?

MADAME BAIL. Delicious! It must have cost a small fortune! You have twenty yards there!

LAMBLIN. Five thousand francs! Five thousand francs! [_To Marthe._] Yes, madame, your husband was particularly generous. He insists upon making his wife the most beautiful of women and giving her everything her heart desires. Has he succeeded?

MARTHE. Thank you. I've really never seen such lovely malines. Madame Pertuis ordered some lately and they're not nearly so beautiful as these.

LAMBLIN. I'm glad to hear it. Well, aren't you going to kiss your husband--for his trouble? [_She kisses him._] Good! There, now.

MADAME BAIL [_to Lamblin_]. You spoil her!

LAMBLIN [_to Marthe_]. Do I spoil you?

MARTHE. Yes, yes, of course.

LAMBLIN. That's right. Everybody happy? That's all we can ask, isn't that so, Mamma Bail? Take care, I warn you! If you continue to look at me that way I'm likely to become dangerous!

MADAME BAIL. Silly man.

LAMBLIN. Ha!

MADAME BAIL [_to Marthe_]. Laugh, why don't you?

MARTHE. I do.

LAMBLIN [_bringing his wife to him and putting her upon his knee_]. No, no, but you don't laugh enough, little one. Now, to punish you, I'm going to give you another kiss. [_He kisses her._]

MARTHE. Oh! Your beard pricks so! Now, take your coffee, or it'll get cold, and then you'll scold Julie again. [_A pause._]

LAMBLIN. It looks like pleasant weather to-morrow!

MADAME BAIL. What made you think of that?

LAMBLIN. The particles of sugar have all collected at the bottom of my cup. [_He drinks his coffee._]

MADAME BAIL. As a matter of fact, I hope the weather will be nice.

LAMBLIN. Do you have to go out?

MADAME BAIL. I must go to Argentuil.

LAMBLIN. Now, my dear mother-in-law, what are you going to do at Argentuil? I have an idea that there must be some old general there--?

MADAME BAIL [_ironically_]. Exactly! How would you like it if--?

LAMBLIN. Don't joke about such things!

MADAME BAIL. You needn't worry! Catch me marrying again!

LAMBLIN [_timidly_]. There is a great deal to be said for the happiness of married life.

MADAME BAIL. For the men!

LAMBLIN. For every one. Is not the hearth a refuge, a sacred spot, where both man and woman find sweet rest after a day's work? Deny it, Mother. Here we are, the three of us, each doing what he likes to do, in our comfortable little home, talking together happily. The mind is at rest, and the heart quiet. Six years of family life have brought us security in our affection, and rendered us kind and indulgent toward one another. It is ineffably sweet, and brings tears to the eyes. [_He starts to take a sip of cognac._]

MARTHE [_preventing him_]. Especially when one is a little--lit up!

MADAME BAIL. Marthe, that's not at all nice of you!

LAMBLIN [_to Madame Bail_]. Ah, you're the only one who understands me, Mother! Now, little one, you're going to give me a cigar, one of those on the table.

MARTHE [_giving him a cigar_]. Lazy! He can't even stretch his arm out!

LAMBLIN. You see, I prefer to have my little wife serve me and be nice to me.

MADAME BAIL [_looking at them both_]. Shall I go?

LAMBLIN. Why should you?

MADAME BAIL. Well--because--

LAMBLIN [_understanding_]. Oh! No, no, stay with us and tell us stories. The little one is moody and severe, I don't dare risk putting my arm around her. Her religion forbids her--expanding!

MADAME BAIL. Then you don't think I'll be in the way?

LAMBLIN. You, Mother! I tell you, the day I took it into my head to bring you here to live with us, I was an extremely clever man. It's most convenient to have you here. Men of business like me haven't the time to spend all their leisure moments with their wives. Very often, after a day's work at the office, I'm not at liberty to spend the evening at home: I must return to the office, you know.

MARTHE. As you did yesterday!

LAMBLIN. As I did yesterday. And when I take it into my head to stroll along the boulevard--

MADAME BAIL. Or elsewhere!

LAMBLIN. You insist on your little joke, Mother. If, I say, I take it into my head to go out, there's the little one all alone. You came here to live with us, and now my conscious is easy: I leave my little wife in good hands. I need not worry. There were a thousand liberties I never indulged in before you came. Now I take them without the slightest scruple.

MADAME BAIL. How kind of you!

LAMBLIN. Don't you think so, little one?

MARTHE. I believe that Mamma did exactly the right thing.

LAMBLIN. You see, I want people to be happy. It is not enough that I should be: every one must be who is about me. I can't abide selfish people.

