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The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 15

Автор Роберт Льюис Стивенсон

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Дата написания1970-01-01

Язык книгиen

Возрастное ограничение12+

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SCENE III

To these, the Marquis, L.C

Marquis. Is this the house of John Paul Dumont, once of Lyons?

Dumont. It is, sir, and I am he, at your disposal.

Marquis. I am the Marquis Villers-Cotterets de la ChertÃ© de MÃ©doc. (Sensation.)

Marcaire. Marquis, delighted, I am sure.

Marquis (to Dumont). I come, as you perceive, unfollowed; my errand, therefore, is discreet. I come (producing notes from breast-pocket) equipped with thirty thousand francs; my errand, therefore, must be generous. Can you not guess?

Dumont. Not I, my lord.

Marquis (repeating). “Preserve this letter,” etc.

Marcaire. Bitten!

Bertrand. Sold again! (Aside.) (A pause.)

Aline. Well, I never did!

Dumont. Two fathers!

Marquis. Two? Impossible.

Dumont. Not at all. This is the other.

Marquis. This man?

Marcaire. This is the man, my lord; here stands the father. Charles, to my arms! (Charles backs.)

Dumont. He knew the letter.

Marquis. Well, so did I.

Curate. The judgment of Solomon.

Goriot. What did I tell ’ee? he can’t marry.

Ernestine. Couldn’t they both consent?

Marquis. But he’s my living image.

Marcaire. Mine, Marquis, mine.

Marquis. My figure, I think?

Marcaire. Ah, Charles, Charles!

Curate. We used to think his physiognomy resembled Dumont’s.

Dumont. Come to look at him, he’s really like Goriot.

Ernestine. O papa, I hope he’s not my brother.

Goriot. What be talking of? I tell ’ee, he’s like our Curate.

Charles. Gentlemen, my head aches.

Marquis. I have it: the involuntary voice of nature, at me, my son.

Macaire. Nay, Charles, but look at me.

Charles. Gentlemen, I am unconscious of the smallest natural inclination for either.

Marquis. Another thought: what was his mother’s name?

Macaire. What was the name of his mother by you?

Marquis. Sir, you are silenced.

Macaire. Silenced by honour. I had rather lose my boy than compromise his sainted mother.

Marquis. A thought; twins might explain it: had you not two foundlings?

Dumont. Nay, sir, one only; and, judging by the miseries of this evening, I should say, thank God!

Macaire. My friends, leave me alone with the Marquis. It is only a father that can understand a father’s heart. Bertrand, follow the members of my family. (They troop out, L.U.E. and R.U.E., the fiddlers playing. Air: “O dear, what can the matter be?”)

SCENE IV

Macaire, Marquis

Marquis. Well, sir?

Macaire. My lord, I feel for you. (Business. They sit, R.)

Marquis. And now, sir?

Macaire. The bond that joins us is remarkable and touching.

Marquis. Well, sir?

Macaire (touching him on the breast). You have there thirty thousand francs.

Marquis. Well, sir?

Macaire. I was but thinking of the inequalities of life, my lord: that I, who, for all you know, may be the father of your son, should have nothing; and that you, who, for all I know, may be the father of mine, should be literally bulging with bank notes… Where do you keep them at night?

Marquis. Under my pillow. I think it rather ingenious.

Macaire. Admirably so. I applaud the device.

Marquis. Well, sir?

Macaire. Do you snuff, my lord?

Marquis. No, sir, I do not.

Macaire. My lord, I am a poor man.

Marquis. Well, sir? and what of that?

Macaire. The affections, my lord, are priceless. Money will not buy them; or, at least, it takes a great deal.

Marquis. Sir, your sentiments do you honour.

Macaire. My lord, you are rich.

Marquis. Well, sir?

Macaire. Now follow me, I beseech you. Here am I, my lord; and there, if I may so express myself, are you. Each has a father’s heart, and there we are equal; each claims yon interesting lad, and there again we are on a par. But, my lord – and here we come to the inequality, and what I consider the unfairness of the thing – you have thirty thousand francs, and I, my lord, have not a rap. You mark me! not a rap, my lord! My lord, put yourself in my position; consider what must be my feelings, my desires; and – hey?

Marquis. I fail to grasp…

Macaire (with irritation). My dear man, there is the door of the house; here am I; there (touching Marquis on the breast) are thirty thousand francs. Well, now?

Marquis. I give you my word of honour, sir, I gather nothing; my mind is quite unused to such prolonged exertion. If the boy be yours, he is not mine; if he be mine, he is not yours; and if he is neither of ours, or both of ours … in short, my mind…

Macaire. My lord, will you lay those thirty thousand francs upon the table?

Marquis. I fail to grasp … but if it will in any way oblige you… (Does so.)

Marcaire. Now, my lord, follow me: I take them up; you see? I put them in my pocket; you follow me? This is my hat; here is my stick; and here is my – my friend’s bundle.

Marquis. But that is my cloak.

Marcaire. Precisely. Now, my lord, one more effort of your lordship’s mind. If I were to go out of that door, with the full intention – follow me close – the full intention of never being heard of more, what would you do?

Marquis. I! – send for the police.

Marcaire. Take your money! (Dashing down the notes.) Man, if I met you in a lane! (He drops his head upon the table.)

Marquis. The poor soul is insane. The other man, whom I suppose to be his keeper, is very much to blame.

Marcaire (raising his head). I have a light! (To Marquis.) With invincible oafishness, my lord, I cannot struggle. I pass you by; I leave you gaping by the wayside; I blush to have a share in the progeny of such an owl. Off, off, and send the tapster!

Marquis. Poor fellow! (Exit.)

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