ACT III
The scene is the same as in the first Act. It is September. Dupont and his wife are sitting together. There is a pile of account books on the table between them.
DUPONT [to his wife, who is holding a paper] You see what the accounts say. They aren’t brilliant. [To the maid who enters] As soon as Mlle. Caroline comes in ask her to come here.
SERVANT. Yes, sir. [The maid goes out].
MME. DUPONT. The turnover is smaller than last year.
DUPONT. The profits are down to nothing. I’m wrong. 112 francs 17. Splendid things accounts!
MME. DUPONT. What’s to happen next?
DUPONT. I don’t know. One thing is certain. Things can’t go on like this.
MME. DUPONT. What are we to do, then?
DUPONT. Next year it will be worse, unless—
MME. DUPONT. Unless?
DUPONT. The fact is the business wants new plant. At present we are using an old machine worked by hand, which I inherited from my father. We have a gas engine not worth twopence. In fact, there’s only one hope for us.
MME. DUPONT. What is that?
DUPONT. To get fresh capital somehow.
MME. DUPONT. That’s not very likely.
DUPONT. Who knows? It’s lucky for you your husband is no fool, my dear. I am going to see if I can get you out of this mess. [Caroline comes in]. Here is Caroline. Go and find Julie. I shall want you both in a moment. I will call you.
Madame Dupont goes out.
DUPONT [to Caroline] My dear child, I have asked you to come here because I want to have a serious talk with you. After our long arguments you have at last come to see that it is your duty to accept the legacy from your aunt. Your sister Angèle is coming here.
CAROLINE. Coming here?
DUPONT. But that is another matter. We will discuss that in a moment with Julie and her mother. They are in the next room. At present I am speaking only of you. All difficulties are removed now—I had a lot of trouble over it, by the way—and to-morrow at four at the lawyer’s you will receive the sum of thirty one thousand three hundred and eighteen francs and a few centimes. Ahem. My dear Caroline, you are old enough to know what you are about. Still you are not one of those undutiful children who throw aside all obedience to their fathers as soon as they are of age. You continue, I am sure, to recognize my right at least to give you advice. I have lived longer than you, I am a man of business, and I can clearly be of use to you when you want to invest your money. Have you any plans as to this so far?
CAROLINE. I had some idea—
DUPONT. May I know what it is?
CAROLINE. I would rather not say.
DUPONT. Not say!
CAROLINE. Yes.
DUPONT. Indeed. Oh, in that case—[shrug]
CAROLINE. You don’t mind, father?
DUPONT [much put out, but endeavoring to control himself] Not at all. By no means. Then there’s nothing more to be said. I am a little surprised, of course; hurt even; greatly hurt, in fact.
CAROLINE. I am sorry, father.
DUPONT. No matter. No matter.
CAROLINE. You understand—
DUPONT. I understand that you do not trust your father. That is what I understand. But have your own way. I ask nothing.
CAROLINE. Are you vexed with me?
DUPONT. Oh no. Not the least in the world. Only when you have given everything you possess to some religious community or other, I should like to know what you will have to live upon when you are old. I assume, of course, that it is some community you are thinking of. [Caroline is silent]. You admit it?
CAROLINE. No. I would rather say nothing about it.
DUPONT. It is so, all the same?
CAROLINE. Please, father!
DUPONT. You won’t give me any idea?
CAROLINE. No.
DUPONT. You refuse, then? You refuse absolutely?
CAROLINE. I have the right to do so, have I not?
DUPONT. Clearly. You are old enough.
CAROLINE. Don’t let us talk about it any more.
DUPONT. Very well. [After a moment, breaking into a passion] So this is my reward! This is the result of having sacrificed my whole life for my daughters. You do not even trust me as much as you would trust any little attorney you consulted.
CAROLINE. Father! Of course I trust you.
DUPONT [furiously] Hold your tongue. You are heartless and undutiful. I did not expect this.
CAROLINE. Please don’t be angry, father.
DUPONT. Angry? Yes; I am angry, and I have good reason. [Striking the table] Damnation! This is too much! To have lived to be sixtytwo and be insulted like this. [He strides up and down the room].
CAROLINE. I thought I could—I have only disposed of part of the money.
DUPONT [stopping short] What?
CAROLINE. I have only disposed of part of the money.
DUPONT [mollified, becoming tenderly reproachful and coming to sit by her] My dear child, why didn’t you say so at once?
CAROLINE. You gave me no time.
DUPONT. How much is gone?
CAROLINE. Fifteen thousand francs.
DUPONT. Um. That is a large sum. But the sixteen thousand that remain?
CAROLINE. I meant to ask your advice about that.
DUPONT [rising] Ah, well, my dear, I have been thinking this over. Let’s consider what openings there are for capital. Suppose you invest it? Gilt edged securities bring in two and a half per cent. If you take something rather more speculative, you may get four. Then there are the big industrial companies. But with them, too, there are risks to be faced. Foreign competition is more and more threatening. The struggles between labor and capital are reaching an acute phase.
