ACT I
Brignac’s drawing-room. Doors right, left, and at the back. Furniture of a government official. When the curtain rises Lucie, a woman of about thirty, is alone. Brignac, a man of thirty-eight, opens a door outside and calls gaily from the anteroom.
BRIGNAC. Here I am. [He takes off his cloak, gives it to a maid-servant, and enters].
LUCIE [gaily] Good morning, sous-préfet.
BRIGNAC [he is in the uniform of a sous-préfet. A tunic or dolman, with simple embroidery and two rows of buttons; a cap with an embroidered band, a sword with a mother o’ pearl handle and a silver-plated sheath. His belt is of silk; his trousers blue with a silver stripe; and he wears a black cravat. He comes forward, taking off his sword and belt during the following conversation. He is finishing a large cigar] Have you been bored all alone?
LUCIE. With three children one hasn’t time to be bored.
BRIGNAC [taking his sword into the anteroom] By Jove, no!
LUCIE. Well, how did the luncheon go off?
BRIGNAC [throwing away his cigar-end] Very well. I’ll tell you all about it in a minute. [Going to the door to the right and calling through] Has M. Mouton come?
A VOICE [from outside] Yes, monsieur le sous-préfet. Shall I tell him he’s wanted?
BRIGNAC. No. Bring me my letters. [He closes the door and comes back] Shall I never catch that fellow out?
LUCIE. Why do you want to?
BRIGNAC. I want to get rid of him, of course, and get a young chap. An unmarried man wouldn’t ask half the salary I give this one.
A clerk enters bringing letters.
CLERK. The letters, monsieur le sous-préfet.
BRIGNAC. All right.
The clerk goes out. Brignac glances at the addresses and sorts the letters into several piles without opening the envelopes.
LUCIE. That little ceremony always amuses me.
BRIGNAC. What ceremony? Sorting my letters?
LUCIE. Without opening them.
BRIGNAC. I know what’s inside by looking at them.
LUCIE. Nonsense!
BRIGNAC. Don’t you believe it? Well, look. Here’s one from the mayor of St. Sauveur. Something he asks me to forward to the préfet. [He opens it and hands the letter to his wife, who does not take it] There!
LUCIE. Why doesn’t he send it direct to the préfet?
BRIGNAC. What would be the use of us then?
LUCIE [laughing] That’s true.
BRIGNAC. Now I suppose you’ll make some more jokes about sous-préfets and their work. It’s easy, and not particularly clever. Perhaps some of us don’t take our jobs very seriously, but I’m not like that. If we are useless, our business is to make ourselves indispensable. Just take to-day for example and see if I’m not busy enough. This morning I signed thirty documents; afterwards I went to the meeting of the Council of Revision.[1] Then came this luncheon of the mayor’s to all these gentlemen. Now I shall have an hour of office-work, and then I shall have to go and meet our guests and bring them here, to our own dinner. [Pause] Oh! and I forgot—after dinner there will be that reception at the Club that they put off to suit me. That’s a fairly full official day, isn’t it?
[1] The Board appointed to inspect conscripts, and see if they are fit for military service.—Note by the Translator.
LUCIE. Yes.
BRIGNAC. We shall only have part of the Committee at dinner. Some of the members have refused. [With interest] Hullo! I didn’t see this. A letter from the Minister of the Interior.
LUCIE. Perhaps it’s your promotion.
BRIGNAC [opening the letter] One never knows—No, it’s a circular [pause] upon the decline of the population. [He runs his eye through the paper] Most important. [He goes to the door on the right] M. Lioret!
A clerk comes in.
CLERK. Yes, monsieur le sous-préfet?
BRIGNAC [giving him papers] Give that to M. Mouton. It must be done by five o’clock, and well done. This for M. Lamblin—M. Rouge—And put this upon my desk. I will see to it myself and give it the attention it requires.
The clerk goes out.
LUCIE. Perhaps it’s not worth attention.
BRIGNAC. It needs an acknowledgment anyway; and the terms used in the original must be most carefully reproduced in the acknowledgment.
LUCIE. Now tell me how the luncheon went off.
BRIGNAC. I have told you. It went off very well. Too well. The mayor wanted to be even with us. All the same, our dinner to-night will be better. [He takes a cigar out of his pocket] I brought away a cigar to show it to you. Are ours as big?
LUCIE. Pretty much the same.
BRIGNAC. He doesn’t give you cigars like that at his big receptions. There’s the menu.
LUCIE [glancing at it] Oh! I say!
BRIGNAC. The champagne was decanted!
LUCIE. Well, we’ll have ours decanted. [Brightly] Only, you know, it’ll cost money. We shouldn’t have much left if we had to give many dinners to Councils of Revision.
BRIGNAC. Don’t worry about that. You know very well that when Balureau gets back into power he’ll have us out of this dead-alive Châteauneuf, and give us a step up.
