SCENE II

[_The music salon of the Chateau D’Or. A handsome room, most luxuriously furnished in white and gold. The grand piano at the left is also finished in white and gold. The central entrance leads to a wide corridor which runs parallel with the room. The furniture and hangings are over-ornate, showing plainly the triumph of wealth over good taste in their selection. The guests of_ M. D’OR _are seated about the room in fashionable morning toilettes. On a sofa right are seated_ MME. CYPRIENNE DACIER _and_ MME. LUCETTE CLARY. _Before the curtain rises, the Prelude in C sharp minor by Sergei Rachmaninoff is played at the piano. As it concludes, the curtain rises and_ HENRI VAUX _is seen standing at the piano, bowing to the applause of the assembled guests. (If practicable, the curtain might rise before_ VAUX _has completed his solo.) As the scene begins, the anonymous guests chat in groups._]

LUCETTE. Bravo, M. Vaux! You played that prelude beautifully.

VAUX. Thank you, Mme. Clary. It is a favorite of mine, but perhaps a bit too depressing for such a pleasant occasion as this.

LUCETTE. Not at all. We must remember that there is a serious side to life—don’t you think so, Cyprienne?

CYPRIENNE. Of course. We can’t have dance music all the time.

VAUX. But life—at least, life as the artist usually knows it—is apt to be sad enough; perhaps it is natural that he should prefer a melancholy theme for subjective interpretation.

CYPRIENNE. Speaking of melancholy themes reminds me that Adolphe Lemaire is to be here.

LUCETTE. Why do you call this M. Lemaire a melancholy theme?

CYPRIENNE. Don’t you know him? He exhibited that remarkable painting called ‘Death in Life’ in the recent _Salon_.

LUCETTE. I did not get to Paris this spring.

CYPRIENNE. You surely saw a reproduction of the picture—it was copied in all the illustrated papers—a young girl wandering through a sun-lit grove and intercepted by a shrouded figure of Death.

LUCETTE. Oh! I recall it! I shall be delighted to meet the artist.

VAUX. M. D’Or usually brings together the most interesting people at his musicales. I believe the poet Moreau is also expected. You know him, Mme. Clary? A brilliant but eccentric genius! [LUCETTE _shakes her head_.]

CYPRIENNE. You have surely heard of Jean Moreau. He writes those stinging verses against the government. M. Dacier says that the Opposition would be helpless without him. Of course, he pretends that his satires refer to the middle ages or to some other country, but every one knows what he means!

LUCETTE. Have you brought your daughter along, M. Vaux?

VAUX. Yes; she was in the corridor a few moments ago.

LUCETTE. She is a most charming girl—so modest, so refined, and so very reticent! She seems almost afraid to express an opinion of her own.

VAUX. Is there any wonder? The sort of opinions that society likes to hear are not the sort that a young girl can express with any self-respect.

CYPRIENNE. Oh! what a cynical remark! Could anything be more attractive than the sincere thoughts of a sweet girl who has not yet lost her illusions, who is still a stranger to the bitter realities of life? [_She sighs._]

LUCETTE. My dear Cyprienne! Do not seem so vividly reminiscent! It makes me feel like an old woman to hear you talk in that strain. It isn’t ages since we felt that way ourselves.

CYPRIENNE. It isn’t ages, Lucette, in the number of years, but I feel that I have lived ages since then.

VAUX. So you regret those days?

CYPRIENNE. They were sweet; but life has been so varied since—I have enjoyed so much—that I cannot say that I regret the passing of impossible ideals. We must all awaken from the vain dreams of youth!

VAUX. I would have Hélène dream while the mystic charm still pervades her soul; I would not have her crushed to earth by the revelation of the deep-seated miseries of existence. I would foster her love for art, her devotion to music—in short, her taste for such ideals as are cherished by our genial and accomplished host, M. D’Or. [_Enter_ D’OR, _at the centre, in a frock coat, gold waistcoat, wearing a conspicuous scarfpin and rings_.]