CAROLINE. M. Antonin Mairaut has been to see me.
DUPONT. The scoundrel! I’ll bet he wanted you to invest the money in his bank.
CAROLINE. He did suggest it.
DUPONT. You see. I guessed as much. You sent him about his business, I hope?
CAROLINE. I said I would think about it.
DUPONT. That’s right. But what a fright you gave me. To invest your money in a bank. Nothing could be more risky. Well, as we were saying. No public companies, no industrials, no shares in banks. What remains?
CAROLINE. I don’t know.
DUPONT. There remains commercial enterprize, trade. But do you know anyone engaged in trade who will let you put capital into his business?
CAROLINE. I think not.
DUPONT. We must put our heads together. I confess I can think of no one. Madame Grandjean?
CAROLINE. Father! Madame Grandjean is divorced. You know quite well I refused even to accept employment from her.
DUPONT. That is true. More fool you, by the way. Still—M. Darbout?
CAROLINE. He is a Protestant.
DUPONT. Well, then, I don’t see. There is no one, in fact.
CAROLINE. But you, father. If you would do it.
DUPONT. If I would do what? Manage it for you?
CAROLINE. Yes.
DUPONT. It is a great responsibility. I don’t know whether—What interest would you expect?
CAROLINE. Whatever you thought right, father.
DUPONT. Well, I will speak to your mother about it. [As if suddenly making up his mind] No: I won’t. I’ll do it. No one shall say I hesitated to do all I could for my daughter. Kiss me, my dear. I’ll do it.
CAROLINE. Thank you, father.
DUPONT. And you would still rather not tell me what you are doing with the other fifteen thousand.
CAROLINE. Please, father.
DUPONT. Very well. You are your own mistress. I’ll have the necessary documents prepared. Don’t you worry about it. I will arrange everything beforehand. You will have nothing to do but sign. [He looks at his watch] Three o’clock. Now there is that other matter we have to talk of. [He goes to the door and calls] Come in, both of you. [Julie and Madame Dupont enter]. Sit down. [When they are all seated, he says] My dears, I wanted you all to come here that we may decide how we are to receive Angèle. It is rather a difficult question. You know her life in Paris is—ahem—highly reprehensible. Ought we to let her come here? Ought we to meet her, for instance, at the station?
JULIE. Papa, what has Angèle done? Now that I am married surely I may know? People always stop talking about her when I come in. I remember her quite well.
MME. DUPONT. But you were only five when she went away.
DUPONT. You understand, my children, how painful this subject is both for you and for me. I will spare you the details as far as possible. It is enough that you should know, Julie, that when Angèle was seventeen she was obliged to leave her home because—because—
MME. DUPONT [simply] Because she was about to become a mother.
JULIE. She went away?
DUPONT. Yes.
JULIE. Of her own free will?
DUPONT. I sent her away.
JULIE. Ah!
DUPONT. As I said, the subject is a very painful one. Let us get it over as quickly as possible. She is coming here to-day. [He looks at his watch] She is on her way now. Her train arrived five minutes ago. Now I hope you will all of you behave with dignity, and neither be too affectionate, which would be out of the question, nor too cold, which would be unkind.
JULIE. Have you heard anything of her since she left home?
DUPONT. Yes.
JULIE. And her behavior?
DUPONT. Far from what it should be, I’m afraid. Still—
CAROLINE. Father, you make too light of all this. We have heard of her three times. First when her baby died. Next we were told that she was singing at a music hall and was almost penniless. The third time we heard that she was rich, rich without working. When I think of it all I am sorry I consented to meet her.
JULIE. But she couldn’t get her share of the legacy unless you did. You couldn’t rob her of this money however you feel towards her.
CAROLINE. That was what decided me. But there is no reason why I should see her here.
DUPONT. I shall see her. Julie will see her. So will your mother. Why should you do differently from us?
MME. DUPONT. She was very fond of you, Caroline; and you were fond of her. Come, come, you must not be so hard. One should have compassion for those who have suffered as she has done.
CAROLINE [after a pause] Very well. I will do as you wish.
DUPONT. That’s right. At the same time, I have no intention of going from one extreme to the other. There will be no question of asking her to stay, or even of inviting her to dinner. That is agreed, is it not?
CAROLINE. Yes. And now I am going downstairs to the office. [She goes out].
DUPONT. You, Julie, had better go to your room. [She goes]. In ten minutes she will be here.
MME. DUPONT. Well, I must say if she were my daughter, I should have been at the station long ago.
DUPONT. Do you suppose I haven’t wanted to go?
MME. DUPONT. Why didn’t you, then?
DUPONT. What would people say? Everyone knows me here. On the platform I should have met a dozen people who would have asked me whom I was meeting. And, besides, all things considered, it looks more dignified to receive her here. [Pondering] I’ve been asking myself for the last fortnight what I should say when we do meet.
MME. DUPONT. Give her a kiss. The rest will come easily.
DUPONT. You think I should kiss her?
MME. DUPONT. Yes.
