ACT I
Brignac’s drawing room. An octagonal room, five sides of which are visible. Right, the door of Brignac’s study, and beyond it the mantelpiece, in front of which are armchairs and a marquetry table with seats round it. At the back the door of the bedroom, which, being opened, shews the bed. Left, the door into the hall, then that of Annette’s room, and beyond, a large window with a piano and music stool in front of it. In the corners at the back, on both sides, flowers in stands. The room is pretty and comfortable, without being luxurious. At the rise of the curtain the stage is empty. The door, left, opens, and Josephine, the maid, shews in Madeleine, a woman of twentyeight.
JOSEPHINE. Madame Brignac must be there. I’ll tell her.
She goes across to the door at the back and disappears. After a moment Lucie enters. She is twentyfive years old, and her simple, but becoming, dress contrasts with her elder sister’s exquisite and fashionable appearance.
LUCIE [going gaily to Madeleine and kissing her] My dear, how are you?
MADELEINE. Lucie, sweet!
LUCIE. How ravishing you look!
MADELEINE. One must, to please one’s husband. Tell me—but first, how are the children?
LUCIE. About as usual.
MADELEINE. I’ve a piece of good news. You know Dr. Hourtin?
LUCIE. No, no; I don’t think so.
MADELEINE. Yes; you do. The famous Hourtin, you know. The man they call Providence for nervous diseases.
LUCIE. Oh yes, yes.
MADELEINE. Dr. Bar wanted to have a consultation with him about your children, didn’t he?
LUCIE. Of course; I know.
MADELEINE. I’ve just met him at the Parmillets’.
LUCIE. What, he’s at Chartres!
MADELEINE. He’s going to see his brother somewhere or other not far off, and so he came through Chartres to visit the wonderful cave. In the one week since they found it he must be at least the twentieth man of science to come and pore over these old prehistoric bones.
LUCIE. But I thought he was a specialist for—
MADELEINE. Yes; the skeletons are just a relaxation.
LUCIE. Oh! Well—
MADELEINE. He’s a great friend of the Parmillets. So as I had the chance, I asked him to come here, and he said he would.
LUCIE. But the children are with their granny in the country.
MADELEINE. Oh, dear. Couldn’t you send for them?
LUCIE. Yes, certainly. But when is Dr. Hourtin going?
MADELEINE. At five o’clock. He wanted to go to his brother first.
LUCIE. There’d hardly be time.
MADELEINE. No. Suppose we were to ask him to come this evening on his way back?
LUCIE. Do you think he would?
MADELEINE. Oh, yes; he’s a charming man.
LUCIE. What a piece of luck! If he could only cure my poor babies!
MADELEINE. They say he works wonders. And where is our little Annette?
LUCIE. Annette is with the Bernins. Tuesday is her day for going there.
MADELEINE. And your husband?
LUCIE. My husband? Why, he’s at his meeting, of course.
MADELEINE. What, is it this afternoon?
LUCIE. You naughty woman! Not even to know the date of your brother in-law’s meeting!
MADELEINE [making a face] No. To me, you know, all these questions—birth-rate, repopulation—ugh!
LUCIE. France has need of it.
MADELEINE. I suppose so. [A pause] How is it you’re not at the meeting?
LUCIE. It’s only for working-men.
MADELEINE. M. de Forgeau’s constituents?
LUCIE. Yes, but some day they may be Julien’s constituents.
MADELEINE. How do you mean?
LUCIE. Listen. It’s a secret, but I can’t help telling you. M. de Forgeau has promised Julien to get him adopted by his committee at the election to the Chamber two months from now.
MADELEINE. Do you find the idea of being wife of a deputy fascinating?
LUCIE [laughing] He didn’t ask my opinion. [Seriously] It seems that if he were in the Chamber, Julien might look forward to going very far.
MADELEINE. It was he who said that?
LUCIE. He, and M. de Forgeau. You know we’re not rich. My husband’s professional income would hardly be enough to secure the future of our two little girls, even if one were not, alas, an invalid.
MADELEINE. Aren’t you afraid that Julien may be once again letting his imagination run away with him?
LUCIE [melancholy] What would be the good of my trying to dissuade him? I must make myself try to share his illusions—for instance, in the success of his meeting this afternoon.
MADELEINE. But what can he find to say to working-men about all that? That they ought to have large families?
LUCIE. That’s it.
MADELEINE. Of course, I know nothing about it, but I should think the best way to encourage them was not to let the children they have already perish of want.
LUCIE. Just what I tell Julien. It’s the rich who ought to have children.
MADELEINE. So I think.
LUCIE. You’re rich—why have you only got one, then?
MADELEINE. That’s another question. Don’t let’s talk about that. Talk of something cheery.
JOSEPHINE [entering] If you please, ma’am, Catherine is here.
LUCIE. Ask her to come in. [To Madeleine] It’s ever so long since I’ve seen nursie.
Josephine shews in Catherine, a working-woman of forty, dressed simply and very neatly in a black cloak and bonnet.
CATHERINE [to Lucie and Madeleine] Good-day, ma’am. Good-day.
LUCIE and MADELEINE [shaking hands] How do you do, Catherine?
CATHERINE. And your sister, ma’am, how’s she?
LUCIE. Annette? Your darling’s very well.
CATHERINE. That’s good to hear. I thought I’d just look in to say good-day.
LUCIE. I’m glad you came.
CATHERINE. And to ask if you haven’t any errands for me in Paris.
MADELEINE [teasing her good humouredly] Ah! So Catherine’s off to Paris—quite the lady!
LUCIE. Shall you stay there long?
CATHERINE. Oh, no. I expect to be back to-morrow. My big boy there isn’t very well. So I’m going to see him, too.
MADELEINE [in order to say something] This early heat, no doubt.
CATHERINE. May be. Then you haven’t any errands for me?
LUCIE and MADELEINE. No, no. No, thank you.
