PO 
 
 12. 
 5 
 
BARRETT H. CLARK 
 
 THE 
 CONTINENTAL DRAMA OF TO-DAY 
 
 Outlines for Its Study By BARRETT H. CLARK 
 
 Suggestions, questions, biographies, and bibliographies 
 with outlines, of half a dozen pages or less each, of the 
 more important plays of Ibsen, Bjb'rnsen, Strindberg, 
 Tolstoy, Gorky, Tchekoff, Andreyeff, Hauptmann, Suder- 
 mann, Wedekind, Schnitzler, Von Hoffmansthal, Becque, 
 Le Maitre, Lavedan, Donnay, Maeterlinck, Rostand, 
 M-yieu, Giacosa, D'Annunzio, Echegaray, and 
 Gald6s. While intended to be used in connection with a 
 reading of the plays themselves, the book has an inde- 
 pendent interest. 
 
 12mo. $1.50 net. 
 
 (Published by HBNRY HOLT AND COMPANY, New York) 
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 By CUREL, JULLIEN, PoRTo-RicHE, and ANCEY 
 
 Authorized Translation. With an Introduction by BARRETT H. 
 CLARK, and Preface by EUGENE BRIKCX of the French Academy. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Preface Eugene Brieux 
 
 Antoine and the Free Theatre . . . Barrett H. Clark 
 The Fossils. A Play in 4 Acts . . . Francois de Curel 
 The Serenade. A Bourgeois Study in 3 Acts . Jean Jullien 
 Francoise' Luck. A Comedy in 1 Act 
 
 Georges de Porto-Riche 
 The Dupe. A Comedy in 5 Acts . . . Georges Ancey 
 
 In Stewart and Kidd's Dramatic Series. Net $1.50. 
 (Published by STEWART AND KIDD, Cincinnati,) 
 
THREE MODERN PLAYS 
 FROM THE FRENCH 
 
 THE PRINCE D'AUREC By HENRI LAVEDAN 
 THE PARDON By JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 Both translated by BARRETT H. CLARK 
 
 AND 
 
 THE OTHER DANGER By MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 Translated by CHARLOTTE TENNEY DAVID 
 
 With a Preface by CLAYTON HAMILTON 
 
 Author of "Studies in Stagecraft," etc. 
 
 and 
 Articles on the three French Authors with bibliographies by 
 
 BARRETT H. CLARK 
 
 Author of "The Continental Drama of To-day," translator 
 of Hervieu's " The Labyrinth," etc. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 1914 
 
COPTBIGHT, 1914, 
 BY 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
PREFACE 
 
 THE label " Made in France " may nearly always be 
 accepted as a guarantee of good play-making; for, ever 
 since the inception of the modern drama, the French have 
 been the masters and the teachers of the craft. In these 
 opening years of the twentieth century, fewer French plays 
 have been presented in the theaters of America and Eng- 
 land than were presented in the closing years of the nine- 
 teenth century; but this fact, instead of indicating a dete- 
 rioration in the contemporary product, may be accepted, 
 rather, as an indication that the French drama has made a 
 definite advance along a certain line. 
 
 The dominant spirit of the French drama in the last 
 three generations has been realistic. As realism advances, 
 the tendency is to narrow the segment of life that is sub- 
 mitted to observation and to deepen the observation of the 
 segment that has been selected for analysis. As realism 
 has progressed in France, the drama has become more 
 French more local in its themes and in its characters 
 and has sacrificed the breadth of cosmopolitan appeal to 
 gain the depth of national importance. 
 
 Three or four generations ago, the most popular drama- 
 tist in France was Eugene Scribe;. It was this facile and 
 prolific craftsman who gave to the modern theater the 
 formula of the well-made play [la piece bien faite], a 
 formula that, with several modifications and amplifications, 
 has subsisted to the present day. Since the excellence of 
 Scribe was mainly structural, it was very easy to trans- 
 plant his plays from one country to another. His dialogue 
 was devoid of literary merit, and was therefore just as per- 
 
 iii 
 
iv PREFACE 
 
 tinent in a translation as in the original. His characters 
 were merely puppets, and were therefore just as inter- 
 esting to foreigners as they could ever be to Frenchmen. 
 And, since there was no note of nationality in his dexterous 
 and clever plots, these plots could easily be adapted to serve 
 as the theatric fare of a public overseas. A simple play of 
 plot is much more cosmopolitan in its appeal than a study 
 of national characters or local situations. 
 
 The broad and cosmopolitan appeal of Scribe was con- 
 tinued by his immediate disciple and successor, Victorien 
 Sardou. A typical Sardou melodrama, like Fedora or La 
 Tosca, was fully as enjoyable to foreign audiences as to 
 the public of Paris. The logical successor of Sardou in 
 the contemporary French theater is M. Henry Bernstein; 
 and it is not surprising that his plays have been more 
 successful in America than those of any other French play- 
 wright of the present time. No less than five of his works 
 The Whirlwind, The Thief, Samson, Israel, and The Secret 
 have been profitably acted in this country. M. Bernstein 
 is a more important dramatist than Sardou or Scribe, for he 
 has forced the formula of the well-made play to sustain 
 an analysis of character that is unusually searching; but 
 his merit is, in the main, a matter of mechanics, and his 
 emphasis on mechanism may be accepted as accounting 
 for the comparative ease with which his plays may be trans- 
 ported from one country to another. 
 
 In France itself, while Scribe was still alive, his reputa- 
 tion was overridden by two dramatists of more profound 
 intention, Emile Augier and Alexandra Dumas, fils; but 
 neither of these writers attained the cosmopolitan currency 
 of their more mechamical and artificial rival. Augier the 
 greatest French dramatist of the nineteenth century de- 
 voted himself to the study of social conditions which were 
 peculiarly French; and it was impossible to make his plays 
 
PREFACE v 
 
 seem applicable to the social conditions of any other coun- 
 try. Just as M. Bernstein has been singled out as the 
 logical successor of Sardou and Scribe, M. Eugene Brieux 
 may be selected as the logical successor of Augier in the 
 contemporary theater. The life-purpose of M. Brieux is 
 to point out what is wrong in the social system of his own 
 country in his own time; and many of his criticisms lose 
 their pertinence whenever an attempt is made to apply them 
 to the social system of any other country. Three of his 
 plays have been acted in English in New York. Of these 
 three, both The Incubus [Les Hannetons] and The Three 
 Daughters of M. Dupont have failed, because they were 
 directed against social conditions which have no counter- 
 part in America; and only Damaged Goods [Les Avaries] 
 has succeeded, because (despite the fact that it is inferior 
 to either of the others as a technical accomplishment) it 
 deals with a problem that is of equal moment to every 
 nation in the modern world. 
 
 Since Alexandre Dumas, fits, was more interested in the 
 analysis of individual characters than of social problems, 
 his work, while less profound than that of Emile Augier, 
 was more susceptible of transportation; but it is interest- 
 ing to record that his best play, Le Demi-Monde, because 
 it is particularly French, has never attained the currency 
 in other countries that was easily acquired by that com- 
 paratively immature and sentimental product, La Dame aux 
 Cornelias, which is still acted in America under the title 
 of Camille. The logical successor of the younger Dumas 
 as an analyst of individual character is M. Paul Hervieu. 
 Four of his plays The Labyrinth, The Awakening, Know 
 Thyself, and The Passing of the Torch have been acted 
 in America; but none of them has been successful in the 
 theater, because they deal with subtleties of psychology 
 which are locally and characteristically French. 
 
vi PREFACE 
 
 We are thus confronted with the paradox that, as the 
 French drama has become more profoundly meritorious 
 from the point of view of realism, it has become less suc- 
 ceptible of transportation to the stage of other countries 
 like America. It was easy to adapt the plays of Scribe to 
 the uses of the American theater; but it would be very 
 difficult to adapt the plays of M. Fra^ois de Curel or M. 
 Alfred Capus, because these writers are more deeply and 
 typically French. In recent years two plays by M. Henry 
 Bataille have been presented in America The Foolish 
 Virgin and The Scandal but both of these have failed, 
 because the intensification of their realism carried with it 
 a necessary localization in the author's attitude toward char- 
 acter. In proportion as realism approaches its ideal of 
 reality, it becomes incomprehensible to a public that is not 
 native and indued unto the element in which the realist 
 is working. 
 
 It becomes evident, therefore, that if the plays of the 
 finest French writers of the present day are to be made 
 familiar to the theater-going public of America, they must 
 be presented through the medium of publication, instead 
 of through the medium of theatrical production. It may 
 honestly be doubted whether a popular success would be 
 attained if any of the Three Modern Plays from the French 
 which are offered in the present volume were presented in 
 the American theater; because all three of these plays are 
 perhaps too local in their implications to make an imme- 
 diate appeal to the casual and careless public of this coun- 
 try. It has therefore been deemed advisable to publish 
 them, in order to place them in the hands of that cultured 
 minority that is sufficiently equipped to appreciate and 
 value an extraordinary technical accomplishment. 
 
 The three playwrights whose work is represented in the 
 present volume have been chosen with a purpose to broaden 
 
PREFACE vii 
 
 the acquaintance of the public of this country with the con- 
 temporary French drama. Three plays by M. Brieux 
 [The Three Daughters of M. Dupont, Maternity, and 
 Damaged Goods] have already been published in America, 
 with a preface by Mr. Bernard Shaw. A representative 
 play by M. Hervieu [The Labyrinth] has been published 
 in this country, with a preface by Mr. Barrett H. Clark, 
 the editor of the present volume, and translator of two of 
 the plays included in it. The work of M. Bernstein has 
 already been adequately made familiar in America, through 
 the medium of popular theatrical production. But the 
 present volume offers to our reading public the very first 
 opportunity to study the no less representative work of MM. 
 Henri Lavedan, Jules Lemaitre, and Maurice Donnay. 
 
 Three plays by M. Lavedan have already been acted in 
 America, with varying degrees of success, and one play 
 by M. Donnay has been presented for a few weeks in New 
 York; but the work of the three playwrights represented in 
 the present volume is less familiar to the American public 
 than that of MM. Brieux, Hervieu, and Bernstein. It is 
 hoped, therefore, that this little book may serve to extend 
 the appreciation in this country of what is being accom- 
 plished by the leading French playwrights of the present 
 day. 
 
 In The Prince d'Aurec, the main point to be noted is the 
 skill with which M. Lavedan has created the character of 
 a traditional aristocrat of a type for which there is no 
 counterpart in American society. We may reasonably argue 
 that the Prince falls short of that utilitarian ideal by which 
 we are accustomed, in our own democracy, to measure the 
 worth of a man; but we must admit that there is a certain 
 innate fineness in his character that has been inherited 
 from centuries of aristocracy. In Tine Pardon, by M. Jules 
 Lemaitre, we are called upon to admire the astounding 
 
viii PREFACE 
 
 technical efficiency with which the author has managed to 
 devise a full-length play by the manipulation of only three 
 characters. The pattern of this piece illustrates both the 
 beauty of essential symmetry and that subtler beauty that 
 is derived by unexpected variations from a symmetrical 
 scheme that seems to have been anticipated in all details. 
 The Other Danger, by M. Donnay, reminds us, in its 
 craftsmanship, of the artistry of Sir Arthur Pinero. It is 
 apparent that Pinero would have suppressed the initial 
 and preparatory act, and would have begun the play at 
 the moment which M. Donnay has selected for the out- 
 set of his second act ; but it may be questioned whether the 
 customary concentration of the British dramatist is prefer- 
 able to the deliberate and gradual preparation of this 
 French writer for a distressing and abhorrent climax. 
 
 A word must be appended in explanation of the moral 
 attitude of these French writers toward those incidents 
 of life which they have chosen to depict. In all three of 
 these plays (and indeed in nearly all of the contemporary 
 dramas that are " made in France ") the problem of illicit 
 love is brought up for analysis. Though our minds may 
 be made up that illicit love is, in every imaginable circum- 
 stance, immoral, it does not logically follow that plays 
 which present a sincere analysis of such a circumstance must 
 therefore be considered as immoral. The morality, or the 
 immorality, of any play is determined not by its subject- 
 matter, but by the sanity, or insanity, of the author's atti- 
 tude of mind toward the subject-matter which he has 
 selected for analysis. No play can be immoral unless 
 it is untrue. In The Pardon, M. Lemaitre has shown no 
 tendency to minimize the mutual responsibility that results 
 from the dual infidelity of the husband and the wife ; and, in 
 The Other Danger, M. Donnay has not endeavored to 
 diminish in any way the tragic pathos of the situation in 
 
PREFACE ix 
 
 which his erstwhile illicit lovers find themselves finally in- 
 volved. Such plays as these are not immoral, though they 
 exhibit immoral situations and analyze immoral people; 
 for a sane and proper outlook upon life at large is con- 
 sistently maintained by the aloof and dissociated reason of 
 the authors. 
 
 CLAYTON HAMILTON 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PREFACE iii 
 
 HENBI LAVEDAN 3 
 
 JULES LEMAITBE 19 
 
 MAUBICE DONNAY 35 
 
 GENERAL BIBLIOGBAPHY 49 
 
 THE PBINCE D'AUBEC 51 
 
 A Comedy in Three Acts by Henri Lavedan. Trans- 
 lated by Barrett H. Clark. 
 
 THE PABDON 131 
 
 A Comedy in Three Acts by Jules Lemaitre. Trans- 
 lated by Barrett H. Clark. 
 
 THE OTHER DANGER 171 
 
 A Comedy in Four Acts by Maurice Donnay. Trans- 
 lated by Charlotte Tenney David. 
 
THREE MODERN PLAYS FROM 
 THE FRENCH 
 
HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 Henri Lavedan is a painter of contemporary manners 
 with an extraordinary endowment of that quality, very 
 difficult to define, which the French call esprit. He is also 
 something of a moralist. 
 
 Alfred Capus is a painter of manners, but he rarely 
 digs beneath the surface of things. Half a dozen French 
 dramatists of the day possess keen senses of humor at least 
 the equal of that of Lavedan. Brieux is certainly a moral- 
 ist. Yet Lavedan resembles none of his contemporaries. 
 Perhaps this isolation is partly the result of his birth and 
 early education. A born bourgeois as to class, he lived in 
 a family where " the highest ideals and the strictest sense 
 of what was fitting were of long and traditional standing." 
 Add to this, a good education, with few obstacles to be 
 overcome, and we find the youthful Lavedan in a position 
 to see the life of his time in a clear and steady light. 
 Capus, by reason of his comparatively narrow education, 
 Brieux, because of his preoccupation with social questions, 
 and also of his birth and breeding, Donnay, warped a little 
 by too close application to the erotic all lack the transcen- 
 dental outlook of their more fortunate confrere. With 
 equal sureness of touch and sympathy he can show us the 
 intimate life of the full-blooded aristocrat (The Prince 
 d'Aurec], and the unfortunate little bourgeoise music- 
 teacher (Catherine^ ; he can enter into the sentiments of 
 the " viveur," and then turn round and condemn him with 
 all the imprecations of an enraged Brieux (The Marquis 
 de Priola). Where Hervieu sketches a shadow, a lay- 
 figure, Lavedan paints a portrait; where Brieux criticizes 
 
 3 
 
4 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 a condition of affairs, Lavedan makes a living story of it. 
 But Lavedan has distinct limitations; for if little Catherine 
 is well-drawn and sympathetic, she is a trifle too good to 
 be true. If The Duel be a supremely skilful piece of 
 technic and an interesting psychological study, its end is 
 weak and unconvincing. 
 
 Lavedan is an unequal writer; his occasional shortcom- 
 ings are probably more noticeable than those of most of 
 his fellow-writers. It seems that he has never been quite 
 sure as to what style of work he was best fitted for. About 
 twenty years after the production of his first play, he was 
 still searching for new ways of presenting his material. 
 Character-drawing is his supreme gift. When we think 
 of the bulk of his work, we forget the weak plots of some 
 of the plays, the faulty technic of many of them, and think 
 only of the three or four commanding figures for which 
 he will long be remembered : The Prince d'Aurec, the Mar- 
 quis de Priola, and Paul Costard. 
 
 A few lines will suffice to render a brief account of the 
 life of Lavedan. Born at Orleans in the year 1859, he 
 was sent to a small seminary not far from his native 
 town, then to the Lycee Louis-le-Grand and the Institution 
 Bossuet at Paris, and later to Jesuit schools at Nantes and 
 Poitiers. He returned to Paris from the provinces to finish 
 his studies, when the War of 1870 broke out. Henri's 
 father placed the youth in the hands of the priests, with 
 whom Henri remained during the terrible siege and the 
 Commune. At the end of those troublous times, he was 
 graduated, and immediately agreed to the wishes of his 
 parents, who had determined to make a lawyer of him; but 
 one year of law was so disagreeable, that upon passing 
 his examinations, he refused to continue to work toward 
 a profession which was obviously so little in accordance 
 with his inclination and ability. 
 
HENRI LAVEDAN 5 
 
 At this period, for the first time, Lavedan began to ex- 
 perience some of the hardships of life in Paris which are 
 usually the lot of young men without a profession. He was 
 not long, however, in making a way for himself in the field 
 in which he was sure to succeed. 
 
 Among his first literary efforts were numerous little 
 dialogues of a type which he has continued to write to 
 this day : diminutive quarts d'heure, which made their 
 appearance from time to time in newspapers and maga- 
 zines. But printed dialogues hardly make a dramatist. 
 One day he showed some of these trifles to the ever-ready 
 and enterprising Antoine, who produced some of them at 
 his Theatre Libre, to the horror of many members of the 
 critical world, who considered the little " scenes " as deca- 
 dent tag-ends of plays. Lavedan himself realized that 
 these were not very ambitious efforts, and set to work on 
 a serious long play, Une Famille, which had the good luck 
 to be accepted by the Comedie Franaise and played, in 
 1891. The play is not a significant one, except that it 
 proved that Lavedan was able to construct a full-length 
 play and hold the interest of the audience. Still, the " dia- 
 logues " style was still to be observed in this larger fabric ; 
 Une Famille was in reality a cleverly strung series of con- 
 versations. It may be well to look into one or two of these 
 trifles, for they give evidence of some of the chief quali- 
 ties of the writer: observation of details, and skill in 
 dialogue. 
 
 Paul and his sister Fran9oise meet early one morning: 
 she is coming home from the ball, he from the club. Paul 
 has lost a good deal of money, while she has been " fear- 
 fully bored." He tells his sister that if she fails to appre- 
 ciate the men she meets at dances she may lose her chance 
 of marrying. 
 
6 HENRI LAVE DAN 
 
 FRANCOISE. I tell you, I despise the whole lot! 
 
 PAUL. Of course, but that is no reason for not marry- 
 ing one of them. 
 
 FRANCOISE. Think so? 
 
 PAUL. Lord! Of course! Take the least impossible 
 one. He'll improve with age, settle down, and in a year 
 or a year and a half, when he'll be merely a father to you, 
 well, you'll have a very nice, respectable, little husband. 
 
 FRANCOISE. I tell you, I have other ideas on the ques- 
 tion of marriage. Mine will be a marriage of inclination 
 pleasure. 
 
 PAUL. Impossible ! I've given the matter more thought 
 than you may perhaps imagine, and I have come to this 
 profound conclusion, little girl: that all necessary things 
 like getting born, and eating, and loving it's all a pose, 
 a nasty pose. People try to make it attractive, put sea- 
 soning into it but ! It's dressed up and set to music, 
 but the sauces don't last forever: you've got to swallow the 
 terrible fish. Marriage is one of the fish, just like birth 
 and death ... A gay life we lead, we must admit ! And 
 we look the part! You're green, little sister! 
 
 FRANCOISE. And you violet! 
 
 PAUL. It's the dawn that makes us look like that. 
 
 FRANCOISE. The dawn and all the rest of it. Our faces 
 only reflect our souls that's the truth of the matter. 
 
 PAUL. Our souls? Our souls? 
 
 FRANCOISE. Don't you believe in the soul? 
 
 PAUL. Yes, little sister, when I'm sick, otherwise 
 
 FRANCOISE. What? 
 
 PAUL. Nothing. I believe that we are put into the 
 world to go through a number of gestures, which are al- 
 ways the same ; which must be gone through at the same 
 time and then we all fade away 
 
 In Every Evening (Scene de tons les soirs) three club- 
 men are gathered together at two in the morning, and in- 
 quire what they can do to kill time. 
 
 VOUVANS. Well, what are we doing now? 
 D'ARGENTAY. Yes, what? . . . 
 
HENRI LAVEDAN 7 
 
 COUTRAS. We're living: this is life. 
 
 VOUVANS. We've been doing the same thing together 
 for the past twelve years. 
 
 D'ARGENTAY. And we're not tired of it. Curious ! 
 
 VOUVANS. But most curious of all, is to think that in 
 twenty years' time we shall be just as amused by this as 
 we are now perhaps more. 
 
 D'ARGENTAY. Very possibly. I remember, I once met 
 a poor girl in the street, pale, sickly-looking. I said to 
 her, " You must be tired of it all, aren't you? " She said 
 with a smile, " No, I rather like it: I get used to it from 
 day to day." 
 
 VOUVANS. Well what are we doing? 
 
 D'ARGENTAY. Something very Parisian: we're smoking. 
 Voila ! 
 
 Here is Lavedan the moralist. Where Capus observes 
 life and passes by without comment, Lavedan points a 
 lesson; Capus laughs with or at his "flaneurs," literally, 
 " wasters " Lavedan allows them to drop remarks reveal- 
 ing tragic depths. The little conversation between Paul 
 and Frangoise is a case in question. Lavedan delights in 
 showing us the boulevardier, the clubman, the Don Juan, 
 the fop; but he rarely fails to show both sides of his char- 
 acter. In the plays these sketches become expanded, the 
 portraits are more detailed. The plot, in nearly every 
 case, serves largely as framework: the character is of su- 
 preme importance. 
 
 Le Nouveau Jeu (1898) is probably the most amusing 
 play Lavedan ever wrote. In it, that type of boulevardier 
 who tries at all costs to appear original is crystallized; his 
 argot, his antics, his good and bad qualities are set before 
 us with a verisimilitude which this dramatist never sur- 
 passed. Paul Costard, the principal character of the 
 piece, is at the theater one evening in company with his 
 mistress, and declares that unless she behaves herself and 
 
8 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 allows him to direct his opera-glasses in whatever part of 
 the house he pleases, he will obtain an introduction to the 
 young girl whom he has been observing in a nearby box, 
 and marry her. Bobette dares him; he takes the dare, 
 leaves her abruptly, gets the introduction to the young lady, 
 and before long is allowed by her parents to become an 
 " accepted " suitor. It so happens that Alice Labosse her- 
 self is something of an " original." When her mother tells 
 her that Costard wishes to marry her, she replies that the 
 whole matter leaves her indifferent. 
 
 MME. LABOSSE. You don't mean to tell me that it 
 makes no difference to you whether you marry the first- 
 comer or not? 
 
 ALICE. Absolutely none! 
 
 MME. LABOSSE. Old or young, hideous or handsome, rich 
 or poor it's all the same to you? 
 
 ALICE. The same? No. But I have no desire for one 
 any more than for the other. I tell you, Mamma, it's of 
 no importance. I accept everything that each day brings 
 me: good and bad together. Don't worry me now; be nice. 
 
 MME. LABOSSE. It's perfectly monstrous ! Think of 
 having a disposition like yours, my child! Only eighteen 
 years old, too. You are laying up trouble for yourself 
 
 ALICE. Perhaps. 
 
 MME. LABOSSE. And you don't care at all? 
 
 ALICE. No, it makes no difference to me. 
 
 Costard marries her and a week later returns to 
 Bobette. Then begins the intrigue. It is not very new, 
 and not at all respectable. Alice loses no time in finding 
 a lover; Costard is discovered under embarrassing circum- 
 stances, but before long Alice takes revenge, and is found 
 in a no less embarrassing situation. The play must be 
 taken in that spirit of aloof unreality which Lamb urged 
 we should have to assume when seeing the artificial come- 
 dies of the English Restoration; in that sense, Le Nouveau 
 
HENRI LAVEDAN 9 
 
 Jeu is the best of comedy, but if we take facts for facts, 
 it is dismal tragedy. At the last, Costard and Alice, equally 
 guilty, are called before the tribunal and severely censured 
 by the judge. After the moral and sententious " lecture," 
 Costard replies: 
 
 I freely admit everything, Monsieur. It is life, simple 
 every-day life. It is life to get married and regret it; to 
 endeavor to escape from the bonds of holy matrimony, to 
 be caught, to desert house and family, and then go the 
 limit. . . . 
 
 JUDGE. Do you not regret having destroyed the happi- 
 ness of your wife? 
 
 COSTARD. Not in the least. She could never have been 
 happy with me. I'm good for everything in the world ex- 
 cept marriage. 
 
 JUDGE. Then you had no business marrying. 
 
 COSTARD. How was I to know? It's just like spinach: 
 in order to dislike it, you must first taste it 
 
 Le Nouveau Jeu is hardly more than a series of episodes, 
 but with what unerring skill are they contrived ! They are 
 more than comments on certain sections of life; they are 
 definite and truthful pictures, full of verve, throbbing with 
 vitality. Their morality cannot well be called into ques- 
 tion: Lavedan paints what he sees. He is a remarkably 
 clever bystander. 
 
 Since the fall of the last Monarchy in France in 1871, 
 and indeed ever since the Revolution, the aristocracy has 
 never quite found its proper position in the state. It was 
 forced either to participate in the government and thereby 
 relinquish much of its former prestige, or remain apart 
 and preserve the tradition of culture and gentility which 
 had for so many centuries been in its sole keeping. The 
 indomitable pride, the arrogant superiority, the conscious- 
 ness of the divine right of nobility, the pathos of the dying 
 
10 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 out of the Ancien Regime, Lavedan centered in his finest 
 character creation: The Prince d'Aurec. The entire play 
 (1892) is concerned with this suave aristocrat; the plot 
 such as it is and the minor personages, serve but to 
 throw into relief this insufferable but somehow sympa- 
 thetic snob. By reason of his birth, the Prince believes 
 that he has but to " invent a clever saying a perfume, 
 a shade set it in circulation; a new cravat, a distinctive 
 hat, discover a new method of riding, render a vice as 
 attractive as the ridicule of virtue ; revolt against the vulgar 
 diamond of the Jew, the bronze objets d'art of the bour- 
 geois, the hardware of the Peruvian ! That is the only 
 occupation worthy a gentleman nowadays ! " If he bor- 
 rows money from De Horn, he is under no obligation, he 
 believes, to pay it back: Noblesse oblige! Has he not 
 allowed De Horn to sit at his table, De Horn, a Jew and 
 a bourgeois ! Has he not condescended to be seen in public 
 with him, even driven his carriages? And does the Jew 
 then ask for his cursed money? This attitude is a little 
 difficult to understand; but it must be remembered that 
 the Prince had been educated with the idea that his family 
 had from the days of the Crusades been one of the most 
 important and influential in France, that because of its 
 accomplishments to it was ever due the respect of every 
 succeeding generation of Frenchmen, be they Royalists or 
 Republicans. Yet the Prince plays a losing game: he lives 
 in a Republic, where justice is done. De Horn will have 
 his money. The Duchess pays the Jew, who disappears; 
 the Prince bows down momentarily to his fate, but his 
 last words redeem him; right or wrong, he is a noble to 
 the end. " To-day I can swear to do only one thing: live 
 like an honest man, and when the time comes, die like a 
 prince." We may doubt whether he will live as he says, 
 but we are positive that he means to die like a prince. " In 
 
HENRI LAVEDAN 11 
 
 war ? " asks his mother. " Will you die in battle ? " 
 Montade the novelist answers that that is no more than 
 any of us would do, and the Prince replies with incom- 
 parable hauteur like one of his Crusader forefathers 
 " II y a la maniere ! " All of France might die for her 
 on the field of battle, but he will die in his own particular 
 " manner ! " The line is worthy Cyrano's " Ma panache ! " 
 
 Viveurs! (1895) is a series of interesting genre scenes; 
 it contains little that cannot be found later, and better 
 developed, in three or four of the more important plays. 
 Catherine (1898) is one of those rare comedies in contem- 
 porary French drama which can with impunity be pre- 
 sented by ladies' boarding schools. Although it could 
 scarcely be termed insipid, the studied avoidance of any- 
 thing unpleasant in subject-matter or treatment, the in- 
 herent goodness of the heroine, leave us with the impres- 
 sion that the author was either uninspired or else that he 
 wished to write a play which could not possibly give 
 offense. 
 
 Le Marquis de Priola (1902) presents a striking con- 
 trast. That play, together with Le Duel (1905), are, 
 among Lavedan's later plays, the most significant. Add 
 to these Le Prince d'Aurec and Le Nouveau Jeu, and we 
 have the best and most representative plays of the author. 
 
 Le Marquis de Priola is the most pointedly moral of any 
 of the plays. Don Juan has always been an attractive fig- 
 ure; but among his many interpreters he has found none 
 who drew so poignant a lesson from his famous escapades. 
 The sinister Marquis (played by the incomparable Le 
 Bargy at the Comedie Francaise) is the irresistible seducer, 
 the arch-demon whose fierce onslaughts have as yet never 
 failed to attain their desired end. " I am a dilettante," he 
 says, " a collector who avidly looks on at the spectacle of 
 the hesitations, troubles, fevers and agonies of the ferni- 
 
12 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 nine heart. It is a divine comedy: I see women laugh, 
 cry, suffer, lie. . . . This is an exquisite joy to me 
 always provided that those smiles, kisses, tears, are bril- 
 liantly executed: they must be things of beauty." To his 
 protege Pierre Morain, a young man whom he has had the 
 apparent decency to adopt, he says : " Don't believe in 
 women, they will believe in you. Domineer over them. 
 Never fall in love: you will burn your fingers if you do. 
 Never for a second admit to yourself that they are of the 
 slightest importance, that they can influence your destiny 
 by the weight of a single hair. Fear no woman, believe 
 no woman, above all those who say they are honest; they 
 are the worst of all." At an embassy ball in Paris the 
 Marquis' divorced wife, since remarried, catches sight of 
 her former husband, and immediately realizes that his hold 
 on her is as strong as ever. Afraid of herself, she con- 
 fides in her puritanical friend, Mme. de Savieres, who 
 consents to remonstrate with the Marquis. But with con- 
 summate skill the Marquis, who knows how to deal with 
 puritans, nearly achieves the conquest of the envoy; in- 
 deed, Mme. de Chesne, Priola's former wife, intervenes 
 just in time to save her friend. The idea of making violent 
 love to Mme. de Chesne has taken hold of the Marquis. 
 But Therese de Valleroy has meantime promised to come 
 to the Marquis' home to see " the famous collection of alma- 
 nacs." But Priola's preoccupation with Mme. de Chesne 
 leads him to insult Therese and cruelly wound her pride. 
 He plays with her a few minutes, and then sends her 
 home, saying to her as she leaves: " Let us be more than 
 lovers: let us be friends!" Now there is one obstacle 
 to the reconquering of Mme. de Chesne: Pierre Morain. 
 The young man, revolted at the cruelty of his " guardian," 
 begs him not to persecute the poor woman. The conflict 
 gives rise to a superb scene, which results in Pierre's decla- 
 
HENRI LAVEDAN 13 
 
 ration that he will live no longer with his guardian. Mme. 
 de Chesne, receiving an old letter calculated to arouse in 
 her the sensations and memories of her first love for the 
 Marquis, is ready to give in to him, but her virtuous friend 
 Mme. de Savieres suggests that she test the fidelity of the 
 lover. If, as he says, he is really in love with his former 
 wife, he will not make love to her, Mme. de Savieres. But 
 again the puritanical woman comes near to succumbing 
 to the diabolic wooing of Don Juan. Pierre, who has been 
 clearing out the Marquis' desk and rearranging old letters 
 and papers, comes across a photograph of his mother: the 
 truth then flashes across him the dishonor of his father's 
 " accidental " death and he decides on revenge. The next 
 day he confronts his guardian with the photograph. " I 
 ought to kill you, but it is not worth my while to do it: 
 your death is not far off. I shall let you go." " What 
 do you mean ? " asks the Marquis. " That the life you 
 have been leading is beginning to tell on you; you haven't 
 long to live." The Marquis, overcome with rage and fear, 
 tells Pierre that he is his own son, then falls, stricken with 
 apoplexy. Mme. de Savieres' husband, a doctor, is present. 
 After ausculting the Marquis, he says: "Acute Ataxia. 
 In six months he will be blind and completely paralyzed." 
 " Will he keep his reason ? " " Yes. He may last 
 twenty years." " How horrible ! " says Mme. de Savieres. 
 " And who will take care of him? " Pierre replies: " I." 
 
 Why is it that in the realm of modern drama so many 
 writers have in their first few efforts produced their best 
 work, their most lasting plays ? Sudermann, Max Halbe, 
 Frank Wedekind, Donnay; to a certain extent Haupt- 
 mann, Lemaitre, and now Lavedan, appear to have reached 
 their highest point of development during the first eight 
 or ten years of activity. Without trying to delve too deep 
 into the reasons, we may at least note that many of these 
 
14 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 dramatists were at first content merely to draw characters 
 and not to comment at any great length upon them; to 
 paint, not to explain. Lavedan painted a great portrait in 
 the Prince d'Aurec; in Cyrano de Bergerac, Rostand did 
 the same thing. In Le Marquis de Priola, Lavedan at- 
 tempted, with a good deal of success, to explain motives 
 and point a moral; in Chantecler, Rostand went to the very 
 depths of his hero's character, with remarkable success. 
 What Rostand will do in the future remains to be seen; 
 what Lavedan will do well, he seems to have done. And 
 his latest plays cause us to regret his defection from the 
 early manner. With advancing years, that philosophical 
 penchant which is innate in Frenchmen has got the upper 
 hand with Lavedan. In The Marquis de Priola he went 
 as far as an artist can safely go ; but with The Duel he 
 went a step beyond. In Le Gout du Vice, in spite of 
 occasional flashes reminiscent of the days of Le Nouveau 
 Jen, he is so pointedly moral that we begin to feel that 
 we are being preached at. 
 
 Le Duel (1905) is concerned with the duel of two broth- 
 ers, for a woman. Doctor Morey, a well-known alienist, 
 a Freethinker and Atheist, and the Abbe Daniel, a devout 
 priest, are the brothers in question. The Duke de Chailles 
 is a degenerate morphine-fiend, under treatment at the 
 Doctor's sanatarium. He has only a few months to live. 
 The Duchess, coming regularly to see her husband, has 
 been attracted by the Doctor, who in turn is drawn toward 
 the charming woman, whose ideas he feels are so well in 
 accord with his own. Daniel, whom the Doctor has not 
 seen for ten years their incompatible ideas have kept them 
 apart comes to ask him to assist in the founding of a 
 dispensary. If Henri refuses to lend his support, per- 
 haps his rich friend the Duchess will undertake to endow 
 it? The duel begins when Henri allows Daniel to speak 
 
HENRI LAVEDAN 15 
 
 to her " on the condition that she is not to know I am your 
 brother." The thesis of the play is at once made apparent, 
 as Daniel says : " You struggle against disease, I against 
 passion; you save the body, I the soul. Why, at this 
 moment I have among my penitents a woman . . . whose 
 name I do not know, whose face I have never seen. . . . 
 She is unhappily married, and she loves a man who is not 
 her husband. A dozen times she was on the point of 
 revealing her love to him ... a dozen times she came 
 to my confessional for power to resist. Each time she re- 
 ceived that power, and overcame temptation. . . ." Of 
 course, the unknown is the Duchess. From this point on, 
 the play becomes a series of scenes, between the Duchess 
 and Daniel, and between the Duchess and Henri. When 
 she is with the former, she is ready to take the veil, when 
 with the latter, she is ready to give in to him. The dead- 
 lock is finally broken by the news that the Duke, in a fit 
 of madness, has thrown himself from the window, and will 
 doubtless die within a few hours. Meantime, a strange 
 metamorphosis has taken place in the mind of Daniel. To- 
 gether with Henri and the Duchess he has gone to the 
 Bishop for advice: he cannot let his brother marry the 
 Duchess. His soul has been in the struggle, and he is 
 jealous of his brother's victory. But when it is learned 
 that the Duke is dead, and after thinking over the 
 Bishop's advice, he conquers his personal feelings, and bids 
 the Duchess marry Henri, saying that it is her duty to 
 become a wife and a mother. Too deeply wounded by 
 the duel, he will leave for the Orient in company with 
 the Bishop. Henri then takes the Duchess in his arms. 
 
 The idea is excellent, the dialogue concise and swift, 
 and the struggle as clearly defined as a Hervieu could 
 ask for. But after all, we may well ask, what of it? The 
 knot is cut just at the critical point. Opportune deaths, 
 
16 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 the recognition of long-lost fathers, and convenient mar- 
 riages, are all very well for conventional comedies; but 
 where the problem is of so great importance as Lavedan 
 would lead us to believe it in Le Duel, we can accept 
 no such facile denouement. Certainly, the Duke was 
 likely to kill himself at any time; but his doing so just 
 when the Duchess would have to decide her own fate, ruins 
 the thesis set before us. The Duchess is being continu- 
 ally swayed between two strong wills, which correspond 
 with two selves within her, but when the Deux ex machina 
 steps in, she is allowed to escape. At the end of the play, 
 she is no different from what she was as the curtain rose 
 on the first act. The Duchess therefore ceases to interest 
 us. Daniel, near the close of the play, begins to interest 
 us only as he decides to depart for the Far East. 
 
 Since Le Duel Lavedan appears to be searching round 
 for new subjects. The aristocracy and the boulevard still 
 possess charms for him, while the history of France, and 
 the question of war, cause him to hover about the haunts 
 of his first successes. Sire (1909) is a romantic play, 
 with a historical background. A young man pretends that 
 he is the lost Louis XVII, and convinces a half-crazy 
 countess that he is really the son of Louis XVI. Through 
 five acts of conventional intrigue, the Figaro-like Roulette 
 manages to hold the interest. 
 
 " In Le Gout du Vice " (1911), says Lavedan, " I have 
 tried to change my manner; I have done my best to trans- 
 form myself, simply to give variety to my work. Those 
 who have seen Sire, Le Marquis de Priola, and Le Duel 
 will notice this, and judge whether or no I have succeeded." 
 Yes, he has changed his manner; and we regret it, we who 
 have seen the plays he mentions! 
 
 The latest printed play 1 is Servir (1912). A consider- 
 1 Petard was produced in the spring of 1914. 
 
HENRI LAVEDAN 17 
 
 able departure from all the preceding " manners " of the 
 author, it is certainly his best work since Le Duel. This is 
 the story of a father who is a born soldier, but who has been 
 forced to remain a civilian; and his son, who is an officer, 
 but whose scruples of conscience are radically opposed to 
 the " profession." This son has discovered an explosive 
 many times more powerful than any heretofore known, but 
 refuses to reveal the secret for the service of the Patrie. 
 The father, driven by his innate desire to serve a desire, 
 the author is careful to tell us, to engage in war as such, 
 not primarily in the interest of his country spies on his 
 son and discovers the secret. The big scene is the struggle 
 between father and son, with the mother between them. 
 The father tears the buttons from the son's uniform, say- 
 ing that he is unworthy his position. The mother, sym- 
 pathizing with her child, interferes and attempts to kill 
 herself. This brings the men to their senses. Then the 
 father tells them that he has been commissioned by the 
 government to prevent the mobilization of the enemy's 
 army in Morocco, and lets them know further that an- 
 other son, a soldier in Morocco, has been murdered by that 
 enemy which is now about to make war on France. The 
 sense of personal injury then turns the tables: mother, 
 father, son, are actuated by a desire for vengeance, and 
 they all welcome the boom of the cannon announcing the 
 declaration of war. 
 
 The family struggle, and its relation to national affairs, 
 the main idea of the play, are very skilfully and inter- 
 estingly welded together. Yet the son as a French officer 
 is hard to accept. How could such a man think as he 
 thinks, and still remain an officer? Again Lavedan has 
 strained a point in order that his thesis might be worked 
 out. 
 
 When an author begins his career and wins his great- 
 
18 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 est successes in one kind of work, we are loath to see him 
 venture far afield. Often he does this at his peril. Lavedan 
 is at his best in pure character-drawing, like the Prince 
 d'Aurec; in other fields he has done sincere and good work, 
 but in those other fields there is lacking that sure touch, 
 that evenness which he once taught us to expect. He 
 may still do significant work, he could hardly do other- 
 wise, but " II y a la maniere ! " 
 
 PLAYS PRODUCED: 
 
 Une Famille 1891 (One Family) 
 
 Le Prince d'Aurec 1892 (The Prince d'Aurec) 
 
 Les Deux Noblesse* 1894 (The Two Nobilities) 
 
 Viveurs! 1895 (High Life !) 
 
 Catherine 1898 
 
 Le Nouveau Jeu 1898 (The Latest Fad) 
 
 Le Vieux Marcheur 1899 (The Old Sport) 
 
 Le Marquis de Priola 1902 (The Marquis de Priola) 
 
 Varennes (in collaboration with G. 
 
 Lendtre) 1904 
 
 Le Duel 1905 (The Duel) 
 
 Sire 1909 (Sire) 
 
 Le Gout du Vice 1911 (The Taste for Vice) 
 
 Servir 1913 (To Serve) 
 
 Pttard 1914 
 
 (Lavedan's Catherine, The Duel, and Sire have been produced 
 in the United States in English, Catherine, by Miss Annie Rus- 
 sell in October, 1898, The Duel, by Mr. Otis Skinner in February, 
 1906, and Sire, by Mr. Skinner in January, 1911. 
 
" Criticism," says Jules Lemaitre, " is the art of enjoy- 
 ing books." M. Lemaitre has practised what he preached, 
 and in some thirty thick volumes he has amassed his en- 
 joyment of books and plays. Les Impressions de Theatre 
 and Les Contemporains have already assumed a place which 
 they will long occupy among the most thoughtful and 
 charming essays of the Nineteenth Century. 
 
 When he speaks of Shakespeare and Moliere, it is as 
 if he had never heard of either before; he records his first 
 impressions of Hamlet and Le Misanthrope as if these 
 plays had just come fresh from the press. Unhampered 
 by the accumulated prejudices of former generations, he 
 analyzes in a leisurely and unorthodox manner each work, 
 recording with absolute sincerity his opinions on Georges 
 Ohnet and Racine, Paul Bourget and Rousseau. When 
 he tells us that Racine is worth reading, that the author 
 of the Ironmaster is vastly overrated, we feel ready at 
 once to believe him. His independence of thought is 
 naively manifested in his essay on Maupassant, in which 
 he says that he was at first inclined to underrate the genius 
 of the young writer simply because the great Flaubert 
 spoke of him in such glowing terms. Here is the opening 
 paragraph of that essay: 
 
 " I used to go from time to time to see Gustave Flaubert 
 at Croisset (that was in 1880). It appears that I met 
 Maupassant there one day, just as he was leaving for Paris. 
 At least, that is what Maupassant says. I really don't re- 
 
 19 
 
20 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 member: I have the most capricious memory in the world. 
 But I recall clearly that Flaubert spoke enthusiastically 
 of his young friend, and that he read to me, with that 
 sonorous voice of his, a story which appeared some months 
 later in the volume entitled Des Vers. It had to do with 
 the separation of two lovers, after a last walk in the coun- 
 try: he was brutal, she quietly desperate. I thought it not 
 at all bad, but I was somewhat on my guard because of 
 the aged Flaubert's extravagant admiration, so that I did 
 not at that time realize that it was really very good. Mau- 
 passant was at that time, etc. . . ." 
 
 This informal, easy, conversational way of writing criti- 
 cism makes Lemaitre delightful reading, so that we too are 
 likely perhaps to behave as the critic did in the presence 
 of the " aged Flaubert," and be on our guard, and fail 
 to see the extraordinary merit of the criticism. Profundity 
 of thought and heaviness of style do not of necessity go 
 hand in hand. LemaitBe is as profound as Brunetiere, the 
 only difference between the two being that Lemaitre amuses 
 us with unexpected quips and turns, amusing anecdotes, 
 and helps us to retain important points which might other- 
 wise escape us, while Brunetiere, saying perhaps as much, 
 risks tiring us, because his method of presentation lacks 
 lightness, variety, esprit. Sarcey, that benevolent des- 
 pot of the French stage for nearly half a century, is 
 more closely akin to Lemaitre than Brunetiere, by rea- 
 son of his simplicity and occasionally brutal sincerity; 
 but Sarcey is a literary bourgeois, Lemaitre an aristo- 
 crat. 
 
 A critic, and above all a dramatic critic, who ventures 
 into the field of drama, runs grave risks. Do not his brother 
 critics hold him up to the standards for which he himself 
 has stood and many others for which he has not and 
 condemn him for falling short of those principles the non- 
 observance of which he has so often censured in others? 
 
JULES LEMAITRE 21 
 
 Lemaitre's first play, Revoltee, was produced in 1889- It 
 was not a success, and was received with a good deal of 
 adverse comment. 
 
 Born in a little town in Touraine in 1853, he 
 received his early education in his native province, 
 pursued his studies later in Paris, taught school in Le 
 Havre and two other French cities, and, for a short time, 
 in Algiers. At the age of thirty-one he permanently estab- 
 lished himself in Paris, where he had been summoned to 
 fill the position of dramatic critic on the Journal des 
 Debats. At that time he was known to a few readers as 
 the author of a slight volume of youthful verses, some of 
 them crude and some delicate, called Les Medallions 
 (1880), and some of those essays which were later col- 
 lected in Les Contemporains. The poems were followed 
 seven years later by a collection of short stories, Serenus, 
 which gave evidence of real creative power, and proved 
 the writer well capable of telling a story in direct and 
 convincing terms. The versatile young man was spread- 
 ing his wings, then, in the late 'eighties; but as he mani- 
 fested a desire to fly in the direction of the stage, he a 
 dramatic critic, his confreres took umbrage, and declared 
 with more or less truth that he had not proved him- 
 self a dramatist by writing Revoltee. For the next few 
 years he continued writing plays, finding time however 
 to write one of his finest works, the novel Les Rois (1893). 
 As we are primarily concerned with Lemaitre the drama- 
 tist, we must content ourselves by accepting the verdict 
 of critics and public, and recording the fact that Le- 
 maitre's only novel still remains one of the most pop- 
 ular and highly-thought-of novels of the generation. Conies 
 blancs (1900) and En marge des vieux livres (1905- 
 1907) are likewise among the most charming works of the 
 author. 
 
22 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 Revoltee is decidedly a first attempt, crude and full of 
 " influences." It seems as if the first-nighter had relied 
 a little too much on scattered tag-ends of Ibsen and some 
 of the young innovators of the Theatre Libre. The play 
 might well be called Impressions de Theatre. A reading 
 of the piece leaves one with the feeling that he has seen 
 it all before: the stupid and uninteresting Georg Tesman 
 husband, and the misunderstood wife, with her struggle 
 for freedom, self-expression. There is some hesitancy in 
 the story, the plot moves on the wheels of time-worn con- 
 ventions, there is a duel and a final reconciliation in which 
 it is hard to believe. But the play is noteworthy by reason 
 of some good bits of characterization; Helene and her 
 professor husband Rousseau, are what render Revoltee 
 worth reading. Lemaitre was the first to realize the weak- 
 ness of his work: in his own criticism of it he says: 
 " You see, the last act is very mediocre now I have 
 thought of a much better one, but it is too late." In- 
 stead of rewriting the play, he proceeded to write an- 
 other. 
 
 An incident serves to reveal Lemaitre's ideas on play- 
 writing, ideas which were soon to develop and form the 
 basis of many of his later plays. Sarcey said of the next 
 play, Le Depute Leveau, " This is no play." To which 
 Lemaitre replied, " Je m'en moque, si c'est de la vie." 
 (Literally, " I don't care a hang, so long as it is life.") 
 It was hardly that, but the answer was worthy of its 
 author. 
 
 Le Depute Leveau (1890) is well written, well con- 
 structed, and much nearer " life " than Revoltee, but it is 
 still far from Le Pardon and La Mossier e. It is a satire 
 on the parvenu politician, and is concerned with his love- 
 affair and subsequent divorce. Leveau, after falling in 
 love with the Marquise de Greges, seeks to divorce his wife, 
 
JULES LEMAITRE 23 
 
 but is at first met with considerable opposition; this is 
 later broken down in a rather unconvincing manner. The 
 Marquise's husband has made friends with Leveau for 
 political reasons, but Leveau is not long in learning that 
 he has served merely as an instrument in the Marquis' 
 hands, and is the victim of an intrigue. The denouement 
 is feeble: Leveau sends the Marquis an anonymous letter, 
 arranges that the Marquise and himself shall be found 
 together, irreparably compromised, and that he (the Mar- 
 quis) will be forced to divorce his wife. The plot works, 
 the divorce is obtained, and we are led to suppose that 
 Leveau ultimately becomes the husband of the Mar- 
 quise. The story is " theatrical," but there are numer- 
 ous bits of characterization which partly redeem the 
 play. 
 
 Mariage blanc (1891) is one of the most charming and 
 interesting comedies of its day. Jacques de Tievre, a 
 blase man of the world, a relic of twenty years' dissipa- 
 tion, comes to Mentone on the Riviera, to rest. There he 
 meets a Mme. Aubert and her two daughters: Marthe, 
 and her half-sister, Simone, a young girl in the last stages 
 of consumption. His assiduous visits are interpreted by 
 the mother and Marthe as a desire on his part to marry 
 Marthe, but it is really the invalid who has attracted him. 
 The idea of making love to a young woman who has but 
 a few months to live appeals to his abnormal imagination. 
 He tells Mme. Aubert of his strange passion; she is natu- 
 rally astonished, but, noticing that Simone reciprocates 
 his love, and not wishing to risk the shock which a refusal 
 of Jacques as a suitor would cause to the girl, she gives 
 her consent to the marriage. At first the disappointed and 
 wounded Marthe opposes the match, but as Simone is sud- 
 denly taken ill, she " forgives " Jacques. But she can- 
 not forgive the sister who, she believes, robbed her of a 
 
24 
 
 husband, and, partly out of spite, partly by inclination, 
 she gives Jacques a rendezvous. Simone surprises the two, 
 and falls dead. 1 
 
 The interest of the play lies in its strange plot, and in 
 the characters of Marthe and Jacques. Lemaitre tells us, 
 in answer to one of the numerous attacks made on the play: 
 " My mistake was in believing that Jacques de Tievre's 
 idea was in nowise out of the ordinary, that his behavior 
 and sentiments were easy to understand, quite acceptable 
 as a matter of course. And why should I not have thought 
 so? Jacques' dream is one which I myself once had, some 
 twelve or fifteen years ago, spontaneously, in regard to a 
 young girl I met in a family ' pension ' where I took my 
 meals. Doubtless, it was only a dream . . . but in reality 
 that dream did not seem so absurd or impossible. Above 
 all, there appeared to be nothing immoral in it." But 
 Jacques' attitude may be condemned on the grounds of 
 morality; for, in spite of the fact that perhaps he loved 
 Simone after his marriage, he married her out of pity 
 and, to a certain extent, because the whole adventure was 
 romantic and piquant. Marthe as a character is scarcely 
 more than a sketch ; but how deft are the touches which 
 make her live, how deeply we feel with her her sense of 
 injury and loss! Will Lemaitre ever write a play about 
 Marthe, expanding her field of action, entering with greater 
 detail into her inmost thoughts? 
 
 Two years after Mariage blanc came Flipote, a rather 
 rigid, " well-made " piece. The characterization is good, 
 but the story decidedly banal. Two lovers " separate the 
 day they find themselves rivals in public favor." Between 
 
 1 The original ending, according to Lemaitre, was this: Marthe, 
 knowing that any sort of exposure would be certain death to her 
 sister, opens a window in the room where Simone is lying, which 
 results in the consumptive's death. 
 
JULES LEMAITRE 25 
 
 Manage blanc and Les Rois, a comparatively weak piece 
 of work can easily be forgiven. 
 
 It will be remembered that the title of Lemaitre's only 
 novel was Les Rois. That novel he dramatized in 1893. 
 The play enjoyed great success at the Theatre de la Renais- 
 sance. Like many of the plays of Franois de Curel, the 
 austere writer of Les Fossiles, this was based upon a rather 
 dramatic newspaper clipping: the disappearance of a prince 
 of the House of Austria. Like Curel, Lemaitre used the 
 incident merely as an excuse for a psychological work of 
 deep import. The old King of Alfania has abdicated in 
 favor of his son Hermann, a young man whose principles 
 of democracy and progress are in direct opposition to his 
 father's. As he ascends the throne, he is confronted with 
 the grave problem of a popular uprising, the object of 
 which is the increase of the rights and power of the people. 
 Once crowned, Hermann, acting contrary to the advice of 
 his wife Wilhelmina and his ministers, decides in favor 
 of the people. Hermann's revolutionary doctrines are not 
 all his own, for a woman, Frida de Thalberg, his former 
 mistress, had imbued him with the spirit of freedom which 
 caused so great a disturbance in the kingdom. Awdotia 
 Latanief, a " revolutionary mystic," friend of Frida, has 
 likewise had much to do in the shaping of the mind of the 
 young king. Meanwhile, the people, having tasted of free- 
 dom, invade the palace, demanding further rights and more 
 power. Giving way to the entreaties of his wife Hermann 
 orders the General to "do his duty " ; the crowd is dis- 
 persed, some revolutionaries are killed, and for the moment 
 the revolt is put down. False to his own principles, Her- 
 mann decides to go to Frida for consolation; she is sta- 
 tioned not far away, at Loewenberg. He leaves, followed 
 by Wilhelmina. At the Pavilion of Orsova are Frida, the 
 king, and Awdotia. The two women, at first alone, discuss 
 
26 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 the political situation and Awdotia proposes that Hermann 
 be assassinated in order that the revolution may take its 
 course unhindered; but Frida, fearing for the life of the 
 man she loves, promises that if she be left alone with him, 
 she will induce him to abdicate. Hermann and Frida are 
 then left together ; Frida's passion for the liberty of Alfania 
 has now given way to her particular passion for its king. 
 " I don't want to be the shameful rival of the Queen of 
 Alfania; but if you are truly unhappy and tired of your 
 role of king and will abdicate, then, then, I will be yours ! " 
 Hermann is willing to give up all for Frida; but just at 
 this moment the figure of Wilhelmina is seen in the back- 
 ground. Ignorant of the danger, Hermann takes Frida in 
 his arms. Wilhelmina enters, takes the revolver Awdotia 
 has left on the table, and aims at Frida; but Hermann, 
 stepping between them, receives the shot and dies a mo- 
 ment later. Wilhelmina tells the aged king what she has 
 done, and he replies, making her the Regent: "You have 
 done so much to defend the crown, that I know of no 
 one in whose hands it could safer be ! " This drama of 
 " passion and ideas " is thoroughly effective, except 
 the final act; the psychological insight of the author is 
 deeper than in any other of his plays, with the exception 
 of Le Pardon. But the interest is so often shifted that 
 we are left a little bewildered. If Lemaitre had concen- 
 trated more on the characters of Hermann, Frida, and 
 Wilhelmina, we should doubtless have had a finer work. 
 That finer work was to come two years later. 
 