LUCIE. Yes; but will he get back into power?
BRIGNAC. Why shouldn’t he?
LUCIE. He was in such a short time.
BRIGNAC. Precisely. They hadn’t time to find him out.
LUCIE [laughing] If he heard you!
BRIGNAC. You misunderstand me. I have the greatest respect for—
LUCIE [interrupting] I know, I know. I was only joking.
BRIGNAC. You’re always worrying about the future; now what makes me the man I am is my persistent confidence in the future. If Balureau doesn’t get into office again we’ll stay quietly at Châteauneuf, that’s all. You can’t complain, as you were born here.
LUCIE. But it’s you who complain.
BRIGNAC. I complain of the want of spirit in the people. I complain that I cannot get them to love and respect our political institutions. I complain above all of the society of Châteauneuf: a set of officials entertaining one another.
LUCIE. Society in Châteauneuf doesn’t open its arms to us, certainly.
BRIGNAC. It doesn’t think us important enough.
LUCIE. To have a larger acquaintance we ought to entertain the commercial people. You won’t do that.
BRIGNAC. I have to consider the dignity of my position.
LUCIE. As you often say, we are in the enemy’s camp.
BRIGNAC. That’s true. But the fact that people hate me shows that I am a person of some importance. We must look out for the unexpected. How do you know some great opportunity won’t come in my way to-morrow, or next month, or in six months? An opportunity to distinguish myself and force the people in Paris to pay attention to me.
LUCIE. Yes; you’ve been waiting for that opportunity for eleven years.
BRIGNAC. Obviously then it is so much the nearer.
LUCIE. And what will it be?
BRIGNAC. Some conflict, some incident—trouble.
LUCIE. Trouble at Châteauneuf?
BRIGNAC. I’m quite aware that Châteauneuf is most confoundedly peaceable. One gets no chance. I count more upon Balureau than on anything else. [Pause] Is Annette with her friend Gabrielle?
LUCIE. No.
BRIGNAC. But this is Tuesday.
LUCIE. It’s not time for her to go yet.
BRIGNAC. Yes, but if she puts it off till too late.
LUCIE. I’ve wanted for some time to speak to you about Annette. Don’t you think she goes to the Bernins a little too often?
BRIGNAC. Not at all. They’re very influential people and may be useful to me. Call her. [He goes to the door to the left and calls himself] Annette! [Coming back] Annette goes three times a week to practise with Mademoiselle Bernin, who goes everywhere. That’s an excellent thing for us, and may be of consequence. [Annette comes in] Annette, don’t forget how late it is. It’s time you were with your friend.
ANNETTE [going out] Yes, yes. I’ll go and put on my hat.
LUCIE [to Brignac] They want Annette to spend a few days with them in the country. Ought we to let her?
BRIGNAC. Why not? She wants to go. You know how fond she is of Gabrielle.
LUCIE. Yes; but Gabrielle has a brother.
BRIGNAC. Young Jacques. But he’s going to be married, my dear.
LUCIE. Is he?
BRIGNAC. Yes, yes, of course. [Annette comes in from the left] Make haste, Annette.
LUCIE. What does it matter if she’s five minutes late?
ANNETTE.. No—no—Where is my music?
LUCIE. You look quite upset. Would you rather not go?
ANNETTE. Yes, yes, I’ll go—Good-bye. [She hurries off, forgetting her music].
LUCIE [calling] Your music! [she holds out the music-case].
ANNETTE. Oh, thank you. Good-bye. [She goes out].
LUCIE. Don’t you think Annette has been a little depressed lately?
BRIGNAC. Eh? Yes—no—has she? Have you found a new parlor-maid?
LUCIE. Yes.
BRIGNAC. There, you see! You were worrying about that.
LUCIE. I had good reason to worry. I’ve been without a parlor-maid for a week. I liked a girl who came yesterday very much; but she wouldn’t take the place.
BRIGNAC. Why not?
LUCIE. She said there were too many children here.
BRIGNAC.. Too many children! Three!
LUCIE. Yes: but the eldest is three years old and the youngest two months.
BRIGNAC. There’s a nurse.
LUCIE. I told her that, of course.
BRIGNAC. Well, I declare! And when you consider that it meant coming to the sous-préfet!
LUCIE. I suppose she’s not impressed by titles.
BRIGNAC. And what about the one you have engaged?
LUCIE. She’s elderly. Perhaps she’ll be steady.
BRIGNAC. Yes, and have other vices. Still—
LUCIE. The unhappy woman has two children out at nurse, and two older ones at Bordeaux. Her husband deserted her.
BRIGNAC. Too bad of Céline to force us to turn her out of doors.