CATHERINE. You don’t know what I’m going for?
LUCIE. I have no idea.
CATHERINE. I’m going to see my eldest girl.
MADELEINE. You know where she’s living, then?
CATHERINE. Yes, I’ve seen someone who met her.
LUCIE. And why didn’t she write to you?
CATHERINE. We’d got angry with one another.
MADELEINE. Ah!
CATHERINE. After she was turned off from the sewing-place she couldn’t get any work. And what must she do but want money from me? As if we had so much to spare!
LUCIE. What’s she doing now?
CATHERINE. She’s in work again. It seems she’s got a good place.
LUCIE. Come and tell us about her, won’t you?
CATHERINE. Yes, indeed I will.
MADELEINE. And when you’re my way come in to see me, too. I’ll have a little packet of things for your youngsters.
CATHERINE. Ah, there it is! My husband won’t let me take anything more from you or Mme. Brignac.
LUCIE. Why?
CATHERINE. Because of his politics. He says he’s not going to vote for M. Brignac, so he doesn’t want to owe him anything.
MADELEINE. But why not from me? I don’t ask him to vote for me!
CATHERINE. That’s all one. You see, when you’re in want, it turns a body sulky.
LUCIE. In want? He’s still at the electric works, isn’t he? He makes a good living.
CATHERINE. So he does. If there were just the two of us, we’d live like lords. But it’s the little ones, that’s what it is: there are too many of us.
MADELEINE. Oh, come, come, Catherine!
CATHERINE. Well, ma’am, I ask you. We don’t go spending our money at the theatre—
Brignac enters. He is a dark, good looking fellow of five-and-thirty, rather stout, with a strong, vibrating voice, and a southern accent.
BRIGNAC [to Josephine] And bring me the biscuits and the bottle I told you to bring up this morning. The one with the green seal.
JOSEPHINE. Yes, sir.
BRIGNAC. Aha, Lucie! A kiss, quick! Congratulate me!
LUCIE. It went well?
BRIGNAC. Splendidly. How are you, Madeleine? Immensely! Ah, Catherine, it’s you. How are you?
CATHERINE. I was just going, sir.
BRIGNAC. I didn’t see your husband at the meeting.
CATHERINE. He wasn’t there, sir.
BRIGNAC. Ah, yes, yes. A regular fire-eater now, isn’t he? Well, I hope his Socialism is profitable.
CATHERINE. Well, we might—
BRIGNAC. Get along better? I thought so. [In a changed tone] Ah, Catherine, I used to know you and your family when your husband went more to church than to his club. You had faith then to help you bear up against your troubles! You put your trust in Providence! Yes, you brought up your children according to the Scriptures: ‘Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow. They toil not, neither do they spin, and yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.’
MADELEINE [shrugging her shoulders, low] Don’t, Julien.
CATHERINE. Good bye, ma’am. Good bye, sir. [She goes out].
BRIGNAC [to Madeleine] What is it?
MADELEINE. You should have more tact.
LUCIE [interposing] Come now, don’t quarrel, you two. [To Madeleine] You’re not to get cross again. Tell us about your meeting.
BRIGNAC. First just to get back my strength!—[he drinks a glass of the wine that Josephine has brought]. My meeting? Well, it was a huge success. On the battle-field Napoleon used to say: ‘One night of Paris will make up for all this.’ If he lived now, he’d say: ‘One night of Paris—after an address from Brignac!’ I tell you, I did magnificently. And the audience was by no means only my friends. I know that, because when I said—when I was inspired to say—’God blesses large families—’
MADELEINE. Someone answered: ‘But he doesn’t support them.’
BRIGNAC. Were you there?
MADELEINE. No, but the retort is so well known that nowadays people don’t allude to blessings from above. There’s too much suffering here below. It looks like a bad joke.
BRIGNAC. Ah, that spirit of Voltaire! [He pours out another glass of wine].
LUCIE. Don’t you think you’ve had enough, dear?
BRIGNAC [holding up the glass] What, of this wine? From a vineyard that my father planted—!
LUCIE. That makes no difference.
BRIGNAC. Have you ever seen me drunk?
LUCIE. No.
BRIGNAC. Well then! [He drinks] Ah! Pure sunshine. It brightens my heart to drink it! M. de Forgeau was enchanted. Have you told Madeleine that I’m going to stand?
LUCIE. Everyone knows about it.
BRIGNAC. So much the better. After today, I have reason to think that there’s every chance of my being elected. At last, we’ll have done with this narrow life of a provincial lawyer! You’ll see! And who knows—between ourselves, of course—who knows that some day I shan’t have men on the bench coming to beg favors of the Minister that they used to refuse to the simple lawyer! Aha, and why not? Stranger things have happened. [Walking about and rubbing his hands] Ah, there’ll be some who’ll cut a queer figure then. [He pulls himself up] Well, well. In the meantime the essential thing is the deputation.
LUCIE. Yes.
BRIGNAC. We’re working at it. And what could be finer than to advance one’s own interests in the very act of defending one’s country? That is the best defence of it, to help in the production of the human race itself, for it means true morality within and the respect of other countries from without.
MADELEINE. You didn’t forget that in your speech, I hope?
BRIGNAC [simply] No, no; that was part of my peroration. All Frenchmen ought to do like old Féchain.
LUCIE. Who’s he?
BRIGNAC. Old Féchain—he was one of the audience. You’ll see him presently. He came to shake hands with me after the meeting. He has twelve children—magnificent! Magnificent, I repeat. I told him to come round here.
MADELEINE. What for?
BRIGNAC. I don’t know, he was so worked up, I wanted to show him a mark of my sympathy. He’ll tell you how it went off; you don’t believe me, Madeleine.
MADELEINE. Indeed I do.
BRIGNAC. I saw you smiling. Yes, he’ll tell you. [Josephine brings a card in] Dr. Hourtin? I know that name.