DUPONT. I think so, too. At the same time we must remember—how shall I put it? Her way of life. It is a difficult question. And then what am I to say to her? Ought I to refer to the past? I must not seem to be forgiving her, of course. I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t possibly. On the other hand, since she is coming, I can hardly—Confound it, it’s all extremely awkward. Eh?
MME. DUPONT. I can’t advise you.
DUPONT [still thinking it out] Of course, she is my daughter. Still, I have not seen her for eighteen years. [Peevishly] I thought I should never set eyes on her again. In the early days, when she first went away, I was terribly distressed. But that couldn’t last, could it? And then, you understand—Well, well, you must advise me. I have prepared something to say, so as not to leave everything to the inspiration of the moment. If one doesn’t think things out beforehand, one always says too much or too little. So, as I said, I have prepared something. I even wrote it out, but I know it by heart. You can imagine how upset I am with all this. Here it is: ‘My child’—I think it best to say ‘my child.’ ‘Angèle’ would be too familiar and ‘my daughter’ too formal. ‘My child’—[breaking off]. And what makes it all the harder is that I’ve no idea what she will say to me. Her letters are very properly expressed, very properly. Still, will she cry? Will she break down? Will she faint? I don’t know. It’s impossible to know. Dear me, I wish the next half hour were over. However: ‘My child, I thank you for having come.’ The fact is I ought to tell you I haven’t given Caroline quite a true account of how things stood. I thought it wiser not.
MME. DUPONT. What do you mean?
DUPONT. It’s this way. Caroline is the one who could not get her legacy without Angèle’s signature. Not the other way about.
MME. DUPONT. But you said—
DUPONT. Yes; I did misrepresent matters a little. You see Caroline would never have agreed to meet Angèle if she had known that it was she who needed Angèle’s presence, not Angèle hers. Angèle is the executor under the will. In fact, it is she who is doing us a service. But if we go into all that we shall never be done. Well, I say to her: ’My child, I thank you for having come. Let us not speak of the past. I only wish to remember one thing, that you have not visited upon your sister Caroline the resentment which doubtless I inspire in you. I am grateful to you.’ What do you think of that? [The maid comes in]. Good heavens, here she is! [Pointing to the papers, account books, etc., which lie on the table] And that fool Courthezon has never taken away the books. [To the maid] Wait a minute. [To Madame Dupont] Come, come this way. You can tell me whether I ought to make any change. [In a low voice to the maid] Ask her to wait a moment. Say I am engaged. [He goes out with Madame Dupont. The maid shows in Angèle. She is a woman of thirtyfive, dressed in black, very quietly, but fashionably].
MAID. Monsieur is engaged, but I don’t think he will be long. Whom shall I say, madame?
ANGÈLE. Madame Angèle Dupont.
MAID. Madame has the same name as monsieur?
ANGÈLE. The same.
MAID. Will madame please be seated? [She takes some books off a chair and goes out].
ANGÈLE [with a gesture of despondency, to herself] Nothing is as it used to be. Nothing.
Courthezon comes in.
COURTHEZON. M. Dupont asks you to be good enough to wait five minutes, madame.
ANGÈLE. Certainly, monsieur. [Courthezon collects the books and papers, looking at Angèle the while out of the corner of his eye. He makes as if to go]. You are M. Courthezon, are you not?
COURTHEZON [much embarrassed] Yes, madame—Mlle. Angèle. You remember me? You have a good memory. Especially as I am not quite myself just now. I have many things to worry me. But that is a long story. [He stands facing her, the books and papers under his arm]. I recognized you at once. M. Dupont told me.
ANGÈLE. My father is well in health?
COURTHEZON [embarrassed] Quite well. They are all quite well. You, too, if I may judge by your looks?
ANGÈLE. Quite. Thank you.
COURTHEZON. And you have come about this legacy?
ANGÈLE. Yes. [A silence].
COURTHEZON. You must find some changes down here?
ANGÈLE. Very many. I hardly know the place.
COURTHEZON. We have moved since you went away. The house where the press used to be was pulled down when the Rue de l’Arbre-à-Poires was rebuilt.
ANGÈLE [looking round her] They have altered the furniture in the drawing room.
COURTHEZON. That was ten years ago.
ANGÈLE [sadly] If I had come here without warning, I shouldn’t have known I was in my father’s house.
COURTHEZON. It is so long since you left. You must feel it very much, the idea that you are to see him again?
ANGÈLE [very slowly] Yes. But less than I expected. When I got my father’s letter, I felt as if I should faint. That was two months ago. Since then I have thought of this moment every day. I have wondered so often what my father would say to me and what I should answer that now I no longer feel anything. That is strange, is it not? Strange and sad. [She sighs]. After all, M. Courthezon, life is always more commonplace than we expect; simpler, but less beautiful. [A pause. Sadly] And besides, I have seen so much.
COURTHEZON. You have suffered, too?
ANGÈLE. A little.
COURTHEZON. Eighteen years, is it not?
ANGÈLE. Yes. Eighteen years.