 With L'Age difficile (1895) Lemaitre gave proof of his 
 command over the dramatic medium. With perfect ease 
 he conducts his hero, a man of middle age, through danger- 
 ous love affairs, and supplies us with a series of delightful 
 genre scenes. Those parts of the play dealing with the 
 " Indian Summer " of Chambray, his meeting an old sweet- 
 
JULES LEMAITRE 27 
 
 heart after many years of separation from her, are handled 
 with great dexterity and gentle tenderness. 
 
 Up to the year 1895 Lemaitre had made various attempts 
 with a good measure of success in the delineation of char- 
 acter; in Les Rois and Manage blanc he had gone far into 
 the analysis of human motives ; but not until Le Pardon 
 (1895) did all his power of presenting human beings and 
 dealing with real problems come to its fullest fruition. 
 Les Rois, as we have seen, was ragged in places, Mariage 
 blanc somewhat abnormal and inclined to be over-senti- 
 mental; Le Pardon comes as near being a Slice of Life as 
 Porto-Riche's Amour euse, or any of its numerous progeny. 
 
 For commercial, and occasionally for artistic reasons, 
 several modern plays of full length contain but five, four, 
 or three characters. The charming comedy, The Mollusc, 
 by Hubert Henry Davies, and Frangois de Curel's La 
 Danse devant le miroir contain but four characters each. 
 Le Pardon has only three. A dramatist who is able to 
 write a play with so few characters and make that play 
 interesting and effective must be acknowledged by reason 
 of that tour de force an accomplished man of the theater. 
 In the second act of The Thief, Henry Bernstein has writ- 
 ten a duologue which for dramatic tension could hardly 
 be surpassed; but the intrinsic interest of the situa- 
 tion itself, which had been prepared for in the foregoing 
 act through the agency of a number of people, helped 
 sustain the act. Lemaitre's story is simple and common- 
 place: Suzanne has been unfaithful to Georges and wishes 
 to become reconciled with him. Their friend Therese 
 brings about the reconciliation, but meantime Georges falls 
 in love with her. Suzanne learns of this, and is at first 
 not inclined to forgive her husband; then, as Georges 
 makes it clear to her that his " slip " was momentary, acci- 
 dental, that he will ever after be a model husband, Suzanne 
 
28 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 gives in. Here is no mystery, here are few opportunities 
 for the " grand style ! " What could Bernstein have done 
 with this plot? 
 
 In Le Pardon Lemaitre has voluntarily done away with 
 such moving scenes as are ordinarily called " effective ". 
 In the story he conceived he might have made room for 
 many of these, but he preferred to enter into a detailed 
 analysis of the three characters he chose to treat. With a 
 keenness and austerity close akin to the literary hauteur 
 of Paul Hervieu, he has applied himself solely to inquiring 
 into the thoughts and feelings of Suzanne, Georges, and 
 Therese. In brief he says: Here is what happens every 
 day; it is not pleasant, it is not edifying, but it is life. I 
 have attempted to use this episode and tried to demon- 
 strate the subtle workings of the minds of these three peo- 
 ple. If Suzanne is unfaithful to her husband, how will 
 that fact affect him? If, after her husband has forgiven 
 her, on certain conditions, he is unfaithful to her, how will 
 she feel? If each at last is equally guilty, will that 
 balance accounts? Momentarily, it will, says Lemaitre; 
 but he pessimistically and truly adds that this unhappy 
 couple is no more secure than they were when the play 
 opened. Suzanne says as the curtain falls: "Oh Georges, 
 God have pity on us ! " This is a step in advance of the 
 solutions of the same problem offered by Hervieu and 
 Porto-Riche in Les Tenailles and Amour euse. In Les 
 Tenailles the unfaithful wife is riveted to her husband by 
 circumstances. Her fault is learned years after, when it 
 is too late for her to remarry. In Amour euse, she is 
 brought closer to her husband, because only through her 
 possible loss is he made fully aware of his love for her. 
 
 M. Lemaitre has twice in his plays made use of his gift 
 of verse. Two slight but very amusing satirical comedies 
 mark his sole attempts in the realm of the purely fanciful: 
 
JULES LEMAITRE 29 
 
 La Bonne Helene (1896), a two-act parody something in 
 the manner of Meilhac and Halevy, and the comic opera, 
 Le Mariage de Telemaque (1910), in which Maurice Don- 
 nay was his collaborator. With such a combination it is 
 no wonder that this delightful trifle enjoyed a long and 
 successful run at the Opera Comique. 
 
 The years between 1889 and 1896 were those in which 
 Lemaitre's development as a dramatist was most marked 
 and rapid; Revoltee is the weakest of the plays, and Le 
 Pardon probably the most close-knit, best thought out, and 
 best constructed. This development of his dramatic sense 
 practically stopped seven years after its inception; for in 
 none of the three important plays which followed Le 
 Pardon did he add materially to his skill as a craftsman 
 or his ideas as a thinker. L'Ainee (1898), La Massiere, 
 and Bertrade (1905) are the products of a man who has 
 already said his say. Of these three the first is the most 
 original. It is the story of Pastor Petermann, a stolid 
 Swiss, who has six daughters " to marry off." " Think of 
 it," he says, " six daughters to marry ! It's a problem. I 
 must show them off, give garden parties, teas, concerts; 
 bring young men to the house, and hold them. Old Pastor 
 Petermann's home has become a shrine of Love. But I find 
 it all very pleasant, this contrast between the sacred mis- 
 sion of the minister of the Gospel and his preoccupations 
 as father of a family." Here is a good subject for comedy, 
 a splendid opportunity which the dramatist has not failed 
 to grasp. The first two acts are among the best Lemaitre 
 ever wrote; but eventually he turns all his attention to 
 The Eldest Daughter L'Ainee. There is some resem- 
 blance to Marthe's situation in Mariage blanc, as little 
 Norah steps in and appropriates Mikils, who has asked 
 for the hand of Lia, the eldest. Lia has ever been the 
 drudge of the family; her continual sacrifices have always 
 
30 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 been accepted as a matter of course. Five years pass; 
 Lia is thirty. As before, she is the drudge, the servant of 
 her sisters and their infant children. At last a friend of 
 the family, Muller, a man of fifty, asks her to become his 
 wife. She does not love him, but feels that she must take 
 the chance. Just as she accepts his offer, the seventeen- 
 year-old Dorothee exercises her youthful cunning, and wins 
 Muller. The parents do not hesitate to agree to the match. 
 In silence, Lia accepts defeat, until one day, at a garden 
 party given by Dursay, a neighbor, she is astonished on 
 being asked to dance with the host's nephew. He has 
 divined the innate charm of the Eldest and begins to make 
 love to her in true romantic style. Dazzled for the mo- 
 ment by the unexpectedness of the young man's declara- 
 tions, she goes with him into the pavilion. Someone out- 
 side calls for her. " If you go now," says Dursay, " you 
 are lost." Terrified at the prospect, yet yielding to an 
 instinct of blind fear of further trouble, she opens the 
 door and calls, " Here I am ! " Lia seems irreparably 
 compromised ; but, strangely enough, Norah and Mikils 
 side with her and persuade the Petermanns that " Really, 
 what irritates you is not what she has done . . . but the 
 scandal." Madame Petermann agrees with Norah: " Don't 
 you see, it is Lia's very innocence, her simplicity, that have 
 been her undoing? Is it for us to be severe with her, us 
 for whom she has sacrificed everything? ... If Lia has 
 sinned ... it is our fault ... we should take her to our 
 hearts, protect her, and not allow her to suffer. That's 
 what I think ! " And the erring daughter is received again 
 into the bosom of her family. The repentant Dursay makes 
 an offer of marriage, which is at length accepted. 
 
 The end is a little banal, but a comedy must end in 
 some way. The author was concerned with Lia, and we 
 must admit that she is a well-drawn character. 
 
JULES LEMAITRE 31 
 
 La Massiere is a play of temperament. The painter 
 Mareze is guilty of " sentimental infidelity " to his wife 
 in his relations with little Juliette, an assistant in his 
 studio. Mme. Mareze, who suspects that her husband's 
 interest in the girl is more than platonic, extracts a promise 
 from him not to receive her except in the studio, and during 
 " business hours " ; but a small crisis is brought on as she 
 meets Juliette one day coming from Mareze's private studio 
 in his home. The affair is simply one of sentiment, yet it 
 assumes serious proportions in Madame's eyes. Their son 
 Jacques, however, provides a solution to the problem. 
 Meeting Juliette one day by chance, he falls in love with 
 her, and tells his parents not long after of his wish to 
 marry her. Mareze is deeply troubled, and opposes the 
 marriage from selfish motives; but his wife, seeing the 
 truth of the matter that Jacques' marriage will put an 
 end to the other affair brings the two together and in- 
 duces her husband to give his consent. 
 
 The plot again is weak; it does not progress; but the 
 idea, like that in the perennially charming Ete de la Saint 
 Martin of Meilhac and Halevy, the attack of " Indian 
 Summer " which comes to men of middle age, and the man- 
 ner in which it is worked out, make it one of Lemaitre's 
 most delightful plays. 
 
 Bertrade (1905) is the latest play. 1 The Marquis de 
 Mauferrand, deep in debt, has a daughter, Bertrade, who 
 can be the means of saving her father and establishing 
 him comfortably for the remainder of his life, if she will 
 only consent to become the wife of a rich and unscrupulous 
 banker, Chaillard. But she refuses, in spite of the im- 
 precations and threats of the Marquis. There is one last 
 means: the Marquis can, by marrying a former mistress, 
 
 1 La Princesse de Cteves was written about the same time, pre- 
 sumably. It has not been produced. 
 
32 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 the Baroness de Rommelsbach, re-establish himself and 
 pay all his debts. Again Bertrade steps in, convinces her 
 father of the utter shame of the transaction, and persuades 
 him to refuse. This he does, but, as there is no solution 
 left, he kills himself. This is again a rather meretricious 
 story, and would have little value were it not for the study 
 afforded in the character of Bertrade. The dramatist's 
 mistake is in beginning his play either too soon or too 
 late. Bertrade is too busy doing things to allow us to 
 see very much of her personality. She begins to interest 
 us just as the curtain falls, and we must rely on our imagi- 
 nation to fill out the sketch. Had Lemaitre begun his play 
 at this point, we might have had another complete, sym- 
 pathetic, and illuminating picture to place with Suzanne, 
 and Lia, and Frida. As it is, he has given us the ghost of 
 a play, a clever sketch, with a melodramatic plot. 
 
 The very openness of mind of Jules Lemaitre, his free- 
 dom from prejudice, his admirable integrity, render im- 
 possible any categorical summing up of his philosophy of 
 life. He is at once skeptic, believer, poet, politician, Re- 
 publican and Royalist. If, in the realm of the drama, he 
 has failed to maintain so high a standard as some of his 
 contemporaries, if in the final analysis he cannot be con- 
 sidered a playwright whose total output entitles him to 
 a place in the front rank, he has at least contributed to 
 the drama of his generation one play insurpassable of its 
 kind. 
 
 PLAYS PRODUCED :* 
 
 R6voltee 1899 (The Woman Who Re- 
 volted) 
 
 Le DtputS Leveau 1890 (Deputy Leveau) 
 
 Mariage blanc 1891 (A Marriage and No Mar- 
 riage) 
 
 1 La Princesse de Cloves, dramatized from Mme. de La Fayette's 
 novel of the same name, has not yet been produced. 
 
33 
 
 Flipote 1893 
 
 Les Rois 1893 
 
 L'Age difficile 1895 
 
 Le Pardon 1895 
 
 La Bonne Helene 1896 
 
 L'Ainte 1898 
 
 La Massiere 1905 
 
 Bertrade 1905 
 
 Le Mariage de Telemaque (in 
 collaboration with M. Donnay) .1910 (Telemachus' Marriage^ 
 
 (The Kings) 
 
 (The Difficult Age) 
 
 (The Pardon) 
 
 (Good Helen) 
 
 (The Eldest Sister) 
 
 (The Studio Assistant) 
 
MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 " A play is a love story, and since that story is laid in 
 various places, we are led to believe that plays differ." 
 
 These words of Maurice Donnay are the quintessence 
 of his theory of the theater. To him life is a spectacle 
 from which the love element must be extracted and molded 
 into an art form, and that form he has once for all fixed 
 in his finest and best-known play, Lovers. Love, within 
 or without the marriage bond, and sex attraction, these are 
 the eternal realities for the poetic and delicate Parisian 
 whose plays remain the delight of Tout-Paris. 
 
 Amants opens at the home of Claudine Rozay, a re- 
 tired actress, who is entertaining a number of children at 
 a party for her own daughter. "Of the correct and elegant 
 mothers who have brought children, not one is married; 
 each of them, like their own hostess, is comfortably estab- 
 lished in a liaison which assures her, together with luxuries, 
 a sort of outward respectability, and permits her to asso- 
 ciate with ' society.' " Georges Vetheuil is a guest at this 
 gathering; he has come to visit the hostess, whom he once 
 casually met, and has asked to be allowed to call and fur- 
 ther the acquaintance. In an artfully conducted scene, 
 Claudine gives in to Georges' overtures, and consents to 
 become his mistress. The Comte de Ruyseux, Claudine's 
 " legitimate " lover, the father of Claudine's little daugh- 
 ter, then enters, and the unsuspecting count meets for 
 the first time his new rival. After Georges leaves, 
 Claudine gives vent to her feelings in true Donnayesque 
 fashion : 
 
 85 
 
36 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 CLAUDINE. What's the news? 
 
 COUNT. Nothing much. 
 
 CLAUDINE. Tell me what there is! No gossip? See 
 anyone ? 
 
 COUNT. Oh, yes: met Lagny. 
 
 CLAUDINE. Ah, what did he have to say? 
 
 COUNT. Nothing since he stopped paying attentions to 
 my wife, he cuts me dead. 
 
 CLAUDINE. Really ! 
 
 COUNT. Or rather, since he has dropped out of the 
 number of those who pay attention to my wife ! 
 
 CLAUDINE. Please, Alfred, you know how I detest hear- 
 ing you say such things ! 
 
 COUNT. Why so? I'm not at all bitter. 
 
 CLAUDINE. Of course: you're a philosopher! 
 
 COUNT. I'm not a philosopher; only, as everyone in 
 Paris knows of my wife's conduct, my assumed ignorance 
 of the fact would be childish, and might even give rise to 
 graver suspicions; to brag of it would be odious in the 
 extreme ; but to mention it before certain picked individuals, 
 like you, and in a light and graceful manner that's the 
 only decent way for a man who knows well the exigencies 
 of life. I think there's a splendid place to fill between 
 Georges Dandin and Othello. 
 
 Meantime, Claudine has been living with Vetheuil. but 
 of this Ruyseux knows nothing. One night Ruyseux and 
 Vetheuil dine at Claud ine's, and Ruyseux bids her good-by: 
 he is leaving for Naples. This is the chance the lovers 
 have been awaiting, and they determine to take advantage 
 of the other's absence and spend the time at Fontainebleau. 
 Claudine and her new lover, having spent some months 
 together, come to the inevitable breaking-off, and the 
 woman gives vent to her pent-up jealousy. Rather illogi- 
 cally Vetheuil says he wants his liberty; he is dissatisfied 
 with their " false position," he says. Soon after, Claudine 
 sorry for her precipitancy in the scene in question 
 comes to him and implores him to forgive her, but he re- 
 
MAURICE DONNAY 37 
 
 fuses, recognizing the fact that he is ruining himself. He 
 cannot for the moment see her point of view. But this atti- 
 tude is only temporary, for he cannot long remain obdurate 
 before the manifold charms of his former mistress. Some- 
 what afraid of himself once more, he resolves to go away, 
 and break off their idyllic union at its height, in Italy. 
 Claudine has come to know that they are not eternal 
 lovers, and wishes to preserve the memory of their past. 
 Her daughter, too, will in the future demand more of 
 her time and attention. In the fourth act they part. 
 
 VETHEUIL. Now, Claudine, please, not that! You're 
 breaking my heart. Suppose, now, I do stay, could we 
 live again that Paris life, having the same obstacles to 
 overcome as before? With those same scenes over and 
 over again? They would wear us out, bore us infinitely. 
 You know very well, they would begin again the day we 
 returned, and we know that they are simply the result of 
 the conditions under which we try to live, under which we 
 first met. Good Heavens, how often have we tried to be 
 happy in spite of everything! And we were never able 
 we shouldn't be now if we tried again: we'd only end by 
 hating each other, perhaps deceiving each other. 
 
 CLAUDINE. Oh, no, no! 
 
 VETHEUIL. Is that sort of existence possible? No, it 
 would be a living hell, it would be the worst sort of life, 
 especially after these weeks we've passed together, alone, 
 so alone ! We have been too happy, and we cannot find 
 greater happiness ; we've had a month of happiness which 
 nothing can ever efface- 
 
 CLAUDINE. If it weren't for the idea of our separat- 
 ing 
 
 VETHEUIL. Yes, but that thought kept our happiness in 
 bounds, prevented it from becoming a sort of brilliant mad- 
 ness, gave it a tinge of melancholy. It was like the even- 
 ing mist that enshrouds the mountains, softens their hard 
 outlines, and makes their enormous mass things of infinite 
 tenderness. 
 
38 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 CLAUDINE. Then this is the end of everything ? 
 
 VETHEUIL. Listen, Claudine, let me tell you, let me 
 
 CLAUDINE. What can you say to me? Something rea- 
 sonable again? Don't you feel anything? 
 
 VETHEUIL. Claudine, that's not kind If you only 
 knew! I'm all broken up, too; I have a steep Calvary as 
 well as you, but I say this must be, it must ! It must ! 
 
 CLAUDINE. Then I'll never see you again ! 
 
 VKTHEUIL. Of course you will I'll come back, later, 
 after we're both cured. 
 
 CLAUDINE. Do you believe that? 
 
 VETHEUIL. Yes, we shall be cured. I'm not leaving 
 you because you have deceived me, and you're not leaving 
 me for a similar reason, nor are we tired of each other. 
 There are none of the conventional lies between us nor 
 the usual infamous tricks to envenom our love and wound 
 us incurably: we are breaking off because you have your 
 daughter and your friend, and we cannot be happy with 
 those obstacles to overcome. We are saying good-by, but in 
 what a marvelously beautiful land ! 
 
 Vetheuil's carriage is ready, and the pair must sepa- 
 rate. 
 
 COACHMAN. Excellency, it is ten-fifteen; we have just 
 enough time to reach Locarno for the eleven o'clock train. 
 
 VETHEUIL. I'm coming immediately. 
 
 CLAUDINE. What did he say? 
 
 VETHEUIL. That it is ten-fifteen, and I had only time 
 enough to be at Locarno at eleven. 
 
 CLAUDINE. Well adieu! [A long Iciss.} Let me look 
 at you, Georges, Georges you seem like a dying man ! Go ! 
 Go ! Don't say anything more to me ! [She falls on a 
 bench, her head bowed low, and sobs. The bells of the 
 carriage are heard tinkling in the distance, then are heard 
 no more.] 
 
 And thus ends the fourth act. Eighteen months later, 
 Georges, who has been on an exploring party in the desert, 
 
MAURICE DONNAY 39 
 
 returns and meets Claudine at a reception in Paris. It is 
 as he had predicted: the intense fire of their passion has 
 given way to quiet affection. 
 
 CLAUDINE. And now what are you going to do, here 
 in Paris? You will be very much in demand; you will be 
 feted and asked everywhere ; think of it, an explorer ! 
 
 VETHEUIL. I've given up all that; you see, when one 
 has lived eighteen months as I have, this Parisian life is 
 no longer possible. . . . No, I'm going away again, I'm 
 going to help colonize. 
 
 CLAUDINE. You're right, but it won't be very pleasant 
 for you out there, all alone. 
 
 VKTHEUIL. I sha'n't be all alone: I'm going to get mar- 
 ried the sister of one of my comrades on this expedition ! 
 
 CLAUDINE. What? Why, you've hardly been back a 
 week! You've made a very quick decision, haven't you? 
 
 VKTHEUIL. I've known her for more than a month. 
 When we were returning to France, she joined us at Saigon, 
 and we came back together in the same boat. 
 
 CLAUDINE. Is she pretty? 
 
 VKTHEUIL. Not as pretty as you. 
 
 CLAUDINE. Don't say that: in a few weeks you'll think 
 her the prettiest of women. By the way, you must have a 
 photograph of her with you? 
 
 VKTHEUIL. I haven't. 
 
 CLAUDINE. Then show it to me. [He shows her the 
 photograph.] You are right, she's not pretty, but she looks 
 energetic and sweet. You see, dear, I don't feel at all 
 jealous, looking at this picture, and if ever I meet the 
 original, I shall kiss her with all my heart. 
 
 VETHEUIL. How good you are ! 
 
 CLAUDINE. Life is funny; when I think how for months 
 I never did anything but cry and think about you ! . . . 
 And now there you are telling me you are going to marry, 
 and I have perfect control of myself, and am even glad 
 to hear the news ! . . . 
 
 VETHEUIL. What an adorable woman you are ! 
 
 CLAUDINE. Of course! But then, I'm cured, you see! 
 
 VETHEUIL. Yes, and all that had to be. . . . 
 
40 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 CLAUDINE. It was a real duty, and that's a great con- 
 solation the only consolation, I think. [A pause.] Well, 
 I too am going to get married. 
 
 VETHEUIL. Really? 
 
 CLAUDINE. Yes: a great many things have happened 
 since you have been away. 
 
 VETHEUIL. I can well imagine. 
 
 CLAUDINE. The Comtesse de Ruyseux ran away with 
 an officer a few weeks ago. 
 
 VETHEUIL. No? 
 
 CLAUDINE. Yes ! Now Ruyseux considers himself free. 
 . . . We're going to live in the country, on our estate, far 
 from the city; we'll come to Paris only when Denise is 
 eighteen. 
 
 VETHEUIL. Well, then, it's a pretty play: ends with 
 two marriages. 
 
 CLAUDINE. Yes, but shall we be happy? 
 
 VKTHEUIL. That's another story. ... If we remained 
 here in this city of trouble and suggestiveness, we who 
 are the playthings of passion, we should be again tempted 
 to have an adventure before the flame flickered for the last 
 time. Towards forty, you would fall in love with a youth 
 who would cause you great suffering, and break your heart 
 for the last time 
 
 CLAUDINE. Don't say that! 
 
 VETHEUIL. And I toward fifty, might fall in love with 
 some child who would lead me a merry chase, and take me 
 to new lands again ! 
 
 CLAUDINE. We have seen enough ! 
 
 VETHEUIL. Yes, and when one has lived, and observed, 
 one arrives at a true philosophy of life, and says that at 
 bottom of all this, happiness, or at least what most nearly 
 approaches it, is always 
 
 [At this moment, interrupting VETHEUIL in the midst 
 of his sentence, a Farandole, danced madly by a number 
 of couples, rushes into the little salon, and in its whirlwind 
 wake, sweeps out VETHEUIL and CLAUDINE.] 
 
 This cold and summary account of Amants gives little 
 enough of the spirit of the French, and the attempt but 
 
MAURICE DONNAY 41 
 
 proves the extreme difficulty of conveying an adequate 
 idea of its charm and grace. Its style and subject are so 
 foreign to us that it is doubtful whether a translation, 
 however well done, could reproduce the essentially French 
 flavor of the original. 
 
 Conjugal infidelity, however jestingly touched upon in 
 this and other Donnay plays, is not of prime interest in 
 itself; it is merely an excuse, an incident round which 
 the poet weaves his delicate web of sentiment and char- 
 acter analysis. In his Dedication to Moliere (in Le 
 Menage de Moliere) he says: " Reassure yourself, Mon- 
 sieur, we of to-day are far from the old French conteurs, 
 and their jokes on infidelity, which you yourself have often 
 revived with so much esprit, or else complacently repeated. 
 The conjugal accident no longer diverts us: it appears to 
 us as a social necessity, yes, a shameful but logical conse- 
 quence of marriage as it is most frequently practised in 
 the society of our day." This attitude toward adultery as 
 a " social necessity " is most typical of Donnay; his state- 
 ment throws a great deal of light on his work. Marriage, 
 fidelity, love, are his subjects, and the greatest of these 
 is love. That is why, among other things, Lovers contains, 
 as I have said, his philosophy par excellence. 
 
 Maurice Donnay was born in 1859 at Paris, of a well- 
 to-do bourgeois family in the district of Montmartre, where 
 the young Maurice was destined to make his artistic 
 debut not many years later. His predilection for literature 
 was noted in his early school days, for his instructors at the 
 JLycee Louis-le-Grand and the Ecole Centrale made refer- 
 ence more than once in their reports to the " dreamy and 
 contemplative " nature of the youth, which had many times 
 marked him out as a " poet " among his schoolfellows. In 
 accordance with the wishes of his ambitious parents, he 
 prepared himself for the profession of civil engineer, and 
 
42 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 in 1885 he entered, somewhat unwillingly, a contractor's 
 office. He was plainly not destined for the career which 
 he had embraced; and six years later, after having become 
 a regular contributor to the Chat Noir magazine, and as 
 a direct result of his appearing in public and reciting his 
 own verses in a cabaret on Montmartre, he was forced to 
 resign his position. Between the years 1889 and 1891 
 he wrote and recited a number of graceful if occasionally 
 vulgar and cynical " Saynetes," which were keenly appre- 
 ciated by the habitues of the Chat Noir. In 1892 his first 
 play, Lysistrata, was produced at the Grand Theatre; it 
 was at once successful, and attracted some notice. The 
 story and the wit of the Aristophanic comedy appealed to 
 the somewhat kindred spirit of the Frenchman, who utilized, 
 however, only the principal outlines of the Greek play, and 
 rounded it out with a generous infusion of his own Gallic 
 wit. The next important play was his most successful 
 and is certainly his most brilliant, and will doubtless re- 
 main his finest achievement, Lovers. Jules Lemaitre, a 
 great authority, a keen and conservative critic, pronounced 
 this play " probably a masterpiece." He was speaking of 
 the piece in its relation to French dramatic literature, not 
 merely contemporaneous writing. The praise of critics and 
 public soon lifted the young dramatist into the front rank, 
 made way for further successes, and prepared a respectful 
 hearing for everything he was destined to write. 
 
 La Douloureuse (1897) an untranslatable expression 
 of argot, again delves into the eternal question. This 
 time it is a woman's play. Again the dramatist tells 
 us of the effect of passion on a human character, and 
 the treatment here, considered with that in Amants, should 
 give us a clear idea of Donnay's mind. " The principal 
 underlying idea in Donnay's plays," says Roger Le Brun, 
 the author of a little monograph on the dramatist, " is, in 
 
MAURICE DONNAY 43 
 
 its essence, this: that love, as a result of social conventions, 
 for the most part hypocritically disguised by a puerile 
 sentimentality, is forced to do service for the basest appe- 
 tites as well as the most artificial emotions; it is debased 
 by lies, by tricks, by the avarice of Man, sidetracked from 
 its true and proper functions, going hand in hand with all 
 our misdeeds like a monstrous and vile thing." This de- 
 basement " by lies " is the theme of La Douloureuse. Don- 
 nay harks back a moment to Ibsen, when he shows us the 
 unhappy result of a lie in the past. The story of this 
 play is in itself of little importance: it is not well con- 
 structed or highly interesting, though the theme is sig- 
 nificant. But the dramatist has written one superb act, 
 the second. The closing scene leaves one with much the 
 same feeling as that of the fourth act of Amants; that 
 same longing, somewhat sentimental, that regret for hap- 
 piness lost, but happiness to be regained, hangs heavy over 
 this pair of lovers who are parting. He says, " Don't you 
 too feel a great weight lifted ; aren't you even happy ? " 
 And she replies, " Oh, yes, but I'm going to cry, all the 
 same." And the curtain drops. 
 
 L'Affranchie (1898) treats the question of free love, 
 not very successfully, it is true; but it is again the char- 
 acterization and the poetic atmosphere which place this 
 work among the best of its author. 
 
 Georgette Lemeunier (1898), played by Rejane and 
 Guitry, is the story of man and wife, the " victory of the 
 wife over the caprices of the husband a loyal victory, 
 without the eternal ancient ruses common to womankind." 
 
 Le Torrent (1899) marks a radical departure in the 
 " theatre " of Donnay. This comes as near being a 
 "thesis" play as any the author ever wrote: its theme 
 is closely akin to that of several plays of Hervieu and 
 Brieux. " The suicide of Valentine Lambert an unfaith- 
 
44 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 ful husband, relieves him of the cowardly blame of his 
 family for the crime of forcing motherhood on a woman, 
 and constitutes a fearful condemnation of the terrible mar- 
 riage law by which the male can take advantage of the 
 most despotic means, and force his wife, by the exigencies 
 of nature, to suffer the degrading lie of adultery." 
 
 The essential unit} 7 of Donnay's art cannot but suffer 
 by combining with it the alloy of a collaborator, no mat- 
 ter how skilful or powerful that collaborator may be. Don- 
 nay twice collaborated with Lucien Descaves, and the 
 resulting plays La Clairiere and Oiseaux de Passage we 
 cannot but feel, fall into a class much below Amants and 
 La Douleureuse. The first of these is another thesis play, 
 the other a Feminist tract, one in which the thesis is of 
 more importance than the play itself. If Donnay sur- 
 vives, he will be known as the author of two or three 
 charming and clever comedies of love, not as the champion 
 of " self-realization " or woman's rights. The day of the 
 thesis play seems to have passed, and the works of the 
 present age must stand or fall according to art standards, 
 not social or political. Donnay was evidently led to write 
 these plays, together with L'Autre Danger (1903), by the 
 spirit which pervaded the air ; but he must soon have learned 
 that he might well have left the work of reform to those 
 who were better fitted to polemics, and allowed Brieux 
 to write La Femme seule, an infinitely finer social docu- 
 ment than any Donnay attempted to produce. Yet 
 L'Autre, Danger, by reason of its manifestly interesting 
 theme and masterly development of the serious side of 
 human character, must ever remain one of the author's finest 
 achievements. L'Autre Danger is clearly a thesis play, 
 and the thesis constitutes anything but a " pleasant " sub- 
 ject. A woman who gives her daughter to her own lover 
 for a husband that is not a pretty situation; but handled 
 
MAURICE DONNAY 45 
 
 by Donnay it becomes a terrible and a painful one, and the 
 terror and pity are made the more poignant as the drama- 
 tist has hesitated so long to attack the subject. During 
 more than two acts up to the middle of the third the 
 theme, or at least its direct application, does not become 
 evident. It seems that the author, realizing the odiousness 
 of the situation, occupied as much time as possible in pre- 
 paring for the disagreeable but highly dramatic climax 
 and this climax, when it comes, is the more effective as 
 it is unexpected, or rather not lengthily and laboriously 
 prepared for. But once he starts, the wheels of action 
 move at lightning speed, and hardly are we aware of what 
 is happening, until it becomes a thing of the past. One 
 critic, Antoine Benoist, thinks that Donnay was afraid of 
 his subject and wished to be rid of its unpleasant side as 
 soon as he was able ; but as Donnay is above all a dramatist, 
 and not a prude or a moralist, and since he wishes to make 
 a striking effect and pile up as quickly as he could all 
 his accumulated action, the retardation of the story in the 
 first half of the play is wholly justifiable on the grounds 
 that he was seeking a greater tension and a more crushing 
 climax. It was to such apparent neglect of form as this 
 that Lemaitre made reference when he said that Donnay 
 " among our young dramatists is one of the few whose 
 works are the closest to actual life because of this very 
 negligence of composition." 
 
 The plays immediately following the production of Le 
 Torrent the next work are not of paramount importance. 
 La Bascule (1901) and Education de Prince (1900) are, 
 in the case of the first, a further study of the relations be- 
 tween man and wife, and, in the second, a rewriting of a 
 bright and satirical series of dialogues. 
 
 Le Retour de Jerusalem (1903) is the most ambitious 
 and detailed of the modern plays of Donnay. In it he 
 
46 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 attempted a problem: Is real intimacy, intellectual and 
 physical, possible between members of two distinct races? 
 But the universal application of that supposed problem is 
 so difficult to determine, that the problem per se, is almost 
 negligible. We must assume therefore that the author took 
 a Jewess and a Gentile merely as types of radically dif- 
 ferent races, and studied them in and for themselves. In 
 a long preface to the printed play, called forth by many 
 acrimonious articles and much discussion, Donnay says that 
 he intended to place before the public, with all due fair- 
 ness, the bred-in-the-bone difference between Jew and Gen- 
 tile. However this may be, he has succeeded in writing 
 a play which shows very clearly the essential difference 
 between one human being and another. This is a love 
 story, as well as a psychological study. 
 
 The production of Le Retour de Jerusalem in America 
 not long ago with one of the cleverest living actresses, 
 Madame Simone, in the leading role, showed clearly the 
 great gulf between French and American theatrical meth- 
 ods. Through scene after scene the play proceeds slowly, 
 developing character; long speech after long speech brings 
 the action to its far-off climax. The American public was 
 not willing to listen to conversation, no matter how brilliant 
 or how interesting. It demanded action. Donnay is a 
 dramatist, but he is likewise a poet and a thinker; the 
 French audience, probably the best trained in the world, 
 is willing to listen to good dialogue for half an hour, pro- 
 vided it be well spoken the American " moving-picture " 
 audience demands movement, not talk. 
 
 The next two plays, L'Escalade and Paraitre (1904 
 and 1906) do not merit special mention. The most inter- 
 esting of the later plays is the only one in which the author 
 went to the past for his subject-matter. For a number 
 of years Donnay had been devoting a great deal of time 
 
MAURICE DONNAY 47 
 
 to the studv of Moliere, upon whom he has contributed a 
 large and authoritative volume, and in 1912 the Comedie 
 Francaise produced Le Menage de Moliere. In this five- 
 act verse play Donnay has not forgotten his real gift 
 for verse since the early Montmartre days! he has 
 rendered charming tribute to his compatriot, in the play 
 itself as well as in the delicate and spirituel Dedication: 
 
 " I am taking the liberty, Monsieur, of writing to you, 
 as I have taken a greater already, that of writing a comedy 
 on your household, and I believe that in putting a man 
 such as you upon the stage, some explanation, if not ex- 
 cuse, is due you. ... It is ever an extremely hazardous 
 proceeding to put upon the stage a person who has once 
 actually lived. So far as you yourself are concerned, 
 Monsieur, if we know you thoroughly as an author, fairly 
 well as actor and manager, we are very uncertain when 
 we tread on the ground of your private life. Why do so, 
 then, you may well ask? ... I understand, but it is the 
 fault of your first biographer, J.-L. Gallois, sieur de 
 Grimarest. Yes, he began it: he recounts anecdotes, and 
 gives us to understand that you did not get along so very 
 well with Armande ; he says either too much or not enough, 
 thereby arousing our curiosity, which has not yet died 
 down. That simple admirer is therefore the first author 
 of the Menage de Moliere, unless it be yourself, as I shall 
 attempt to demonstrate before long. . . . Above all, Mon- 
 sieur, do not try to scent out any excuse on my part, any 
 answer to my critics. ... I am speaking to you, and to 
 you only, as I owe an explanation only to the man who 
 is the principal character in my play. ... I dare to hope 
 that you will discover in this comedy, Monsieur, the sin- 
 cerest expression of tenderness for yourself and the pro- 
 foundest admiration for your genius, Just as, if the dis- 
 tance between us were not so great, I should allow myself 
 to dedicate this play to you in person." 
 
 Donnay 's latest play, Let Eclairevses (1913), marks no 
 appreciable departure from his former work: it is a love 
 
48 
 
 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 story, touching upon the question of Feminism at moments, 
 but it is primarily a drame du cceur. With the usual clever 
 and delightful dialogue, the expected scenes of sentiment, 
 the poet recounts the history of an ill-matched couple, end- 
 ing with the ultimate soul-mating of the woman. Man's 
 laws, his obstinate refusal to look facts in the face, woman's 
 revolt and her final readjustment there is nothing new in 
 all this ; but then Donnay believes that there is no new 
 material, and has successfully proved it. 
 
 PLAYS PRODUCED: 
 
 Lysistrata 1892 
 
 Pension de Famille 1894 (Family Hotel) 
 
 Amants 1895 (Lovers) 
 
 La Douloureuse 1897 (The Sad Woman) 
 
 L'Affranchie 1898 (The Emancipated Woman) 
 
 Georgette Lemeunier 1898 
 
 Le Torrent 1899 (The Torrent) 
 
 Education de Prince 1900 (A Prince's Education) 
 
 La Clairiere (in collaboration 
 
 with L. Descaves) 1900 (The Clearing) 
 
 La Bascule 1901 (The Seesaw) 
 
 L'Autre Danger 1902 (The Other Danger) 
 
 Le Retour de Jerusalem 1903 (The Return from Jerusalem) 
 
 L'Escalade 1904 (The Escalade) 
 
 Oiseaux de Passage (in collab- 
 oration with L. Descaves) ..1904 (Birds of Passage) 
 
 Paraitre 1906 (To Appear) 
 
 La Patronne 1908 (The Patroness. Untranslat- 
 
 Le Manage de Molitre 1912 able in its colloquial use.) 
 
 Lea Eclaireuses 1913 (The Women Scouts) 
 
 (During the season of 1912-13, Madame Simone appeared in the 
 United States in Mr. Owen Johnson's adaptation of The Return 
 from Jerusalem.) 
 
GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 The following collections of criticisms contain accounts 
 of practically all the works of the writers represented in 
 the present volume: 
 
 Francisque Sarcey, Quarante ans de thedtre (Bibliotheque des 
 
 Annales). 
 
 Jules Lemaitre, Les Impressions de thedtre (Lecene et Oudin). 
 Emile Faguet, Propos de theatre (Socit6 fran9aise d'im- 
 
 primerie et de librairie). 
 
 Catulle Mendes, L'Art au thedtre (Fasquelle). 
 Emile Stoullig et Edouard Noel, Les Annales du thedtre et 
 
 de la musique (Ollendorff). 
 Leon Blum, Au theatre (Ollendorff). 
 Adolphe Brisson, Le thedtre (Bibliotheque des Annales). 
 " Portraits intimes (Colin). 
 
 Books of essays containing material on one or more of 
 the dramatists here represented: 
 
 Georges Pelissier, Etudes de litterature contemporaine 
 
 (Perrin). 
 Ren6 Doumic, Les Jeunes (Perrin). 
 
 " Essais sur le thedtre contemporain (Perrin). 
 " De Scribe a Ibsen (Perrin). 
 " Le Theatre nouveau (Perrin). 
 Emile de St. Auban, L'Idee sociale au theatre (Stock). 
 Francois Veuillot, Les Predicateurs de la scene (Retaux). 
 A. E. Sorel, Essais de psychologie dramatique (Sansot). 
 Antoine Benoist, Le Theatre d'aujourd'hui (Societe francaise 
 
 d'imprimerie et de librairie). 
 
 Paul Flat, Figures du thedtre contemporain (Sansot). 
 Barrett H. Clark, The Continental Drama of To-day (Holt). 
 The French Free Theater (Stewart and 
 Kidd). Material on Lavedan. 
 
 Single brochures on individual dramatists: 
 
 Roger Le Brun, Maurice Donnay (Sansot). 
 E. Sansot-Orland, Jules LemaUre (Sansot). 
 Victor Magdeleine, Jules LemaUre (Me>icant). 
 
 Magazine articles : 
 
 The Drama, August, 1913. 
 
 49 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 
 
 A Comedy in Three Acts 
 
 By 
 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 Translated by 
 BARRETT H. CLARK 
 
 Presented for the first time at Paris, in the 
 Theatre du Vaudeville, June 1, 1892 
 
PERSONS REPRESENTED 
 
 THE PRINCE D'AUREC 
 
 BARON DE HORN 
 
 VISCOUNT DE MONTREJEAU 
 
 PAUL MONTADE 
 
 MARQUIS DE CHAMBERSAC 
 
 SORBIER 
 
 THE COUNT DE GANC.AY 
 
 BARON DE BERTAMONT 
 
 MARQUIS DE FRAYSIERES 
 
 BERTIN 
 
 DUTAILLIS 
 
 STULBACH 
 
 Louis 
 
 JOSEPH 
 
 A SERVANT 
 
 THE PRINCESS D'AUREC 
 DUCHESS DE TALAIS 
 COUNTESS DE GANCAY 
 BARONESS DE BERTAMONT 
 VISCOUNTESS DE SAINTE-PATRICE 
 MADEMOISELLE DE SAINTE-PATRICE 
 MADAME DE SERQUIGNY 
 MADEMOISELLE DE SERQUIGNY 
 
 The scene is laid in Paris at the present day. 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 [In the hotel of the PRINCE D'AUREC. A large drawing- 
 room in an old mansion, in the Faubourg Saint- 
 Germain. The furniture is in the style of Louis XIV. 
 To the right, above the fireplace, is a magnificent por- 
 trait of Louis X.IV. The doors are composed of a 
 number of mirrors, divided into panels; there are three 
 at the back, one to the right, one to the left. Down- 
 stage to the right there is a sofa placed at an angle, 
 its back to the audience; at the back also to the right 
 is a sofa by the side of a small table; a desk and a chair. 
 As the curtain rises two servants in livery with 
 knee-breeches, together with M. STULBACH, are dis- 
 covered.] 
 
 STULBACH. [To the servants, angrily.] I'm not going! 
 Go and tell M. Bertin, your steward, that I've been wait- 
 ing here for an hour, I, Monsieur Stulbach the coachmaker ! 
 
 JOSEPH. But I tell you M. Bertin cannot possibly see 
 
 you 
 
 Louis. He is conferring with the decorators. 
 
 STULBACH. He will see me ; do as I tell you. 
 
 JOSEPH. [To Louis.] Monsieur is excited; go to M. 
 Bertin and let us have peace. 
 
 Louis. [To STULBACH.] One moment! [Louis goes 
 out.] 
 
 STULBACH. [Walking back and forth.] What a house! 
 I've had enough of trifling here this last year from the 
 Prince and his household ! 
 
 53 
 
54 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 JOSEPH. [Trying to soothe him.] Come, come, no per- 
 sonalities ! That's not our affair ! We're not to blame ! 
 
 STULBACH. I want what's owing to me! 
 
 JOSEPH. Of course; but you're not at all reasonable. 
 You know very well that to-day is no time to ask for your 
 money: we have a fancy-dress ball this evening, and we 
 have no time to think of anything else. 
 
 STULBACH. What's that to me? 
 
 JOSEPH. Fifteen hundred invitations ! The Queen of 
 Sardinia is coming! 
 
 STULBACH. She owes me for two landaus. 
 
 JOSEPH. In that case, you had better make a fuss with 
 her. That would be wiser. 
 
 STULBACH. Don't worry, I'm going there too. 
 
 [Enter Louis. 
 
 Louis. M. Bertin regrets, but he is busy looking after 
 the placing of the throne. 
 
 STULBACH. What throne? 
 
 Louis. For the Queen of Sardinia. 
 
 JOSEPH. What did I tell you? 
 
 Louis. He is quite unable to see you. 
 
 STULBACH. Then I must see the Prince ! 
 
 Louis. The Prince is not at home; he is driving the 
 " Eclair," the coach from Robinson. 1 
 
 STULBACH. I'll wait for him. 
 
 JOSEPH. No, no; come back next week. That will be 
 much wiser, I assure you. 
 
 STULBACH. Yes yes well, you may tell the Prince I 
 am going to file suit! 
 
 Louis. Very well: file! 
 
 JOSEPH. It would not be the first time. 
 
 [STULBACH goes out. 
 
 JOSEPH. [In an undertone, to Louis.] This old house 
 doesn't seem very secure! 
 
 *A fashionable restaurant near Paris. 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 55 
 
 Louis. Yes ! The Prince owes everybody. 
 
 JOSEPH. And the Princess too; I know the dressmakers 
 are continually dunning her. I know! 
 
 Louis. Well, why should they economize? They have 
 no children ! 
 
 JOSEPH. That makes no difference: little parties like 
 this to-night must cost a neat sum ! 
 
 Louis. But if he doesn't pay ? 
 
 JOSEPH. The Prince gambles, every night; the stakes 
 are getting higher and higher! 
 
 Louis. What luck? 
 
 JOSEPH. Vile ! 
 
 Louis. How can he manage to get along, the way he 
 throws his money away? 
 
 JOSEPH. [With meaning,] Friends 
 
 Louis. M. Paul Montade? 
 
 JOSEPH. No, he's a writer a man of letters, they call 
 him. Those people never have a sou. I'm speaking of 
 some one else: that millionaire Jew. 
 
 Louis. The Baron de Horn, who's always around 
 Madame ? 
 
 JOSEPH. He must be supplying the necessary. 
 
 Louis. A Jew? You're joking! 
 
 [Enter BERTIN, with some papers in his hand. 
 
 BERTIN. Has Stulbach gone? 
 
 JOSEPH. Just this moment. He said he was going to 
 file suit. 
 
 BERTIN. Let him! I have a handful of summonses; 
 this ball sends them in in droves: bootmaker, tailor, jeweler, 
 florist [To the servants.] Have you been to Beiloir's? 
 
 Louis. Yes. 
 
 BERTIN. Good. The Prince will be back any minute. 
 Go away, you shouldn't be here and don't let any one in 
 no creditors! [The servants go out. BERTIN looks over 
 
56 HENRI LAVED AN 
 
 the papers which he carries.] A Duke de Talais, Prince 
 d'Aurec! I really don't know where to hide my head! 
 Well, I shall be obliged to let his mother know about it. 
 [Louis reappears on the threshold.] What do you want 
 now? 
 
 Louis. M. Dutaillis, reporter from " L'Instantane." x 
 BERTIN. Tell him to come in. [Louis goes out. Enter 
 DUTAILHS.] 
 
 DUTAILLIS. How are you, M. Bertin? I am in a great 
 hurry ! 
 
 BERTIN. Not so great as I. Have you come to see the 
 Prince ? 
 
 DUTAILLIS. No: his wife. But why do you say the 
 Prince? Shouldn't he be called the Duke de Talais since 
 his father's death? 
 
 BERTIN. Doubtless he ought, but has preferred to keep 
 his title of Prince d'Aurec. You know his motto? "As 
 I please." 
 
 DUTAILLIS. He lives up to it! 
 
 BERTIN. One moment, please, I shall let the Princess 
 know you are here. [He turns to go.] 
 
 [Enter the PRINCESS, not noticing DUTAILLIS. 
 PRINCESS. Has my husband come in yet, Bertin? 
 BERTIN. Not yet, Madame. [Indicating DUTAILLIS, 
 whom she notices for the first time.] M. Dutaillis. 
 
 PRINCESS. [To DUTAILLIS.] From "L'Instantane"; 
 now I place you ! Have you come for the names and so 
 forth? Tell me. [BERTIN goes out.] 
 
 DUTAILLIS. You were good enough to grant me permis- 
 sion, Princess 
 
 PRINCESS. Oh, we are old acquaintances ! I have not 
 forgotten that you were the first to interview me on the 
 occasion of my marriage, three years ago. 
 1 The Snapshot. 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 57 
 
 DUTAILLIS. I had the honor at that time to be the only 
 reporter on all the papers to publish in extenso your entire 
 lingerie. I was then only a very obscure young re- 
 porter 
 
 PRINCESS. My trousseau gave you a start in the news- 
 paper world. Now, what do you want? 
 
 DUTAILLIS. Your costumes for this evening's ball, and 
 those of your guests. 
 
 PRINCESS. The Prince will appear as the Constable 
 d'Aurec, I as Marion Delorme. 
 
 DUTAILLIS. And the Duchess de Talais? 
 
 PRINCESS. My mother-in-law as Madame de Maintenon. 
 You may interview her if you like. 
 
 DUTAILLIS. Doesn't she live with you? 
 
 PRINCESS. No, she lives in the Rue de Varennes; for 
 further details, you may see Bertin. When may I have 
 the proofs of your article? 
 
 DUTAILLIS. After dinner. 
 
 PRINCESS. Very well. Oh, I should like to have two 
 places at the trial to-morrow. 
 
 DUTAILLIS. You shall have the tickets in an hour. 
 
 PRINCESS. May I leave before the court adjourns? 
 
 DUTAILLIS. Of course. 
 
 PRINCESS. You see I am going to hear Father Bonaven- 
 ture at the chapel of the Gesu at four o'clock. Next Thurs- 
 day I am giving a little intimate dinner for twenty-two; 
 I'll send you the names; say something nice about my 
 dressmaker. 
 
 DUTAILLIS. Who is she? 
 
 PRINCESS. Monsieur Camille. 
 
 DUTAILLIS. I'll run along now, I'm very busy. I have 
 to go to the Papal Embassy, Tattersall's, the Bureau 
 Monarchique, and the Morgue, all before dinner! 
 
 PRINCESS. Good luck to you! 
 
58 HENRI LAVE DAN 
 
 [DUTAILLIS goes out, as BERTIN and the PRINCE come 
 in, through the same door.] 
 
 PRINCE. [To BERTIN, who hands him a packet of pa- 
 pers.] No, no! Once more I tell you to leave me, and 
 don't speak of that again ! 
 
 BERTIN. But, Prince, this is the third time that M. 
 Stulbach 
 
 PRINCE. M. Stulbach bores me, and so do you. Leave 
 me now ! I am in no mood to think about my tradespeople 
 to-day! Go! [BERTIN goes out.] Upon my word, we 
 shall soon not be able to be at peace in our own house! 
 [To his wife.] Good morning! 
 
 PRINCESS. What is the matter? Have you been to 
 Robinson ? 
 
 PRINCE. Yes, I am just off the box. I'm very much 
 troubled. 
 
 PRINCESS. Did you run into anything? 
 
 PRINCE. Whom do you take me for? No, it's 
 another matter. Whom were you with when I just came 
 in? 
 
 PRINCESS. A young reporter, from " L'Instantane." 
 
 PRINCE. Did he ask you anything about me? 
 
 PRINCESS. No. 
 
 PRINCE. Did he say anything about last night, at the 
 club? 
 
 PRINCESS. Nothing. [Looking straight at the PRINCE.] 
 I can guess: you've lost again? 
 
 PRINCE. A little. 
 
 PRINCESS. How much? 
 
 PRINCE. Four hundred. 
 
 PRINCESS. Thousand? 
 
 PRINCE. Of course! Not four hundred francs! 
 
 PRINCESS. My congratulations, dear! 
 
 PRINCE. Don't mention it! 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 59 
 
 PRINCESS. Well, I think you might have chosen a bet- 
 ter time to lose so much ! 
 
 PRINCE. Why? 
 
 PRINCESS. Because I myself am very short for the time 
 being, and I was just about to ask you for a rather large 
 sum. 
 
 PRINCE. Ah, this is just the day! 
 
 PRINCESS. I suppose my demand is very mal a propos! 
 
 PRINCE. It is; I am sorry. Now you understand how 
 impossible it is for me to help you. What's the trouble? 
 Dressmakers? They can wait. 
 
 PRINCESS. Never mind, let's not speak about it. Tell 
 me, who won all that from you? 
 
 PRINCE. The Prince of Suabia. 
 
 PRINCESS. It is a very expensive luxury to play with 
 a Crown Prince ! 
 
 PRINCE. Twenty thousand louis ! It is a good deal. 
 So you are not surprised to see me a little nervous ? 
 
 PRINCESS. Nervous? You seem to me astonishingly 
 calm. 
 
 PRINCE. I drove my coach as usual this morning, for 
 after all noblesse oblige! It was rather pleasant, the 
 horses were well in hand; no sun, no dust: perfect English 
 weather ! Only, I'm rather tired from loss of sleep and 
 the ball this evening seems rather too much. 
 
 PRINCESS. At least you'll not play to-night. 
 
 PRINCE. No, worse luck. I might have recouped my- 
 self. 
 
 PRINCESS. At this rate, you will ruin us altogether! 
 Then how will you live? Will you be a coachman, or give 
 lessons on the horn? 
 
 PRINCE. That might pay me better than being a Bache- 
 lor of Science, like my steward Bertin. 
 
 PRINCESS. Let us count up your dead; in three years, 
 
60 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 since our marriage, you have already consumed two 
 uncles 
 
 PRINCE. My grandfather, my aunt, the Canoness, 
 
 PRINCESS. And one alive: me! 
 
 PRINCE. That's true. 
 
 PRINCESS. But I sha'n't blame you for squandering my 
 dowry; I despise money. 
 
 PRINCE. So do I! 
 
 PRINCESS. But really it is high time you stopped, be- 
 cause I know some one who will make you if you don't. 
 
 PRINCE. Who? 
 
 PRINCESS. Your mother. 
 
 PRINCE. Oh, the poor Duchess ! She will give me what- 
 ever I want. 
 
 PRINCESS. Do you believe that? 
 
 PRINCE. She's already let me have quite a fortune ! 
 
 PRINCESS. Do you intend to turn to her for the four 
 hundred thousand? 
 
 PRINCE. I do: to-morrow. 
 
 PRINCESS. And do you think she will give them to you ? 
 
 PRINCE. I do: she adores me. 
 
 PRINCESS. That is no valid reason. 
 
 PRINCE. You fail to do justice to my mother; you mis- 
 judge her. 
 
 PRINCESS. [Ironically.] Heaven keep me from that! 
 [She laughs.] 
 
 PRINCE. I know what you think about her: she lacks 
 distinction. 
 
 PRINCESS. You agree to that? 
 
 PRINCE. Well she is not of our class. It is all very 
 well for her to believe that her blood is as good as yours 
 or mine simply because my father made her a duchess. 
 She is a Piedoux, my dear, daughter of the famous manu- 
 facturer of automatic churns, Aristide Piedoux 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 6l 
 
 PRINCESS. " Will not rust. Vastly superior to the 
 American machines. First prize at the Philadelphia Ex- 
 position," according to the prospectus. 
 
 PRINCE. Ah, yes, yes, but what a splendid, whole- 
 hearted woman she is! I pity the person who speaks evil 
 of me in her presence of me, her prince! Why, not a 
 day passes that I don't joke with her about her romantic 
 ideas, her old-fashioned notions; of course, she tries to 
 defend herself, but she only thinks better of me for it, 
 and when she uses her favorite little phrase, " Dominique, 
 what a paradoxical soul you are ! " she is really very proud 
 of me. I know her as well as if I had brought her into 
 the world. Every time she is angry or excited, it is I 
 who finally bring her around. She is obstinate, determined, 
 prejudiced, but she simply cannot resist me! 
 
 PRINCESS. She managed to hold her own with your 
 father ! 
 
 PRINCE. She was quite right in preventing her hus- 
 band from spending all her money. She was a provident 
 and far-seeing mother. You see, she was thinking of me. 
 And then, my father was not his son! 
 
 PRINCESS. Very well, dear; by all means go to the 
 Duchess, if you have so much confidence in her ! Nothing 
 could please me better! 
 
 PRINCE. That's the only way the only good way out 
 of the difficulty. Do you know of any other? 
 
 PRINCESS. Oh, I 
 
 PRINCE. We can't get away from the fact that the debt 
 must be paid by this time to-morrow. The Prince of 
 Suabia is very close-fisted, and he allows no trifling in 
 gambling matters. What then? Of course, I could, if the 
 worst comes to the worst, sell the sword, the famous sword 
 of my forefather the Constable. 
 
 PRINCESS. [Ironically.] For all the good it does you! 
 
62 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 PRINCE. Chambersac offered me a hundred and thirty 
 thousand francs for it. 
 
 PRINCESS. Chambersac, the Marquis? 
 
 PRINCE. Yes, there is only one. He wants it for the 
 Cowley collection in London. 
 
