ACT II

(_Same scene as_ ACT I.)

(BELLAC, TOULONNIER, ROGER, PAUL RAYMOND, MADAME DE CÉRAN, MADAME DE LOUDAN, _the_ DUCHESS, SUZANNE, LUCY, JEANNE, _seated in a semi-circle, listening to_ SAINT-RÉAULT, _who is finishing his lecture_.)

SAINT-RÉAULT. And make no mistake about it! Profound as these legends may appear because of their baffling exoticism, they are merely—my illustrious father wrote in 1834—elemental, primitive imaginings, in comparison with the transcendental conceptions of Brahmin lore gathered together in the Upanishads, or indeed in the eighteen Paranas of Vyasa, the compiler of the Veda.

JEANNE. (_Aside to_ PAUL) Are you asleep?

PAUL. No, no—I hear some kind of gibberish.

SAINT-RÉAULT. Such, in simple terminology, is the _concretum_ of the doctrine of Buddha.—And at this point I shall close my remarks.

(_Murmurs. Some of the audience rise._)

SEVERAL VOICES. (_Weakly_) Very good! Good!

SAINT-RÉAULT. And now—(_He coughs_)

MME. DE CÉRAN. (_Eagerly_) You must be tired, Saint-Réault?

SAINT-RÉAULT. Not at all, Countess!

MME. ARRIÉGO. Oh, yes, you must be; rest yourself. We can wait.

_Several Voices._ You must rest!

MME. DE LOUDAN. You can’t always remain in the clouds. Come down to earth, Baron.

SAINT-RÉAULT. Thank you, but—well, you see, I had already finished.

(_Everybody rises._)

SEVERAL VOICES. So interesting!—A little obscure!—Excellent!—Too long!

BELLAC. (_To the ladies_) Too materialistic!

PAUL. (_To_ JEANNE) He’s bungled it.

SUZANNE. (_Calling_) Monsieur Bellac!

BELLAC. Mademoiselle?

SUZANNE. Come here, near me.

(BELLAC _goes to her_.)

ROGER. (_Aside to the_ DUCHESS) Aunt!

DUCHESS. (_Aside to_ ROGER) She’s doing it on purpose!

SAINT-RÉAULT. (_Coming to table_) One word more! (_General surprise. The audience sits down in silence and consternation_) Or, rather a favor!—This study of mine, of which, in spite of the narrow limits and popular character made necessary by my audience——

DUCHESS. He is polite, isn’t he?

SAINT-RÉAULT. The importance will perhaps have been realised,—this study, I say, was in 1821, sixty years ago, begun, or—I will go so far as to say, discovered by the genius whose son I have the honor to be——

PAUL. (_To_ JEANNE) He’s standing in a dead man’s shoes!

SAINT-RÉAULT. This trail which he has blazed, I, too, have followed, and not without distinction, if I may be permitted to say so. Another, coming after us, has tried to snatch a few words of wisdom from the eternal Verity of the Sphinx, until our time unfathomed in any theogony. I speak of Revel, highly esteemed both as scholar and gentleman. My illustrious father is dead, and Revel is not long for this earth—if he has not already passed away. Therefore I alone am left monarch of this new domain of science of which my father, Guillaume Eriel de Saint-Réault, was the discoverer. I, alone! (_Looking at_ TOULONNIER) May those who govern us, those who are invested with power and authority, those upon whom will devolve the delicate task of choosing a successor to our lamented colleague—whom perhaps we shall mourn to-morrow—may these eminent men (_Looking at_ BELLAC, _who is speaking with_ TOULONNIER) in spite of the more or less legitimate solicitations to which they are prey, make an impartial, enlightened choice, determined solely by the threefold requirements of age, aptitude and acquired experience—a choice of a successor worthy to my illustrious father, and of the great work which is his,—and of which, I repeat, I am the sole living representative.

(_Everyone rises. Applause and general confusion. Meanwhile servants enter with refreshments._)

SEVERAL VOICES. Splendid! Bravo!

PAUL. At last I understand what he’s driving at!

MME. DE CÉRAN. A candidate for Revel’s place!

BELLAC. In the Academy, the New School, in everything!

MME. DE CÉRAN. (_Aside_) I might have expected it!

SERVANT. (_Announcing_) The General! Comte de Briais!—Monsieur Virot!

(_Enter the_ GENERAL _and_ M. VIROT.)

GENERAL. (_Kissing_ MADAME DE CÉRAN’S _hand_) Countess!

MME. DE CÉRAN. Ah, Senator——

VIROT. (_Kissing_ MADAME DE CÉRAN’S _hand_) Madame la comtesse!

MME. DE CÉRAN. (_To_ VIROT) Too late! my dear Deputy, too late!

GENERAL. (_Gallantly_) One cannot come too early to your salon, Countess!

MME. DE CÉRAN. Monsieur de Saint-Réault was speaking; can one say more?

GENERAL. (_Bowing to_ SAINT-RÉAULT) My loss!

VIROT. (_Taking the_ GENERAL _to the left_) Well, Senator, if the House passes the law, will you vote it down?

GENERAL. Of course—at least the first time! The Senate must do that much.

VIROT. Ah! Duchess!

(_Together with the_ GENERAL, _they go to greet the_ DUCHESS. PAUL RAYMOND _and_ JEANNE _slip out of the room into the garden_.)

MME. DE CÉRAN. (_To_ SAINT-RÉAULT) You surpassed yourself this evening, Saint-Réault!

MME. ARRIÉGO. Yes, you surpassed yourself. There is no other word for it.

MME. DE LOUDAN. Ah, Baron, Baron, what a world you have opened up to us! How captivating are these first stammering professions of primitive faith! And that Buddhist Trinity, oh, I’m quite mad about it!

LUCY. (_To_ SAINT-RÉAULT) Pardon my boldness, Monsieur, but in your enumeration of the Sacred Books, it seemed to me that you omitted something.

