Chapter 127

MACAIRE, BERTRAND

_As the curtain rises_, _the stage is dark and empty_. _Enter_ MACAIRE, _L. U. E._, _with lantern_. _He looks about_

MACAIRE (_calling off_). S’st!

BERTRAND (_entering L. U. E._). It’s creeping dark.

MACAIRE. Blinding dark; and a good job.

BERTRAND. Macaire, I’m cold; my very hair’s cold.

MACAIRE. Work, work will warm you: to your keys.

BERTRAND. No, Macaire, it’s a horror. You not kill him; let’s have no bloodshed.

MACAIRE. None: it spoils your clothes. Now, see: you have keys and you have experience; up that stair, and pick me the lock of that man’s door. Pick me the lock of that man’s door.

BERTRAND. May I take the light?

MACAIRE. You may not. Go. (BERTRAND _mounts the stairs_, _and is seen picking the lock of Number Thirteen_.) The earth spins eastward, and the day is at the door. Yet half an hour of covert, and the sun will be afoot, the discoverer, the great policeman. Yet, half an hour of night, the good, hiding, practicable night; and lo! at a touch the gas-jet of the universe turned on; and up with the sun gets the providence of honest people, puts off his night-cap, throws up his window, stares out of house—and the rogue must skulk again till dusk. Yet half an hour and, Macaire, you shall be safe and rich. If yon fool—my fool—would but miscarry, if the dolt within would hear and leap upon him, I could intervene, kill both, by heaven—both!—cry murder with the best, and at one stroke reap honour and gold. For, Bertrand dead—

BERTRAND (_from above_). S’st, Macaire!

MACAIRE. Is it done, dear boy? Come down. (BERTRAND _descends_.) Sit down beside this light: this is your ring of safety, budge not beyond—the night is crowded with hobgoblins. See ghosts and tremble like a jelly if you must; but remember men are my concern; and at the creak of a man’s foot, hist! (_Sharpening his knife upon his sleeve_.) What is a knife? A plain man’s sword.

BERTRAND. Not the knife, Macaire; O, not the knife!

MACAIRE. My name is Self-Defence. (_He goes upstairs and enters Number Thirteen_.)

BERTRAND. He’s in. I hear a board creak. What a night, what a night! Will he hear him? O Lord, my poor Macaire! I hear nothing, nothing. The night’s as empty as a dream: he must hear him; he cannot help but hear him; and then—O Macaire, Macaire, come back to me. It’s death, and it’s death, and it’s death. Red, red: a corpse. Macaire to kill, Macaire to die? I’d rather starve, I’d rather perish, than either: I’m not fit, I’m not fit, for either! Why, how’s this? I want to cry. (_A stroke_, _and groan from above_.) God Almighty, one of them’s gone! (_He falls with his head on table_, _R._ MACAIRE _appears at the top of the stairs_, _descends_, _comes airily forward and touches him on the shoulder_. BERTRAND, _with a cry_, _turns and falls upon his neck_.) O, O, and I thought I had lost him. (_Day breaking_.)

MACAIRE. The contrary, dear boy. (_He produces notes_.)

BERTRAND. What was it like?

MACAIRE. Like? Nothing. A little blood, a dead man.

BERTRAND. Blood! . . . Dead! _He falls at table sobbing_. MACAIRE _divides the notes into two parts_; _on the smaller he wipes the bloody knife_, _and folding the stains inward_, _thrusts the notes into_ BERTRAND’S _face_.)

MACAIRE. What is life without the pleasures of the table!

BERTRAND (_taking and pocketing notes_). Macaire, I can’t get over it.

MACAIRE. My mark is the frontier, and at top speed. Don’t hang your jaw at me. Up, up, at the double; pick me that cash-box; and let’s get the damned house fairly cleared.

BERTRAND. I can’t. Did he bleed much?

MACAIRE. Bleed? Must I bleed you? To work, or I’m dangerous.

BERTRAND. It’s all right, Macaire; I’m going.

MACAIRE. Better so: an old friend is nearly sacred. (_Full daylight: lights up_. MACAIRE _blows out lantern_.)

BERTRAND. Where’s the key?

MACAIRE. Key? I tell you to pick it.

BERTRAND (_with the box_). But it’s a patent lock. Where is the key? You had it.

MACAIRE. Will you pick that lock?

BERTRAND. I can’t: it’s a patent. Where’s the key?

MACAIRE. If you will have it, I put it back in that old ass’s pocket.

BERTRAND. Bitten, I think. (MACAIRE _dancing mad_.)