ACT II
[Same scene.
[Lucie, the colonel, Madame Chevillot, Chevillot, the sous-intendant, Brignac, Jacques Poiret, Pierre Poiret, and Laurent. The last three are provincial mayors.
[Lucie and Madame Chevillot are in smart evening gowns; the colonel and the sous-intendant in uniform; Chevillot and Brignac are in evening dress; Jacques Poiret in a frock coat, and Laurent and Pierre Poiret in morning coats.
[It is after dinner. They are drinking coffee.
PIERRE [a tall, thin peasant, embarrassed by his coffee cup, speaks aside to Laurent in a strong provincial accent] A fine thing, ain’t it, to be so rich and not have enough tables to go round.
LAURENT [formerly a working man, to Pierre Poiret] At lunch ’twas just the same.
JACQUES [a crafty farmer, putting his cup down upon the centre table, and speaking generally] As for me, I—
LAURENT [passing his cup to Jacques] M. le maire, would you mind?
PIERRE [the same] M. le maire, would you—?
They get rid of their cups, passing them from one to the other.
BRIGNAC [to the mayors] Will you take liqueurs? [He points to a bottle and small glasses on a tray].
ALL THREE [making too much fuss about it] Thank you, thank you, M. le sous-préfet.
BRIGNAC. Delighted. [He passes behind the centre table and pours out liqueur].
SOUS-IN [he is small and thin and wears spectacles: a professor disguised as a soldier] Yes, ladies: it is an eccentricity. I acknowledge it and beg you to excuse it: I am a collector. But you must confess that I have not bored you with it.
COLONEL [very much the fine gentleman] Indeed, no, it was I who let out the secret. But I said also that you are a learnèd man.
SOUS-IN. A dabbler only, colonel.
BRIGNAC [pretending to find upon the table the circular mentioned in the first act] Hullo! what’s this? [No one hears him. He puts the circular back again upon the table].
LUCIE [to the sous-intendant] And are you also a literary man?
SOUS-IN. The Intelligence Department is the literary section of the army.
LAURENT [to Jacques Poiret, passing him his glass] M. le maire—?
PIERRE [same thing] M. le maire—?
BRIGNAC [again taking up the circular: in a louder voice] Hullo! What’s this? [They all look at him]. It’s that very circular I was talking about at dinner: the one from the Minister of the Interior.
COL. About the decline of the population?
BRIGNAC. Yes, colonel. This is an important official document. It came to-day, and I have been carefully considering what can be done to advance this movement in my own humble sphere of influence. [To Chevillot] As I said to you a short time ago, M. le maire of Châteauneuf, the Minister desires to see the whole of France covered with associations having the increase of the population for their object; I am certain that you will desire that this town of Châteauneuf, of which you are the chief magistrate and in which I am the representative of the Republic, should have the honor of being among the first to set out upon the road indicated to us.
CHEV. I’m with you. I am a manufacturer: I am all for large populations.
BRIGNAC. You are the very man to be president of the Châteauneuf association.
COL. I am a soldier: I also am for large populations.
LUCIE. And you, M. l’intendant?
SOUS-IN. I, madame, am a bachelor.
COL [joking] More shame for you!
BRIGNAC [also joking] It’s a scandal, monsieur, a perfect scandal.
MME. CHEV. You don’t regret it?
SOUS-IN. Ah, I don’t say that, madame.
BRIGNAC [to the three mayors] You have heard, messieurs les maires: commerce and the army require the increase of the population, and the Government commands you, therefore, to further this end to the best of your ability, each one of you in his own commune.
The three mayors seem annoyed. They look at one another.
PIERRE [nervelessly] All right, M. le sous-préfet.
LAUR [in the same tone] I’ll mention it.
JACQUES [the same] I’ll think it over.
BRIGNAC. Oh, but gentlemen, I want something more definite than that. I am a man of action: I am not to be put off with words. ‘Acta non verba.’ May I depend on you to set to work?
LAUR. You see, M. le sous-préfet, this’ll take a bit of thinking over.
JACQUES. Don’t be in a hurry.
BRIGNAC. We must be men of action. M. Pierre Poiret, now is your chance, won’t you give them a lead?
PIERRE. Me—M. le sous-préfet?
BRIGNAC. Yes, you, M. le maire!
PIERRE. No—oh, no—not me. If you knew—no—not me. [Pointing to his neighbor] My brother, Jacques Poiret: he’s your man. Ask Jacques, M. le sous-préfet, he can’t refuse. But me—not me!
BRIGNAC. Then it is to be you, M. Jacques Poiret?
JACQUES. If they want to start an association in my commune, M. le sous-préfet, they must get Thierry to see to it.
BRIGNAC. Who is Thierry?
JACQUES. My opponent at the next election.
BRIGNAC. Why?
JACQUES. Why—if he goes in for this I’m certain to get in. But about the next commune, I can’t understand why my brother Pierre won’t.
PIERRE. Me?
JACQUES. Yes, you’re the very man.
BRIGNAC. Why?