SAINT RÉAULT. (_Piqued_) Ah, you think so, Mademoiselle?

LUCY. I did not hear you mention either the _Mahabharata_ or the _Ramayana_.

SAINT RÉAULT. But those are not the Sacred Books, they are merely poems whose ancient origin rendered them objects of veneration to the Hindoos. They are works of literature, merely.

LUCY. But nevertheless, the Academy of Calcutta——

SAINT-RÉAULT. I merely give you the opinion of the Brahmins! You have another of your own?

SUZANNE. (_Loudly_) Monsieur Bellac!

BELLAC. Mademoiselle?

SUZANNE. Give me your arm; let’s take a little walk. I want the air!

BELLAC. But, Mademoiselle——

SUZANNE. Don’t you wish to?

BELLAC. But just at this time——?

SUZANNE. Do come! (_She almost drags him out_)

ROGER. (_To the_ DUCHESS) She’s going out with him!

DUCHESS. Follow them!—Wait, I’ll go with you—I need a breath of air myself; he’s put me to sleep with his Brahmins, the old fakir! (_They go out_)

TOULONNIER. (_To_ SAINT-RÉAULT) Very learned and full of new ideas—(_In an undertone_) I caught that hint of yours, my dear Baron. There was really no need. We are all on your side. (_They shake hands_)

MME. DE CÉRAN. (_To_ SAINT-RÉAULT) I beg your pardon! (_Aside to_ TOULONNIER) You won’t forget my boy?

TOULONNIER. I shall no more forget my promise than—I will yours.

MME. DE CÉRAN. You understand, you will receive your six votes in the Senate. You understand also that on the publication of his report——

TOULONNIER. You are well aware, Countess, that we are all on your side.

PAUL. (_To_ JEANNE, _as they come in from the garden_) That time they _did_ see us!

JEANNE. It was too dark to see anything under the trees.

PAUL. We were almost caught before dinner. Twice would be too much! I don’t want to risk it.

JEANNE. Didn’t you promise to kiss me every time we were in the dark? Yes or no?

PAUL. (_Excitedly_) Do you want to be the wife of a Prefect? Yes or no?

JEANNE. (_Equally excited_) Yes, but meanwhile I’m not going to be his widow!

(MADAME DE CÉRAN _goes to them_.)

PAUL. (_Aside to_ JEANNE) The Countess! (_Aloud_) Really, Jeanne, you prefer the _Bhagavata_?

JEANNE. Oh, the _Bhagavata_, my dear——

MME. DE CÉRAN. Did you understand any of that mass of erudition, Madame? Poor Saint-Réault seemed particularly wordy and obscure this evening!

PAUL. (_Aside_) The jealous rival!

JEANNE. But towards the end, Countess, he was clear enough.

MME. DE CÉRAN. Ah, yes, about his candidacy; you understand?

JEANNE. Well, after all, if faith requires science to support it, has not science some need of faith?—as Monsieur de Maistre has said.

MME. DE CÉRAN. Very good indeed! I must introduce you to a gentleman who will be very useful to you: General de Briais, the Senator.

JEANNE. And how about the Deputy, Countess?

MME. DE CÉRAN. Oh, the Senator is more powerful!

JEANNE. But the Deputy is more active!

MME. DE CÉRAN. Really, my dear Raymond, you are very fortunate. (_Pressing_ JEANNE’S _hand_) And so am I! (_To_ JEANNE) Good—I’ll introduce you to both!

PAUL. (_Following_ JEANNE, _who follows_ MME. DE CÉRAN) Angel!

JEANNE. Aren’t we going where it’s dark pretty soon?

PAUL. Yes, my angel, but wait until the rest are gone! I’ll tell you: while the tragedy is being read!

SERVANT. (_Announcing_) Madame la baronne de Boines—Monsieur Melchior de Boines!

(_Enter_ MME. DE BOINES _and_ MELCHIOR.)

BARONESS. (_To_ MADAME DE CÉRAN, _who is about to receive her_) Ah, my dear, am I in time?

MME. DE CÉRAN. You are too late for Science, too early for Poetry! I am waiting for my poet.

BARONESS. Who is he?

MME. DE CÉRAN. An unknown.

BARONESS. Young?

MME. DE CÉRAN. I know nothing whatsoever about him, but I am assured that this is his first work. Gaiac is bringing him—you know Gaiac, of the _Conservateur_? They should have been here at nine. I can’t imagine what keeps them.

BARONESS. I shall profit by the circumstance, for I came to see neither scholar nor poet. I came to see _him_, my dear: Bellac! Think of it, I’ve never met him! He is so attractive, they tell me! Princess Okolitch is quite mad about him, you know. Where is he? Oh, show him to me, Countess!

MME. DE CÉRAN. I was just looking for him, and I—(_Seeing_ BELLAC _enter with_ SUZANNE) There!

BARONESS. Is that he, coming in with Mlle. de Villiers?

MME. DE CÉRAN. (_Astonished_) Yes!

BARONESS. How lovely he is, dear! Isn’t he handsome! And you let him go about with that young girl!

MME. DE CÉRAN. (_Aside—looking at_ SUZANNE _and_ BELLAC) That’s strange——

MELCHIOR. And may I shake hands with Roger?

MME. DE CÉRAN. I doubt if you can at this moment. He must be hard at work. (_Enter the_ DUCHESS _and_ ROGER. _Aside, looking at these latter_) What’s this—and with the Duchess?

ROGER. (_To the_ DUCHESS, _greatly agitated_) Well, did you hear, Aunt?

DUCHESS. Yes, but I saw nothing.

ROGER. It was certainly a kiss, that time!

DUCHESS. And a good smack! Who is there here who would kiss like that?

ROGER. Who, indeed?

DUCHESS. (_Seeing_ MADAME DE CÉRAN, _as she approaches them_) Your mother!

MME. DE CÉRAN. How is this, Roger, aren’t you supposed to be at work?