MADAME BAIL. You're right!

LAMBLIN. And it's so easy not to be! [_A pause._] There is only one thing worrying me now: I brought a whole package of papers with me from the office, which I must sign.

MARTHE. How is business now?

LAMBLIN. Not very good.

MARTHE. Did M. Pacot reimburse you?

MADAME BAIL. Yes, did he?

LAMBLIN. It's been pretty hard these past three days, but I am reimbursed, and that's all I ask. Now I'm going to sign my papers. It won't take me more than a quarter of an hour. I'll find you here when I come back, shan't I? [_To Marthe._] And the little one will leave me my cognac, eh? See you soon.

MADAME BAIL. Yes, see you soon.

LAMBLIN [_to Marthe_]. You'll let me have my cognac?

MARTHE. No! It's ridiculous! It'll make you ill. [_Lamblin goes out._]

MADAME BAIL. There's a good boy!

MARTHE. You always stand up for him. The world is full of "good boys" of his sort. "Good boys"! They're all selfish!

MADAME BAIL. Don't get so excited!

MARTHE. I'm not in the least excited. I'm as calm now as I was excited a year ago when I learned of Alfred's affair.

MADAME BAIL. I understand.

MARTHE. No, you don't understand.

MADAME BAIL. You didn't behave at all reasonably, as you ought to have done long since. You still have absurd romantic ideas. You're not at all reasonable.

MARTHE [_very much put out_]. Well, if I still have those absurd ideas, if I rebel at times, if, as you say, I'm unreasonable, whom does it harm but me alone? What do you expect? The bare idea of sharing him is repulsive to me. Think of it a moment--how perfectly abominable it all is! Why, we are practically accomplices! I thought we were going to discuss it with him just now! It will happen, I know!

MADAME BAIL. What do you intend to do about it? You keep on saying the same thing. I'm an experienced woman. Why don't you take my word, and be a philosopher, the way all women are, the way I've had to be more than once? If you think for one moment that your own father--! Well, we won't say anything about him.

MARTHE. Philosopher, philosopher! A nice way to put it! In what way is that Mathilde Coge, who is his mistress, better than I? I'd like to know that!

MADAME BAIL. In any event, he might have done much worse. She is a widow, a woman of the world, and she isn't ruining him. I know her slightly; I've seen her at Madame Parent's. She just seems a little mad, and not in the least spiteful!

MARTHE [_raging_]. Ah!

MADAME BAIL. But what are you going to do about it?

MARTHE. It would be best to separate.

MADAME BAIL. Why didn't you think of that sooner? You know very well you'd be sorry the moment you'd done it.

MARTHE. Don't you think that would be best for us all? What am I doing here? What hopes have I for the future? Merely to complete the happiness of Monsieur, who deigns to see in me an agreeable nurse, who occasionally likes to rest by my side after his escapades elsewhere! Thank you so much! I might just as well go!

MADAME BAIL. That would be madness. You wouldn't be so foolish as to do it.

MARTHE. Yes--I know--society would blame me!

MADAME BAIL. That's the first point. We should submit to everything rather than do as some others do and fly in the face of convention. We belong to society.

MARTHE. In that case I should at least have peace.

MADAME BAIL. Peace! Nothing of the sort, my dear. You know very well, you would have regrets.

MARTHE [_ironically_]. What regrets?

MADAME BAIL. God knows! Perhaps, though you don't know it, you still love him, in some hidden corner of your heart. You may pity him. You can go a long way with that feeling. Perhaps you have same vague hope--[_Marthe is about to speak._] Well, we won't say any more about that. And then you are religious, you have a big forgiving soul. Aren't these sufficient reasons for waiting? You may regret it. Believe me, my dear child. [_Marthe stands silent, and Madame Bail changes her attitude and tone of voice._] Now, you must admit, you haven't so much to complain of. Your husband is far from the worst; indeed, he's one of the best. What would you do if you were in Madame Ponceau's position? Her husband spends all their money and stays away for two and three months at a time. He goes away, is not seen anywhere, and when he returns, he has the most terrible scenes with poor Marie, and even beats her! Now, Alfred is very good to you, pays you all sorts of attentions, he comes home three evenings a week, gives you all sorts of presents. And these laces! He never bothers you or abuses you. See how nice he was just a few minutes ago, simple and natural! He was lovely, and said the pleasantest imaginable things.

MARTHE [_bitterly_]. He flattered you!

MADAME BAIL. That isn't the reason!