LUCIE. Oh yes, I forgot. It’s Dr. Hourtin, the professor at Paris.
MADELEINE. I’ll see him, and explain.
LUCIE. Yes, do. [Madeleine goes out] It’s the doctor we wanted to consult about the children, you know. He happens to be at Chartres, and Madeleine met him at some friends’.
Madeleine returns with Dr. Hourtin. He is a man of thirtyfive, with short hair and a pointed beard.
HOURTIN [to Madeleine, as they come in] No apology is needed.
MADELEINE [introducing him] My sister, Madame Brignac; Monsieur Brignac. Professor Hourtin. [Greetings].
HOURTIN. I hear that your babies are in the country. If you like, I could come in to see them tomorrow on my way back. But only after dinner, I fear—my train gets in late.
LUCIE. Of course! We shall be extremely grateful.
MADELEINE [to Lucie] I shall arrange to come as soon as possible to hear what the doctor says.
BRIGNAC. Sit down, won’t you? I’m really delighted. [Ringing] Let me offer you a biscuit and a glass of Alicante.
HOURTIN. No, thank you.
BRIGNAC [speaking first in an undertone to Josephine, who answers the bell] Just for the sake of company! And so, here you are at Chartres—a stroke of luck for the town and for us.
HOURTIN. I was going to see my brother at Châteaudun and thought that I would visit the town on the way.
BRIGNAC. And see our famous cave—these prehistoric remains?
HOURTIN. Anthropology interests me.
BRIGNAC. A thoroughly genuine discovery, too.
HOURTIN. Oh yes, there is no doubt.
LUCIE. I saw a photograph of some of the remains. It was horrible.
HOURTIN. Don’t say that!
LUCIE. I dreamed of it all night. Were they really human beings?
HOURTIN. The remains are undoubtedly those of a household of the stone age. The man’s skeleton is intact, the woman’s skull is fractured.
LUCIE. Poor woman! By a falling rock?
HOURTIN. Oh, no. The human fist of that date was well able to give such a blow.
BRIGNAC. In fact, a little domestic difference?
HOURTIN [laughing] I can’t diagnose at such an interval. But it is easy to imagine the man trying to drag the woman into his den. She refuses. He raises his fist—a blow to stun her, only he hits rather too hard.
LUCIE. How terrible!
HOURTIN. Those were the manners of our ancestor, the cave man.
BRIGNAC. The world has changed.
MADELEINE. Yes. Since the cave man hypocrisy has been invented.
HOURTIN. And we can imagine further. A rival springs on the ravisher, strangles him, and leaves the two corpses in the midst of the flint weapons and the kitchen utensils of polished stone.
LUCIE. It’s enough to give one a nightmare.
HOURTIN [rising, to Lucie] Forgive me. [To Brignac] I should have begun instead of ended by congratulating you on the success of your meeting.
Josephine enters with a bottle and glasses on a tray.
BRIGNAC. You must not go without drinking to it, then. Aha, I’m not from Chartres! Montpellier is my native town; close by Montpellier, at least. Palavas—Palavas-les-Flots. In my part of the country an honest man isn’t afraid of a glass of wine. Alicante, you know!
HOURTIN. No, thank you, really.
BRIGNAC [filling his glass] I see. You’re afraid that my Alicante comes from the grocer’s? No, no. My dear sir, I am the son of a wine grower and I can answer for my cellar, I assure you.
HOURTIN. I only drink water.
BRIGNAC. Ah! You belong to that school of doctors to whom wine is anathema. Let me tell you you’re ruining at one stroke the stomach of the north and the purse of the south. Pessimists, that’s what you are. It’s nothing short of treason to slander the good wine of France. Here’s to your health, and to mine, and to France! [He drinks].
HOURTIN [laughing] Allow me to point out that it’s Spanish wine you are drinking.
BRIGNAC [laughing too] Yes; but I only drink this in a small glass. Look here, I’ll prove to you that you’re wrong. My father—you see, I don’t need to go far—died at seventy five, as strong as an oak. He kept his vines and his vines kept him. I can promise you he didn’t only drink water. I don’t say that now and then—market day and so on—he didn’t get a bit lively, a bit too lively, perhaps. Well, did he suffer for it? On the contrary, it gave him strength to support life and made him charitable to other people’s little failings. A good glass of wine never hurt anybody—there’s my witness you see—and my dear father didn’t drink by the thimbleful, I can tell you. But nowadays you think you see drunkards everywhere.
HOURTIN. With good reason.
BRIGNAC. Well, take me. Do I look healthy? Fit?
HOURTIN. I don’t judge people by their looks.
BRIGNAC. Well, then, I am fit. Ask my wife if I’ve ever been ill. That’s the result of following my father’s example. Never once ill at thirtyfive. Only, only—mark my words—I drink nothing but good wine. You must admit I’m right, for I’ve never been—I won’t say drunk, but even ordinarily elevated. No, never. Isn’t that so, Lucie? I’ll hold my own with anyone. I’ve often won bets about it.
LUCIE. But you know you sometimes have fits of passion.
BRIGNAC. That has nothing to do with it. That’s my temperament. I’m built nervously.
HOURTIN. Never having been drunk proves nothing.
BRIGNAC. Oh, come!
HOURTIN. No. There are a large number of men who drink, perhaps, a glass of vermouth before lunch, a bottle of wine at lunch, and two or three glasses of liqueur after. The same at dinner, after an absinthe and a glass or two of beer in the afternoon. They would be much astonished to learn that they are thoroughly alcoholized.
BRIGNAC. Well, I do all that, and I’m as well as can be. What is more, as a baby I was very delicate. I couldn’t walk till I was eighteen months old or talk before two years. And I’m from the south. Ha, ha! You’ll say I’m making up for lost time?
HOURTIN [laughing] I shan’t try to convince you. Time will do that.