ROGER. No, Mother, I——

MME. DE CÉRAN. Well, well, what about your _Tumuli_?

ROGER. I have plenty of time: I can work on it to-night, and later in the week.

MME. DE CÉRAN. The idea! The Minister is waiting!

ROGER. Let him wait, Mother! (_He goes away_)

MME. DE CÉRAN. (_Stupefied_) Duchess, what does this mean?

DUCHESS. Tell me, isn’t someone going to read us some sort of nonsense this evening? Some tragedy——?

MME. DE CÉRAN. Yes.

DUCHESS. Your reading is to be in the next room, isn’t it? Get the people out of here, will you? I shall need this room at once.

MME. DE CÉRAN. Why?

DUCHESS. I’ll tell you during the tragedy.

SERVANT. (_Announcing_) Monsieur le vicomte de Gaiac! Monsieur des Millets!

(_Enter_ DE GAIAC _and_ DES MILLETS.)

DUCHESS. Well—I—look at your poet! There he is!

SEVERAL VOICES. The poet!—The young poet!—Where?—Where is he?

GAIAC. Will you ever forgive me, Countess? I was kept at the office. (_Aside_) I was writing up your _soirée_!—Monsieur des Millets, my friend the tragic poet, whose talent you will soon have an opportunity of appreciating.

DES MILLETS. (_Bowing_) Madame la comtesse!

DUCHESS. (_To_ ROGER) So that is the young poet! He’s an odd one!

MME. ARRIÉGO. (_Aside to the other ladies_) How awful!

BARONESS. He’s gray!

MME. DE SAINT-RÉAULT. Bald!

MME. DE LOUDAN. He has no talent: he’s much too ugly, my dear!

MME. DE CÉRAN. We are very happy, Monsieur, my guests and I, to be favored with your presence!

MME. DE LOUDAN. (_Approaching him_) A virgin triumph, Monsieur! How grateful we are!

DES MILLETS. (_Confused_) Ah, Madame!

MME. DE CÉRAN. And it is really your first work, Monsieur?

DES MILLETS. Oh, but I have written several poems!

GAIAC. Crowned by the Academy, Madame la comtesse.

JEANNE. (_To_ PAUL, _admiringly_) Crowned!

PAUL. (_To_ JEANNE) _Mediocritas!_

MME. DE CÉRAN. And this is your first attempt in the realm of the drama? Ah, well, maturity of years guarantees maturity of talent!

DES MILLETS. Alas, Madame la comtesse, the play was written fifteen years ago!

LADIES. Fifteen years!—Is it possible?! Really?

GAIAC. Ah, Des Millets has faith in his work! We must encourage those who have faith, should we not, ladies?

MME. DE LOUDAN. Of course! We must encourage the tragic form, must we not, General? Tragedy——

GENERAL. (_Interrupting himself in his conversation with_ VIROT) Eh? Oh, yes, tragedy! _Horace!_ _Cinna!_ Of course, we must! Tragedy is necessary for the masses—(_To_ DES MILLETS) May we have the title?

DES. MILLETS. _Philippe-Auguste!_

GENERAL. Fine subject! Good military subject!—In verse, isn’t it?

DES MILLETS. Oh, General! A tragedy——!

GENERAL. A good many acts, I suppose?

DES MILLETS. Five.

GENERAL. Ha! Ha! Good! Good!

JEANNE. (_Aside to_ PAUL) Five acts! How lovely! We’ll have plenty of time——!

PAUL. Sh-h!

MME. DE LOUDAN. The road to Parnassus is long!

MME. DE SAINT-RÉAULT. What a mighty effort!

MME. ARRIÉGO. It must be encouraged!

(SUZANNE’S _laugh is heard above the murmur of the conversation_.)

MME. DE CÉRAN. Suzanne!

DUCHESS. (_To_ MADAME DE CÉRAN) Lead out young Euripides and his press agent! Get rid of the lot of them!

MME. DE CÉRAN. Now ladies, shall we go into the large drawing-room and hear the reading? (_To_ DES MILLETS) Are you ready, Monsieur?

DES MILLETS. As you please, Madame la comtesse.

PAUL. (_Aside to_ JEANNE) Age before beauty!

MME. DE CÉRAN. Come, ladies!

MME. DE LOUDAN. (_Intercepting her_) Oh, but first, Countess, let us—the ladies and me—carry out our little plot! (_Going to_ BELLAC, _and saying with an air of supplication_) Monsieur Bellac?

BELLAC. Marquise?

MME. DE LOUDAN. I want to ask a great favor of you.

BELLAC. (_Graciously_) The favor which you ask me becomes as nothing in comparison with the favor you do me in asking it so charmingly.

LADIES. Oh, how lovely!

MME. DE LOUDAN. This poetic tragedy will doubtless occupy the remainder of the evening; it will certainly prove a fitting climax!—Please say a few words beforehand—as few as you like! Of course, Genius must not be overtaxed! But, please just a few words. They will be received like the Manna of old!

SUZANNE. Please, Monsieur Bellac!

MME. ARRIÉGO. Be generous!

BARONESS. We throw ourselves at your feet!

BELLAC. (_Defending himself_) Oh, ladies!

MME. DE LOUDAN. Come to our assistance, Lucy—you, his Muse! _You_ plead with him!

LUCY. Of course; I ask him now.

SUZANNE. And I, I want him too!

VOICES. Oh, oh!

MME. DE CÉRAN. Suzanne!

BELLAC. Well, since you force me——

MME. DE LOUDAN. Oh, he will! Quick, a chair!

(_Commotion about_ BELLAC.)

MME. ARRIÉGO. A table.

MME. DE LOUDAN. Shall we make a circle?

MME. DE CÉRAN. Give him a little room, ladies.

BELLAC. Pray, no formality!

VIROT. (_To the_ GENERAL) You must be careful, the law is very popular.