LUCIE. Her conduct was bad, certainly. All the same—
BRIGNAC. Oh, it was not her conduct! She might have conducted herself ten times worse if only she had had the sense to keep up appearances. Outside her duty to me her life was her own. But we have to draw the line at a confinement in the house. You admit that, don’t you? [A pause. Lucie does not answer] It was getting quite unmistakable—you know it was. Those wretched grocer’s boys are a perfect scourge to decent houses. [He takes up a paper] This circular is admirable.
LUCIE. Is it?
BRIGNAC. And of the greatest importance. Such style, too. Listen. [He reads] ‘Our race is diminishing! Such a state of affairs demands the instant attention of the authorities. The Legislature must strenuously endeavour to devise remedial measures against the disastrous phenomenon now making itself manifest in our midst.’ The Minister of the Interior has done this very well. The end is really fine—quite touching. Listen. ‘Truth will triumph: reason will prevail: the noble sentiment of nationality and the divine spirit of self-sacrifice will bear us on to victory. We who know the splendid recuperative power of our valiant French race look forward with confidence and security to the magnificent moral regeneration of this great and ancient people.’ [He looks at his wife].
LUCIE. It’s well written, certainly.
BRIGNAC [continuing to read] ‘Let each one, in his own sphere of action and influence, work with word and pen to point out the peril and urge the immediate necessity of a remedy. Committees must be formed all over France to evolve schemes and promote measures by which the birth-rate may be raised.’
LUCIE. Does it suggest any scheme?
BRIGNAC. Yes. The rest of the circular is full of the ways and means. I shall read it aloud this evening.
LUCIE. This evening!
BRIGNAC. Yes. [He goes to the right hand door and calls] Monsieur Lioret!
CLERK [coming in] Monsieur le sous-préfet.
BRIGNAC. Make me two copies of this circular yourself; you will understand its great importance. And bring the original back yourself and place it upon this table.
CLERK. Yes, monsieur le sous-préfet. [He goes out].
BRIGNAC [returning to Lucie] The covering letter from my official superior ends with these words: ‘Have the goodness, M. le sous-préfet, to send me at once a statistical schedule of all committees or associations of this nature at present existing in your district, and let me know what measures you think of taking in response to the desiderata of the Government.’ Well, I shall take advantage of the dinner we give to-night to the members of the Council of Revision to set on foot some associations of the sort, and then I can write up to the authorities, ’There were no associations: I created them’!
LUCIE. But is the dinner a suitable—
BRIGNAC. Listen to me. This morning there was a Council of Revision at Châteauneuf.
LUCIE. Yes.
BRIGNAC. The mayor invited the members to luncheon and we have invited them to dinner.
LUCIE. Well?
BRIGNAC. The Council of Revision is composed of a Councillor to the Prefecture, a general Councillor, a district Councillor—I leave out the doctor—and the mayors of the communes concerned—the mayors of the communes concerned. I shall profit by the chance of having them all together after dinner to-night—after a dinner where the champagne will be decanted, mind you—to impress them with my own enthusiasm and conviction. They shall create local committees, and I shall presently announce the formation of those committees to the authorities. So even if Balureau doesn’t get into power, I shall sooner or later force the Minister to say, ’But why don’t we give a man like Brignac a really active post?’ This is a first-rate opening for us: I saw it at a glance. After dinner I shall shew them my diagram. You must make my office into a cloak-room, and—
LUCIE [interrupting] Why? There’s room in the hall.
BRIGNAC. I can’t put the diagram in the hall, and I want an excuse for bringing them all through the office. Some day the Colonel may meet the Minister of the Interior and say to him: ‘I saw in the sous-préfecture at Châteauneuf’—
LUCIE [interrupting again] All right. As you like.
BRIGNAC. You trust to me. You don’t understand anything about it. You didn’t even know how a Council of Revision was made up,—you, the wife of a sous-préfet. And yet every year we give them a dinner. And we’ve been married four years.
LUCIE [gently and pleasantly] Now think for a minute. We’ve been married four years, that’s true. But this time three years was just after Edmée was born: two years ago I was expecting little Louise; and last year after weaning her I was ill. Remember too that if I had nursed the last one myself I could not be at dinner tonight, as she is only two months old.
BRIGNAC. You complain of that?
LUCIE [laughing] No: but I am glad to be having a holiday.
BRIGNAC [gaily] You know what I said: as long as we haven’t a boy—
LUCIE [brightly] We ought to have a trip to Switzerland first.
BRIGNAC. No, no, no. We have only girls: I want a boy.
LUCIE [laughing] Is it the Minister’s circular that—
BRIGNAC. No, it is not the Minister’s circular.
LUCIE. Then let me have time to breathe.
BRIGNAC. You can breathe afterwards.
LUCIE. Before.
BRIGNAC. After.
LUCIE. Wouldn’t you rather have a holiday?
BRIGNAC. No.