MARTHE. That you say nice things about him? Nonsense! He pleases and amuses you. You don't want me to apply for a separation because you want him near you, and because you are afraid of what people will say. Be frank and admit it.

MADAME BAIL. Marthe, that's not at all nice of you.

MARTHE. It's the truth.

MADAME BAIL. No, no, nothing of the sort.

MARTHE. Another thing that grates on me in this life we are leading is to see the way my mother takes her son-in-law's part against me. You find excuses for him on every occasion; and your one fear seems to be that he should hear some random word that will wound him; and the proof is that he never interrupts one of our conversations--which are always on the same subject--but that you don't fail to make desperate signs to me to keep still!

MADAME BAIL. What an idea! [_Marthe is about to reply, when Madame Bail perceives Lamblin reentering, and signs to Martha to say nothing more._] It's he! [_Marthe shrugs her shoulders._]

[_Enter Lamblin._]

LAMBLIN [_joyfully_]. There, that's done. One hundred and two signatures. Kiss me, little one. In less than an hour I've earned a thousand francs for us. Isn't that splendid?

[_Enter a servant._]

SERVANT. Monsieur?

LAMBLIN. What is it?

SERVANT [_embarrassed_]. Some one--from the office--who wishes to speak with Monsieur.

LAMBLIN. From the office? At this time?

SERVANT. Yes, Monsieur.

LAMBLIN. Say that I am with my family, and that I am not receiving any one.

SERVANT. That is what I said, but the--person--insists.

LAMBLIN. How annoying!

MADAME BAIL. See him, dear, Marthe and I will go out and you may see him here. No one will disturb you.

MARTHE. Yes, it's best to see him! [_They make ready to go out; pick up their work, and so on._]

LAMBLIN [_to the servant_]. Tell him to come in. [_The servant goes out._]

MARTHE [_to Madame Bail, as she points after the servant_]. Did you notice? Adolphe was very embarrassed!

MADAME BAIL. Now what are you going to worry about?

MARTHE. I tell you, I saw it! [_The women go out._]

LAMBLIN. This is too much! Not a moment of peace!

[_Enter Madame Coge._]

You?

MADAME COGE. What do you think of my trick?

LAMBLIN. Detestable as well as dangerous.

MADAME COGE. Come, come. I wanted to go to the _Bouffes_, and I wanted you to go with me. It's nine o'clock, but we'll be in time for the principal play.

LAMBLIN. No, no, no, impossible. And what do you mean by falling upon me this way without warning! My dear Mathilde, what were you thinking about?

MADAME COGE. I decided this morning. You were so nice yesterday!

LAMBLIN. You must go at once! What if some one found you here?

MADAME COGE. Your wife? Quick, then, we must be going. Take your hat, say good-by. I'll wait for you downstairs. I have a cab. [_A pause._]

LAMBLIN. I tell you, it's out of the question. Go alone. I have a headache--I've smoked too much.

MADAME COGE. You refuse? And I was looking forward so--!

LAMBLIN. Now, listen to me, my dear: I have told you once for all, I'm not a rounder. I like everything well regulated. I have my own little habits, and I don't like something to come along and upset everything. I'm very much of a family man, I've often impressed that fact upon you, and I'm astonished, perfectly astonished, that you don't take that into account.

MADAME COGE [_in a high voice_]. You make me tired. So there.

LAMBLIN. Don't scream so! I tell you, I wouldn't go out to-night for anything under the sun. Yesterday, Heaven knows, I was only too happy to be with you: we enjoyed ourselves; it was most pleasant. As for this evening--no: to-morrow. We decided on Mondays, Wednesday, Fridays, and a Sunday from time to time. I have no wish to alter that schedule. I'm regulated like a cuckoo clock. You don't seem to believe that. I strike when I'm intended to strike.

MADAME COGE. That is as much as to say that you like me three days a week, and the rest of the time I mean as little to you as the Grand Turk! That's a queer kind of love!

LAMBLIN. Not at all. I think of you very often, and if you were to disappear, I should miss you a great deal. Only it's a long way between that and disturbing my equilibrium.

MADAME COGE. And I suppose you love your wife?

LAMBLIN. Are you jealous?

MADAME COGE. I am, and I have reason to be be....

LAMBLIN. How childish of you! You know very well that you are the only woman, only--

MADAME COGE. Ah, there is an "only"!

LAMBLIN. Yes,--only, just because I love you is no reason why I should feel no affection for her, and that you should treat her as you do! She is so devoted!

MADAME COGE. What is there so extraordinary about her?