LADIES. Sh-h!

BELLAC. Please, no stage-setting—nothing that—

VIROT. Well, yes—but the voters?

GENERAL. My position is perfectly safe!

LADIES. Sh-h! Oh, General!

BELLAC. Nothing to suggest the school-room, the platform, or pedantry. Please, ladies, let it be an informal chat: ask me no questions.

MME. DE LOUDAN. (_With clasped hands_) Oh, Monsieur Bellac, tell us about your book!

MME. ARRIÉGO. (_With clasped hands_) Yes the book!

BARONESS. (_With clasped hands_) Your book, yes!

SUZANNE. (_With clasped hands_) Oh, Monsieur Bellac!

BELLAC. Irresistible supplications! And yet I must protect myself; until everyone shall have the opportunity of seeing my book, no one shall.

MME. DE LOUDAN. (_With meaning_) Mm—_no_ one?

BELLAC. Ah, Marquise, “Take care! There may be a secret!” as Fontenelle said to Mme. de Coulanges.

LADIES. Charming! Charming!

BARONESS. (_Aside to_ MME. DE LOUDAN) How clever!

MME. DE LOUDAN. He is more than clever.

BARONESS. What then?

MME. DE LOUDAN. His wit has wings; you’ll see.

BELLAC. This is neither the time nor the place, you will admit, ladies, to plumb the depths of certain of those eternal problems and mysterious enigmas of life and the Beyond which harass and torment noble souls, like your own!

LADIES. Ah, the “Beyond,” my dear, the “Beyond!”

BELLAC. But, aside from this, I am quite at your service. There is one point, however, which comes to my mind, a point eternally discussed and never settled, upon which I ask your leave to say a few words.

LADIES. DO, do!

BELLAC. I shall speak, then with a threefold purpose:—first, to fulfill your request, ladies; (_Looking at_ MME DE LOUDAN) to bring back a friend who has been led away.——

BARONESS. (_Aside to_ MME. DE LOUDAN, _who modestly drops her eyes_) That is you, my dear!

BELLAC. (_Looking at_ LUCY) And to combat an adversary who has proved exceedingly dangerous—in more ways than one.

LADIES. That means Lucy!—It is Lucy!—Lucy!

BELLAC. My subject is—Love!

LADIES. (_Approving_) Ahh!—Ahh!

DUCHESS. For a change!

SUZANNE. Bravo!

(_Low murmurs._)

JEANNE. (_To_ PAUL) That young lady is feeling very fit, it seems!

BELLAC. Concerning love!—The weakness which is a strength!—The sentiment which is a faith! The only religion, perhaps, which knows no scoffers!

LADIES. Ah!—Charming!—Charming!

MME. DE LOUDAN. (_To the_ BARONESS) Ah, the wings, my dear—the wings!

BELLAC. I spoke this morning—in the course of my lecture on German Literature at the Princess’s—of a certain philosopher who made instinct the basis and the rule of all our actions and all our thoughts.

LADIES. (_Protesting_) Oh!—Oh!—Oh!

BELLAC. And now, ladies, I take occasion emphatically to declare that that opinion is not my opinion, and that I deny the theory with every fiber of my soul and being!

LADIES. Good! Excellent!

BARONESS. (_Aside to_ MME. DE LOUDAN) What pretty hands!

BELLAC. No, ladies, no! Love is not, as the German philosopher has it, a purely specific passion; a deceitful illusion shackling mankind in order to work its own ends! No, a hundred times no! if we have souls!

LADIES. Yes!—Yes—

SUZANNE. Bravo!

DUCHESS. (_Aside to_ ROGER) She is certainly doing that on purpose!

BELLAC. Leave to the Sophists and to vulgar natures such soul-stunting theories; do not even consider them; answer them with silence, the language of the outcast!

LADIES. Charming!—Charming!——

BELLAC. God forbid I should go so far as to deny the sovereign influence of beauty over the uncertain wills of men! (_Looking about him_) I see too much about me by way of refutation to that argument!

LADIES. Ah!—Ah!

ROGER. (_To the_ DUCHESS) He looked at _her_!

DUCHESS. Yes.

BELLAC. But above this material and mortal beauty, there is another, time-defying, invisible to the naked eye, which the soul of purity serenely contemplates and cherishes with an unearthly love. That love, ladies, is the true Love, the mingling of two spirits, their flight far from the terrestrial mire—into the infinite blue of the ideal!

LADIES. Bravo!

DUCHESS. (_To herself, rather loudly_) Nonsense!

BELLAC. (_Looking at her_) That love, mocked at by some, unknown to most,—I declare, my hand on my heart, that it does exist! In the souls of the elect, as Proudhon says——

VOICES. (_Protesting_) Oh, Proudhon——!

MME. DE LOUDAN. Oh, Bellac!

BELLAC. A writer whom I am astonished to find myself quoting—I beg your pardons! In the souls of the elect, there is nothing of earth.

LADIES. How delicate! Charming!

DUCHESS. (_Bursting forth_) Nonsense!

LADIES. Oh, Duchess!

BELLAC. (_Bowing to the_ DUCHESS) And yet, it exists. Noble spirits have felt it, great poets sung its praises, and in the seats of Heaven, the apotheosis of our dreams, we see, enshrined about with haloes of ethereal brightness, those immortal figures, everlasting proof of an undying and psychic love: Beatrice, Laura——

DUCHESS. Laura, the mother of eleven, my dear Monsieur!

LADIES. Duchess!

DUCHESS. Eleven! And you call her love psychic!

MME. DE LOUDAN. They were not Petrarch’s, Duchess; let’s have fair play.

BELLAC. Héloise——

DUCHESS. Oh, she!

BELLAC. And their sisters of more recent date: Elvira, Eloa, and many others, known and unknown. That cohort of pure and unknown loves, is growing from day to day—I call all womankind to witness!

LADIES. Ah, my dear, how true!