D’OR. My good friends! You have just enjoyed a treat! I heard the Rachmaninoff prelude from the corridor, M. Vaux. Your interpretation is masterful; it is the grip of despair itself tugging at the heartstrings of humanity. We are all indebted to you and pay homage to your art. I am having some light refreshment served in the corridor. Won’t you kindly step that way? M. Vaux, may I entrust Mme. Clary to you? [VAUX _leads with_ LUCETTE, _the rest follow_. CYPRIENNE _takes_ D’OR’S _arm. When the others are out, he stops short._]

D’OR. We need not hurry after the others, Mme. Dacier. I have not had a chance to chat with you this morning; you will not deny me the pleasure of a few words. I do not see your husband among the guests.

CYPRIENNE. He is very busy at the bank just now. He finds it impossible to get away—even for such a splendid affair as you are giving us to-day.

D’OR. It is right that M. Dacier should regard his business as his first consideration. He is becoming one of our best known bankers.

CYPRIENNE. Ah! you are trying to flatter me. My husband is like many others who are engaged in the money game—a good enough fellow in the ranks, but not likely to become a leader. He is somewhat envious of you!

D’OR. _He_ envious of me?

CYPRIENNE. Yes—your close association with the house of Blaustein. He has sought for years to acquire the good will of that firm, but evidently his talents and resources are not sufficient to command their attention. I also am envious, M. D’Or.

D’OR. Surely not.

CYPRIENNE. I am envious of your future wife. Think of the unlimited wealth you will place at her disposal—the unfailing resource of gold.

D’OR. [_Sentimentally._] I shall never marry.

CYPRIENNE. And why not?

D’OR. Because the one charming woman whom I know is already married. [CYPRIENNE _affects indifference_.] Her name is—Cyprienne! [_He takes her hand._]

CYPRIENNE. [_Starts, but does not withdraw her hand._] Hush, M. D’Or—you should not say such things! You should not call me Cyprienne. M. Dacier would not like it.

D’OR. Do you think there is the remotest possibility of my saying it in his hearing, Cyprienne?

CYPRIENNE. [_Archly._] You are an irresistible man. How many hearts have you broken?

D’OR. None, I assure you. My own heart is more likely to be broken, unless—

CYPRIENNE. [_Coming closer._] M. D’Or, you might say a favorable word or two about Dacier to the Blausteins—you have such great influence!

D’OR. [_Eagerly._] I shall be delighted to do so, Cyprienne. We must talk it over some time. When can I see you?

CYPRIENNE. You are always welcome at our chateau.

D’OR. But I would see you alone!

CYPRIENNE. [_With feigned surprise._] Alone?

D’OR. Surely, our plan is to arrange a surprise for M. Dacier. At what hour does he reach home?

CYPRIENNE. At four or later.

D’OR. Then I may call some afternoon—say at two? [CYPRIENNE _starts_.] We can talk things over quite by ourselves. And then—[_Enter_ BAPTISTE.]

BAPTISTE. [_Announcing._] M. Moreau! [BAPTISTE _retires_.]

D’OR. [_To_ CYPRIENNE.] Confound the poet! I’d rather chat with you. [_Enter_ MOREAU.] Welcome, my dear M. Moreau! I’m delighted to see you.

MOREAU. Pardon my lateness, M. D’Or. I have been attending a conclave of the Opposition.

D’OR. Still denouncing the government, eh? I hope you will find it more agreeable here. Mme. Dacier, may I present M. Moreau?

CYPRIENNE. [_Extending her hand._] M. Moreau is an old friends of ours. [_Enter_ BAPTISTE.]

BAPTISTE. [_Announcing._] M. Lemaire! [_He retires._]

MOREAU. Ah! so Lemaire is also late. Evidently we poets and artists are an unreliable class. [_Enter_ LEMAIRE.]

D’OR. My best greetings, my dear Lemaire. [LEMAIRE _greets_ CYPRIENNE _and_ MOREAU.] We feared you were going to disappoint us this time—and every one is anxious to learn what work you have undertaken since your successful painting ‘Death in Life.’