LAMBLIN [_becoming excited_]. She does for me what others would not do--you for instance! She has a steady affection for me; I keep it for my bad moments; her action doesn't turn in every wind. You should see her, so resigned, so anxious to do everything for my comfort and convenience! She's worried when I have a headache, she runs for my slippers when I come home in wet weather--from your house! [_Deeply moved._] You see that cognac there? That was the second glass I poured out for myself this evening; the moment I started to drink it her little hand stretched forth and took it from me, because she said I would make myself ill! [_He starts to weep._] You know, I poured it out just in order that she should prevent my drinking it. These things stir the heart! [_A pause._] Now you must go.

MADAME COGE. No, no. I love you, and I--

LAMBLIN. You are selfish. And you know I can't stand selfish people. You want to deprive me of a quiet evening in the bosom of my family.

MADAME COGE. I want you to love me, and me alone. I want you to leave your home if need be.

LAMBLIN. Yes, and if I were to fall sick--which might happen, though I have a strong constitution, thank God!--I know you. You're the best woman in the world, but that doesn't prevent your being a little superficial!

MADAME COGE. Superficial!

LAMBLIN. Yes, you are, and you can't deny it! Your dropping in on me, like a bolt from the blue, proves it conclusively. And when you once begin chattering about yourself, about your dresses, oh, my! You never stop. You can't be serious, your conversation is not the sort that pleases a man, flatters and amuses him.

MADAME COGE. Oh!

LAMBLIN. You never talk about _him_! One night I remember, I was a little sick and you sent me home. _There_ they made tea for me. The cook was already in bed, and Marthe didn't hesitate an instant to go to the kitchen and soil her hands!

MADAME COGE. When was that? When was that?

LAMBLIN. For God's sake, don't scream so! Not more than two weeks ago.

MADAME COGE. You didn't say what was the matter with you, that's all.

LAMBLIN. I complained enough, Heaven knows. [_A pause._]

MADAME COGE. Then you won't come?

LAMBLIN. No.

MADAME COGE [_resolutely_]. Very well, then, farewell.

LAMBLIN. Now, you mustn't get angry. [_He puts his arm round her waist_]. You know I can't do without you. You are always my dear little Mathilde, my darling little girl. Aren't you? Do you remember yesterday, eh? You know I love you--deeply?

MADAME COGE. On Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and from time to time on Sundays. Thanks! [_She starts to go._]

LAMBLIN. Mathilde!

MADAME COGE. Good evening. [_Returning to him._] Do you want me to tell you something? Though I may be superficial, _you_ are a selfish egotist, and you find your happiness in the tears and suffering of those who love you! Good-by! [_She starts to go again._]

LAMBLIN. Mathilde, Mathilde, dear! To-morrow?

MADAME COGE [_returning_]. Do you want me to tell you something else? When a man is married and wants to have a mistress, he would do much better and act more uprightly to leave his wife!

LAMBLIN [_simply_]. Why?

MADAME COGE. Why?--Good evening! [_She goes out._]

LAMBLIN. Mathilde, Mathilde! Did I make her angry? Oh, she'll forget it all in a quarter of an hour. My, what a headache! [_Catching sight of Marthe, who enters from the right._] Marthe! She looks furious! She saw Mathilde go out! What luck!

MARTHE [_furiously_]. Who was that who just left?

LAMBLIN. Why--

MARTHE. Who was that who just left? Answer me!

LAMBLIN. It was--

MARTHE. Madame Coge, wasn't it? Don't lie, I saw her! What can you be thinking of? To bring your mistress here! I don't know what's prevented my going away before, and leaving you to your debauchery! This is the end--understand? I've had enough. You're going to live alone from now on. [_He starts to speak._] Alone. Good-by, monsieur!

LAMBLIN [_moved_]. Marthe! [_She dashes out. Lamblin goes to the door through which Marthe has gone._] Marthe, Marthe, little one! Tell me that you forgive me. [_Coming down-stage._] It's all up! Good Lord!

[_Enter Madame Bail._]

LAMBLIN [_goes to her, nearly in tears_]. Oh, Mother, all is lost!

MADAME BAIL. No, no, you great child! I know everything, and I promise it will be all right.

LAMBLIN. No, no, I tell you. Marthe told me she wanted to leave me.

MADAME BAIL. Now, don't carry on that way. I don't want to see you cry.

LAMBLIN. But how can I be calm when my whole future is ruined?

MADAME BAIL. Nothing of the sort. Don't you think I know my own daughter? She is too well educated, she has too much common sense, to leave you.

LAMBLIN [_a little consoled_]. You think so? Oh, if that were only true!