LUCIE [gently] Listen, Julien, since we’re talking about this. I wanted to tell you—I haven’t had much leisure since our marriage. We’ve not been able to take advantage of a single one of your holidays. And if you don’t agree to let—[tenderly] Maurice—wait another year it will be the same thing this time. [Smiling] I really have a right to a little rest. Consider. We’ve not had any time to know one another, or to love one another. Besides, remember that we already have to find dowries for three girls.
BRIGNAC. I tell you this is going to be a boy.
LUCIE. A boy is expensive.
BRIGNAC. We are going to be rich.
LUCIE. How?
BRIGNAC. Luck may come in several ways. I may stay in the Civil Service and get promoted quickly. I may go back to the Bar: I was a fairly successful barrister once. I may have some unexpected stroke of luck. Anyway, I’m certain we shall be rich. [Smiling] After all, it’s not much good you’re saying no, if I say yes.
LUCIE [hurt] Evidently. My consent was asked for before I was given a husband, but my consent is not asked for before I am given a child.
BRIGNAC. Are you going to make a scene?
LUCIE. No. But all the same—this slavery—
BRIGNAC. What?
LUCIE. Yes, slavery. After all you are disposing of my health, my sufferings, my life—of a year of my existence, calmly, without consulting me.
BRIGNAC. Do I do it out of selfishness? Do you suppose I am not a most unhappy husband all the time I have a future mother at my side instead of a loving wife? ’A father is a man all the same.’
LUCIE [ironically] Oh, you are most unhappy, aren’t you?
BRIGNAC. Yes.
LUCIE. Rubbish!
BRIGNAC. Rubbish?
LUCIE. You evidently take me for a fool.
BRIGNAC. I don’t understand.
LUCIE. I know what you do at those times. Now do you understand?
BRIGNAC. No.
LUCIE [irritated] Don’t deny it. You must see that I know all about it. The best thing you can do is to be silent, as I have pretended so far to know nothing.
BRIGNAC [coming off his high-horse] I assure you—
LUCIE. Do you want me to tell you the name of the person you go to see over at Villeneuve, while I am nursing, or a ‘future mother’ as you call it?
BRIGNAC. If you’re going to believe all the gossip you hear—
LUCIE. We had better say no more about it.
BRIGNAC. I beg to observe that it was not I who started the subject. There, there—you’re in a bad temper. I shall go and do some work, and then I must join those gentlemen. Only, you know, you’re mistaken.
LUCIE. Oh, yes, of course.
He goes out to the right, shrugging his shoulders. Lucie rings. Catherine comes in.
LUCIE. Are Nurse and Josephine out with the children?
CATHERINE. Yes, madame.
LUCIE [beaming] Were my little ones well and happy?
CATHERINE. Oh, yes, madame.
LUCIE [sincerely] Aren’t my little girls pretty?
CATHERINE. Yes: pretty and clever.
LUCIE. The other day Edmée was talking about playing horses, and Louise said ‘’orses’ quite distinctly. It’s wonderful at her age.
CATHERINE. I’ve seen lots of children, but I never saw such nice ones before.
LUCIE. I’m so glad. You’re a good creature, Catherine.
Annette comes in. She pulls off her hat, wild with joy.
ANNETTE. Lucie! Sister! News! Great news! Good news!
LUCIE. What is it?
ANNETTE [giving her hat to Catherine] Take this, Catherine, and go. [She pushes her out gently].
LUCIE [laughing] Well!
ANNETTE. I must kiss you, kiss you! I wanted to kiss the people in the street. [She bursts into a laugh which ends in a sob].
LUCIE. Little sister Annette, you’ve gone quite mad.
ANNETTE. No—not mad—I’m so happy.
LUCIE. What is it, little girl?
ANNETTE [in tears] I’m happy! I’m happy!
LUCIE. Why, what’s the matter with the child?
ANNETTE. No, no. It’s all right—don’t speak to me. I shall soon be better. It’s nervous. [She laughs and cries at the same time]. I tell you I’m happy—only—only—How stupid it is to cry like this. I can’t help it. [She puts her arms round Lucie’s neck]. Oh, little mother, I love you—I do love you. [She kisses Lucie: another little sob]. Oh, I am silly. There now, it’s all right—I’ve done. [She wipes her eyes] There: now I’m going to tell you. [With great joy and emotion, and very simply] I am going to be married. Monsieur and Madame Bernin are coming to see you about it.
LUCIE. Why?
ANNETTE. Because Jacques has told them to.
LUCIE. Jacques!
ANNETTE [very fast, tumbling out the words] Yes, it was when I was practising with Gabrielle. He had guessed—it happened this way—practising—he sings a little—oh, nothing very grand—once—[she laughs] but I’ll tell you about that afterwards—it’s because of that—We shall be married soon. [Fresh tears. Then she says gravely, embracing Lucy] I do love him so, and if he hadn’t asked me to marry him—You don’t understand?
LUCIE [laughing] I guess a little.
ANNETTE. Do you want me to tell you all about it, from the beginning?