 PRINCESS. The Marquis plies a fine trade, doesn't he? 
 
 PRINCE. He is a man of experience and expedients. 
 
 PRINCESS. He makes his living by it. When did he 
 make you this offer? 
 
 PRINCE. Last month. Family heirlooms like that are 
 not picked up in the streets every day ! But what good 
 would it do me to sell it? That wouldn't solve the diffi- 
 culty ! It would be hardly worth our while. 
 
 PRINCESS. And your mother would go into hysterics if 
 she heard of such a thing. 
 
 PRINCE. She would not hear of it. Then there is 
 De Horn 
 
 PRINCESS. [Hiding with difficulty the slightest shade 
 of nervousness.] The Baron? 
 
 PRINCE. Yes, I once had an idea of turning to him, but 
 I thought it over. Now I have nothing against Jews, 
 but 
 
 PRINCESS. You are not like your mother: she can't bear 
 them! 
 
 PRINCE. I believe them to be very clever and capable 
 people, who sometimes equal us Christians 
 
 PRINCESS. And sometimes surpass us. 
 
 PRINCE. But I do not believe we should allow them 
 to get the upper hand. I object to borrowing from De Horn 
 because he would be sure to let me have the money, and 
 afterwards take advantage of me. 
 
 PRINCESS. How? 
 
 PRINCE. He has two absurd ideas about which he has 
 sounded me once or twice already. Think of it, he wants 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 63 
 
 to go into partnership with me in some shooting grounds, 
 and then don't laugh he wants me to introduce him at 
 the club! 
 
 PRINCESS. He goes rather far! 
 
 PRINCE. As I am firmly decided not to do either of 
 these things, no matter how amiable the Baron is, I shall 
 not put myself under any obligation to him. 
 
 PRINCESS. You are perfectly right. 
 
 PRINCE. To go back to what I was saying, I have 
 thought of everything, but my mother is the only prac- 
 ticable solution. She has paid my debts three times already, 
 and she will pay them a fourth. 
 
 PRINCESS. Very possibly. 
 
 PRINCE. You'll see ! 
 
 [Enter JOSEPH. 
 
 JOSEPH. [Announcing.] Monsieur le vicomte de Mon- 
 trej eau. 
 
 [JOSEPH goes out. 
 
 PRINCE. [To his wife.] Your cousin! What a bore! 
 Since he arrived, the day before yesterday, I haven't had 
 a moment's peace! I'm sorry we asked him to stay with 
 us! 
 
 PRINCESS. We couldn't very well let a relative, an old 
 friend, stop at the hotel, could we? 
 
 PRINCE. I'm going. [He starts to leave.] 
 
 [Enter MONTREJEAU, intercepting the PRINCE. 
 
 MONTREJEAU. Don't leave. I'm in trouble. I'm stuck! 
 
 PRINCE. What's the matter? 
 
 MONTREJEAU. The Pavane. 1 
 
 PRINCE. Well? 
 
 MONTREJEAU. It's not going well. I've just come from 
 the rehearsal most depressed. Bertamont can't keep step. 
 
 1 An old French dance; in England it was called " Pavan." TR. 
 
64 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 The others do fairly well that's not all ! They lack sst ! 
 Fire that's the trouble! 
 
 PRINCESS. They were doing very nicely yesterday. 
 Aren't you expecting too much of them? 
 
 MONTREJEAU. But this is a Pavane, you see ! They 
 don't get into the spirit of the Pavane ! This is what we've 
 decided: they will all dress in a hurry, and then after din- 
 ner try it over once more, and see whether [To the 
 PRINCESS.] Do you mind? [To the PRINCE.] Do you? 
 
 PRINCE. Not in the least. But where? 
 
 PRINCESS. Here, in this room: we've reserved it for our 
 own use. 
 
 MONTREJEAU. Perfect! I'm so busy with this Pavane! 
 My poor dear friends, I've come expressly for this party 
 from Nantes given up my usual habits, broken in upon 
 the routine of my daily life, everything just for this! 
 The moment I heard you were giving a ball whissht tele- 
 gram announcing the happy news, " You may announce 
 that Pavane will be organized and conducted by Viscount 
 de Montrejeau." Now it must be a huge success, it must 
 be talked about later, it must be the essence of all that 
 is best in the genus Pavane a thing of beauty, that will 
 last ah, life is hard! 
 
 PRINCESS. Now, don't go on like that, Jojo. 
 
 MONTREJEAU. How can I help it? I alwaj^s feel very 
 deeply. I'd give a great deal to be twenty-four hours 
 older ! 
 
 PRINCE. [Troubled.] So would I! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. He understands me: he's a true friend! 
 
 [MONTREJEAU rises and shakes the PRINCE by the 
 hand. Enter JOSEPH.] 
 
 JOSEPH. [Announcing.] The Baron de Horn, Mon- 
 sieur Paul Montade. [JOSEPH goes out.] 
 
 PRINCE. [Rising.] So soon! 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 65 
 
 MONTREJEAU. [Going to the PRINCESS.] Are they go- 
 ing to dine here? 
 
 PRINCESS. Yes, with my mother-in-law. 
 MONTREJEAU. Then we're late ! 
 PRINCESS. Wait until I introduce you! 
 
 [Enter MONTADE. 
 
 MONTADE. Princess ! 
 
 [Enter DE HORN. 
 
 DE HORN. Are we too early? 
 
 PRINCESS. Not in the least. [Introducing.] The 
 Viscount de Montre j eau, my cousin 
 
 PRINCE. Arrived the day before yesterday from Nantes, 
 especially to conduct the Pavane this evening ! 
 
 PRINCESS. Monsieur le Baron de Horn Monsieur Paul 
 Montade, the well-known novelist. 
 
 MONTREJEAU. [To DE HORN, whom he mistakes for 
 MONTADE.] Read you often, Monsieur in the train. Very 
 pretty style! And 
 
 DE HORN. [Indicating MONTADE.] You are mistaken, 
 there is M. Montade ! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. I beg your pardon. What's the news on 
 the Bourse? 
 
 DE HORN. [With an evasive gesture.] They say 
 that we must all make a living! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. [Carefully.] Yes the life of a finan- 
 cier must be very enthralling you get the fever [DE 
 HORN nods his head in affirmation of MONTREJEAU'S words, 
 and walks off. MONTREJEAU then turns to MONTADE, who 
 has come to him.] Oh! Read you often, Monsieur, in 
 the train. Very pretty style. Have you anything in hand 
 now? 
 
 MONTADE. Yes, another novel. 
 
66 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 MONTREJEAU. What subject? 
 
 MONTADE. Society. 
 
 MONTREJEAU. I see. You're going to the lash of 
 satire ? 
 
 MONTADE. Oh, no, no satire: only the lash. 
 
 MONTREJEAU. Ah, Juvenal ! 
 
 PRINCESS. [Aside to DE HORN.] I was going to write: 
 I have something to talk to you about. 
 
 PRINCE. [To MONTREJEAU.] Do you realize, Mon- 
 trejeau, that it's past six? 
 
 MONTREJEAU. [To MONTADE and the BARON.] Beg 
 pardon J White tie! 
 
 DE HORN. [To the PRINCE.] You may leave us if 
 you like: we are in delightful company. [He points to the 
 PRINCESS.] 
 
 JOSEPH. [At the door.] The armorer from the Cluny 
 Museum has come to try on the cuirass of the Prince. 
 
 MONTREJEAU. Ha ! Ha ! The cuirass ! Tournament ! 
 Charming period ! 
 
 PRINCE. [Bored.] I'll see him [JOSEPH goes out; 
 the PRINCE follows him.] 
 
 MONTREJEAU. [Bowing to everybody.] Ta-ta! [He 
 goes out.] 
 
 PRINCESS. Ta-ta, Jojo! 
 
 DE HORN. [To the PRINCESS.] I didn't know you had 
 a cousin in the provinces. 
 
 MONTADE. He seems very intelligent! 
 
 PRINCESS. Oh, my cousin is not a genius, but when he 
 dances he is very distingue. Now instead of making 
 ironical remarks, do look at those illustrations for a mo- 
 ment while I talk with the Baron. 
 
 MONTADE. [Going to the opposite end of the room, 
 towards a table heaped with books.] Secrets, in my pres- 
 ence? [To DE HORN.] My dear man, I shall be jealous! 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 67 
 
 PRINCESS. That would be very wrong of you ! I have 
 merely a question of finance to ask of the Baron. I am 
 going to ask him to buy some Turkish bonds for me. 
 
 MONTADE. I guessed it. [He turns over the leaves of 
 a book.] 
 
 PRINCESS. [To MONTADE.] Do you wish anything 
 else? 
 
 MONTADE. I only like the Epinal chromos. [He looks 
 at a picture in one of the books.] Here's a pretty one! 
 
 DE HORN. What is it? 
 
 MONTADE. [Reading the title on the page.] The 
 quarter of an hour of Rabelais ! x 
 
 PRINCESS. [To MONTADE.] Leave us in peace, please! 
 [To DE HORN, confidentially.] Now! [She stops.] 
 No, I hardly dare! 
 
 DE HORN. Tell me, please. 
 
 PRINCESS. Once more I must take advantage of your 
 friendly offer. 
 
 DE HORN. It is a standing offer and will always remain 
 such. 
 
 PRINCESS. I am very, very grateful to you. 
 
 DE HORN. Let us leave gratitude out of the question. 
 Now what is it? 
 
 PRINCESS. You guess already, don't you? I am just now 
 very 
 
 DE HORN. I understand. 
 
 PRINCESS. You must listen to me; you must know 
 that 
 
 DE HORN. Never mind. [He turns round, sits by the 
 small table, draws a check-book from his pocket, takes a 
 pen, makes out a check, gives it to the PRINCESS, and points 
 to a place on it.] You have only to insert the figure 
 
 1 A common expression relative to the time when a person pays 
 a bill. The reference is to an incident in the life of Rabelais. TH. 
 
68 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 there: the check is signed. [He gives her the check-book.] 
 
 PRINCESS. [Taking the check-book and playing me- 
 chanically with it.] But, really, I'm too I'm taking 
 advantage 
 
 DE HORN. Very well! 
 
 PRINCESS. But, I 
 
 DE HORN. Tell me! 
 
 PRINCESS. What confidence I have in you! 
 
 DE HORN. It could not be better placed! 
 
 PRINCESS. [Puts the check-book in her pocket and rises. 
 To MONTADE.] Montade, I give you the Baron again. 
 
 MONTADE. I was getting along very well without him ! 
 
 PRINCESS. I'll see you presently! [She goes out 
 quickly.] 
 
 MONTADE. [Approaching the BARON, smiling, as if to 
 show that he " knew something ".'] Well, how are you 
 coming on? 
 
 DE HORN. What do you mean? 
 
 MONTADE. [Looking toward the door through which the 
 PRINCESS has just gone.] Turkish bonds! 
 
 DE HORN. I don't understand. 
 
 MONTADE. Oh, come now! Don't try to hide anything 
 from me! I'm not blind! 
 
 DE HORN. Monsieur is a psychologist, is he not? 
 
 MONTADE. There are worse professions ! 
 
 DE HORN. What are you not blind to? 
 
 MONTADE. You won't be angry if I tell you? 
 
 DE HORN. I am never angry. 
 
 MONTADE. So much the worse. 
 
 DE HORN. It's a matter of principle. Tell me! 
 
 MONTADE. You are getting along very nicely in this 
 family. 
 
 DE HORN. Not better than you. 
 
 MONTADE. Oh, yes ! But, for that matter, our cases are 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 69 
 
 different: I am a celebrity, I am invited out as a mat- 
 ter of course. But it is not a matter of course that a 
 man like you who comes of an eminently practical race 
 should have private conversations with a woman like the 
 Princess, and take out of his pocket a little volume that 
 resembles a check-book ! [Negative gesture from DE 
 HORN.] There must be something behind all this when 
 the Baron de Horn, one of our most hard-headed million- 
 aires, a leader, although young, among the Hebrew finan- 
 ciers, lets himself in for such elegant and refined little 
 chats before dinner! 
 
 DE HORN. Well? 
 
 MONTADE. And as that something else is one of the 
 most charming and desirable little women in Paris, why, 
 my dear fellow, I wish you all the luck in the world ! 
 
 DE HORN. I assure you 
 
 MONTADE. Oh, no, no, no don't explain ! Only, I don't 
 know just why: I should be careful about the Prince and 
 Princess. [The BARON pays strict attention to these 
 words.] I have an idea that this family's intentions in 
 regard to you are not of the most disinterested, and you are 
 running the risk of being fooled if you don't play your 
 cards with extreme care 
 
 DE HORN. I have never yet been fooled ! 
 
 MONTADE. You and I are not what might be termed 
 close friends, but in the interest of psychology I think I 
 ought to warn you of possible danger. Now, let's say noth- 
 ing more about it! 
 
 DE HORN. You are very kind! But you may rest as- 
 sured I shall never be fooled by these people, Monsieur 
 Novelist. I know them too well for that! 
 
 MONTADE. Not as well as I. They don't love us ! 
 
 DE HORN. They despise us ; me for my money, you 
 for your ability. These people are our born enemies; no 
 
70 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 peace is possible between us. They tolerate us, but never 
 for an instant do they admit us to be their equals. We are 
 a race apart; the same blood does not flow in our veins. 
 
 MONTADE. We are like higher servants to them. I am 
 happy to see that we can converse on a basis of mutual 
 understanding. But if they despise us and they do 
 why do they receive us in their circle? 
 
 DE HORN. First, because we force our way, but, above 
 all, because they are afraid of us. They are afraid of us 
 as they are afraid of what is unknown, of the future. I 
 inspire fear by reason of the millions I have in my pocket, 
 you by the qualities you have in your mind. You see, the 
 impudence of their affected courtesy, the carefully guarded 
 degree to which they extend their friendship, their atti- 
 tude of patronage, their formal manner of shaking hands 
 it all shows that they can never pardon us for obliging 
 them to accept us. It is sometimes said that their hauteur 
 is only a form of timidity, their rudeness, absent-minded- 
 ness. Well, I shall believe that when I have once seen 
 them amiably absent-minded ! What are they good for 
 nowadays? What do they care for art, literature, science? 
 They support nothing but horse-racing and horse-shows. 
 If they were able they would put a stop to everything. 
 They are useless, vain, frivolous, irritable: they form a 
 totally artificial and isolated class in the society of to-day: 
 luxurious and rotten to the core ! They now quietly decom- 
 pose amid the splendor and show of their past. To-morrow 
 they will have ceased to exist! 
 
 MONTADE. Far be it from me to defend them ! I don't 
 want to, nor am I bound to, but really, between you and 
 me, you exaggerate. There are among them, if you know 
 where to look, people who still possess the old-fashioned 
 honor and fidelity. 
 
 DE HORN. Very possibly: in the provinces! 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 71 
 
 MONTADE. In Paris, too. 
 
 DE HORN. Very few: they are rare exceptions. We 
 are too prone to make generalizations from the exception. 
 A courtesan may have fine qualities, but how many of those 
 ladies whom we have known were like Dumas's heroine? 
 And as for the gentlemen who have done something in the 
 world; do they owe their achievements to the age and the 
 influence of their family names ? No, they are simply men, 
 into whom one day fell the divine spark, and for one Duke 
 who was a brilliant statesman and one Viscount who was 
 a great thinker, consider the unending line of titled idiots ! 
 As a whole, the aristocracy of to-day is in the last stages 
 of decay. There is not a shadow of a doubt! They are 
 nothing they have nothing left! 
 
 MONTADE. But there is a little natural pride in know- 
 ing who your ancestors were during the past six or seven 
 hundred years ! 
 
 DE HORN. But what is the good of that? 
 
 MONTADE. They have the satisfaction of perpetuating 
 the family name. They are seven hundred years old: that 
 is their merit. 
 
 DE HORN. Their only one. But so are we seven hun- 
 dred years old, as far as that goes, or even older! Your 
 ancestors and mine might well have fallen at Crecy. We 
 merely have no means of telling. The nobility have those 
 things inscribed on a scrap of paper. 
 
 MONTADE. That is everything. It is a great satisfac- 
 tion to me, for instance, to know that seven hundred years 
 ago, my ancestors went about in rags, bare-footed, scratch- 
 ing the arid soil of the Middle Ages, while I, the descend- 
 ant of those outcasts, may hold my head high, and can 
 write my thoughts and have them printed ! 
 
 DE HORN. And my ancestors seven hundred years ago! 
 Worse than outcasts! They lived in filth, the objects of 
 
72 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 fierce hatred; they were driven out of the towns at the 
 sword's point like lepers ! A Jewess, who was enceinte 
 and had to cross a bridge, paid the same toll as swine. But 
 the times have changed, and now we are the kings: we are 
 the true aristocrats. They ha! they are appropriately 
 called descendants! As we rise, they sink! Proofs? 
 Everywhere! There, on the table! [He picks up a book 
 at hazard.] " Rules for the Game of Poker." 
 
 MONTADE. [Picking up another book.] " Thirty Calls 
 on the Horn," collected by the Baron de X. . . . 
 
 DE HORN. [Taking another.] "The Mail-coach in 
 Paris." And in this house, what do we find? A Prince 
 aged thirty-four, good for nothing on earth 
 
 MONTADE. Capable of everything 
 
 DE HORN. A perverted mind, heart and feelings like 
 dry tobacco. There's the Princess, a pretty doll, to whom 
 you may say anything, but to whom I happen to be mak- 
 ing love, with the certitude, I admit, of her being mine! 
 What else? Jo jo, the cousin from the provinces, the grand- 
 son of a Chouan x 
 
 MONTADE. Let's say nothing more about them ! 
 
 DE HORN. In this noble family the only one who is 
 worth anything is the Duchess, and she's a fool. There's 
 nothing of a real Duchess in her, she was born a Piedoux ! 
 There's nothing to them at all! They don't even try to 
 protect their caste system. They are exempted from public 
 office, driven out of every place where useful people are 
 needed! And do they stir a finger in revolt, even for the 
 sake of form? Have they even sulked, as their fathers 
 did for fifteen years during the July Monarchy? No, you 
 don't know them ! They paint their faces and dress up in 
 the costumes of the past! "What are you wearing? 
 
 1 The Royalists in the Vendean war were so-called because 
 they imitated the call of the " Chouan "the owl. TB. 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 73 
 
 Who are you? La Mole! And you? Coconas." 1 They 
 deserve the famous tirade of the Marquis de Presle 2 : " Do 
 you know why ? " 
 
 MONTADE. [Continuing.] Jean-Frangois d'Aurec went 
 to Palestine? 
 
 DE HORN. Why the Constable ? 
 
 MONTADE. Why this one, and that and so forth? It 
 was in order that 
 
 DE HORN. This young lord might drive the coach to 
 Robinson, make free with his friend's purse, ruin himself, 
 and then hold high his own head and his ancestor's sword 
 at a fancy-dress ball! Ah, I don't like them! 
 
 MONTADE. I understand that. But why do you appear 
 to enjoy their company, why do you come here? 
 
 DE HORN. Oh, I have a purpose. 
 
 MONTADE. Very well ! Here they come ! Silence ! 
 [Enter the DUCHESS, the PRINCESS, and MONTREJEAU. 
 
 DUCHESS. [To MONTREJEAU.] I haven't seen you 
 since my son's wedding, Monsieur de Montrejeau, and yet 
 I should have recognized you a league away ! My memory 
 is good for faces, places, and titles ! [MONTADE and DE 
 HORN come and bow to the DUCHESS.] You know, Mes- 
 sieurs, don't you, that the Viscount is related to us through 
 his great aunt Brimont-Laudun, daughter of the Laudun 
 who was esquire to Madame la Dauphine? 
 
 MONTADE. [Aside.] She's off again! 
 
 DUCHESS. [To MONTREJEAU.] Where are you stop- 
 ping? 
 
 MONTREJEAU. Here. 
 
 PRINCESS. We gave him the red room. 
 
 1 La Mole and Coconas: characters in Dumas' "Vingt Ans 
 Apres." 
 
 2 A character in Augier and Sandeau's " Le Gendre de M. 
 Poirier." 
 
74 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 DUCHESS. The king's chamber! The one I always use 
 when I come to stay with my son. Louis XIV once 
 slept there! Louis XIV is a perfect idol of mine. [To 
 MONTADE and DE HORN.] Yours, too, isn't he? 
 
 [MONTADE and DE HORN bow in affirmation. 
 
 MONTREJEAU. The Great Monarch! Five o'clock with 
 Moliere ! 
 
 MONTADE. [Pointing to the large portrait.] There he 
 is! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. [Looking at the picture.] Poor man! 
 
 DUCHESS. Why poor man? 
 
 MONTREJEAU. What a mane ! To think he had to wear 
 that all his life! 
 
 DUCHESS. Do you think it's ridiculous? 
 
 MONTREJEAU. Not at all: quite the reverse! 
 
 DUCHESS. Who are you this evening, Monsieur Mon- 
 tade? 
 
 MONTADE. Pierrot, Madame la duchesse merely 
 Pierrot. 
 
 DUCHESS. Why don't you take a historical costume 
 Du Guesclin, for instance? 
 
 MONTADE. I never thought of that; I'll try it some 
 other time. 
 
 DUCHESS. And you, Baron? 
 
 PRINCESS. De Horn is a Rajah this evening, covered 
 with diamonds. I've heard you can't look at his costume: 
 it's as bright as the sun ! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. [Attempting a joke.] Get out of my 
 sunlight ! * 
 
 DUCHESS. They say the diamonds cost a million. Is 
 that true? 
 
 DE HORN. No, Duchess: three. 
 
 1 Diogenes' reply to Alexander when he was asked what favor 
 he should like from the great general. 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 75 
 
 DUCHESS. [Stiffly.] My compliments ! There is not a 
 woman of the aristocracy who can boast of so many. 
 
 DE HORN. That's true. But my diamonds are not 
 family jewels; they are like me, parvenus. 
 
 DUCHESS. [To MONTREJEAU.] And you, Montrejeau? 
 
 MONTREJEAU. First I thought I'd appear as a Chouan, 
 with hat and cockade, representing Grandfather's last 
 heroic days! La Vendee Bocage and all that! but I 
 thought it might be too painful ! And those Chouans 
 they were not very Pavane ! So, sst ! I changed ! 
 
 MONTADE. And what is it now? 
 
 MONTREJEAU. Duke d'Epernon simple Epernon! 
 
 DUCHESS. Delicious ! 
 
 MONTADE. Fits you like a glove! 
 
 PRINCESS. But, Mother, tell the gentlemen 
 
 DE HORN. Yes, Duchess, we're very anxious to 
 hear 
 
 MONTREJEAU. Oh, very! 
 
 DUCHESS. It's nothing so extraordinary: my dressmaker 
 suggested Catherine de Medicis. 
 
 MONTADE. Oh ! 
 
 DUCHESS. Not nice, was it? She's so unsympathetic! 
 So I chose Madame de Maintenon! 
 
 DE HORN. Happy choice! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. [Pointing to the portrait.] For his sake? 
 
 DUCHESS, Possibly ! 
 
 [Enter the PRINCE, in evening dress. 
 
 PRINCE. Whew ! 
 
 DUCHESS. What is it, Dominique? You don't look 
 well? 
 
 PRINCE. The armorer nearly killed me fitting on the 
 irons. 
 
 DUCHESS. [Shocked.] Irons? The Constable's suit of 
 armor ! 
 
76 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 PRINCE. Yes, irons I'm half dead! Then all those 
 people hammering about: electricians and gardeners ! 
 The whole place turned upside-down I wish the ball were 
 over! 
 
 DUCHESS. I don't. 
 
 PRINCESS. How frivolous, Mother! If Madame de 
 Main tenon heard you ? 
 
 DUCHESS. So much the worse for her! Oh, the party 
 is going to be magnificent! 
 
 PRINCE. Too many people ! 
 
 DUCHESS. Not at all ! 
 
 PRINCESS. Oh, yes : fifteen hundred invitations ! 
 
 PRINCE. [To the DUCHESS.] It's your fault! If we 
 had listened to my mother, we should have invited all the 
 nobility of the provinces! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. Quite as good as that of Paris! 
 
 DUCHESS. I should have had no objection. We have 
 only too rarely an opportunity to gather together and make 
 friends among ourselves. Thanks to this ball, we shall 
 have all the aristocracy together at once! And then, the 
 tradespeople were complaining of dull times ! 
 
 MONTADE. That is their business they always com- 
 plain. 
 
 DUCHESS. The Republican Press criticizes us for clos- 
 ing our salons to outsiders; this time they have no cause 
 for complaint! 
 
 PRINCESS. You're mistaken, the Republican Press will 
 always have something to say. 
 
 PRINCE. Well, it will be perfectly right! 
 
 DUCHESS. Dominique ! 
 
 PRINCE. Because we are playing the fool in our little 
 faubourg, and by this time we ought to uphold the govern- 
 ment. Little Marianne * is charming, eh ? 
 
 1 The Republic is sometimes jokingly spoken of as " Marianne." 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 77 
 
 PRINCESS. We must keep up with the times ! 
 
 DUCHESS. We Republicans? What are you thinking 
 of? 
 
 PRINCE. The Pope himself is! 
 
 DUCHESS. You forget, my son: that you are the godson of 
 the Count de Chambord! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. So am I! 
 
 PRINCE. There are innumerable hordes of his godsons: 
 two thousand at least ! 
 
 DUCHESS. Please, do not continue ! 
 
 PRINCE. Very well! If you can't take a joke ! 
 
 DUCHESS. There are certain forms of levity which I 
 cannot tolerate! [To DE HORN and MONTADE.] Perhaps 
 you did not know that side of him. He persists in attack- 
 ing my most cherished beliefs the king, the clergy, the 
 white flag 
 
 PRINCE. I attack nothing: there are times when I ven- 
 erate the king, the pope, the princes, everything that is 
 emblazoned, crowned 
 
 DE HORN. Uncrowned! 
 
 PRINCE. Likewise. I regret that Louis XVI was be- 
 headed. 
 
 DUCHESS. Regret? 
 
 PRINCE. And that lately the good Jesuit fathers who 
 educated me so well, and made me what I am, have been 
 removed! But I see nothing tragic in it, as my mother 
 does. 
 
 DUCHESS. I am broad-minded : I don't think it tragic ! 
 
 PRINCESS. Don't defend yourself: you are monarchy 
 personified. 
 
 PRINCE. You read nothing but the Gazette de France; 
 every spurious Marie- Antoinette escritoire you see you buy ; 
 you believe in Louis XVII, and your favorite flower is the 
 fleur-de-lys! 
 
78 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 PRINCESS. He's jealous because he can't wear one in his 
 button-hole ! 
 
 PRINCE. You're too gullible! And, for your trouble, I 
 have found for you a coat-of-arms : Jupiter's thigh on a 
 field of azure, with the motto, " It really happened." 
 
 DUCHESS. I don't understand. 
 
 PRINCE. You think everything " really happened ! " 
 The doors are all closed, so we may speak out: nothing 
 has happened, my dear Mother! The Crusades Richard 
 Co2ur-de-Lion " Burning fever " " Open, 'tis the fortune 
 of France ! " " Hang thyself, brave Crillon " " There 
 are no Pyrenees ! " " Messieurs les anglais ! " 1 They are 
 all a fairy-tale, that never happened. They are only catch- 
 words of the past ! 
 
 DUCHESS. My boy, Henry IV and the Sunday 
 chicken 2 
 
 PRINCE. Nonsense You read those things in books, 
 see them in pictures, hear them at the opera 
 
 MONTREJEAU. By Jove ! 
 
 DUCHESS. I won't listen to another word ! 
 
 PRINCE. People speak of them as they speak of Homer, 
 Roland, Blue-Beard, and Puss-in-Boots, but they don't 
 exist! Some fine morning we'll all wake up and find that 
 the glorious history of France is only a dream! 
 
 1 A melange of famous historical allusions and quotations. The 
 " burning fever " is from an aria in the opera " Richard Coeur-de- 
 Lion"; "Open, 'tis the fortune of France!" is attributed to Philip 
 VI of Valois, after his defeat at Cr6cy by the English; "Hang 
 thyself, brave Crillon," to Henri IV; "There are no Pyrenees" to 
 Louis XIV when the Duke of Anjou was crowned King of Spain; 
 " Messieurs les anglais " was addressed to the English at Fontenoy, 
 meaning that they should fire the first shot. 
 
 2 Henri IV said that he wished the country to be so prosperous 
 that every inhabitant would be rich enough to afford a " poule au 
 pot" or boiled chicken every week. The Prince's reply is quite 
 untranslatable; his makes a pun on the word "canard" duck 
 which also means an exaggeration. 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 79 
 
 DE HORN. Answer him, Duchess! 
 
 DUCHESS. I can't ! He takes my breath away ! Ah, 
 Dominique, what a paradoxical soul you are! 
 
 PRINCE. [Aside, to his wife.] There! You hear? 
 
 PRINCESS. " Hit the target every time ! Can't miss ! " 
 
 PRINCE. Not I! 
 
 [Enter a servant. 
 
 SERVANT. Dinner is served ! 
 
 [All rise. The PRINCESS, in passing the small desk near 
 which the BARON is standing, leaves the check-book on it, 
 unperceived by the others. The BARON takes it.] 
 
 PRINCESS. [Going close to her husband.] I don't think 
 you were at all tactful with your mother! 
 
 PRINCE. You'll see, she will pay a good round sum to 
 bring me back into the fold ! 
 
 DE HORN. [Opens the cover of the check-book before 
 putting it into his pocket, sees the figure written in it, raises 
 his eyebrows, and says aside:] Two hundred thousand! 
 I begin to have hope! [Going to the DUCHESS and offer- 
 ing her his arm.] Duchess! 
 
 [DE HORN and the DUCHESS, together with the rest of 
 the company, pass out into the dining-room.] 
 
 DUCHESS. The day the king comes riding into Paris 
 
 PRINCE. He will soon be on foot again ! 
 
 Curtain. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 [The scene is the same as in the first act. The folding- 
 doors at the back open upon a circular balcony which 
 permits a view of a large room beyond, brilliantly 
 lighted. On the balcony are stools, small chairs, and 
 various musical instruments: violas, 'cellos, bass-viols, 
 etc. 
 
80 HENRI LAVED AN 
 
 As the curtain rises the MARQUIS DE CHAMBERSAC, 
 the VISCOUNT DE MONTREJEAU, and MONTADE are 
 discovered. CHAMBERSAC is dressed in a court uni- 
 form of the Second Empire, MONTADE as Pierrot, and 
 MONTREJEAU as the Duke d'Epernon.] 
 
 MONTREJEAU. [To CHAMBERSAC.] Four hundred thou- 
 sand last night, you say? 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. To the Prince of Suabia. 
 
 MONTREJEAU. Diavolo! In any event, the Duchess 
 seems to know nothing about it: after dinner, she went 
 direct to her rooms. 
 
 MONTADE. To metamorphose herself into the Great 
 Monarch's morganatic spouse ! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. She was gay as a lark. 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. You may be sure she will not long re- 
 main ignorant of the state of affairs. 
 
 MONTREJEAU. [Showing uneasiness.] And my dancers 
 not here yet! 
 
 MONTADE. They are coming: dry your tears! [To 
 CHAMBERSAC.] How does the Prince carry it off? 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. Finely. 
 
 MONTREJEAU. He has plenty of courage. 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. Nerve ! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. Same thing. 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. In the provinces, not here! 
 
 MONTADE. [To CHAMBERSAC.] Do you think our 
 friend can pay? 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. I wonder? He has only one resource: 
 the Duchess. 
 
 MONTADE. And what if she refuses? 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. Then he'll have to scrape around, and 
 empty his pockets. I can always help him to the extent 
 of a hundred and thirty thousand. 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 81 
 
 MONTREJEAU. I'm glad to hear it! You're a friend 
 worth having! 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. Don't make fun of me ! I can't afford to 
 loan money to any one except at high interest. I am of- 
 fering the Prince a hundred and thirty thousand for his 
 sword 
 
 MONTREJEAU. The Constable's sword? 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. Of course; I have a number of commis- 
 sions for it. 
 
 MONTREJEAU. But my cousin refuses to sell it, I hope? 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. So far, yes. He is wrong. 
 
 MONTREJEAU. That depends. 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. What's the matter? You seem to be sur- 
 prised that I should engage in business like a trades- 
 man with my noble name ? 
 
 MONTREJEAU. Yes and no. 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. [Patronizing him.] Young man! 
 
 MONTADE. [To MONTREJEAU.] It's not difficult to see 
 that you don't live in Paris ! 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. I carry on a number of other business 
 affairs; ask Monsieur! [Pointing to MONTADE.] 
 
 MONTADE. That's true. 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. Are you scandalized? What can a no- 
 bleman do nowadays when he is without a sou, except die 
 of starvation which he has a perfect right to do or make 
 use of his native talent and go into business? Some do 
 painting and sculpture 
 
 MONTADE. But they never sell their work for money. 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. Others drive carriages and shoot pigeons; 
 some, who have the knack of language, go into literature, 
 but they're in a minority. 
 
 MONTADE. Fortunately ! 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. But I don't paint, I'm not a sculptor, and 
 I don't compose operas to be performed in private I have 
 
82 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 no talent except for business, and that I develop, thanking 
 Providence for having given to a bachelor marquis, a useless 
 fellow like me, destined to ruin and damnation, the com- 
 mon sense and ordinary gifts which are necessary to a 
 tradesman! I believe that to-day commerce is the only 
 field in which my talents are of any use I can do great 
 things ! If M. de Talleyrand were limping through life 
 to-day, he would without the shadow of a doubt go into 
 business, and he would be perfectly justified in so doing! 
 Now I haven't the genius of the Prince de Benevent, 1 so 
 I work in a very limited field: where I was born and I do 
 a very thriving little business in many ways. I ferret out 
 those little gifts which form the basis of 
 
 MONTADE. Friendship ? 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. If you like! I sell family jewels, or buy 
 them, I effect exchanges, I search out titles to nobility 
 that have hitherto escaped notice; pay cash for historic 
 swords and wipe out gambling debts. I carry on these 
 affairs in perfect good taste, without discussion and argu- 
 ment, as people of my station should. 
 
 MONTADE. And you get along very well! 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. The moral side I have to handle with in- 
 finite tact and the utmost discretion. Think of it: I un- 
 tangle the most knotted problems, smooth over all sorts 
 of difficulties ! Ah, the tears I have been witness of in my 
 time ! 
 
 MONTADE. And you dry them ? 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. Not always! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. [Aside.] The old brigand! 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. Then I act as artistic adviser to parvenu 
 
 and inartistic millionaires; I give them the benefit of my 
 
 skilled sense of what is fitting, I give the furnishers and 
 
 decorators beautiful ideas, for which they pay me hand- 
 
 1 Talleyrand. 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 88 
 
 somely and find a way not to lose on their commission 
 themselves ! In short, I am Chambersac ; the unique Cham- 
 bersac, the Marquis, as if there were only one in France, 
 who might well put on his card: " Regent of style, Arbiter 
 of fashion, Professor of toilette." 
 
 MONTREJEAU. [Holding out his hand to him.] You 
 are a real gentleman; shake hands! 
 
 MONTADE. [Aside.] A fine one, too! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. [Seeing the ladies enter.] Ah! 
 
 [Enter the COUNT and COUNTESS DE GANJAY, the BARON 
 and BARONESS DE BERTAMONT. They wear costumes of 
 the time of Henri III.] 
 
 MME. DE BERTAMONT. [Very gay. She holds the hand 
 of MADAME DE GANCAY.] Ladies of the court of Henri 
 III! 
 
 MME. DE GANCAY. [Indicating her husband and M. DE 
 BERTAMONT.] And their playthings! 
 
 M. DE GANCAY. What a comparison! 
 
 MME. DE BERTAMONT. [Dancing a fen) steps of the 
 Pavane.] Look! 
 
 MME. DE GANJAY. [Also dancing.] How are we? 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. Like two Clouet portraits. 
 
 MONTADE. Ah, ladies! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. [Nervously.] We haven't a moment for 
 trifling now. Let's admire ourselves later! [Clapping his 
 hands.] Bertamont, get them in place! 
 
 [The musicians come in at the back and lake their places 
 on the balcony over the large room.] 
 
 M. DE GANCAY. I don't see the Prince and Princess. 
 
 MONTREJEAU. They're just putting the finishing touches 
 to their costumes. Come, now ! 
 
 MME. DE GANCAY. [To MONTADE.] I think you're 
 very fetching ! Do you dress like that often at home ? 
 
 MONTADE. Every time I expect Columbine ! 
 
84 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 M. DE BERTAMONT. [To his wife, aside.] Really, don't 
 I look ridiculous in these tights? 
 
 MME. DE BERTAMONT. Not in the least! 
 
 M. DE BERTAMONT. I feel as if I had nothing on. 
 
 MME. DE BERTAMONT. It's because you aren't used to it, 
 dear. 
 
 M. DE GANGWAY. [Impatiently.] Is your Pavane going 
 to be danced this year or next? 
 
 MONTREJEAU. [Regretfully.] We're not all here! 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. If you need me, I'll act as dummy? 
 
 MME. DE BERTAMONT. We need Madame de Saint- 
 Patrice. 
 
 [Enter MADAME and MADEMOISELLE DE SAINT-PATRICE. 
 
 MME. DE SAINT-PATRICE. Here I am! Fraysieres is 
 coming, too! 
 
 [Enter the MARQUIS DE FRAYSIERES. 
 M. DE FRAYSIERES. Present! 
 [Enter MADAME and MADEMOISELLE DE SERQUIGNY. 
 
 MME. DE GANCAY. Madame de Serquigny. 
 
 MONTREJEAU. [To those mho have just entered.] We 
 were only waiting for you ! 
 
 MME. DE GANCAY. [To MME. DE SERQUIGNY.] Your 
 daughter is lovely! 
 
 M. DE FRAYSIERES. [To MLLE. DE SERQUIGNY, aside.] 
 Mademoiselle 
 
 MME. DE SERQUIGNY. [To MME. DE GANCAY.] You 
 think so? She'll make a charming house-wife. I'm count- 
 ing on this ball 
 
 MME. DE GANCAY. To marry her? 
 
 MME. DE SERQUIGNY. Better than myself, if possible! 
 
 M. DE FRAYSIERES. [To MLLE. DE SERQUIGNY.] I put 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 85 
 
 a louis for you on Vol-au-Vent yesterday, as you told me. 
 Here is the sixty francs you won. 
 
 [He gives her the money without being seen. 
 
 MLLE. DE SERQUIGNY. What luck ! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. Take your places ! We'll gossip later ! 
 Ladies, gentlemen, Mademoiselle musicians! Clear the 
 floor, those who are not in the dance ! Now, keep well 
 in mind, the Pavane is the noble dance par excellence. 
 Dance for pleasure if you will, but remain elegant and dig- 
 nified. Don't forget that! Now remember, at the end of 
 the Pavane, each gentleman kisses his partner; the kiss 
 must be light, evanescent. [He imitates the kiss by 
 smacking his lips.] So light! Now, glide! Every one 
 understand ? 
 
 MONTADE. [To MONTREJEAU.] A child could. 
 
 [Every one is in place, ready for the dance. 
 
 MONTREJEAU. Good! [To the musicians.] Musicians, 
 one, two, three glide! 
 
 [They begin the Pavane. It is danced by eight persons; 
 the couples are divided as follows: the COUNT DE GANCAY 
 and the BARONESS DE BERTAMONT; the BARON DE BERTA- 
 MONT and the COUNTESS DE GANCAY; MONTREJEAU and 
 MADAME DE SAINT-PATRICE; the MARQUIS DE FRAYSIERES 
 and MADEMOISELLE DE SERQUIGNY. The following con- 
 versation takes place during the dance, while the dancers 
 are laughing and joking.] 
 
 M. DE GANCAY. Look at Bertamont, the way his foot 
 sticks out ! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. Silence! Monsieur de Bertamont is not 
 in step ! 
 
 M. DE BERTAMONT. The musicians insist on going ahead 
 of me! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. [To M. DE BERTAMONT.] Catch up, 
 then. Mme. de Bertamont, you are not keeping step. 
 
86 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 MME. DE BERTAMONT. Monsieur de Camay's fault! 
 
 M. DE GAN^AY. Mine? 
 
 MME. DE BERTAMONT. He's telling me naughty stories ! 
 
 M. DE GANCAY. Oh, Madame ! 
 
 MME. DE GANCAY. [To MME. DE BERTAMONT.] For- 
 give him: his bite is not as bad as his bark! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. [Stopping the dance.] We can't work 
 while all this is going on! 
 
 ALL. We'll be still ! There, now ! Pardon us ! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. Very well, then ! Just a word, now that 
 we've stopped. [Taking a violin from one of the musi- 
 cians.] Gentlemen, Maestro, please! [To the dancers.] 
 You are all very nice, but you haven't the dance yet ! You 
 lack color! You, Bertamont, [singing and playing the 
 violin], yours is no Pavane! On the tips of the toes, not 
 flat-footed ! What do you mean ? There ! As if you were 
 on velvet! Good! [Returning the violin.] Now let us 
 try over again this is absolutely the last time, I warn 
 you ! Ready ! 
 
 [He raises his arm, and the musicians recommence. The 
 dancers begin again in silence. CHAMBERSAC and MON- 
 TADE are seated near each other, by the table to the left. 
 CHAMBERSAC is looking at a piece of paper which he holds 
 in his hand.] 
 
 MONTADE. [Leaning over toward CHAMBERSAC.] What 
 are you reading? 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. A list of the guests that was lying about. 
 Look, the Princess de Larmor is the Queen of Sheba. 
 
 MONTADE. Is she the one who had that disgraceful 
 trial? 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. She took my advice on it, and won her 
 case. Superb shoulders! The Marquis de Precignac as 
 Charles I. 
 
 MONTADE. Is he the officer? 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 87 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. His brother. He's in business; director 
 of the Submarine Credit. Clever fellow ! 
 
 MONTADE. [Also reading the list.] Landerbourg as a 
 clown of the Middle Ages. 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. Oh, the little Prince de Glaive as Punch. 
 
 MONTADE. Black costume, I presume? 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. Why black? 
 
 MONTADE. His grandmother died three weeks ago ! 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. You're malicious ! 
 
 MONTADE. No, I'm not. I'm simply having a capital 
 time. I'm taking notes on everything. I am the soul of 
 kindness. 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. You're as good as a man of letters can 
 be! 
 
 [The Pavane draws to a close. 
 
 MONTREJEAU. Lightly, lightly, now Bravo! There is 
 the real Pavane ! Exudes the spirit of nobility ! Dance it 
 like that before the Queen, and watch the effect ! We shall 
 be the sensation of the ball! 
 
 [Enter the PRINCE, as the Constable (but without the 
 cuirass, which a servant carries); the PRINCESS, as Marion 
 Delorme; and DE HORN.] 
 
 PRINCESS. [To MONTREJEAU.] Well, Jo jo, are you 
 satisfied with your dancers ? 
 
 MONTREJEAU. I am easier; the dance will be a suc- 
 cess. 
 
 PRINCE. [To the servant.] Put it there. [The serv- 
 ant goes out.] 
 
 PRINCESS. Ladies, gentlemen! How are you, Montade? 
 Chambersac ! 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. [Kissing her hand.] To whom have I 
 the honor to do obeisance? 
 
 PRINCESS. Let me tell you: I was born in 1612 at 
 Chalons or Blois, it is not certain which. I was celebrated 
 
88 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 during half of a great century ; among my personal friends 
 were Cinq-Mars, Saint-Evrement, Buckingham, Gram- 
 mont, the great Conde, Richelieu, and Louis XIII. Each 
 loved me in a different way: I loved them all alike. Then 
 I was mysteriously eclipsed, so that no historian has ever 
 been able to find out the date of my death. Sometimes 
 I return; this evening it is my pleasure to appear before 
 you on the arm of the Constable d'Aurec. Good my lords, 
 and fair ladies, welcome in your midst Marion Delorme ! 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. Spoken like a queen ! 
 
 PRINCESS. That is because I have reigned. 
 
 MONTREJEAU. [To M. DE BERTAMONT.] Come for- 
 
 ward ! [He takes DE BERTAMONT in a corner to show him 
 something about the dance.] 
 
 MONTADE. [To the PRINCE.] You are superb, too. 
 You really give the impression of the Constable ! 
 
 MME. DE SAINT-PATRICE. Are you going to put on your 
 helmet and cuirass to receive the guests? 
 
 PRINCE. Alas, yes ! 
 
 MME. DE SAINT-PATRICE. [Picking up the helmet.] 
 Oh, it's heavy! 
 
 PRINCE. [Showing it to her in detail.] One of my 
 ancestors wore it at the siege of Brescia ; the plume is gone. 
 
 MME. DE SAINT-PATRICE. In battle? 
 
 PRINCE. No, in a house-moving! 
 
 MONTADE. [Pointing to the sword.] There's the fa- 
 mous sword! 
 
 PRINCE. [Drawing it from the scabbard.] The his- 
 toric razor ! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. [Still with DE BERTAMONT.] Bend 
 from the knee you're not bending at all ! 
 
 M. DE BERTAMONT. [Out of humor.] I've been doing 
 that for the last ten minutes ! You're too particular ! 
 
 MONTADE. [Taking the sword from the hands of the 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 89 
 
 PRINCE.] Poor sword! [Every one listens to him.] Don't 
 you see something lamentably sad in all these jewels and 
 fleurs-de-lys ? I can hardly keep from saying, as I look 
 at this blade 
 
 PRINCE. [Taking back the sword.] No "copy" now, 
 please ! 
 
 MME. DE BERTAMONT. [Disappointed.] Oh, Prince, he 
 was going to say something charming ! 
 
 PRINCESS. Don't worry: we'll find it all in his next 
 novel ! 
 
 PRINCE. Nothing is lost with him. [Brandishing his 
 sword, then looking at it.] These great sabers these his- 
 toric weapons, you know [he puts it quickly back in the 
 scabbard] are out of date they are not carried any 
 longer. 
 
 MONTADE. Oh, yes, they are : to the auction room ! 
 
 [Enter JOSEPH, right. 
 
 JOSEPH. I have been sent to say that the rooms are now 
 lighted. 
 
 [He goes out. 
 
 M. DE BERTAMONT. Shall we go? 
 
 MME. DE SAINT-PATRICE. Let us take a look ! 
 
 M. DE BERTAMONT. [Preparing, like the rest, to leave.] 
 One moment! Look! 
 
 [He points to the door through which DE HORN, as a 
 Rajah, covered with diamonds, now enters.] 
 
 MONTADE. Monsieur de Horn! 
 
 PRINCESS. Marvelous ! 
 
 MME. DE BERTAMONT. Oh, what a splendid Rajah! 
 
 CHAMBERSAC. Just back from India ! 
 
 MLLE. DE SAINT-PATRICE. Who is the dazzler? 
 
 M. DE BERTAMONT. The Baron de Horn! 
 
 MME. DE SAINT-PATRICE. The man with so much 
 money ? 
 
90 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 PRINCESS. [To the BARON.] Your entrance somehow 
 lacked effect; a Rajah like you should have come on an 
 elephant. 
 
 MLLE. DE SAINT-PATRICE. A white one ! 
 
 DE HORN. I left him in the cloak-room. 
 
 [Everybody except the PRINCE, PRINCESS, and DE HORN 
 goes out.] 
 
 MONTREJEAU. [As he goes out with DE GANCAY.] Too 
 much j ewelry ! 
 
 M. DE BERTAMONT. [To MONTREJEAU.] Are you sure 
 his teeth aren't set with diamonds? 
 
 DE HORN. [To the PRINCESS.] Aren't you going with 
 them ? 
 
 PRINCESS. [As she sits down.] I'm tired; I shall be 
 standing long enough later on. 
 
 DE HORN. I came through the galleries downstairs: 
 beautifully arranged! 
 
 PRINCE. Chambersac looked after that. I'm in splen- 
 did humor to-night! 
 
 PRINCESS. You'll be late if you don't hurry ! 
 
 PRINCE. That's true. There's that cuirass, that an- 
 cestral strong-box ! I tell you it is anything but easy to 
 put the thing on ! 
 
 PRINCESS. Courage ! 
 
 DE HORN. Your ancestors didn't mind a little thing 
 like that ! 
 
 PRINCE. They had nothing else to do then! [He goes 
 out.] 
 
 PRINCESS. [After a pause, extending her hand to DE 
 HORN.] Thank you. You acted as tactfully as a great 
 lord. 
 
 DE HORN. As a friend, merely. 
 
 PRINCESS. If Dominique had not been so unlucky at 
 play these last three months, I 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 91 
 
 DE HORN. I know. 
 
 PRINCESS. I should never have had to go to stran- 
 gers 
 
 DE HORN. Never mind that! 
 
 PRINCESS. But I always insist on paying my debts: in 
 a year's time I shall no longer be your debtor. 
 
 DE HORN. I regret it. 
 
 PRINCESS. Oh! [Delicately.] Notice that I did not 
 say I should not be infinitely obliged to you! 
 
 DE HORN. Those words are worth all the money I have 
 loaned you. But really I am your debtor yours and the 
 Prince's especially yours ! 
 
 PRINCESS. In what way? 
 
 DE HORN. In what way? During the past two years 
 I have risen considerably in the world. 
 
 PRINCESS. Two years, you say? 
 
 DE HORN. Yes, Princess. 
 
 PRINCESS. How quickly time passes when one is idle ! 
 
 DE HORN. I remember clearly the circumstances under 
 which I first met your husband. 
 
 PRINCESS. I don't remember! 
 
 DE HORN. It was at a ball given by the d'Amboises. I 
 had just arrived from a long visit in Portugal. At that 
 time I had very little to do with the best Parisian society. 
 
 PRINCESS. Since then you've made up for lost time ! 
 
 DE HORN. Thanks to you ! As I was looking on at 
 the dance I heard a voice behind me : " A Jew, this Mon- 
 sieur de Horn? " " A good Jew! " " Is that ribbon he's 
 wearing the Legion of Honor ? " " No, it's the Order of 
 the Christ ! " " Ah ! " said another, and then they all 
 laughed. So did I. I turned round to see the author of 
 the joke; I asked who he was, and was told: the Prince 
 d'Aurec ! 
 
 PRINCESS. I'm so sorry! How impertinent of him! 
 
92 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 DE HORN. I can appreciate a good joke, when it is 
 really clever, and that one was. Five minutes later, I ob- 
 tained an introduction to him; your husband was charm- 
 ing 
 
 PRINCESS. Now I remember- 
 
 DE HORN. And that, Princess, was the beginning of 
 our friendship. 
 
 PRINCESS. I should have preferred another. You 
 weren't too offended at what the Prince said? 
 
 DE HORN. Not in the least. The best way to success 
 in this old world is never to be offended. 
 
 PRINCESS. But I really don't see how we have been of 
 any service to you or even how our hospitality ? 
 
 DE HORN. One moment: I'm coming to that. You re- 
 ceived me, a man who was not of your race nor of your 
 rank ; you treated me as a social equal, in public 
 
 PRINCESS. All mankind are brothers, Monsieur. 
 
 DE HORN. In the New Testament, not in the salon ! I 
 am not joking: you have shown great courage in receiving 
 me as you have, in spite of the prejudices of society. You 
 have opened at least wide enough for me to enter doors 
 which, without your assistance, I should never have been 
 able to pass through 
 
 PRINCESS. Nor will they be the last. I know your 
 wishes in regard to the club. 
 
 DE HORN. Oh, Princess! Yes, I can say with perfect 
 frankness, you have raised me to your level, and definitely 
 " placed " me. Before I knew you I was an ordinary 
 banker, one of fifty in Paris; to-day I appear before the 
 world as an aristocrat, a man of birth, simply because I 
 sit at your table. I am deeply obliged, Princess, and very 
 glad to have this occasion to tell you how I appreciate 
 all you have seen fit to do for me ! 
 
 PRINCESS. Not so much, after all ! If our relations with 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 93 
 
 you have helped you, I am only too happy to see that you 
 are at least not ungrateful. 
 
 DE HORN. Oh, please ! 
 
 PRINCESS. I am ! You have been of great service to me; 
 I shall never forget. 
 
 DE HORN. Never? 
 
 PRINCESS. Do you want me to say it again? 
 
 DE HORN. Never is a great deal. I don't ask that much. 
 I ask you to remember it some day! 
 
 PRINCESS. What day? 
 
 DE HORN. I shall tell you. 
 
 PRINCESS. [Aside.] I have been too grateful! [To 
 DE HORN, playfully.] Now, Monsieur le rajah, if you 
 wish our relations to continue, you must swear one thing 
 to me. 
 
 DE HORN. Swear by what? 
 
 PRINCESS. What you hold most dear, according to the 
 formula. 
 
 DE HORN. Then I swear by 
 
 PRINCESS. Your diamonds? 
 
 DE HORN. Very well! Now what shall I swear? 
 
 PRINCESS. Swear first. 
 
 DE HORN. Juro. 
 
 PRINCESS. Not to make love to me. 
 
 DE HORN. I don't swear it. 
 
 PRINCESS. Why? 
 
 DE HORN. I want immediately what is denied me. For 
 that reason I have sworn never to go into a museum; the 
 moment I see a sign " Do not touch ! " I do touch ! 
 
 PRINCESS. But this isn't a museum ! 
 
 DE HORN. That is so, yet I can't help thinking that 
 I'm at the Louvre. 
 
 PRINCESS. Then you will not swear what I asked you 
 to? 
 
94, HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 DE HORN. An oath at a fancy-dress ball? What's that? 
 I should never abide by it. Then it has never been so 
 difficult as this evening ! You are too beautiful ! 
 
 PRINCESS. Then I have some hope for the other days ! 
 
 DE HORN. Don't be too confident! 
 
 PRINCESS. You are right, we should never be too con- 
 fident. You magnificent Hindoo, you have changed a great 
 deal the last few minutes. You're so gallant and chivalrous, 
 and the way you talk to me ! 
 
 DE HORN. I am speaking to Marion! 
 
 PRINCESS. Then I understand. Well, take care that 
 Marion doesn't take offense at what is said to the Princess 
 d'Aurec ! 
 
 DE HORN. I have no fear. The Princess d'Aurec be- 
 longs to the Rajah! [Enter the PRINCE. 
 
 PRINCE. [Wearing his cuirass.] The hero of 1523! 
 I have at last succeeded in getting into my diver's suit. 
 [He hands some papers to his wife.] Here are the proofs 
 of the article on the ball for to-morrow's " L'Instantane." 
 
 PRINCESS. [Taking the proofs. To DE HORN before 
 she reads them:] Excuse me? 
 
 DE HORN. [To the PRINCE.] Aren't you very uncom- 
 fortable in that armor? 
 
 PRINCE. No. Of course, I couldn't go bicycle-riding, 
 but I can move about fairly well. I could very easily man- 
 age to cut the cards ! Nine, ten, your play ! Very easily ! 
 [To his wife.] Any errors? 
 
 PRINCESS. No. Here's the part about us [reading] : 
 " As the Princess d'Aurec entered the ballroom all heads 
 were turned toward one of the most charming young ladies 
 of the French aristocracy; her sparkling appearance and 
 fresh beauty were further heightened by the costume she 
 wore, that of Marion Delorme." Quite exact ! " At her 
 side the Prince, her husband, was dressed to represent the 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 95 
 
 Constable; he wore the helmet, cuirass, and sword of his 
 forefather Guzman d'Aurec. The Prince presented an 
 exceedingly magnificent figure quite in harmony with the 
 dignified spirit that is everywhere manifest in his ancient 
 and honorable house." 
 