JACQUES. Why? Because he has eight children.
BRIGNAC. You, M. Pierre Poiret, you have eight children, and you said nothing about it! Let these ladies congratulate you.
PIERRE [resisting] It’s not civil, M. le sous-préfet, it’s not civil.
BRIGNAC. What d’you mean?
PIERRE. When you ask people to dinner it’s not to make fun of them.
BRIGNAC. But I’m not making fun of you.
PIERRE. You’d be the first that didn’t. I can’t help it! It’s real bad luck, that’s what it is. But it’s no reason why I should always be made fun of.
BRIGNAC. But—
PIERRE. Yes, it’s always the same. In my commune—
BRIGNAC [interrupting] But I assure you—
PIERRE. In my commune they’re always joking about me. They say ‘Hey, Pierre Poiret, there’s a prize for the twelfth!’ Or they say ‘Pierre Poiret’—and there isn’t a single day they don’t say it, and everyone thinks it’s funny, and they split with laughing—they say ‘Pierre Poiret’—only—hum—not before the ladies. [Jacques Poiret is holding his sides] Just look at that fool! I’m sure he brought the talk round to that a’ purpose.
BRIGNAC. No, no.
PIERRE. I bet you he did. Whenever we’re in company it’s the same thing. I won’t go about with him any more.
BRIGNAC. But your position is most honorable.
PIERRE. And the worst of it is that he’s right. I call myself a fool myself when I’m alone. [Jacques Poiret goes on laughing] Look at him—grinning—look!—because he’s only got two. [To his brother] You puppy!
COL [to Pierre Poiret] You deserve the greatest credit, M. Pierre Poiret.
BRIGNAC. You do.
CHEV. You do, indeed, monsieur.
COL [to Pierre Poiret] In comparing your conduct with your brother’s all men of real worth will blame him and congratulate you, as I do, most sincerely. [He shakes him by the hand].
CHEV [to Pierre Poiret] Bravo, monsieur! You are helping us in our great work. [He shakes him by the hand].
JACQUES [looking at his brother] They seem as if they meant it!
BRIGNAC [to Jacques Poiret] You, monsieur, have chosen the easier and more agreeable life; don’t be surprised if we look upon your brother as the more meritorious, though you may be cleverer.
PIERRE [striking his thigh] That’s the talk. [To his brother] Put that in your pipe, M. Jacques.
JACQUES. All right. You are the most meritorious. Is that what you’re going to pay your baker with?
PIERRE. Shut up! I’m the best citizen! I’m the most meritorious!
JACQUES. H’m—yes. What does that bring you in?
SOUS-IN. I will tell you that, monsieur. It brings in to your brother, as the poet says, ‘The joy of duty done.’
JACQUES. H’m. That won’t put butter on his bread.
SOUS-IN. That is true. But one can’t have everything.
PIERRE [to Brignac, pointing to his brother] He’s right, monsieur. For the once that I’ve been complimented, I’ve had to go through some bad times.
BRIGNAC. You mustn’t think of that.
PIERRE. Oh—mustn’t I? Go along! He’s right.
BRIGNAC. He’s not.
PIERRE. Yes, he is.
CHEV. and COL. No, no.
PIERRE. Yes, he is.
BRIGNAC. No. It’s possible that some people might think so now; but in ten years the tables will be turned. He may die lonely, while you will have a happy old age with your children and your grandchildren.
PIERRE. Perhaps it was like that once; but nowadays as soon as the children can get along by themselves, off they go!
CHEV. Even so they will send you help if you need it.
JACQUES. They couldn’t help him, even if they wanted to.
COL. Why not?
JACQUES. Because as there were eight he couldn’t do anything for them, so they’ll only be struggling, hand-to-mouth creatures; not earning enough to keep themselves, much less help him.
PIERRE. And he’s been able to bring up his well. He’s only one girl: he gave her a fortune and she made a fine marriage. He’s only one boy: he was able to send him to Grignon and he’ll earn big money like his father. No: it’s no use your talking. They’re right when they say ’Well, Poiret,’—h’m—not before the ladies.
He goes to the table, pours himself out a glass of cognac and drinks it.
COL. I regret to say we have become too far-seeing a nation. Everyone thinks of his own future: no one thinks of the good of the community.
BRIGNAC. In former times people troubled less about the future. They had faith, and remembered the words of 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.’
LUCIE. And yet there are little children going about in rags.
SOUS-IN. God must be less interested in them than in the lilies of the field.
COL [to Jacques Poiret] But, monsieur, you need hands, too, in harvest-time.
JACQUES. I have a cutting-and-binding machine. It does the work of twelve men, and only cost a thousand francs. A child costs more.
CHEV. We must have workmen to make machines.
JACQUES. We buy the machines ready-made in America much cheaper than we can make them in France.
CHEV. If there were a greater number of workmen we might cut down wages and produce at lower prices.
JACQUES. Cut down wages! The workmen are complaining already that they can’t live on their wages.
CHEV. Bah! give them twenty francs a day, and they’ll still complain.