MADAME BAIL. But it is true! She's crying now; her tears will ease her, and make her change her mind.

LAMBLIN. Yes, yes, let her cry, let her cry all she wants to!

MADAME BAIL. I tell you she is yours; she loves you.

LAMBLIN [_brightening_]. Is that true? [_Madame Bail nods._] How happy I am! [_A pause. His attitude changes._] But there's one thing that troubles me.

MADAME BAIL. What?

LAMBLIN [_embarrassed_]. No, nothing.

MADAME BAIL. Confide in me. Tell me. [_A pause._]

LAMBLIN. Well, that lady who came here this evening--I'm afraid I was a little short with her. I think I offended her. I practically showed her the door.

MADAME BAIL. Don't worry about that. Perhaps you weren't so rude as you thought you were.

LAMBLIN. No, I'm sure. I know very well that--

MADAME BAIL. You mustn't worry and get all excited--

LAMBLIN. Do you know anything about it?

MADAME BAIL. No, nothing, only--as I rather suspected what was going on in here--and was afraid--of a quarrel--I met her as she was going out, and I--spoke to her.

LAMBLIN [_taking her hands--joyfully_]. I thank you! [_They are both embarrassed for a moment, then sit down._] Ah, good. Well, and Marthe?

MADAME BAIL [_pointing to Marthe who enters_]. There she is. What did I tell you? [_Marthe enters without saying a word. She brings her work, Madame Bail takes up hers, and sits next her. A pause. Madame Bail speaks to Marthe._] What a pretty design! Where did you find the pattern?

MARTHE. I just picked it up at the store.

MADAME BAIL. It's charming. I must get one like it.

LAMBLIN [_ill at ease_]. May I see it, little one? [_Marthe unrolls the embroidery for him and shows it._] Oh, it's perfectly lovely! We men would be hard put to it to make anything half as beautiful! [_He laughs awkwardly, and pours out some cognac, in full sight of Marthe._]

MARTHE [_quickly_]. That's ridiculous, Alfred. [_Then she says slowly, as she lowers her eyes._] You'll make yourself ill!

LAMBLIN [_in perfect contentment_]. How charming she is!

[_Curtain._]

FRANCOISE' LUCK

A COMEDY

BY GEORGES DE PORTO-RICHE
(La Chance de Francoise.)
TRANSLATED BY BARRETT H. CLARK.

Copyright, 1917, by Stewart & Kidd Company.
All rights reserved.

PERSONS REPRESENTED

MARCEL DESROCHES.
GUERIN.
JEAN.
FRANCOISE.
MADELEINE.

SCENE: _Auteuil_.
TIME: _Present_.

Presented for the first time December 10,1888, in Paris, at the
Theatre Libre.

FRANCOISE' LUCK is reprinted from "Four Plays of the Free Theatre,"
translated by Barrett H. Clark by permission of Messrs. Stewart & Kidd
Company, Cincinnati, Ohio.

FRANCOISE' LUCK

A COMEDY BY GEORGES DE PORTO-RICHE

[_A studio. At the back is a door opening upon a garden; doors to
the right and left; likewise a small inconspicuous door to the
left. There are a few pictures on easels. The table is littered
with papers, books, weapons, bric-a-brac. Chairs and sofas. It is
eleven o'clock in the morning._]

FRANCOISE [_a small, frail woman, with a melancholy look, at times rather mocking. As the curtain rises she is alone. She raises and lowers the window-blind from time to time_]. A little more! There! Oh, the sunlight! How blinding! [_Glancing at the studio with satisfaction._] How neat everything is! [_In attempting to take something from the table, she knocks some papers to the floor._] Well! [_Seeing a letter, among the papers she is picking up._] A letter! From Monsieur Guerin--[_Reading._] "My dear friend, why do you persist in keeping silence? You say very little of the imprudent woman who has dared to become the companion of the handsome Marcel! Do you recompense her for her confidence in you, for her courage? You are not at all like other men: your frivolity, if you will permit the term, your--" [_Interrupting herself._] He writes the word! [_Continuing._] "Your cynicism makes me tremble for you. Absent for a year! How much friendship gone to waste! Why were we thrust apart the moment you were married? Why did my wife's health make sunlight an absolute necessity for her? We are now leaving Rome; in a month I'll drop in on you at Auteuil--" [_Interrupting herself again._] Very soon!

[_Marcel appears at the back._]

"I am very impatient to see you, and Very anxious to see Madame Desroches. I wonder whether she will take to me? I hope she will. Take care, you villain, I shall cross-question her carefully, and if I find the slightest shadow upon her happiness, her friend-to-be will be an angry man." [_She stops reading and says to herself, sadly._] A friend--I should like that!