COURTHEZON. I hear M. Dupont. I must be going. Au revoir, madame.
Courthezon goes out. A moment later the voice of Dupont is heard without through the half open door, saying: ’Yes, yes; I want you to come with me.’ Then M. and Madame Dupont come in. There is a long pause, and finally Dupont says, with apparent calm
DUPONT. Good morning Angèle.
ANGÈLE. Good morning, father.
They hesitate for a moment as to whether they should kiss one another, then make up their minds to do so. Dupont places a chill salute on either cheek of Angèle. Still silent, Angèle goes up to Madame Dupont and kisses her with the same frigidity.
MME. DUPONT. Good morning, Angèle.
ANGÈLE. Good morning, mother. [They look at one another without a word].
DUPONT [overcoming a momentary emotion] Let us sit down. [They sit. Then he addresses Angèle in the tone he might have used if she had only gone away the previous evening] Thank you for coming.
ANGÈLE. I came for my sister’s sake. For Caroline. I was very fond of her. [A pause]. Is she married?
DUPONT. No. She has never wished to marry.
ANGÈLE. Yet she is thirty-three.
DUPONT [to his wife] Thirty-three or thirtyfour?
MME. DUPONT. Thirty-three.
ANGÈLE. I shall see her?
DUPONT. Yes. We will let her know you are here.
ANGÈLE. And my half-sister?
DUPONT. Julie?
ANGÈLE. Yes; Julie.
DUPONT. Your half-sister is married. She has made a good match. The son of a banker. The Mairauts. You remember M. Mairaut, the grandfather?
ANGÈLE. No.
DUPONT. Oh, yes; an old man with a long white beard.
ANGÈLE. No.
DUPONT. Anyhow, he was the grandfather of M. Antonin Mairaut, Julie’s husband. [He points to the door] She is in there.
ANGÈLE. There?
DUPONT [speaking rapidly to hide his mingled emotion and embarrassment] Yes. She has come back with her husband to live with us for a time. Their house at St. Laurent is flooded. You remember the house at St. Laurent?
ANGÈLE. Yes.
DUPONT [as before, his embarrassment growing] I told them they ought to build a little wall along the river bank or their house would be flooded. They wouldn’t listen to me and this is the consequence. Happily the water is going down, and they’ll be able to go home to-morrow. But they should have built a wall like their neighbors. Their neighbors built a wall and—and that’s how it was.
ANGÈLE [after a pause] How is the business doing? Well?
DUPONT. Oh, yes.
ANGÈLE. And you are all quite well?
DUPONT. All of us. I had a touch of bronchitis last year, but it passed off.
ANGÈLE. I am glad. [A silence].
DUPONT [to Angèle, who is gazing at him] You find me looking older, eh?
ANGÈLE. On the contrary. I was just thinking—
DUPONT. And you? You are well?
ANGÈLE. Quite, thank you. [Another silence. Then Angèle rises and the Duponts rise too].
DUPONT. You can’t stay any longer?
ANGÈLE. No. I’m afraid I must—[Another silence].
DUPONT. You came straight from the station?
ANGÈLE. No. I had my things taken to the Lion d’Or.
DUPONT. You are staying at the Lion d’Or?
ANGÈLE. Yes.
DUPONT. Just so. Well, until to-morrow. Four o’clock at the lawyer’s. His house is just opposite. [He points through the window]. You can see his door from here. You can’t miss it.
ANGÈLE. I understand. [A pause]. Julie—she is there? [She points to the door].
DUPONT. Tut, tut, what am I thinking of? I had forgotten. Yes; she is there. They will take you to her. [To Madame Dupont] Go and see if—I’ll tell someone to go and find Caroline. [He rings].
MME. DUPONT [opening a door and calling through it] Julie: your sister Angèle is here.
JULIE [from her room] Angèle? Ask her to come in.
MME. DUPONT. You can go in to her.
Angèle goes. Dupont has rung and says a few words to the maid, who goes out at once.
DUPONT. Ouf! [To Madame Dupont] Ah well, it has all gone off excellently. I didn’t say a word of what I had got ready, but still it was all right. Don’t you think so?
MME. DUPONT. Quite. Poor girl! I felt sorry for her.
DUPONT. She is quite happy. She was very well dressed, quite like a lady in fact. Who would think to see her—Eh? [Madame Dupont nods]. And yet—But when one has had a good education it always comes out. It is curious. I thought I should be quite upset when I saw her. Instead of which—Of course I don’t mean that I didn’t feel it. Still it wasn’t so bad as I expected. But now she’s no longer there I feel—I feel my legs giving way under me! [He sits down. A silence]. If I were not so sure it was my duty to do as I did—for it was my duty? [Pause] You don’t answer. Wasn’t it my duty?
MME. DUPONT. I don’t know.
Caroline comes in.
DUPONT. Angèle—
CAROLINE. Yes. Courthezon told me.
DUPONT [with assumed carelessness after a pause] You understand, Caroline, no reproaches. Don’t make any allusion to what you are doing for her sake.
CAROLINE. I understand.