LEMAIRE. [_Staring vacantly and nervously._] I’ve done very little lately. Heaven knows, I should be working, but that picture seems to have exhausted every vestige of inspiration in my being. I find it impossible to pull myself together.

MOREAU. I know the sensation—a great vital utterance leaves the inventive power paralyzed and one gropes about in vain for support.

D’OR. Gentlemen, if you will pardon me, I shall escort Mme. Dacier to the corridor for some refreshment. Pray make yourselves at home; I shall rejoin you shortly. [_Exeunt_ D’OR _and_ CYPRIENNE.]

LEMAIRE. [_Looking about._] What a palace! What wonderful appointments! Is it conceivable that the pen or the brush could ever earn such luxury for either of us? D’Or’s supply of gold seems inexhaustible—and he spends with a knowing hand.

MOREAU. A pleasant fellow, our host! My only regret is that he sympathizes with the scoundrels who constitute the present ministry. If I could only get him to support the Opposition, we should have the Premier’s resignation within a week!

LEMAIRE. Try him, Moreau! It’s worth working for! I believe that the mere mention of D’Or’s name as an adherent of our party would overturn the authority of the Premier. Try to have a quiet talk with him before you go—and let me know how you succeed.

MOREAU. I shall do it; with D’Or on our side the cause is as good as won! And then, Lemaire, a brighter day shall dawn for our country. We shall once more lead the way to higher and nobler achievement. [_Enter_ D’OR.]

D’OR. You see, my friends, I have not kept you waiting long. Perhaps you would care to partake of some refreshment?

MOREAU. No, thank you. Like most poets, I think most clearly on an empty stomach.

D’OR. With many poets compulsion and not choice develops that opinion. And you, M. Lemaire?

LEMAIRE. [_With a significant look at_ MOREAU.] I think I shall cater a bit to the inner man. I shall rejoin you later. _Au revoir!_ [_Exit_ LEMAIRE.]

D’OR. Well, my dear Moreau, on what are you working now? I hope you are not as destitute of plans as our good friend Lemaire?

MOREAU. No; I am writing a new poem which I hope to finish shortly.

D’OR. May I enquire the nature of your subject?

MOREAU. Certainly. I am seeking to glorify the future of our country and to blaze the way toward the realization of its noblest ideals. [_Slowly._] Of course, such a dream is impossible under existing conditions.

D’OR. You mean the present ministry?

MOREAU. Yes. They are a group of detestable politicians who make all great questions of state subservient to their own schemes for personal power and profit.

D’OR. I think you are a little unfair to the Premier and his associates. You must not forget that every party when out of office rails against those in control.

MOREAU. But the Opposition stands upon a firm foundation of integrity and high moral purpose.

D’OR. Mere vaporing, my dear Moreau. The minority is always respectable. It’s their only chance to regain the ascendancy. If your Opposition should triumph they would soon be drunk with power and the present party could successfully parade its manifold virtues before the public.

MOREAU. So you really believe that in the long run there can be no improvement in government?

D’OR. Yes, if you choose to put it thus; and my advice to you is that you join the party in power. You have too much talent to squander your life in the service of a hopeless Opposition.

MOREAU. Hopeless? I thought that possibly you might be induced to join our cause—to become the patron of a new and better order of things.

D’OR. [_Apparently ignoring the remark._] Of course, the ministry has antagonized the visionaries—idealists like yourself, who dream of Utopian governments, but who have little or no experience in practical affairs.

MOREAU. An instinctive sense of right and wrong is the best equipment for a statesman.

D’OR. There speaks the poet! Now, may I tell you in confidence what really does constitute the best equipment for a statesman?

MOREAU. [_Curiously._] What is it?

D’OR. [_Deliberately._] Knowledge of the fact that his party has the approval of the Blausteins!

MOREAU. [_Astounded._] The approval of a banking-house!

D’OR. The approval of the greatest power in the world—unlimited gold.

MOREAU. It seems hardly credible! The utter corruption of the existing state of affairs is beyond my comprehension.