MARCEL [_carelessly dressed. He is of the type that appeals to women_]. Ah, inquisitive, you read my letters?

FRANCOISE. Oh, it's an old one--

MARCEL [_chaffing her_]. From Guerin?

FRANCOISE. I found it there, when I was putting the studio in order.

MARCEL [_tenderly_]. The little romantic child is looking for a friend?

FRANCOISE. I have so much to tell, so much about my recent happiness!

MARCEL. Am I not that friend?

FRANCOISE. You are the man I love. Should I consult with you, where your happiness is concerned?

MARCEL. Too deep for me! [_Yawning._] Oh, I'm tired!

FRANCOISE. Did you come in late last night?

MARCEL. Three o'clock.

FRANCOISE. You were very quiet, you naughty man!

MARCEL. Were you jealous?

FRANCOISE. The idea! I am morally certain that you love no one except your wife.

MARCEL [_sadly_]. It's true, I love no one except my wife.

FRANCOISE [_chaffing him in turn_]. Poor Marcel!

MARCEL. I was bored to death at that supper; I can't imagine why.--They all tell me I'm getting stout.

FRANCOISE. That's no reason why you shouldn't please.

MARCEL. God is very unjust.

FRANCOISE. So they say!

MARCEL [_stretching out on a sofa_]. Excuse my appearance, won't you, Francoise? [_Making himself comfortable._] I can't keep my eyes open any longer nowadays. The days of my youth--Why, I was--[_He stops._]

FRANCOISE. You were just the right age for marriage.

MARCEL [_as if to banish the idea_]. Oh! [_A pause._] I'm sure you will get along well with Guerin. Yours are kindred spirits--you're alike--not in looks, however.

FRANCOISE. Morally, you mean?

MARCEL. Yes, The comparison flatters him.

FRANCOISE. He's like this, then; sentimental, a good friend, and a man of honor. Yes, I think I shall get along nicely with him.

MARCEL. What a sympathetic nature you have! You've never seen him, and you know him already.

FRANCOISE. How long has he been married?

MARCEL. He was born married!

FRANCOISE. Tell me.

MARCEL. Ten years, I think.

FRANCOISE. He's happy.

MARCEL. Very.

FRANCOISE. What sort of woman is she?

MARCEL. Lively.

FRANCOISE. Though virtuous?

MARCEL. So they say.

FRANCOISE. Then Madame Guerin and the handsome Martel--eh?

MARCEL. A friend's wife?

FRANCOISE. It's very tempting--[_Marcel seems to take this with ill-humor; he is about to put on his hat._] Are you going out?

MARCEL. I lunch at the club.

FRANCOISE. Very well.

MARCEL. I'm--a little nervous; I need a breath of air.

FRANCOISE. Paris air!

MARCEL. Precisely.

FRANCOISE. And your work?

MARCEL. I'm not in the mood.

FRANCOISE. It's only ten days before the Salon: you'll never be ready.

MARCEL. What chance have I, with my talent?

FRANCOISE. You have a great deal of talent--it's recognized everywhere.

MARCEL. I did have.

[_A pause._]

FRANCOISE. Will you be home for dinner?

MARCEL [_tenderly_]. Of course! And don't allow any black suspicion to get the better of you: I'm not lunching with anybody!

FRANCOISE. I suspect you!

MARCEL [_gratefully_]. 'Til later, then! [_A pause. Frankly._] Of course, I don't always go where I tell you I'm going. Why should I worry you? But if you think I--do what I ought not to do, you are mistaken. I'm no longer a bachelor, you know.

FRANCOISE. Just a trifle, aren't you?

MARCEL. No jealousy, dear! The day of adventures is dead and buried. Thirty-five mortal years, a scarcity of hair, a noticeable rotundity--and married! Opportunities are fewer now!

FRANCOISE [_playfully_]. Don't lose courage, your luck may return. A minute would suffice.

MARCEL [_mournfully_]. I don't dare hope.

FRANCOISE. Married! It was never your destiny to be a proprietor, you are doomed to be a tenant.

MARCEL [_as he is about to leave, sees a letter on the table_]. Oh, a letter, and you said nothing to me about it!

FRANCOISE. I didn't see it. Jean must have brought it while you were asleep.