DUPONT [to his wife] Tell her that Caroline is waiting for her.
The maid comes in.
MAID. M. and Madame Mairaut, monsieur. They wish to speak to you.
DUPONT. Good. Where are they? In the office?
MAID. Yes, monsieur.
DUPONT [to his wife] I know what they want. [To the maid] I will come down with you. [He and the maid go out].
MME. DUPONT [speaking at the door of Julie’s room] Caroline is here.
Angèle comes in and makes a quick movement towards Caroline but pulls herself up before the coldness of the other’s demeanor.
ANGÈLE. Caroline.
CAROLINE. Angèle. [They stand looking fixedly at one another for some moments].
ANGÈLE [sadly] How changed you are!
CAROLINE. You are changed too.
ANGÈLE. That is because life has not always gone smoothly with me. [Caroline makes a gesture of incredulity]. You don’t believe me?
CAROLINE. Yes, if you say so.
ANGÈLE. I have just seen Julie. She was kinder than you are. And she was only five when I left home and she is only my half-sister. You and I have the same father and the same mother. We are almost of an age and we used to love one another.
CAROLINE [coldly] That is true.
ANGÈLE. If you knew all about it you would forgive me.
CAROLINE. Are the things that were said about you untrue?
ANGÈLE. No. However bad they were they are true.
CAROLINE. Since that is so—
ANGÈLE [without anger] Since that is so—I still think your virtue very proud and very hard. That is all. [Changing her tone] You understand what has brought me here?
CAROLINE. I understand that we are to meet at the lawyer’s.
ANGÈLE. Very well. To-morrow at four.
CAROLINE. To-morrow at four at the lawyer’s.
ANGÈLE [turning at the door, greatly moved] You have nothing else to say to me?
Caroline shakes her head. Angèle goes out. A moment after Dupont comes in.
DUPONT [beaming] She has gone?
CAROLINE. Yes.
DUPONT [chuckling] Where is your mother? Where is she? [He calls Madame Dupont].
MME. DUPONT. What is it?
DUPONT. I want you.
CAROLINE. I will go.
DUPONT. There’s no need.
CAROLINE. I have some work to do.
DUPONT. Very well. Go, my child. Go. [Calling after her] To-morrow, remember. [She goes out as M. Dupont rubs his hands, chuckling] Guess what M. and Madame Mairaut came to ask me. You can’t guess?
MME. DUPONT. No.
DUPONT. No wonder. They came to ask for the twentyfive thousand francs, the twentyfive thousand francs of Julie’s dot, you remember, which I was to pay six months after her marriage.
MME. DUPONT. Well?
DUPONT. Well. It is six months to-day since Julie was married.
MME. DUPONT. Good heavens! What did you do?
DUPONT. Gave them nothing, of course.
MME. DUPONT. You couldn’t do otherwise.
DUPONT. As you say, I couldn’t.
MME. DUPONT. But they will make us bankrupt.
DUPONT [still smiling broadly] They can’t. They have nothing but my word.
MME. DUPONT. Luckily.
DUPONT. However, I haven’t refused the twentyfive thousand francs. Nor have I disputed the debt.
MME. DUPONT. What did you do then?
DUPONT. I wish you had been there. You would have laughed.
MME. DUPONT. Well?
DUPONT. I think I managed pretty well, though I say it who shouldn’t. If you had seen the long faces they pulled. Especially Mother Mairaut. [He bursts out laughing]. I should have liked a photograph of them. It would have cheered me in moments of depression. Ha! Ha! Ha!
MME. DUPONT [smiling] Tell me about it.
DUPONT. Well—I’d have given anything for a photograph. I said to them [solemnly] ‘Dear monsieur and dear madame, I admit that I promised to pay you to-day twentyfive thousand francs. Only I am not in a position to pay them.’ Explosion! Rage! Dignified reproaches! Insults! Smiling, I let the storm to pass by. Mother Mairaut sat there, her husband here, I here. All the time they were speaking I looked at them like this [grins]. As soon as they had finished I took up the tale again. ‘I do not deny the debt,’ said I, ’only I ask to be allowed to postpone the payment. And this time I am ready to sign an undertaking, a binding undertaking, to pay.’ Complete change of front! Smiles. Apologies. Oh, they were devilish civil. Called me a man of honor, etc., etc. I let them run on, still smiling. Then, in the midst of an almost religious silence, I sat down at my desk, I took pen and paper, I wrote, I blotted, so, taking my time about it. Madame Mairaut positively slobbered with delight. I tell you she slobbered. I handed her the paper. On it was written simply: ‘Good for the sum of twentyfive thousand francs to be paid out of the money to be left by Uncle Maréchal.’ Ha! Ha! Ha!
MME. DUPONT [laughing] Splendid!
DUPONT. Funny, eh? Deuced funny!
MME. DUPONT. Yes.
DUPONT. You don’t think so? You don’t! Eh? Wasn’t it funny?
MME. DUPONT. Yes. Yes.