 PRINCE. [Flattered.] Not bad! [Fastening the 
 buckle of his garter.] Very good, in fact! 
 
 PRINCESS. Listen to the rest: " Not far from the Prince 
 and Princess is distinguished the dignified figure of the 
 Duchess de Talais as Madame de Maintenon. The clever 
 yet simple and unpretentious Duchess gave the impression 
 of a Largilliere portrait which had come down from its 
 frame and walked." 
 
 PRINCE. [In an undertone, smiling slightly.] Poor 
 Mother ! 
 
 [The DUCHESS enters quickly. She is dressed as Madame 
 de Maintenon, with a high coiffure, covered with lace.] 
 
 DUCHESS. [To the PRINCE.] Dominique, I must see 
 you at once! [To DE HORN.] Please excuse me, Mon- 
 sieur ! 
 
 DE HORN. Certainly. 
 
 DUCHESS. My daughter-in-law will accompany you. 
 
 PRINCESS. [To the DUCHESS.] Don't you want me, 
 either ? 
 
 PRINCE. It seems not! 
 
 PRINCESS. Very well: I'll go. 
 
 PRINCE. [Aside to his wife.] I think my mother 
 knows ! 
 
 PRINCESS. [Aside to her husband.] She seems to. Oh, 
 she will give you your four hundred thousand! Ha! 
 
 PRINCE. You seem amused ! 
 
 DE HORN. [Aside.] There'll be a scene! [To the 
 DUCHESS.] Duchess! 
 
 [The PRINCESS and DE HORN go out. 
 
96 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 PRINCE. Now, tell me- 
 
 DUCHESS. I know all: the four hundred thousand 
 francs you lost last night, the condition this house is 
 in, all the money you owe everything! Tell me now I 
 don't! 
 
 PRINCE. There is a great deal of truth in what you say; 
 there is much exaggeration. 
 
 DUCHESS. Nothing is exaggerated: I have reliable in- 
 formation. 
 
 PRINCE. From whom, if you please? 
 
 DUCHESS. From one who is in a position to know: 
 Bertin. 
 
 PRINCE. [With a sneer.] Bertin! He is your spy, 
 isn't he? [He rises and rings the bell.] 
 
 DUCHESS. Who has done his duty in telling me. He 
 has just been to my house. 
 
 PRINCE. He might just as well have stayed there! The 
 idea! The ! 
 
 DUCHESS. I hope you won't say anything to him? He 
 is a good, faithful man 
 
 PRINCE. I can very well dispense with his services, as 
 you shall see ! [Enter BERTIN.] Ah, it's you, Monsieur ! 
 You've done a trick for my mother that I don't like at all ! 
 I discharge you! 
 
 DUCHESS. Dominique ! 
 
 PRINCE. [To BERTIN.] That will do. 
 
 BERTIN. Very well, Prince. 
 
 DUCHESS. I engage you at once, Bertin. 
 
 BERTIN. Very well, Madame la duchesse. [He goes 
 out.] 
 
 DUCHESS. What a brutal thing to do! You shouldn't 
 have done that! 
 
 PRINCE. I should do it again! 
 
 DUCHESS. I know: you always do that! But this time 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 97 
 
 things are going to be a little different from what they 
 have been in the past 
 
 PRINCE. [Jokingly.] I'm no longer a child! 
 
 DUCHESS. But I am always your mother, as you will 
 soon see ! Listen to what I've come to tell you. 
 
 PRINCE. [Impatiently.] No, no, Mother! 
 
 DUCHESS. You refuse to listen? 
 
 PRINCE. Of course I refuse. This is no time ! I'm 
 giving a ball here I am in my helmet. Look at you, too: 
 Guzman d'Aurec being lectured by the Widow Scarron ! * 
 Ridiculous ! 
 
 DUCHESS. Why is it ridiculous? What is so ridiculous 
 in carrying the helmet and sword of a Constable, of the 
 Constable who was the glory and honor of our name ? 
 
 PRINCE. Oh, leave the poor Constable in peace, please ! 
 What has he to do with the matter in hand? 
 
 DUCHESS. Nothing, I am sorry to say. But you have, 
 and the matter is serious. Do you realize your situation 
 at this moment? 
 
 PRINCE. At this moment we should be receiving our 
 guests. 
 
 DUCHESS. Think of your situation. 
 
 PRINCE. It's ridiculous. 
 
 DUCHESS. It's terrible! 
 
 PRINCE. Then you want a scene? You must have one? 
 Very well, begin. Let us talk business, and be brief ! 
 
 DUCHESS. Very well! I must however go back a few 
 years. [The PRINCE sighs.] Why are you sighing? 
 
 PRINCE. Go ahead, go ahead ! 
 
 DUCHESS. Never fear! I sha'n't go far back. When I 
 was married 
 
 PRINCE. Come at once to the deluge ! 
 
 1 Madame de Maintenon was at one time the wife of the writer 
 Scarron. 
 
98 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 DUCHESS. What do you mean? 
 
 PRINCE. Nothing. 
 
 DUCHESS. Probably something impertinent! But I'm 
 used to you. When I married, at the age of nineteen, I 
 had a large fortune. The day I lost your poor father you 
 were very young, you never knew in what a state his affairs 
 were ! My dowry I arranged so that my husband might use 
 it, in spite of my family's objections 
 
 PRINCE. This is really a very painful subject to me. 
 Don't talk about it! 
 
 DUCHESS. Not as painful as it is to me. Of a dowry 
 of fifteen millions, only three remain. 
 
 PRINCE. That's a very fair sum! 
 
 DUCHESS. With the remaining three millions 
 
 PRINCE. Yes, I know everything: acting on the advice 
 of M. Sorbier, a lawyer and friend of your father's, you 
 placed me in a boarding-school at Angers, you yourself 
 lived not far away, at Recigny, and there by means of 
 strict economy you were enabled to mend the family for- 
 tunes a little 
 
 DUCHESS. During twelve years, and by all sorts of pri- 
 vations. 
 
 PRINCE. Well? What about it? 
 
 DUCHESS. Listen, and you will know. You thought fit 
 to remain idle while you were supposed to be studying, 
 you couldn't even pass your first degree while ordinary 
 farmers' sons 
 
 PRINCE. I beg your pardon: I passed the written 
 examination. 1 
 
 DUCHESS. And were refused three times in the oral. 
 When you left college you lived the life of most young men : 
 did nothing from the age of eighteen to thirty, and cost 
 me eleven hundred thousand francs ! 
 
 1 A written examination must first be passed, then an oral. 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 99 
 
 PRINCE. Now- 
 
 DUCHESS. Not a sou less: I have the accounts in my 
 books. At thirty, thanks to me, you met the grand-niece of 
 the Duke de Richelieu, Therese de Varaucourt, whom you 
 married. It was a superb match ! I thought at that time 
 you would settle down ! Nothing of the sort : you gambled 
 as before, every single night, and in two years' time and 
 less you have squandered your wife's dowry and your own 
 personal fortune of a hundred thousand francs a year ! 
 Then after you had lost all your own money you begged 
 me for more, making all sorts of fine promises. " I promise 
 you never to touch another card ! " I was foolish enough 
 to believe you; for the third time, I paid your debts, and 
 for the third time you ruined yourself. Now you owe 
 money to usurers, upholsterers, coachmakers, florists, 
 bakers, and butchers! 
 
 PRINCE. Let us leave these tradespeople out of the 
 discussion ! 
 
 DUCHESS. You owe more than two hundred thousand 
 francs, and last night at the Jockey Club you lost four 
 hundred thousand to the Prince of Suabia. You're in a 
 pretty situation! Well, take my word for it, I'm done 
 with you ! You need expect nothing further from me ; I 
 shall not pay a single sou ! 
 
 PRINCE. Not a single sou ; good ! Is that all? I should 
 like to dance! [He starts to go.] 
 
 DUCHESS. [Calling him back.] Dominique! 
 
 PRINCE. Yes? 
 
 DUCHESS. What else have you to say to me? 
 
 PRINCE. What else can I say? You are absolutely 
 right; if I were in your place, I should do precisely as you 
 are doing. [Again he starts to go.] 
 
 DUCHESS. My poor boy, what can you do? 
 
 PRINCE. I know! 
 
100 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 DUCHESS. More than six hundred thousand! What 
 will you do? 
 
 PRINCE. I'll see to that! 
 
 DUCHESS. You have money, then? 
 
 PRINCE. I have nothing! 
 
 DUCHESS. What, then? 
 
 PRINCE. I can find some. 
 
 DUCHESS. Where? How? 
 
 PRINCE. You need have no fear ! 
 
 DUCHESS. But I have a right to know; I am your 
 mother ! How will you get the money ? I ought to know ; 
 I insist on knowing! Do you realize that the blood of the 
 Talais is in your veins? 
 
 PRINCE. Blood like any one else's. 
 
 DUCHESS. No, Monsieur, it is the blood of your d'Aurec 
 ancestors, of Marshal de Talais who was killed at Denain, 
 of your two grandmothers who were guillotined in '93 
 
 PRINCE. And the blood of the Talais who deserted 
 under Henry IV, the blood of the Talais who voted for 
 the death of Louis XVI, and of the Talais who just es- 
 caped the assizes ! 
 
 DUCHESS. Dominique ! 
 
 PRINCE. Whom do you refer to, then? I don't know! 
 
 DUCHESS. No one in particular; I call to witness all 
 the Talais together to prevent your saying such out- 
 rageous things, to exhort you to live a life a little more 
 worthy of your title, of the glorious past which they have 
 left you, and which you are disgracing! 
 
 PRINCE. How can I exist? I must live the life of my 
 times ! 
 
 DUCHESS. Don't blame the times ! You live a life of 
 laziness and vice that pleases you! 
 
 PRINCE. I can't bring back the epoch of the Crusades ! 
 The day of heroism is past! 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 101 
 
 DUCHESS. You ought to do something better than drive 
 a coach from Robinson! 
 
 PRINCE. Very healthful exercise! 
 
 DUCHESS. You should join the Royalists! 
 
 PRINCE. Thank you! One never knows where those 
 things lead to ! 
 
 DUCHESS. But to help the king! 
 
 PRINCE. There are too many who make the king help 
 them! 
 
 DUCHESS. Work ! 
 
 PRINCE. At what? 
 
 DUCHESS. A man works when he is in as dangerous a 
 situation as you, Monsieur ! 
 
 PRINCE. You should have taught me a trade, Madame, 
 when I was young. 
 
 DUCHESS. You might at least not get head over heels in 
 debt! 
 
 PRINCE. I'm not alone! The Prince of Suabia owes 
 fifty millions ! 
 
 DUCHESS. That is the Prince of Suabia's affairs: you 
 are not the Prince of Suabia. 
 
 PRINCE. I am sorry for it! His mother's a queen, she 
 backs him, the lucky fellow. 
 
 DUCHESS. She is very wrong to do it ! If I were in her 
 place 
 
 PRINCE. The Queen of Suabia does what she likes: you 
 are not the Queen of Suabia. Come now, I don't want to 
 get angry, I didn't ask to see you now! You interrupt 
 me at the worst possible moment, and talk to me about the 
 past, the present, and the future; my father, myself 
 about everything! You blame me, seventeen years later, 
 for failing in my examination ! 
 
 DUCHESS. I merely wanted to recall all I have done for 
 you! 
 
102 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 PRINCE. You had no need to tell me that. Every 
 time you pay my debts, I have thanked you. We're 
 even ! 
 
 DUCHESS. A child never ceases to owe its parents ! 
 
 PRINCE. So I see. You are a very hard creditor! You 
 take advantage of me to criticize every act of mine, my 
 tastes, what I do, how I live ! I like cards, horses, luxury, 
 and money! What of it? Fearful crime! I am a gen- 
 tleman; and I do no more nor less than others to maintain 
 my dignity as such. 
 
 DUCHESS. That isn't enough. When a man has the 
 honor to bear your name 
 
 PRINCE. Devil take my name ! You'll make me sick 
 of it before long! Sometimes I wish my name were 
 Dubois or Morin; then I shouldn't have to listen to all 
 this twaddle. It seems I can't be noble enough for you, 
 who were born in the faubourg Saint-Antoine, and whose 
 father was a churn manufacturer! 
 
 DUCHESS. He was an honest man! 
 
 PRINCE. Oh! We have our names no credit to us! 
 
 DUCHESS. No, your names have you they support 
 you! 
 
 PRINCE. Tell me what good they are! They're nice 
 to use in restaurants. The French aristocracy is seen on 
 every menu card in Paris: There's a certain kind of lamb 
 that's named after me ! When, I ask, when will you keep 
 up with the times, and stop pestering me with your worm- 
 eaten conventions of the aristocratic faubourg! The Mon- 
 archy has fallen years ago; it hasn't existed since the 
 Revolution! Lace collars and red heels and sedan chairs 
 are things of the past! And we, the nobility, called the 
 privileged class even since we lost our privileges, are dead ! 
 If not forever, for a good long time! To-day everything 
 is changed 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 103 
 
 DUCHESS. There is going to be war, anarchy, a second 
 Terror ! 
 
 PRINCE. Possibly: I don't know. What is sure is that 
 we are not going back to the age of Saint-Louis. To-day 
 we don't believe in the nobility. You may have your king, 
 if you like, but I defy you to consecrate him! Every one 
 would laugh at you ! 
 
 DUCHESS. Be silent, my son ! You may if you will be 
 of your time, but don't ask me to join you. To-morrow I 
 am going to have trustees appointed to regulate your af- 
 fairs and your income. 
 
 PRINCE. Would you do that? 
 
 DUCHESS. Yes; you have been troublesome enough to 
 me. 
 
 PRINCE. And to myself ! 
 
 DUCHESS. Ah ! If you ever have to sell this house, re- 
 member that my estate at Recigny and my house in the 
 Rue de Varenne are at the disposal of you and your wife. 
 
 PRINCE. Never ! I'd rather give riding-lessons ! 
 
 DUCHESS. Just as you please. 
 
 PRINCE. Is that all you have to say? 
 
 DUCHESS. Yes. 
 
 PRINCE. Then I sha'n't need your assistance: I shall 
 sell everything I have to the highest bidder, and I'm go- 
 ing to sell the sword ! 
 
 DUCHESS. No! You wouldn't have the heart ! 
 
 PRINCE. You'll see! "For sale: a magnificent sword, 
 unique specimen." And then you talk of trustees 
 
 DUCHESS. Dominique, please 
 
 PRINCE. Very well, then, pay. 
 
 DUCHESS. Oh, you wanted to force me to ! You at- 
 tacked me on my weakest side the Piedoux side ! Your 
 scheme won't work this time, my child! I told you I 
 wouldn't pay a sou, and not a sou will I pay! Sell what- 
 
104 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 ever you like sword and all. I shall be bitterly disap- 
 pointed, but I sha'n't be sorry for you. The sword will 
 be in better hands than yours, wherever it goes. You're 
 no son of mine, you're no true nobleman ! 
 
 PRINCE. [Interrupting her as he sees DE HORN enter.] 
 Ah, Madame ! 
 
 [Enter DE HORN. 
 
 DE HORN. I beg your pardon, but the Princess sent me 
 to tell you that the guests have begun to arrive 
 
 DUCHESS. Really? [She goes up-stage.] Go and get 
 ready, son. [Looking over the balustrade.] Yes, there 
 they are ! 
 
 DE HORN. [Excitedly, to the PRINCE.] Well, what's 
 the matter? 
 
 PRINCE. My mother is threatening me with trustees! 
 I must have four hundred thousand francs by to-morrow 
 night, and I haven't a sou. 
 
 DE HORN. Please don't worry about it: I know where 
 you can get that money. 
 
 PRINCE. Oh? [He shakes hands with DE HORN. The 
 orchestra outside plays the Sardinian anthem.] 
 . DUCHESS. The Queen! Dominique! There's the 
 Queen! [She goes out.] 
 
 PRINCE. Very well! [Taking DE HORN with him; as 
 they go out.] We're coming! 
 
 Curtain. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 [The DUCHESS' chateau, Recigny. A large room with a 
 recessed alcove at the back, giving upon a long gal- 
 lery. There are doors to the right and left; many 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 105 
 
 chairs of various kinds, and a few tables. The walls 
 of the gallery are covered with family portraits (the 
 men are in armor, some dressed as lawyers of the 
 " Ancien Regime," the women in dresses of the time, 
 powdered wigs, etc.); each frame bears an inscrip- 
 tion on a plaque at the bottom, with the name and 
 motto of the person represented. To the left is a 
 high Renaissance fireplace and mantel. 
 
 As the curtain rises MONTADE and a servant are on 
 the stage.] 
 
 SERVANT. [To MONTADE.] When will Monsieur have 
 the carriage? 
 
 MONTADE. Very soon: I shall let you know. I'm wait- 
 ing for M. de Horn. [The servant goes out. MONTADE 
 looks at the portraits, and reads the mottoes aloud:] 
 " Brevennes de Talais: Jamais en arriere! D'Aurec le 
 premier ! Sur mon honneur ! Defends-toi ! " * 
 
 [Enter DE HORN. 
 
 DE HORN. I'm ready. Ah, you're looking at the an- 
 cestors! And the mottoes! There are some very excellent 
 ones ! 
 
 MONTADE. Don't make fun of them ! Those ancestors 
 were very good people ! The good Duchess wanted her 
 walls covered with all the Talais of the past ! She's simply 
 mad about the aristocracy! She'll die on the 21st of 
 January ! 2 
 
 DE HORN. Tell me, we're not going for a long drive, 
 are we? 
 
 MONTADE. You needn't fear, the Princess won't fly 
 away ! You are tenacious ! 
 
 1 Literally: " BreVennes de Talais: Never behind! D'Aurec the 
 first ! On my honor ! Defend thyself ! " 
 z The day Louis XVI was beheaded. 
 
106 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 DE HORN. Of course! 
 
 MONTADE. Do you remember that conversation of ours, 
 three months ago at our friend D'Aurec's, the night of 
 the famous fancy-dress ball just before the deluge? 
 
 DE HORN. Yes. 
 
 MONTADE. Unless I am greatly mistaken, I told you, 
 referring to a plan of yours, " Take care or you'll be 
 fooled? " I am afraid I was not a bad prophet. 
 
 DE HORN. Why ? A great deal has happened these last 
 three months. 
 
 MONTADE. Oh, certainly! Thanks to you the Prince 
 was able to pay his debts, after his mother had said she 
 would have nothing to do with him. But his triumph was 
 short-lived. Soon after, he was forced to sell his house, 
 his horses, even his famous sword, to satisfy a whole army 
 of creditors. By the way, who bought that sword? 
 
 DE HORN. Some Englishman, I believe. 
 
 MONTADE. The Duchess was as good as her word: she 
 didn't give her son a sou; she got her trustees! So the 
 Prince had to accept her hospitality here at Recigny 
 Seine-et-Loire. It was a fearful blow ! 
 
 DE HORN. And the longer it lasts, the worse humor he's 
 in! 
 
 MONTADE. Ha! And the arrival of the trustee, M. 
 Sorbier, yesterday hasn't put him in better spirits! 
 
 DE HORN. Who is this M. Sorbier? 
 
 MONTADE. An old Republican lawyer, a friend of the 
 Duchess! He seems to be changing the lady's ideas in a 
 very curious way. There's only one person who doesn't 
 seem to be affected by what's going on: the Princess. Ah, 
 she is as sparkling as ever, and pretty 
 
 DE HORN. As provoking! 
 
 MONTADE. And as impossible of access! [Gesture from 
 DE HORN.] No protest! You're not one step nearer your 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 107 
 
 goal than you were the night she asked you for your 
 advice on the Turkish bonds! The more I examine your 
 position, the worse it looks. Of course, I realize all you've 
 done, all the money you've given but I don't see what you 
 have in return. The husband uses your money, and you 
 are not yet a member of the Jockey Club! The wife has 
 not been bashful either in asking you 
 
 DE HORN. I shall not wait long before asking her ! 
 
 MONTADE. Oh, otherwise there is no justice! I'll tell 
 them to get the carriage ready. [He goes out.] 
 
 [Enter the PRINCE. 
 
 DE HORN. [As he sees the PRINCE come in.] Ah, here's 
 my man ! 
 
 PRINCE. Was that Montade who just went out? 
 
 DE HORN. Yes. Have you found a little peace of mind 
 yet? 
 
 PRINCE. Hardly. I'm getting fearfully tired of the life 
 here. 
 
 DE HORN. Why, what is there so tiresome in it? The 
 Duchess does everything possible for you she has only 
 your pleasure and comfort at heart. 
 
 PRINCE. I admit it. She's kind because she is victori- 
 ous. The moment she gained her point she was simply 
 charming. She might have begun a little sooner ! 
 
 DE HORN. You have very little to complain of; there 
 are thousands worse off than you. 
 
 PRINCE. In any event, I need a change of air. I'm 
 going away. 
 
 DE HORN. Leave Recigny? 
 
 PRINCE. Yes. 
 
 DE HORN. Alone? 
 
 PRINCE. With the Princess. 
 
 DE HORN. Soon? 
 
 PRINCE. Three days, at the latest! 
 
108 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 DE HORN. Where? 
 
 PRINCE. Hungary. 
 
 DE HORN. Ah! 
 
 PRINCE. One of my wife's relatives insists on our spend- 
 ing some time there! 
 
 DE HORN. Do you intend to stay very long? 
 
 PRINCE. Four, five six months, at the outside. 
 
 DE HORN. Good ! Funny idea, to go to Hungary ! 
 
 PRINCE. Why? In my position, anything is preferable 
 to staying at Recigny. Do you think it's amusing here? 
 
 DE HORN. [Amiably.] I am never bored! 
 
 PRINCE. Thanks! Very kind of you! But your posi- 
 tion is not mine ! I'm out of place. Of course, I have all 
 I need, but not a sou in cash ! 
 
 DE HORN. But you have friends? 
 
 PRINCE. I have already abused their friendship. And 
 really, you don't intend to support me, do you? 
 
 DE HORN. I know you would never allow me to. And 
 I lack the necessary funds. I have a fair income, but to 
 play Monte Cristo ! 
 
 PRINCE. There is no necessity for your doing that. 
 But this trip yes that is a necessity ! 
 
 DE HORN. You will change your mind. 
 
 PRINCE. I hardly think so. 
 
 DE HORN. Yes, you will. You haven't started yet ! 
 
 [Enter a servant. 
 
 SERVANT. [Announcing.] The carriage for the gentle- 
 men is ready. [The servant goes out.] 
 
 DE HORN. Montade and I are going for a little drive 
 in the forest. 
 
 PRINCE. Take Jojo with you, will you? He's a good 
 fellow, but he gets on my nerves. 
 
 DE HORN. He refused our invitation. Won't you come 
 with us? 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 109 
 
 PRINCE. No, thanks ! 
 
 DE HORN. [Aside.] Montade was right, I must come 
 to the point at once. [He goes out.] 
 
 PRINCE. My mention of that trip seemed to upset him. 
 Can he ? I shouldn't be a bit surprised ! Nonsense ! 
 
 [Enter the DUCHESS, the PRINCESS, M. SORBIER, and 
 
 MoNTREJEAU.] 
 
 DUCHESS. Dominique! We have just had a delightful 
 walk with M. Sorbier! 
 
 PRINCE. Indeed ! 
 
 PRINCESS. In the vegetable garden! 
 
 SORBIER. We saw the melons. 
 
 MONTREJEAU. They're simply immense, overwhelming ! 
 
 PRINCESS. [To her husband.] You missed a great 
 sight, dear. 
 
 DUCHESS. I should think so! It's so much better to 
 breathe the good healthy air than pass your time sulking 
 indoors. 
 
 PRINCESS. [To her husband.] Take that! 
 
 PRINCE. I'm not sulking, I'm bored! 
 
 DUCHESS. In the country?! 
 
 PRINCESS. You don't want to be amused. 
 
 MONTREJEAU. What? Lawns, woods, pastures?! 
 
 DUCHESS. Two thousand acres! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. Don't you care for that? 
 
 PRINCE. It's all too green for me ! 
 
 DUCHESS. You're bored because you do nothing. 
 
 PRINCE. Work ! ? You're always harping on that. 
 
 DUCHESS. I was saying to Sorbier not five minutes ago: 
 I am very much worried for your future. 
 
 MONTREJEAU. Those were her very words. 
 
 PRINCE. [Much put out, to MONTREJEAU.] This is my 
 affair, you understand? My mother and Monsieur are 
 quite sufficient ! 
 
110 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 MONTREJEAU. A word to the wise- 
 
 DUCHESS. Here you are safe again, with no more 
 debts 
 
 PRINCESS. But just as good as ruined. 
 
 DUCHESS. Who pays his debts grows rich. You ought 
 to take advantage of your new situation. After that awful 
 whirlpool of Parisian society from which I saved you, you 
 shouldn't vegetate here ; waste your life 
 
 MONTREJEAU. Splendid ! 
 
 DUCHESS. Aren't you a Duke and a Prince? Haven't 
 you among your ancestors famous and honorable men, 
 among them a Constable? 
 
 PRINCE. [His eyes on the floor.] The old ! 
 
 DUCHESS. Well, when you have all those trumps in your 
 hand, make some use of them. It's your duty to. do some- 
 thing worthy! 
 
 PRINCE. I have no ambition. 
 
 SORBIER. What, at your age ? 
 
 DUCHESS. He's ridiculous ! I have, at my age I, a 
 woman ! 
 
 PRINCE. You're not a ruined man! 
 
 PRINCESS. What ambition can you expect? 
 
 DUCHESS. A boy like him could be anything he 
 liked ! 
 
 PRINCE. President of the Republic! 
 
 DUCHESS. Any one may! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. That's so! 
 
 PRINCESS. [To MONTREJEAU.] Be careful! 
 
 DUCHESS. [To her son.] You have only to choose. 
 Would you like to go into politics? 
 
 PRINCE. I detest politics ! 
 
 PRINCESS. He doesn't know a thing about it! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. Neither do I. 
 
 DUCHESS. [To her son.] Do you think three-quarters 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 111 
 
 of the so-called politicians do? Try it, make a way for 
 yourself: you have a brilliant future. 
 
 PRINCESS. What? 
 
 DUCHESS. He's popular. Let him run for town-council- 
 man or for Deputy! 
 
 PRINCESS. And be defeated! 
 
 DUCHESS. You have only to use a little cash ! You 
 can't help being elected! 
 
 PRINCE. But I haven't a sou! 
 
 DUCHESS. I shall pay everything! 
 
 PRINCESS. Then will you do away with his trustee? 
 
 MONTREJEAU. Bravo, Duchess! Will you ? 
 
 SORBIER. It will hardly be necessary, I 
 
 PRINCE. What? 
 
 DUCHESS. Certainly! A Deputy may very easily know 
 nothing about his private affairs and govern those of the 
 nation very well! 
 
 PRINCE. It's usually the contrary that happens ! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. Poor old fellow! [He goes back to the 
 sofa.] 
 
 DUCHESS. Then you can rise to be Minister, Speaker, 
 Ambassador. 
 
 PRINCESS. Sultan ! 
 
 DUCHESS. There is nothing you can't be ! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. My head's whirling already! 
 
 PRINCE. This is all very pretty: there is only one 
 obstacle ! 
 
 DUCHESS. What ? 
 
 PRINCE. A Prince d'Aurec ought not to hold office under 
 the present administration. 
 
 PRINCESS. [To the DUCHESS.] Just what you've said 
 to him a hundred times ! 
 
 DUCHESS. Why, the Republicans would be only too 
 glad to have a noble 1 
 
112 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 PRINCESS. And you, with your ideas, advise him to give 
 the lie to all our principles ! 
 
 DUCHESS. Of course it's M. Sorbier's fault ! He has 
 taught me a lot. And then, I prefer the Republic with 
 Royalists in it to the Monarchy with Republicans, which 
 would certainly be the case if we should ever have a 
 king. 
 
 SORBIER. Which will never happen! 
 
 PRINCESS. And what about me in all this? Do you 
 think I want to be the wife of a Republican parvenu? The 
 well-known Madame d'Aurec, of the Department of Agri- 
 culture, or Religious Education? Oh, no! 
 
 SORBIER. But, Madame, the Prince complains of his 
 inactivity. Why should he not try to lead an entirely 
 different kind of life? 
 
 DUCHESS. Every one works nowadays. See, there are 
 De Horn and Montade ! 
 
 PRINCESS. Would you like him to go into busi- 
 ness? 
 
 DUCHESS. Oh, no! 
 
 PRINCESS. Literature? 
 
 DUCHESS. Nor that either: too much bohemianism! Of 
 course, there are exceptions, men who have made a high 
 place for themselves ! 
 
 PRINCESS. I prefer ours ! 
 
 DUCHESS. De Horn managed to 
 
 MONTREJEAU. Get made a baron. 
 
 PRINCE. Two years ago at least! 
 
 DUCHESS. And he's a millionaire. He's one who has 
 made his fortune ! And Montade, you see, is received 
 everywhere ! He doesn't remember how many editions 
 his works have gone through ! 
 
 PRINCESS. They're always out of print! 
 
 DUCHESS. He'll be an Academician before you. 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 113 
 
 PRINCE. [Excitedly.] Ah, so you want me to belong 
 to the Academy, do you? 
 
 DUCHESS. Why not? 
 
 MONTREJEAU. The green coat would become you. 1 
 
 PRINCE. No; it's like the country: too green for my 
 taste ! 
 
 PRINCESS. But how could he be elected? 
 
 DUCHESS. He comes from an illustrious family. The 
 Academy is a Salon! Dominique, you have perfect man- 
 ners ! You'd cut a fine figure there ! 
 
 PRINCESS. But one must at least have written some- 
 thing, no matter how little ! 
 
 DUCHESS. What about our ancestors' correspondence? 
 Why do we leave it lying about? The library here is full 
 of wonderful old manuscripts! No one's ever seen them! 
 Dominique can just copy what he likes! He could write 
 a beautiful book, as good as another! 
 
 PRINCE. [Ironically.] The Marshal de Talais, after 
 unpublished documents ! 
 
 MONTREJEAU. With an engraved portrait! 
 
 PRINCESS. And a fac-simile autograph! 
 
 PRINCE. That's all I have to do ! 
 
 DUCHESS. When will you get to work? 
 
 PRINCE. Do you mean it? 
 
 DUCHESS. Well, if you don't want to go into poli- 
 tics ? 
 
 PRINCE. Certainly not ! Not politics or 
 
 DUCHESS. Then decide on some profession: architec- 
 ture, medicine 
 
 PRINCESS. The Prince d'Aurec a doctor ! I could never 
 look my husband in the face again ! 
 
 1 The official costume of members of the French Academy is a 
 dress coat trimmed with green braid. 
 
114 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 DUCHESS. You're so delicate! You'd think I'd sug- 
 gested a crime ! We'll come to that before long ! 
 
 SORBIER. Of course: our children will consider it quite 
 a matter of course to see counts who are notaries, marquis' 
 who are lawyers, viscounts who are druggists, and dukes 
 doctors ! The aristocracy must learn to work like ordinary 
 mortals, unless it wants to disappear from the face of 
 the earth! 
 
 DUCHESS. That's good common sense! 
 
 PRINCE. But the times are not yet ripe for the reforms 
 M. Sorbier speaks of. I want to hear nothing more about 
 my entering a profession. I have one now. 
 
 DUCHESS. Laziness ! 
 
 PRINCE. Precisely: I am a gentleman! 
 
 DUCHESS. That's not much. 
 
 PRINCE. I think it is. 
 
 PRINCESS. What? Think of the presumption on his part 
 in trying to improve upon his past, to make his position, 
 one of the finest and most honorable in the land, one jot 
 better ! What more ought he to do than lend some added 
 luster to his name, spend his time living up to his position, 
 in the midst of the world of fashion, making triumphal 
 entries into the Gotha of stylish functions, going about in 
 the various clubs of Europe, and making a name for him- 
 self by means of his personal accomplishments, which are 
 the despair of his equals? In short, he should reflect all 
 that is best, all that is noble, all that his ancestors have 
 bequeathed to him ! Do you, his mother, consider that " not 
 much " ! ? Really, you are difficult to please ! What do 
 you want, then? 
 
 DUCHESS. Deeds, worthy and noble actions! 
 
 PRINCE. Bouvines would suit mother. 1 
 
 1 A famous victory won by Philippe-Auguste. 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 115 
 
 DUCHESS. [Reading the mottoes on the walls.] " Jamais 
 en arriere ! D'Aurec le premier! " 
 
 MONTREJEAU. [Likewise reading mottoes.] " Montre- 
 jeau plus haut ! " 1 
 
 PRINCESS. You would have been just the wife for Don 
 Quixote ! 
 
 DUCHESS. [To her son.] What will my lazy gentleman 
 do? What is his duty? 
 
 PRINCE. My wife has told you: to set a standard in 
 taste, invent a new clever saying a perfume, a shade set 
 in circulation a new cravat, a distinctive hat, find a new 
 method of riding, make vice as attractive as the ridicule 
 of virtue; revolt against the vulgar diamond of the Jew, 
 the sham art bronzes of the bourgeois, the hardware of the 
 Peruvian ! That is the only occupation worthy of a gen- 
 tleman nowadays ! 
 
 DUCHESS. I may be very narrow, but I have always 
 thought there were others! 
 
 PRINCE. [Rising.] I don't want to hear any more! 
 I'm going! 
 
 SORBIER. Please, now Prince ! Duchess ! 
 
 DUCHESS. [To her son.] Why are you angry? 
 
 PRINCE. [Drily.] Now, Mother! You inflicted a 
 trustee on me, forced me to live on your hospitality here 
 in the country to suffer deep humiliation. For the time be- 
 ing I can only resign myself, but I tell you plainly, there 
 is one thing you will never be able to do: make me appear 
 ridiculous. I really must have a few minutes to recuperate 
 after all this talk! I'm going to take a look at your 
 melons. 
 
 PRINCESS. So am I. [The PRINCE and PRINCESS go 
 out.] 
 
 1 Literally: "Montrejeau higher!" 
 
116 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 MONTREJEAU. [Following them.] Come, cousin, don't 
 get excited! 
 
 DUCHESS. [Very downcast.} It's very discouraging ! I 
 can't do a thing with him ! What would you do if you 
 were in my place? 
 
 SORBIER. I should try kindness; I should drop the 
 trustee. 
 
 DUCHESS. Never! 
 
 SORBIER. Now that the moral effect has been made and 
 your authority well established 
 
 DUCHESS. Don't ask me to do that. As long as I live 
 Dominique shall have a trustee. 
 
 SORBIER. But I 
 
 DUCHESS. No, no, you can't persuade me. I have too 
 many reasons. 
 
 SORBIER. What reasons? Tell me. 
 
 DUCHESS. You ask me what reasons? You, the faith- 
 ful friend to whom all my troubles are known? Just re- 
 member what my life was as a girl of eighteen, when you 
 used to come and have supper Sunday nights with Papa 
 and me ! 
 
 SORBIER. You had just come back from Sacre Coeur. 1 
 
 DUCHESS. And at that time my only love, my one idea 
 was 
 
 SORBIER. I remember: the nobility! 
 
 DUCHESS. When any one mentioned any of the famous 
 heroes of French history in my presence, whenever I read 
 about the deeds of old, my heart beat at a terrible rate ! 
 The nobles! In my eyes they were something high above 
 us, something apart, by reason of their better deeds and 
 thoughts and aspirations! They were for me the essence 
 of the good qualities of the whole race. This superior 
 race was in duty bound to carry on the traditions of the 
 1 A convent. 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 117 
 
 past; each member was part of a long line of ancestors, and 
 it was his sole object in life to hand down intact to his 
 son the unstained family name. I said to myself: " If by 
 any chance I ever make a place for myself in that closed 
 caste, I, Virginie Piedoux, will do my best to honor it." 
 What a dream ! The dream came true, I do belong to the 
 class, and now I know it is less important than my own. 
 I'm punished ! 
 
 SORBIER. Come, now ! 
 
 DUCHESS. I have suffered enough because of the no- 
 bility! I brought it my money and my bourgeois virtues, 
 it brought me its hereditary vices and its soiled 'scutcheon ! 
 I got no happiness out of it, from my husband or my son. 
 There are times even when I am glad I am not a grand- 
 mother; a grandson would have had too many chances to 
 inherit his father's vices that's another of the disillusions 
 of my old age ! My last days aren't happy ! 
 
 SORBIER. Nonsense 
 
 DUCHESS. No, they aren't. When I think of the dif- 
 ferent life I might have lived if I had not been so obstinate 
 and blind oh, the marriages I have refused! 
 
 SORBIER. [Pensively.] Yes! 
 
 DUCHESS. I have regretted a hundred times ! 
 
 SORBIER. [Ill at ease.] Please! 
 
 DUCHESS. Why not speak of it? It will make my life 
 easier for a little ! I am so sorry I refused you when 
 you asked for my hand from my father thirty-five years 
 ago! 
 
 SORBIER. Thirty-six. 
 
 DUCHESS. How old we're getting! You were an attor- 
 ney then, a simple attorney, beginning your legal career. 
 Would I consent to become merely Madame Sorbier? Noth- 
 ing of the sort, I would be Countess, Marquise, Duchess! 
 Ah, if I had only been willing to be the wife of M. Sorbier, 
 
118 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 formerly Judge of the Court of Appeals, an upright and 
 honorable man, instead of the Duchess de Talais, I 
 shouldn't be crying over my wasted life ! I should have 
 had fine children who were not ashamed of their mother, 
 nor should I be ashamed of them; I should not belong to 
 the Faubourg, the servants would not announce, " Madame 
 la duchesse, the dinner is served." But Madame Sorbier 
 would have been a happy woman ! Forgive me, I sinned 
 through pride. God has punished me severely and de- 
 graded me in giving me my son, who represents to me 
 the whole of that nobility I used to sigh for ! Forgive 
 
 me 
 
 SORBIER. I have no right to forgive you; I too have 
 often thought the way you did. Let's drop the subject! 
 
 [The DUCHESS rises, and prepares to go out. 
 
 SORBIER. Where are you going? 
 
 DUCHESS. To visit my poor. 
 
 SORBIER. Let me go with you. 
 
 DUCHESS. They're so much more interesting than we 
 are! 
 
 [Enter DE HORN. 
 
 DUCHESS. Back so soon, Monsieur? 
 
 DE HORN. Yes, Duchess. 
 
 DUCHESS. Did you have a pleasant ride? 
 
 DE HORN. Delightful. 
 
 SORBIER. What have you done with M. Montade? 
 
 DE HORN. I left him in his room, where he is de- 
 scribing the forest. 
 
 DUCHESS. These men of letters ! They must always be 
 describing something! 
 
 DE HORN. [Bowing.] Duchess ! 
 
 [The DUCHESS and SORBIER go out. 
 
 DE HORN. Fiction may satisfy Montade, it doesn't suffice 
 for me! [He picks up a photograph of the PRINCESS from 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 119 
 
 the table.] Here is my next novel! In a short while the 
 novel will have been lived ! 
 
 [The PRINCESS enters and looks at him. 
 
 PRINCESS. What are you doing? 
 
 DE HORN. [At first a little surprised.] Oil, Princess! 
 I was admiring! 
 
 PRINCESS. It was what I should call close admiration! 
 
 DE HORN. Do you object to that? 
 
 PRINCESS. Admire, but don't touch ! 
 
 DE HORN. But a picture! That's certainly Platonic 
 enough. 
 
 PRINCESS. Plato himself was a hypocrite. Put 
 the picture back on the table, and let us keep our 
 distance. 
 
 DE HORN. I want to bring us closer together ! 
 
 PRINCESS. You are wasting your time. 
 
 DE HORN. So that we may come the closer, afterward ! 
 
 PRINCESS. Good! It's beautiful weather, go out and 
 enjoy it! 
 
 DE HORN. Why? 
 
 PRINCESS. Because I feel trouble in the air: I have 
 presentiments ! 
 
 DE HORN. Good ! Then I may begin ! 
 
 PRINCESS. No ! 
 
 DE HORN. You see at least, don't you, that I have a 
 confession to make? 
 
 PRINCESS. And you are put out because I don't ask 
 you what? I'm not in the least curious. 
 
 DE HORN. So much the worse: I am indiscreet. I love 
 you! 
 
 PRINCESS. Is it worth while to ring for a servant? 
 
 DE HORN. I love you deeply, with all my power, with 
 all my heart! 
 
 PRINCESS. Of course ! 
 
120 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 DE HORN. For six months I've been tortured 
 
 PRINCESS. You're better now? 
 
 DE HORN. Don't make fun of me! Be good, tell me 
 I have some hope, that perhaps some day ! 
 
 PRINCESS. Or some night " Be good " ! Oh, have you 
 lost your mind ? Seriously, did you imagine for one second, 
 that I was going to be your mistress? 
 
 DE HORN. I imagined that that would be the greatest 
 joy of my life! 
 
 PRINCESS. And the greatest honor of mine ! ! Think for 
 one minute, how could you be my lover? 
 
 DE HORN. You have found me worthy of your friend- 
 ship. 
 
 PRINCESS. How do you know that? 
 
 DE HORN. I seem to remember hearing you say so? 
 
 PRINCESS. A fine reason that! Do you always tell the 
 truth? 
 
 DE HORN. Up to now, I have been treated as an inti- 
 mate friend of the family, I have been shown special con- 
 sideration 
 
 PRINCESS. And therefore you conclude " That little 
 Princess mm. ah! One of these days, I'll have only to 
 open my arms and she will fall into them! " Well, Mon- 
 sieur, you have aimed a little too high ! 
 
 DE HORN. Madame, you would not be the first great 
 lady who has stooped ! 
 
 PRINCESS. That is very true, but when we do stoop, we 
 choose ! 
 
 DE HORN. And if I am so low that you please to make 
 me feel my position, who can blame me if I aspire to you? 
 What finer ambition could I have? I'm a millionaire, 
 blase, hard to please! There is nothing in the world but 
 you to desire ! I have everything ! 
 
 PRINCESS. Except 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 121 
 
 DE HORN. Except everything ! You ! ! And I feel as if 
 I had nothing! 
 
 PRINCESS. Surely you exaggerate ! 
 
 DE HORN. You are all I have ever wanted, dreamed 
 of! 
 
 PRINCESS. Most flattered, I'm sure! 
 
 DE HORN. I think it is a punishment for all my 
 wealth that I should love a woman who scorns and despises 
 me ! I must be terribly in love with you, your qualities, and 
 your race 
 
 PRINCESS. Everything that you haven't! 
 
 DE HORN. I know it; and that is why I love you. I 
 don't need you to tell me that you are a superior being ; I am 
 the first to admit it. It is the only thing I have ever been 
 forced to admit. If I hadn't been born what I am, I should 
 have liked to belong to your class! 
 
 PRINCESS. No false modesty! 
 
 DE HORN. Now you are laughing at me! 
 
 PRINCESS. I was never more serious. 
 
 DE HORN. You are right. After all, what do I want? 
 
 PRINCESS. I think I know. 
 
 DE HORN. Your happiness. 
 
 PRINCESS. That's rather a big word. 
 
 DE HORN. You don't mean to say you are quite happy 
 now? 
 
 PRINCESS. That is a question no one has ever asked me. 
 
 DE HORN. Not even your husband? 
 
 PRINCESS. Oh, let's leave my husband out of the ques- 
 tion! 
 
 DE HORN. You defend him? 
 
 PRINCESS. Of course I defend him! 
 
 DE HORN. As if he were anything to be proud of: the 
 model husband ! 
 
 PRINCESS. He has always been faithful to me. 
 
122 HENRI LAVE DAN 
 
 DE HORN. Ha! He has done things a hundred times 
 worse ! Ruined you, made you share his exile, his humilia- 
 tion ! 
 
 PRINCESS. It is the wife's duty to remain with her hus- 
 band. How does that concern you, by the way? 
 
 DE HORN. It gives me great pain, because I love 
 you 
 
 PRINCESS. You may continue to suffer, then, Mon- 
 
 sieur 
 
 DE HORN. I suffer to see you as you are ! You ought to 
 be in a position where your beauty and your accomplish- 
 ments are appreciated you deserve a place 
 
 PRINCESS. You certainly have one which you don't 
 deserve ! 
 
 DE HORN. Blame me, I don't object! You can't pre- 
 vent my loving you as I have ! You weren't born to live in 
 the country all your life, without even a house of your own ! 
 Why should you be the victim of crimes you have not com- 
 mitted? Are you going to live here, shut up with your 
 mother-in-law like a dethroned queen, with a man who is 
 bankrupt, who has to have a trustee? You have a kingdom 
 to rule over in Paris, a kingdom you once held yourself, 
 that your husband caused you to lose come, I will give it 
 back to you! 
 
 PRINCESS. Suggest that to him! 
 
 DE HORN. Little he thinks of you! Mademoiselle de 
 Varaucourt, descendant of Richelieu, has now been reduced 
 to the position of wife of a bankrupt country squire! 
 Pretty, isn't it? I have more pride in you than he has, 
 I think more of your social prestige than your husband ! 
 With me at least money would flow again in the house he 
 has raided and despoiled; you can spend what you like: 
 you will always have plenty. There'll not be enough room 
 in the house to keep it all ! Come with me and let me re- 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 123 
 
 establish you where you belong! Be a Princess again, 
 and not what you now are! 
 
 PRINCESS. That will do ! 
 
 DE HORN. No, that will not do! You know life well 
 enough to realize that that will not do in these times! 
 
 PRINCESS. I insist, Monsieur ! And the proof is that I 
 ask you to leave immediately! Go away and don't come 
 back: I don't want to see you again! 
 
 DE HORN. Oh! 
 
 PRINCESS. I don't want anything from you. 
 
 DE HORN. You haven't always felt that way ! 
 
 PRINCESS. I beg your pardon? 
 
 DE HORN. Nothing. Don't let me remind you! 
 
 PRINCESS. Ah, your services rendered! 
 
 DE HORN. Of course, my services ! 
 
 PRINCESS. Ha ! at last ! I was foolish to think that these 
 were merely friendly assistances ! They were the basest of 
 calculations ! 
 
 DE HORN. There's little difference. In accepting them 
 you forfeited the right to judge me! 
 
 PRINCESS. That's true! How shameful! And what a 
 lesson ! 
 
 DE HORN. What a lesson for me too ! 
 
 PRINCESS. Now the real De Horn appears! 
 
 DE HORN. Your fault! I was only too glad to be of 
 any assistance to you both, but since 
 
 PRINCESS. Does my husband owe you money too? 
 
 DE HORN. A mere trifle ! Your surprise is really very 
 good! 
 
 PRINCESS. That will do, Monsieur! I cannot allow 
 you to insult me! 
 
 DE HORN. Merely interest on my money ! 
 
 PRINCESS. My husband will see that the capital is re- 
 turned to you. 
 
124 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 DE HORN. Are you going to tell him? 
 
 PRINCESS. Within five minutes. 
 
 DE HORN. Will you tell him that I have bought your 
 clothes for you? 
 
 PRINCESS. Yes, Monsieur. 
 
 DE HORN. He will be delighted ! 
 
 PRINCESS. I can't say as much for you ! 
 
 DE HORN. Oh, I have nothing to fear from him. How 
 about you? 
 
 PRINCESS. He will understand me: we are equals. 
 
 DE HORN. You are equals! 
 
 PRINCESS. Insolent Jew ! 
 
 [Enter the PRINCE, hearing the PRINCESS'S last words. 
 
 PRINCE. What's the matter? 
 
 PRINCESS. Monsieur has just asked me to become his 
 mistress. 
 
 PRINCE. Indeed ! 
 
 PRINCESS. I offered a few objections, and then he spoke 
 something about having rendered us some services. Ask 
 him, he will give you all the necessary details. 
 
 [She goes out. 
 
 PRINCE. Is that true, Monsieur? 
 
 DE HORN. What, Monsieur? 
 
 PRINCE. What the Princess just said? 
 
 DE HORN. You ought to be the first to know that she 
 never lies! 
 
 PRINCE. You will regret it. 
 
 DE HORN. Why? 
 
 PRINCE. Because I am going to ask you to leave. 
 
 DE HORN. You see, I am still here. 
 
 PRINCE. You will not be long. 
 
 DE HORN. Without giving me a reason? 
 
 PRINCE. Yes. 
 
 DE HORN. I'm good enough to fight a duel with any one. 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 125 
 
 PRINCE. I'm sorry, but I'm not " any one." I have 
 honored you by my company, I have received you as an in- 
 timate friend in my family, you have made free with us 
 and our acquaintances, patronized the same tailor as I, 
 until you have forgotten that a great gulf separates us ! I 
 have even shown myself in public with you, I have ridden 
 with you in your own carriages, and now you talk about 
 your damned money 
 
 DE HORN. I well recall how you swooped down on that 
 damned money! 
 
 PRINCE. My hands were less soiled in taking than yours 
 in gaining it! You thought you would take my wife as an 
 indemnity ! You considered that the favors of a Princess 
 d'Aurec hardly recompensed you! Whom do you think we 
 are, Monsieur ? 
 
 DE HORN. You are members of an envious, cold- 
 blooded, and selfish class, which flatters in order to exploit 
 us. You believe you have the right to assume the air of a 
 family portrait with us simply because our ancestors didn't 
 knock down a marquisate by playing the devil with the 
 king! 
 
 PRINCE. By the shedding of blood, Monsieur, in 
 battles ! 
 
 DE HORN. You are the Jews, you if you use the word 
 as a term of contempt! Count What's-his-Name sells his 
 name to a rich baker whose son he adopts ! The grand- 
 daughter of a great lord is only too glad to marry the son of 
 a dry-goods merchant around the corner! Chambersac is 
 willing to take commissions from the tailor, the upholsterer, 
 and the horse-dealer! You are the Jews, and I say that 
 before long you will all be in the usury business ! 
 
 PRINCE. The aristocrat may some day be a Jew, but the 
 Jew will never be an aristocrat! 
 
 DE HORN. Nonsense, we lead the world in many 
 
126 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 branches, and I can prove it ! But that's not what we're 
 discussing ! 
 
 PRINCE. No! 
 
 DE HORN. I'm not going to put up with your im- 
 pudence and I'm not afraid of your threats. You really are 
 surprising! You think you can caress and flatter us and 
 catch us in your traps, empty our purses whenever you 
 like, and then throw us aside like a worn-out coat as soon 
 as you're through with us ! And then when we demand some 
 reparation No, you're mistaken this time. You've refused 
 me your club, and as for the Princess ! 
 
 PRINCE. Cur ! 
 
 DE HORN. And insult into the bargain! No, I'm not 
 getting my money's worth ! 
 
 PRINCE. Take care, or you'll get more than you're bar- 
 gaining for ! 
 
 DE HORN. You owe me money. You're under obliga- 
 tions to me. 
 
 PRINCE. I owe you money, but I am not under obliga- 
 tions to you. 
 
 DE HORN. You and your wife are under obligations 
 to me. 
 
 PRINCE. My wife? You lie! 
 
 DE HORN. You are mistaken. [He takes a note-book 
 from his pocket and opens it.] " Madame le princesse 
 d'Aurec debtor, three hundred thousand francs." [The 
 PRINCE is astounded.] She will not deny it I loaned her 
 at various times. [Reading.] " May 5, 1889, thirty thou- 
 sand; August 17, twenty- five thousand; January 20, 1890, 
 twenty-five; March 11, twenty-five; and two months ago, 
 two hundred thousand ." Ah, these new ball gowns are 
 very dear! Add to this the four hundred thousand you 
 owe me: total, seven hundred thousand francs. You have 
 nothing to say? The moment you wish to discharge me like 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 127 
 
 a servant, I ask for my wages. Have you seven hundred 
 thousand francs? No. I shall not leave until I have my 
 money ! 
 
 PRINCE. [White with anger, as he raises his arm.] 
 
 You!! Take care, or I'll ! 
 
 DE HORN. Violence will not pay your debts, Monsieur. 
 I have taken precautions, and I hold the reins tight in my 
 hands. There is no use becoming excited. Get my money 
 for me: I'll wait. 
 
 [The PRINCE stands mute with rage and impotence. He 
 walks back and forth twisting his moustache, casting 
 sidelong glances from time to time at DE HORN. The 
 PRINCE rings the bell, and a servant enters a moment 
 later.] 
 
 JOSEPH. Monsieur le prince? 
 
 PRINCE. Nothing, you may go. [The servant goes out.] 
 DE HORN. You thought you would throw me out, but at 
 the last moment you find you haven't the courage. You're 
 very wise. You don't see a way out of the difficulty ? I can 
 sympathize with you ; it's not pretty ! You have nothing 
 yourself, and your wife? Ruined by you. Your mother? 
 She will certainly not help you, she hasn't yet digested the 
 
 Constable's sword 
 
 PRINCE. I give you my word she will pay you. 
 
 [He rises and rings the bell again. 
 
 DE HORN. I should like to see her; you've been ring- 
 ing that bell a good deal ! 
 
 [Enter a servant. 
 
 PRINCE. Ask the Duchess and the Princess to come here 
 at once, as well as M. Sorbier and M. Montade. 
 
 [The servant goes out. 
 DE HORN. Every one? 
 PRINCE. Every one. 
 DE HORN. A pleasure party! 
 
128 HENRI LAVEDAN 
 
 PRINCE. Or an execution. 
 [Enter the DUCHESS, the PRINCESS, SORBIER, and MONTADE. 
 
 PRINCE. Mother 
 
 DUCHESS. Never mind: Therese has told me everything. 
 [To DE HORN.] Monsieur, if you will be good enough to 
 go to your room, you will find your baggage packed. M. 
 Bertin, who has received instructions from me, is waiting 
 for you below. He will take the same train as you do, the 
 Paris express, leaving at five fifty-eight. To-morrow morn- 
 ing you will be paid. 
 DE HORN. Very well. 
 
 [He stays for a moment, as if about to say some- 
 thing. 
 
 SORBIER. [Approaching him.] I advise you to go, Mon- 
 sieur, you have nothing more to do here. 
 
 DE HORN. [Going.] Oh, by the way, the Constable's 
 sword is in my collection! 
 
 [The PRINCE is about to follow him, but his mother 
 
 prevents him with a gesture. 
 DUCHESS. Dominique ! 
 
 [DE HORN goes out in silence. 
 [The PRINCE sits down, angry and disgusted, his head 
 
 in his hands. He bursts into sobs. 
 MONTADE. [In an undertone.] Nervous let-down. 
 SORBIER. [Aside to the DUCHESS.] He is yours now; 
 strike while the iron is hot. 
 
 PRINCESS. [To her husband.] Thank your mother! 
 She deserves it! 
 
 DUCHESS. [Going to the PRINCE.] Are you satisfied 
 with me? Was I really the Duchess de Talais? 
 PRINCE. Yes. You are noble, not I. 
 DUCHESS. When will you be? 
 
 PRINCE. I shall never be the man you want me to be ! 
 To-day I can only promise you one thing: to live the life 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC 129 
 
 of an honest man, and when the time comes, to die like a 
 prince. 
 
 DUCHESS. War? Will you give up your life in war? 
 
 MONTADE. [Suavely polite.] As would any of us. 
 
 PRINCE. [Drawing himself up to his full height, and 
 with conscious pride.] There is a certain way of do- 
 ing it ! 
 