MARCEL. From Passy! I know that hand! [_Aside, with surprise._] Madame Guerin--Madeleine! Well! [_Reading._] "My dear friend I lunch to-day with my aunt Madame de Monglat, at La Muette--as I used to. Come and see me before noon, I have serious things to discuss with you." [_He stops reading; aside, much pleased._] A rendezvous! And after three years! Poor Guerin! No! It wouldn't be decent now! No!

FRANCOISE [_aside_]. He seems to be waking up!

MARCEL [_aside_]. They must have returned! Francoise was right--a minute would suffice! The dear girl!

FRANCOISE. No bad news?

MARCEL [_in spite of himself_]. On the contrary!

FRANCOISE. Oh!

MARCEL [_embarrassed_]. It's from that American woman who saw my picture the other day--at Goupil's, you remember? She insists that I give it to her for ten thousand francs. I really think I'll let her have it. Nowadays you never can tell--

FRANCOISE. I think you would be very wise to sell.

MARCEL [_handing her the letter_]. Don't you believe me?

FRANCOISE. Absolutely.

[_Marcel puts the letter in his pocket. A pause._]

MARCEL [_hesitating before he leaves; aside_]. She's a darling; a perfect little darling.

FRANCOISE. Then you're not going out?

MARCEL [_surprised_]. Do you want to send me away?

FRANCOISE. If you're going out to lunch, you had better hurry--the train leaves in a few minutes.

MARCEL [_suddenly affectionate_]. How can I hurry when you are so charming? You're adorable this morning!

FRANCOISE. D'you think so?

[_A pause._]

MARCEL [_aside_]. Curious, but every time I have a rendezvous, she is like that!

FRANCOISE. Good-by, then; I've had enough of you! If you stay you'll upset all my plans. I'd quite made up my mind to be melancholy and lonely. It's impossible to be either gay or sad with you! Run along!

MARCEL [_taking off his hat, which he had put on some moments before_]. I tell you this is my house, and this my studio. Your house is there by the garden.

FRANCOISE. Yes, it's only there that you are my husband.

MARCEL. Oh! [_Reproachfully, and with tenderness._] Tell me, Francoise, why don't you ever want to go out with me?

FRANCOISE. You know I don't like society.

MARCEL. I'm seen so much alone!

FRANCOISE. So much the better for you; you will be taken for a bachelor!

MARCEL. One might think the way you talk, that husband and wife ought never to live together.

FRANCOISE. Perhaps I'd see you oftener if we weren't married!

MARCEL. Isn't it a pleasure to you, Madame, to be in the arms of your husband?

FRANCOISE. Isn't it likewise a pleasure to be able to say, "He is free, I am not his wife, he is not my husband; I am not his duty, a millstone around his neck; I am his avocation, his love? If he leaves me, I know he is tired of me, but if he comes back, then I know he loves me"?

MARCEL. Francoise, you are an extremist!

FRANCOISE. You think so?

MARCEL. You are.

FRANCOISE. Well?

MARCEL. I know your philosophy is nothing but love. [_A pause._] You cry sometimes, don't you? When I'm not here?

FRANCOISE. Just a little.

MARCEL. I make you very unhappy! When you are sad, don't conceal it from me, Francoise; one of your tears would make me do anything in the world for you.

FRANCOISE. One, yes! But, many?

MARCEL. Don't make fun of me: I am serious. If I told you that my affection for you is as great as yours, I--

FRANCOISE. You would be lying.

MARCEL. Perhaps! But I think I adore you! Every time I leave you, I feel so lonely; I wander about like a lost soul! I think something must be happening to you. And when I come home at midnight, and open the door, I feel an exquisite sensation--Is that love? You ought to know--you are an adept!

FRANCOISE. Perhaps.

MARCEL [_unthinkingly_]. You know, Francoise, one can never be sure of one's self.

FRANCOISE. Of course!

MARCEL. No one can say, "I love to-day, and I shall love to-morrow." You or any one else.

FRANCOISE [_offended_]. I?

MARCEL. How can you tell, whether in fifteen years--?

FRANCOISE. Oh, I'm a little child--I'm different from the others: I shall always love the same man all his life. But go on, you were saying?

MARCEL. Nothing. I want you to be happy, in spite of everything, no matter what may happen--no matter what I may do.

FRANCOISE. Even if you should deceive me?

MARCEL [_tenderly_]. Deceive you? Never! I care nothing about other women! You are my happiness--not a mere pastime.

FRANCOISE. Alas!

MARCEL. Why alas?

FRANCOISE. Because it is easier to do without happiness than pleasure.

MARCEL [_tenderly_]. Oh, you are all that is highest and best in my life. I prefer you to everything else! Let a woman come between us, and she shall have me to deal with! Call it selfishness, if you will, or egotism--but your peace of mind is an absolute necessity to me!