SOUS-IN. You have not tried that yet.
COL. My dear fellow, remember that, as a bachelor, you are out of this discussion.
SOUS-IN. I withdraw.
CHEV. I didn’t mean that for you, Laurent. [To the Colonel] M. Laurent, the mayor of Ste. Geneviève, was formerly a workman of mine, but he came into a little money, and went back to his native place. [To Laurent] No—I didn’t mean it for you; but they’re not all like you, you know.
BRIGNAC [to Laurent] So you refuse to form an association too?
LAUR. Refuse, M. le sous-préfet? No.
BRIGNAC. At last! Here’s a mayor who understands his duties. He’ll start the thing among his people, and before long we shall have the commune of Ste. Geneviève setting an example to the whole of France.
LAUR. Don’t get that into your head, monsieur; you’ll be disappointed.
BRIGNAC. No, no.
LAUR. Whether you form your association or don’t form your association, the people at home are too sensible to have more children than they’ve cradles for. They know too well they must put a bit by.
BRIGNAC. If you think that an association will make no difference why do you agree to form one?
LAUR. Because I want you to get me what you promised me.
BRIGNAC. What was that?
LAUR. You know.
BRIGNAC. No, I don’t.
Laurent touches his buttonhole.
BRIGNAC [angrily] Is that what we’ve come to? We were speaking of the good of the community.
CHEV [the same] It’s most discouraging. We point out to you that the trade of the country is in danger.
BRIGNAC. And you only think of yourself.
CHEV. You only think of yourself.
BRIGNAC. What a want of public spirit!
CHEV. Bad citizenship!
LAUR [getting excited] Oh, yes! Making the poor do everything! Go and talk to the middle classes, who’ve money enough to rear children by the dozen, and who’ve fewer than the workmen. Here’s M. Chevillot: he has twenty thousand francs a year, I have two thousand. When he has ten children, then I’ll have one. That’ll be fair and square, won’t it now?
CHEV. These personalities—
LAUR. Is it true that you’ve only one son?
CHEV. It’s true. But if I had several my works would have to be sold at my death, and—
LAUR. There we are. These gentlemen are too precious careful about the fortunes they leave their own children; but when it’s a question of the workmen’s children, they think it don’t matter if there ain’t enough victuals to go round.
CHEV. It is to the interest of the workmen that my works should be prosperous.
LAUR. But you only take unmarried men.
CHEV. I beg your pardon—I—
LAUR. Is it true?
CHEV. It’s because of the Employers’ Liability Bill. Let me explain—[Laurent turns his back on him. He addresses himself to Brignac] Allow me to—[Brignac does not listen. To the sous-intendant] If I was allowed to explain you would understand. I’m perfectly consistent.
LAUR. Are we to do as you say, or are we to do as you do? If you believed what you say you’d act accordingly.
CHEV. But—
BRIGNAC. We shouldn’t indulge in these personalities. We must look higher. Lift up your hearts. Sursum corda. You have just heard, gentlemen, that commerce and the army protest against the decline of the population. And I, the representative of the Government of this country, tell you, in concert with commerce and the army, that there must be more births.
LAUR. And what’s the Government doing?
BRIGNAC. What is it doing!—well—and this circular?
SOUS-IN. We must be just. Besides this circular, the Government has appointed a Commission to enquire into the matter.
BRIGNAC. Various measures are being brought up.
LAUR. When they’re passed—we’ll see.
BRIGNAC. Those who have a large family will be exempted from taxation.
LAUR. From what taxes?
BRIGNAC. What taxes! The taxes you pay to the collector, of course.
LAUR. Listen, M. le sous-préfet. The poor pay next to nothing of those taxes. They pay the real taxes: the taxes upon bread, wine, salt, tobacco: and they’ll go on paying them. The more children you have, the more money the State takes from you.
SOUS-IN. Pray do not forget that the State proposes to confer a decoration upon every mother of seven children.
PIERRE [to Laurent] There you are!
JACQUES. M. le sous-préfet, we must be off. We’ve a long way to go.
BRIGNAC [to Jacques] Good night, M. le maire.
PIERRE [tipsy] I’m all right here. Why go ’way?
LAUR. I’m a fool, M. Brignac. I’m afraid I’ve been setting you against me. I’ll start an association—trust me. Good night. Good night, madame.
JACQUES. Good night, madame.
LUCIE. Good night, good night.
PIERRE. Good night, ladies, gents, and—hic—the company.
They go out, accompanied by Brignac.
COL [to Lucie and Madame Chevillot] I’m afraid we’ve bored you, ladies, with our discussion.
LUCIE. Not at all.
COL. I notice that women are usually a little impatient if we talk of these questions.
SOUS-IN. As impatient as we should be if they discussed the recruiting laws without consulting us.
MME. CHEV. Precisely.
COL [to Lucie] Perhaps, too, you don’t agree with us.
LUCIE. You’ll never make women understand why children must be created to be killed in your battles.