LUCIE. Yes.
ANNETTE. I want to so much. If it won’t bore you. It would make me so happy.
LUCIE. Go on.
ANNETTE. Well, when I was playing duets with Gabrielle—I must tell you that I began by detesting him because he will make fun of everybody. But he’s most kind, really. For instance—
LUCIE. Now keep to the point. When you played duets—
ANNETTE. Yes, I was telling you. When I played duets with Gabrielle he used to come and listen to us. He stood behind us to turn over the leaves: once he put his hand upon my shoulder—
LUCIE. You let him?
ANNETTE. He had his other hand on Gabrielle’s shoulder—it would have been priggish to say anything.
LUCIE. Yes, but with Gabrielle it’s different.
ANNETTE. That’s what I was going to say. My heart began beating so—I got so red, and I had no idea what I was playing. And then, another time—he couldn’t see the music—he stooped right down. But that’s all nothing. We love each other, that’s the whole thing.
LUCIE. And has he told you that he loves you?
ANNETTE [gravely] Yes.
LUCIE. And you hid all that from me? I’m sorry, Annette.
ANNETTE. I’m so, so sorry. But it all came so gradually. I can hardly tell now exactly when it began. I even thought I was mistaken. And then—then—when we first dared to speak to one another about what we had never spoken of, though we both knew it so well—I knew I’d done wrong. But I was so ashamed I couldn’t tell you about it then.
LUCIE [tenderly] All the same it was very naughty of you, darling.
ANNETTE. Oh, don’t scold me! Please, please don’t scold me. If you only knew how I’ve repented—how unhappy I’ve been. Haven’t you noticed?
LUCIE. Yes. Then he’s spoken to his father and mother?
ANNETTE. Some time ago.
LUCIE. And they consent?
ANNETTE. They are coming this afternoon.
LUCIE. Why didn’t they come sooner?
ANNETTE. Well—Jacques begged them to, but they didn’t want it at first. They wanted Gabrielle to be married first. It was even arranged that I should pretend I didn’t know they had been told. Then, to-day, I met Jacques in the street—
LUCIE. In the street?
ANNETTE. Yes. Lately he has not been coming to our practices—so I meet him—
LUCIE. In the street!
ANNETTE. Generally we only bow to one another, and that’s all. But to-day he said to me as he passed, ‘My mother is going to your house. She’s there behind me.’ Then I hurried in to tell you. [With a happy smile] He was quite pale. Please don’t scold me, I am so happy. Forgive me.
LUCIE [kissing her] Yes: I forgive you. Then you’re going away from me, you bad thing.
ANNETTE. Yes, I am bad. Bad and ungrateful. That’s true.
LUCIE. Marriage is a serious thing. Are you sure you will suit one another?
ANNETTE. Oh, I’m certain of it. We’ve quarrelled already.
LUCIE. What about?
ANNETTE. About a book he lent me.
LUCIE. What book?
ANNETTE. Anna Karenina. He liked Vronsky better than Peter Levin. He talked nonsense. He said he didn’t believe in Madame Karenina’s suicide. You remember, she throws herself under the wheels of the train Vronsky is going away in. Don’t you remember? It doesn’t matter.
LUCIE. And then?
ANNETTE. And then—there’s a ring—perhaps that’s the Bernins.
A silence. Catherine appears with a card.
LUCIE. Yes. It’s Madame Bernin.
ANNETTE. Oh! [Going to her room] You’ll come and fetch me presently.
LUCIE. Yes. [To Catherine] Show the lady in.
ANNETTE. Don’t be long.
She goes out. Lucie tidies herself before a glass. Madame Bernin comes in.
MME. B. How do you do, Madame Brignac?
LUCIE. How do you do, madame?
MME. B. Are you quite well?
LUCIE. Very well, madame. And you?
MME. B. I need not ask after M. Brignac.
LUCIE. And M. Bernin?
MME. B. He’s very well, thank you.
LUCIE. Won’t you sit down?
MME. B. Thank you. [Sits] What lovely weather.
LUCIE. Yes, isn’t it? How lucky you are to be able to get into the country. Annette is so looking forward to her visit to you.
MME. B. Well, I came to-day—first of all to have the pleasure of seeing you—and then to have a chat with you about that very matter.
LUCIE. And about another matter, too, I think.
MME. B. Another matter?
LUCIE. Not about another?
MME. B. No, I don’t quite understand—
LUCIE. Oh, then I beg your pardon. Tell me what it is about Annette’s visit.
MME. B. My daughter has just got an invitation to spend some time with her cousins the Guibals, and we can’t possibly refuse to let Gabrielle go to them. So I’ve come to beg you to excuse us, because—as Gabrielle won’t be there—
LUCIE. Oh, of course, madame. Will Mademoiselle Gabrielle make a long stay with her cousins?