BELLAC. The soul has a language all its own; its aspirations, its pleasures and its tortures belong to it: are its very existence. And if it be chained to the body, it is like the wing of a bird: in order to raise it to the heights!

LADIES. Ah, bravo!

BELLAC. (_Rising_) This is what modern science ought to take into consideration—(_Looking at_ SAINT-RÉAULT) that science which a leaden materialism drags down to earth—I shall add, since our venerable master and friend made an allusion not long since—perhaps a trifle over-hasty—to a loss which science, I hope, will not have to complain of—I shall add—(_Looking at_ TOULONNIER, _to whom_ SAINT-RÉAULT _is speaking_) in fine, this is what _he_ should teach to the youth who have been under the guidance of Revel, he—whoever he may be—who will be chosen to carry on the work; and not only (asking the pardon of our illustrious colleague) upon the insufficient authority vested in those who have “acquired the right,” or erudition, or age—ought he to base his claim, but upon the irresistible power of a mind imbued with the spirit of youth and of a fiery ardor which is not to be extinguished!

VOICES. Bravo!—Charming!—Exquisite!—Delicious!

(_Everyone rises. Confused murmurs of conversation. The ladies surround_ BELLAC.)

DUCHESS. (_Aside_) That for you, Saint-Réault!

PAUL. (_Aside_) Candidate number two!

MME. DE LOUDAN. Ah, Monsieur Bellac!

SUZANNE. Dear Professor!

BARONESS. A veritable banquet of the soul!

MME. ARRIÉGO. Beautiful!

BELLAC. Oh, ladies, I have but given words to your ideas.

MME. DE LOUDAN. Flatterer! Charmer!

BELLAC. Are we reconciled yet, Marquise?

MME. DE LOUDAN. How can one be angry with you? (_Introducing the_ BARONESS) Madame la baronne de Boines—another conquest! She is at your feet already!

BARONESS. You made me weep, Monsieur.

BELLAC. Oh, Madame la baronne!

MME. ARRIÉGO. Isn’t it superb!

BARONESS. Superb!

SUZANNE. And how warm he is! (BELLAC _looks for his handkerchief_) You haven’t one? Here! (_She gives him her handkerchief_)

BELLAC. Oh, Mademoiselle!

MME. DE CÉRAN. Suzanne! The idea!

SUZANNE. (_To_ BELLAC, _as he returns her handkerchief_) Oh, keep it, I’m going to get you a drink.

MME. DE LOUDAN. (_Going toward the table before which_ SAINT-RÉAULT _spoke, upon which is a tray and glasses of sugar-and-water_) Here, drink!

ROGER. (_Aside to the_ DUCHESS) Look, Aunt!

DUCHESS. She’s too brazen about it to be in earnest.

BELLAC. (_Aside to_ LUCY) And are you convinced?

LUCY. Oh, for my part, the concept of love—No, I’ll tell you later!

BELLAC. In a little while?

LUCY. Yes—would you like a glass of water? (_She goes up-stage_)

MME. DE LOUDAN. (_Arriving with a glass of water_) No! Let me! The god must pardon me: I can offer you only water, as the secret of Nectar-making is lost!

MME. ARRIÉGO. (_Arriving with a glass of water_) A glass of water, Monsieur Bellac?

MME. DE LOUDAN. No, no—take mine! Mine!

MME. ARRIÉGO. No, mine!

BELLAC. (_Embarrassed_) Well, I——

LUCY. (_Handing him a glass of water_) Here!

MME. DE LOUDAN. Oh, he’ll choose Lucy, I know!—I’m so jealous!—No, mine! mine!

SUZANNE. (_Arriving with another glass of water and forcing it upon_ BELLAC) No, no, he’ll take mine! Ha, ha! the fourth thief!

LUCY. But, Mademoiselle—!

MME. DE LOUDAN. (_Aside_) That little girl has impudence!

ROGER. (_To the_ DUCHESS, _indicating_ SUZANNE) Aunt!

DUCHESS. What’s the matter with her?

ROGER. It’s just since Bellac has come!

(_The doors are opened and the large drawing-room is seen, lighted._)

DUCHESS. At last! (_To_ MADAME DE CÉRAN) Take away your company—now is your chance!

MME. DE CÉRAN. Come, ladies, our tragedy is about to be read! In the large drawing-room! After the reading we shall take tea in the conservatory.

LUCY, BELLAC _and_ SUZANNE. (_Aside_) In the conservatory!

ROGER. (_Aside to the_ DUCHESS) Did you notice Suzanne? She started!

DUCHESS. And so did Bellac!

MME. DE LOUDAN. Come, ladies, the Muse is calling us.

(_The guests pass slowly into the large drawing-room._)

GENERAL. (_To_ PAUL) What is that, my dear Sub-prefect—three years!

MME. DE CÉRAN. Come, General!

GENERAL. (_Still talking with_ PAUL) Ah, yes, Countess, the tragedy!—You are right, one must encourage Art!—Five acts! Oh!

JEANNE. (_To_ PAUL) It’s settled then, about—later?

PAUL. Yes, yes, it’s settled.

GENERAL. (_Returning to_ PAUL) Three years, you say, as Sub-prefect in the same place? And they say the government isn’t conservative!

PAUL. That’s pretty good, Senator; excellent!

GENERAL. Oh!

TOULONNIER. (_To_ MADAME DE LOUDAN) That’s understood, Marquise! (_To_ MADAME ARRIÉGO) At your service, my dear madame!

BELLAC. (_To_ TOULONNIER) Well, General Secretary, may I hope——?

TOULONNIER. (_Giving him his hand_) It is merely what is due you; you may count on us! (_He goes off_)

GENERAL. (_As he comes down to_ PAUL) And what is the spirit of your _Department_,[3] my dear Sub-prefect? By Jove, you ought to know it, after three years!

[3] Modern France is divided into ninety-seven “Departments” which roughly correspond to the states in the United States.