COL [to the sous-intendant] There, that’s how the military ruin of a country is brought about.
SOUS-IN. You’re right, colonel, if it be true that power is a function of number.
COL. Well, isn’t it?
SOUS-IN. Those who believe the contrary say ‘There is no evidence in history that supremacy, even military supremacy, has ever belonged to the most numerous peoples.’ I quote M. de Varigny. General von der Gotz shares this opinion, and our own General Serval says, ’All great military operations have been performed by small armies.’
Brignac comes in.
COL. Oh, ho, Mr. Bachelor, you’ve got all the arguments on your side at your finger-ends.
BRIGNAC. We shall make laws against you and your like, M. le sous-intendant. We shall make it impossible for you to receive money by will, as the Romans did. We shall make you pay fines, as the Greeks did. And we’ll invent something new, if necessary.
SOUS-IN. Compulsory paternity!
COL. One may fairly ask whether people have the right to shirk these obligations.
SOUS-IN. Some people think it is their duty.
BRIGNAC. Their duty!
SOUS-IN. Are you sure that all men who don’t marry are bachelors from pure selfishness?
COL. Of course, we’re not speaking of you personally.
SOUS-IN. Do so, by all means. It was not out of mere lightness of heart that I deprived myself of the tenderness of a wife and the caresses of a child. When I was young I was poor and sickly. I did not choose to bring children into the world when I had nothing to leave them but my bad constitution. I said, in the words of a great poet:
Remain
In the elusive realm of might-have-been,
O son more loved than any ever born!
I thought it better to be lonely than let the stock go from bad to worse. I believe it is a crime to bring a child into the world if one cannot give it health and bring it up well. We saw one hundred conscripts this morning, colonel, and we passed sixty. Would it not have been better if there had only been eighty and we could have passed them all?
COL. Perhaps you are right. I said what I said because I’ve heard it so constantly repeated.
SOUS-IN. When there are healthy houses and food and clothing for everyone it will be time to think of adding to the number.
LUCIE. That is very true.
CHEV. You evidently don’t share M. Brignac’s ideas, madame.
BRIGNAC. Oh, indeed she does. Madame Brignac and I have three children, and we don’t mean to stop there: so my wife may qualify for that decoration some day.
LUCIE [to Chevillot] As far as I can see, M. le maire, when children are born now society does not always make them welcome.
BRIGNAC. I think, my dear, that you had better leave the discussion of this important question to the gentlemen.
LUCIE. But surely it has some interest for us women! I hear everyone else consulted about it—political people and business people—but nobody ever thinks of consulting us.
BRIGNAC. Far from not welcoming the children that are born, society—
LUCIE [to Brignac] Stop! Do you remember what happened lately, not a hundred miles from here? I mean about the servant who was turned out into the street because she was going to have a baby. She will have to go to some hospital for her confinement. And after that what will happen to her and her child?
BRIGNAC [to the others] Madame Brignac speaks of something which took place recently in a most respectable family. The incident has nothing whatever to do with the principles we are defending. It is clear that one cannot have a servant in that condition in a well-kept house. And there are higher considerations which will always prevent a respectable citizen from even appearing to condone immorality by sheltering it. One must not offer a premium to evil-doing.
CHEV. Very true.
LUCIE. And the unfortunate girl, who is very likely only the victim of another person, is condemned by everyone.
BRIGNAC [timidly] No, no, I don’t say that. I myself am very liberal, and I confess that in—exceptional circumstances—one should be indulgent to her.
LUCIE. Very well. Don’t forget you have said that.
COL. Good night, madame. I must be going. Thank you for a charming evening.
CHEV. I also, madame—charming.
BRIGNAC [pointing to the door into his office] This way. As you go out I want to shew you a diagram I have had done, by which you can make yourself acquainted at a single glance with the political conditions of the division. There is an arrangement of pins—[They hesitate]. One minute. It will only take a minute. You can go out through the office. One minute—while you are putting on your coats. The coats are in there. I’m going out with you to a reception at the club. You’ll see—it’s rather curious. [To Lucie, aside] You come too. [Aloud] I think the idea is ingenious.
[He talks them all off. When they are gone there is a short pause, and then Catherine opens the door at the back and steps forward.]
CATHERINE [to Annette, who has come into the anteroom] Yes, mademoiselle, they are all gone.
[Annette comes in. She takes off her hat and cloak and hands them to Catherine, who takes them into the anteroom and comes back to turn out the principal electric lights and to take away the tray. Annette, with fixed, staring eyes, sits rigidly upon the couch. Lucie comes in.]
LUCIE. Annette! Where have you been?
ANNETTE. I have been to see Jacques Bernin.
LUCIE. You have seen him? You have spoken to him?
ANNETTE. I went to his father’s house.
LUCIE. Well?
ANNETTE. There is no hope.
LUCIE. What did they say to you?
ANNETTE. I oughtn’t ever to tell anyone about the two hours I have just lived through. It’s too shameful. Too vile. What I can’t believe is that all that really happened to me, and that I am alive still.