MME. B. Well, that’s just what’s so annoying. We don’t know exactly: it might be a week, or it might be a month. And she may stay there all the time we are away from Châteauneuf.
LUCIE. Poor little Annette!
MME. B. But I thought you were going away somewhere yourselves this Easter?
LUCIE. Yes.
MME. B [kindly] That relieves my mind a little, and I hope it will make up to Mademoiselle Annette for the disappointment I am obliged to cause her—to my very great regret.
LUCIE [after a silence] Will you excuse me, madame. [Hesitating] Perhaps this is indiscreet.
MME. B. Oh, I am sure not, Madame Brignac.
LUCIE. I only wanted to ask you if it is long since Mademoiselle Gabrielle got this invitation from her cousins?
MME. B. About a week.
LUCIE. A week!
MME. B. Why does that surprise you?
LUCIE. Because she did not mention it to Annette.
MME. B. She was afraid of disappointing her.
LUCIE. Only yesterday Annette was telling me about all sorts of excursions your daughter was planning for them both. Madame, this invitation is an excuse: please tell me the whole truth. Annette is only my sister, but I love her as if she was my own child, and I speak as a mother to a mother. I’m not going to try to be clever or to stand on my dignity. This is how it is: Annette believes your son loves her, and when you were announced just now she thought you came to arrange her marriage with him. Now you know all that I know. Tell me the truth, and let us do what we can to prevent unhappiness.
MME. B. As you speak so simply and feelingly I will tell you candidly exactly what is in my mind. As a matter of fact this invitation to Gabrielle is only a device of ours to prevent Jacques and Annette seeing any more of one another.
LUCIE. Then you don’t want them to see any more of one another?
MME. B. No, because I don’t want them to marry.
LUCIE. Because Annette is poor?
MME. B [after some hesitation] Well—since we’re speaking plainly—yes, because she is poor. Ah, dear Madame Brignac, we have both been very much to blame for not foreseeing what has happened.
LUCIE. We have been to blame?
MME. B. I know Annette, and I like her very much. I know you too, better than you think, and I have the greatest respect and esteem for you; it has never even occurred to me that in seeking our acquaintance you had any other motive than friendship. But you ought to have feared and foreseen what has happened?
LUCIE. What should I fear? Annette went to see Gabrielle. How could I know that you let your son be with them? You knew it because it happened at your house, and it is you who have been wanting in prudence and foresight. You invited this poor child, you exposed her to danger, you let her take a fancy to your son, you allowed them to fall in love with one another, and you come to-day and calmly tell me that this marriage is impossible, and you are going off to the country leaving it to me to break the poor child’s heart.
MME. B. How do you know I foresaw nothing? And how can one tell the right moment to interfere to prevent playmates becoming lovers? While I was uncertain didn’t I run the risk of causing the very thing I was anxious to prevent, by separating them without a good reason? When I really felt sure there was danger I spoke to Jacques. I said to him ‘Annette is not a suitable match for you: you must be very careful how you behave to her: don’t forget to treat this girl as a sister.’
LUCIE. And he said ‘It is too late: we love each other.’
MME. B. On the contrary, he said: ‘You needn’t worry, mother. I have been thinking the same thing myself, and I am a man of honor. Besides, though Annette is charming, she’s not the sort of woman I mean to marry.’
LUCIE. How long ago did he tell you that?
MME. B. About two months ago.
LUCIE. Well, at that time he had already spoken of marriage to Annette; or at least he had spoken of love, which from him to her is the same thing.
MME. B. I can only tell you what I know.
LUCIE. Well, madame, all this is beside the question. You are opposed to this marriage?
MME. B. Yes.
LUCIE. Finally? Irrevocably?
MME. B. Finally. Irrevocably.
LUCIE. Because Annette has no money?
MME. B. Yes.
LUCIE. Your son knew she had no money when he made her love him.
MME. B. Believe me, he didn’t mean to do the harm he has done. A young girl of his own age was his sister’s constant companion, and at first he treated her as he treated his sister. At first, I’m sure, it was without any special intention that he saw so much of her. Afterwards probably he made some pretty speeches to your little Annette, and no doubt he was greatly taken with her. As Annette is more innocent and simple and affectionate, and of course more ignorant than he is, she has been more quickly and more deeply touched. But my son is not the worthless fellow you think him, and the proof of that is that he himself came and told me all about it.
LUCIE. And when you told him he must give up Annette, he agreed?
MME. B. Yes, he agreed. He’s reasonable and sensible, and he saw the force of my arguments. He saw that this parting, though it will be painful, was an absolute necessity. He will certainly suffer; but they are both so young. At that age love troubles don’t last.
LUCIE. I understand. In a week your son will have forgotten all about it. But Annette—
MME. B. She will soon forget it, too.
LUCIE. I don’t know—I don’t know. Oh, my poor darling! If you had seen her just now when she came to tell me about it! It’s not for joy she will cry now. Oh!—[she begins to cry].