FRANCOISE. You need not prepare me for the future, you bad boy: I resigned myself to "possibilities" some time ago. I'm inexperienced and young in years, but I'm older than you.

MARCEL. Shall I tell you something? I never deserved you!

FRANCOISE. That's true.

MARCEL. When I think how happy you might have made some good and worthy man, and that--

FRANCOISE. Who then would have made me happy?

MARCEL. You are not happy now.

FRANCOISE. I didn't marry for happiness; I married in order to have you.

MARCEL. I'm a fool! It would be nice, wouldn't it, if I were an unfaithful husband!

FRANCOISE. I'm sure you will never be that.

MARCEL. Do you really think so?

FRANCOISE. I am positive. What would be the use in deceiving me? I should be so unhappy, and you wouldn't be a bit happier.

MARCEL. You are right.

FRANCOISE. No, you will not deceive me. To begin with, I have great luck.

MARCEL [_gayly_]. Of course, you have; you don't know how much!

FRANCOISE [_coquettishly_]. Tell me!

MARCEL. What a child you are!

MARCEL. I should think so! Sometimes I imagine that my happiness does not lie altogether in those sparkling eyes of yours and I try to fall in love with another woman; I fall in deeper and deeper for a week or two, and think I am terribly infatuated. But just as I am about to take the fatal leap, I fail: Francoise' luck, you see! At bottom, I'm a commencer; I can't imagine what it is that saves me--and you. Sometimes _she_ has done something to displease me, sometimes a divine word from your lips--and a mere nothing, something quite insignificant! For instance, Wednesday, I missed the train, and came back and had dinner with you. You see, Francoise' luck!

FRANCOISE. Then you're not going out to-day, are you?

MARCEL. Nor to-morrow; the whole day is yours. We'll close the door.

FRANCOISE. Aren't you happy?

MARCEL [_kissing her behind the ear_]. Hurry up, you lazy child!

FRANCOISE. I'm not pretty, but I have my good points.

MARCEL. Not pretty?

FRANCOISE. No, but I deserve to be.

[_Madeleine appears at the back._]

MADELEINE. I beg your pardon!

[_Francoise gives an exclamation of surprise and escapes through
the door to the right without looking again at the visitor._]

MARCEL [_surprised_]. Madeleine!

[_A pause._]

MADELEINE [_stylishly dressed. With an air of bravura_]. So this is the way you deceive me!

MARCEL [_gayly_]. My dear, if you think that during these three years--

MADELEINE. I beg your pardon for interrupting your little _tete-a-tete_, Marcel, but your door was open, and there was no servant to announce me.

MARCEL. You know you are always welcome here.

MADELEINE. Your wife is very attractive.

MARCEL. Isn't she? Shall I introduce you?

MADELEINE. Later--I've come to see _you_.

MARCEL. I must confess your visit is a little surprising.

MADELEINE. Especially after my sending that note this morning. I thought I should prefer not to trouble you.

MARCEL [_uncertain_]. Ah!

MADELEINE. Yes.

MARCEL. Well?

MADELEINE. Well, no!

MARCEL. I'm sorry. [_Kissing her hand._] Glad to see you, at any rate.

MADELEINE. Same studio as always, eh?

MARCEL. You are still as charming as ever.

MADELEINE. You are as handsome as ever.

MARCEL. I can say no less for you.

MADELEINE. I'm only twenty-eight.

MARCEL. But your husband is fifty: that keeps you young. How long have you been back?

MADELEINE. A week.

MARCEL. And I haven't seen Guerin yet!

MADELEINE. There's no hurry.

MARCEL. What's the matter?

MADELEINE. He's a bit worried: you know how jealous he is! Well, yesterday, when I was out, he went through all my private papers--

MARCEL. Naturally he came across some letters.

MADELEINE. _The_ letters, my dear!

MARCEL. Mine?

MADELEINE. Yes. [_Gesture from Marcel._] Old letters.

MARCEL. You kept them?

MADELEINE. From a celebrity? Of course!

MARCEL. The devil!

MADELEINE. Ungrateful!

MARCEL. I beg your pardon.

MADELEINE. You can imagine my explanation following the discovery. My dear Marcel, there's going to be a divorce.

MARCEL. A--! A divorce?

MADELEINE. Don't feel too sorry for me. After all, I shall be free and almost happy.

MARCEL. What resignation!

MADELEINE. Only--

MARCEL. Only what?

MADELEINE. He is going to send you his seconds.