Dumont. Embrace neither of them; embrace nobody; there has been too much of this sickening folly. To bed!!! (Exit violently R.U.E. All the characters troop slowly upstairs, talking in dumb show. Bertrand and Macaire remain in front C., watching them go.)

Bertrand. Sold again, captain?

Macaire. Ay, they will have it.

Bertrand. It? What?

Macaire. The worst, Bertrand. What is man? – a beast of prey. An hour ago, and I’d have taken a crust and gone in peace. But no: they would trick and juggle, curse them: they would wriggle and cheat! Well, I accept the challenge: war to the knife.

Bertrand. Murder?

Macaire. What is murder? A legal term for a man dying. Call it Fate, and that’s philosophy; call me Providence, and you talk religion. Die? Why, that is what man is made for; we are full of mortal parts; we are all as good as dead already, we hang so close upon the brink: touch a button, and the strongest falls in dissolution. Now, see how easy: I take you – (grappling him).

Bertrand. Macaire – O no!

Macaire. Fool! Would I harm a fly, when I had nothing to gain? As the butcher with the sheep, I kill to live; and where is the difference between man and mutton? pride and a tailor’s bill. Murder? I know who made that name – a man crouching from the knife! Selfishness made it – the aggregated egotism called society; but I meet that with a selfishness as great. Has he money? Have I none – great powers, none? Well, then, I fatten and manure my life with his.

Bertrand. You frighten me. Who is it?

Macaire. Mark well. (The Marquis opens the door of Number Thirteen, and the rest, clustering round, bid him good-night. As they begin to disperse along the gallery he enters and shuts the door.) Out, out, brief candle! That man is doomed.

DROP

ACT III

As the curtain rises, the Stage is dark and empty. Enter Macaire, L.U.E., with lantern. He looks about

SCENE I

Macaire, Bertrand

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’ll 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 nightcap, 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 a 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.)

Страница 55 из 57