BRIGNAC [glass in hand] In one way I’m of your mind. I firmly believe that drink is a social evil, and I fight against it. For poor people, who are underfed and drink adulterated stuff. That’s different. There you’re right. But alcohol is only bad on an empty stomach.
HOURTIN. Poor empty stomachs. But why don’t you preach sobriety to them, instead of inciting them to have children?
BRIGNAC. Don’t you approve of that?
HOURTIN. My own opinion is that the poor and the sick have too many children and the rich not enough.
BRIGNAC. But—[To Josephine, who enters] What is it?
HOURTIN. Then I’ll be going. [To Lucie] Till tomorrow.
BRIGNAC [to Josephine] Shew him in. [To Hourtin] Wait a moment—five minutes—two minutes only. I’ll shew you a workman who has twelve children. Let’s see what you say to that. [To Féchain] Come in, my friend, come in.
Enter Féchain, a man of fifty, dressed in a workman’s Sunday clothes. Where he stands on coming in he is unable to see Hourtin.
FÉCHAIN. Good day, ladies and gentlemen.
LUCIE [to Madeleine] What a gay old thing!
MADELEINE. Ha, ha!
BRIGNAC. I am glad to see you here in my house and in the midst of my family, and I congratulate you as a living example of the fulfilment of duty. Give me your hand.
FÉCHAIN. Here you are, sir. [They shake hands].
BRIGNAC. What’s your name?
FÉCHAIN. Féchain.
BRIGNAC. Do you live at Chartres?
FÉCHAIN. Yes, sir, close by, in the valley.
BRIGNAC. What are you by trade?
FÉCHAIN. I do a job here and a job there.
BRIGNAC. And you have twelve children?
FÉCHAIN. The thirteenth coming, too.
BRIGNAC. What! My best congratulations.
MADELEINE. Your wife might have some of the congratulations as well.
FÉCHAIN. Thank you, ma’am. I’ll tell her what you say.
MADELEINE. Is she in good health?
FÉCHAIN. Perfect.
BRIGNAC. That’s fine. You’re a grand fellow, a real example of public virtue.
FÉCHAIN. It’s just the way I’m made, so I can’t help it. [Laughing with stupid vanity] Aha, if only everyone were like you or me! The way you talked, you know! Why, number thirteen had to be on the way after that. How many have you?
BRIGNAC. Two.
FÉCHAIN [making a face] What! what! Oh, you must make up for lost time.
MADELEINE [to Lucie, low] Nasty old beast!
BRIGNAC [a little awkwardly] There, splendid. You’re the right sort. Come and see me again some day. If you want a recommendation— [He takes him to the door].
FÉCHAIN. Thank you kindly.
BRIGNAC. Goodbye.
FÉCHAIN. If I might make bold, sir, could you lend me twentyeight francs? I’m a bit behind with my rent.
BRIGNAC. I’ll lay your request before the town authority and second it warmly, I promise you.
MADELEINE. But perhaps he’s in need of it at once. [To Féchain] Give me your address and I’ll bring you the money. I shall be glad to pay my respects to that fine wife of yours.
FÉCHAIN. Oh, ma’am; but you’d be likely to miss her. She’s often out of the house.
MADELEINE. That doesn’t matter. I shall see the children anyway. Where do you live?
FÉCHAIN. You’re very kind, but I shouldn’t like a lady like you to come to our sort of place. My landlord’ll wait so long as he knows that M. Brignac is going to help me. Thank you all the same.
HOURTIN [to Brignac] Let me say a word to this fellow. I feel sure I’ve seen him somewhere. [Brignac nods. To Féchain] Pardon me—
FÉCHAIN [starting] Oh! Good day, doctor.
HOURTIN. Ah, I thought so. I was sure I knew you. You were working at the hospital once?
FÉCHAIN. Yes, sir.
HOURTIN. Quite so. No; you do not live at Chartres.
FÉCHAIN [after a silence] No, sir. I live at Paris. Only when I see there’s to be a meeting like this not far away, I go to it. I’m a poor man, and then—
HOURTIN. Then you get a loan from the chairman?
FÉCHAIN. If I can. Sometimes I’m asked to a dinner.
HOURTIN. Is it true you have twelve children?
FÉCHAIN [smiling] That? Oh, yes; I’ve got the proofs. [He takes some papers from his pocket] Here are their birth certificates, all twelve. I always have them about me—never go without them—so as I can shew them. You can count them.
HOURTIN [taking the papers] Do all your children live with you?
FÉCHAIN. Oh, no. Why there aren’t more than seven left.
HOURTIN. The others are dead?
FÉCHAIN. Poor folks can’t hope to keep all they have.
HOURTIN. When you had had five, you must have seen that you couldn’t support them?
FÉCHAIN. Of course.
HOURTIN. And you had more all the same?
FÉCHAIN. We couldn’t have been worse off than we were. One more or less makes no odds; and then, after seven, things are easier.
HOURTIN. How’s that?
FÉCHAIN. This way. If you have three or four children, no one bothers about you, you’re like everyone else; but with seven or eight, then they have to help you. Relief charities, or the authorities, or just people, that’s all one. They daren’t say no. If you have ten, then it’s first class. Only you mustn’t mind moving. But there, there’s nothing to be had for nothing, is there?
HOURTIN. How many of your children are living with you?
FÉCHAIN. Two.
HOURTIN. And the other five?
FÉCHAIN. The two girls are big enough to do for themselves. The other three are in hospital. [A silence].
HOURTIN [looking at the papers] All your children are not of the same mother, I see.
FÉCHAIN. No; I’ve been a widower twice. Oh, yes; I’ve had my troubles. This is my third. It’s her fourth she’s expecting.
MADELEINE [after a pause, to Lucie] A man like that ought to be shut up.
HOURTIN [giving him back the papers] Thank you.