D’OR. M. Moreau, let us talk sensibly about these things. I like your poetry very much; I admire everything about you except your political sentiments. Why do you not put your fine talent to better use?

MOREAU. What better use is there than devotion to the popular welfare?

D’OR. Nonsense. The people for whom you write cannot appreciate the subtlety of your thought nor the nobility of your inspired poetic nights. They place a scant value upon your efforts. The present government honors its friends more highly. A poem in praise of the ministry would bring you greater material reward and more renown than ten years of labor for the ungrateful Opposition.

MOREAU. M. D’Or, I am devoted to our cause; I would not write a poem in commendation of the present ministry for fifty thousand francs.

D’OR. [_Alert._] You would not?

MOREAU. No. It would be treason to the people.

D’OR. How long would you labor for the popular cause before you earned fifty thousand francs with your pen?

MOREAU. Five years at least.

D’OR. And you are unwilling to purchase a release from five years of drudgery by a single effort because of a conscientious scruple? You are indeed a patriot.

MOREAU. I wish merely to be true to myself.

D’OR. [_Slowly._] M. Moreau, what would you do if some one were to offer you—say one hundred thousand francs for a poem over your signature addressed to the Premier and commending the present government?

MOREAU. [_Aghast._] One hundred thousand francs! The question is ridiculous. You are trying to entrap me.

D’OR. The question is not ridiculous. I offer you that sum!

MOREAU. Are you serious?

D’OR. I shall not mince words. The government seeks the support of its most intelligent and most gifted people. You are one of these. The government would not, however, pay you such an amount as I have mentioned; that sum represents my personal gratification at the prospect of numbering M. Moreau among the champions of the ministry.

MOREAU. You are bribing me!

D’OR. I am not. I am telling you that there is fame and substantial reward for the adherents of the government; there is futile effort and wasted opportunity for the Opposition. You are a sane man; which do you choose?

MOREAU. But to write such a poem is a manifest renunciation of my high principles of conduct.

D’OR. To write such a poem is a declaration to the world that you have become a conservative. Are you familiar with that word ‘conservative’? It is a word of excellent savor and of good repute. A man who betrays a cause is justly styled a renegade or a traitor; but a man who has held visionary views concerning government or society, and who as a result of maturer deliberation rejects such fallacies and becomes an adherent of the existing social order may properly be styled a conservative. That’s the worst they can say about you—and the reward is the price of ten years’ hard labor with the pen.

MOREAU. [_Bewildered._] One hundred thousand francs! I can see it in every journal in Paris! ‘M. Moreau joins the conservatives!’ One hundred thousand francs!

D’OR. [_Jestingly._] You will note that there is nothing conservative in the sum I am offering you. I should call it liberal—decidedly liberal!

MOREAU. [_Brokenly._] After all, perhaps you’re right. Lemaire will think I’m a cur—but I accept your offer. I may live to regret this step, but I cannot resist you. I shall write your poem and I shall mean every word that I say. Henceforth I am one of your party. There is no future for me elsewhere. I want you to understand that I am completely within your ranks. I will not be a hireling, to puff the Premier in a single insincere poem. You have not bought a poem, M. D’Or—you have bought me, body and soul. Do you understand?

D’OR. [_Quietly._] Yes. It was you I was bidding for.

MOREAU. [_More wildly._] It’s a serious matter, this tearing one’s self out by the roots. I must have time for reflection. Pardon me, M. D’Or, it is growing oppressive here—I must have fresh air. I cannot meet Lemaire just now. You shall have your poem—a poem from the depths of my heart. It’s fresh air I need—fresh air! [_He staggers out with a groan._ D’OR _looks after him and smiles strangely. He draws a handful of gold coins from his pocket and is about to jingle them when_ LEMAIRE _enters_. D’OR _replaces the coins quickly_.]

LEMAIRE. You are alone! I expected to find M. Moreau with you.

D’OR. [_Coolly._] He left me only a moment ago. Have you partaken of the luncheon?

LEMAIRE. Yes, and chatted with some of your delightful guests. I am grateful to find so many recognized Liberals among them. Are you being converted?