MME. B [moved] Don’t cry—oh, don’t cry. I assure you I am most deeply sorry. Oh, if it were only possible, how happy it would make me that my boy should marry Annette. The girl he is engaged to is an affected little thing who annoys me, and I really love your sister.
LUCIE. But if that is true you can afford to let your son marry a girl without fortune.
MME. B. No: we’re not so well off as people think. There’s Gabrielle to be provided for. There will be next to nothing left for Jacques.
LUCIE. But he might work.
MME. B. He has not been brought up to that.
LUCIE. That was a mistake.
MME. B. The professions are overcrowded. Would you have him go into an office and get 200 francs a month? They wouldn’t be able to keep a servant.
LUCIE. He could earn more than that.
MME. B. If he got 500—could he keep up his position? Could he remain in his present set? It would be a come-down for him; a come-down he would owe to his wife; and sooner or later he would reproach her for it. And think of their children! They would have just enough to send their son to a board school, and make their daughter a post office clerk. And even then they would have to pinch and screw to provide for her until she got in.
LUCIE. It’s true.
MME. B. You see that I’m right. I can’t say I’m proud of having to say such things—of belonging to a society that forces one to do such things. But we’re not in a land of romance. We live among vain, selfish, hard-headed people.
LUCIE. You despise them, and yet you sacrifice everything to their opinion.
MME. B. Yes: because everything depends upon their opinion. Social position depends upon it. One must be a very exceptional person to be able to defy public opinion. And Jacques is not exceptional.
LUCIE. That’s nothing to be proud of. If he was exceptional, I mean if he was different to all these people about, he would find his love would prevent him from troubling about the sneers of worthless idlers.
MME. B. His love! Love goes: poverty stays: it is a proverb. Beauty passes: want remains.
LUCIE. But you, madame, yourself—you and your husband are a proof that one can marry poor and make a fortune. Your story is well known. Your husband began in an office, then he started his own business; and if riches make happiness, you are happy now—you and he—aren’t you?
MME. B. No, no, no; we are not happy, because we have worn ourselves out hunting after happiness. We wanted to ‘get on,’ and we got on. But what a price we paid for it! First, when we were both earning wages, our life was one long drudgery of petty economy and meanness. When we set up on our own account we lived in an atmosphere of trickery, of enmity, of lying; flattering the customers, and always in terror of bankruptcy. Oh, I know the road to fortune! It means tears, lies, envy, hate; one suffers—and one makes other people suffer. I’ve had to go through it: my children shan’t. We’ve only had two children: we meant only to have one. Having two we had to be doubly hard upon ourselves. Instead of a husband and wife helping one another, we have been partners spying upon one another; calling one another to account for every little expenditure or stupidity; and on our very pillows disputing about our business. That’s how we got rich; and now we can’t enjoy our money because we don’t know how to use it; and we aren’t happy because our old age is made bitter by the memories and the rancor left from the old bad days: because we have suffered too much and hated too much. My children shall not go through this. I endured it that they might be spared. Good-bye, madame.
LUCIE. Good-bye.
Madame Bernin goes out. After a moment Lucie goes slowly to Annette’s door and opens it.
ANNETTE [coming in] You’ve been crying! It’s because I’m going away, isn’t it? Not because there’s anything in the way of—[with increasing trouble] Tell me, Lucie!
LUCIE. You love him so much then?
ANNETTE. If we were not to be married—I should die.
LUCIE. No, you wouldn’t die. Think of all the girls who have said that: did they die?
ANNETTE. Is there anything to prevent?
LUCIE. No, no.
ANNETTE. And when is it to be? Did you talk about that?
LUCIE. What a state of excitement you are in! Annette, dear, you must try to control yourself a little.
ANNETTE [making an effort] Yes. You’re right. I’m a little off my head.
LUCIE. You are really.
ANNETTE [still controlling herself] Well, tell me. What did Madame Bernin say?
LUCIE. What a hurry you are in to leave me! You don’t care for me any more, then?
ANNETTE [gravely] Ah, my dear! If I hadn’t you what would become of me! [A silence] But you’re telling me nothing. You don’t seem to be telling me the truth—you’re hiding something from me—there is some difficulty, I’m certain of it. If there wasn’t you’d say there wasn’t, you wouldn’t put me off—you’d tell me what Madame Bernin said.
LUCIE. Well—there is something.
ANNETTE [bursting into tears] Oh, my God!
LUCIE. You are both very young. It would be better to wait a little—a year—perhaps more.
ANNETTE [crying] Wait—a year!
LUCIE. Come, come, stop crying. There’s really no reason for all this. I am not quite pleased with you, Annette. You’re barely nineteen. If you waited to marry until you are twenty it would be no harm.
ANNETTE. It’s not possible!