FÉCHAIN. Good day, sir. Good day, ladies. [To Brignac] You couldn’t just let me have the money for the railway and my ticket to the meeting? It’s only just a trifle.
HOURTIN [giving him some money] There.
FÉCHAIN. Thank you kindly, sir. [He goes out].
HOURTIN [taking leave] You see! Children who cannot be kept ought not to be born. And I would add that those who are born ought to be properly kept.
BRIGNAC. A pretext that would justify the shirking of all duty. It’s impossible to see ahead like that.
HOURTIN. You don’t ask more people to dinner than you have room for, nor before dinner is ready. It will be time to think of increasing our population when our housing and means of livelihood are up to the mark of our existing needs.
BRIGNAC. But each new generation is itself a means of production.
HOURTIN. Certainly. I only ask that the poor should have few children and the degenerate none. No child ought to be brought into the world handicapped by illness or want.
BRIGNAC. And as the result of your precautions our country would fall in point of population to a fifth or a tenth rate power.
HOURTIN [at the door] History teaches us that not even military supremacy belongs to the largest nations. M. de Marigny’s reflection, not mine. [Bowing to the ladies] Till tomorrow. [Shaking Brignac’s hand] And when you have a moment, just consider how society behaves to the mothers of whom it demands children. You’ll find that an entertaining subject—unless it makes you cry. Goodbye.
LUCIE [shewing him out] Then you will really come to see my babies?
HOURTIN. Most certainly. [Lucie goes out with him].
MADELEINE. Well, my dear brother-in-law, what do you say to that?
BRIGNAC [shrugging his shoulders] Oh, if I had wanted to answer him—
MADELEINE. Why didn’t you?
BRIGNAC. Surely you can see that I was not going to annoy a man whom we want to consult professionally. [A pause. He looks at his watch. Lucie returns] Well, five o’clock. I’m off to the club for my game of dominoes. Ta, ta. You dine here, Madeleine, of course?
MADELEINE. No; I can’t. We’ve some official people to go to in the evening. But I’ll look in for news of the chicks.
BRIGNAC. Very well. I’ll upset all Dr. Hourtin’s theories for you in five seconds. You wait and see.
MADELEINE. All right.
BRIGNAC. Good bye. [He goes out].
MADELEINE. Annette not back yet?
LUCIE. She won’t be long now.
MADELEINE. Lucie, don’t you think perhaps she goes rather too often to the Bernins?
LUCIE. Gabrielle’s her best friend.
MADELEINE. Hm, yes.
LUCIE. They’re both so keen on music. Besides, the poor little dear doesn’t get too much fun. It’s dull for her here. I can see she feels it, particularly lately. She only brightens up when she goes to see Gabrielle.
MADELEINE. Yes; but that girl has a brother.
LUCIE. Jacques.
MADELEINE. Just so; Jacques.
LUCIE. Have you heard people talking about Annette in connection with him?
MADELEINE. No. Well, then, yes; I have. Listen, dear. We’re rather peculiarly placed, aren’t we? Three orphan girls. I’m married; twice, though I’m only twenty-eight, and you’re married, for the first time.
LUCIE. And for the last, I should hope.
MADELEINE [laughing] Tut, tut!
LUCIE [laughing too] Monster!
MADELEINE. Then you took our youngest sister to live with you. A perfect arrangement, so long as you look after her as you would after your own girl, or as mother would have done.
LUCIE. She’s eighteen.
MADELEINE. That’s just it.
LUCIE. I don’t see what danger there is for Annette.
MADELEINE. Nor do I. But we’re not alone in the world. As it is, people look astonished—of course it’s a silly little provincial place—at her going out alone.
LUCIE. Oh, to see Gabrielle, five minutes off!
MADELEINE. I know, I know. Tell me, do you think that the Bernin boy would be a possible match for Annette?
LUCIE. I never thought about it. Well, why not?
MADELEINE. Hm, hm!
LUCIE. He’s about the right age. He seems to be a good fellow.
MADELEINE. Oh, yes.
LUCIE. His family is well enough.
MADELEINE. And—the money?
LUCIE. Yes; that’s true. The Bernins are rich and Annette has nothing. Yes; you’re right. She was going to spend a week with them in the country. I’ll find an excuse for her not going. Perhaps I had better say something to her about it.
MADELEINE. There’s no hurry; but we must see that no harm happens to our little pet.
LUCIE. Good heavens! I should never forgive myself.
Annette, fair, eighteen years old, runs in, overflowing with joy.
ANNETTE. What luck! Madeleine, too! Here, Josephine! [She throws her hat to Josephine, who drops it on the floor] Oh, stupid! [Recovering herself] All right, there. Don’t be cross, Fifine. [She kisses Josephine and shoves her out].
LUCIE. What’s the matter?
MADELEINE. Why so radiant?
ANNETTE. Yes, I am! I am! Oh, I’m so happy!
LUCIE. Is that why you kissed Josephine?
ANNETTE. Josephine! Why, I could have kissed the passers by in the street!
MADELEINE [laughing] Our little girl’s gone cracked.
ANNETTE. No, no; only—oh, I’m so happy. [She bursts into a fit of sobbing].
LUCIE. Annette, what’s the matter?
MADELEINE. Annette!
ANNETTE [through her tears] Oh, I am happy, happy!
LUCIE. She’ll make herself ill. Madeleine, call someone.
ANNETTE. No, no; don’t worry. Don’t say anything. It’s only my nerves. [Laughing and crying at the same time] Oh, I am happy, only—how silly to cry like that! But I can’t help it. [She puts her arm round Lucie’s neck, who is kneeling beside her, and draws Madeleine’s head towards her] Lucie, darling! Madeleine, dearest! [She kisses them, then sobs again] How silly! It’s no good; I must. There [she dries her eyes], there. Now I can tell you. [With a pure look of deeply felt happiness] I’m going to be married. M. and Mme. Bernin are coming.
LUCIE. Why?