D’OR. By no means—but I like to know intimately all points of view. It’s part of one’s education, after all. I try to make these gatherings as varied as possible and to give free rein to the expression of opinion. Did you hear nothing that might arouse renewed inspiration for another great painting?

LEMAIRE. [_Gloomily._] I shall probably grope long in the dark before I find another subject as striking as ‘Death in Life’!

D’OR. Surely, there are many themes available?

LEMAIRE. Few that I should care to depict. I shall paint nothing ignoble, nothing degrading. If my brush is not destined to uplift and to glorify mankind, I shall cast it aside.

D’OR. A noble ideal, indeed; but ideals are evanescent in this corrupt old world of ours.

LEMAIRE. Are they not about all that is worth while?

D’OR. Rather too unsubstantial, I should say. After all, an artist must labor for his bread and butter. Of course, he may be so absorbed in his ideals that he ignores the gross commercial value of his inspiration and its product. I am told you sold your ‘Death in Life’ for a trifle—yet it is your finest picture.

LEMAIRE. I have no regrets. The ‘Death in Life’ was sold to a collector while it still hung in my studio. He offered two thousand francs—I needed the money and accepted. Had I anticipated the success of the picture in the _Salon_, I might have asked more.

D’OR. That picture would have been cheap at ten thousand francs. Perhaps you do not know that I offered your lucky purchaser twice that sum—and it was refused!

LEMAIRE. Twenty thousand francs for my painting!

D’OR. Yes, and it was refused. [_After a pause._] I have an idea, M. Lemaire—a good one. Will you paint me a companion piece to ‘Death in Life’?

LEMAIRE. A companion piece?

D’OR. Yes. You might call it ‘Life in Death’ by way of contrast. I will give you thirty thousand francs for such a painting, if you permit me to suggest the subject.

LEMAIRE. You are willing to pay that price for a painting of mine?

D’OR. I have an object in view. I wish to make the other painting ridiculous, so that the purchaser may be willing to part with it.

LEMAIRE. I do not quite understand—

D’OR. Why should you? It is but necessary that you accept my offer.

LEMAIRE. Of course I accept! It is many times more than I have ever received for a painting, but you are a rich man, a noble patron of the arts. Have you chosen your subject?

D’OR. You agree to be bound to it?

LEMAIRE. Yes. It is to be called ‘Life in Death,’ I understand, and is to represent—

D’OR. [_Slowly._] A dead rat lying in a foul gutter!

LEMAIRE. [_With a cry._] You are mad, M. D’Or!

D’OR. Not at all. I think it’s a rather good subject to accomplish my purpose. I would like you to represent the rat as putrescent—

LEMAIRE. [_Horrified._] Stop, monsieur! You are insulting me. I shall hear no more of that.

D’OR. You gave your promise.

LEMAIRE. Yes, to paint a picture—not to execute a mad vagary of yours.

D’OR. I don’t expect my realistic theme to conform with your airy ideals, but think of the money I intend to pay you for this painting.

LEMAIRE. It won’t do. I must refuse.

D’OR. [_Firmly._] I intend to have that dead rat, M. Lemaire!

LEMAIRE. Then you must get some one else to paint it.

D’OR. I intend that you shall paint it. Perhaps I estimate realism too cheaply. I offer you forty thousand francs for the rat!

LEMAIRE. [_Almost in a whisper._] Forty thousand francs! To drag my reputation as an artist through the slime?

D’OR. No. To initiate you into a new and profitable school of art. Do you not realize that mankind has a natural craving for the unclean and the depraved? Mine will not be your last commission in the realistic style. Remember that I am offering you twenty times as much as you received for your ‘Death in Life.’ If any one asks you why you painted ‘Life in Death,’ tell them it is a parody on the original, executed at my order.