DUPONT. When Mother Mairaut took it in I thought she was going to have a fit. ‘It’s an insult!’ she shrieked. I believe she actually even called me a cad! As for me, I was almost dying with laughter. They went away swearing they were going straight to the bank to tell Antonin. By Jove I haven’t enjoyed myself so much for ever so long.
MME. DUPONT [becoming serious again] I hope this won’t make any difference to Julie.
DUPONT. Bah!
MME. DUPONT. Things are not going very well with her, I’m afraid. Antonin is exacting and tyrannical, and she often locks herself into her room to cry.
DUPONT. That always happens in the early days of marriage. People’s angles need rubbing off. That sort of marriage turns out best in the end. [Julie comes in] Here she is. Speak to her. Tell her these things aren’t serious. Make her understand her duty. I must go back to my accounts. [To Julie] Well? What did your sister Angèle say to you?
JULIE. Hardly anything. She didn’t know me, and I shouldn’t have known her.
DUPONT. I told you so. Well, I must be off. Back soon. [He goes out].
MME. DUPONT. My dear—your husband may be rather put out when he comes in.
JULIE. I am getting used to that.
MME. DUPONT. More so than usual, I mean.
JULIE. Why?
MME. DUPONT. Your father has been unable to keep his promise.
JULIE. About the twentyfive thousand francs?
MME. DUPONT. Yes. Antonin will have just heard about it.
JULIE [depressed] No matter. [Suddenly, alarmed] I do believe I forgot to tell them to get out his grey suit. No: I remember. I did tell them. How angry he would have been if I hadn’t!
MME. DUPONT. Of course. He is your husband.
JULIE. You think it quite natural that he should fly into a rage as he did two days ago because something or other had been forgotten? And that it is only reasonable he should order me to go to Mass merely that Madame So-and-so may see me there! Well, he may order as much as he likes. I shall not go. I will not go!
MME. DUPONT. You make too much of it. My child, aren’t you happy?
JULIE [ironically] Of course.
MME. DUPONT. Your husband is fond of you, isn’t he?
JULIE. That depends on what you mean by fond.
MME. DUPONT. I mean he’s very much in love with you.
JULIE. I suppose so.
MME. DUPONT. You’re angry with him for that?
JULIE. No, I’m angry with myself.
MME. DUPONT. My dear! What do you mean?
JULIE. I am ashamed of myself.
MME. DUPONT. I don’t understand.
JULIE. Nor do I. Don’t let us talk about it.
MME. DUPONT. Please, dear.
JULIE [breaking out] Well, I detest him. There!
MME. DUPONT. Tell me why.
JULIE. There is no why in that sort of dislike. It is born and grows with every moment we are together. Every moment there comes some little point on which we clash. We haven’t the same ideas on a single subject. He and I are strangers. We are apart utterly, miserably. We are as far from one another as two human beings can be. [With a deep sigh] Oh, to realize that slowly, hopelessly. To feel that every fresh glimpse into each other’s character only reveals a fresh source of offence. Till at last it has come to this, that I am certain the more we know each other the deeper will be our mutual loathing. Every day, every hour will add a fresh hatred to the accumulated hatreds of the others. Great Heavens! And unless we are divorced this will go on all our lives. [A pause]. Why, there are moments when he is sitting there in that chair, and I look at him fixedly, and it seems as if I had never seen him before. And why not? After all, it is only six months since I hardly recognized him when we passed in the street. And then I ask myself what am I doing here? I, in my dressing-gown, with my hair down, shut in with that man. And I long to run away screaming. And we are husband and wife. Oh, mother, I am ashamed.
MME. DUPONT. You must try to be reasonable. Antonin is a fine fellow. Many girls would have been glad to get him.
JULIE. Why didn’t they then, in Heaven’s name? Oh, if you knew how I long to have a child to console me for all this. If I should never have one. If I should never have one. [Shudders]. But I mustn’t even think of that.
MME. DUPONT. My dear child, you must look at things more calmly. All this will gradually settle down until at last it passes away altogether.
JULIE. Yes. When I am an old woman.
MME. DUPONT. Exactly, when you are an old woman.
JULIE. Thank you.
MME. DUPONT. In any case, you should try to control yourself a little. If only for your father’s sake and mine.
JULIE. I will try. [Antonin comes in]. Hush. Here he is. Go away, mother. You will only make things worse. [Madame Dupont goes out].
ANTONIN [furious] Well! This is the last straw. Your father won’t keep his word. You have heard?
JULIE [sitting on the sofa] Yes.
ANTONIN. It doesn’t disturb you apparently.
JULIE. He cannot do otherwise.
ANTONIN. It will be the ruin of me. But you seem to be all in league together, the whole lot of you. Oh, you’re a pretty family! Your father owes us twenty-five thousand francs. He won’t pay them. The other day your sister promised us fifteen thousand francs. To-day she has changed her mind. As for you, you do everything in your power to compromise my position.
JULIE. I?
ANTONIN. You. You disobey me.
JULIE. In what?
ANTONIN. Were you at Mass this morning?
JULIE. No.