 Curtain. 
 
THE PARDON 
 
 A Comedy in Three Acts 
 
 By 
 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 Translated by 
 BARRETT H. CLARK 
 
 Presented for the first time at Paris, February 11, 1895, 
 at the Comedie Fran9aise 
 
PERSONS REPRESENTED 
 
 GEORGES 
 SUZANNE 
 THERESE 
 
 The action takes place in a French manufacturing town. 
 
THE PARDON 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 [A parlor, used as an office. Entrances up-stage to the 
 center, the right, and left.] 
 
 THERESE. [Entering center.] Come here. 
 
 SUZANNE. [Entering after THKRESE.] I'm afraid. 
 
 THERESE. I tell you there is no one here ! Your hus- 
 band is still at work, and I managed to get rid of the serv- 
 ants. Because don't you want me to? I have become 
 used oh, with his authorization and by his express wishes ! 
 to looking after his house. 
 
 SUZANNE. Oh, my dear Therese! 
 
 THERESE. I had to. He was utterly helpless, at his 
 wits' end, when he came here two weeks ago! 
 
 SUZANNE. How grateful I am to you and your husband ! 
 
 THERESE. Don't thank me; it was only natural. 
 Georges couldn't remain there for a hundred reasons 
 after that scandal. My husband had the good luck to 
 offer him at once an excellent position. He let him know 
 of it, and there was no cause for regret. You can't imagine 
 what a fine place Georges made for himself at the factory, 
 the moment he came. His invention did wonders for him. 
 It seems your husband is a real person. 
 
 SUZANNE. [Simply.] Oh, yes ! But what do they say 
 about me? Are you sure nothing is known? 
 
 THERESE. Absolutely sure. Georges spread the story 
 that you were in the country, visiting your mother, for 
 
 133 
 
134 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 your health, and that you would join him when you were 
 better. Even my husband doesn't know the truth. You 
 have no cause for worry. 
 
 SUZANNE. Well Georges is still unhappy? 
 
 THERESE. Very but that is a good sign. Oh, I'm 
 positive ! Because, if he had decided to get a divorce, as he 
 threatened, he would have done it by this time, that's clear. 
 But let's talk about yourself. Poor Suzanne, how could 
 you you, whom I thought so reasonable, whom I could 
 trust as I could myself ? 
 
 SUZANNE. How do I know? Now that it's all over, I 
 can't understand it myself or hardly 
 
 THERESE. Well, you married for love, didn't you? 
 
 SUZANNE. I think I did ! 
 
 THERESE. Didn't you? 
 
 SUZANNE. Oh, yes, I loved Georges, but I loved him 
 as a young girl loves. Do you remember? I was eighteen, 
 and my head was full of romantic notions that I got from 
 novels. I had an idea that a husband was still the lover, 
 the man who brings flowers every day, and says nice things, 
 and is interested in you alone. I was surprised to find 
 marriage so serious a matter. My husband used to go 
 away for weeks at a time, because he was everywhere in 
 demand to try out his invention. The days were long, and I 
 had no way of filling the empty hours. Another man sang 
 the song I had become unaccustomed to hear and that I 
 longed for I was a little fool! You see, my story is not 
 original. 
 
 THEKESE. And I'm not surprised at it except that it is 
 your own. Or rather, do you know what surprises me? 
 I can, with a little effort, imagine the tiresome hours, the 
 idle dreams, even your flirting and imprudence. But that 
 you were able to well to go the limit, you, you, Suzanne ! 
 I can't comprehend! It seems that in such cases, there is 
 
THE PARDON 135 
 
 so great a chasm and so difficult to bridge from begin- 
 ning to end ! Only to think of it ! 
 
 SUZANNE. You see, when once you begin sliding, you 
 go from one step down to the next, without noticing. Each 
 new step into the great unknown seems the first, so that you 
 don't notice yourself descending. And then, well, as you 
 near the final leap, something evil awakens in you. It's like 
 a fit of giddiness, a shameful intoxication. And then you 
 go, on, on! Of course when you begin, you don't think 
 you'll go to extremes. You see, Therese, you mustn't be- 
 gin; that depends on us: what follows, does not. 
 
 THERESE. But, did you love the other? 
 
 SUZANNE. I think now that I never did. But I must 
 have loved him a little at first. If I hadn't, what sort of 
 woman must I have been? Really, I don't know now. 
 How strange it is ! 
 
 THERESE. Did he love you? 
 
 SUZANNE. He behaved as any man would. 
 
 THERESE. What has become of him? 
 
 SUZANNE. I have no idea. 
 
 THERESE. Has he tried to see you again? or write? 
 
 SUZANNE. No. 
 
 THERESE. He is discreet. And now, do you love your 
 husband ? 
 
 SUZANNE. Certainly him alone. I love him for his 
 own sake, because he is the most loyal and the best of men, 
 and also because of the wrong I have done him. I love 
 him with all my power of repentance, with a new heart, and 
 with a great desire to sacrifice my entire being to him. 
 
 THERESE. How you say that, Suzanne! I'm all trem- 
 bling to hear you ! 
 
 SUZANNE. Oh, I'm a changed woman. I have learned 
 more these last few days than in all the rest of my life 
 before. 
 
136 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 THERESE. It's true, you are changed. 
 
 [A pause. 
 
 SUZANNE. So long as he believes it! 
 
 THERESE. That will depend almost altogether on your- 
 self, my dear. I tell you he still loves you, though he 
 tries to keep from doing so, and it's for that reason that I 
 had you come. I don't say you'll regain his affection with- 
 out trouble. At first it will be hard, his wound is still 
 tender! But the important point is that you should be 
 here, near him, even, perhaps, in spite of him. You must 
 be patient, good, submissive: let him feel that you are sin- 
 cere. He should find once more in you, only reinforced 
 with serious intentions, the woman you were when you were 
 first married; and then the remembrance of those happy 
 days will slowly give birth again to other remembrances. 
 Then the charm of your mere presence will, almost in- 
 sensibly, work on his mind. But listen to me giving you 
 advice ! You will know better than I what to do. To tell 
 the truth, these matters of love are not my forte. 
 
 [A pause. 
 
 SUZANNE. Have you never been tempted, Therese? 
 
 THERESE. No. 
 
 SUZANNE. Your husband ? 
 
 THERESE. Excellent. He's not like yours: a great in- 
 ventor or savant but he's quite satisfactory, and he's not 
 bad-looking or stupid. I have a deep affection for him. 
 
 SUZANNE. Are you happy? 
 
 THERESE. Oh, yes. We are rich, and quite gay and 
 happy. We know how to spend our time, he with his 
 farms, and I with my home. We meet again after our 
 work with the utmost pleasure, and we live like two old 
 friends. No, I have never been tempted. And yet, do you 
 know, they make love to me, here, a great deal ! Well, I 
 never paid any attention to it. It's my opinion that when a 
 
THE PARDON 137 
 
 husband is adequate, it's downright madness to look else- 
 where for what one has at home, and that all men are alike 
 or at least sooner or later, end by resembling one another. 
 
 SUZANNE. [Simply.] No, Therese. 
 
 THERESE. Well, if I'm mistaken, I have no desire to go 
 forth and find out. 
 
 [A pause. 
 
 SUZANNE. Therese. 
 
 THERESE. What? 
 
 SUZANNE. Is he coming soon? 
 
 THERESE. [Looking at the clock.] Yes, it's about time 
 now. 
 
 SUZANNE. I'm afraid. What if he should send me away ! 
 
 THERESE. He won't! He won't. 
 
 SUZANNE. If you only knew how he talked to me, there, 
 when he left me, and how I had the sensation that I didn't 
 exist for him any longer, that he swept me out of his life ! 
 Oh, I'm afraid, so afraid ! 
 
 THERESE. [Listening.] Listen! It's he. Hide your- 
 self quickly; get out of the way. I'll manage. 
 
 [She pushes SUZANNE into an adjoining room, through the 
 door at the right.] 
 
 GEORGES. [Enters center, reading a letter which he puts 
 into his pocket the moment he sees THERESE.] Hello, that 
 you? I'm very glad to see you, very glad. Is Jacques 
 well? 
 
 THERESE. Very well. Will you dine with us this even- 
 ing? Come just as you are; we'll be alone. 
 
 GEORGES. No need to tell you I accept. How I must 
 tire you! 
 
 THERESE. You know perfectly well you don't. Jacques 
 is wild about you. 
 
 GEORGES. He's a great fellow! Don't you think so? 
 
 THERESE. [Smiling.] Oh, certainly. 
 
138 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 GEORGES. I owe so much to him! What would have 
 become of me without him ! and you, Therese ! 
 
 THERESE. Good! What did you do last night? 
 
 GEORGES. [Hesitating,] Last night? Oh, yes; you 
 weren't home. What did I do, last night? Oh, I dined at 
 the restaurant. And then I went to a cafe-concert. 
 
 THERESE. All alone? 
 
 GEORGES. To be sure! Oh, don't pity me, I spent a 
 tolerable evening. 
 
 THERESE. Poor fellow! 
 
 GEORGES. No, no, no, it's not what you think. You see, 
 I'm so busy at the factory that I haven't a moment to 
 think of my private affairs ; and then, time does wonders. 
 I'm feeling better now, now that I am free. I tell you, 
 I'm beginning to appreciate a bachelor's life again. 
 
 THERESE. If you want me to believe that, you'll have 
 to say it in a different tone of voice. 
 
 GEORGES. But I tell you very calmly, it seems to me. 
 
 THERESE. What were you reading a moment ago, when 
 you came in? 
 
 GEORGES. I ? 
 
 THERESE. You were re-reading her last letter? Don't 
 deny it. 
 
 GEORGES. Well, what of it? It only proves I'm a 
 fool. 
 
 THERESE. I don't see that? 
 
 GEORGES. I feel only too plainly my ridiculous position ! 
 How insupportable I must be with my endless complaints 
 and foolish behavior! I'm a fool, to think my affairs are 
 any one's else concern! I ought at least to keep still! 
 
 THERESE. [Supplicating.] Georges! 
 
 GEORGES. There you are! I think of nothing else, 
 every minute of the day. Even when I'm at work. No, 
 no, it was abominable, what she did! Wait, one thing 
 
THE PARDON 139 
 
 comes to mind. During those last days, when I was igno- 
 rant of everything, I can't tell you how tender and loving 
 she was, how she cuddled up to me ! She was never like 
 that before ; up to that time she was sweet and affectionate, 
 but rather indolent and passive. And when I saw her for 
 the first time so enthusiastic, I said to myself, " At last, 
 she loves me ; she loves me for good, she is mine now ! " 
 And just at that moment. Oh, the liar, the liar! 
 
 THERESE. Who knows ? 
 
 GEORGES. What? 
 
 THERESE. I say, who knows? So far as I can see, that 
 proves only one thing: that she sought protection in you, 
 a refuge against herself. It proves that she has never 
 ceased loving you. That's my first point. I'll tell you my 
 second in a moment. 
 
 GEORGES. My dear Therese, I'm not yet altogether an 
 idiot; keep that in mind. Those demonstrations of affec- 
 tion given to the husband at the very time of Capital! 
 Classic ! I see my situation ! It has been studied and de- 
 scribed by very good authors. And, you see, I have even 
 had an opportunity of feeling the truth of their remarks a 
 splendid opportunity! 
 
 THERESE. Why this ill-considered irony? 
 
 GEORGES. Oh, let me do it, it relieves me, at any rate. 
 There is something decidedly comic in it, you know. [ With 
 a change of voice.} Well, the day I learned everything, I 
 felt as if I had been struck with a club. In a second, I saw 
 she was nothing to me. I felt no hatred, no anger. When 
 she came in, I didn't question her, I didn't blame or bully 
 her. I merely said to her, " Go away ! " She went, and 
 I didn't go back to see her leave. I can't say either that I 
 suffered. It's remarkable. 
 
 THERESE. And since then? 
 
 GEORGES. Oh, since! The idea is always with me, al- 
 
140 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 ways vibrating, revolving, like an animal gnawing at my 
 vitals! It's enough to drive me mad. Yet sometimes, I 
 am on the point of giving in. I remember the time when 
 we were engaged ; I can see her again, so sweet, and tender, 
 and innocent And then I remember trifling details of 
 our life together, her little mannerisms, things she said 
 in her own particular way. And then I feel myself giving 
 in, and finding excuses for her: her inexperience, her youth, 
 her loneliness when I was away but all of a sudden, the 
 image of what she did surges in on me and lives again in 
 my brain, clear as day, precise in its concrete details 
 In my brain? No, in my flesh, like a claw. And then I 
 want to hold her in my arms, cover her with kisses, mark 
 her with them, blot out those others, and make her my own 
 again or perhaps strangle her. 
 
 THERESE. In other words, you still love her: my second 
 point. 
 
 GEORGES. [Following his own train of ideas.] But, my 
 God, why? Why did she? 
 
 THERESE. My dear friend, that we shall never know 
 nor will she, for that matter. Therefore, there is no use 
 asking her. But since you still love one another, since you 
 certainly cannot live without her, nor she without you 
 it's very simple: you must forgive her and take her back 
 at once. 
 
 GEORGES. Take her back? But, I'd be a coward, 
 Therese ! 
 
 THERESE. A coward because you would be doing a good 
 deed? Because you would be doing an act of justice? Yes, 
 justice! Suzanne has expiated her sin, and she is ready to 
 expiate further. You have as a proof the letters I have 
 received from her, those I have shown you, and those she 
 wrote to you ; they are full of humility, they are pathetically 
 sincere 
 
THE PARDON 141 
 
 GEORGES. Sincere? 
 
 THERESE. Yes, sincere ! That's as clear as day, and at 
 bottom, you believe it yourself, as well as I. Well, why 
 do you pretend to doubt it? 
 
 GEORGES. Let's drop it, Therese. I have been made a 
 fool of long enough 
 
 THERESE. That word again ! The word proves that 
 you attach less importance to what you feel and really be- 
 lieve, than to the interpretations that fools or gossips might 
 make if your affair had been public. Now, it is not. It 
 is therefore merely the idea of being made a fool of and 
 you haven't been that terrifies you. Well, that is perfectly 
 ridiculous and petty if you want to know what I think; it's 
 unworthy of you. 
 
 GEORGES. You abuse me from sheer charity, Therese. 
 
 THERESE. You're mistaken; I abuse you with perfect 
 sincerity. If every one here knew your story, I'd still say, 
 " Take back your wife who repents and loves you." But 
 every one does not know what has happened; every one, 
 including my husband, and even Suzanne's own mother. 
 There are just you and I you and I, do you understand? 
 who know it. 
 
 GEORGES. Are you sure of that? 
 
 THERESE. Yes, I am sure. 
 
 GEORGES. Do you think that there ? 
 
 THERESE. They may have talked, or supposed, but rest 
 assured, they've stopped talking long ago. Anyway, what 
 difference can it make to you what is said five hundred 
 miles from here? 
 
 GEORGES. But, my dear Therese, you understand that 
 this reconciliation is a very serious matter that cannot 
 take place except under certain conditions. I must be abso- 
 lutely assured that I can count on her without the shadow 
 of a doubt. I must No, it's impossible. I admit she 
 
142 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 is sorry for what she did, that her resolutions are good, 
 but do you know what they say ? 
 
 THERESE. What? 
 
 GEORGES. That it is more difficult for a woman who 
 well, to stop at a first lover than to have none at all. 
 
 THERESE. What great moralist said that ? And what did 
 he know about it ? Why couldn't he have kept still ! Ac- 
 cording to such sages the hearts of men and women ought 
 to be ruled in straight lines, like music paper ! I tell you, 
 I will answer for Suzanne, myself: she knows her duty, and 
 she accepts every condition; she knows that from now on 
 she will have to be not only irreproachable, but at every 
 opportunity give you absolute proof of it. I should only 
 like to be sure of you; for, make no mistake, you're the one 
 who will have the greater and more difficult burden to bear. 
 It is easier to repent than to forgive. Bear in mind what 
 that means: to forgive the slip. It is necessary, my dear 
 Georges, really to forget, or to remember only to pity, with- 
 out a spoken word ! Shall you be able to do that ? 
 
 GEORGES. Certainly, if I were sure 
 
 THERESE. [Smiling.] But I am sure, I who am a very 
 reasonable being. Come, have the courage to consent at once 
 to what you are going to do, sooner or later. [A gesture 
 from GEORGES.] Oh, yes! Or why, in spite of your assertions 
 at first, haven't you applied for a divorce ? How, when you 
 came here, did you imagine of your own accord, that story 
 of Suzanne's illness and her spending her vacation in the 
 country, unless you acknowledged in your secret heart the 
 possibility of a reconciliation, and forgiveness? How sen- 
 sible you have been ! No, I tell you, everything is not 
 lost! Nothing is hopeless when you apply a little good- 
 will and heart-felt simplicity. Don't torture yourself any 
 longer. Isn't there a touch of false pride, and well some 
 innate meanness in you when you nourish and rear up in 
 
THE PARDON 143 
 
 yourself the evil you have in you? You will be cured, 
 merely in living and loving. You are both young, and you 
 both have a plenteous store of happiness if you gather up 
 the fragments of the past What are you thinking about? 
 
 GEORGES. I'm thinking that you are the best of 
 friends ; that I can hide nothing from you ; that you know 
 my wounds and the balm that is good for them ; that I wish 
 to believe you and act on your advice. 
 
 THERESE. Your wanting to is not enough, Monsieur. 
 What do you decide? 
 
 GEORGES. Well write to her, and let her hope that per- 
 haps after a while But you are the one who wanted it ! 
 You understand it's your idea, that if it turns out unfortu- 
 nately, I shall have a right to blame you? 
 
 THERESE. Yes, I understand. [Pointing to the door at 
 the right.] Do you know who is there? 
 
 GEORGES. Who? 
 
 THERESE. Suzanne. 
 
 GEORGES. Is Suzanne there ? No, no, let her go ! I 
 can't yet! It's too soon! I tell you, I can't! 
 
 THERESE. [Opening the door.] Come, Suzanne. [To 
 GEORGES.] I'll see you later. 
 
 [She leaves through the center door. 
 
 SUZANNE. [She comes down-stage, very humble, to- 
 ward GEORGES, whose back is turned.] Georges! 
 
 GEORGES. I didn't hear you, Suzanne. 
 
 SUZANNE. Georges ! Don't send me away ! Let me live 
 with you regain my place at your side prove to you that 
 I'm not altogether unworthy your forgiveness I won't be 
 troublesome. Don't look at me, only let me exist in your 
 house Will you ? 
 
 GEORGES. Yes, Suzanne. 
 
 SUZANNE. How good you are! I love you! [She takes 
 his hand and kisses it.] Well, do you want me to stay? 
 
144 
 
 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 GEORGES. Yes, Suzanne. [She still holds his hand; 
 he gathers her slowly to him.] You understand that this 
 is a serious moment for us both? You realize what your 
 responsibilities are in returning here? You are firmly 
 determined never to ? 
 
 SUZANNE. Oh ! 
 
 GEORGES. 
 SUZANNE. 
 GEORGES. 
 of it? 
 
 SUZANNE. 
 GEORGES. 
 SUZANNE. 
 
 Swear it. 
 
 Oh yes, I swear. 
 
 So, the past is wiped out ? We'll never speak 
 
 Never. 
 
 We'll never think of it? 
 Never. 
 [GEORGES draws her nearer to him, she bends back, 
 
 and he kisses her forehead. 
 
 GEORGES. Now, let us try to live! [A long pause. 
 SUZANNE is immobile; GEORGES walks back and forth.] 
 Is your mother well? 
 SUZANNE. Well enough. 
 GEORGES. What's the matter? 
 SUZANNE. Nothing serious: neuralgia. 
 GEORGES. Of course: change of weather. 
 SUZANNE. Probably. 
 
 [A pause. 
 
 GEORGES. What train did you come on? 
 SUZANNE. The five o'clock. Therese met me at the 
 station. 
 
 GEORGES. Your baggage ? 
 
 SUZANNE. Therese said she would look after it. 
 GEORGES. Oh, by the way, we dine with her to- 
 night. You'll meet her husband; he's an old friend of 
 mine. 
 
 SUZANNE. Yes, I know. 
 
 [A pause. 
 
THE PARDON 145 
 
 GEORGES. But I'm thinking after your long journey 
 in such dust will you go into my room? 
 
 SUZANNE. With pleasure. 
 
 GEORGES. Here, this way. [He opens the door at the 
 left.] You see, the house is not bad almost a little hotel, 
 between court and garden. And I don't pay overmuch; 
 quite a bargain just think 
 
 [End of Act I.] 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 [Two weeks later. The same room as in the First Act, but 
 more richly furnished.] 
 
 SUZANNE. [Seated, sewing. Enter GEORGES.] Hello, 
 dear ? Have you had a good day ? Did you work hard ? 
 
 GEORGES. [Indifferently.] Yes. 
 
 SUZANNE. Nothing wrong? 
 
 GEORGES. No. 
 
 SUZANNE. Then, you're satisfied? 
 
 GEORGES. Yes. 
 
 SUZANNE. Is it true that the workmen adore you? 
 
 GEORGES. I'm not hard on them. 
 
 SUZANNE. Do you know what was said of you yester- 
 day where I was visiting? 
 
 GEORGES. What ? 
 
 SUZANNE. That you were a very remarkable man 
 those were the very words and that your invention was one 
 of the finest and most useful of modern times. Explain it 
 to me, will you? 
 
 GEORGES. What? 
 
 SUZANNE. Your invention. 
 
 GEORGES. You wouldn't understand. 
 
146 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 SUZANNE. If you explained it, I might. 
 
 GEORGES. Never mind; it doesn't concern you. 
 
 SUZANNE. They said that your discovery saved hun- 
 dreds of human lives every year. 
 
 GEORGES. It's quite possible. 
 
 SUZANNE. Splendid! Oh, how proud I am of you! 
 How I love you! [She kisses him; he accepts the kiss 
 rather impatiently.] Don't you like me to kiss you? 
 
 GEORGES. Of course I do. 
 
 SUZANNE. What's the trouble? 
 
 GEORGES. Nothing. 
 
 SUZANNE. Yes, there's something. 
 
 GEORGES. Why didn't you go out to-day? You ought 
 to take a little walk every day, to see your friends. A 
 young woman like you ought to have some amusement. 
 
 SUZANNE. My friends! I haven't been able to make 
 any real ones during the past two weeks. And then, I 
 thought you preferred to have me stay at home. I enjoy 
 myself, I tell you, and I have plenty to do. Look at this 
 room, you'd hardly recognize it! 
 
 GEORGES. That's so. 
 
 SUZANNE. I arranged it all myself. Isn't it pretty? 
 
 GEORGES. Yes. 
 
 SUZANNE. You're not very enthusiastic about it does- 
 n't it please you? 
 
 GEORGES. Oh, I 
 
 SUZANNE. Come, tell me ! I don't mind if you criticize, 
 so long as you notice what I do. 
 
 GEORGES. Well 
 
 SUZANNE. What? 
 
 GEORGES. Well what shall I say? My tastes are a bit 
 bourgeois, and all these knick-knacks and 
 
 SUZANNE. You don't like it? 
 
 GEORGES. Oh, I'm no judge, I don't understand, I think 
 
THE PARDON 147 
 
 it's rather You aren't angry? Well, I think this room 
 is a bit er fast. There! 
 
 SUZANNE. Oh, Georges ! And I went to so much trou- 
 ble, and I thought it was so pretty! [Controlling her emo- 
 tion.] But I'll change it all, I tell you. You see, I want 
 there to be nothing in me or about me that is at all dis- 
 pleasing to you 
 
 GEORGES. Why didn't you go out this afternoon? 
 
 SUZANNE. I have already told you: there are certain 
 days when I rather like to stay home alone. 
 
 GEORGES. That's not the real reason? 
 
 SUZANNE. I see no other. 
 
 GEORGES. If you had the courage to be absolutely sin- 
 cere 
 
 SUZANNE. Well, there may be another reason. Do you 
 remember what you told me about that beautiful Madame 
 Rousseau, our new acquaintance? 
 
 GEORGES. Why, no. 
 
 SUZANNE. You wanted me to see less of her, because 
 she seemed to you rather frivolous and you feared she might 
 exert a bad influence over me. As I was practically sure 
 of meeting her if I went out to-day why, I decided to stay 
 in. 
 
 GEORGES. I didn't want that at all I advised you not 
 to make Madame Rousseau one of your intimate friends, to 
 manage to meet her less often. You behave as if I were a 
 tyrant; it's ridiculous. 
 
 SUZANNE. I thought I was doing right. Forgive 
 me. 
 
 GEORGES. Oh, it's nothing, and there is no reason to be 
 so repentant. But you ought to see that I have more con- 
 fidence in you, that I don't want to make your life in- 
 tolerable. At any rate, you might have called on Therese 
 why don't you see her oftener? 
 
148 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 SUZANNE. But, my dear, I've called twice without find- 
 ing her in, and it's over a week since she was here. You 
 might even say she was dropping our acquaintance ! 
 
 GEORGES. What an idea! Therese feels as she always 
 did toward us ! But you see, she has her husband and her 
 home. Well, to return to you, I'd really prefer you to go 
 out, take walks it's not good for you to be alone too much 
 what must you be thinking of all the while? 
 
 SUZANNE. Nothing, my dear; I haven't time. When 
 once you set about looking after your household seri- 
 ously 
 
 GEORGES. I insist, you are thinking of something. 
 I can see it, I am positive I know you have something 
 continually on your mind. Why, last night, at the play 
 it was gay enough, too you were so sad ! 
 
 SUZANNE. You're mistaken, I thoroughly enjoyed my- 
 self. 
 
 GEORGES. Not visibly. 
 
 SUZANNE. That was perhaps because I had already seen 
 the play; we go to the theater nearly every night. 
 
 GEORGES. Well, what could we do with our evenings, 
 here alone, tete-a-tete ? You haven't many amusements, for 
 that matter. 
 
 SUZANNE. I could well do without that, if you wished 
 me to. 
 
 GEORGES. No. It's the best thing for us to go out as 
 often as possible, only I should like you, I confess, to 
 appear to enjoy yourself more than you do. Why did you 
 look like that last night? 
 
 SUZANNE. Well 
 
 GEORGES. Because of the subject of the play? It had 
 to do with a husband. My poor girl, what would you have 
 our comic writers do? It's our ancient French gaiety. If 
 people didn't go there to forget, there would always be 
 
THE PARDON 149 
 
 half of the audience who would not dare to laugh. Why 
 didn't you laugh? I can tell you, I did! 
 
 SUZANNE. Georges ! 
 
 GEORGES. Tell me, what were you thinking of? 
 
 SUZANNE. Nothing, my dear. 
 
 GEORGES. At this moment, what are you thinking of? 
 Come now, out with it at once there, under that calm 
 countenance, arise remembrances, thoughts dare to say 
 
 no 
 
 SUZANNE. But, my dear, it's not I but you who are 
 continually thinking of it. 
 
 GEORGES. [Surprised.] That's true always. [A 
 pause.] Shall I tell you why? 
 
 SUZANNE. Georges, please ! 
 
 GEORGES. Because well I don't know how it happened 
 it's my fault! I didn't question you, I didn't even wish 
 to hear but there is something certain details, that I'd 
 like to hear now, that I must, yes, I must know. Promise 
 me to answer, and when I know, that'll be the end; you 
 sha'n't suffer any more. 
 
 SUZANNE. [Imploringly.] My dear ! 
 
 GEORGES. Yes, yes, you must ! Otherwise, I can't spend 
 a quiet moment, and I shall make you miserable. Tell me, 
 where did you meet ? How did you manage to get away ? 
 
 SUZANNE. I beg you! It will make both of us sorry 
 afterward ! 
 
 GEORGES. You must tell me, you must. Was it in a 
 hotel? 
 
 SUZANNE. No. 
 
 GEORGES. In an. apartment he had furnished? 
 
 SUZANNE. Yes. 
 
 GEORGES. And what time was it ? Tell me ! Tell me ! 
 Was it in the afternoon you went out? 
 
 SUZANNE. Yes. 
 
'150 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 GEORGES. While I, poor fool! Oh, I see it all now: 
 cab, heavy veil, two doors wasn't that it? 
 
 SUZANNE. Just about. 
 
 GEORGES. Nothing original about it, at least! And, did 
 you stay long? 
 
 SUZANNE. Oh, no! 
 
 GEORGES. An hour? 
 
 SUZANNE. I don't know. 
 
 GEORGES. And you went often? 
 
 SUZANNE. Twice. 
 
 GEORGES. I was away at that time for long periods 
 did he ever come to our house? 
 
 SUZANNE. No. 
 
 GEORGES. No? 
 
 SUZANNE. I swear it before God, who is my witness 
 what I suffer this minute ! 
 
 GEORGES. And what particularly attracted you in him ? 
 In what was he superior to me ? You won't answer ? What 
 are you thinking of now? [Approaching her.] Were you 
 were you happy? 
 
 SUZANNE. No. 
 
 GEORGES. You lie ! You lie ! 
 
 SUZANNE. Oh, Georges, you're cruel! [She breaks into 
 sobs.] 
 
 GEORGES. Yes, I'm a brute a coward; it's true we 
 swore never to speak of these things, and I have broken 
 my word you have kept yours: it was easier for you. 
 
 SUZANNE. If you have suffered so much in keeping 
 silent, think what I must have endured: to speak. Think 
 of that. I'm not blaming you, and I'm trying not to cry, 
 but if you begin again to cross-question me as you did just 
 now, I'll always do as you ask me, only I warn you, what- 
 ever wrong I have done you, it won't be long before we 
 are quits. 
 
THE PARDON 151 
 
 GEORGES. You are right, Suzanne : I beg your pardon. 
 It's all over now. Come, dry your tears and go out, take 
 a walk you still have time, and it will do you a world 
 of good. 
 
 SUZANNE. I don't want to, dear. 
 
 GEORGES. Tut, tut ! You don't have to be in the house 
 forever you are free. Take a walk, I want you to I 
 must be alone go now, go ! 
 
 SUZANNE. Very well, dear. [She goes out.] 
 
 GEORGES. [Alone.] To work! That is left me, at 
 least. 
 
 [He sits at a table, opens a book, moves some papers, 
 takes a pen, and looks straight before him. Enter THERESE.] 
 
 GEORGES. [Joyfully.] You! 
 
 THKRESE. Isn't Suzanne here? 
 
 GEORGES. Didn't you meet her? 
 
 THERESE. No. 
 
 GEORGES. She has just gone out. 
 
 THERESE. Then I'll run; I came to take her with me. 
 
 GEORGES. She was complaining that she's seen nothing 
 of you recently. She said you were avoiding us. 
 
 THERESE. You know that's not true. I have come to 
 be so intimately connected with her affairs I'm sometimes 
 afraid I get to be troublesome, at least just now and I 
 don't like to impose myself You can easily understand 
 my feelings. 
 
 GEORGES. Of course. 
 
 THERESE. Did you tell her that we met by accident two 
 or three times as you left the factory? It was quite natu- 
 ral, because it's in my neighborhood. 
 
 GEORGES. What was the use? She might think we were 
 speaking of her, and worry. It's better for her to know 
 nothing at all. 
 
 THERESE. Of course. 
 
152 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 GEORGES. Oh, Therese, how I enjoyed those walks with 
 you, and those conversations all too short! along the 
 great empty quays ! Those were my only moments of hap- 
 piness. I don't know what I should do without you. How 
 good of you to come now! Shall I tell you something? 
 I rather thought you'd come. 
 
 THERESE. So, you and Suzanne don't hit it off to- 
 gether ? 
 
 GEORGES. Well, no! I've just had a ridiculous scene 
 with her. 
 
 THERESE. What was the matter? 
 
 GEORGES. Nothing. 
 
 THERESE. Isn't she nice to you? 
 
 GEORGES. She's perfect only do what I can, it's im- 
 possible to forget; I keep thinking of it all the time. It's 
 in my blood, and I can't get rid of it. I'm poisoned. 
 
 THERESE. And yet you don't doubt her repentance, or 
 her love for you? 
 
 GEORGES. Oh, she's doing her best, but I can't rid my- 
 self of the idea. I thought that if she were with me every- 
 thing would turn out beautifully; I thought if I could see 
 her near me and hold her in my arms, that would dispel 
 the phantoms of the past. Not a bit of it. When she's 
 moody, it gets on my nerves, because I imagine she's think- 
 ing of what happened, and when she's gay, I think she's 
 making game of me. Listen, Therese, since she's come back 
 it's awful! I can't drive away the thought of him, that 
 other I think of him oftener than before. If I let him 
 alone, as I did, when the smash came, it was merely be- 
 cause I had decided on divorce. But now it's clear as day 
 my attitude toward him is completely changed. I've got to 
 find him, and tell him 
 
 THERESE. [Smiling.] Rather late for that. 
 
 GEORGES. I appear to you ridiculous? 
 
THE PARDON 153 
 
 THERESE. No, only an object of pity, and, if I may 
 say so, not very generous. Yes or no, have you forgiven 
 Suzanne? You have no right, since you've taken her back, 
 to make her unhappy. You give with one hand and take 
 back with the other. You mustn't. Look out, Georges, 
 you are the only one who is really at fault. 
 
 GEORGES. It's easy enough for you to talk. Forgive 
 her, I've done that! But forget I cannot. You see, I 
 simply cannot! Why, at times she makes me feel very 
 tenderly toward her with her great sorrow and that little 
 air of submission she's young and not bad-looking. I kiss 
 and pet her like the pretty child she is but the moment 
 she is in my arms, it's just as if a burning flame shot 
 through me. I say to myself, " She is comparing! " and 
 then I cast her off brutally, or else I press her more closely 
 as if I wanted to hurt her. And then she is afraid, and 
 doesn't understand what I mean. At bottom, I believe I 
 hate her. That's because I have loved her too deeply. 
 I can't tell you what she has been to me. I was quite 
 a student, I had done a good deal of traveling, and had 
 seen some of life, even; met all kinds of women. But I 
 had never before really been in love; she was the first. 
 I sought in her the final rest, a haven for life. In her, I 
 centered all the tenderness of which I was capable, every 
 thought, my whole ambition; I worked in order that 
 she might be proud of me, and become rich. It was 
 for her sake that I was proud of my successes. You have 
 no idea how seriously I took marriage I was a fool, 
 wasn't I? 
 
 THERESE. [Troubled.] Not at all. 
 
 GEORGES. And every day when I came home, and saw 
 her lighted window from the street, my heart beat as it 
 did the day after I was married. Yes, every time my heart 
 beat, as I got nearer and nearer to her lips, to that kiss I 
 
154 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 had looked forward to the whole day long. Can you un- 
 derstand that? 
 
 THERESE. [As before.] Perfectly. 
 
 GEORGES. Think what I went through! My poor 
 Therese ! 
 
 THERESE. It is too bad I often think of it . Your 
 life has been bound up inseparably with mine this last 
 month. How I wish I could be of some help to you; I 
 can't bear to see you this way, but what can I say? The 
 only thing I can do is to listen to you, and I'm doing that 
 with all my heart. Who knows ? Perhaps by suffering and 
 talking about it, your trouble will be lightened ! And then, 
 recognizing Suzanne's efforts, you will see it all in its true 
 light, like the true man you are, for it seems that you men 
 are more just than we. Time will heal your wound; I'm 
 sure you will still be happy. 
 
 GEORGES. No, no it was all an illusion: between her 
 and me there is a chasm that cannot be bridged. Time, 
 reason, her repentance nothing is of any use something 
 else 
 
 THERESE. What? 
 
 GEORGES. I don't know I'm changed, somehow. I'm 
 not what I was. At times, I believe I'm still in love with 
 her, but it's not the same sort of love no ! Very 
 mysterious, isn't it? you can't understand, can you, 
 Therese ? 
 
 THERESE. Why do you always ask whether I under- 
 stand ? 
 
 GEORGES. You are wisdom incarnate, Therese. You're 
 everything that's 
 
 THERESE. Oh, quite! 
 
 GEORGES. Don't make fun ! Shall I tell you ? You are 
 the sort of woman meant for me. 
 
 THERESE. Oh ! 
 
THE PARDON 155 
 
 GEORGES. It might have happened that way; I knew 
 you a long time before I knew Suzanne. You were just 
 as pretty as she you still are, prettier, even yes, you 
 are! Why do you keep your veil on? 
 
 THERESE. Do you object to it? 
 
 GEORGES. Yes, it hides your kind eyes. 
 
 THERESE. Very well [She takes off her veil and 
 throws it on a chair.] 
 
 GEORGES. [Looking at her.] Yes, it's you again I see 
 you now as a young girl; you have hardly changed, you 
 had that same calm, sweet air about you, that enveloping 
 charm. Only, as we had played together since childhood, 
 you never appealed to me as a woman; I was near hap- 
 piness without knowing it. Oh, what a fool I am! I 
 wonder whether you would have accepted me? 
 
 THERESE. Perhaps. 
 
 GEORGES. Really ? 
 
 THERESE. Oh, yes I'll tell you a secret, there's noth- 
 ing wrong in that, it's so long ago. When you asked for 
 Suzanne's hand I was reasonable enough at the time! I 
 was a little envious. I can't deny that I had a high regard 
 for you, Georges. And if lately I have gone to a good deal 
 of trouble for your sake, it was friendship, pure and sim- 
 ple yet perhaps with a tinge, an after-thought of those 
 few tears you once cost me. But let's talk about some- 
 thing else ! 
 
 GEORGES. No, please ! How unfortunate, Therese ! We 
 should have been happy together; you would have been a 
 true companion for me ! Why did I never see that before ? 
 With your splendid woman's commonsense, you would have 
 been not only a wife for me, but an associate. Your light- 
 ness of heart would have made my life happy. You would 
 never have betrayed me ! You would have loved me tenderly 
 as I would have loved you always 
 
156 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 THERESE. [In a revery.] Yes, I think- 
 
 GEORGES. At least, since this isn't so have pity on me, 
 my dear [He takes her hand, but she draws it back.] 
 What's the matter? You can at least pity me! I have 
 the right, because you know, Therese, it's your fault 
 I'm so unhappy; you ought to be kinder to me now, espe- 
 cially as you too have made me suffer. Let me let me love 
 you, let me feel the warmth of your affection, let me for- 
 get [Pie approaches her and nearly puts his head on 
 
 her shoulder.] 
 
 THKRESE. [Alarmed.] Georges! Georges! 
 
 GEORGES. What is it, darling? 
 
 THERESE. You mustn't, Georges, you mustn't ! 
 
 GEORGES. What? 
 
 THERESE. I 
 
 GEORGES. I adore you, Therese, that's the downright 
 truth, and I'm surprised I never realized it before. When 
 I took so strange a pleasure in confessing to you things 
 I should have concealed even from myself it was because 
 I loved you ! And you yourself, Therese, if you bore with 
 me like the angel you are, if my everlasting complaints 
 didn't annoy you, it was because you loved to console me, 
 that something of my fever had got into your blood. There 
 are certain things you can't listen to unmoved. Don't 
 shrink from me, dearest. After what you've done for me, 
 that would be too unkind let me kiss you. Your eyes! 
 Your hair ! Your mouth ! 
 
 THERESE. [Calmly disengaging herself.] Georges, 
 you're mad. [She stands up and goes to the window.] 
 Heavens ! Suzanne ! 
 
 GEORGES. Suzanne ? 
 
 THERESE. She's opening the outer door. Good-by, I'll 
 go out through the garden. 
 
 GEORGES. Don't you want to see her ? 
 
THE PARDON 157 
 
 THERESE. No. 
 
 GEORGES. [Taking hold of her wrists.] To-morrow, 
 Therese. 
 
 THERESE. No. 
 
 GEORGES. [Still holding her.] I wish it. Please, 
 Therese ! 
 
 THERESE. [As if saying, Yes.] No, no! [She leaves.] 
 
 GEORGES. [Alone. He arranges the chairs, which are 
 in disorder, then sits at the desk, and pretends to be work- 
 ing. Enter SUZANNE.] 
 
 GEORGES. [Amiably.] Did you have a pleasant walk? 
 
 SUZANNE. Yes, dear. 
 
 GEORGES. Where did you go? 
 
 SUZANNE. Nowhere in particular, at first; then I went 
 to see Therese, and she wasn't in. 
 
 GEORGES. Did you do any shopping? 
 
 SUZANNE. No, I was afraid I'd be tempted. You don't 
 seem to believe it, but I've become a very economical house- 
 keeper. You ought to see my accounts ! 
 
 GEORGES. I have. You're a good little wife, Suzanne, 
 and I love you dearly Why, what's the matter? 
 
 SUZANNE. It's been so long since you have spoken to me 
 like that ! But I'm so glad ! 
 
 GEORGES. I blame you for one thing only. 
 
 SUZANNE. [Nervously.] What? 
 
 GEORGES. You are likely to become too economical. 
 [Looking at her.] What's that dress? That's not gay 
 enough, you know ! I have noticed that you dress nowadays 
 so severely! 
 
 SUZANNE. [Delighted.] Did you notice that? 
 
 GEORGES. I like to see you beautiful, well dressed, the 
 way you used to be; we can afford it, thank God! I want 
 you to be a credit to me. This room, for instance, I 
 can't imagine why I spoke as I did about it! It's very 
 
158 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 pretty and nicely arranged. Why, what more natural than 
 that a woman of your age ? 
 
 SUZANNE. [During the last speech she has found 
 THERESE'S veil on a chair.] And what have you been doing 
 while I was away? 
 
 GEORGES. I ? I've read, worked you see? [He 
 moves some papers about on the desk.] 
 
 SUZANNE. You weren't disturbed? 
 
 GEORGES. I tell you I was working, did a lot. I got 
 hold of a splendid idea 
 
 SUZANNE. Were you working all the time? 
 
 GEORGES. Nearly. 
 
 SUZANNE. Nearly ? 
 
 GEORGES. What do you mean with your questions ? [He 
 turns about, and sees the veil in SUZANNE'S hands.] Oh, 
 that veil ? 
 
 SUZANNE. Why didn't you tell me Therese was here? 
 
 GEORGES. And why do you ask such questions? Yes, 
 Therese was here, she came to see you what of it? What 
 is there so extraordinary about that? 
 
 SUZANNE. Nothing unless 
 
 GEORGES. Unless ? 
 
 SUZANNE. Unless it's your saying nothing about it, and 
 the temper with which you answer my very natural 
 questions. 
 
 GEORGES. Come, Suzanne, we're not going to change 
 parts at this stage of the game, are we? You're not going 
 to give us a scene of jealousy? To begin with, I don't 
 deserve it, and even if I did 
 
 SUZANNE. Stop right there, Georges. [With a great 
 effort.] No, I'm not jealous; I know Therese, and I am 
 positive that she would never wrong me; I shall never for- 
 get what a friend she has been to us. I know very well 
 what you think of her, and I have no reason to complain ; I 
 
THE PARDON 159 
 
 shall try to be as good as she is, that's all. Only, if I might 
 ask one thing of you? Don't conceal anything from 
 me 
 
 GEORGES. But, I 
 
 SUZANNE. I understand: you have nothing to conceal, 
 I'm the blunderer, it's my fault. But bear in mind what 
 I say I'm putting you so high on your pedestal, my love 
 for you is so mingled with respect and confidence ! Even 
 when you are a little disagreeable, you are my only pro- 
 tection, my surety, so that if I came to lose my blind, 
 child's faith in you, I think the earth would give way 
 under me and I couldn't bear to live ! 
 
 GEORGES. My, what big talk, my dear! Come, it's all 
 over, let's say nothing more about it. [He paces back and 
 forth.] We must be mad, or going mad! Taking things 
 tragically that are hardly worth talking about! You might 
 think we were the only ones this had ever happened to since 
 the beginning of the world ! Oh, Lord, if we knew the 
 history of every family ! This is perfectly ridiculous, turn- 
 ing everything into " domestic drama." Listen, let's have 
 a truce: what's passed is over and done with. Now I'm cer- 
 tain of you; you're no longer a child. You may rest 
 assured, I sha'n't trouble you any more. But for your part, 
 you too must be reasonable ; you ought to forget, since I 
 don't want to remember. Then, if you want to please me, 
 don't put me on so high a pedestal. I'm only a man 
 and what is there remarkable in a man? I'm something 
 of a dreamer: I took love, and marriage, and all that, too 
 seriously ! But I tell you we mustn't ask too much of life ; 
 I'm doing very well with what it affords me. We shall 
 live comfortably like two good friends just like Jacques 
 and Therese; look at those two philosophers who know the 
 art of living! Now that we have agreed let's kiss and 
 make up ! [He goes out humming.] 
 
160 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 SUZANNE. [Alone.] Oh! I loved him more when he 
 was disagreeable! 
 
 [End of Act II.] 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 [A month later; same scene as in the preceding act.] 
 
 THERESE. [Entering.] Yes, it's I. You don't seem 
 glad to see me? 
 
 GEORGES. Didn't you get my letter? 
 
 THERESE. That was the reason I came. 
 
 GEORGES. [Nervously.] But, Suzanne ? 
 
 THERESE. Don't worry, she hasn't returned yet. Be- 
 sides, the infrequency of my visits these last six weeks must 
 have given her a hint. But for that matter there's no rea- 
 son why I shouldn't be here. 
 
 GEORGES. Well, do you want to wait for her? I have 
 to go to the factory. [Looking at the clock.] I'm late 
 already. [She bars his may, as lie is about to leave.] 
 
 THERESE. [Ironically.] Now that's too bad, but you're 
 going to listen to me. Don't be afraid, I sha'n't keep you 
 long only see here you've written three times breaking 
 your engagements with me. Oh, you give the best reasons 
 in the world each time ! I have come merely to ask whether 
 you are in earnest; Georges, tell me the truth I want it. 
 
 GEORGES. There's nothing wrong: it happens that I am 
 not always at liberty to do what I want to do; you see, 
 neither you nor I are free, and we must be very careful, 
 and 
 
 THERESE. Now, tell me the truth 
 
 GEORGES. I have. 
 
 THERESE. No. 
 
 GEORGES. Well, I should never have told you if you 
 
THE PARDON 161 
 
 hadn't been so anxious to know : I am uneasy about Suzanne ; 
 I don't know what she suspects or guesses, but there's no 
 doubt she is very unhappy; I know she cries a good deal 
 when I'm not here. And when I see her poor little face 
 so changed, and her eyes full of tears well I begin to 
 pity her and I'm not a brute, at any rate. 
 
 THERESE. Is that all? 
 
 GEORGES. You ought to understand that, Therese. Why, 
 even Jacques must have some vague suspicion 
 
 THERESE. Never mind about Jacques. It's rather late 
 to think of that. I have already told you that he has abso- 
 lute confidence in me, and I've been decent enough to spare 
 him any anxiety. You needn't worry. 
 
 GEORGES. Poor fellow! 
 
 THERESE. Do you pity him, too? You pity everybody, 
 but what about me? 
 
 GEORGES. [Absorbed in his orvn thoughts.] I must 
 confess that when I meet Jacques I feel horribly em- 
 barrassed. And then, I remember one thing that used 
 to incense me more than anything else, and that was the 
 thought of that other you know? 
 
 THERESE. Yes, Suzanne's lover. 
 
 GEORGES. To think that that fellow was vile enough, 
 at the very moment he was betraying me, to shake my 
 hand! And here I am doing precisely the same thing 
 Oh, it's despicable! 
 
 THERESE. And do you think you're doing the decent 
 thing by me? 
 
 GEORGES. But I 
 
 THERESE. Do you realize that you have just said about 
 as cruel a thing as a man can say to a woman? 
 
 GEORGES. I ? 
 
 THERESE. Yes, you have. If you truly loved me, you 
 wouldn't suffer from those things you complain of. 
 
162 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 GEORGES. But I have always loved you, Therese; 
 you have been a true friend to me, haven't you? a ref- 
 uge? 
 
 THERESE. Yes I have been. 
 
 GEORGES. And you still are, Therese; and those com- 
 plaints are merely proofs. If I tell you everything, it is 
 merely because I am yours, all yours, with my weakness 
 and troubles, and because your own goodness has taught 
 me to place my burdens on your back. Just think what a 
 fearful trial all this is to me and it's all my own our 
 fault. 
 
 THERESE. Yes, my fault, isn't it? Tell me, you think 
 I'm to blame? You are angry because I was willing to 
 sacrifice my husband and my friend; in other words, I 
 was willing to do what you implored me to do ! Or rather, 
 you believe I led you astray, and you take me to task for 
 making you fail in your duty to your wife, to have laid 
 snares for your virtuous self. Really, you were intended 
 to be virtuous; I mean it, seriously. It's a pity you didn't 
 find it out sooner. 
 
 GEORGES. Therese ! Don't talk like that, or I'll end by 
 believing you are tired of me. 
 
 THERESE. You'd prefer that, wouldn't you? 
 
 GEORGES. What possible proofs do you want of my love, 
 Therese? Listen to me: as long as we stay here, we're 
 going to be miserable. Do you want to go away ? Shall we 
 go, far away? 
 
 THERESE. [Ironically.] Thank you, Georges. 
 
 GEORGES. What do you mean? 
 
 THERESE. How you would hate me if I said yes ! Well, 
 you're doing your best, and I thank you for the effort 
 for the lie. My poor friend, we were happy only once: 
 the first time we were together do you remember? We 
 cried like two fools it was enchanting! Next day it was 
 
THE PARDON 163 
 
 all over; I felt that you were angry with me for giving 
 in to you. You didn't remember that, although I was weak 
 yes, weak, and cowardly, I'll admit ! I wasn't the 
 tempter, but you; it was you who wanted it, desired it 
 with all the force of your being, desperately. I don't 
 say that to justify myself: it's the downright truth, re- 
 member that; and I don't want to trouble you by dwelling 
 on my own sacrifice; that's easy enough to bear, because 
 I love you. I was so peaceful before I saw you again, 
 my life was so happy and calm ! I had every possible 
 reason to go on in the same way. My only imaginable ex- 
 cuse if I have one at all was the depth and permanence 
 of the passion I thought I had aroused in you and then 
 almost at once I saw we were mistaken. So here I am 
 ruined for nothing: you are no better off and I am very 
 unhappy. 
 
 GEORGES. Don't say that, Therese, don't. Forget all 
 I have told you ; the words simply came. I don't know what 
 was the matter with me just now. I love you, I tell you. 
 [He puts his arm round her waist.] Don't mind my let- 
 ter I'll go, I'll meet you there I'll arrange it. Don't 
 imagine I suffer, or that I'm saying this to keep you from 
 suffering. Look at me; do I look like a man who is play- 
 ing a part? Do my eyes lie? When I have you with me 
 again, when I have you in my arms, next my heart, I am 
 yours, and only yours, as at first. I'll see you soon! 
 
 THERESE. Thank you, Georges, for your charity. I am 
 not proud, because I love you. 
 
 GEORGES. I don't like you to talk like that, Therese, 
 and I don't want you to be unhappy. No, one can't live 
 without doing harm to some one. Soon, then, dearest? 
 
 THERESE. Yes. 
 
 GEORGES. Will you stay? 
 
 THERESE. Yes, I want to see Suzanne. 
 
164 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 GEORGES. Why ? 
 
 THERESE. I don't know; I want to see her. 
 
 GEORGES. Perhaps you're right. [He hesitates a mo- 
 ment and goes out.] 
 
 THERESE. [Alone.] So that's it? After a week! 
 what a fool I am ! Why couldn't I see that what he loved 
 in me was himself, was the sweet sensation of confessing! 
 But why couldn't I leave him? Why did I force him to go 
 on lying, poor soul ! If I only had the courage ! This last 
 week, it seems as though I have been another person ! How 
 can I forget, and become the woman I was before ! How 
 can I prevent those who are innocent from suffering! 
 [Enter SUZANNE.] Hello, Suzanne, are you surprised to 
 see me? 
 
 SUZANNE. A little. 
 
 THERESE. You've come to see me several times when I 
 wasn't in. I've been very busy lately. Are you vexed 
 with me? [She attempts to kiss SUZANNE.] 
 
 SUZANNE. [Turning away.] No, please. 
 
 THERESE. Why not? 
 
 SUZANNE. Do you ask? It wasn't I you came to see, 
 was it ? As to my husband, you see him quite enough away 
 from here. What did you come for? 
 
 THERESE. What do you mean? 
 
 SUZANNE. I detest you you are my husband's mis- 
 tress ! 
 
 THERESE. I ? 
 
 SUZANNE. Don't bother to lie. I know; I have done 
 everything in order to know. I've spied on you, inter- 
 cepted letters it wasn't very hard to do you didn't take 
 overmuch trouble to conceal your tracks! Do you recall 
 how virtuously indignant you were two months ago? Well, 
 now you know? Ha! ha! It's funny! Now preach to 
 me! 
 
THE PARDON 165 
 
 THERESE. What are you going to do? 
 
 SUZANNE. Leave, to-night. I have secretly made all 
 my arrangements. You are perfectly free, you'll have the 
 field open to yourselves in an hour's time. That's why I 
 don't show you the door. Ha ! those good, honest people 
 who were so nice and condescending to me! You make a 
 fine showing when you dabble in other people's affairs. 
 I at least didn't make virtue my specialty, and I wasn't 
 hypocritical. But you have not merely deceived your hus- 
 band as I have, you have betrayed me, in the most per- 
 fidious and hateful way with delicate lies. At the very 
 moment when your virtuous self was preaching to me, you 
 were doing something a hundred times worse than I! 
 You reconciled me to my husband only in order to steal 
 him from me! Keep him! After all, I owe to you a 
 feeling to which I thought I'd lost my right disgust! 
 
 THERESE. [Gently.] Is that all? 
 
 SUZANNE. I was so happy when I came back I was 
 a fool ! so repentant, so convinced I was in the wrong ! 
 The worst of all is that you exploited my repentance. 
 You were both so sure I would leave you in peace ! Oh, to 
 see all, guess all, and not even have the right to com- 
 plain out loud ! Once I summoned up courage, once only ! 
 And how he took it, how he humiliated me ! Oh, I've paid 
 dearly for my slip 
 
 THERESE. Suzanne ! 
 
 SUZANNE. Why did you do it? Why did you bring me 
 here, only to torture me ? Liar ! Liar and hypocrite ! 
 
 THERESE. No, not a hypocrite, I swear! Anything but 
 that ! It happened how can I tell you ? Somehow he 
 was so troubled, and something drove him, after he had 
 been deceived, to deceive in his turn. 
 
 SUZANNE. I'm not speaking of him. I don't accuse him ; 
 he merely paid me back in my own coin. I'm leaving 
 
166 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 him for that but you! If he behaved badly toward 
 me, he may still have loved me why did you take him 
 from me? 
 
 THERESE. I didn't; I allowed myself to be dragged 
 into his own whirlpool of trouble, to soothe his other love, 
 that had been killed. We sympathized together too much, 
 talked too much about you ! Yes, about you ! We had too 
 much to say of love, passion, jealousy ! It was playing with 
 fire ! We were too constantly in one another's company. 
 Our intimacy, engendered by speaking of you, was not 
 realized until it was too late. Well there's nothing very 
 original about it it seemed fated you know. 
 
 SUZANNE. And I had such confidence in you ! You were 
 more than a friend to me, more than a sister. When I was 
 in trouble, I never thought twice about coming to you 
 you were everything to me. And it's you ! Therese, 
 Therese, what have you done ! 
 