PAUL. Well, General, its spirit—why, it—the—its spirit—it hasn’t any!! (_They go out at the back. As_ SUZANNE _passes the piano she runs her hand across the keys, making a terrible noise_)

MME. DE CÉRAN. (_Severely to_ SUZANNE) But, Su-zanne! What——!

SUZANNE. (_As if astonished_) What is it, cousin?

DUCHESS. (_Stopping her and looking into her face_) What is the matter with you?

SUZANNE. (_With a nervous smile_) Me? Oh, I am just amusing myself!

DUCHESS. What is the matter?

SUZANNE. Nothing, Aunt, I tell you I am just amusing myself!

DUCHESS. What is the matter with you?

SUZANNE. (_Stifling a sob_) Oh, I feel so badly! (_She goes into the large dining-room and slams the door violently after her_)

DUCHESS. She’s in love, or I’m no judge—and I _am_ a judge!

MME. DE CÉRAN. (_To the_ DUCHESS) But what is the matter? (_To_ ROGER) Why aren’t you at work on your report? What has happened? Please?!

ROGER. You were right all the while!

MME. DE CÉRAN. Suzanne——?

ROGER. Suzanne—and that man!!

DUCHESS. Stop! You’re going to say something foolish!

ROGER. But I——

DUCHESS. (_To_ MADAME DE CÉRAN) We discovered a letter in her possession.

MME. DE CÉRAN. From Bellac?

DUCHESS. I haven’t the slightest idea.

ROGER. What?

DUCHESS. Disguised handwriting—unsigned—not the slightest idea!

ROGER. Oh, you must have! He’s not running any risks.—I say——

DUCHESS. (_To_ ROGER) Keep still! (_To_ MADAME DE CÉRAN) Listen to this: “I shall arrive Thursday——”

ROGER. To-day!—Therefore either he or I wrote that letter!

DUCHESS. Will you be still? “This evening at ten, in the Conservatory.”

ROGER. “Say you have a headache.”

DUCHESS. Oh, yes, I forgot: “Say you have a headache.”

MME. DE CÉRAN. Why, it is a rendezvous!

DUCHESS. There’s no doubt about it.

MME. DE CÉRAN. With _her_!

DUCHESS. I don’t know about that!

ROGER. But I think——

DUCHESS. You think! You think!—When it comes to accusing a woman,—it’s not enough to “think,” you must _see_, and when you have seen, and seen and seen again—then, well then, it’s not true anyway! (_Aside_) It’s good to say these things to the young!

MME. DE CÉRAN. A rendezvous, what did I tell you?! Well, well, what more could be expected of her, after all? And in my house! Like a girl of the streets! Now, Duchess, what are you going to do, tell me that? I asked them to begin in there without me, but I can’t wait here all evening! I hear the poet; they’ve begun. Please, what are you going to do?

DUCHESS. Do? Stay here.—Quarter to ten; if she keeps the appointment she must come through here, and then I’ll see him.

ROGER. But if she goes, Aunt?

DUCHESS. If she goes, my dear nephew? Well! I shall go too! And without saying a word, I’ll see where they go. And when I see how matters stand, then and then only, will it be time to act.

ROGER. (_Sitting down_) I’ll wait.

MME. DE CÉRAN. It’s useless for you to wait, my dear, we are here. You have your _Tumuli_, run along! (_She urges him to the door_)

ROGER. Please, mother! It’s a matter that——

MME. DE CÉRAN. It concerns your position. Go now, run away!

ROGER. (_Resisting_.) I should be very sorry to disobey you, but——

MME. DE CÉRAN. Now, Roger!

ROGER. Please, mother!—I couldn’t write a line this evening, I am too—I don’t know what—I am very disturbed. My conscience tells me that I have not acted toward that young girl as I ought. I’m very—Think of it, Mother—Suzanne!—It would be awful—! I am in a fearful position.

DUCHESS. Surely you exaggerate!

ROGER. (_Flaring up_) Really!

MME. DE CÉRAN. Roger! Roger! What do you mean!

ROGER. I am her tutor; it is my duty to look after her moral welfare!—Think of my responsibility; that child’s honor is in my hands! It is a sacred charge placed in my keeping; if I violate my trust I should be worse than a criminal. And then you talk to me about _Tumuli! Tumuli! Tumuli!_ The devil take the _Tumuli_!

MME. DE CÉRAN. (_Terrified_) Oh!

DUCHESS. Well, well!

ROGER. And I say, if this is true, if that cad has dared take advantage of our hospitality and her innocence, I’m going straight to him and demand a public apology, do you hear?

MME. DE CÉRAN. My son!

ROGER. Before everyone!

MME. DE CÉRAN. This is madness!—Duchess, forgive him, he’s——

DUCHESS. Oho! I like to see him like that, you know!

MME. DE CÉRAN. Roger!

ROGER. No, mother, this is my affair. I’ll wait here. (_He sits down_)

MME. DE CÉRAN. Very well, then, I’ll wait, too.

ROGER. You?

MME. DE CÉRAN. Yes, and I’ll talk to him.

DUCHESS. But be careful!

MME. DE CÉRAN. Oh, I’ll be careful enough; but if she persists, I shall give her my opinion on the subject! I’ll wait. (_She sits down_)

DUCHESS. Not long! Five minutes to ten! If she is going to have her headache, it is due about now. (_The door at the back swings open slowly_) Shhh——

ROGER. There she is!

(_As the door opens, the voice of the poet is heard declaiming._)

POET. (_Outside_) “Then let me cleanse the earth of this vile brood! Death’s portal shall not check my vengeance, nor Shall I retreat before the yawning grave——”

(JEANNE _appears; closes the door_.)

DUCHESS. The Sub-prefect’s wife!

JEANNE. (_Astonished at seeing them_) Oh!

DUCHESS. Come in, don’t be afraid. It would seem that you have had enough?