ANNETTE. Because they’re going to the country to-morrow.
MADELEINE. They’re going away?
ANNETTE. Yes; Jacques has told them.
LUCIE. Jacques?
ANNETTE [in a sudden rush] Yes. It all happened like that, with our music—Gabrielle and me. That was how, and he guessed everything. He sings tenor—oh, not very well. Once [with a laugh]—but I’ll tell you later. That was how it came about; and we’re to be married soon. [Crying again, then gravely pressing Lucie to her] I love him so! Oh, if you only knew! If he hadn’t married me, it would have been so dreadful. You don’t understand?
MADELEINE [smiling] Perhaps we can guess.
ANNETTE. Shall I tell you everything, everything from the beginning?
LUCIE. Yes.
ANNETTE. I should love to tell you. You won’t mind?
MADELEINE. Go on.
ANNETTE. It was like that, when Gabrielle and I were playing duets. At first I hated him because he always laughs at everything, but at bottom he’s good. Do you know what he once—
LUCIE. Never mind that. Go on about the music.
ANNETTE. Well, as I was saying, Gabrielle and I used to play duets. He used to come and listen to us. He stood behind and turned over the pages. Then once he put his hand on my shoulder—
MADELEINE. And you didn’t say anything?
ANNETTE. He had his other hand on Gabrielle’s. I should have looked so idiotic.
LUCIE. Gabrielle’s not the same thing.
ANNETTE. Just what I was going to say. My heart beat so hard and I felt my face all scarlet, that I hardly knew what I was playing. Then another time, when he couldn’t follow, he bent right over. Oh, but I can’t tell you everything, little by little. We love one another, that’s all.
MADELEINE. And he has told you that he loves you?
ANNETTE [gravely] Yes.
LUCIE. And you kept all that from me! That wasn’t right, Annette.
ANNETTE. Oh, forgive me; but it came about so gradually, I could hardly say when it began. I said to myself that it couldn’t be true, and when—when we did tell one another what we hadn’t ever said, though we knew it ourselves, then I knew I’d done wrong, only I was so ashamed that I couldn’t tell you about it.
LUCIE [gently] But it was wrong, my little pet.
ANNETTE. Oh, don’t scold me! Please, please, don’t! If you knew how I’ve been feeling—oh, how dreadfully badly! You didn’t notice.
LUCIE. Yes, I did.
MADELEINE. Has he spoken to his parents?
ANNETTE. Oh, a long time ago.
LUCIE. They consent?
ANNETTE. They’re coming here this afternoon.
MADELEINE. Why didn’t they come sooner?
ANNETTE. Because—Jacques told them you see; but they didn’t want it talked about. They wanted Gabrielle to get married first. So we agreed that I should seem not to think they knew anything about it. Then today I met Jacques in the street—
LUCIE. In the street!
ANNETTE. Yes. He’s given up coming to the music, so I meet him—
LUCIE. In the street!
ANNETTE. As a rule, we only bow to each other; but to-day, as he passed me he said: ‘My parents are going to your sister’s today.’ He was quite pale. Don’t scold me, please! I’m so happy. Do forgive me!
MADELEINE [to Lucie, who looks silently at Annette] Come, forgive her.
LUCIE [kissing her] Oh, yes, I forgive her. So you want to leave us, bad girl?
ANNETTE. Yes. I am bad and ungrateful, I know.
LUCIE. Hush, hush! Nonsense!
MADELEINE. Marriage is a serious thing, Annette. Are you sure that your characters agree together?
ANNETTE. Oh, yes, yes. Why, we’ve quarrelled already!
LUCIE. What about?
ANNETTE. About a book he lent me.
MADELEINE. What book?
ANNETTE. Anna Karenina. He liked Vronsky better than Levine. He said such silly things. And he couldn’t understand Anna Karenina killing herself—you know—when she throws herself underneath the train that he’s in. You remember, don’t you?
LUCIE. And then?
ANNETTE. Then—there’s the bell. Perhaps it’s them.
A pause. Josephine enters with a card.
LUCIE. Yes.
ANNETTE. Oh, heavens!
LUCIE. Madeleine, take Annette. Go through her room.
MADELEINE. All right.
LUCIE [to Josephine] Shew Madame Bernin in.
ANNETTE [to Lucie] Don’t be long.
Annette goes out with Madeleine. Lucie arranges herself before a glass. Josephine shews in Madame Bernin.
LUCIE. How do you do?
MME. BERNIN. How are you?
LUCIE. Very well, thank you. And you?
MME. BERNIN. I need not ask news of M. Brignac. I know he is busy fighting the good fight.
LUCIE. And M. Bernin?
MME. BERNIN. He’s very well, thanks. I hope your children—
LUCIE. About the same. But won’t you sit down?
MME. BERNIN. Thank you. What lovely weather!
LUCIE. Yes; isn’t it?
MME. BERNIN. I hear there was a large audience at M. Brignac’s meeting.
LUCIE. Yes, indeed.
MME. BERNIN. In spite of the heat.
LUCIE. You are happy to be able to go to the country. Annette was so delighted to get your kind invitation.
MME. BERNIN. That was precisely my object in calling here today—apart from the pleasure of seeing you—to talk about that plan of ours.
LUCIE. And about another one, I think?
MME. BERNIN. Another?
LUCIE. No?
MME. BERNIN. No; I don’t know what you are referring to.
LUCIE. Oh, I beg your pardon, then. Please go on. About Annette?
MME. BERNIN. My daughter has had an invitation to join our cousins, the Guibals, for some time, and we absolutely cannot refuse to send Gabrielle to them. So I came to ask you to excuse us, as Gabrielle will not be there.
LUCIE. Will you forgive me for being indiscreet?
MME. BERNIN. I am sure you couldn’t be.
LUCIE. I wanted to ask you, is it long since Gabrielle received this invitation?
MME. BERNIN. About a week.