 THERESE. [Kneeling.} You are right, Suzette. I've 
 called myself everything you have called me, and I'm ready 
 to hear more from you, if you feel the better for it. 
 When I see you cry and listen to you, I take courage. 
 Take advantage of it now, I may be weak to-morrow, when 
 you aren't here, before my eyes. Tell me what to do I'll 
 do whatever you say. Now I'll tell you just what has 
 happened: I still love him. [Gesture from SUZANNE.] It's 
 not my fault ! You yourself have loved him, deeply ! But 
 he doesn't love me any longer, perhaps he never did. You 
 believe me, don't you? People don't confess such things 
 unless Do you want to see his latest letter? I can show 
 it to you: there's nothing tender or compromising in it. 
 Here it is; he wrote me that he would not meet me. That 
 was the third, and in each he wrote the same thing. That 
 was the reason I came here; I wanted to speak with him. 
 What horrible things we said to each other just now! You 
 
THE PARDON 167 
 
 don't believe me? It's true, though. But you'll believe 
 my deeds: I'm the one who is going away to-morrow, this 
 evening, if I can. I'll find some excuse traveling for my 
 health, anything Jacques is used to my caprices, and 
 he'll do whatever I tell him, the dear boy ! When I'm 
 gone, you will go back to your husband. 
 
 SUZANNE. What difference will your going make? You 
 can't give me back my husband you've changed him into 
 another man, you have shattered my faith in him. He will 
 begin again. Haven't I given him the right to betray 
 me any number of times? What sort of life shall we lead? 
 No, I'd rather go I'll go. 
 
 THERESE. All right. Just one word. Do you still love 
 him? 
 
 Suz AN NE . Whom ? 
 
 THERESE. Your husband. 
 
 SUZANNE. I hate him. 
 
 THERESE. Do you love him? Answer me. If he 
 still loved you, would you love him in return ? 
 
 SUZANNE. He doesn't love me. 
 
 THERESE. You've answered. We shall soon know 
 whether he loves you. Go away, you are right. Will he 
 let you go or not that is the question. If he keeps you 
 Good-by, Suzanne, I'm sure now you'll forgive me. [She 
 leaves.] 
 
 SUZANNE. [Alone. She writes.] 
 
 GEORGES. [Entering.] To whom are you writing? 
 
 SUZANNE. [Hesitating a moment.] To you. Read. 
 
 GEORGES. [After having read the letter.] Do you want 
 to go? 
 
 SUZANNE. Yes. 
 
 GEORGES. You have decided ? 
 
 SUZANNE. Yes. 
 
 GEORGES. Your reasons ? 
 
168 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 SUZANNE. What's the use? What difference would that 
 make? 
 
 GEORGES. Tell me, anyway. 
 
 SUZANNE. It's very simple. I once had faith in you; 
 I have lost it. Everything has failed me my life is over. 
 I don't care what happens to me only I know that every 
 hour I spend with you now is torture. 
 
 GEORGES. Yes, I know. 
 
 SUZANNE. I can't explain what you have been for me. 
 When I came back to you, I was almost too happy and 
 full of love I hoped! I thought you were so good, so 
 great ! I gave you my love to keep. You took it only 
 to break it. I was despised and trodden in the dust at 
 the very time perhaps that I was most worth loving. 
 
 GEORGES. Yes it was the same with me. 
 
 SUZANNE. I felt the sting of betrayal by the person I 
 most respected and loved it was so sudden ! Abominable ! 
 You see, I must go. 
 
 GEORGES. No. I too have suffered what you have just 
 described ; and yet I tried to be tender to you. Here, two 
 months ago I can still see you you came to me, trem- 
 bling and very humble, and you said to me: " Let me live 
 near you ; you needn't look at me, only let me be with you." 
 And I took you again, Suzanne 
 
 SUZANNE. Yes, you could, then, because you were bet- 
 ter than I. I inspired as much pity as anger in you. But 
 for you to betray me and with whom! after having for- 
 given me ! It was betrayal twice over ! You two were 
 worse than I had been, for I had such confidence in and 
 respect for you both ! No, it isn't the same thing. I made 
 you suffer, but you have crushed me I don't know what's 
 the matter with me. Good-by, Georges! 
 
 GEORGES. You are going to stay you must, I insist 
 on it. No matter what you say, forgiveness is more diffi- 
 
THE PARDON 169 
 
 cult for you than it was for me. I thought as men do 
 that I should appear ridiculous in forgiving you. And you 
 don't know how that feels to a man. You will forgive 
 me, because I adore you I never loved any one but you. 
 At this very moment, some one is waiting for me some one 
 who deserves pity, too, and whom neither you nor I have 
 a right to despise. Well, the time for the appointment 
 is past, and, you see, I'm still here, at your feet ! Do you 
 still think you have the right to leave me? 
 
 SUZANNE. But what about to-morrow? 
 
 GEORGES. To-morrow, let us begin again to be happy. 
 
 SUZANNE. The day after I came back to you before, 
 you called to mind what you had sworn to forget, and you 
 made me suffer agony. Now there are two of us to call up 
 old memories and spy on each other; each of us will be on 
 the rack. Do you want that? 
 
 GEORGES. Oh, Suzanne, don't you see that now it is pos- 
 sible to forget? I don't think that, in spite of all, I am 
 worse than many another, but do you want to know the 
 absolute truth? I have gone through the tortures of hell, 
 in flesh and blood it was more than pride, too. I see it 
 all to-day. But the worst of all was that the visible image 
 of that past was always present. And for that very reason, 
 after my misbehavior, all my anger against you has van- 
 ished, as if vengeance had been done. No, it's not pretty 
 at all ! And the evil is contagious : what you did fascinated 
 and corrupted me. But, you see, I no longer have the right 
 to be proud and severe with you : we are even. It's not nice, 
 it's shameful to have to admit it especially for me and 
 yet I say it with a sigh of relief. It's a binding link, you 
 see, to have suffered for each other, and to have been 
 equally to blame. Now, as I speak of it, it seems so long, 
 long ago! There will remain just a tinge of melancholy, 
 and our tenderness will be a little more serious, indulgent. 
 
170 JULES LEMAITRE 
 
 I love you, Suzette. Come to me! Come to my arms, as 
 you did before this bad dream. Shall we begin to live 
 once more? Will you dearest? 
 
 SUZANNE. [Throwing her arms about his neck.] Ah, 
 Georges! God have mercy on us! 
 
 (The End.) 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 
 
 A Comedy in Four Acts 
 By 
 
 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 Translated from the French by 
 CHARLOTTE TENNEY DAVID 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 FREYDIERES 
 
 ETIENNE JADAIN 
 
 M. JADAIN, his father 
 
 LUYNAIS 
 
 HEYBENS 
 
 CLEMENTIER 
 
 ERNSTEIN 
 
 PRABERT 
 
 A YOUNG MAN 
 
 DE MEILLAN 
 
 CLAIRE (MME. ETIENNE JADAIN) 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN 
 
 MME. JADAIN, Etienne's mother 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS 
 
 MME. LACORTE 
 
 MADELEINE 
 
 MARIA 
 
 MLLE. CHOSCONESCO 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 
 ACT I. 
 
 [Paris, in the month of June, at the home of the ERN- 
 STEINS. The scene is a garden with large trees, a 
 table, and some light-colored wicker armchairs. 
 Through the trees is seen the front of the house, and 
 through the windows a brilliantly lighted and elegantly 
 furnished salon; near one of the windows stands a 
 piano covered with an old brocade. A French window 
 and a flight of five or six steps, which extends the 
 whole width of the house, lead from the salon to the 
 garden. 
 
 When the curtain rises the butler is seen putting 
 upon the table a tray with a coffee service. From the 
 French window of the salon descend to the garden 
 MME. ERNSTEIN, on the arm of ETIENNE JADAIN; 
 CLAIRE JADAIN, on the arm of ERNSTEIN, and behind 
 them FREYDIERES and DE MEILLAN.] 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. I have had the coffee served in the 
 garden, as I thought you would rather take it outside such 
 a hot evening. 
 
 ETIENNE. Excellent idea. 
 
 CLAIRE. It's a delight to have a park in the very center 
 of Paris. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. A park! O, it's hardly a garden! 
 
 CLAIRE. It's very large. 
 
 173 
 
174 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 ERNSTEIN. It's very little. You can't see the walls 
 because of the trees; but they are not far away. 
 
 ETIENNE. I should be contented with it as it is. 
 
 CLAIRE. You have some magnificent trees. 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. Yes, and a cherry tree, too. 
 
 ETIENNE. A real cherry tree? 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. A real cherry tree that has real cher- 
 ries. We have had twenty-one this year. 
 
 ETIENNE. How many? 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. Twenty-one. My husband has calcu- 
 lated that each cherry has cost us five thousand francs. 
 Isn't that so, Leon? 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Yes, five thousand three hundred and sixty- 
 five francs, to be exact. 
 
 ETIENNE. At any rate, you should be very happy that 
 it has given you any cherries at all. 
 
 CLAIRE. If you can call that giving. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. [Repeating complacently.] Yes, if you 
 can call that giving. [Patting JADAIN on the shoulder.] 
 Good old Jadain, it's a pleasure to see him again this old 
 schoolmate. [To MME. JADAIN.] Do you come to Paris 
 often, Madame? 
 
 CLAIRE. Often, O no ! We come once a year about this 
 time, to see my sister, who is married. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. [To JADAIN.] So you come every year to 
 Paris and I never see you. In the first years after leaving 
 the " Tech." we used to see each other pretty often. You 
 never came to Paris without coming to shake hands with 
 me. From time to time you used to send me news of your- 
 self. Then suddenly, no more news, no more anything 
 This time, if I hadn't met you by the merest chance 
 
 ETIENNE. What can you expect, old fellow? One 
 drops out of sight inevitably. Then you were away a long 
 time in Tunis. 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 175 
 
 ERNSTEIN. That's true. 
 
 ETIENNE. Then I live at Grenoble and, besides, I'm 
 married. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. What a reason! I'm married myself. 
 
 ETIENNE. Our situations are so different. You have 
 got on in the world good for you! I knew that you 
 were putting through big deals, that you were launched 
 in important undertakings, and I used to say to my- 
 self 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Foolish things, probably. You knew well 
 enough I should always have the greatest pleasure in 
 seeing an old schoolfellow like you especially if he was 
 a friend for, after all, we were very intimate at the 
 " Tech." {At this moment MME. ERNSTEIN offers JADAIN 
 a glass of liqueur.] 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. Monsieur Jadain, some chartreuse, 
 curacao, cognac? 
 
 ETIENNE. Cognac, please. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. [To CLAIRE.] I regret, Madame, your hus- 
 band's delay in coming to see me, the more so because it 
 has deferred the pleasure of meeting you. 
 
 CLAIRE. You are very kind. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. I didn't know Jadain had married so charm- 
 ing a woman, so extremely charming So you come 
 to Paris only once a year? 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. That's not very often. You must miss Paris, 
 don't you? 
 
 CLAIRE. Not at all. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Anyhow, it misses you. 
 
 CLAIRE. You think so? 
 
 ERNSTEIN. No question about it. But you are a 
 Parisian? 
 
 CLAIRE. No. I am from Vendee. 
 
176 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Well, I congratulate Vendee. [CLAIRE 
 smiles and turns to another group.] 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. Do you feel the breeze? It begins 
 to be a little cooler. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. [To his wife.] My dear, you ought to put 
 something on your shoulders. I'm afraid you will take cold. 
 
 DE MEILLAN. Your husband is right, Madame. Don't 
 forget that you sing Friday. 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. [To her husband.] That's true. 
 Will you have some one tell Armande to bring me my 
 feather boa? [Addressing CLAIRE.] Are you not afraid 
 that the cool air 
 
 CLAIRE. Thank you; there is no danger. 
 
 ETIENNE. There's no danger no danger. 
 
 FREYDIERES. I see, Madame, you are no more prudent 
 than when you were a girl. 
 
 ETIENNE. Ah, when she was a girl she doubtless obeyed 
 her parents; but I haven't any authority over her. 
 
 CLAIRE. If you listen to my husband's complaints you 
 are "in for it." But they are new for you; for me they 
 are an old story. I'm going away. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Stay at least to defend yourself. 
 
 CLAIRE. I prefer to count on you. [She joins the 
 group formed by MME. ERNSTEIN, ERNSTEIN, and DE 
 MEILLAN.] 
 
 ETIENNE. My wife didn't think, in coming here, she 
 would find a childhood friend. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Of course not. 
 
 ETIENNE. You were brought up together, so to speak? 
 
 FREYDIERE8. Yes. You know what Jife in a little 
 town in the provinces is, where you see each other often 
 Our parents' houses were near each other side by side, in 
 fact. 
 
 ETIENNE. Clisson is a pretty town. 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 177 
 
 FREYDIERES. It's a charming old town, but, unfortu- 
 nately, it's becoming modern so fast ! 
 
 ETIENNE. You were not at our wedding, were you? 
 
 FREYDIERES. No, I wasn't there. 
 
 ETIENNE. I thought so. I don't recall having seen 
 you, though I remember very well having been introduced 
 to your parents. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Yes, I was at Paris; that very day I was 
 taking an examination in law. 
 
 ETIENNE. Your parents are well? 
 
 FREYDIERES. My mother is dead. 
 
 ETIENNE. Well, you've become pretty well known since 
 those days. 
 
 FREYDIERES. [Modestly.] Oh! 
 
 ETIENNE. Every time you have pleaded a much-talked- 
 of case we have read your name in the papers: Attorney 
 Freydieres ! and I have said to my wife, " You see, your 
 childhood friend has become a celebrated lawyer." [Mean- 
 while ARMANDE, her maid, has brought a boa and placed it 
 around the shoulders of MME. ERNSTEIN.] 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. How hot it has been to-day! And 
 we are not through with it, either. It looks as if we were 
 going to have an abominable summer. 
 
 FREYDIERES. How is that? 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. Spots have been seen on the 
 sun. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. O, the nasty fellow! 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. It's terrible to stay in Paris in such 
 weather. 
 
 CLAIRE. Are you obliged to stay? 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. Yes that is to say, there is to be a 
 charity fete at the end of the week at the home of the 
 Duchess de Mortagne and a garden party with theatricals. 
 
 FREYDIERES. That will be a pleasure. 
 
178 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. And I have to sing a duet with Mon- 
 sieur de Meillan. After that I go to the country. 
 
 FREYDIERES. The country a mere notion ! Paris is a 
 hundred times better, with such a house as you have. 
 What's the use of leaving it to go to Touraine, where it is 
 much warmer than here? 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. That's true. 
 
 FREYDIERES. And this evening; see how calm it is, what 
 silence ! You might think you were far from Paris. You 
 have flowers, trees a cherry tree and you hear the birds 
 sing. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. We have also three goldfish in a little marble 
 basin. 
 
 FREYDIERES. What more do you want? That's country 
 enough. 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. Do you love goldfish, Madame? 
 
 CLAIRE. Well, I'm not carried away by them ! 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. I adore them; I dote on them; I think 
 they are perfect dears. [Dreamily. ] Often I amuse my- 
 self for hours looking at them and wondering what they 
 can be thinking about. 
 
 FREYDIERES. And you? 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. I think you are insolent. Do you 
 stay in Paris for some time, Madame? 
 
 CLAIRE. We leave to-morrow morning. 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. So soon ! You live at Grenoble, I be- 
 lieve ? 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes, Grenoble. 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. I don't know Grenoble at all. Is it 
 pretty ? 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes, for a provincial town. 
 
 FREYDIERES. They manufacture gloves there, and they 
 have raised a statue to Monsieur Jouvin, while they have 
 not even a bust of Stendhal! 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 179 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. What about it? 
 
 FREYDIERES. What about it? That's all. 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. O, I thought you were going to tell 
 a story. 
 
 FREYDIERES. You may be sure not. 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. It's odd to speak, yet say nothing. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Isn't it? 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. And must you go away to-raor- 
 row? 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes, my husband has only two weeks off; he 
 must be in his office Friday morning. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. [To JADAIN.] They keep you pretty hard 
 at work, then? 
 
 ETIENNE. You're right, they do. I have just one 
 month's vacation, which I take in two parts You know 
 very well what a big concern is ; you are not at all your own 
 master ; you must be there, even if there is not much to do ; 
 above all, you must not displease the chief. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. But you ought not to tremble any more be- 
 fore them ; you ought to have a position in the railroad serv- 
 ice which would give you more freedom 
 
 ETIENNE. No, not at all; advancement is very slow in 
 these big concerns unless you have some " pull." Then it 
 goes easily enough. O, it's not a brilliant career you have 
 many disappointments and many disillusionments. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Are you still making bridges ? 
 
 ETIENNE. Yes, bridges, stations, freight depots, ware- 
 houses in fact, the rough drafts for all the work in my 
 territory. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Do you like it? 
 
 ETIENNE. O, not extremely ; it's always the same thing 
 mere routine; you get into a rut. Without being envious, I 
 can't help saying it's not worth the trouble of leading my 
 class at the " Tech.," only to be outstripped by the others. 
 
180 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 ERNSTEIN. That's true you were at the head of your 
 class. 
 
 ETIENNE. Yes, but you see it hasn't done me much 
 good. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. I remember, you were a very remarkable 
 student. By the way, it was you who helped me with my 
 thesis, and it's thanks to you that I received my diploma 
 of engineer next to the lowest in the class, to be sure. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Ah, so you were not the lowest? 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Oh, if I wasn't, it was because my uncle 
 belonged to the board of trustees. Out of consideration for 
 him 
 
 FREYDIERES. I have a little cousin in a Catholic college. 
 He is always the twenty-second in a class of twenty-three. 
 One day I asked him who was the twenty-third. He replied 
 that it was a boy who was only a myth. 
 
 ETIENNE. How's that? 
 
 FREYDIERES. The good fathers had invented a pupil to 
 save my little cousin's being the lowest. In this way the 
 child was not discouraged and his parents were not humili- 
 ated. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Well, they treated me like your little cousin. 
 
 FREYDIERES. So you were the lowest? 
 
 ETIENNE. That hasn't hindered you from succeeding. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Bless me, no ! otherwise he wouldn't have 
 boasted of it with so much zest. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Zest? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Yes, it's perfectly natural; if a person has 
 passed for a dunce with all his fellows, he's mighty glad 
 to disprove it, especially before the head of the class. 
 
 ETIENNE. Especially if the head of the class has gone to 
 the foot. 
 
 FREYDIERES. That's not an absolute truth; but, gen- 
 erally, life pays little heed to the rank given in school. 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 181 
 
 Commencement, as the name implies, is not the finish, but 
 the start. It has always reminded me of a bicycle contest 
 where two hundred competitors are entered ; they have to be 
 put in several rows and draw numbers for the start ; but the 
 last row has just as many chances as the first, for the course 
 is long and attended with all sorts of difficulties: rapid 
 ascent, dizzy descent, dangerous turns, and the like. 
 
 ETIENNE. There is necessarily, nowadays, much over- 
 crowding in all careers. And then, above all, there is luck 
 luck ! To think of the rapid, the astounding career of some 
 of the fellows ! By the way, do you remember Devigny ? 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Yes, I do. 
 
 ETIENNE. He wasn't a wonder. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. I don't remember him as a wonder. 
 
 FREYDIERES. You would have, certainly. 
 
 ETIENNE. Well, here's a man for you after finishing 
 school he got a job in Lille as draftsman with a manufac- 
 turer of steam engines, who had some daughters. Devigny 
 was a fine-looking fellow. The eldest daughter took notice 
 of him even a little too much notice and he was obliged 
 to marry her. The father-in-law has died since and his son- 
 in-law is now at the head of a splendid factory. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Lucky fellow! 
 
 ETIENNE. That's a fine story, I know a fine story; 
 but it's simply to show you how people succeed nowadays. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. You mustn't generalize. 
 
 ETIENNE. Devigny made the best of his fine figure 
 but how explain the success of a man like Harduc? Think 
 of it, Harduc! the last person in the world you would 
 think of! 
 
 FREYDIERES. Who is this Harduc? 
 
 ETIENNE. Imagine the most mediocre boy, who didn't 
 know and couldn't understand the least thing. At the 
 last Exposition, by means of intrigues and with some 
 
182 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 pull, he obtained a few trifling jobs; among others, one to 
 build a waffle stand, which he put on a rock in the middle of 
 a little pond. With the first gust of wind the kiosk tum- 
 bled into the water. Now he is a government architect, 
 decorated, loaded with honors all because he is his father's 
 son. How many others like him I could cite! But, you 
 know, you have only to run over the names in the Year Book 
 of the Alumni Association it's most enlightening. 
 
 FREYDIERES. The Year Book I believe you. It's a 
 fine book, full of marvelous instruction. By observing the 
 place where the others are, you can tell exactly where you 
 are yourself. Excellent exercise in comparison ! One is 
 proud tff the progress one has made; one is sorry for those 
 who have remained behind in an inferior situation their 
 proper place. One pities these, but one is indignant at those 
 who have reached the highest places at least one is aston- 
 ished, and it's the sum of these feelings contempt, egoism, 
 jealousy, and even hatred which constitutes, properly 
 speaking, good fellowship. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. There is some feruth in what you say. [A 
 silence.] 
 
 ETIENNE. And your cousin, the contractor, Georges 
 Einstein; what has become of him? 
 
 ERNSTEIN. My poor cousin has had no luck; he has lost 
 all his money; besides, he has no health and so is unable 
 to get on his feet again. 
 
 ETIENNE. Ah? It's quite recent? 
 
 ERNSTEIN. O, about two months ago. 
 
 ETIENNE. What about his company? 
 
 ERNSTEIN. I have taken it over. I had loaned him two 
 hundred thousand francs. I didn't care to lose it, and so 
 I couldn't let him fail. Besides, he is my cousin; we have 
 the same name. It was the only means of saving the con- 
 cern from being resold on disastrous terms. 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 18S 
 
 ETIENNE. You did the right thing. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. So now you see me at the head of the steel 
 works. By the way, I have to find somebody to take charge 
 of the technical side of the business, for I you know 
 You don't happen to know any one? 
 
 ETIENNE. Well, no. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. I've just had an idea! Since you don't seem 
 satisfied with your situation in the railroad company, why 
 shouldn't you coroe with me? 
 
 ETIENNE. Come with you how ? 
 
 ERNSTEIN. As associate director. You would have a 
 fixed salary and a share in the profits. I'm sure we should 
 agree. Later you could buy me out. Well, what do you 
 say to that? 
 
 ETIENNE. I don't know Your proposal is rather 
 sudden. [He looks at CLAIRE.] 
 
 ERNSTEIN. You look at your wife You are right. 
 One must always look at one's wife, especially when she is 
 pretty. Come, now, what do you think of it, Madame? 
 
 CLAIRE. O, in such questions, my husband is the only 
 judge. At any rate, he must think it over. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Think over what? I know Jadain. He's an 
 old schoolmate, a friend. I know his worth. 
 
 CLAIRE. Do you think this new kind of work will be 
 suited to him? It requires some experience, doesn't it? 
 
 ETIENNE. But, my dear, I should do for Ernstein what I 
 have been doing for the last twelve years in the railroad 
 business. It's the same kind of work It's just what I'm 
 doing all the time ; I know the business. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. And then, with you, I could do some very 
 interesting things. For instance, to begin with, I'm on ex- 
 ceDent terms with Harduc. 
 
 ETIENNE. The man of the waffle-stand? 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Yes. Through him I shall get some im- 
 
184 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 portant jobs for the Exposition, where he's one of the 
 " big guns." You see, it's best not to say anything bad 
 about him. 
 
 ETIENNE. [Very sincerely-} But I didn't say anything 
 bad about him. His stand fell into the water; that might 
 happen to any one. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. I say again, there are some very interest- 
 ing things to do. Come with me to my room. I'll show 
 you the plans. Harduc has loaned them to me just lately. 
 You can look them over ; that won't commit you to anything. 
 
 ETIENNE. All right. [The two men go towards the 
 house, still talking.] 
 
 [During the preceding conversation MME. ERNSTEIN and 
 M. DE MEILLAN, quite apart from the others, have kept up 
 a continual conversation in an undertone.] 
 
 FREYDIERES. [To CLAIRE.] Do you know that Ern- 
 stein already considers the matter as settled? 
 
 CLAIRE. He is going a little fast. 
 
 FREYDIERES. He is like that in everything. When his 
 decisions are bad, he has at least the excuse of having made 
 them quickly. 
 
 CLAIRE. That's no excuse. 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. Why, what has become of the other 
 gentlemen ? 
 
 FREYDIERES. It's surprising how you follow the conver- 
 sation ! 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. I wasn't interested in what you were 
 saying. 
 
 FREYDIERES. The gentlemen are examining the plans 
 for the next Exposition. Your husband has some great 
 projects in mind. 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. Ah! [Silence.] Look here, Meil- 
 lan; you know you are not here to amuse yourself. We 
 have to work. 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 185 
 
 FREYDIERES. What are you going to do? 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. We are going to rehearse the duet 
 we have to sing Friday at the Duchess de Mortagne's 
 garden party. 
 
 FREYDIERES. After dinner! You won't have any voice. 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. Nevertheless, we must rehearse; we 
 haven't much more time Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, 
 Friday only four days, and Meillan is never free during 
 the day. You can never put your hand on him. 
 
 FREYDIERES. It's a mystery where he spends his after- 
 noons. 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. I'm going to profit by his being here. 
 [To CLAIRE.] You see, Madame, I don't stand on cere- 
 mony. Will you excuse me? 
 
 CLAIRE. Certainly, Madame. Please don't mind me. 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. Besides, as we are going to sing out 
 of doors at the Duchess's, you can do us a service by tell- 
 ing us if you can hear us from here, if our voices carry 
 well. Will you be so kind? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Certainly. What are you going to sing? 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. The duet, " Poems of Love." Are 
 you coming, Meillan? 
 
 M. DE MEILLAN. I am at your service, Madame. 
 [They go towards the house.] 
 
 FREYDIERES. The way in which Mme. Ernstein gets 
 rid of us by asking us to remain where we are is certainly 
 rather free and easy. 
 
 CLAIRE. That's all perfectly natural. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Yes Well! what do you think of M. de 
 Meillan ? 
 
 CLAIRE. Distinguished very fine-looking. 
 
 FREYDIERES. So much for the physical appearance. 
 
 CLAIRE. I can't judge of him in other respects. He 
 hasn't opened his mouth. 
 
186 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 FREYDIERES. He doesn't open it except to sing. But, 
 to be fair, he sings very well. 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes ? 
 
 FREYDIERES. You are going to hear him. It's by his 
 singing also that he has touched the heart of Mme. Ern- 
 stein. You know, she is madly in love with him. 
 
 CLAIRE. Why do you say that? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Because it's the truth, as you have seen 
 yourself. 
 
 CLAIRE. I? Not at all. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Really ? 
 
 CLAIRE. No, I assure you. It's not in me to suspect 
 evil like that without knowing it. And even supposing it 
 is true, it's strange for you to speak so lightly and before 
 any one of a love which may be this woman's life and which 
 she believes is a secret. 
 
 FREYDIERES. In the first place, you are not, for me, 
 " any one," and I speak of it lightly to you because it is 
 the proper way to speak of light things. Finally, it's no 
 secret. Mme. Ernstein doesn't conceal this liaison; not 
 enough even she almost advertises it. You see how little 
 she was disturbed by you, whom she saw for the first time 
 this evening. She is a woman who is neglected by her hus- 
 band, and she consoles herself. 
 
 CLAIRE. It is very unfortunate. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Yes, it is unfortunate. She was charm- 
 ing, this little Mme. Ernstein, when she was married. She 
 loved her husband, asking only that he remain faithful to 
 her to the end; but Ernstein has not done what he ought 
 in this respect. Then she sought distraction. She was a 
 musician; she had a good voice, and so she threw herself 
 heart and soul into music. 
 
 CLAIRE. She has gone into music as one goes into 
 religion. 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 187 
 
 FREYDIERES. About the same thing. And what might 
 be expected has happened she has met the tenor the 
 tenor ! 
 
 CLAIRE. And then, she has no child. 
 
 FREYDIERES. That wouldn't have hindered her. 
 
 CLAIRE. If she had loved this child? 
 
 FREYDIERES. You think, then, that one cannot be a 
 mother and a lover at the same time? 
 
 CLAIRE. At the same time no; one would have to 
 choose. 
 
 FREYDIERES. What do you know about it? 
 
 CLAIRE. That's true; in fact, I don't know anything 
 about it. 
 
 FREYDIERES. You have children? 
 
 CLAIRE. I have a big daughter. 
 
 FREYDIERES. O, so big as that? 
 
 CLAIRE. She is already twelve years old 
 
 FREYDIERES. Your daughter is pretty? 
 
 CLAIRE. How do you want me to answer you? For 
 me yes, she is very pretty; but to you she would perhaps 
 appear insignificant. 
 
 FREYDIERES. She looks like you? 
 
 CLAIRE. So they say. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Then you do not believe a word of what 
 you say. 
 
 CLAIRE. You are right. I'm being modest, and that is 
 absurd, for it is not because she is my daughter 
 
 FREYDIERES. [Smiling.] Of course. 
 
 CLAIRE. But she is adorable. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Then she is pretty. 
 
 CLAIRE. Strange Oh, no! oh, no! she is too how 
 shall I say? unusual. Yes, that's it, unusual. Then, too, 
 she has a delicate soul, a loving heart 
 
 FREYDIERES. What is her name? 
 
,188 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 CLAIRE. Madeleine. [At this moment are heard the 
 opening chords of the first duet of the " Poems of Love."] 
 
 FREYDIERES. What a funny thing life is! Only this 
 morning 
 
 CLAIRE. What about this morning? 
 
 FREYDIERES. I'll tell you that later; let us wait until 
 this duet is over 
 
 [They hear the voice of DE MEILLAN, who commences:] 
 Ouvre tes yeux bleus, ma mignonne, 
 Voici le j our ! 
 
 [Then the voice of MME. ERNSTEIN, who finishes:] 
 Et le grand soleil qui nous brule 
 Est dans mon co3ur ! 
 
 CLAIRE. Madame Ernstein has a pretty voice. 
 
 FREYDIERES. I'm not the one to whom to tell it; 
 you must say it to her. It will give her a great deal of 
 pleasure. 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. [Comes to the window of the salon.] 
 Can you hear us? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Yes, I should say we could ! 
 
 CLAIRE. It's charming. 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. Then it sounds well? 
 
 CLAIRE. Very well. 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. Where are you? I don't see you. 
 
 FREYDIERES. We are exactly where you left us. We 
 have not stirred. 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. Still I don't see you. 
 
 FREYDIERES. There are some shrubs hiding us. 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. And do you see us? 
 
 FREYDIERES. No, not at all. 
 
 [MME. ERNSTEIN goes back into the room. 
 
 CLAIRE. Why did you say that, when we see them very 
 well through the foliage? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Why did I say that? [M. DE MEILLAN 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 180 
 
 and MME. ERNSTEIN are seen kissing.] Wait! Look! 
 For that! 
 
 CLAIRE. [Laughing.] Oh! but this is treason! 
 
 FREYDIERES. It's complicity. One must always pro- 
 tect lovers. 
 
 CLAIRE. How imprudent they are ! Her husband in the 
 other room and we here seeing them. A servant might 
 come 
 
 FREYDIERES. They are not thinking of all that. [M. 
 DE MEILLAN and MME. ERNSTEIN kiss.] 
 
 CLAIRE. It's very amusing. The music has stopped. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Another kind begins. I said to you just 
 now, " What a funny thing life is ! " Here we are, both 
 of us, this evening, in this garden. I didn't know, in com- 
 ing here to dinner, that I should meet you. 
 
 CLAIRE. Didn't you? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Ernstein telephoned me this morning to 
 come to dinner with De Meillan and one of his old school- 
 mates, whose name he did not tell me. Then, when I 
 entered the salon and saw you, I felt myself grow pale. You 
 must certainly have seen it. 
 
 CLAIRE. No, I didn't notice it. 
 
 FREYDIERES. You may not have noticed it, but to see 
 you here, after thirteen years, it was the whole period of 
 my youth suddenly revived. During all the dinner, I was 
 looking at you. You have not changed. 
 
 CLAIRE. You are very kind. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Of course, the young girl I knew has 
 become a woman, but with you, it has not been a trans- 
 formation, as with others ; no, it is a continuation ; it is a 
 different thing and yet the same. That profound expres- 
 sion, the alluring sweetness of your voice, the harmony of 
 your movements, all that makes up your infinite grace, 
 nothing of that has changed. Then a host of feelings 
 
190 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 that I believed, or, rather, that were only at any rate, 
 I'm all upset! But you you? 
 
 CLAIRE. I ? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Yes, you. It hasn't affected you to see 
 me again? 
 
 CLAIRE. I was surprised. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Yes, you were surprised, at first but now ? 
 
 CLAIRE. It gives me pleasure. 
 
 FREYDIERES. [Bluntly.] Oh, you don't say the right 
 word. 
 
 CLAIRE. I say what I think. But you speak rather 
 brusquely to me. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Oh ! 
 
 CLAIRE. You would make me believe Really I don't 
 know I 
 
 FREYDIERES. Yes, I know what you are thinking that 
 I have no right to speak to you in this way. There has 
 never been anything between us. No; evidently there has 
 been nothing in the ordinary sense in which it is under- 
 stood. There has been nothing, and yet there has been 
 everything. We passed six years together in the tender- 
 est and warmest intimacy. There were my dreams my 
 hopes, my desires. It is impossible that you have for- 
 gotten all that. 
 
 CLAIRE. It was a child's love affair, just like so many 
 others. 
 
 FREYDIERES. You were not a child ; six months after, 
 you married Monsieur Jadain. I didn't wish to be present 
 at the wedding. Besides, I hated you. 
 
 CLAIRE. [Smiling.] I hope now you have forgiven me. 
 
 FREYDIERES. I don't know. 
 
 CLAIRE. But you couldn't have married me you were 
 so young. 
 
 FREYDIERES. That's true; we are the same age. 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 191 
 
 CLAIRE. You are even a year younger than I. 
 
 FREYDIERES. However, you must believe that the im- 
 pression made by a young girl upon a heart of eighteen 
 may be deep, ineffaceable. It's foolish, what I'm saying, 
 isn't it? Oh, I know it perfectly! Well, what do you 
 think ? 
 
 CLAIRE. I think I think why, I think just now you 
 are under the influence of auto-suggestion, and that my 
 sudden presence has drawn for a little while, from the 
 oblivion where it was properly buried, your first and 
 now distant love affair. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Well, you're mistaken. I have never for- 
 gotten you, and you should believe me for, to overcome 
 the shame which I feel in saying things to you which may 
 appear so commonplace, I must feel that I am per- 
 fectly sincere. Otherwise, it would be too easy and ridicu- 
 lous and useless, since you go away to-morrow, and I may, 
 perhaps, never see you again. Don't you see, from this very 
 fact that we have been brought up together, that we have 
 seen the same horizons, there are between us a thousand 
 bonds of feeling which unite us more closely than we our- 
 selves think? Distant as this first love may seem to you, 
 I have remained faithful to it. 
 
 CLAIRE. You are going a little too far. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Yes, faithful in memory. 
 
 CLAIRE. Oh ! 
 
 FREYDIERES. Of course, I have had some liaisons, but 
 none very dangerous. 
 
 CLAIRE. Mile. Blanche Guillot, for example. 
 
 FREYDIERES. But how do you know about that? 
 
 CLAIRE. Oh, you are famous celebrated. People talk 
 about you. 
 
 FREYDIERES. That's very fine. 
 
 CLAIRE. No ; I'm teasing you. I learned this by chance, 
 
192 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 two years ago, while I was staying in Paris. We went to 
 see a play in which this person was playing, and between 
 the acts some people were speaking of her. In a box next to 
 ours, some one said, " She is with Freydieres." That's all. 
 You seem displeased? I am talking of something that 
 doesn't concern me? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Not at all not at all ! That's ancient his- 
 tory. Besides, she looks like you. I don't say that in de- 
 fense of my cause; you were able to prove it yourself, 
 since you saw her. 
 
 CLAIRE. It's true. Doubtless, that is what you mean by 
 your fidelity. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Yes; there are some men who, in certain 
 circumstances and under certain different forms, remain 
 faithful to the same ideal to the same type of woman. 
 
 CLAIRE. It's dangerous for those who love such men: 
 they have to fear all the women who resemble them. 
 
 FREYDIERES. It's less dangerous than if they had to fear 
 all the women who don't. There are many more of them. 
 
 CLAIRE. Evidently. 
 
 FREYDIERES. But, to return to what we were saying 
 just now often a person who would like to forget, can- 
 not; even if he should not keep his love for a certain 
 woman, a thousand images of her remain in his brain, that 
 a strain of music, a perfume, a bit of sky, a tree, a word, the 
 most insignificant of outward circumstances, call up with 
 extraordinary vividness. Some people are endowed with a 
 special memory, with a sentimental memory. It is so with 
 me: I cannot hear any tune that you have played, without 
 being plunged into melancholy a profound regret. And 
 then I see you in the salon of the old house at Clisson, the 
 white and gold salon with the red velvet furniture, and on 
 the mantelpiece the elephant in bronze that carried on its 
 back a clock surmounted by a gilded cupid. I see you 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 193 
 
 seated at the piano. I could describe the very gown you 
 had on that day, to the last ribbon. 
 
 CLAIRE. It's strange! 
 
 FREYDIERES. Very strange! 
 
 CLAIRE. Should I have said something else? 
 
 FREYDIERES. No, no, just what you did, " It's 
 strange." For instance, five years ago, after your mar- 
 riage, when my father died in taking him to the cemetery 
 we followed the sunken road, called the " Hollow/' where 
 we have walked so often together. 
 
 CLAIRE. Oh, yes, I remember it. 
 
 FREYDIERES. It was a summer morning. Why did I 
 suddenly recall another morning like it, when you and I were 
 following the same road? It was the first time you used 
 the perfume which you still use, do you not? I recog- 
 nized it. 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes. 
 
 FREYDIERES. You had used too much. 
 
 CLAIRE. It is often that way when one begins. 
 
 FREYDIERES. And you attracted a swarm of wasps, in- 
 toxicated by the scent. I was very busy chasing them ; you 
 laughed you were not afraid. You wore a cotton dress. 
 The groundwork was white, and had little bunches of pinks 
 scattered over it. You had a large white hat, trimmed with 
 hollyhocks and some lace that fell from it. 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes, that's true; I remember. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Well, in these terrible circumstances, while 
 I was walking behind my father's coffin, I was thinking 
 of you ! It is strange, isn't it ? And on an evening like 
 this, do you think I need have you near me in order to 
 recall other mild and starry nights, when we sat in the 
 garden, side by side, and I held your hand in the darkness ? 
 Just to hold this little hand that I adore the very key of 
 your soul made it seem that I possessed you entirely. 
 
194 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 [He takes her hand during these last rvords.] Of what 
 are you thinking? 
 
 CLAIRE. I'm thinking of what you are saying. I did not 
 know that you loved me so. 
 
 FREYDIERES. And that gives you pleasure? 
 
 CLAIRE. I find it very sweet. I am much moved much 
 disturbed. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Truly ? 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes; but what good does it do to talk about 
 it? Of what use is it to call up the past in this way? 
 To-morrow I take up again my quiet life with my daughter 
 whom I adore, and my husband 
 
 FREYDIERES. Whom you esteem. 
 
 CLAIRE. Whom I love yes, sincerely. 
 
 [Meantime, in the salon, MME. ERNSTEIN and M. DE 
 MEILLAN, ceasing their love making, have decided to sing 
 the last duet of " Poems of Love." They sing together:] 
 " Oh ! ne finis jamais, nuit clemente et divine ! " 
 
 FREYDIERES. But you can return to Paris. You have 
 just heard Ernstein offer you the means to do it, and I'm 
 sure you have enough influence with Monsieur Jadain 
 
 CLAIRE. Oh, no no, no ! Paris frightens me. Every 
 time I come, I am so glad to be here. The first few 
 days, it's a kind of fever a veritable intoxication; I love 
 the noise, the bustle. And then, pretty soon, a great weari- 
 ness comes over me an indefinable sadness in feeling 
 myself alone in this crowd all alone all alone ! 
 
 FREYDIERES. Alone? Doesn't your husband come with 
 you? 
 
 CLAIRE. Why, yes ! 
 
 FREYDIERES. Ah! [Silence.] Yes, that is the sensa- 
 tion one feels in certain cities, when one comes alone and 
 without love; then the joy of others becomes insupport- 
 able. There are some mornings in the spring when the 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 195 
 
 clerk and the milliner who pass, holding hands and smiling 
 at each other, are young gods one is jealous of; and 
 certain holiday evenings, the whole city may be illuminated 
 and aglow, but it appears gloomy, if one does not carry one's 
 own illumination within. 
 
 CLAIRE. But it seems gloomier still when there are two, 
 and one of the two, amid the pulsating life about her, has 
 only the bitter sweetness of faith kept the keen satisfac- 
 tion of duty done. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Claire ! 
 
 CLAIRE. Don't mind me! Don't mind me! I'm a 
 coward. I have no right to complain. I'm very happy. 
 I have only to go back to my home in a little country town 
 to find again tranquillity and a certain happiness. 
 
 FREYDIERES. A happiness to which you are resigned. 
 
 CLAIRE. No, but one that I choose that I accept freely, 
 appreciating all its value. 
 
 FREYDIERES. There is another happiness, however: lov- 
 ing and being loved. 
 
 CLAIRE. Hush, hush! What you are doing is wrong! 
 You are taking advantage of a moment of frankness, of 
 weakness. 
 
 FREYDIERES. I beg your pardon. 
 
 [During these last words, JADAIN and ERNSTEIN have 
 come down the steps into the garden.] 
 
 ETIENNE. Oh, certainly; it's very interesting; I'm 
 certainly tempted. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Then it's settled. To-morrow I'm going to 
 lunch with Harduc. After lunch, I shall have the order. 
 
 ETIENNE. Claire, do you know what time it is? 
 
 CLAIRE. I haven't any idea. 
 
 ETIENNE. Midnight. You must get ready. 
 
 CLAIRE. I should think so! 
 
 ERNSTEIN. It's not late. 
 
196 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 FREYDIERES. At Grenoble, at this hour, the ladybugs 
 have been abed a long time. 
 
 CLAIRE. Don't laugh at me. 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. [Descending the steps.] Madame, 
 will you take a cup of tea or some iced drink? It's all 
 ready, in the little drawing-room. 
 
 ETIENNE. It's only 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. Oh, no! You're not going to leave 
 the tea on my hands. Leon, insist! 
 
 ERNSTEIN. In a minute, my dear, we'll follow you. 
 I have only a word to say to Madame Jadain. 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. Say it, then. [To JADAIN and to 
 FREYDIERES.] Are you coming? 
 
 [FREYDIERES and JADAIN go up the steps towards the 
 house. ERNSTEIN and MADAME JADAIN remain alone.] 
 
 ERNSTEIN. It's too bad you must go away to-morrow 
 morning, but I count on seeing you again soon. 
 
 CLAIRE. Next year. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Next year? Sooner, sooner! I have just 
 been talking very seriously with your husband. I have 
 worked for you. In two months it is more than probable 
 that you will be settled in Paris. 
 
 CLAIRE. What? Then it has been decided off-hand? 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Yes, certainly. 
 
 CLAIRE. Indeed ! 
 
 ERNSTEIN. You don't seem pleased? 
 
 CLAIRE. New things always frighten me. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. What are you afraid of? 
 
 CLAIRE. I don't know everything. First, you do not 
 know Etienne; he is a little difficult; perhaps he will not 
 get along with you. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. People always get along with me, and no 
 one ever risks anything in entering into partnership with a 
 man who is lucky. Before taking any one into his serv- 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 197 
 
 ice, Mazarin always used to ask, "Is he lucky?" And 
 you'll admit Mazarin is an authority. 
 
 CLAIRE. I'll not dispute it. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Now, then, I am happy; at the same time 
 with my own fortune, I have always made the fortune of 
 those whom I have interested in my business. 
 
 CLAIRE. Oh! fortune! 
 
 ERNSTEIN. It's a thing to be considered, however. You 
 are not going to hinder Etienne from accepting the posi- 
 tion I'm offering him, I hope? 
 
 CLAIRE. No and if he intends to accept, nothing I 
 could say would hinder him in the least. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. How you say that ! I don't understand you. 
 I assure you that what I propose to your husband is not 
 to be despised, and everybody should seize an opportunity 
 when it comes, it comes only once. No one has a right 
 to remain in an ordinary position or at least, modest 
 when he can fill a more brilliant one: he should always try 
 to better himself to rise. Come, don't look like that. 
 Truly, I thought I was telling you good news. 
 
 CLAIRE. I beg your pardon. But this decision, taken 
 so suddenly, so unluckily yes, so unluckily and then, so 
 many occurrences have come to surprise me this even- 
 ing. . . . 
 
 ERNSTEIN. So many occurrences! There is only one 
 and that the simplest. . . . 
 
 CLAIRE. The simplest! No, it is a complete change in 
 life. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. All the same, you will have a gayer one, 
 more lively, more in accordance with your tastes. Just 
 think a woman like you at Grenoble ! Why, it's to be out 
 of the world! While here, we shall amuse you, entertain 
 you, make a great deal of you. Have you been bored this 
 evening ? 
 
198 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 CLAIRE. Oh, no. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Well, then, every evening will be the same. 
 Now, come take a cup of tea. [He offers her his arm.] 
 Upon my soul! you are actually trembling. [While they are 
 going toward the salon the curtain falls.] 
 
 . ACT II. 
 
 [Paris, four years later, at the home of the JADAINS. A 
 little drawing-room with a window at the left; a door 
 at the back opens into ETIENNE'S study; a door at the 
 right leads into the rest of the apartment. When the 
 curtain rises, ETIENNE and his father, seated at a 
 table, are playing cards; MME. JADAIN, ETIENNE'S 
 mother, is in an armchair, reading the paper. MADE- 
 LEINE is making a portrait of her grandmother. MME. 
 CHENEVAS, CLAIRE'S sister, is busy with some work. 
 MME. JADAIN, about sixty years old, is a common- 
 place, country-bred woman. MADELEINE is a young 
 girl of sixteen.] 
 
 JADAIN. [Throwing his cards down on the table, in bad 
 humor.] There's nothing to be done with this hand. May 
 I draw? 
 
 ETIENNE. [Resolutely.] No. 
 
 JADAIN. Of course. 
 
 MADELEINE. [Laughing.] Of course, Grandpa; you 
 don't conceal your disappointment enough; then Papa sees 
 at once you have a poor hand, and he'll not let you draw. 
 
 JADAIN. Evidently. 
 
 ETIENNE. Besides, I have the king. 
 
 JADAIN. He is a fine man. 
 
 ETIENNE. That gives me four. Here is my hand. 
 [He shows his cards.] 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 199 
 
 JADAIN. You have won again. Shall we play another 
 game ? 
 
 ETIENNE. No, father; I have to work. And then I 
 must confess I am not fond of ecarte. 
 
 MADELEINE. Oh, Papa, you are sorry not to have your 
 Freydieres to play a game of checkers with? 
 
 ETIENNE. Yes, I miss him a good deal. Well, I'm 
 going to work. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. Directly after your lunch, like that? 
 It's bad for your digestion. Never take any rest? 
 
 ETIENNE. Never, Mother, never. [He goes into Ms 
 study,] 
 
 JADAIN. Where is your mother? 
 
 MADELEINE. I don't know; she must be in her room. 
 
 JADAIN. What are you doing there, my pet? 
 
 MADELEINE. I'm doing Grandma's portrait. 
 
 JADAIN. Aha! You are learning to draw now? 
 
 MADELEINE. Now! I've been learning for four years. 
 I began when we came to Paris. 
 
 JADAIN. Oh, did you? I had forgotten. [He goes near 
 the window.] Don't you find it stifling here? 
 
 MADELEINE. The draft of the furnace is closed. 
 
 JADAIN. All the same, it's much too warm; they over- 
 heat the apartments here in Paris. [He walks up and down, 
 whistling the air of the chorus of old men in " Faust."] 
 
 MME. JADAIN. I beg you, my dear, not to whistle like 
 that; it's unendurable when one is reading. You are like a 
 soul in torture. I don't understand how you can endure to 
 be so idle. 
 
 JADAIN. I feel dull. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. You feel dull! you feel dull! Do 
 something, read. 
 
 JADAIN. You monopolize the paper. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. Here, take it! 
 
200 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 JADAIN. I've already read it. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. Then go for a walk. 
 
 JADAIN. Thanks. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. Yes, go for a walk; take a little turn; 
 that will divert you. 
 
 JADAIN. In such weather? It is raining hard. 
 
 MADELEINE. So it is. Freydieres would say, " If it be- 
 gins at this hour, it will rain all day." And he would add, 
 " But it comes down too hard to last." [She laughs.] 
 
 MME. JADAIN. What is there funny in that? It is 
 what everybody says. 
 
 MADELEINE. Exactly it is what everybody says. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. It must be that I am not in the 
 secret. 
 
 MADELEINE. Grandpa, I have an idea: to-day is Thurs- 
 day, and it's New Year's week. What if you should go to 
 a matinee ? 
 
 JADAIN. Good idea! Give me some advice, my pet. 
 
 MADELEINE. Oh, there's a matinee at the Folies- 
 Bergere, for the children. 
 
 JADAIN. Aha ! 
 
 MME. JADAIN. That's just right for him. 
 
 MADELEINE. There is a place to promenade; you could 
 walk there. 
 
 JADAIN. Well, that's it that's it. You won't come with 
 me, Cloto? 
 
 MME. JADAIN. Call me Clotilde; at our age, such baby 
 names are ridiculous. No, my dear, I shall not go with 
 you; I have some errands to do; I must go to the Bon 
 Marche. 
 
 MADELEINE. [Taking the paper.] Do you want to see 
 something sad, or gay? Do you want to hear music? 
 
 JADAIN. What are they playing at the Opera Comique? 
 
 MADELEINE. The Black Domino. That's pretty. The 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 201 
 
 Black Domino! [She hums the air, " I hear the dance 
 commencing."] 
 
 JADAIN. You needn't make fun of it; it is very pretty 
 music. 
 
 MADELEINE. But I'm not making fun, Grandpapa, I re- 
 spect all your opinions. 
 
 JADAIN. I'd like to see The Black Domino, but to sit still 
 for three hours, without moving! 
 
 [MME. JADAIN throws up her hands in sign of impa- 
 tience.] 
 
 JADAIN. Well, I'm going. [He goes towards ETIENNE'S 
 office.] 
 
 MME. JADAIN. Where are you going? 
 
 JADAIN. I'm going to say good-by to my son. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. Etienne is working. Don't disturb him, 
 since you are coming back so soon. 
 
 JADAIN. You're right. I'm going just the same to bid 
 him good-by. [He goes in.] 
 
 MADELEINE. Poor Grandpapa! He feels dull. But for 
 the few days you come to spend with us at New Year's, he 
 ought to be glad to see us, and not find the time long. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. He has been like this since he gave up 
 his business. But at Grenoble, he has his friends, his so- 
 cieties, his club; here, he has nothing. 
 
 MADELEINE. Isn't it funny to be like that? I don't 
 know what it is to feel dull. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. Oh, for you, it is not the same thing; 
 you are young. 
 
 MADELEINE. The days pass. I don't even have time 
 to notice them. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. And then you have a very gay disposi- 
 tion. 
 
 MADELEINE. Oh, very gay! That depends. I can be 
 very sad, too, when I choose. 
 
202 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 MME. JADAIN. When you choose? 
 
 MADELEINE. Yes, I love to be sad, and as I have no 
 reason whatever for being so, I amuse myself by going 
 through exercises in sadness. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. It's rather a peculiar amusement. I 
 should like to know, for instance, how you go about your 
 " exercises in sadness." 
 
 MADELEINE. It's very easy: I stay in my room with- 
 out a light, when it's growing dark; twilight itself is full 
 of an infinite melancholy. Then sad thoughts come of 
 themselves. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. What a funny little girl you are! But 
 who has taught you that? 
 
 MADELEINE. Father Conderam. You know the one 
 who preached during the Retreat, the year of my first com- 
 munion. In the evening, in the church, he made us kneel, 
 and then told us to meditate. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. That's a thing that does not come at 
 command. 
 
 MADELEINE. Well, we meditated, just the same: we 
 thought of death and the last judgment, in the church 
 where only one little lamp burned, and we all came out 
 trembling. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. No wonder ! Especially you, who were 
 in a state of exaltation then. That lasted a rather long 
 time ; you even wanted to become a nun. 
 
 MADELEINE. At a certain age, all little girls whose 
 imagination is rather lively think that they have this call- 
 ing. You must have felt the same. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. [With pride.] Never! 
 
 MADELEINE. [Scrutinizing her.] Perhaps, but I'm 
 sure that Aunt Alice, when she was thirteen or fourteen 
 wanted to be a nun; didn't you, Auntie? 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. You're right; it seems as if some of 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 203 
 
 us, at the threshold of womanhood, seek instinctively a 
 refuge from the world we have a presentiment that we are 
 not going to be happy in it. 
 
 MADELEINE. You are sad to-day, Auntie. 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. That's nothing new for me. I have 
 no reason to be gay. 
 
 MADELEINE. What is it now? Is it that letter from 
 your lawyer? 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. Yes; he writes that I am com- 
 pletely ruined; my husband has entangled, or, rather, com- 
 plicated, his affairs in such a manner that there is no hope 
 of my getting possession of the little I have. 
 
 MADELEINE. It's abominable! 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. So, not content with having deceived 
 me and tortured me to the point of obliging me to sue for 
 a divorce, he has ruined me. Morally and financially, I am 
 his victim, and here I am, at thirty-five, alone in the world, 
 without means, and rich only in sad memories. 
 
 MADELEINE. [Going to kiss her aunt.] You are not 
 alone. All of us love you. You will find here affection 
 and tenderness. Mamma will never abandon her sister. 
 This is your own home. 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. Yes, my dear girl, you have excel- 
 lent hearts; but you cannot understand: however generous 
 and warm the welcome may be, it is always hard to be taken 
 in, instead of being merely a welcomed guest. 
 
 MADELEINE. It's not hopeless. Freydieres comes back 
 to-day. We shall see him, probably, very soon. You know 
 how devoted he is to you; he will give you some good 
 advice. 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. He will advise me to be resigned, 
 or else to bring a suit. 
 
 MADELEINE. And he will win it; he has so much ability, 
 and your cause is so just! 
 
204 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. You have some beautiful illusions. It 
 isn't sufficient that a cause should be just to have it triumph. 
 
 MADELEINE. All the same, I have the greatest confi- 
 dence in Freydieres. Besides his being very eloquent, he 
 has the reputation of having never pleaded a cause that 
 was not honorable. 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. To make the truth appear is to at- 
 tempt a miracle. 
 
 MADELEINE. He will do it. 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. I ask nothing better. [A silence.] 
 
 MADELEINE. Auntie, you married for love, didn't 
 you? 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. Yes, for love, and you see where it 
 has led me. Let it be a warning to you ! 
 
 MME. JADAIN. Why do you say that to the child, Alice ? 
 It's no reason, because such a marriage hasn't succeeded 
 with you. 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. With me, as with a great many others. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. On that score, as much could be said for 
 marriages of convenience. 
 
 MADELEINE. And you, Grandma was yours a love 
 match or a marriage of convenience? 
 