LUCIE. Not possible? [She looks searchingly at her]. Annette, you frighten me. If it wasn’t you—[tenderly and gravely] Have I been wrong to trust you?
ANNETTE. No! No! What can you be thinking of—Oh, indeed—
LUCIE. What is it, then?
ANNETTE. Well, I’ve been such a fool as to tell some friends I was engaged.
LUCIE. Before speaking to me about it?
ANNETTE [confused] Don’t, please, ask me any more questions.
LUCIE. Annette, I must scold you a little. You’ve hurt me very much by keeping me in the dark about all this. Nothing would have made me believe that you’d do such a thing. I thought you were too fond of me not to tell me at once about anybody—any man—you were interested in. I find I was mistaken. We see one another every day, we are never parted, and yet you have managed to conceal from me the one thing your heart was full of. You ought to have told me. Not because I am your elder sister, but because I take mother’s place towards you. And for a better reason still—because I am your friend. It’s been a kind of treason. A little more, and I should have heard that you were engaged from strangers and not from you. Well, my dear, you’ve been wrong: these people are not worth crying about. Now be brave and remember your self-respect: I am going to tell you the whole truth. They don’t want you, my poor little girl: you are not rich enough for them.
ANNETTE [staring blindly at her sister] They don’t want me! They don’t want me! But Jacques! Jacques! Does he know?
LUCIE. Yes, he knows.
ANNETTE. He means to give me up if they tell him to?
LUCIE. Yes.
ANNETTE [beside herself] I must see him. I will write to him. I must see him. If they don’t want me there is nothing left but to kill myself.
LUCIE [obliging Annette to look her in the face] Annette, look at me. [Silence. Then tenderly and gravely] I think you have something to tell me.
ANNETTE [tearing herself away] Don’t ask me—don’t [very low] or I shall die of shame.
Lucie forces her to sit down beside her and takes her in her arms.
LUCIE. Come—into my arms. Put your head on my shoulder as you used when you were little. There now, tell me what the trouble is. [Speaking low]. My darling—my little darling—I’m afraid you’re most unhappy. Try and think that it’s mother.
ANNETTE [very low, crying piteously] Oh, mother! If you knew what I have done!
LUCIE [rocking her gently] There—tell me. Whisper it to me. Whisper—
Annette whispers. Lucie rises and separates herself from her sister. She hides her face in her hands.
LUCIE. Oh, Annette! You!
ANNETTE [kneeling and stretching out her arms] Forgive me! Forgive me! Forgive me! I deserve it all. But I’m almost mad.
LUCIE. You, Annette! You!
ANNETTE. Are you going to make me sorry I didn’t kill myself before I told you! Forgive me—
LUCIE. Get up. It’s too awful. I must forgive you. [She sits down].
ANNETTE [still kneeling] I didn’t know—I understood nothing. He took me by surprise. I had loved him for a long time. When he was with his regiment I used to look forward for weeks to his coming home on leave. Just the thought of seeing him used to make me tremble. Before I even knew myself that I was in love with him, he guessed it. He made me tell him so when he asked me to marry him. Then one day—his father and mother were away, and someone came and called Gabrielle, I don’t know why. When we were alone—I didn’t understand—I thought he had suddenly gone mad. But when he kissed me like that I was stunned—I couldn’t do any thing—happy, and afraid, and ashamed. That was three months ago. The next day I met him in the street. I was in such a state that he said, quite of himself ‘I shall speak at once to my people about our marriage.’ I know he meant it, because really he is honest and good. Only, I suppose he hadn’t courage. Then, when I found they were going away so soon, I said to him yesterday ‘You must speak.’ And now they don’t want me!
LUCIE. And he knows that—?
ANNETTE. No. No. Since that day—O, that day!—I’ve never been alone with him. We say ‘monsieur’ and ’mademoiselle’ when we meet and [in an awestruck tone] he is the father of my child.
LUCIE [after a silence] It’s not a question now of a girl not to be married because she is poor. It’s a question of atoning for a crime. Julien must speak to M. Bernin.
ANNETTE. You’re going to tell him?
LUCIE. I must. Go back to your room. You’re in no fit state to come to dinner. [She looks at the clock] I have only just time to dress. Directly the people are gone I shall speak to Jules. When do they go away?
ANNETTE. In a fortnight.
LUCIE. It’s no matter. Jules shall see M. Bernin tomorrow.
ANNETTE. He won’t. He’ll have nothing more to do with me.
LUCIE. No. He will do all he can to save you.
ANNETTE. I don’t think so. Dearest, you are mistaken.
LUCIE. No, I’m not mistaken. I am certain. Go. [Annette goes out]. I’m not mistaken. But if I were! If there were no one but me to defend this child and her baby! [A knock at the office door]. Come in. [The clerk enters] What is it?
CLERK [laying a paper on the table] It is the circular from the Minister of the Interior. M. le sous-préfet told me to put it here.