LUCIE [tenderly] Tell me all about it.
ANNETTE. What’s the good of my telling you? It’s all over. There’s nothing left. He didn’t love me: he never loved me. He’s gone. He’s going to marry another woman.
LUCIE. He’s gone?
ANNETTE. He went this evening. They all went. M. and Madame Bernin and Gabrielle dined at the station; Jacques dined at a restaurant with some friends. I went there. I sent up for him. From where I was standing, in the vestibule, I heard their jokes when the waiter gave him my message.
LUCIE [in gentle reproach] Annette!
ANNETTE. I wanted to know. I was certain his people were taking him away by force, and I was making excuses for him. I was certain he loved me. I should have laughed if anyone had told me he wouldn’t be horrified when he heard what had happened to me. I thought that when he knew, he’d take my hand, and go with me to his people, and say ‘Whether you wish it or not, here is my wife.’ As I was sure it would end like that, I thought it was better it should be over at once. I expected to come back here to beg your pardon—to kiss you and comfort you.
LUCIE. And what did he say?
ANNETTE [without listening] I think I’ve gone mad. All that happened, and I’m here. I’m quiet: I’m not crying: it’s as if I was paralysed.
LUCIE. You said you sent a message to him at the restaurant?
ANNETTE. Yes.
LUCIE. Did he come?
ANNETTE. Yes. He said he thought some chorus-girl wanted him.
LUCIE. Oh! And when he found it was you?
ANNETTE. He took me out into the street for fear I should be recognized, and I had to explain it to him in the street. [A pause]. People passing by stared at us, and some of them laughed. [With passion and pain] Oh! if I only had no memory!
LUCIE. Tell me, darling, tell me.
ANNETTE [with violence] Oh, I’ll tell you. You’ll despise me a little more; but what can that matter to me now? First he pretended not to understand me: he forced me to say it quite plainly: he did it on purpose—either to torture me, or to give himself time to think. You’ll never guess what he said—that it wasn’t true.
LUCIE. Oh!
ANNETTE. Yes, that it wasn’t true. He got angry, and he began to abuse me. He said he guessed what I was up to; that I wanted to make a scandal to force him to marry me—oh, he spared me nothing—to force him to marry me because he was rich. And when that made me furious, he threatened to call the police! I ought to have left him, run away, come home, oughtn’t I? But I couldn’t believe it of him all at once, like that! And I couldn’t go away while I had any hope. You see, as long as I was with him, nothing was settled: as long as I was holding to his arm it was as if I was engaged. When he was gone I should only be a miserable ruined girl, like dozens of others. Then—I was afraid of making him angry: my life was at stake: and to save myself I went down into the very lowest depths of vileness and cowardice. I cried, I implored. I lost all shame and I offered to go with him to a doctor to-morrow to prove that what I told him was true. And what he said then I cannot tell you—not even you—it was too much—too much—I didn’t understand at first. It was only afterwards, coming back, going over all his words, that I made out what he meant. He didn’t believe what he said. He couldn’t have believed what he said. At any rate he knows that I am not a girl out of the streets. But at first I didn’t understand. Then—where was I? I don’t remember—At last he looked at his watch and said he had only just time to catch the train. He said good-bye and started off at a great pace to the station. I followed him imploring and crying. I was so ashamed of my cowardice. It was horrible and absurd! I couldn’t believe it was the end of everything. I was all out of breath—almost running—and I prayed him for the sake of his child, for the sake of my love, of my misery, of my very life; and I took hold of his arm to keep him back. My God! what must I have looked like! At the station entrance he said, ‘Let go your hold of me.’ I said, ‘You shall not go.’ Then he rushed to the train, and jumped into a carriage, and almost crushed my fingers in the door; and he went and hid behind his mother, and she threatened too to have me arrested. And Gabrielle sat there looking white and pretending not to know me. I came back. I haven’t had courage enough to kill myself, but I wish I was dead! [Breaking into sobs, and in a voice of earnest supplication] Lucie, dear, I don’t want to go through all that’s coming—I’m too little, I’m too weak, I’m too young to bear it. Really, I haven’t the strength.
LUCIE. Annette—don’t say that. Hush, my darling, hush. In the first place, everything hasn’t been tried. You have entreated these people; now we must threaten.
ANNETTE. It’ll be no use.
LUCIE. It will be of use. The way they’re hurrying away shews how afraid they are of scandal. As soon as my husband comes in I will tell him all about it.
ANNETTE. Oh, my God!
LUCIE. He will go down and see them. He will threaten them with an action. They will give in.
ANNETTE. We can’t bring an action against them. He told me so.
LUCIE. Then there are other ways of defending you. Believe me, I’m sure of it.
ANNETTE. There are not.
LUCIE. There are. And even if there weren’t, you mustn’t talk of dying at your age. Am I not here? Annette, Annette, my little one, I will help you through this trouble! You believe me, don’t you? You know how I love you? You know that mother left you in my care? I’ll help you and comfort you and love you so well that you’ll forget.