LEMAIRE. [_Hesitating._] If I did not need the money so badly, I would—[_Suddenly._] I’ll do it—I’ll do it for you, M. D’Or. I cannot help myself. [_Beating his forehead._] A dead rat—Great Heavens!—a dead rat! [_He rushes out wildly._ D’OR _is about to jingle the gold as before, but feels that he cannot. He mops his brow with his handkerchief and seems somewhat distracted. Meanwhile_ HÉLÈNE VAUX, _a charming girl of eighteen, dressed simply in white, enters quietly and gazes strangely at_ D’OR _as if to fathom his thoughts_.]

D’OR. [_Observing her._] Mlle. Vaux! I did not hear you come in.

HÉLÈNE. [_Timidly._] Pardon me, M. D’Or. I am looking for my father.

D’OR. Surely you will not deny me the pleasure of a few words with you. I am always glad to see you here with your father, but you seem desirous of avoiding me.

HÉLÈNE. [_Nervously._] No!—I—

D’OR. My sole object on such occasions as this is to make my guests happy—to entertain them in a way that will ever be a pleasant memory in the days to come; yet you always seem apprehensive of harm—

HÉLÈNE. I cannot explain. It seems so strange that you—[_She stops helplessly. They gaze fixedly at each other._]

D’OR. [_After a pause._] Eleanor! [_He seems entranced._]

HÉLÈNE. Why do you call me Eleanor? My name is Hélène.

D’OR. [_Embarrassed._] Pardon me, Mlle. Vaux. I once knew some one of that name. You resemble her—you bring back fleeting memories of the past.

HÉLÈNE. [_Ill at ease._] I do not understand—I must find my father. [_She goes off hastily._ D’OR _sits down at the right and rests his head on his hand as if dazed. He does not notice_ BAPTISTE _who enters_.]

BAPTISTE. M. D’Or! [_Louder._] M. D’Or! [_A pause._]

D’OR. [_Recovering himself._] Baptiste!

BAPTISTE. Mme. Dacier asked me to give you this note.

D’OR. [_Takes it._] Very well. [BAPTISTE _bows himself out_. D’OR _opens the envelope and draws out a card which he reads_.] ‘To-morrow at two—Cyprienne.’ [_He quickly thrusts the card into his waistcoat pocket. His demeanor instantly changes. He is completely aroused from his trance._ VAUX _enters at the centre_.] Ah! M. Vaux, your daughter is looking for you!

VAUX. I have been neglecting her all morning. I thought she was talking to Mme. Clary a few moments ago.

D’OR. Your daughter is a most attractive girl—one in a thousand. I congratulate you, M. Vaux, on the possession of such a jewel.

VAUX. [_Pleased._] Yes, Hélène is a good girl—my chief consolation since her mother was taken away. It is my one regret that I cannot give her the musical training that her talents merit.

D’OR. Surely she has teachers?

VAUX. The best that my purse allows, but not the best to be had. We musicians cannot hope to win great wealth, yet I still have hopes that when my new symphonic poem is brought out—

D’OR. A new composition! I am glad to hear of it.

VAUX. It is almost completed. I have been laboring on it for many years. It was begun in the first hours of grief after the loss of Hélène’s mother. I have put my very soul into that score!

D’OR. Have you a program in mind?

VAUX. I shall call it ‘The Conqueror’—the record of a storm-tossed soul that works its way through peril and temptation to the triumphant heights of its ideal. You see how much of a dreamer I am, but I love the idea of the conquering soul—the personality that dominates and directs.

D’OR. [_Much interested._] That is a very fascinating idea—the personality that dominates! I am sure you will win fame with ‘The Conqueror.’ Have you sought to glorify a particular hero in your composition?

VAUX. No. It would be difficult to find a man who represents my ideal conqueror—who reaches the heights unspotted with the stains of the battle.

D’OR. The more I think of your idea, the more it pleases me. I always have sought to be such a conqueror as you have in mind—a man of commanding position and so equipped as to become a directing intelligence in the affairs of the world. This may sound boastful, M. Vaux, but I have a reason for speaking thus.