JEANNE. Oh, no, Duchess, but you see, I——

DUCHESS. You don’t care for tragedy?

JEANNE. Oh, yes, I do!

DUCHESS. Oh, you needn’t say so to be polite; there are seventeen others who feel as you do! (_Aside_) What can she be up to?—It wasn’t interesting, was it?

JEANNE. Quite the contrary!

DUCHESS. “Quite the contrary,” as you say to the person who asks you whether it hurt when he stepped on your foot?

JEANNE. Oh, not at all! There were some very interesting things—there was one beautiful line.

DUCHESS. A whole line?

JEANNE. And the applause was great. (_Aside_) What shall I do?

DUCHESS. Ha! Ha! What was the beautiful line?

JEANNE. “Honor is like a god, a god which—” I’m afraid I misquote it, and spoil the effect.

DUCHESS. Keep it, my child, keep it! And now you’re running away like this in spite of the beautiful line?

JEANNE. I very much regret having to leave. (_Aside_) What shall I say? (_Brightening_) Oh!—it was either that I was so uncomfortable where I was sitting, or because it was so warm—I don’t feel very well!

DUCHESS. Ah!

JEANNE. My eyes are—I can’t see straight—I have a headache——

MME. DE CÉRAN, DUCHESS, ROGER. (_Rising_) A headache?!

JEANNE. (_Alarmed—aside_) What’s the matter with them?

DUCHESS. (_After a short pause_) That’s not surprising: there is an epidemic of headaches.

JEANNE. You have one too?

DUCHESS. I? No! One doesn’t have them at my age! You must do something for it, my child.

JEANNE. I’m going to take a little walk. You’ll excuse me, won’t you?

DUCHESS. Of course; by all means!

JEANNE. (_Holding her head between her hands, and going toward the door_) Oh, how it aches! Ah! (_Aside_) Paul will find an excuse to get away! (_She goes out through the door leading to the garden_)

DUCHESS. (_To_ ROGER) Do you think so? Do you think so?

ROGER. Oh, Aunt, it’s only a coincidence!

DUCHESS. Possibly; you know how easily one may be mistaken, and one must never—(_The door of the drawing-room opens_) Ahh, _this_ time!

VOICE OF THE POET. (_Heard through the partially opened door as before_)

“And though there were a hundred, nay a thousand——”

DUCHESS. Euripides is still at it!

VOICE OF THE POET.

“Unarmed, unaided, would I brave their threats, And make the cowards own their cowardice!”

(LUCY _appears_.)

MME. DE CÉRAN _and_ ROGER. Lucy!

(LUCY _goes to the door leading into the garden_.)

DUCHESS. What, Lucy! Why did you leave the reading?

LUCY. (_Stopping_) I beg your pardon; I didn’t see you!

DUCHESS. And yet they say there was a beautiful line:

“Honor is like a god——”

LUCY. (_Starting to go_) “Like a god which——”

DUCHESS. Yes, that’s the one. (_The clock strikes ten._ LUCY _is now at the door_) And in spite of that, you are determined to go?

LUCY. Yes, I want a breath of fresh air: I have a headache. (_She goes out_)

DUCHESS, ROGER, _and_ MME. DE CÈRAN. (_Sitting down_) Oh!

DUCHESS. Well, well! This is getting interesting!

MME. DE CÉRAN. Another coincidence!

DUCHESS. Another? No, not this time! Don’t you think so? Then all of them are—! Except Suzanne’s case! Come, now, there’s something in the air. She will not come! I’m willing to wager she won’t come. (_The drawing-room door opens suddenly, and through it is heard a voice in the throes of tragic agony_) There she is!

(_Enter_ SUZANNE _hastily, as though looking for someone_.)

MME. DE CÉRAN. (_Rising_) You are leaving the reading, Mademoiselle!

SUZANNE. (_Impatiently_) Yes, cousin!

MME. DE CÉRAN. Stay here!

SUZANNE. But, cousin——

MME. DE CÉRAN. Stay! Sit down!

SUZANNE. (_Dropping on to a piano-stool, and abruptly turning to each person who addresses her_) Well?

MME. DE CÉRAN. And why, may I ask, did you leave the reading?

SUZANNE. Why should I let myself be bored by that old gentleman?

ROGER. Is that the true reason?

SUZANNE. I went out because Lucy went out, if you must know!

MME. DE CÉRAN. Miss Watson, Mademoiselle?

SUZANNE. Yes, indeed: Miss Watson, the pink of perfection, the _rara avis_—she may do as she likes, but I——!

ROGER. You, Suzanne?

MME. DE CÉRAN. Let me speak to her! But you Mademoiselle, run about the streets alone!

SUZANNE. The way Lucy does!

MME. DE CÉRAN. And you dress most outrageously.

SUZANNE. The way Lucy does!

MME. DE CÉRAN. You monopolise M. Bellac and talk to him affectedly——

SUZANNE. The way Lucy does! I suppose she doesn’t speak to him, does she? And to Monsieur, too! (_Indicating_ ROGER)

MME. DE CÉRAN. Oh, but in private! You understand me perfectly.

SUZANNE. Let’s not talk about “in private!” When anyone has a secret, he _writes_ it—(_Aside to_ ROGER _between her teeth_) in a disguised hand!

MME. DE CÉRAN. What?

ROGER. (_Aside_) Aunt!

DUCHESS. (_Aside_) Shh!

MME. DE CÉRAN. Well?

SUZANNE. Well, Lucy speaks to whomever she likes; Lucy goes out whenever she wants to; Lucy dresses just as she likes. I want to do just like Lucy, because every one loves her!

