Chapter 116

MACAIRE, BERTRAND; _afterwards_ CHARLES, _who appears on the gallery_, _and comes down_

BERTRAND. I told you so. Why will you fly so high?

MACAIRE. Bertrand, don’t crush me. A pound: a fortune! With a pound to start upon—two pounds, for I’d have borrowed yours—three months from now I might have been driving in my barouche, with you behind it, Bertrand, in a tasteful livery.

BERTRAND (_seeing_ CHARLES). Lord, a policeman!

MACAIRE. Steady! What is a policeman? Justice’s blind eye. (_To_ CHARLES.) I think, sir, you are in the force?

CHARLES. I am, sir, and it was in that character—

MACAIRE. Ah, sir, a fine service!

CHARLES. It is, sir, and if your papers—

MACAIRE. You become your uniform. Have you a mother? Ah, well, well!

CHARLES. My duty, sir—

MACAIRE. They tell me one Macaire—is not that his name, Bertrand?—has broken jail at Lyons?

CHARLES. He has, sir, and it is precisely for that reason—

MACAIRE. Well, good-bye. (_Shaking_ CHARLES _by the hand and leading him towards the door_, _L. U. E._) Sweet spot, sweet spot. The scenery is . . . (_kisses his finger-tips_. _Exit_ CHARLES). And now, what is a policeman?

BERTRAND. A bobby.