VAUX. [_Bewildered._] I do not understand—

D’OR. You say that you have no particular hero in mind to whom you are addressing your symphonic poem. Would it be presumptuous on my part to say that I should feel honored to have such a composition dedicated to me? Let me explain more fully, M. Vaux—there need be no reserve. I have abundance of the wealth that you in common with others find so useful; you have a talent that can immortalize the man to whom your compositions are addressed. If you were to honor me with the dedication of ‘The Conqueror’ I should see that every resource were at the disposal of Mlle. Vaux for her thorough musical training.

VAUX. For Hélène’s education?

D’OR. It would be a trifle for me, M. Vaux; to you it would represent long hours of arduous toil. Thus each of us can serve the other.

VAUX. [_Anxious not to offend._] I must confess that I had a very different ideal of ‘The Conqueror’—pardon my bluntness, but my hero typified spiritual achievement, not the conquests of material wealth.

D’OR. Of course—I understand. Spiritual achievement has a pleasant sound and at one time in the world’s history it probably meant something; but we are living in a very different age. The real conquerors of to-day are the men who act as stewards of the world’s great wealth. I can buy you any man you may name, heart and soul. It is merely a question of price—

VAUX. [_Horrified._] M. D’Or!

D’OR. I know it sounds scandalous, but it is true—I have demonstrated my power. There are no conquests in this world like the conquests of material wealth.

VAUX. [_Sadly._] I have lived in this world many more years than you, M. D’Or—I know the weakness of humanity. There is much truth in what you say; but we artists have not done our duty if we are content to depict the world as we find it—if we do not point the way to higher ideals—

D’OR. [_Impatiently._] A truce to your ideals! I have heard more than enough this morning about ideals! I have just made you a substantial and flattering offer; you seem inclined to treat me in turn to a conventional discussion on the nature of the artistic impulse. You are a poor man, M. Vaux, though a talented one. You have a daughter whose future welfare is largely concerned in your answer to my offer. Are you foolish enough to hesitate?

VAUX. I appreciate fully what your offer means, but people will understand by my dedication that I desire to uphold you as the type of ‘The Conqueror’—

D’OR. And why not?

VAUX. Because I had a very different conqueror in mind—one whose career typified a conquest by spiritual resource, by unfailing courage—

D’OR. [_Suddenly but with deliberation._] M. Vaux, do you love your daughter Hélène? Are you mindful of her future—of the years when you will no longer be here to protect her?

VAUX. [_Completely broken._] I can struggle against you no longer. You have triumphed! ‘The Conqueror’ shall be dedicated to you!

D’OR. [_Smoothly._] I appreciate the honor, especially since there was no haggling over terms. Rest assured, M. Vaux, you will have no occasion to regret your trust in my generosity.

VAUX. [_Subdued._] I have done it for my Hélène. [_He sits on the sofa, right, and seems overcome with emotion._ HÉLÈNE _enters and takes a half kneeling position on the mat at his feet. She places a small autograph album on his lap._]

HÉLÈNE. Father, I have been searching for you. Mme. Clary wishes your autograph. Isn’t it an honor! Just look at the famous names—artists, poets, musicians—

VAUX. [_Takes a fountain pen from his pocket and writes._] Mme. Clary is very kind to ask your father to enroll himself in this record of genius. [_Turning the pages._] What is this? M. D’Or, I find your name here!

D’OR. [_With a smile._] Indeed! Does it appear out of place among your brilliant assemblage of earth’s talented sons?

VAUX. No, no! Do not misunderstand me! I thought it was merely a collection of artists’ autographs. I am pleased to see it includes at least one generous patron of the arts. [_To_ HÉLÈNE.] Hélène, we are much indebted to M. D’Or. He will make it possible for me to give you the best masters for your musical training.

HÉLÈNE. [_Rising._] You could not accept such an offer?

VAUX. [_Embarrassed._] I am dedicating ‘The Conqueror’ to M. D’Or. It has pleased him to express his generous intentions in return.

HÉLÈNE. [_Turning on_ D’OR _with unexpected energy_.] ‘The Conqueror’! [_Reproachfully._] M. D’Or, you have taken advantage of an old man.

D’OR. Taken advantage! Those are hard words for one who has your welfare at heart. I am enabling your father to provide amply for you; indirectly I am helping you to make the most of life, to win fame and position if the talent abides within you. This you call taking advantage of your father!