 MME. JADAIN. Oh, both ! 
 
 MADELEINE. Half-naf! Marriage is a serious thing. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. It's true. The time for you to think of 
 it will soon come. 
 
 MADELEINE. Oh, I have plenty of time. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. Why, not so very much. In two years 
 you will be eighteen: ready to marry. 
 
 MADELEINE. But the question is not of marrying for 
 the sake of being married; but to be able to choose 
 
 MME. JADAIN. "I'm not troubled about that; pretty as 
 you are, and with the dowry you will have, you will be 
 able to choose. 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 205 
 
 MADELEINE. Oh, the dowry! Don't speak of that! 
 And, besides, for a woman, the essential thing is not to be 
 merely pretty, pretty; but to have the power to please 
 like Mamma, for instance. There is no question but that 
 Mamma, besides being pretty, exercises a great fascination 
 upon everybody. 
 
 MM-E. CHENEVAS. You resemble your mother very much, 
 too. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. You think so, Alice? I don't; it should 
 be rather on the side of her father: she is a Jadain. 
 
 MADELEINE. [Laughing.] Ha, ha, Grandma! a 
 Jadain, a Jadain ! You said that as if you were speak- 
 ing of a Montmorency. You want me to resemble your son, 
 rather than your daughter-in-law ; that's very natural. But, 
 to come back to what I was saying this power to please 
 gives you the right to choose, and, with this power, and 
 with determination, the man chosen ought to love you. First, 
 I want to know the man I'm going to marry. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. What do you mean? Know him! Of 
 course, you will know him. 
 
 MADELEINE. Yes; but I don't want to marry him on 
 the strength of an introduction merely. A marriage of con- 
 venience how horrible ! I have my own ideas about that. 
 And, besides, I want to marry somebody who 2* some- 
 body. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. Oh, you're ambitious! It's not so easy 
 as you think, and it's rather hard to find a very young man 
 who " is somebody," as you say. 
 
 MADELEINE. I don't care, either, for a very young man. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. Yes, I know, young girls to-day don't 
 hesitate to marry older men. 
 
 MADELEINE. Older ! You mustn't exaggerate, either. 
 You gain a great deal, don't you, if you mate people 
 according to age, and they are bored at being together? 
 
206 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 You needn't fear such a thing with a superior man, while 
 a fool is always old. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. It seems to me you have very decided 
 opinions. 
 
 MADELEINE. One ought to know what one wants. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. Perhaps you have some one already in 
 mind? 
 
 MADELEINE. [Blushing suddenly.] Oh, dear, no! 
 
 MME. JADAIN. Your face has grown very red. 
 
 MADELEINE. Not at all; it's you who see red. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. [Laughing.] See, Alice, look at her! 
 
 MADELEINE. The blood has rushed to my head ; it's very 
 warm here. And then, it's ridiculous; it's stupid. Of 
 course, now that you've said that, it's settled. No, 
 Grandma, please don't laugh like that. I don't find it funny 
 at all. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. Well, well! I'm not trying to find out 
 your secrets. 
 
 MADELEINE. But I haven't any secrets. It's strange 
 that a girl can't speak of marriage in a general way, with- 
 out your immediately putting on a knowing air and mak- 
 ing it personal. [She gets up and goes towards the door.] 
 
 MME. JADAIN. You're going away? You're angry? 
 
 MADELEINE. [At the door.] Oh, not the least in the 
 world, Grandma! I'm going to my room, because there's 
 no chance to talk seriously with you. I thought we were 
 women together; I was mistaken that's all. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. You are going to practice your " exer- 
 cises in sadness " ? 
 
 MADELEINE. Perhaps. [She goes out.] 
 
 MME. JADAIN. She appeared really provoked. I'm sure 
 I hit right. Don't you find what she said applies remark- 
 ably to Monsieur Freydieres? 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. Oh, I don't know. No. Why? 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 207 
 
 MME. JADAIN. You heard her : She doesn't care to marry 
 a very young man, but some one who is somebody. Be- 
 sides, Monsieur Freydieres is the only man she sees 
 at all intimately, for he is the only man who comes here 
 often. 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. Yes, he is working on my divorce; and 
 so he comes here rather often since I'm making my home 
 here. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. But he came here before; I have always 
 seen him; it wouldn't be impossible that the chit had no- 
 ticed him and lost her head over him. 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. You think so? 
 
 MME. JADAIN. You haven't noticed anything? 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. No. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. Of course; you are absorbed in your 
 own affairs. But it's evident Madeleine thinks a great 
 deal of this Monsieur Freydieres; she likes to talk of him. 
 He is distinguished, captivating, celebrated. How old do 
 you suppose he is? Thirty- four thirty-five? 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. Yes. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. For a man, he's still young; such a 
 match is not inconceivable. 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. He has seen Madeleine as a little girl, 
 and always thinks of her as a child. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. But she considers him as a man; there 
 is, perhaps, where the danger lies, especially if he doesn't 
 think of marrying her. All this is between us, and I speak 
 to you about it simply because you are here. I shall not 
 even mention it to Claire, although we are on excellent 
 terms. My daughter-in-law understands that I don't med- 
 dle with anything. After all, perhaps I am mistaken. All 
 the same, she became as red as a peony. [At this mo- 
 ment, a maid ushers FREYDIERES into the room.] 
 
 FREYDIERES. [After having shaken hands with MME. 
 
208 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 CHENEVAS, bows to MME. JADAIN.] Good-morning, 
 Madame. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. Good-morning, Monsieur. 
 
 FREYDIERES. You are well? 
 
 MME. JADAIN. As you see. 
 
 FREYDIERES. You are here for some time? 
 
 MME. JADAIN. We leave the early part of next week. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Is Monsieur Jadain well? 
 
 MME. JADAIN. Oh, yes, thank you; he has gone to the 
 Folies-Bergere. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Oho ! 
 
 MME. JADAIN. Upon the advice of his granddaughter. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Ha, ha ! 
 
 [CLAIRE comes in. 
 
 CLAIRE. [To FREYDIERES.] Good-morning. You re- 
 turned this morning? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Yes. 
 
 CLAIRE. You've seen your mother ? How is she ? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Very well; she doesn't change; she's truly 
 extraordinary for her age. 
 
 CLAIRE. She was glad to see you? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Very glad poor woman ! 
 
 CLAIRE. I have received some beautiful flowers. Thank 
 you! You see, they have kept wonderfully. 
 
 MME. JADAIN. Will you excuse me if I leave you, Mon- 
 sieur? I have some errands to do; besides, I'm not going 
 to say good-by, for I shall see you again. [She goes out.] 
 
 CLAIRE. Has my sister told you that she has received 
 a letter from her lawyer? 
 
 FREYDIERES. We've not yet had any time to talk. [To 
 MME. CHENEVAS.] Have you this letter? 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. Here it is. 
 
 [He reads the letter that MME. CHENEVAS hands him. 
 
 CLAIRE. What do you think of it? 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 209 
 
 FREYDIERES. It's not very encouraging. 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. Do you believe we shall get any- 
 thing ? 
 
 FREYDIERES. It will be difficult; your husband is not 
 distrainable ; he lives with his mother, and does business 
 under an assumed name. 
 
 CLAIRE. Can't you demand a settlement? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Not before three years. 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. What's to be done? 
 
 FREYDIERES. First, you ought to see your lawyer, since 
 he wishes to talk with you. Tell him that I'll see him 
 to-morrow, at the Palais. 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. I'm going there now. [She goes out.] 
 
 CLAIRE. [Seeing that FREYDIERES makes a movement 
 towards her.} No, no, don't come near me; don't tempt 
 me here, or I shall throw myself into your arms and kiss 
 you, regardless 
 
 FREYDIERES. My darling! 
 
 CLAIRE. O, my dear Jacques, all this long week without 
 seeing you ! Although it has been only eight days since you 
 left, it seems months to me. Never has time dragged so 
 dolefully. Oh, I'm so happy to see you again ! I hope you 
 had a miserable time. Did you think of me down there? 
 
 FREYDIERES. I passed a sad week myself, especially a 
 chilly New Year's. What's that? 
 
 CLAIRE. Nothing. I thought I heard some one coming. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Your husband is at home? 
 
 CLAIRE. [In a formal tone.] Yes; the maid has told 
 him you are here. You stayed alone with your mother? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Alone! For four days we had uncles, 
 aunts, cousins, and the distant relatives who are always 
 there at such times. I was obliged to look after all these 
 people ; I wasn't allowed even my dearest thoughts. It was 
 maddening ! 
 
210 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes, when people are obliged to be separated, 
 the only thing for them is solitude. It's cruel enough not 
 to see each other, but it's worse still not to think of each 
 other. 
 
 FREYDIERES. And how did you pass that dreadful 
 day? 
 
 CLAIRE. Ah, my dear friend, my husband was in a bad 
 humor; my sister wept; my mother-in-law was my mother- 
 in-law. I assure you it was not very lively. 
 
 FREYDIERES. There is good reason to say, " New Year's 
 is heart-breaking when one has no family, hateful when 
 one has." 
 
 CLAIRE. Listen! Did some one ring? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Yes, I think so. 
 
 [Voice in the hall. 
 
 CLAIRE. [Listening.] It's some one for Etienne. One 
 is not very quiet here. 
 
 FREYDIERES. You did not go away at all? 
 
 CLAIRE. No. That is to say, we went to watch out the 
 old year at the Ernsteins'. 
 
 FREYDIERES. O, you did! Tell me, how did it pass? 
 Did Mme. Ernstein carry out her plan of a vaudeville 
 show ? 
 
 CLAIRE. Why, yes. Mme. Lacorte waltzed with the 
 young Listel, reversing in more than one sense all the 
 time, as if they had done nothing else all their lives. 
 
 FREYDIERES. It must have been a pretty sight ! 
 
 CLAIRE. Mme. des Trembles sang some jolly songs; 
 Monsieur Loriot accompanied her at the piano. 
 
 FREYDIERES. And didn't Mme. Ernstein take part in 
 the vaudeville? 
 
 CLAIRE. She sang and danced a Spanish dance with 
 Monsieur de Meillan. 
 
 FREYDIERES. So there is still a Spain? 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 211 
 
 CLAIRE. She had a costume which was extremely becom- 
 ing a very short skirt. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Of course. In this kind of show the shorter 
 the better. 
 
 CLAIRE. Monsieur de Meillan was dressed like a 
 toreador. 
 
 FREYDIERES. It must have been amusing to see all those 
 silly women play the fool with their lovers. 
 
 CLAIRE. Amusing? No just the opposite! 
 
 FREYDIERES. Ah, so it was not only the waltz that was 
 reversed in that company ! Why do you laugh ? 
 
 CLAIRE. I laugh because there was one thing especially 
 that was really funny. All the people who had taken part 
 in the singing and dancing thought they looked so well in 
 their costumes that they kept them on afterwards ; among 
 others little Mme. Plotter, who was dressed as a drummer- 
 boy of the Republic, to sing children's roundelays. 
 
 FREYDIERES. No ! 
 
 CLAIRE. It's the strict truth ! 
 
 FREYDIERES. But she's a woman of sixty. 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes, and this costume was so little in keeping 
 with her age that it seemed a mockery to compliment her. 
 So the whole evening people acted as if they didn't 
 notice it. She certainly reached the limit of the ridicu- 
 lous. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Did any one make love to you? 
 
 CLAIRE. Oh, no ! When a woman loves a man as I love 
 you, she is safe: there is a certain atmosphere about her 
 which protects her from all attempts; as within her, a 
 certain force which protects her against all temptations. 
 People feel it. 
 
 FREYDIERES. However, Ernstein is always very attentive 
 to you? 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes, when you are not there. What of that? 
 
212 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 He commenced and he continues without hope; it's a deli- 
 cate homage he pays me. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Oh! Without hope! Ernstein is one of 
 those men who have some sweeping theories about women; 
 he is always waiting for his chance. 
 
 CLAIRE. He may wait as long as he cares to. You are 
 not jealous? 
 
 FREYDIERES. No, and it's not necessary, either, for you 
 to wish it. 
 
 [During these last words ETIENNE has entered. 
 
 ETIENNE. Ah, here is my good Freydieres. How are 
 you, my dear friend? I hope you've taken a vacation. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Oh, barely a week. 
 
 ETIENNE. Still, you're lucky to be able to go away even 
 for a week. I can't do it. When I think that in the four 
 years since we came to Paris I haven't found a moment 
 to go back to my old home in Dauphine ! 
 
 FREYDIERES. You're always very busy. 
 
 ETIENNE. Don't speak of that ! Ernstein leaves me 
 everything to do. He does nothing he's never there. 
 He starts this evening for San Remo. Oh, he'll not kill 
 himself. By the way, Claire, you don't know what I've 
 just heard? 
 
 CLAIRE. No. 
 
 ETIENNE. Delanglu has been here. 
 
 CLAIRE. Delanglu? 
 
 ETIENNE. Yes, an old schoolmate. He told me, and he 
 has it on good authority, that Ernstein is to be nominated 
 an officer. 
 
 CLAIRE. What! an officer? 
 
 ETIENNE. Yes, an officer of the Legion of Honor. Not 
 in the territorial, you may be sure ! It's done and the 
 nomination will appear in a few days in the State Records. 
 
 CLAIRE. Well, what of it? 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 213 
 
 ETIENNE. What of it! It's shocking it's disgusting 
 it's abominable ! 
 
 CLAIRE. Oh, abominable ! 
 
 ETIENNE. Oh, you're just like all the rest. Good 
 heavens ! You find it perfectly natural that Ernstein should 
 be nominated " officer," while your husband is nothing, noth- 
 ing at all. You think it's all right that I should work and 
 wear myself out as I do and that he should be decorated. 
 
 CLAIRE. What does it matter to you? 
 
 ETIENNE. It exasperates me, shocks me the injustice 
 shocks me. It's not because I care for a miserable bit of 
 ribbon. Oh, great gods, I am above that! 
 
 CLAIRE. Well, what then? 
 
 ETIENNE. Simply, in all this, I don't think Ernstein is 
 acting on the square towards me. I had to learn of his 
 nomination from Delanglu ! 
 
 FREYDIERES. He probably wanted to surprise you. 
 
 ETIENNE. Most of all, I think he lacks decency. Yes, 
 he ought to have the loyalty, the decency, to say to the 
 influential persons that he knows, " I have a conscientious 
 partner, a devoted friend, who makes all the sketches for 
 these works for which you load me with honors ; because I, 
 Ernstein, am totally incapable and have remained what I 
 was at the ' Tech./ that is, a dunce, a veritable dunce." 
 Come, isn't that true ? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Remember, my dear friend, that it is very 
 difficult for Ernstein to pass such judgment upon himself. 
 All the same, we must not exaggerate. Ernstein is not 
 without merit he's a first-class administrator. 
 
 ETIENNE. With the supreme merit of having money. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Well, that is an advantage for you, for he 
 saves you all financial anxiety; and for students like you, 
 peace of mind is most essential. 
 
 ETIENNE. And obscurity. [He walks back and forth 
 
214 MAURICE BONN AY 
 
 with long strides. CLAIRE and FREYDIERES exchange looks 
 of weariness.] As for this dome, the famous dome of the 
 Exposition it is I who have made all the calculations. I 
 have gone over them more than ten times to make sure 
 I have made no mistake. Just think of that responsi- 
 bility! I have worked all night many a time I didn't eat 
 I didn't sleep all for what? That it should be known 
 everywhere simply as the Ernstein Dome. Ernstein Dome, 
 that's fine ! It's a comedy ! Ah ! fame and popularity will 
 come easily to him. Well, I shall be an obscure associate 
 all my life. 
 
 CLAIRE. Haven't you yourself some associates more 
 humble than you? You shouldn't always look merely at 
 those above you; and if you complain at having worked 
 all night several times, what words of pity will you find 
 for those unfortunate workmen who were killed last week 
 when a staging fell down? 
 
 ETIENNE. What has that to do with the case? Noth- 
 ing at all; it is not only people who fall from stagings 
 that are killed. I have troubles enough to kill me one 
 of these days. Bah ! I'm simply a stalking-horse. 
 
 CLAIRE. In what way? Ernstein has kept his prom- 
 ises. He made a position for you; he gives you a share 
 in the profits; that's all he promised. These troubles 
 you speak of you make yourself, and you are irritated 
 simply because your self-conceit is wounded. 
 
 ETIENNE. Self-conceit that's just it, of course! Ah, 
 you decide it easily. But women don't understand anything 
 of such matters the women, good heavens ! the women 
 provided the husband works, makes money, as they say in 
 America the rest is of no account. That's what the hus- 
 band is for. All the same, I was happier when I was at 
 Grenoble. 
 
 CLAIRE. But down there your irritation was just as 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 215 
 
 bad; everywhere you saw injustice, unfairness; you took 
 offense at everything; you were continually repeating that 
 life, under such conditions, was no longer bearable just 
 exactly what you say now, and what I foresaw you would 
 say. 
 
 ETIENNE. Oh, it's understood that I am insufferable; I 
 can't stay anywhere nor get on with anybody; that's what 
 you want to say, I suppose? But since you knew me so 
 well, you should have kept me from accepting Ernstein's 
 proposals. 
 
 CLAIRE. You accepted them contrary to my advice, and 
 your decision was irrevocable. Don't shift the responsi- 
 bility, then. Besides, this is not the first discussion we have 
 had on this subject and it won't be the last, unfortu- 
 nately ! 
 
 ETIENNE. Oh, yes everything's all right ; you are satis- 
 fied that's the principal thing. [He takes out his match.] 
 Half -past three; I must go. 
 
 CLAIRE. Where are you going? 
 
 ETIENNE. I'm going to the factory to see how the work 
 is getting on while Ernstein is preparing to go to the 
 Riviera to rest from my toils. It's beastly weather, 
 too. 
 
 CLAIRE. Can't you put it off until to-morrow? 
 
 ETIENNE. [Shrugging his shoulders.] To-morrow! I 
 have an engagement with the architect to-day. An engage- 
 ment with an architect is not put off so easily as that. 
 That's of no interest to you, of course. It's raining; by 
 Jove, how it rains ! but that doesn't make any difference ; 
 I shall flounder in the mud, that's all. What do I risk? 
 A cold; at the worst, bronchitis, inflammation of the lungs. 
 That's not to be compared, evidently, with those unfortu- 
 nate workmen who were killed in falling from a staging. 
 Oh, no! Well, good-by, Freydieres. By the way, I need 
 
216 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 to talk with you about that patent I should like very 
 much to avoid a lawsuit. 
 
 FREYDIERES. I am at your disposal. 
 
 ETIENNE. I'll come to see you to-morrow. What day 
 is it to-morrow? Friday? Then, perhaps I can't. Well, 
 then, come to dine with us; that's much easier. We'll talk 
 after dinner. Arrange it with Claire. [He goes out.] 
 
 CLAIRE. You've heard him. You see, I'm not exaggerat- 
 ing when I tell you how disagreeable he is becoming. 
 
 FREYDIERES. He'll never forget that he led his class; 
 so he'll never be able to stand having any one ahead of him. 
 Poor man, he is to be pitied ! 
 
 CLAIRE. No doubt; but the rest of us, who have to stand 
 him, are also to be pitied. Ah ! I assure you, life isn't very 
 amusing these days. 
 
 FREYDIERES. But you ought to be used to it by this time. 
 
 CLAIRE. I ought; but it is always painful for me every 
 time I see him so discontented and unjust. He can't en- 
 dure Ernstein any more. 
 
 FREYDIERES. He's his partner he has only to observe 
 the rules of partnership. 
 
 CLAIRE. Well, let's not talk any more about him. You 
 are here! You are here that's the chief thing. Ah, you 
 see, I have so much need to feel that I am loved. 
 
 FREYDIERES. I love you, my darling; and I love you 
 more when I see you unhappy. 
 
 CLAIRE. Is that true? Then I'd like to be so always. 
 
 FREYDIERES. No, that's not necessary. 
 
 CLAIRE. Remember, I have been a whole week alone. 
 You mustn't be gone so long again. When you're away my 
 poor heart is cold. 
 
 FREYDIERES. My poor darling! Yes, we need to be to- 
 gether. Listen, now! I'm going to say good-by to you. 
 
 CLAIRE. So soon! 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 217 
 
 FREYDIERES. Wait. I'm going back home to our home 
 where everything is ready to receive you, and you will 
 come to join me very soon. Will you come? 
 
 CLAIRE. Oh! I can't. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Why? 
 
 CLAIRE. I must call on Mme. Ernstein. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Oh! Can't you go there another time? 
 
 CLAIRE. Why, no; it's her first Thursday her first 
 Thursday. 
 
 FREYDIERES. The devil take Mme. Ernstein and her 
 Thursday; really, she should have chosen another day. 
 
 CLAIRE. She didn't know. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Then, make your call at once and come 
 afterwards. 
 
 CLAIRE. Afterwards I shall be with Madeleine. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Oh! that's it; Madeleine now. Can't you 
 get rid of her? 
 
 CLAIRE. Oh, get rid of her! I don't like that word, 
 when it's used about my daughter. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Most certainly ! When it concerns your 
 daughter, it is necessary to weigh one's words. Ah! I 
 shall finish by hating the child, if she is always to come be- 
 tween us. 
 
 CLAIRE. Oh ! don't say that. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Why, yes, I will say it. Look here put 
 yourself in my place: I come here, happy to see you again, 
 and everything conspires against my joy; first, it is the 
 bad humor of your husband; then it is Mme. Ernstein's 
 Thursday; then Madeleine! Don't you understand that 
 I should like to feel that you belong to me a little more? 
 For a whole week I have lived in hope and expectation, 
 and now you refuse me. 
 
 CLAIRE. I don't refuse you. I have explained to you 
 why it is impossible. I'll come to-morrow. 
 
218 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 FREYDIERES. To-morrow it will be something else. 
 Madeleine will probably have a drawing lesson or music 
 lesson and you will have to go with her. 
 
 CLAIRE. That's not it but she's no longer a child; 
 she will soon be a young lady. You've not yet realized 
 that? 
 
 FREYDIERES. What then? 
 
 CLAIRE. Then you ought to understand the precautions 
 I must take with her. 
 
 FREYDIERES. What precautions? 
 
 CLAIRE. Only think if she should ever suspect! An 
 accident, any imprudence on my part, would be sufficient 
 to change this unsuspecting child into a clear-sighted judge. 
 I am obliged to take her to-day, but don't conclude from 
 that that she is always between us. 
 
 FREYDIERES. [With raised voice.] She certainly is al- 
 ways between us. 
 
 CLAIRE. Don't speak so loud. 
 
 FREYDIERES. She certainly is ! Remember, when you 
 came to Paris, when we met again, it was on her account 
 that you struggled so long against me, against yourself, and 
 against your love. And in those first days, when I begged 
 you to go away with me, so that we might love each other 
 freely, it was still on her account that you remained. 
 
 CLAIRE. I could not give her up, nor set her such an 
 example. Most certainly I was not afraid of the scandal 
 for myself. 
 
 FREYDIERES. It would have been only an apparent scan- 
 dal, and of short duration, at that. At any rate, it would 
 have been preferable to a constant deception, to this re- 
 spectable immorality we have accepted and from which 
 we are continually suffering. 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes, I sometimes think so, especially when I 
 see you like this, reproaching me for the least opposition, 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 219 
 
 and for the sacrifice I have made to remain with my 
 daughter. It is not generous on your part, for you ought 
 to know perfectly well that I, too, feel the bitterness of it 
 deeply. 
 
 FREYDIERES. I'm not reproaching you for anything; 
 only to-day you make me foresee that our situation, already 
 so complicated, is going to become still more so because 
 your daughter is growing up that there is going to be 
 in our love still more annoyance, constraint, deceit, lies, 
 comedy for it is that at bottom ; there is quite enough 
 as it is! In that case, then, it would be better for us to 
 have two existences frankly, separate. 
 
 CLAIRE. Separate? What do you mean? 
 
 FREYDIERES. I'll not come here any more I'll see you 
 at my home, when you can come. In this way I shall 
 escape so many things that hurt me, vex me, and make me 
 unjust. I know, if we have only rare moments to spend 
 together, I shall not grieve you with these recriminations 
 which are the result of our irritating position. 
 
 CLAIRE. Can two beings, who love each other, be con- 
 tent with those hours alone, however intimate they may be? 
 Remember, we tried it in the beginning, but we weren't 
 able to keep it up. In the first place, what excuse would 
 you make for not coming here any more? 
 
 FREYDIERES. I found one very well for coming. 
 
 CLAIRE. That was easier ! Circumstances have been 
 favorable to your becoming the intimate friend of the house. 
 Let us profit by it. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Oh, we do profit by it. On this side we 
 have nothing to complain of. Every evening, if I like, my 
 place at table is kept for me between you and your sister 
 and opposite your husband and daughter. 
 
 CLAIRE. After all, we are no exceptions. 
 
 FREYDIERES. We ought to be. 
 
220 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 CLAIRE. We ought, both of us, to have begun sooner 
 and to have remained firm in our duty. This atmosphere 
 of constraint and of lies weighs upon me as much as upon 
 you; but we breathe it together, and when I can't be wholly 
 yours, as to-day, I have at least the consolation of seeing 
 you, of speaking to you, of hearing you. You know I need 
 to have you a part of my life, to belong to it. I have ar- 
 ranged everything for that. I am too much accustomed 
 to it and you want it, all of a sudden 
 
 FREYDIERES. It can be done gradually. 
 
 CLAIRE. [In tears.] Then it's the end of everything. 
 It would be better to end it all, at once, if that is what 
 you want, rather than to separate our lives, as you propose. 
 But I don't want to. First, I couldn't it is more than I 
 could endure. At the mere thought of it, as you see, it 
 seems as if I were falling into a deep, dark abyss it 
 seems as if I I I don't know I don't care it's all 
 alike to me. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Claire, Claire, don't weep ! I beg of you 
 don't weep like that ! What if your daughter should come ? 
 I'm very sorry; I didn't think you haven't understood me 
 at all. 
 
 CLAIRE. I understood that you said some perfectly 
 dreadful things to me. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Not dreadful, but sensible. 
 
 CLAIRE. Oh ! 
 
 FREYDIERES. You began it; I only followed you; 
 you told me 
 
 CLAIRE. I I told you something sensible? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Why, yes, you said that Madeleine might 
 notice 
 
 CLAIRE. But she won't notice anything at all. 
 
 FREYDIERES. All right, then. 
 
 CLAIRE. It's true. I don't know why I told you that. 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 221 
 
 We are not placarding ourselves, thank heavens ! Then 
 she worships me blindly ; she is innocence itself ; she doesn't 
 know other girls who are sophisticated; she has always 
 stayed with me, and always seen you in this house. How 
 do you expect such a thought to enter her head? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Very true. 
 
 CLAIRE. You laugh? 
 
 FREYDIERES. I smile and you cry; I'm doubly dis- 
 armed. 
 
 CLAIRE. You think I'm inconsistent. 
 
 FREYDIERES. No more than I. 
 
 CLAIRE. You shouldn't expect me to be heroic you 
 mustn't torment me. And especially, don't take it out on 
 Madeleine don't detest her love her. If you only knew 
 what a delightful companion she is for me and how pain- 
 ful the house would often be without her, who is its 
 brightness and joy! She is like a gay little lily blooming 
 beside me, and when you are away, as in these last days, 
 she keeps me from finding it so dreary. She is the only one, 
 too, who knows how to talk to me about you. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Indeed! Poor child! 
 
 CLAIRE. I have already had enough remorse in divid- 
 ing my affection between you and her, for she loves me 
 alone. There she is better than I. 
 
 FREYDIERES. It's not the same thing; a woman can be 
 both a lover and a mother. You're proof of that. She, 
 also, later, will divide her affection between you and the 
 man she will choose if she divides it for she is capable 
 of giving her body and soul to this stranger. Then you 
 wouldn't count. 
 
 CLAIRE. Oh, stop, stop ! Perhaps it's the truth and 
 it is for her especially that I have sacrificed the most 
 beautiful thing in the world freedom in love. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Yes, freedom in love. Ah, Claire, do you 
 
222 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 sometimes think of the happiness denied us? Only this 
 morning I was thinking of it in the train which was bringing 
 me to you. Think how we shall never travel together, we 
 two, alone; that no train will ever bear us towards those 
 azure shores where lie the fair cities of our dreams, the 
 pleasant lands of our imagination ; that we shall die without 
 ever having gazed upon them together ! Nor can we ever 
 live alone together, under the same roof, in a peaceful home, 
 and enjoy the charming intimacy of long talks among 
 familiar things; we shall never know the happiness of long 
 hours without fear of interruption. Oh, my darling, these 
 thoughts are bitter. Here lies all the sadness of such a 
 union as ours. Well, the bright sunshine is not for us; 
 we are condemned to be only two poor little shadows, in 
 a perpetual twilight, as at this moment. 
 
 CLAIRE. We are not always shadows; think of the mo- 
 ments when I'm a woman in your arms ! We have no free- 
 dom in our love, that is true; but, to pay for it, I love you 
 all the more. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Yes, and I love you I adore you. You 
 know very well I'll do what you want. I beg your par- 
 don for having given you pain, and I kiss these dear eyes 
 of yours that have shed tears. 
 
 CLAIRE. Ah, my poor eyes, how many tears they have 
 shed on your account ! You were very naughty j ust now 
 so naughty even 
 
 FREYDIERES. That you will come to-morrow. 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes! [They hold each other in a long and 
 close embrace.] Some one is coming. Be careful! 
 
 MADELEINE. [Entering.] Oh, how dark it is here! 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes. Night comes quickly. [She turns on the 
 electric light.] 
 
 MADELEINE. Good-evening, Monsieur Freydieres. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Good-evening, Madeleine. 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 223 
 
 MADELEINE. Mamma, do you know it is five o'clock? 
 Oughtn't we to go to Madame Ernstein's? 
 
 CLAIRE. I am going now to get ready. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Good-by, Madame ; I am going to leave you 
 to make your call. 
 
 MADELEINE. You're going away just when I come? 
 Don't you know that isn't very polite? You might stay 
 a little while with me. 
 
 CLAIRE. Why, yes; stay with Madeleine. We'll go 
 together. I shan't be long. I'll be back in a minute. 
 [She goes out.] 
 
 MADELEINE. You ought to go with us to the Ernsteins'. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Oh, no I have to go home I must work. 
 
 MADELEINE. Did you have a fine trip? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Very fine. 
 
 MADELEINE. Is your mother well? 
 
 FREYDIERES. As well as possible. 
 
 MADELEINE. Thank you for the chocolates you sent me 
 in that lovely box it was almost too fine. Come here 
 and let me scold you a little. No, seriously, you have 
 spoiled me. 
 
 FREYDIERES. You have already thanked me in the nice 
 little letter you wrote. 
 
 MADELEINE. Yes, I think it was nice. I'm awfully 
 glad to see you again; you've been gone only a week and 
 yet it seems much longer. It's astonishing what an empty 
 place your absence made here. I'm so used to seeing you 
 and talking to you. Well, I miss you and then, you 
 are my friend aren't you? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Why, of course. And did you receive 
 many presents? 
 
 MADELEINE. Enough to be satisfied. First, mamma 
 gave me a very pretty ring. See ! 
 
 FREYDIERES. Yes, it's very pretty. 
 
224 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 MADELEINE. Oh, Mamma has lots of taste. Papa gave 
 me a very beautiful album with my monogram on it and a 
 gold lock and key so that I can lock it. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Lock it? 
 
 MADELEINE. Yes, it's to write my diary. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Your diary? Marie Bashkirtseff. 
 
 MADELEINE. Don't know her. 
 
 FREYDIERES. And what are you going to write in it, if 
 I may ask? 
 
 MADELEINE. Oh, I don't know my thoughts, my im- 
 pressions 
 
 FREYDIERES. You have impressions? 
 
 MADELEINE. I don't know I think perhaps you think 
 I grow like a pumpkin. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Oh, ho ! A pumpkin what a thing to say ! 
 
 MADELEINE. You are insulting. 
 
 FREYDIERES. So you decided that from the very first 
 day of January of this year you would think, you would 
 feel? 
 
 MADELEINE. From the first day of January exactly, 
 as you said and you couldn't have said it better. Yes, 
 I have some new sensations some serious thoughts, solemn, 
 even. I don't look upon life as I did before. 
 
 FREYDIERES. [Smiling.] You are progressing. 
 
 MADELEINE. Yes. You needn't smile I know you al- 
 ways think of me as a child. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Oh, what an idea! I shouldn't dare. 
 What made you think that? 
 
 MADELEINE. It's so; you always treat me like a " back- 
 fisch." 
 
 FREYDIERES. Ha, ha ! A " backfisch ! " Where did you 
 get that word? 
 
 MADELEINE. It's a German word that means a fried 
 fish and in Germany they call girls that when they are at 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 225 
 
 the disagreeable age, or, if you like it better, at the silly 
 age; you know short skirts and pigtails down the back. 
 I'm past that. I can .understand serious things. 
 
 FREYDIERES. I don't doubt it. And what else have they 
 given you? 
 
 MADELEINE. Grandma gave me a bronze, for my room 
 an artistic bronze, since it represents a Cupid blowing soap 
 bubbles. I've put it on my bureau; but when Grandma goes 
 away I shall stuff it into a cupboard. I never saw any- 
 thing so ugly. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Is it so ugly as all that ? 
 
 MADELEINE. Would you like it? I'll give it to you. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Oh, no. 
 
 MADELEINE. There, you see ! a soap bubble in bronze 
 not very light, is it? It looks like a cannon ball. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Don't get excited; calm yourself! 
 
 MADELEINE. Yes, I'll stuff it into a cupboard and I'll 
 take it out only when Grandma comes again. You under- 
 stand ? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Oh, perfectly. 
 
 MADELEINE. [Imitating him.] Oh, perfectly ! 
 
 [She bursts out laughing. CLAIRE enters. 
 
 CLAIRE. Why! How gay you are! That's right, don't 
 stop ; you'll not laugh any younger. 
 
 MADELEINE. Perhaps I shall not laugh when I'm older. 
 
 CLAIRE. Well, let us go. 
 
 MADELEINE. Andiamo! 
 
 [CLAIRE goes out first, then MADELEINE, followed by 
 FREYDIERES, who closes the door. The curtain falls.] 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 [Eighteen months later, at the ERNSTEINS'. The little 
 drawing-room is small but elegant. A French win- 
 
226 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 dow at the left opens into the garden; at the rear is a 
 staircase, giving on to a gallery leading to the ball- 
 room. A door is at the right. 
 
 When the curtain rises, two young men, LUYNAIS and 
 CLEMENTIER, are talking near the recess of the French 
 window which leads into the garden; a third young 
 man, PRABERT, comes to join them.] 
 
 PRABERT. What are you doing there? 
 LUYNAIS. You see, we're taking the air between two airs. 
 CLEMENTIER. By George, aren't they through with that 
 concert yet ! 
 
 PRABERT. Listen! What do you think? 
 
 [The voice of a woman is heard singing:] 
 " Amour, viens aider ma faiblesse 
 Verse le poison dans son sein ! " 
 LUYNAIS. Who's singing? 
 PRABERT. Why, it's Mme. Ernstein. 
 CLEMENTIER. No one has a better right; she's in her 
 own house! 
 
 [The voice of a man is now heard singing:] 
 " J'ai gravi la montagne 
 
 Pour venir jusqu' a toi. 
 Dagon qui m' accompagne 
 
 M'a guide vers ton toit ! " 
 
 LUYNAIS. Ah! it's Mme. Ernstein. Listen! What a 
 heavy voice she has this evening! 
 
 PRABERT. The "heavy voice" is not hers; it is the 
 Grand-Priest's ! 
 
 CLEMENTIER. What Grand-Priest? 
 
 PRABERT. Where do you come from? You haven't 
 looked at the program? They are giving the second act of 
 Samson and Dalila in costume magnificent scenery. 
 CLKMENTIER. Aha! 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 227 
 
 LUYNAIS. Madame Ernstein must be very beautiful as 
 Dalila. 
 
 PRABERT. Very beautiful she has a fitting gown. 
 
 LUYNAIS. Yes, it fits her like a glove. 
 
 PRABERT. You're a beast. 
 
 CLEMENTIER. And Samson? 
 
 PRABERT. Is Monsieur Fontenay. 
 
 CLEMENTIER. Bravo ! Bravo ! 
 
 LUYNAIS. Think! what a wonderful performance is be- 
 ing given here at the Ernsteins' to-night! To-morrow the 
 favored ones will be able to say with pride, " When we 
 were at the Ernsteins'," Superb! 
 
 CLEMENTIER. What lucky dogs we are! 
 
 PRABERT. You're at the Ernsteins', to be sure, but rather 
 far from the show. Go nearer; have the appearance, at 
 least, of being interested in what is going on; you're not 
 very polite to stay out here. 
 
 CLEMENTIER. My good fellow, we shall not budge from 
 here. 
 
 LUYNAIS. If Madame Ernstein sings, that's her business ; 
 in a soiree like this each one has his own " stunt " ; ours is 
 to stay here by the window. 
 
 CLEMENTIER. Adonis and Narcissus! [They take the 
 pose.] 
 
 PRABERT. Well! I'm going into the ballroom. 
 
 LUYNAIS. [With emphasis.] Where you should have 
 stayed. 
 
 PRABERT. And where there are bewitching young girls. 
 
 LUYNAIS. Oh! I know your young girls; they are al- 
 ways the same. 
 
 PRABERT. There is a new one an adorable little thing, 
 delightful, charming, a blonde with blue eyes, a little nose 
 no bigger than a hazel-nut, lips red like two cherries 
 waist of a wasp, a bust 
 
228 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 CLEMENTIER. Of a wasp. Don't get stung! 
 
 PRABERT. The bust of a young goddess and hips 
 
 LUYNAIS. Of a wasp. Go on ! 
 
 PRABERT. How witty you think you are! hips which 
 promise 
 
 LUYNAIS. And may never fulfil 
 
 PRABERT. And the back of her neck and shoulders 
 how I dote on a beautiful back! 
 
 LUYNAIS. Well, you're rewarded often enough with a 
 back view ! 
 
 CLEMENTIER. And who is this marvel about whom you 
 rave like the young Montague when he saw Miss Capulet 
 for the first time? 
 
 PRABERT. Mademoiselle Jadain. 
 
 LUYNAIS. The daughter of Jadain, Ernstein's partner? 
 
 PRABERT. Yes. 
 
 CLEMENTIER. I don't know her; but from principle I 
 prefer her mother. Every time I have been introduced to a 
 girl I have fallen hopelessly in love with the mother 
 that's a mania with me. I would give all the girls here, 
 including her own daughter, for Madame Jadain ! Ah ! 
 what a charming lover she would be! Don't you think 
 so? 
 
 LUYNAIS. Ask Freydieres. 
 
 CLEMENTIER. She has always been very much in love 
 with him. 
 
 PRABERT. It has lasted now for more than five years, 
 and it's not likely to stop. But jou should see her daugh- 
 ter ; she's a peach ! 
 
 CLEMENTIER. Prabert has great success with the 
 girls. 
 
 LUYNAIS. He's a fine-looking chap and has stunning 
 waistcoats they're excellent to start a conversation. He 
 has plenty of cheek, too. Under the frock coat of a gen- 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 229 
 
 tleman he's a regular rowdy; he reminds me of a certain 
 favorite of a queen of England who concealed a mean soul 
 under a charming exterior. 
 
 PRABERT. Say, now 
 
 LUYNAIS. That doesn't rob you of any of your other 
 qualities chiefly because you haven't any; now you're los- 
 ing your head over this Mademoiselle Jadain; you'll get 
 introduced to her, dance with her, and tell her all sorts of 
 nasty things that's the result of reading risque novels. 
 What pleasure can you find in all that ? 
 
 PRABERT. Of feeling close to me a fragile, delicate 
 being. 
 
 LUYNAIS. What good will that do you? You're dis- 
 gusting. You'll never have the virtue of being original; 
 you'll always remain a Lovelace. 
 
 PRABERT. How do you know? Perhaps I shall marry 
 one of these girls some day? 
 
 LUYNAIS. Yes you are quite capable of just that thing 
 marrying a girl introduced to you some evening at a ball. 
 How commonplace ! Ah ! 
 
 CLEMENTIER. The music is over. Hear the applause ! 
 
 [The noise of clapping is heard. Some people come out 
 into the little drawing-room with exclamations of admira- 
 tion. Noise and confusion. There are CLAIRE JADAIN, 
 MADELEINE, MME. LACORTE, FREYDIERES, DE MEILLAN, 
 JADAIN, HEYBENS, and others, mho surround MME. ERN- 
 STEIN (Dalila), FONTENAY (Samson), and the HIGH- 
 PRIEST.] 
 
 Such phrases as the following are heard: 
 
 It's excellent! Superb! What a delicious, warm voice! 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. Oh, it's a pleasure to sing with him. 
 [She points to Samson.] 
 
 MME. LACORTE. What a beautiful couple! What a 
 charming duet! It's a joy to listen to you. 
 
230 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 [Meanwhile, LUYNAIS and CLEMENTIER have drawn 
 near.] 
 
 LUYNAIS. [To MME. ERNSTEIN.] Ah, Madame, I'm not 
 paying you any compliments. 
 
 CLEMEN-TIER. You gave me the shivers. 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. Really? 
 
 LUYNAIS. Merely listening to you, we became pale. 
 
 CLEMENTIER. He's not exaggerating how can we thank 
 you for the pleasure you have given us? 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. It's very easy in looking after the 
 young ladies, taking them out for refreshments, while the ( 
 windows in the ballroom are opened to let in a little fresh 
 air ; it was so hot there ! There must be some young ladies 
 literally dying of thirst. 
 
 LUYNAIS. And they need a supporting arm upon 
 which to lean as they follow the slippery path to cham- 
 pagne. 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. You understood ? 
 
 LUYNAIS. They haven't any brothers? 
 
 CLEMENTIER. No relatives? 
 
 LUYNAIS. No friends? 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. Go on, go on! 
 
 PRABERT. [To MME. ERNSTEIN.] Madame, will you in- 
 troduce me to Mile. Jadain? 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. What did I tell you? Isn't she pretty? 
 
 PRABERT. Charming ! 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. And she's only just eighteen. She's 
 coming out this evening; it's her first ball. Promise me to 
 be very proper. 
 
 PRABERT. But I'm not accustomed 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. Oh! I know you; you have a repu- 
 tation. 
 
 PRABERT. I'm better than my reputation, I assure you. 
 There's going to be dancing, isn't there? 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 231 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. Oh, it's rather late. We're going to 
 have just a little waltz before the cotillon. 
 
 [She takes PRABERT up to MADELEINE, who is in a little 
 group with her mother, her father, and FREYDIERES.] 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. Madeleine, let me introduce Monsieur 
 Prabert to you. 
 
 PRABERT. [Bowing.] Mademoiselle, will you do me the 
 honor of giving me the first dance? 
 
 MADELEINE. Yes, if you like. 
 
 PRABERT. Are you not thirsty? 
 
 MADELEINE. Yes, thank you; I am very thirsty 
 
 PRABERT. May I take you to the refreshment room? 
 
 MADELEINE. [To her mother.] Mamma, I shall find 
 you here? 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes, dear; you'll find me here in this room. 
 
 [MADELEINE goes out on the arm of PRABERT; MME. 
 ERNSTEIN goes to another group. FONTENAY talks with 
 the HIGH-PRIEST, DE MEILLAN with a very pretty woman, 
 MME. LACORTE. ERNSTEIN goes up to a young man with a 
 black beard, who is all alone and does not seem to be 
 enjoying himself.] 
 
 ERNSTEIN. You are here all alone, Heybens ? 
 
 HEYBENS. Why, yes. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. You are not having a very good time, are 
 you? 
 
 HEYBENS. I'm not bored at all. How well Mme. Ern- 
 stein sang! I didn't know that she had such a beautiful 
 voice. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. You didn't know? Oh, to be sure, you're 
 no longer in Paris. 
 
 HEYBENS. Yes, I left eight years ago and returned only 
 the day before yesterday. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. That's true. Well, yes, my wife is pas- 
 sionately fond of music and she sings fairly well. 
 
232 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 HEYBENS. She sings like a real artist. That must be 
 gratifying to you. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Gratifying yes. There are scales exer- 
 cises, you know. Such a result isn't reached without prac- 
 tising a great deal. And this means effort and money. 
 
 HEYBENS. Tell me it seems I know this house. 
 Didn't it belong to Juliette d'Herblay? 
 
 ERNSTEIN. The very same. When we were married, she 
 had married a Roumanian, who took her to his own coun- 
 try; so I bought her house. 
 
 HEYBENS. Well, yes. I should think I do know it. I 
 had a great time here. One evening, I remember, we had 
 a good dinner, with plenty of wine. An Englishman, 
 gloriously drunk, bet that he could dance holding the barrel 
 of a loaded revolver in his mouth. He fell just here 
 near this door. The revolver went off and the man did not 
 get up. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Yes, yes, I know; people have had great 
 times here. Won't you take some refreshments ? 
 
 HEYBENS. No, thank you; I'm going. I feel like 
 a stranger you understand. After several years of ab- 
 sence, it's astonishing how everything has changed at Paris. 
 I don't know any one now. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Ah, stay ! I'm going to introduce you to my 
 niece ; she is that very pretty woman you see there, who 
 has the appearance of a portrait by Van Loo. [He points 
 out MME. LACORTE.] 
 
 HEYBENS. That's true. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Ha, ha ! You don't want to leave now. But 
 you knew her when she was a girl. Floumoune, they used 
 to call her. 
 
 HEYBENS. Oh ! it's Floumoune. I shouldn't have recog- 
 nized her. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. She's married; her name is Mme. Lacorte. 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 233 
 
 Come, I'm going to present you to her, or, rather, re- 
 present you. She's a first-class gossip; she'll bring you up 
 to date pretty quickly. [He leads HEYBENS up to MME. 
 LACORTE.] 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Pauline ! 
 
 MME. LACORTE. Yes, uncle ? 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Permit me to present to you Monsieur Hey- 
 bens, one of my good friends whom you already know; he's 
 one of our most remarkable prospectors. I sent him to 
 Annam to study the land and he has discovered some gold 
 mines which will make people open their eyes. 
 
 MME. LACORTE. I recognize Monsieur Heybens easily. 
 You have let your beard grow, haven't you? 
 
 HEYBENS. What a memory you have, Madame ! 
 
 MME. LACORTE. Haven't I? And you are tanned. 
 
 HEYBENS. The sun. 
 
 MME. LACORTE. I was going to say it's very becoming 
 to you. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Just think ! he wanted to go away. 
 
 MME. LACORTE. What a shame! 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Because he didn't know any one. 
 
 MME. LACORTE. How foolish! 
 
 ERNSTEIN. So I have brought him to you to be 
 posted. 
 
 MME. LACORTE. You did well. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. It will be a good deed done. 
 
 MME. LACORTE. I shall do my best, uncle. 
 
 [ERNSTEIN leaves them. They converse. 
 
 ETIENNE. [Very animated.] You can't guess what I've 
 just heard. Ernstein is going to be elected president of the 
 Builders' Association that man who has never built any- 
 thing ! 
 
 CLAIRE. Don't speak so loud. Don't get angry here; it's 
 neither the place nor the time. Keep it till you get home. 
 
234 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 But honors will come to you, also. Be a little patient. You 
 know very well they are keeping you in mind. 
 
 ETIENNE. I swear to you that if I am not decorated the 
 next fourteenth of July I'll leave Ernstein. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Where will you go? 
 
 ETIENNE. Oh, I'm not worried about that. I've had fine 
 offers only in France we are so timid. One mustn't hesi- 
 tate to leave a place and, if necessary, the country. Why 
 not? 
 
 CLAIRE. I didn't say anything, my dear. 
 
 ETIENNE. [With force.] Well, we'll go to Beauvais 
 we'll go to Beauvais, I say. Proposals have been made to 
 me to buy the Debelker concern, which will become the firm 
 of Jadain and if I'm to slave for any one, it will not be 
 for Ernstein, but for myself. [He continues to talk excit- 
 edly while CLAIRE leads him away to calm him.] 
 
 HEYBENS. You are well posted. 
 
 MME. LACORTE. Of course. 
 
 HEYBENS. Go on. It is very interesting. What about 
 Madame Ernstein? 
 
 MME. LACORTE. Well, the young man with whom I was 
 talking when my uncle interrupted us is M. de Meillan, the 
 predecessor of Fontenay the one who sang the part of 
 Samson this evening with my aunt and who is the tenor she 
 loves for the present. Of course, De Meillan thinks 
 Fontenay does not know how to sing, that he has a falsetto 
 voice, and that it is the abomination of desolation. As to 
 the High-Priest, he's a young man who is also in love with 
 my aunt and has taken up singing to make an excuse for 
 seeing her. He hasn't any talent and makes himself ridicu- 
 lous. Besides, he has no chance; he is a bass and the 
 basses never get loved no more in life than in the opera. 
 The key of F doesn't open the heart of women in general 
 and of my aunt in particular. 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 235 
 
 ERNSTEIN. [Coming up.] Well, how are you getting 
 along? You are posting Heybens? 
 
 MME. LACORTE. [Modestly.] Yes, uncle, I'm doing my 
 best. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Oh ! I'm easy on that point. [He taps HEY- 
 BENS familiarly on the shoulder.] I told you right; you're 
 in good hands. [He goes away.] 
 
 MME. LACORTE. Ha ! ha ! it's always amusing. 
 
 [At this moment the only people in the little drawing- 
 room are MME. LACORTE and HEYBENS, and at the other 
 end, near the French-window, FREYDIERES and CLAIRE.] 
 
 HEYBENS. You're naughty. 
 
 MME. LACORTE. Quite the contrary, I'm very nice. 
 Are you getting tired of me? 
 
 HEYBENS. Not a bit; you do me the dis-honors of the 
 house so well. Tell me, is that Freydieres, the lawyer, over 
 there near the window? 
 
 MME. LACORTE. Yes, it's he. 
 
 HEYBENS. With whom is he talking? 
 
 MME. LACORTE. [Laughing.] Ha! ha! 
 
 HEYBENS. Why do you laugh? 
 
 MME. LACORTE. Of course you couldn't know. It is 
 Madame Jadain, the wife of Ernstein's partner. I'm going 
 to tell you about them. Oh, it's a perfect romance; but 
 let's not stay here, especially as we must be bothering them. 
 Just think! they were childhood friends and it seems, 
 ever since they've reached the age of reason, they've 
 been madly in love. The Jadains have come to Paris and 
 naturally . . . 
 
 [She leads him away, talking all the time. Now the room 
 is empty, except for CLAIRE and FREYDIERES.] 
 
 CLAIRE. We are alone. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Oh, alone. [Ironically.] 
 
 CLAIRE. Everybody is having refreshments. Now, dear, 
 
236 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 you can tell me whether my gown is pretty and if you like 
 me in it. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Careful, careful! 
 
 CLAIRE. How prudent you are! 
 
 FREYDIERES. And how imprudent you are. 
 
 CLAIRE. I have a chance to talk to you and I'm going 
 to take advantage of it. I don't see you any more. For 
 the longest time you haven't come to lunch or din- 
 ner. 
 
 FREYDIERES. You know why I have been working. 
 
 CLAIRE. No one respects your work more than I ; but 
 you've been going out to dinner. 
 
 FREYDIERES. There are some engagements I can't 
 avoid. You understand that in my position 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes, I know I'm wrong I encroach on your 
 life and I seem to want to control your words and deeds. 
 That provokes you. I'm a bungler, am I not? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Why, no. 
 
 CLAIRE. Oh, I obey the common rule that when a woman 
 feels she's being loved less she makes herself still less 
 lovable. 
 
 FREYDIERES. You're very hard on yourself, and you're 
 alarmed without reason. 
 
 CLAIRE. It's your fault you appear strange this even- 
 ing. You're not as you usually are. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Why, yes, I am. 
 
 CLAIRE. No, I'm sure of it. You are not angry with me, 
 are you? Have I done anything? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Oh, Claire! Angry, why? 
 
 CLAIRE. I don't know. Sometimes only a little thing 
 is needed. - I'm trying to find out. You don't think I'm too 
 decolletee ? I know you don't like that. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Why, no it seems to me you are decol- 
 letee, just like the rest of the women. 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 237 
 
 CLAIRE. Just like the rest of the women ! Oh, it's dread- 
 ful! 
 
 FREYDIERES. Dreadful, why? 
 
 CLAIRE. If you don't understand, why it's still worse. 
 
 FREYDIERES. You're giving my words a meaning that 
 they don't have. 
 
 CLAIRE. You're right. I beg your pardon. Don't mind 
 it. I'm very foolish, I know. [She goes near the window,] 
 Oh, one can breathe here. How mild it is ! It was just such 
 an evening five years ago in June that we met here. Do 
 you remember? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Yes, I remember. 
 
 CLAIRE. We were sitting out there on the seat near the 
 magnolias. Madame Ernstein and De Meillan sang and 
 kissed, each in turn; my husband was looking at some 
 plans with Ernstein ; you persuaded me, moreover, that you 
 hadn't forgotten me; you said some things to me that were 
 extremely sweet and your words intoxicated me. The sky 
 was full of stars and, probably, at that moment, the little 
 star which presides over my destiny, must have shone 
 with a brighter light, for we must believe that all that 
 had to happen and that a love-affair was inevitable. You 
 don't believe it? Then why did Ernstein meet my 
 husband the night before? Why did he invite us that 
 evening? Why were you there? Why were w left 
 alone in the dark? Why did we come to Paris? Why? 
 Why? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Chance may aid the course of events, but 
 I think that the stars have nothing to do about it and that 
 we have also our share of responsibility in what happens 
 to us. 
 
 CLAIRE. Oh, certainly but, what does it matter? One 
 must love and the rest is nothing one must love, whether 
 one has to suffer or die for it, like those plants that lift a 
 
238 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 large brilliant flower very high towards the sky and then 
 perish from their generous act of love. 
 
 [During these last words, ERNSTEIN has entered the 
 room.] 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Ah, you there, Freydieres? I was looking 
 everywhere for you. The ladies are calling for you; my 
 wife would like to speak to you. 
 
 FREYDIERES. I'll go. [He goes out.] 
 
 ERNSTEIN. You don't like to have me tear Freydieres 
 away from you, do you? 
 
 CLAIRE. Oh, tear away 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Besides, these ladies were not calling for 
 him at all; it's only a pretext to have you all to my- 
 self. 
 
 CLAIRE. Very ingenious. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. You know you have had a great success 
 I've had many compliments for you. 
 
 CLAIRE. [A little astonished.] You? 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Yes, in a certain fashion indeed, people are 
 much interested in you. 
 
 CLAIRE. It's very good of them. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. You have a wonderful charm that's the 
 truth. And then you have a certain air that distinguishes 
 you from all the others. I beg your pardon for telling you 
 all this. 
 
 CLAIRE. There's no offense; but you exaggerate; there 
 are very pretty women here, very fascinating women. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. None of these women has your peculiar at- 
 traction. I don't know what it is or rather I do know very 
 well what it is those women don't love. While with you, 
 every one knows you have a heart, a soul, a brain, feelings 
 that you are a true woman ! Everything about you reveals 
 love, and you radiate love as the morning sun radiates 
 light. 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 239 
 
 CLAIRE. You express yourself very well. You must have 
 some favor to ask of me. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. The only thing I have to ask of you is 
 the very thing you would refuse me. And so I ask nothing ; 
 I gave it up a long time ago; I love you with perfect 
 disinterestedness. 
 