ANTONIN. Why not?
JULIE. It is not my fault if I no longer believe.
ANTONIN. I don’t ask you to believe. I ask you to go to Mass. The two things are totally different. A woman ought to go to Mass. If she doesn’t believe she should appear to do so. It is usual among people of good position. I wish you to do as others do. Do you understand? I wish it. I have no desire to pass for a Freethinker when all my clients are Catholics, confound them!
JULIE. I have not been and I do not intend to go.
ANTONIN. What do you say?
JULIE. You heard what I said. If you were a believer, if you asked me to do this out of respect for your faith, I would do it. But it is a piece of commercial trickery that you want from me. I refuse.
ANTONIN. You wish to do as you like, you mean?
JULIE [breaking out] Yes. You are quite right. I wish to do as I like. That is it. That is just it. For once in my life I wish to do as I like! All the time I was a girl I had to obey; to submit to authority that was often unreasonable. Now I am to go on obeying, obeying. I have had enough of this everlasting obedience.
ANTONIN. Then you shouldn’t have married.
JULIE. So that’s it, is it. The sole business of your wife’s life is to be your slave, to help the servant to make you comfortable, brush your clothes, taste your soup, and look up to you with admiring homage.
ANTONIN. That’s all nonsense.
JULIE. What is nonsense?
ANTONIN. What you have been saying. You know quite well that you have other duties. You know quite well that it only rests with you to be a happy wife. You know that I love you.
JULIE. Yes, yes. I forgot. You love me! Which means that I am to submit to your caresses when the fancy takes you. They used to say of us women, ‘housekeeper or mistress.’ But we have moved with the times. Now you want the same woman to play both parts. Housekeeper and mistress. That is the only difference between us and the women you love before you marry us. A wife is a mistress who minds the house. That is not enough for me, thank you. No. No. No. I will not pass my whole life between cooking your dinner and accepting your kisses.
ANTONIN. That’s right. Off we go on the old story of the wife who is not understood; the poor woman who is a slave and a martyr. If you really love me, if you thought a little more instead of cramming your head with ideas which you don’t understand, you would be content with the part, modest no doubt but not dishonorable, with which plenty of women as good as you have contented themselves.
JULIE. Perhaps you are right. If I loved you, as you say, if we loved one another nothing would matter. But I say again I do not love you.
ANTONIN. Be silent.
JULIE. I do not love you.
ANTONIN. Julie, I shall end by losing my temper. You will force me to say things.
JULIE. To say things?
ANTONIN. Never mind.
JULIE. Oh, you may speak out. A little shame more or less doesn’t matter. We are alone. Let us speak out and clear up the matter once and for all. We must. It has been weighing on my mind for a long time. Say what you have to say.
ANTONIN. No.
JULIE. Then I will speak. I tell you that I do not love you and you shrug your shoulders with a smile of self-complacency. But it’s no laughing matter, Heaven knows; and I don’t imagine I am the only woman for whom this subject, amusing enough for you men, has meant a whole tragedy of sorrow and disgust.
ANTONIN. I don’t understand you.
JULIE. Yes, you do!! Your vanity makes you try to escape, but you shall understand. You think I daren’t speak, but I will. Do you suppose I will stay dumb and bear the kisses you give me, kisses which I end by returning. My lips when you kiss them draw back in repulsion and yet in the end they yield and go out to meet yours. Shall I go on? [A pause. She looks him full in the face]. No. You understand now. You can never again imagine the tears I shed are tears of love. They are tears of remorse and misery. I hate you after your kisses. Our love is a duel in which I am worsted because what is best in me turns traitor. I blush at your victories because you could never have gained them without the help of what is base in me, without the baseness you know how to excite. It is not I who yield. It is the animal in me. It is all that is vile. I hate you for the crime of our loveless marriage, the crime you force me to share. I admit you are not the only guilty one, you are not the only one worthy of contempt. But I have had enough of it. Enough of it. I will no longer spend my days weeping over the shame of my nights. Every evening I have said I will regain my freedom. Till now I have not dared to say the words that would release me. Now I have done it. I am free.
ANTONIN [shrugging his shoulders] You are nothing of the sort.
JULIE. What do you mean?
ANTONIN. I mean that I have more common sense than you. I mean that it is my duty to guard you from these exaggerated fancies of yours. The bonds that join us are not to be broken by a whim. You are my wife and my wife you will remain. A divorce is impossible. I have given you no cause. You may leave me, of course, but you know the life of the woman who lives apart from her husband, a life without respect and without social position. No: you will stay with me.
JULIE. And it is this prison that we call marriage. [A pause]. And when I think that I looked forward with longing to this: that I sighed for it: that all my girlhood I was hoping for it, dreaming of it. When I think that at this very moment there are girls kneeling by their bedsides, young girls whose hearts are yearning for this. [She begins to cry]. Ah, poor girls! Poor girls! If they only knew. [She wipes her eyes, after a moment] Just Heaven, what a fool I am. Here am I crying when I should be laughing. The thing is ludicrous. Why, if one dared, one would shake with laughter at it all. You may be tyrants, all of you, but you are so absurd that, when one thinks, one can scarcely hate you for it. What you have made of marriage! From start to finish: from the wedding morning, with its monkey tricks, its vanity, and its folly. When I think that there are still people who respect such mummery! [She bursts out laughing].