ANNETTE. Forget!
LUCIE. Yes, yes; people forget. If it weren’t for that no one would be alive.
ANNETTE. I feel as if I had lived a hundred years. Life is hard, hard; too hard.
LUCIE. Life is hard for all women.
ANNETTE. It’s worse for me than for anyone else.
LUCIE. Oh, Annette! If you only knew!
ANNETTE. When I’ve seen mothers with their little children I’ve had such dreams.
LUCIE. If you only knew! Those mothers had their own troubles. Nearly every woman carries about with her the corpse of the woman she might have been.
ANNETTE. Ah, Lucie, dear, it’s easy for you to talk.
LUCIE. Darling, you mustn’t think you’re alone in your sorrow. I seem to you to be happy with my children and my husband, and you think my happiness makes light of your distress. But you’re wrong. Your misery makes me so weak, I must tell you what I wanted always to hide from you. My husband does not love me. I don’t love him. Can you realize the loneliness of that? If you knew what it means to live with an enemy and to have to endure his caresses!
ANNETTE. My poor dear!
LUCIE. So you see, Annette, you mustn’t think about dying, because perhaps I shall want your help as much as you want mine. I heard the door shut. It’s Julien.
ANNETTE. Don’t tell him: please don’t. Spare me the shame.
LUCIE. Go away, now.
ANNETTE. You’ve given me back a little hope. Dearest sister help me, I have nobody else.
LUCIE. Go!
She goes: Brignac comes in.
BRIGNAC [making for the door of his office] Not gone to bed yet? I had a stroke of luck at the club. I met the editor of the ‘Independent’ and I promised to write him an article about the minister’s circular for to-morrow’s paper. An official’s day is sometimes pretty full, eh?
LUCIE. Julien, I have something very important to tell you. A great misfortune has happened to us.
BRIGNAC. Good heavens, what is it? The children?
LUCIE. No, it has to do with Annette.
BRIGNAC. You said she didn’t come to dinner because of a headache. Have you been concealing something?
LUCIE. She is not ill, but she is cruelly and grievously unhappy.
BRIGNAC. Nonsense! Unhappiness at her age! A love affair. Some marriage she had set her heart on.
LUCIE. Yes, a marriage she had set her heart on.
BRIGNAC. Ouf! I breathe again. What a fright you gave me! That’s not of much consequence.
LUCIE. Yes, it’s of the greatest consequence. Julien, I appeal to your heart, to your kindliness, to your best feelings.
BRIGNAC. But what’s the matter?
LUCIE. Annette made the mistake of trusting entirely to the man she loved, who had promised to marry her. He took advantage of the child’s innocent love. She has been seduced. [In a low voice] Understand me, Julien, she’s going to have a baby in six months.
BRIGNAC. Annette!
LUCIE. Annette.
BRIGNAC. It’s impossible. It’s—
LUCIE. She is certain of it. She told me about it herself.
BRIGNAC [after a silence] Who is it?
LUCIE. Jacques Bernin.
BRIGNAC [furious] Jacques Bernin! Well, this is a nice piece of work! She goes it, this little sister of yours, with her innocent airs!
LUCIE. Don’t accuse her. Don’t.
BRIGNAC. I really cannot compliment her! I’m nicely repaid for all I’ve done for her, and you may thank her from me for her gratitude.
LUCIE. Oh, don’t be angry.
BRIGNAC. Well, if you are able to hear news like this perfectly calmly, you are certainly endowed with unusual self-control.
LUCIE. It was the child’s innocence that made the thing possible.
BRIGNAC. I daresay. Go and tell that to the Châteauneuf people! Besides, if she was so innocent, why didn’t you look after her better?
LUCIE. But it was you who were always urging her to go to the Bernins.
BRIGNAC. In another minute it’s going to be all my fault! I was glad she should go to their house because I thought old Bernin might be useful to us. How should I know that the girl couldn’t behave herself?
LUCIE [indignantly] Oh, hush! I tell you Annette is the victim of this wretch. If you are going to do nothing but insult her, we had better stop discussing the matter.
BRIGNAC. I’m in a nice fix now! There’s nothing left for us but to pack our trunks and be off. I’m done for, ruined! smashed!
LUCIE. You exaggerate.
BRIGNAC. I exaggerate! I tell you if she was caught red-handed stealing, the wreck wouldn’t be more complete. I even think that would have been better. I should be less definitely compromized, and less disqualified.
LUCIE. You can abuse her by and by: the business now is to save her. The Bernins have gone away this evening; find them to-morrow; and, if you speak to them as you ought, they’ll understand that their son must marry Annette.
BRIGNAC. But Jacques Bernin is engaged.
LUCIE. He must break it off, that’s all.
BRIGNAC. He won’t break it off, because it means lots and lots of money, and because he is the most ferocious little fortune-hunter I ever met. Yes, he is; I know him, I see him at the club. I’ve heard him holding forth about women and money; his opinions are edifying. By the way, has Annette any letters from him connecting him with this business?
LUCIE. No.