LUCIE. Indeed!
MME. BERNIN. Why should that surprise you?
LUCIE. She said nothing about it to Annette.
MME. BERNIN. She was probably afraid of disappointing her.
LUCIE. Only yesterday Annette was telling me of all the excursions that your daughter had planned to make with her. Please, please, tell me the truth. This invitation is merely an excuse; I feel convinced it is. Please tell me. Annette is only my sister, but I love her as though she were my child. Think it’s her mother who is speaking to you. I won’t try to be clever. I’m not going to stand on my dignity. This is what has happened. Annette believes that your son loves her, and when your card was brought in she imagined that you had come to ask her for him. Now you know everything that I know, and I beg you to talk as candidly to me, so that we may avoid as much unhappiness as possible.
MME. BERNIN. You have spoken to me so simply and feelingly that I can’t help answering openly—from the bottom of my heart. Yes, then, this invitation to Gabrielle is only an excuse. We have invented it to prevent Jacques and Annette from meeting again.
LUCIE. You don’t want them to meet again?
MME. BERNIN. No; because I don’t want them to marry.
LUCIE. Because Annette is poor?
MME. BERNIN [hesitates, then] Well, since we have agreed to be perfectly candid, that is the reason.
LUCIE. You would not consent to the idea of their marrying?
MME. BERNIN. No.
LUCIE. Is that absolutely final?
MME. BERNIN. Absolutely final.
LUCIE. Because Annette has no dowry?
MME. BERNIN. Yes.
LUCIE. But your son knew that she was poor. It’s monstrous of him to have made her love him.
MME. BERNIN. If he had acted as you describe, I admit it would be monstrous. But he had no intention of engaging her affections. Annette was a friend of his sister’s. I am sure he had no idea in meeting her beyond that of simple good comradeship. Very likely he went on to pay her some attention; indeed he might well have been attracted by her. Your sweet little Annette, who is the most innocent of creatures, has fallen more easily and more deeply, perhaps, in love. Innocence like hers is closely akin to ignorance. But that my son has more to reproach himself with! You can easily see that he has not, because it was he who told me about it himself.
LUCIE. How long ago?
MME. BERNIN. Just now. He told me that he was in love with Annette, as she, no doubt, thinks herself with him; and, in fact, he begged me to come and ask for her hand.
LUCIE. Only today?
MME. BERNIN. A couple of hours since.
LUCIE. Annette implored him to tell you. He said he had already done so and that you had given your consent.
MME. BERNIN. Never.
LUCIE. A month ago.
MME. BERNIN. Until today he never said anything to me.
LUCIE. Annette told me so herself!
MME. BERNIN. He never said anything to me.
LUCIE. Do you mean that she lied?
MME. BERNIN. He never said anything to me.
LUCIE. Do you think her truthful?
MME. BERNIN. Yes.
LUCIE. Candid, honest?
MME. BERNIN. Yes.
LUCIE. Well, then?
MME. BERNIN. Well, it is possible that he did not tell her the truth. After all, he’s a man.
LUCIE. And in love, men have the right to lie?
MME. BERNIN. They think so.
LUCIE. And when you told him to give up Annette, he agreed?
MME. BERNIN. Yes, he did. He is a sensible, practical fellow, and he could not help seeing the force of what I said. He realizes that however hard it may be for him to break with Annette, it is necessary. I need hardly say he feels it keenly, but at these children’s age feelings change.
LUCIE. I see. A week hence your son won’t think of her. But she?
MME. BERNIN. She will forget him, too.
LUCIE. I don’t know about that. Oh, my poor darling! If you could have seen her here just now when she came to tell us! She cried with joy! It’s not for joy that she’ll cry now. Oh, my God! [She breaks into tears].
MME. BERNIN [moved] Oh, don’t! Please, please! I understand your grief; indeed I do. Ah, if it were possible, how happy it would make me for Annette to marry my boy. I tell you I have had to stop myself from loving her. What a contrast to the girl he will have to marry—tiresome, affected creature.
LUCIE. If what you say is true, aren’t you rich enough to let your son marry a poor girl?
MME. BERNIN. No; we are not so well off as people suppose. And then we must give Gabrielle a dowry.
LUCIE. You’ll find her a husband who will want her for herself.
MME. BERNIN. Even if we did, which I doubt, I would not desire a man like that for her, because he would be blind to the realities of the situation. Gabrielle has not been brought up to poverty, but to a life of luxurious surroundings.
LUCIE. Give your children an equal amount, then.
MME. BERNIN. All that we can give Gabrielle will not be too much. Life is hard, and becomes a harder struggle every day. Young men tend to ask more with their wives, because they know the power of money in the keen competition of modern existence.
LUCIE. Oh, yes; they know it! Their creed is to have enjoyment as soon as possible, without making the least sacrifice for it, and a fig for gentleness or emotion!
MME. BERNIN. You may be right. I want Gabrielle to be rich because riches will attract more bidders for her hand, so that she will have more choice.
LUCIE. You have to speak of it even like a business transaction.
MME. BERNIN. Consequently there will be little or nothing for Jacques.
LUCIE. People who have no money work.
MME. BERNIN. He was not brought up to work.
LUCIE. Then he ought to have been.
MME. BERNIN. The professions are already overstocked. Do you propose that he should become a clerk at two hundred francs a month? He and his wife wouldn’t be able to keep a servant.
LUCIE. There are clerks who get more than that.
MME. BERNIN. Even if he got five hundred, would that enable him to keep up his social position? Of course it would not. He would owe his inferiority to his wife, and would soon begin to reproach her with it. And have you thought about their children? They would have just enough to send their son to the primary school and make their daughter a post office clerk. Even for that they would be terribly pinched.
LUCIE. Yes.
MME. BERNIN. You see I’m right. I can’t say I’m proud to confess so much, but what are we to do? Life is ordered by things as they are, not like a novel. We live in a shrewd, vain, selfish world.