MME. DE CÉRAN. And do you know why everyone loves her, Mademoiselle? Because, in spite of her plainness—a necessary consequence of her nationality—she is serious, dignified and cultured—

SUZANNE. (_Rising_) And what about me? Haven’t I been all that? For the last six months up to this very evening at five o’clock, I worked hard without resting, and I studied as much as she did; and I learned as much as she did: “objective” and “subjective” and all that! And what good did it all do me? Does anyone love me better for it? Doesn’t everyone always treat me just as if I were a little girl? Everyone!! Everyone!! (_Looking sidewise at_ ROGER) Who pays any attention to me? Suzanne, Suzanne!! What does Suzanne count for! And all because I’m not an old English woman!

ROGER. Suzanne!

SUZANNE. Yes, defend her! Oh, I know what to do in order to please you! Here! (_Taking the_ DUCHESS’S _lorgnette and putting it up to her eyes and looking through it_) How esthetic! Schopenhauer! The Ego, the non-Ego! Et Cetera, nyah! nyah!

MME. DE CÉRAN. We can dispense with your impertinence, Mademoiselle!

SUZANNE. (_Bowing ceremoniously_) Thank you, cousin!

MME. DE CÉRAN. Yes, impertinence! and your absurd pranks——

SUZANNE. Well, what can you expect from a “street gamin” like me! No wonder I don’t behave any better! (_A little excited_) Of course I misbehave! I do it on purpose and I’ll continue to do it!

MME. DE CÉRAN. Not under my roof!

SUZANNE. I did go out with Monsieur Bellac, and I spoke with Monsieur Bellac, and I have a secret with Monsieur Bellac!

ROGER. You dare——!

SUZANNE. And he knows more than you do! And he’s more of a man than you are! And I like him better than you! I love him! I love him! I love him!

MME. DE CÉRAN. I sincerely hope that you do not realize the gravity of what you are saying!

SUZANNE. I _do_ realize it!

MME. DE CÉRAN. Then listen to me! Before you commit any more of the follies you are threatening us with, think the matter over! You, least of all, Mademoiselle de Villiers, can afford to have a scandal connected with _your_ name!

DUCHESS. Take care, take care!

MME. DE CÉRAN. Well, Duchess, she ought to know, at least——

SUZANNE. (_Holding back her tears_) I do know!

DUCHESS. You know? What?

SUZANNE. (_Throwing herself into the_ DUCHESS’S _arms and crying_) Aunt! Aunt!

DUCHESS. There, there, Suzanne, my child! (_To_ MME. DE CÉRAN) That was considerate of you—to start that here! (_To_ SUZANNE) There, there, what is it you know? (_She takes_ SUZANNE _on her knees_)

SUZANNE. (_Weeping and talking at the same time_) W-what? I—I don’t know! But I do know there is something against me—and there has been for a long time!

DUCHESS. Why, what makes you think——?

SUZANNE. Nobody, everybody. People look at you and whisper and stop talking when you come into the room and kiss you, and call you poor little thing!—If you think children don’t notice those things!

DUCHESS. (_Wiping her eyes_) Now, dear, dear!

SUZANNE. And it was just the same at the convent! I knew I wasn’t like the other girls. Oh, I could see that. They always talked to me about my father and my mother, and why? Because I didn’t have any! And once, during recess, I was playing with a girl!—I don’t remember what I’d done to her—She was furious—and all of a sudden she called me “Miss Foundling!” She didn’t know what it meant, neither did I! Her mother had used the word in speaking about me. She told me afterward, after we had made up.—Oh, I was so unhappy! (_Sobbing_) We looked the word up in the dictionary, but we didn’t find anything—or we didn’t understand—(_Angrily_) What did they mean? What have I done that makes me any different from anybody else? That everything I do is bad? Is it my fault?

DUCHESS. (_Kissing her_) No, my child, no my dear!

MME. DE CÉRAN. I am sorry——

SUZANNE. (_Sobbing_) Well, then, why does everybody blame me if it isn’t my fault? Here I seem to be in the way! I know I don’t want to stay any longer. I am going! Nobody loves me!

ROGER. (_Deeply moved_) Why do you say that, Suzanne? It’s not so. Everybody here—I——

SUZANNE. (_Angrily as she rises_) You!

ROGER. Yes, I? And I swear——

SUZANNE. You!—Go away from me! I hate you and I never want to see you again! Never! Do you hear! (_She goes toward the door leading into the garden_)

ROGER. Suzanne! Suzanne! Where are you going?

SUZANNE. I’m going for a walk! For that matter, I am going where I please!

ROGER. But why now? Why are you going out?

SUZANNE. Why? (_She comes down to him_) Why?? (_Looking him in the eye_) Why? I have a headache! (_All rise_. SUZANNE _goes out_)

ROGER. (_Agitated_) Well, Aunt, it’s clear now, isn’t it?

DUCHESS. Less and less!

ROGER. I shall see him at once!

MME. DE CÉRAN. What are you going to do?

ROGER. Merely to do as my aunt has suggested: get to the bottom of the affair. And I swear if that man—that if it’s true—if he has dared—!

MME. DE CÉRAN. If he has I shall show him to the door!

DUCHESS. If he has, I’ll see that he marries her! (_Following_ SUZANNE) Only, if it isn’t true—well, we’ll see! Come! (_She tries to make_ MME. DE CÉRAN _go out. Loud applause is heard from the adjoining room; indistinct murmurs of conversation and moving of chairs_)

MME. DE CÉRAN. Well!

DUCHESS. What’s that I hear? Another beautiful line? No, it’s the end of the act. Quick, before they come in!!

MME. DE CÉRAN. But my guests?

DUCHESS. They’ll go to sleep again without your help! Come, come!

(_They go out. The door at the back opens. Through it are seen guests in groups, with_ DES MILLETS _in the centre of one_.)

LADIES. Beautiful!—Great Art!—Very noble!

PAUL. (_On the threshold of the door_) That act is charming! Don’t you think so, General?

GENERAL. (_Yawning cavernously_) Charming! Four to come!

(PAUL _skilfully maneuvers so that he reaches the door leading to the garden and disappears through it_.)

_Curtain._