BRIGNAC. He’s not such a fool as to compromize himself. He’ll deny everything.
LUCIE. You must threaten them with a scandal.
BRIGNAC. We should be the first to suffer from that.
LUCIE. But we must do something. We must bring an action.
BRIGNAC. There is no affiliation law in France.
LUCIE. You refuse to go and see what can be done with the Bernins?
BRIGNAC. Not at all. I say that it would be a useless journey.
LUCIE. Then what are we to do?
BRIGNAC. Not a soul in Châteauneuf must know what has happened. Fortunately we have a little time.
LUCIE. What are you going to do?
BRIGNAC. We’ll see. We’ll think it over. One doesn’t come to a decision of this importance in ten minutes.
LUCIE. I want to know what you are going to do. Your point of view surprises me so much that I wish to understand it completely.
BRIGNAC. Understand this, then: if the matter is kept secret, it is only our misfortune; if it becomes public, it will be a scandal.
LUCIE. How can it be kept secret?
BRIGNAC. We must pack Annette off before anyone suspects.
LUCIE. Where is she to go?
BRIGNAC. Ah! that’s the devil. Where—where? If only we had some friends we could trust, in some out-of-the-way place, far away. But we haven’t. Still, we must send her somewhere.
LUCIE. Oh, my God! [She sobs].
BRIGNAC [irritated] For Heaven’s sake don’t cry like that. That doesn’t mend matters. We must make some excuse. We’ll invent an aunt or a cousin who’s invited her to stay. I will find a decent house in Paris for her to go to. She’ll be all right there. When the time comes she can put the child out to nurse in the country, and come back to us. I shall certainly have got my promotion by that time: we shall have left this place, and the situation will be saved—as far as it can be saved.
LUCIE. You propose that to me and you think I shall consent to it!
BRIGNAC. Why not?
LUCIE. You’ve not stopped to think. That’s your only excuse.
BRIGNAC. I must say, I don’t see—
LUCIE. You seriously propose to send that poor child to Paris, where she doesn’t know a soul?
BRIGNAC. What do you mean by that? I will go to Paris myself, if necessary. There are special boarding-houses: very respectable ones. I’ll inquire: of course without letting out that it is for anyone I know. And I’ll pay what is necessary. What more can you want? We shall be sure of keeping the thing quiet that way. I believe there are houses in Paris subsidized by the State, and the people who stay in them need not even give their names.
LUCIE. I tell you, you’ve not stopped to think. Just when the child is most in need of every care, you propose to send her off alone; alone, do you understand, alone! To tear her away from here, put her into a train, and send her off to Paris, like a sick animal you want to get rid of. It would be enough to make her kill herself.
BRIGNAC. Can you think of anything better?
LUCIE. Everything is better than that. If I consented to that I should feel that I was as bad as the man who seduced her. Be honest, Julien: remember it is in our interest you propose to sacrifice her. We shall gain peace and quiet at the price of her loneliness and despair. To save ourselves trouble—serious trouble, I admit—we are to abandon this child to strangers. She does not know the meaning of harshness or unkindness; and we are to drive her away now—now, of all times! Away from all love and care and comfort, without a friend to put kind arms round her and let her sob her grief away. I implore you, Julien, I entreat you, for our children’s sake, don’t keep me from her, don’t ask me to do this shameful thing. I will not do it! We must do something else. Make me suffer if you like, but don’t add abandonment and loneliness to the misery of my poor little helpless sister.
BRIGNAC. There would have been no question of misery if she had behaved herself.
LUCIE. She is this man’s victim! But she won’t go. You’ll have to drive her out as you drove out the servant. Have you the courage? Just think of what her life will be. Try to realize the long months of waiting in that dreadful house: the slow development of the poor little creature that she will know beforehand is condemned to all the risks children run when they are separated from their mothers. And when she is torn with tortures, and cries out in that fearful anguish I know so well, and jealous death seems to be hovering over the bed of martyrdom, waiting for mother and child; just when one is overcome by the terror and amazement of the mystery accomplished in oneself; then, then—there’ll be only strangers with her. And if her poor anguished eyes look round for an answering look, perhaps the last; if she feels for a hand to cling to; she will see round her bed only men doing a duty, and women going through a routine. And then—after that—she’s to let her child go; to stifle her strongest instinct; to silence the cry of love that consoles us all for the tortures we have to go through; to turn away her eyes and say ’Take him away, I don’t want him.’ And at that price she’s to be forgiven for another person’s crime!
BRIGNAC. But what can I do? I can’t alter the world, can I? The world is made like that. If Annette was ten times more innocent she couldn’t stay here.
LUCIE. I—
BRIGNAC [violently] And I don’t choose that she shall stay here. Do you understand? I’m sorry she has to go by herself to Paris. But once more, if she had behaved respectably she wouldn’t be obliged to do it.
LUCIE. Oh!