LUCIE. You despise it and yet sacrifice everything to it.
MME. BERNIN. I know that everybody’s happiness practically depends on the consideration he has in it. Only exceptional people can disregard social conventions, and Jacques is not an exception.
LUCIE. If I were you, I don’t think I should be proud of it. If he were a little more than commonplace, his love would give him strength to stand up against the jeers of the crowd.
MME. BERNIN. His love! Love passes, poverty stays; you know the proverb. Beauty fades; want grows.
LUCIE. But you yourself—you and your husband are the living proof that one can marry poor and make money! Everyone knows how your husband began as a small clerk, then started in a small business of his own, then won success. If that spells happiness, you and he must be happy.
MME. BERNIN. No; we have not been happy, because we have used ourselves up with hunting for happiness. We meant to ‘get there’; we have ‘got there,’ but at what a price! Oh, I know the road to fortune. At first miserable, sordid economy, passionate greed; then the fierce struggle of trickery and deceit, always flattering your customers, always living in terror of failure. Tears, lies, envy, contempt. Suffering for yourself and for everyone round you. I’ve been through it, and a bitter experience it was. We’re determined that our children shan’t. Our children! We have had only two, but we meant to have only one. That extra one meant double toil and hardship. Instead of being a husband and wife helping one another, we have been two business partners, watching each other like enemies, perpetually quarrelling, even on our very pillow, over our expenditure or our mistakes. Finally we succeeded; and now we can’t enjoy our wealth because we don’t know how to use it, and because our later years are poisoned by memories of the hateful past of suffering and rancor. No; I shall never expose my children to that struggle. I only stood it to preserve them from it. Good bye.
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? There’s nothing to prevent us, is there? [With rising emotion] Lucie, tell me there’s nothing!
LUCIE. You love him so much?
ANNETTE. If we were not to be married, I should die.
LUCIE. No; you wouldn’t. Have all the little girls who said that died?
ANNETTE. But there is nothing to prevent us, is there?
LUCIE. No, no.
ANNETTE. And when is it to be? Did you talk of that?
LUCIE. My dear, my dear, what a state you’re in! You really must be less nervous.
ANNETTE [restraining herself] Yes, sweet, yes; I’m a little crazy.
LUCIE. I think you are.
ANNETTE. Tell me, then, everything. How did she begin?
LUCIE. Are you in such a hurry to leave me? You don’t love me any more?
ANNETTE [gravely] Oh, if I hadn’t got you, what would become of me? [A silence]. But you’re not telling me anything. There must be something. You’re keeping the truth from me. If there wasn’t something, you’d say there wasn’t—you wouldn’t try to put me off—you’d tell me just what Madame Bernin said.
LUCIE. Well, then, there is something.
ANNETTE [breaking into tears] Oh, heavens!
LUCIE. You’re both very young. You must wait. A year, perhaps longer.
ANNETTE [crying] Wait! A year!
LUCIE. Come, come, you must not be so uncontrolled, Annette. You’ll make me displeased with you. Why, you are barely nineteen. If you wait to be married till you are twenty, there’ll be no great harm.
ANNETTE. It isn’t possible.
LUCIE. Not possible? [With a long look at her] Annette, you frighten me. If it were not you— [With tender gravity] I can’t have been wrong to trust you?
ANNETTE. No, no. What can you be thinking of? I promise you—
LUCIE. What is it, then?
ANNETTE. Well, I’ve been foolish enough to tell some of my friends that I was engaged.
LUCIE. Before telling me about it?
ANNETTE [confused] Don’t ask me any more questions. Please, please don’t!
LUCIE. Indeed, I must scold you. You deserve it. You have hurt me very much by not letting me know what was going on. I could never have believed that you would keep me so in the dark, whoever had said it of you. I thought you were too fond of me. I was wrong. We see each other every day, all the time, and you could still hide from me what was in your heart. It was very, very wrong of you. Not only because I am your elder sister, but because I am in mother’s place towards you. And then, if only that, because I am your friend. A little more, and I should have heard of your engagement from strangers. Well, my dear, you’ve made a bad choice, and now you’ll need all your courage. These people aren’t worth your tears. I’m going to tell you everything. They don’t want you, my poor dear; you’re too poor for them.
ANNETTE [staring] They don’t want me! They don’t want me! But he—Jacques—he knows they don’t?
LUCIE. Yes; he knows.
ANNETTE. He’ll do what they say, if they tell him to give me up?
LUCIE. Yes.
ANNETTE [madly] I must see him. I’ll write to him. I must see him! If they don’t want me, I’ve nothing but to kill myself!
LUCIE [forcing Annette to look at her] Look at me, Annette. [Silence. Then in the same grave, tender voice] Have you not a secret to trust me with?
ANNETTE [disengaging herself] Don’t ask me anything [very low] or I shall die of shame at your feet.
Lucie forces her to sit down at her side and takes her in her arms.
LUCIE. Come, come here, in my arms. So. Put your head on my shoulder, as you used when you were tiny. Tell me, what is it? [Quite low] My sweet, my little darling, are you terribly, terribly unhappy? Speak out, from your heart, as you would to our poor mother.
ANNETTE [very low, in tears of shame] Oh, mother, if you knew what your little girl had done!
LUCIE [almost nursing her] Tell me; whisper, quite low, in my ear. [She rises and breaks loose, then hides her face in her hands]. Oh, you, Annette, you!
ANNETTE [on her knees, her arms stretched out] Forgive me! Forgive me! My dear one, forgive me! Oh, I deserve it all, everything you can say; but, oh, I am so unhappy!
LUCIE. You, Annette, you!
ANNETTE. Forgive me! Do you want me to be sorry I didn’t kill myself without telling you? Forgive me!
LUCIE [raising her] My dear, my dear! You’ve suffered too much not to be forgiven.