 CLAIRE. What is your aim in all this ? 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Nothing absolutely nothing I need to tell 
 you this, that's all. But it's not only for this that I have 
 corraled you in this way. I want to speak to you about 
 things much more serious. Tell me would you be in- 
 clined to marry Madeleine? 
 
 CLAIRE. Of course; but I don't intend to yet. She's 
 only eighteen; I should like to keep her near me one or 
 two years longer. But I mustn't be selfish ; if there should 
 be a chance of a very good match 
 
 ERNSTEIN. An idea has just come to me, and you know 
 when I have an idea I don't lose any time. 
 
 CLAIRE. Well? 
 
 ERNSTEIN. There is here this evening a very intelligent 
 young man, one of my prospectors, who has just returned 
 from Indo-China. His name is Heybens, Paul Heybens ; no 
 parents, no fortune, but, especially if I take an interest in 
 him, a fine future. He has one thing against him, how- 
 ever. 
 
 CLAIRE. What is it? 
 
 ERNSTEIN. He led his class when he left school. But 
 you can't expect a person to be perfect in everything. All 
 the same he's a remarkable fellow. 
 
 CLAIRE. How old is he? 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Thirty. He's good-looking. But I'll show 
 him to you directly and if, from what you see of him, he 
 pleases you, I'll ask you to dinner with him next week. 
 
 CLAIRE. But you'll say nothing to him? 
 
240 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 ERNSTEIN. No. 
 
 CLAIRE. I'll not say anything to Madeleine either. With 
 her ideas, a marriage simply from a mere introduction 
 would be enough to make her wish not to hear a word about 
 it. And you, on your side, say nothing to Monsieur Hey- 
 bens, because men, in such circumstances, have a way of 
 appearing unconcerned that betrays them. My daughter's 
 alert, and would not be deceived by it. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Don't fear, he shall not be told. If this 
 marriage takes place, I'll appoint your son-in-law director 
 of the Society of Annam Mines, with his headquarters at 
 Paris; I'll give him a fine position. If my young friend 
 doesn't please Madeleine, I'll send him back to Indo- 
 China, where he will still be of great service to me. That's 
 all there is to it. What do you think? 
 
 CLAIRE. It seems quite possible. Anyhow, you may show 
 me your An-namite. 
 
 ERNSTEIN. Come with me, then. 
 
 [At this moment, MADELEINE appears at the back on the 
 staircase with FREYDIERES, comes down, and goes to her 
 mother.] 
 
 MADELEINE. Mamma, do we stay to the end ? 
 
 CLAIRE. Just as you like, my dear; it all depends on 
 you. How warm you are ! You should rest a little. 
 
 MADELEINE. Yes, I'm going to chatter a little here with 
 Freydieres. 
 
 [CLAIRE goes oat of the room on the arm of ERNSTEIN. 
 
 MADELEINE. Are you willing to keep me company and 
 talk with me a little? 
 
 FREYDIERES. I'm going. I must go. 
 
 MADELEINE. How polite you are ! Well, I command you 
 to stay; you must obey me, since it appears that I am the 
 queen of the ball. 
 
 FREYDIERES. That's just it: you have something better 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 241 
 
 to do than talk with me. Somebody will come to look for 
 you in a minute for a dance. 
 
 MADELEINE. No, no one will come to look for me, be- 
 cause I have kept this waltz for you. 
 
 FREYDIERES. But you know I don't dance. 
 
 MADELEINE. That's all right; we're going to sit it 
 out. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Only 
 
 MADELEINE. Oh, no, no ! Stay with me. Sit down there, 
 sit down stay with me, or I shall be very much offended. 
 I shall think I have done something that makes you 
 want to avoid me. First, I must scold you. It's been ages 
 since we have seen you. You are cutting us. Why haven't 
 you come to the house all this time? 
 
 FREYDIERES. I've had so much to do. 
 
 MADELEINE. Oh! [A silence.] Oh! how warm I am; 
 I can't breathe. [She goes near the window.] It must be 
 delightful outside. Do you know what you would do, if 
 you were nice? 
 
 FREYDIERES. No. 
 
 MADELEINE. You would offer me your arm and we 
 should go for a walk in the garden. 
 
 FREYDIERES. You wouldn't think of it! 
 
 MADELEINE. I was just thinking of it. I should much 
 rather walk with you, under the trees, this beautiful night, 
 while all those people fuss about here. It would seem just 
 as if we were traveling. 
 
 FREYDIERES. You might take cold and then 
 
 MADELEINE. And then? 
 
 FREYDIERES. You would be ill. 
 
 MADELEINE. One follows the other. You refuse, then? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Absolutely. . 
 
 MADELEINE. Bah! How provoking you are! It's a 
 shame ! [She sits down near him.] What's the matter with 
 
242 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 you this evening? You don't behave as usual. Besides, you 
 don't speak to me any more as a friend, a comrade. 
 
 FREYDIERES. You are no longer the little girl I knew; 
 you're a young lady now. 
 
 MADELEINE. So much the worse if this transformation 
 is going to put a stop to our pleasant intimacy and make 
 you formal. Then talk to me as to a young lady; tell me 
 if I have a pretty gown, if you like it. Everybody has 
 been paying me compliments this evening; you are the only 
 one who hasn't. 
 
 FREYDIERES. You are coming out this evening and you're 
 having the greatest success. You don't need compliments 
 from me. 
 
 MADELEINE. You don't know anything about it. Com- 
 pliments from you would certainly give me the most pleas- 
 ure. Then it is true even for you who have seen me in 
 short dresses that I act like a young lady? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Quite. You act like a young lady, as you 
 say; so much so, that when you first came in to-night, I 
 didn't recognize you. 
 
 MADELEINE. Oh ! I'm glad. I've had great success. Is 
 it true that I'm so pretty as all that? 
 
 FREYDIERES. " As all that," I don't know. 
 
 MADELEINE. You don't know? 
 
 FREYDIERES. You wish me, willy-nilly, to compliment 
 you? 
 
 MADELEINE. Yes, willy-nilly. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Well, you are more than pretty. You shed 
 so much brightness around you, that in spite of oneself, one 
 looks to find what it is that floods you with light you 
 know, like the little princess of the fairy tale; but this 
 brightness really comes from your youth and a beauty 
 so pure, that one must look out not to cast on it the shadow 
 of cheap praise. 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 243 
 
 MADELEINE. Well, you've given me more than I asked 
 for and I'm happy to have you speak to me in this way; 
 it makes me very proud and I need this pride, for just 
 now I had the humiliation of being less delicately appre- 
 ciated. My partner 
 
 FREYDIERES. Prabert? 
 
 MADELEINE. Yes, he paid me compliments that were 
 rather too bold and, as I didn't say anything, naturally 
 the fool took my silence for encouragement. He held me 
 tighter in his arms ; he persisted in looking into my corsage ; 
 and he lifted me so that my feet scarcely touched the floor; 
 and I had to pretend that I was dizzy, and I begged him 
 to take me to my seat. 
 
 FREYDIERES. [Getting up, much irritated.] What a 
 blackguard ! 
 
 MADELEINE. What? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Nothing nothing there's nothing you can 
 do about it so long as you dance! I have known you for 
 five years, and I am your friend; but if I merely took 
 your hand differently from the way I should in saying good- 
 morning or good-evening, it would seem strange, awful ; but 
 this evening the first-comer has the right to put his arm 
 around you and to hold you tight. You were offended be- 
 cause he looked into your corsage, but it is his right; it 
 is his duty, he is your partner in the dance, it is dread- 
 ful ! What familiarity, what privileges such a title permits ! 
 But, then, those who don't wish people to see what passes 
 in their house, don't throw their windows wide open. 
 
 MADELEINE. What windows? Oh, yes you think I am 
 too decolletee ? 
 
 FREYDIERES. I Oh! the idea! Are you crying? 
 
 MADELEINE. Yes no I don't know. Really I believe 
 it's for joy. 
 
 FREYDIERES. [To make up.] You are not taking seri- 
 
244 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 ously what I just said. I was joking. Besides, it doesn't 
 concern me it's nothing to me; I'm not qualified. Since 
 your mother dresses you so, it is all right. She knows bet- 
 ter than I what is proper or rather what suits the occa- 
 sion. [While he says the above, MADELEINE has put a 
 chiffon scarf over her shoulders.] But it's not because of 
 what I've just said that you put this over your shoulders? 
 
 MADELEINE. Not at all; it's because I'm a little cold. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Just now, you were too warm. 
 
 MADELEINE. But now I'm cold, truly ! 
 
 FREYDIERES. Madeleine, you're not angry with me ? 
 
 MADELEINE. Oh, no, my good friend, I'm not angry with 
 you; on the contrary, I'm very grateful to you; you have 
 never spoken to me this way before. And it seems, for 
 the first time, that you have spoken to me as a woman. Al- 
 ways tell me what displeases you in me, so that I may 
 correct it. 
 
 FREYDIERES. But nothing can displease me in you, Made- 
 leine, and once more, I have no right 
 
 MADELEINE. I give it to you, alone; I assure you it will 
 give me pleasure, you can't know how much. Give me al- 
 ways this proof of affection, will you? Besides, I sha'n't 
 dance any more. You're right; dancing is stupid. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Don't do that. I exaggerated; I've gone 
 a little too far. Dancing is an elegant and even healthy 
 exercise, if one doesn't carry it to excess, and a good dancer 
 is not necessarily the despicable fellow I represented him 
 to be just now. Fortunately Prabert is an exception; for 
 one can be a good dancer and an honorable man. There 
 are certain qualities required that I don't possess. I've 
 never been able to dance; I'm light-headed; in my case 
 there was even a sort of secret pique. 
 
 MADELEINE. Oh, yes, now you are joking and I have no 
 longer any desire whatever to dance. 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 245 
 
 FREYDIERES. For pity's sake, dance! Or else you will 
 be rude to the young men to whom you've promised dances. 
 It would be a great offense against good form, against 
 the world. There is nothing more exacting than the law 
 of pleasure. 
 
 [During these last words, a young man has come up to 
 MADELEINE.] 
 
 YOUNG MAN. Mademoiselle, I believe I have the honor 
 of this waltz? 
 
 MADELEINE. Yes, Monsieur. 
 
 [She looks questioningly at FREYDIERES, who nods his 
 approval, and she goes away on the arm of the young man. 
 FREYDIERES follows her with his eyes; he is unaware that 
 for some minutes CLAIRE, all the while talking with ERN- 
 STEIN, has been watching him and that now she is behind 
 him.] 
 
 CLAIRE. What a dreamer you have become all of a 
 sudden ! 
 
 FREYDIERES. [Turning, surprised.] Were you there? 
 
 CLAIRE. What were you saying to Madeleine that was 
 so interesting? You were so much absorbed that you didn't 
 notice I was there for five minutes with Ernstein; you spoke 
 with such animation 
 
 FREYDIERES. Your daughter didn't wish to dance any 
 more and I told her that, at least, she must keep the engage- 
 ments she had made. 
 
 CLAIRE. I should have given her the same advice. [A 
 silence.] I have just had a conversation with Ernstein 
 about a most important matter. He has a match planned 
 for my daughter. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Ah ! 
 
 CLAIRE. A young man who has just come back from 
 Indo-China a fellow with a fine future, it seems his name 
 is Heybens. Do you know him? 
 
246 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 FREYDIERES. It seems I know the name. Did he intro- 
 duce him to you? 
 
 CLAIRE. No, he pointed him out. He seems a nice 
 fellow very nice, indeed. Ernstein is going to have us to 
 dinner with him next week. But there's nothing definite yet. 
 The chief thing is to please Madeleine. Do you know, 
 this conversation with Ernstein has been a sudden awaken- 
 ing for me. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Awakening? 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes. Of course, I knew I had a daughter who 
 would marry some time and that one day or other we must 
 be separated. I have often thought of Madeleine's marry- 
 ing, but it appeared so indefinite, so far away. Now, sud- 
 denly, here is the question before me. Do you under- 
 stand ? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Yes, I understand. 
 
 CLAIRE. I am shown a gentleman as a prospective son- 
 in-law. I have a daughter to marry. Only a moment ago 
 it became a definite, imminent fact. Then suddenly I under- 
 stood with a singular but tardy distinctness what a very im- 
 prudent woman I have been. 
 
 FREYDIERES. In what way? 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes, I must expect that several suitors will 
 present themselves for Madeleine this evening; she is mak- 
 ing such a hit. I say it without false modesty, but she is 
 dazzling. If it is not Monsieur Heybens, it will be an- 
 other. The parents interested will look up the family into 
 which the son wishes to enter and if they should learn 
 my relations with you only think ! It's dreadful ! For it 
 would do the greatest harm to my daughter's prospects. 
 
 FREYDIERES. You appear upset! One would think that 
 this idea of the possibility of our liaison being known 
 had suddenly dawned upon you. 
 
 CLAIRE. No, but it has never appeared so menacing as 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 247 
 
 these last minutes so much so that I imagine it is the 
 subject of every conversation this evening 
 
 FREYDIERES. Why do you think so? 
 
 CLAIRE. Of course, there's no use discussing it; it can't 
 be explained. It's an impression, a presentiment you know 
 what we women are. 
 
 FREYDIERES. You could never keep people from talking, 
 seeing it's known everywhere that I am constantly received 
 at your house in the greatest intimacy. 
 
 CLAIRE. That's just it! I have thought it would per- 
 haps be better for you to come to the house less fre- 
 quently that you should, little by little, make your calls 
 farther apart even not come at all so that people might 
 think there was 
 
 FREYDIERES. A coolness? 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes. I didn't dare say that word. Of course, 
 the coolness will be only pretended, for I shall continue to 
 see you in a different way. I shall see you always. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Of course ; but don't be so much distressed 
 about the matter. I'll do what you wish as always, I 
 shall obey you. 
 
 CLAIRE. I expressed myself badly; I beg your pardon. 
 I don't know how to say it. 
 
 FREYDIERES. That's all right; I understand you. 
 
 CLAIRE. We'll speak about it to-morrow. But let us 
 not stay here away from the rest. Let us separate; that 
 will be better. 
 
 FREYDIERES. I'll say good-by, then; I'm going. 
 
 CLAIRE. Good-by. I wish this evening were over ! To- 
 morrow ? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Yes. [He goes out.] 
 
 [PRABERT comes in by the door in the right, followed by 
 two servants, pushing a sort of cart, upon which are arranged 
 the favors for the cotillon.] 
 
248 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 PRABERT. [To the servants.] Wait put this there and 
 then go for the baskets. Put them on the sofa and 
 chairs. 
 
 [The servants follow the orders of PRABERT. MME. ERN- 
 STEIN comes down the stairs with MLLE. CHOSCONESCO.] 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. [Seeing PRABERT.] Ah, Mademoiselle 
 Chosconesco, here's your partner. [To PRABERT.] You are 
 getting everything ready? You have all you need? 
 
 PRABERT. Yes, yes, thank you. 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. How soon will you be ready ? 
 
 PRABERT. Oh, in ten minutes; in a quarter of an hour 
 we could begin. [To MLLE. CHOSCONESCO.] You see, 
 Mademoiselle, all the favors are there. We shall be near 
 the door and they will be passed to us in order. 
 
 MLLE. CHOSCONESCO. What do we begin with? 
 
 PRABERT. With the flower arches. You have your list? 
 
 MLLE. CHOSCONESCO. Yes, yes. 
 
 PRABERT. If you please, we'll look it through together. 
 [Meanwhile MME. LACORTE has entered, followed by HEY- 
 BENS.] 
 
 MME. LACORTE. [Passing by PRABERT.] How hand- 
 some you are, Prabert! You're going to lead the cotillon? 
 
 PRABERT. Yes ; it's not much fun for me, I assure you. 
 
 MME. LACORTE. Nor for me, I wager. [Followed by 
 HEYBENS, she sits down.] 
 
 HEYBENS. [Much excited.] Yes, it's easy to under- 
 stand; put yourself in my place. I've been deprived for 
 so long ! Then this ball, this music, these lights, these flow- 
 ers, these shoulders ; they intoxicate me, intoxicate me ; and 
 from having talked only an hour with you who are so 
 pretty, so witty, and who must be so good. 
 
 MME. LACORTE. Especially good ! 
 
 HEYBENS. I love you; there is no other word for it. I 
 love you with all that the word implies. 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 249 
 
 MME. LACORTE. My compliments! You don't lose any 
 time; you don't take a round-about way. 
 
 HEYBENS. It's never round-about. 
 
 MME. LACORTE. You are in a hurry it might be called 
 the return of the prospector. There are no women over 
 there, then? 
 
 HEYBENS. There are the congdies. 
 
 MME. LACORTE. What kind of animals are those? 
 
 HEYBENS. That's just what they are animals; little, 
 passive, uninteresting things and they are yellow, too. 
 
 MME. LACORTE. Oh, I understand; I give you the effect 
 of white bread after the siege. 
 
 HEYBENS. Of very white bread, if one can judge by 
 what is seen. 
 
 MME. LACORTE. What a pretty compliment from a 
 colonial ! 
 
 HEYBENS. It's your fault; your gown you are a trifle 
 exposed. 
 
 MME. LACORTE. You exaggerate. 
 
 HEYBENS [Looking into her corsage.] You must admit 
 that between this, and a high-necked gown, there is a great 
 gap. 
 
 MME. LACORTE. So long as it is filled up. 
 
 HEYBENS. You fill it, and you fill us with grati- 
 tude! 
 
 MME. LACORTE. What you must have suffered! But 
 I always thought that in those countries you come from, 
 love was a highly perfected art. 
 
 HEYBENS. Where have you learned that? 
 
 MME. LACORTE. In the Kama-Soutra. 
 
 HEYBENS. Oh, first the Kama-Soutra is very old and 
 then it is in the Indies that they practice love that way. 
 But I'm speaking of Annam and I assure you the congdies 
 are no artists. 
 
250 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 MME. LACORTE. I want to ask you if it is true that in 
 that country oh, no, I don't dare. 
 
 HEYBENS. Why, yes, dare. 
 
 MME. LACORTE. Well oh, no, I can't. 
 
 HEYBENS. Is it, then, so terrible? 
 
 MME. LACORTE. Come nearer then I will whisper it in 
 your ear. [She whispers to him behind her fan. Mean- 
 while MADELEINE with the young man who is her partner, 
 comes into the room, and goes to her mother.] 
 
 MADELEINE. Oh, Mamma, I was looking for you. Has 
 Freydieres gone? 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes. 
 
 MADELEINE. This gentleman has invited me for the 
 cotillon, and I have never danced the cotillon so I shall 
 be very awkward. 
 
 THE YOUNG MAN. You will get through it all right. 
 First you must learn the favors. 
 
 MADELEINE. Of course. Let's go look at them. [Both 
 examine the favors. Meanwhile MME. LACORTE has stopped 
 whispering to HEYBENS.] 
 
 MME. LACORTE. Oh, you are disgusting ! 
 
 HEYBENS. You asked me. 
 
 MME. LACORTE. How horrible ! I had been told it 
 was so, but I would never believe it. Are you telling me the 
 truth? 
 
 HEYBENS. The simple truth. 
 
 MME. LACORTE. You call that simple? 
 
 MADELEINE. [To THE YOUNG MAN.] Oh, I've forgot- 
 ten my fan I must have left it on the mantel-piece in the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 THE YOUNG MAN. I'll bring it to you in a minute. 
 [MADELEINE, left alone, continues to look at the cotillon 
 favors. She is only two steps from MME. LACORTE and 
 HEYBENS.] 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 251 
 
 HEYBENS. [To MME. LACORTE as he looks at CLAIRE, 
 who is talking with MME. ERNSTEIN.] What a lucky dog 
 Freydieres is ! 
 
 MME. LACORTE. [Who feels that MADELEINE is just 
 behind her.] Why do you say that? 
 
 HEYBENS. Because I'm looking at the person who is talk- 
 ing to Madame Ernstein. 
 
 MME. LACORTE. What has that to do with the ques- 
 tion? 
 
 HEYBENS. What has it to do? Didn't you tell me just 
 now that she is his mistress? [MADELEINE, who has heard 
 him, sinks upon a chair.] 
 
 MME. LACORTE. [With a scowl at him.] I never said that. 
 [She gets up and drags HEYBENS away, as he insists.] 
 
 HEYBENS. Oh, indeed, that's too much; you never said 
 that this Madame Jadain 
 
 MME. LACORTE. [Taking his arm.] Oh, hush! 
 
 [At this moment, THE YOUNG MAN returns to MADE- 
 LEINE. 
 
 THE YOUNG MAN. Here's your fan. [Seeing that MADE- 
 LEINE has fainted, he calls.] Prabert! Prabert! Come 
 here! 
 
 PRABERT. Go tell her mother. She's over there. [THE 
 YOUNG MAN goes to tell CLAIRE, who runs up to MADE- 
 LEINE. People crowd around her.] 
 
 HEYBENS. What's the matter with that girl? 
 
 MME. LACORTE. It's Mademoiselle Jadain it's her 
 daughter her daughter ! She heard everything. 
 
 HEYBENS. Oh, you think so? 
 
 MME. LACORTE. I'm sure of it. Oh, you're not very 
 clever. One sees very well you have just come back from 
 an uncivilized country. 
 
 CLAIRE. [To MADELEINE.] What is the matter with 
 you? Are you ill? 
 
252 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 MADELEINE. Yes; let us go away; I can't stay here. I 
 don't know what's the matter; I feel very ill. 
 
 MME. ERNSTEIN. Won't you take something, Madeleine ? 
 
 MADELEINE. No, no; let us go away; there is nothing 
 to do. 
 
 CLAIRE. But wait, my child; perhaps you will be 
 better. 
 
 MADELEINE. No, I sha'n't be better here. 
 
 CLAIRE. But what is the matter with the child? Dear 
 me, she is so nervous, she frightens me. Good-by, Madame 
 Ernstein ; will you excuse us ? 
 
 ERNSTEIN. [Coming up.] What's the matter? You're 
 not staying for the cotillon? They're just going to begin. 
 
 CLAIRE. No, Madeleine is ill. Will you be kind enough 
 to tell my husband? [CLAIRE and MADELEINE go out, 
 accompanied by MME. ERNSTEIN. PRABERT, MLLE. CHOSCO- 
 NESCO, and THE YOUNG MAN talk together about the in- 
 cident.] 
 
 HEYBENS. I'm awfully sorry. 
 
 MME. LACORTE. I felt it coming but I scowled at you 
 in vain you kept on and on. When I touched your foot, 
 didn't you understand? 
 
 HEYBENS. I didn't think it was for that. 
 
 MME. LACORTE. What a break ! It makes me thirsty. 
 Come, let's get something to drink. [The curtain falls.] 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 [Two weeks later in the little drawing-room of the JADAINS. 
 When the curtain rises, CLAIRE, who is alone, is turn- 
 ing over the leaves of a book. Her sister enters.] 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. How is Madeleine this morning? 
 CLAIRE. Always the same. She didn't sleep last night. 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 253 
 
 Then about eight o'clock, I made her take the medicine the 
 doctor ordered and finally she has dozed off. 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. I thought the doctor ordered you, in 
 the weak state in which Madeleine is, not to give the medi- 
 cine unless it was absolutely necessary. 
 
 CLAIRE. [With a gesture of discouragement.] Oh, I 
 know it; but she hasn't slept for so many nights! She 
 doesn't eat ; she doesn't sleep ; that can't last very long. Oh, 
 I'm beside myself, beside myself. 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. Don't, Claire. 
 
 CLAIRE. If one could only know what's the matter with 
 her ; but here it's two weeks that she has been in this state. 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. Yes, since the ball at the Ernsteins' 
 that makes two weeks. 
 
 CLAIRE. It's dreadful to see your child ill and not be 
 able to help her. The doctor himself is powerless; he has 
 examined her, sounded her lungs, auscultated her. He 
 doesn't find anything wrong. Besides she doesn't complain 
 of anything. She says she doesn't suffer, and yet she is 
 wasting away. 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. He says she has neurasthenia. 
 
 CLAIRE. That's their great word when their knowledge 
 fails them; but one doesn't become neurasthenic in a min- 
 ute; there must be symptoms the disease must progress. 
 She became sad suddenly and silent, she, who was the 
 delight of this house and radiated the joy of living. The 
 night before, even, she ate, she slept, she sang, she 
 laughed ! 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. She dreamed also she has some secret 
 grief; perhaps a sick heart for which we must seek the 
 cause. 
 
 CLAIRE. [With a little impatience.] When will you 
 stop saying that? But think how I have several times 
 asked Madeleine, and how anxious I've been! It's of no 
 
254 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 use; she says nothing; she has seen how distressed I am, 
 has seen me weeping. Once, only once, I thought she was 
 going to speak; but, suddenly she checked herself and 
 I detected behind that pale brow, a will, a determina- 
 tion to say nothing. What can there be behind that behind 
 that? [She strikes her forehead.] She says nothing more 
 to you? 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. No. 
 
 CLAIRE. But she has the greatest confidence in you; you 
 are her friend. 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. So are you. 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes, but I don't know any more what to do. 
 Just now I was reading this medical book; I thought I 
 should be more clear-sighted than the doctors. Oh, dear 
 me! 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. It's her heart you must read. 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes, her heart, but how? 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. Listen. I have an idea. 
 
 CLAIRE. What? 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. Her diary. 
 
 CLAIRE. Do you think ? 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. Yes that blank book her father gave 
 her, where she writes her thoughts, her impressions. 
 
 CLAIRE. Oh, we shall find nothing there. 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. Who knows? Perhaps we shall get a 
 hint. 
 
 CLAIRE. For two weeks, she has written nothing in it. 
 Do you know where the diary is? 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. Yes, it's in her room in one of her 
 bureau drawers. 
 
 CLAIRE. Well, go look for it while she is asleep. [MME. 
 CHENEVAS goes out; CLAIRE remains alone some seconds; 
 then ETIENNE comes in from his study. He carries his hat, 
 ready to go out.] 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 255 
 
 ETIENNE. Has she finally gone to sleep? 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes. 
 
 ETIENNE. Let's hope it will do her good. Poor child, 
 it's distressing; I don't know any more how to exist; I have 
 no taste for anything. In the midst of all this, I must go 
 on with my business. Well, I'm obliged to do some errands 
 before lunch. I'll be back at twelve, half-past twelve. 
 By the way, I received a letter from Freydieres this morn- 
 ing. He's going to come pretty soon to say good-by to us. 
 
 CLAIRE. Good-by? He's going away? 
 
 ETIENNE. It looks like it. 
 
 CLAIRE. Where is he going? 
 
 ETIENNE. To Tunis for that case he's told us 
 about. He'll explain it to you. At all events, keep him 
 till I come in, for I would like to say good-by to him. Try 
 to have him stay to lunch. 
 
 CLAIRE. Very well. 
 
 ETIENNE. Well, good-by. [He goes out.] 
 
 CLAIRE. [Left alone-] He's going away! 
 
 [MME. CHENEVAS enters. 
 
 CLAIRE. You have it? 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. Yes. 
 
 CLAIRE. She didn't wake up? 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. No; I went so quietly. 
 
 CLAIRE. She doesn't suspect us, and we are abusing her 
 confidence. 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. Since she won't speak you are her 
 mother you have a perfect right; in such a case all 
 means are justifiable. 
 
 CLAIRE. You are right. But this book locks; we haven't 
 
 the key. I'm afraid to open it. Well, [She 
 
 takes from a table near her a little metal paper knife and 
 breaks open the clasp. She reads:] " January 1st I be- 
 
256 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 gin my diary to-day. I need to have a confidant and to 
 put down the thoughts which, for some time, have deluded 
 and oppressed me. I have a sort of feverish hope. 
 
 " January 4th. He comes back to-day. This whole week 
 without seeing him has seemed endless. It's cold; it is 
 raining; and yet I am so full of joy that I could shout. I 
 understand those who have faith and who, in certain coun- 
 tries, on Easter day, kiss each other in the streets, saying, 
 ' Christ is risen ! ' 
 
 " Thursday evening. He has been here. Alas ! My 
 poor joy is now turned to sadness. I am discouraged. He 
 always speaks to me as if I were a child. He does not 
 perceive anything." 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. It's Freydieres. 
 
 CLAIRE. It can't be any one else. 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. What is the matter with you? 
 
 CLAIRE. Nothing, nothing! [She continues to read.] 
 Yes, that's it; she loves him; she loves him. That's all; it's 
 not necessary to go on we know what to think. 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. A young girl's love is not very serious. 
 
 CLAIRE. Her feelings are never superficial. 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. She loves him, but that is no reason 
 why she should be so sick as she is. There must be some- 
 thing else. Does he love her, that's the question? 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes but leave me, please, will you? 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. Yes. 
 
 [She goes out; CLAIRE sits still several seconds, leaning 
 on her elbow in thought. She does not hear MADELEINE 
 open the door very carefully. Her daughter stands in a 
 white tea gown, behind her, very pale.] 
 
 MADELEINE. [Very much annoyed.] Ah, it's you who 
 have my diary? Why did you take it? Why did you do 
 that? You had no right; it's mine; it's not yours it's 
 wicked what you have done. 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 257 
 
 CLAIRE. Madeleine, Madeleine, you forget you are speak- 
 ing to your mother. 
 
 MADELEINE. I am speaking to the one who has intruded 
 upon my most intimate thoughts, who has profaned my soul. 
 
 CLAIRE. Be silent, be silent ! 
 
 MADELEINE. Yes. [She takes the book and throws it 
 to the other end of the room.] Oh, I have no use for it 
 any more; I. don't care for it any longer; you may keep 
 it. Everybody may read it now it's all the same to me. 
 
 CLAIRE. [Very gently, going to pick up the book.] You 
 are wrong, Madeleine, to be angry. I had a right to do 
 what I did. 
 
 MADELEINE. Then why did you do it secretly? Why 
 did you take advantage of my sleep to slip into my room 
 and rummage in my desk and bureau ? You hoped you could 
 put the book back in iij place before I should wake up 
 and that I should not notice it; and your curiosity has 
 been satisfied. Unfortunately, you miscalculated; I waked 
 up in time. Besides, I dreamed that some one entered my 
 room, and in my sleep, I saw yes, I saw somebody take 
 this book from me. 
 
 CLAIRE. Ah, my poor child, I did not make any such 
 calculations, and it is not my curiosity that I wanted to 
 satisfy, but my anxiety that I wanted to relieve. For 
 two weeks, think, I have seen you suffering I don't know 
 from what; you have been extreme^ sad and stubbornly 
 silent. You have withdrawn within yourself; it seems 
 that you have lost all confidence in me and that a great 
 gulf has opened between us. 
 
 MADELEINE. If I kept silent, it is evident that I wished 
 to keep my secret, and if I had wished also to die with this 
 secret, it concerned only myself. My inner life belongs 
 to me, I suppose; and I intend to have it respected. I told 
 you nothing and I have nothing to tell. I am no longer 
 
258 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 a child, and there comes an age when girls no longer show 
 themselves all naked even to their mothers. 
 
 CLAIRE. Oh, how you misunderstand my affection ! But 
 your anger does not provoke me nor do your cruel words 
 wound me. It's not my dear Madeleine who speaks now; 
 it is not the child I have rocked and nourished and 
 brought up with so much love, but a sad and feverish 
 person; and if I wished so much to know your secret, 
 it was only to try to assuage this grief and to cure 
 this fever. So I used the only means within my power, 
 since you said nothing. This means seems to you despotic 
 and disloyal and I grant it. Well, I beg your pardon 
 I beg your pardon, Madeleine. 
 
 MADELEINE. [With a movement towards her mother.] 
 Oh, Mamma! 
 
 CLAIRE. And then what have I discovered that's so ter- 
 rible? You're in love. Why keep it a secret? It's not a 
 crime to love, nor a disgrace; one is not mistress of one's 
 heart. 
 
 MADELEINE. It's not that; you are mistaken it's not 
 that. Then I don't love him any longer; I can't love him 
 any longer. It's over with; it's over with forever. 
 
 [She throws herself upon the sofa and breaks into 
 sobs. 
 
 CLAIRE. [Going to her.] Why, Madeleine, my dear, 
 what is the matter? 
 
 MADELEINE. Oh, mother, I am so unhappy! You can't 
 imagine what I suffer. I beg your pardon it's not my 
 fault I didn't want to cry. I didn't want to say any- 
 thing but my life is ruined. 
 
 CLAIRE. At your age, how can you say that? 
 
 MADELEINE. Yes, ruined; I know very well what I'm 
 saying. Oh, I feel so badly, so badly! It seems to me 
 that some one crushes my bursting heart into my breast 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 259 
 
 and then pounds on it so as to make it a poor little thing 
 a poor little thing all broken. 
 
 CLAIRE. But I can't let you 
 
 MADELEINE. You can do nothing. 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes, I can hear you ; I can listen to you. Now, 
 come very near me, on my knees, as you did when you were 
 little. 
 
 [She takes her on her knees. 
 
 MADELEINE. I can't say anything especially to you. 
 
 CLAIRE. Why, to me? 
 
 MADELEINE. Because you are my mother, whom I wor- 
 ship. 
 
 CLAIRE. [Speaking with precaution and groping, so to 
 speak, like a person who is walking without a light in a 
 dark and unfamiliar room.] Forget, then, that I am your 
 mother think that we are two women and that women are 
 all equal in the pain of loving. Now, speak; I'll help 
 you. Why can't you love him any longer ? The other even- 
 ing perhaps you said something to him I don't know I am 
 trying to think. Sometimes when one has a deep feeling, 
 one betrays it in spite of oneself. And then, in the excite- 
 ment of the ball, in the joy of being pretty and receiving 
 attention, you may have said something significant definite 
 that he did not understand, that he did not wish to under- 
 stand. 
 
 MADELEINE. Oh, no, it's not that just the opposite. 
 
 CLAIRE. [As to herself.] Just the opposite? Ah, ah! 
 Well, then, this evening, something happened. Speak; be 
 courageous. 
 
 MADELEINE. Oh, well I'm going to tell you everything, 
 because I can't keep it to myself any longer. It strangles 
 me. Well, then oh, no, it isn't possible ! I can't ! 
 
 CLAIRE. Madeleine, my child, what can it be? Please, 
 please tell me. 
 
260 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 MADELEINE. Oh, well, then it's a conversation I heard. 
 Some people were speaking a man and a woman I didn't 
 know. I sat near them; they didn't know I was your 
 daughter. 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes, yes, go on. 
 
 MADELEINE. They spoke of you and of him, and they 
 said that you were his 
 
 CLAIRE. It's not true ! It's not true ! 
 
 MADELEINE. But you haven't let me 
 
 CLAIRE. I guess what they might say and I think I 
 hear them. I understand now your despair and your silence 
 and why you have spoken to me just now, not as a girl 
 to her mother, but as a woman to her rival; no, I am not 
 your rival ! My poor child, it is true, you do not know what 
 the world is, but a cruel moment has been sufficient for you 
 to learn its wickedness, its thoughtlessness, and the custo- 
 mary tone of its conversations. 
 
 MADELEINE. But they said that about you, Mamma, 
 about you! 
 
 CLAIRE. There is no woman who is safe from these 
 insinuations and slanders; you will understand this later. 
 A man and a woman are intimate, are friends; the world 
 draws from it certain conclusions. 
 
 MADELEINE. But these people do not know you; you 
 have done nothing to them; they are bad, then. 
 
 CLAIRE. No, perhaps they are not bad; they said that 
 without attaching any importance to it, not knowing 
 you were there and that what they said so lightly, would 
 fall heavily on your heart for you believed it. 
 
 MADELEINE. No, no! I didn't want to believe it. I 
 mean, I don't know I wanted to forget those horrid words, 
 but, in spite of myself, I heard them continually; they rang 
 in my ears. It was the downfall of my fondest ideal in you, 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 261 
 
 and in him of my sweetest dream. Oh, those words! I 
 should have heard them always or rather I should have died 
 of them! Yes, died! 
 
 CLAIRE. Don't say that. 
 
 MADELEINE. Only an hour ago, I assure you, I didn't 
 care much for life. I remember that evening I was so 
 happy; I had just been talking with him, and for the first 
 time I was sure he loved me. 
 
 CLAIRE. How? 
 
 MADELEINE. Oh, he didn't tell me he did! He is far 
 too considerate for that; but you know, we women are not 
 deceived in such a matter we feel those things, and then 
 imagine it we had a little quarrel and I saw it was because 
 he was jealous of a fool with whom I danced, a certain 
 Prabert Prabert, just think of it! The dear! He con- 
 trolled himself at once, of course. All the same, he was 
 angry and I was so glad and there, a few minutes after, 
 those people had to oh, it's dreadful ! Then I understood 
 his reserve with me, his coldness for some time previously, 
 and why he no longer came to the house so often, as if he 
 wished to avoid me, to shun me and then the thought, 
 especially that such a thing was the obstacle to my hap- 
 piness. 
 
 CLAIRE. But you don't believe it now any longer? 
 
 MADELEINE. No, I don't believe it any longer. 
 
 CLAIRE. Ah, you don't say that with conviction. 
 
 MADELEINE. No, it's not true; it's not true! You as- 
 sure me on your word you swear it? 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes, I swear it. 
 
 MADELEINE. On my life? 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes, on your [she checks herself and says] 
 on your happiness, for, you see, life without happiness is 
 nothing on your happiness 
 
 MADELEINE. But my happiness is to be his wife! 
 
262 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 CLAIRE. Since you love him and he loves you, you shall 
 be his wife. Do you believe me now? 
 
 MADKLEINE. Oh, yes, Mamma! I beg your pardon. 
 Ah, if you knew what a weight has been removed. I can 
 breathe now ; I can live again ; I am going to be well ; I feel 
 it, I promise you. You shall not be sad any more on my 
 account. I'll not make you cry again. 
 
 [At this moment a maid comes in. 
 
 MARIE. Madame, Monsieur Freydieres wishes to speak 
 with you. 
 
 CLAIRE. Tell Madame Chenevas to come here. Have 
 Monsieur Freydieres come in when I ring. 
 
 MARIE. Very well, Madame. 
 
 [She goes out. 
 
 MADELEINE. It's he; it's he! I don't want to see 
 him ; I'm going away. What are you going to say to him ? 
 Be sure to question him very carefully. Don't seem to be 
 throwing me at his head. Well, I trust myself to you. My 
 happiness is in your hands. 
 
 CLAIRE. You may entrust it to me; it will be safe. 
 
 [MME. CHENEVAS enters. 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. You wanted me? 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes, Freydieres is here. I want to speak to 
 him; take Madeleine away and stay with her. 
 
 MME. CHENEVAS. Yes. 
 
 [She goes out with MADELEINE; CLAIRE remains alone, 
 a prey to what thoughts can be imagined; then she rings. 
 The maid shows FREYDIERES in.] 
 
 FREYDIERES. Good-morning, Claire; how are you? 
 
 CLAIRE. Not very well, as you can imagine. 
 
 FREYDIERES. How is Madeleine this morning? 
 
 CLAIRE. Better, thank you ; at least I hope she is going 
 to be better. Ah, I have spent two wretched weeks. I 
 have thought a good deal and I must speak to you very seri- 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 263 
 
 ously. [She motions him to sit down.] For some time, 
 life has been very sad around me and in the midst of so 
 many anxieties of all sorts, I have found out I have come 
 to feel that I ought not to love you any more as I have in 
 the past. Oh, I shall always feel for you, don't doubt it, a 
 great affection; but I want to ask you whether we can't 
 both agree to change our love, which has so much torture 
 and remorse and perhaps disaster, into a faithful, devoted 
 friendship, full of calm security that doesn't mean that 
 we must forget. Does such a request from me surprise 
 you? 
 
 FREYDIERES. I must admit it does. But why such a 
 change ? 
 
 CLAIRE. I am no longer the woman you have known. 
 So far I have always believed that love was every- 
 thing. I have been imprudent, jealous, sensual, exclusive, 
 passionate, but, you see, there are other things also. I 
 have realized it fully to-day; all that was needed to have 
 my feelings towards you change was that Madeleine should 
 fall ill and that I should feel myself being punished in her. 
 Jacques, for five years you have been my only reason for 
 living; you will remain, whatever may happen, the only one 
 whom I have ever loved. 
 
 FREYDIERES. My dear Claire! 
 CLAIRE. Besides, it seems that you are going away. 
 FREYDIERES. Yes. 
 
 CLAIRE. It was only a moment ago and from Etienne 
 that I learned this news. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Don't be offended; during these last days, 
 I could not speak to you about it, in the midst of your 
 anxieties. Besides, the date of my leaving was not defi- 
 nitely decided; but now I leave Paris day after to-morrow. 
 CLAIRE. Yes, you are going away because you do not 
 love me any more. 
 
264 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 FREYDIERES. Claire, why do you say that? 
 
 CLAIRE. Because, anticipating your pity, I wanted to 
 help you in your weakness. For a long time I have felt 
 you were growing away from me and I have spoken first 
 so as to make the disagreeable task of speaking to me 
 easier for you. Don't spare me then. Be frank and brave. 
 But you are crying? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Yes, I am crying for you, and for the 
 pain I am giving you for I've not been deceived by your 
 generous ruse. 
 
 CLAIRE. No, you've not been deceived; but you've not 
 protested; you've not cried out against it. Then cry 
 your tears are an avowal. You don't love me any longer ; it 
 is not your fault. I bear you no ill-will. On the contrary, 
 I pity you, for you are unhappy. A tragedy is taking 
 place in your heart, for you not only do not love me any 
 more but you love someone else. 
 
 FREYDIERES. I swear to you 
 
 CLAIRE. You love someone else: my daughter. 
 
 FREYDIERES. No, Claire, you are mistaken. 
 
 CLAIRE. Ah, so much the worse; for she loves you and 
 what is more serious, she has reason to believe that you 
 love her. 
 
 FREYDIERES. I have never told her so. 
 
 CLAIRE. Ah, you see! Well, that is what I want to 
 know. It is horrible what you have just said; there is 
 no name for it. I understand that you have had enough 
 of me. At the end of five years I have ceased to please 
 you. Five years! That's pretty long and I can't com- 
 plain. I have given you all my heart and all my body; 
 you don't wish them any longer; so be it! I understand 
 that you are tired of adultery and of its complications, 
 its deceits, and its restraints. I understand that you want 
 a lover who is free. I remember also that you are reach- 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 265 
 
 ing an age when a man feels the need of having a home 
 of his own. I should have understood that you would 
 leave me to marry; that you would choose a girl; that is 
 natural but not my daughter. Oh, no, not her! She 
 should have been sacred to you above all else; you should 
 not have even so much as thought of her and yet you did 
 think of her. 
 
 FREYDIERES. You are mistaken, Claire. But what 
 design do you attribute to me then? You speak to me as 
 if I were to blame for what has happened, but I don't know 
 how this feeling was born in me truly, I don't know. But 
 think how I have seen her constantly; to live continually 
 with her has been a dangerous test. I have fallen in love, 
 in spite of myself yes, in spite of myself by that mys- 
 terious charm of the young girl which, in the case of 
 Madeleine, is overpowering because it comes from inno- 
 cence itself. And then one does not realize; one does not 
 think so sweet a perfume will intoxicate, but it does in- 
 toxicate, and one is completely permeated with it. I 
 didn't understand what was taking place in me. What 
 I'm telling you now I did not formulate even to myself. 
 Besides, it has not been such a long time since I thought 
 of her as a child, as a little girl I had known and it was 
 only the day when I saw the confusion she experienced 
 near me, that I understood the nature of the charm I felt 
 near her and her love has revealed mine to me. Then I 
 wished to go away. I didn't want to come to this house 
 any more. Remember, you were the first to be alarmed at 
 my absence. There was then no premeditation on my part 
 nor treason towards you. I have not made her love me. I 
 have never spoken one word of love to her. I neither 
 defend nor accuse myself. I am simply explaining to you, 
 sincerely. 
 
 CLAIRE, Cruelly. 
 
266 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 FREYDIERES. It's the same thing. I am explaining to 
 you what has taken place in me, and you ought to believe 
 me. Claire, I beg you to believe me. The proof is, that I 
 have decided not to see her any more. 
 
 CLAIRE. I believe you I believe you. But it is none 
 the less horrible for me. Only think ! you two ! you two ! 
 And I can say nothing. It is you you who plunge the 
 knife into my heart; and my daughter who stops my mouth 
 so that I cannot cry out. You two will murder me. [She 
 breaks into sobs.] 
 
 FREYDIERES. Claire, listen to me. 
 
 CLAIRE. [In tears.] Oh, let me alone! let me alone! 
 Don't say anything more. I had resolved to be more cour- 
 ageous, but it's too much for me. I don't blame you, even. 
 I'm not jealous of my daughter, am I? I did wrong to 
 have you become so intimate in the family. I should have 
 foreseen that one day Madeleine would be eighteen; but 
 one never thinks of that other danger that you would 
 find again in her they say she resembles me your first 
 and early love for me. Oh, don't protest; it's all the same 
 to me now ! I don't care for anything any more. One hour 
 like this makes one grow twenty years older. I shall be 
 more than old; I shall survive myself. But it's no longer 
 a question of me. It's a question of my daughter. What 
 are you going to do ? 
 
 FREYDIERES. I have told you; I am going away, and I 
 shall not see her again. 
 
 CLAIRE. I can't tell Madeleine that. 
 
 FREYDIERES. You have nothing to tell her. 
 
 CLAIRE. She knows you are here, and after the ex- 
 planation I have just had with her 
 
 FREYDIERES. The explanation? 
 
 CLAIRE. I have just learned from her, herself, why she 
 was upset the other evening, at the Ernsteins'. She has con- 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 267 
 
 fessed to me that that evening she overheard a conversation 
 which revealed our liaison. Do you understand? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Oh! And then? 
 
 CLAIRE. I declared it wasn't true. I took my oath 
 upon her life upon her happiness and I did not hesitate 
 to take such an oath, I assure you. 
 
 FREYDIERES. You did right quite right. 
 
 CLAIRE. I did right, didn't I? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Yes. 
 
 CLAIRE. I went further, so that in spite of the oath 
 there shouldn't remain the slightest doubt, since you both 
 love each other. I told her that she should be your wife. 
 
 FREYDIERES. What! You would have me marry Made- 
 leine? Claire, don't think of it it's impossible. I don't 
 want to I can't. And it is you who propose such a thing 
 to me? But you certainly have not thought it over. You 
 certainly have not considered the dreadful situation such 
 a solution would put us in. 
 
 CLAIRE. I'm not concerned about us, but about Made- 
 leine. She will not know that is the essential thing. 
 
 FREYDIERES. But suppose, later, she should learn the 
 truth? She would have the right to blame us for hav- 
 ing built her happiness upon a deception. 
 
 CLAIRE. Upon a sacrifice. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Your sacrifice blinds you too much to the 
 nature of the resolution you have taken. 
 
 CLAIRE. But when a woman has a man by her side who 
 can defend her, there are certain things that people don't 
 come to tell her. The world is not brave. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Ah! since you speak of it, how will the 
 world judge us? It will say that you have shamelessly 
 given your lover to your daughter, and it will blame us 
 for making such a union. 
 
 CLAIRE. The world will not save my daughter. Then 
 
268 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 it's of no account what it will say. I have sworn to Made- 
 leine that I have not been your mistress. I have promised 
 her that she shall be your wife. We are bound by my 
 promise. 
 
 FREYDIERES. You are not I. 
 
 CLAIRE. We are both alike bound. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Listen to me, Claire ; a thing like this is 
 impossible. We are discussing it like two enemies two ad- 
 versaries. It is dreadful. Now, let us unite. Let us work 
 together. We must give reasons to Madeleine. Yes, it 
 is true our love founders hopelessly in such frightful cir- 
 cumstances, but we ought to remain friends two tender, 
 sorrowful friends. I have loved you, Claire ; I have loved 
 you. I am tortured myself, and I suffer. I am crying I 
 feel all the heartrending anguish of the separation. But, at 
 least, let us not make a bride's bouquet out of the funeral 
 wreath. Ah ! believe me, your sacrifice is useless ; it is not 
 Madeleine's happiness you have decided. 
 
 CLAIRE. Why? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Because happiness is more exacting; be- 
 cause, admitting, even, that she would never know any- 
 thing, and that her confidence in you has dispelled all her 
 doubts, you would always be, virtually, mysteriously near 
 us between us; her woman's instinct would divine your 
 wandering presence, and her filial heart would break with 
 anguish. No, I'm perfectly sure we should not be happy. 
 
 CLAIRE. Oh, don't say that ! At that time, I was near 
 you between you and yet you loved each other. But if 
 this door should open now, and Madeleine should come in, 
 the brightness of a beautiful day would come in with her; 
 you would no longer peer into the gloomy past, and happi- 
 ness would appear to you certain and desirable. 
 
 FREYDIERES. I know nothing about it. Perhaps it is 
 true. Everything is possible ; but I don't want even to think 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 269 
 
 of it; I don't want to live, knowing you are buried alive. 
 No, no, Claire; listen to me! I am ready to do anything. 
 I shall go away forever; I shall disappear, if it is neces- 
 sary. I shall begin life again, somewhere else, no mat- 
 ter where; but for Madeleine it would be as if I were 
 dead. 
 
 CLAIRE. Then she will say, " It was true, then ! " 
 
 FREYDIERES. Why, no. Tell her she was mistaken 
 that I do not love her; for I have never said anything 
 that would lead her to believe 
 
 CLAIRE. Your way of acting with her has shown it, 
 and your fit of jealousy the other evening broke out before 
 penetrating eyes. Well, there you should have been a bet- 
 ter master of yourself. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Oh, why have I known Madeleine? Ah, 
 yes, you did wrong to draw me to your house, and I did 
 wrong not to resist. Then your daughter has grown up 
 near us, in the subtle influence of our love in the con- 
 tagious atmosphere of our guilty love; and, from com- 
 promise to compromise, we have come to-day to discuss to 
 dare to discuss an infamy a veritable crime. 
 
 CLAIRE. How many a secret tragedy takes place around 
 us, and we are ignorant of the silent denouement 
 
 FREYDIERES. And false 
 
 CLAIRE. And painful 
 
 FREYDIERES. The pain is no excuse. 
 
 CLAIRE. My excuse is that for two weeks I have wit- 
 nessed the agony of my child, and there is only one way to 
 save her. 
 
 FREYDIERES. You are possessed now with the idea that 
 your daughter might die, and this idea hides everything 
 else ; but she is eighteen years old. Eighteen ! That is to 
 say, a whole lifetime is before her in which to forget, and 
 she will forget. 
 
270 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 CLAIRE. And if she shouldn't be one of those who for- 
 get, should there be only one chance of her dying of it, 
 it is this one chance that we must avert. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Oh, you'd better have told her the truth! 
 
 CLAIRE. It's only in novels that one tells the truth. 
 But, in life, when chance discovers it, one tries to cover it 
 up in order not to provoke some irreparable misfortune. 
 
 FREYDIERES. The truth is far better, however, with all 
 its consequences, than such an anomalous situation as ours. 
 
 CLAIRE. You would, then, prefer to have me tell 
 Madeleine the truth? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Yes a hundred times rather! 
 
 CLAIRE. Ah ! you would not speak that way if you had 
 seen her ; if, like me, you had held in your arms a miserable 
 child, white and trembling; if, like me, you had read in her 
 anxious eyes the terror of my fault and the shame of her 
 besmirched love! You would understand how I have not 
 had the courage the barbarity to tell her the cruel 
 truth. Yes, I have promised her everything ; I have pledged 
 my sacred word, because, above and beyond the truth, there 
 is her purity her tender youth; because, above everything, 
 there is pity. And since you speak of crime, the real crime 
 would have been to smite, perhaps fatally, an innocent child 
 do you understand, innocent? If you don't think so, tell 
 Madeleine yourself your resolution; tell her you are 
 going away, and that you will not return. If you have 
 decided that that is your duty, assume all the responsibility 
 of it with her, and spare me, at least, the torture of a new 
 explanation with my child. Besides, I could not I have 
 no more strength. I am going to have her called, and you 
 will speak to her. [She rings the bell.] 
 
 FREYDIERES. Do you realize what you are doing, Claire? 
 
 CLAIRE. I most certainly do. 
 
 [The maid comes in. 
 
THE OTHER DANGER 271 
 
 MARIE. Did Madame ring? 
 
 CLAIRE. Tell Mademoiselle to come, please. 
 
 MARIE. Very well, Madame. [She goes out.] 
 
 FREYDIERES. How do you want me to tell her? 
 
 CLAIRE. I don't know. You will probably find reasons 
 that I was unable to. 
 
 MADELEINE. [Entering.] You want to see me, 
 Mamma ? 
 
 CLAIRE. Yes, my dear; Monsieur Freydieres would like 
 to speak to you. 
 
 MADELEINE. [Smiling.] Ah! [Then, seeing the con- 
 fusion of FREYDIERES.] How you look at me! Do you find 
 me changed? I have been very sick, you know very sick. 
 
 FREYDIERES. I see it very well. 
 
 MADELEINE. But you frighten me! You don't seem to 
 recognize me. Have I changed, then, so much as that? 
 Ah! I can't be very pretty, and I am not a coquette, to 
 appear with such a face. But you want to speak to me? 
 
 FREYDIERES. [With a great effort.] Yes; I have come 
 to say farewell. 
 
 MADELEINE. [Very much moved.] Farewell? You are 
 going away? 
 
 FREYDIERES. Yes, I am going away. 
 
 MADELEINE. Why do you say farewell to me, and not 
 just good-by? You are going away forever? I sha'n't 
 see you any more not any more at all? [Her eyes 
 fill with tears; she is on the point of falling.] 
 
 FREYDIERES. [Springing towards her.] No, no, Made- 
 leine, I shall come back I shall come back! I'm obliged 
 to go away. When I made this decision, your mother had 
 not yet spoken to me. I didn't know, then, your feelings; 
 but if they have not changed on my return 
 
 MADELEINE. Here is my hand, my dear friend. What- 
 ever may happen, my feelings will never change. [She 
 
272 MAURICE DONNAY 
 
 throws herself into her mother's arms; then, very much 
 embarrassed, she says:] I left Aunt Alice very anxious. 
 I promised to reassure her. I'll go to find her. [She 
 goes out.] 
 
 FREYDIERES. You were right: it is only in novels that 
 people tell the truth. When I saw this child But what 
 is going to become of you? 
 
 CLAIRE. Life is over for me; it goes on for you. You 
 will forget, and I shall be resigned. 
 
 FREYDIERES. Nevertheless, our shares are not equal. 
 
 CLAIRE. You know very well that in love it is always 
 the woman who pays the penalty. 
 
 FREYDIERES. I reverence you. 
 
 CLAIRE. I'm a most unhappy woman. [She cries in 
 silence f while the curtain falls.] 
 
CLARK'S CONTINENTAL DRAMA OF TO-DAY Outline* 
 for Its Study 
 
 By BARRETT H. CLARK, Editor of and Translator of two of 
 the plays in "Three Modern French Plays." 12mo. 
 $1.35 net. 
 
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 HALE'S DRAMATIST'S OF TO-DAY 
 
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By GEORGE MIDDLETON 
 
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 With THE FAILURES, THE GARGOYLE, IN His HOUSE, MA- 
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 THE THEORY OF THE THEATRE. What is a Play? The 
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