BRIGNAC. Can’t you understand that she would suffer much more here, surrounded by people who know her, than she would there, where she would be unknown? Here she couldn’t so much as go down the street without exposing herself to insult. Why, if she even went to mass or to a concert after her condition became evident, it would be a kind of provocation; people would avoid her as if she had the plague. Mothers would sneer and tell their daughters not to look at her, and men would smile in a way that would be an outrage.
LUCIE. If necessary she can stay at home.
BRIGNAC. Stay at home! Rubbish! What would be the good of that? Servants would talk, and the scandal would be all the greater. And you haven’t reflected that the consequences would fall upon me. You haven’t troubled to consider me, or to remember the drawback this will be to me. I am not alluding to the imbecile jokes people are sure to make about the apostle of repopulation. But our respectability will be called in question. People will remark that there are families in which such things don’t happen. Political hatred and social prejudice will help them to invent all sorts of tales. And the allusions, the suggestions, the pretended pity! There would be nothing left for me but to send in my resignation!
LUCIE. Send it in.
BRIGNAC. Yes, and what should we live upon then?
LUCIE [after a silence] Then that is society’s welcome to the newborn child!
BRIGNAC. To the child born outside marriage, yes. If it wasn’t for that there would soon be nothing but illegitimate births. It is to preserve the family that society condemns the natural child.
LUCIE. If there is guilt two people are guilty. Why do you only punish the mother?
BRIGNAC. What am I to say to you? Because it’s easier.
LUCIE. And that’s your justice! The truth is, you all uphold the conventions of society. You do. And the proof is that if Annette stayed here in the town to have her baby, you’d all cry shame upon her; but if she goes to Paris and has it secretly and gets rid of it, nobody will blame her. Let’s be honest, and call things by their names: it is not immorality that is condemned, but motherhood. You say you want a larger number of births, and at the same time you say to women ‘No motherhood without marriage, and no marriage without money.’ As long as you’ve not changed that all your circulars will be met with shouts of derision—half from hate, half from pity!
BRIGNAC. Possibly. Good night. I’m going to work.
LUCIE. Listen—Then you drive Annette from your house?
BRIGNAC. I don’t drive her from my house. I beg her to go elsewhere.
LUCIE. I shall go with her.
BRIGNAC. You mean, leave me?
LUCIE. Yes.
BRIGNAC. Then you don’t love me.
LUCIE. No.
BRIGNAC. Ah! Here’s another story. Since when?
LUCIE. I never loved you.
BRIGNAC. You married me.
LUCIE. Not for love.
BRIGNAC. This is most interesting. Go on.
LUCIE. You’re another victim of the state of society you are defending.
BRIGNAC. I don’t understand.
LUCIE. I was a penniless girl, and so I had no offers of marriage. When you proposed to me I was tired of waiting, and I didn’t want to be an old maid. I accepted you, but I knew you only came to me because the women with money wouldn’t have you. I made up my mind to love you and be loyal.
BRIGNAC. Well?
LUCIE. But when my first baby came you deceived me. Since then I have only endured you, and you owe my submission to my cowardice. It was only my first child I wanted, the others you forced upon me, and when each was coming you left me. It’s true I was unattractive, but that was not my fault. You left me day after day in my ugliness and loneliness, and when you came back to me from those other women, you were full of false solicitude about my health. I begged for a rest after nursing. I asked to be allowed to live a little for myself, to be a mother only with my own consent. You laughed at me in a vain, foolish way. You did not consider the future of your children or the life of your wife, but you forced upon me the danger and the suffering of bringing another child into the world. What was it to you? Just the satisfaction of your vanity. You could jest with your friends and make coarse witticisms about it. Fool!
BRIGNAC. That’s enough, thank you. You’re my wife—
LUCIE. I’ll not be your wife any longer, and I won’t have another child.
BRIGNAC. Why?
LUCIE. Because I’ve just found out what the future of my poor, penniless little girls is to be. It’s to be Annette’s fate, or mine. Oh, to think I’ve been cruel enough to bring three of them into the world already!
BRIGNAC. You’re mad. And be good enough not to put on these independent airs. They’re perfectly useless.
LUCIE. You think so?
BRIGNAC. I am sure of it. If you have had enough of me, get a divorce.
LUCIE. But you would keep the children?
BRIGNAC. Naturally. And let me tell you that as long as you are my wife before the world, you’ll be my wife really.
LUCIE. And you will force me to have a child whenever you please?
BRIGNAC. Most certainly.
LUCIE. My God! They think a woman’s body is like the clay of the fields; they want to drag harvest after harvest from it until it is worn out and done for! I refuse this slavery, and I shall leave you if you turn out my sister.
BRIGNAC. And your children?
LUCIE. I will take them with me.
BRIGNAC. And their food?
LUCIE. I will work.
BRIGNAC. Don’t talk nonsense. You couldn’t earn enough to keep them from starving. It’s late: go to bed.
LUCIE [her teeth clenched] And wait for you?
BRIGNAC. And wait for me. Precisely. [He goes out].
LUCIE [rushing to the door on the left] Annette! Oh, Annette! There’s nobody to help us!