HÉLÈNE. M. D’Or, we are here as your guests. I cannot speak frankly.

D’OR. If I have offended you, my roof shall not save me from your reproaches. Speak as freely as you will and tell me honestly why you despise my offer.

VAUX. Hélène, I beseech you, be careful how you answer.

HÉLÈNE. [_To_ D’OR.] You see how thoroughly you have subdued my poor father! He fears that my frankness will forfeit the bounty you are disposed to heap upon us. You wish me to speak freely?

D’OR. By all means.

HÉLÈNE. Very well. M. D’Or, I fear the intention of your apparent kindness.

D’OR. Why do you say that?

HÉLÈNE. A few moments ago I passed M. Moreau in the corridor—Moreau, the brave champion of the people—and I heard him say that he had changed his political views, and now felt morally obliged to support the ministry!

VAUX. [_Astonished._] Moreau a conservative! Impossible!

D’OR. What have I to do with Moreau’s politics?

HÉLÈNE. [_Watching him closely._] I cannot help thinking that you had a hand in his sudden change of faith.

D’OR. [_Carelessly._] Why should I deny it? You would not believe me.

HÉLÈNE. [_Coming closer._] M. D’Or, I would believe you, if I heard you deny it! Do you deny it?

D’OR. [_Without flinching, looking steadily at her._] Mlle. Vaux, I admire your courage; I marvel at your penetration. I shall tell you the truth. I bought that fellow Moreau for so much gold. He’s my man now and he’ll take my orders when I give them. [VAUX _groans_.]

HÉLÈNE. Father, do you hear what M. D’Or says? [_To_ D’OR.] Is there nothing else on your conscience? Are you aware that M. Lemaire is astonishing your guests by incoherent ravings about dead rats and foul-smelling gutters?

D’OR. [_Steadily._] It’s the subject for his next painting. The fellow is executing it at my commission. I chose the subject, and I pay him his price. [VAUX _groans again_.]

HÉLÈNE. [_To_ VAUX.] Are you still inclined to dedicate ‘The Conqueror’ to M. D’Or?

VAUX. I have given my promise.

D’OR. I shall release you from that promise if Mlle. Vaux requests it.

HÉLÈNE. I do not request it. After all, you are a conqueror—you have triumphed over my unhappy father just as you overcame those other frail souls and dragged them to the earth.

D’OR. I release your father from his promise. His conqueror is a vain seeker after empty ideals. M. Vaux, you may dedicate your symphonic flight to whom you will, but I beg you to let me carry out at least my part of our compact. [VAUX _looks eagerly at_ HÉLÈNE _to reply_.]

HÉLÈNE. You have made that impossible for us, M. D’Or. We cannot accept your generosity. [_To_ VAUX.] We must not stay here any longer. Let us go home.

D’OR. Can we not remain friends? Will you not permit the resources of my wealth to prove my friendship?

HÉLÈNE. [_More softly._] The best way to befriend you, M. D’Or, is to prove to you the futility of your wealth. Come, father.

VAUX. Good-bye, M. D’Or. [_He offers his hand._]

D’OR. Good-bye. [_He looks at_ HÉLÈNE.]

HÉLÈNE. [_After a pause extends her hand._] Good-bye. Are you not convinced?

D’OR. Not yet—but you are very kind to me. [_He kisses her hand._]

VAUX. [_Near the entrance, as if inspired._] M. D’Or, at last I know to whom I shall dedicate ‘The Conqueror.’

D’OR. To whom?

VAUX. [_Taking_ HÉLÈNE’S _hand_.] To my daughter Hélène! [_They go out quickly._]

D’OR. [_Somewhat seriously, after a pause._] Perhaps the old man is right—and perhaps he is not! [_Laughs cynically and puts his hand as if by instinct to his waistcoat pocket. He draws out_ CYPRIENNE’S _card and reads it again_.] ‘To-morrow at two—Cyprienne.’ [_He kisses the card as the curtain falls._]