ANTONIN. Julie. Don’t laugh like that.
JULIE. Oh, my dear sir, leave me alone. It’s well for you I take it laughing. If I took it seriously, what sort of figure would you cut? Everything about a wedding is absurd, just because it is so detestable. Yes; everything. From the moment when you set it before us as a duty to hand ourselves over to our lords on such and such a day, at such and such an hour, at a date and a minute fixed beforehand. How is it that brides do not die of shame under the curious eyes of the wedding guests and the thoughts they hide? To think that they are passing the day among people who know. Pah! Oh, yes; I am quite aware how ridiculous the bride looks. [She puts her hand familiarly on his shoulder]. But don’t imagine the bridegroom cuts a very brilliant figure. [She laughs]. You all wear a look of stupid complacency, like a contented animal sure of its prey. And there must be a dot, and you must be bought, and a price must be paid you in order that you may marry us. Oh, yes. You have arranged things finely among you; with your Deputies’ scarves and your music and incense. And you need them. But do you think they impose on anyone nowadays? No.
ANTONIN. You make out too good a case for yourself. And it’s not fair to make me responsible. All this is as much the result of your acts as of mine.
JULIE. Indeed! I am curious to hear what those acts are.
ANTONIN. I’ll tell you.
JULIE. Have I ever failed in my duty? Haven’t I been—
ANTONIN [sternly] Be silent. I’m going to have my say. It’s no good your trying to play the injured victim. You did exactly the same as I did. When I proposed for you, I was not in love with you. I admit it. I didn’t love you as you want to be loved. Yet you accepted me.
JULIE. Do you suppose I knew? What did I understand about life? How could I have guessed—
ANTONIN. You knew perfectly well the sort of love I felt for you, a sort of love every mother tries to rouse in any young man she wants to catch for her daughter. And the daughters take a hand in the game, too, bless their little hearts!
JULIE. Do you mean to say I did such a thing?
ANTONIN. Yes: I do. You began this plain speaking: I’m going on with it. You wanted the cards on the table and you shall have them. Let us both own up. We know now what marriage is, our own and everybody else’s. We know all the tricks, all the humbug of it. Let’s look it in the face. Your parents deceived mine.
JULIE. And yours?
ANTONIN. They did the same. I’m not denying it. But did you help them? Yes or no?
JULIE. No.
ANTONIN. Yes: you did. I remember well enough how you helped them to cajole me, trap me, dupe me. Oh I know it sounds ridiculous. I know each petty incident taken by itself amounts to nothing. But these deceptions of yours have their importance, for you only made use of them to catch me. You played on my weaknesses. You knew I was fond of money—we’re talking straight to each other, remember—you knew I was fond of money and you represented yourself as a model young woman who always made her own dresses. You remember that? And Wagner! Wagner, whose music you professed to admire so much, when you knew as little about him as I do. According to your own account lots of men had wanted to marry you. That was a lie. You had helped your father in keeping his books and were interested in my banking business. That was a lie, too.
JULIE. If that is all you have to reproach me with—
ANTONIN. It is not all. There was another lie to which you condescended. And that was a serious one, because you sacrificed your womanly dignity to your interest. You have forgotten it? I have not. Why it was here, here in this very room where we are at this moment, that you sat dressed for a ball. You were not going to a ball. I knew that later. But they told you to put on that dress, and you know why. Well, that trick came off all right. [Julie, confused, hides her face in her hands]. I behaved as most men behave. I wanted to take your arm and kiss it. You objected as any decent woman would. But when you saw I was annoyed you said to yourself that a husband was well worth the sacrifice of a little modesty, and you came deliberately and let me kiss you as I wished. Isn’t it true? Isn’t it? I tried to deceive you, I admit it. But if I lied you lied, too. Marriages like ours may be shameful. I don’t know. But don’t try to thrust the whole responsibility on me when you’re equally guilty. [Julie’s head sinks lower. A pause]. The other things you say about me I dare say I deserve. I’m ambitious. I want to succeed. Is it my fault that success is the only road to social consideration nowadays? In order to succeed I must truckle to people who can be useful to me and I ask you to help me. I’m not a hero. I’m like the rest of the world. I didn’t make either myself or them. We are to be pitied, both of us. But I’m more to be pitied than you are, for you don’t love me and I can’t help loving you. What shall I do if you leave me? My position will be compromised, my business ruined. And more than all that I shall have lost you. I don’t speak as I ought, I am a fool, a dolt. I ought to have told you this at first instead of going over all that wretched business. But it’s true, it’s far worse for me than for you [much moved] for I love you in spite of all you can say, and the idea of losing you is like being told that I am going to die. [He sobs]. And what have I done after all? I’ve only done as other men do. Why should I be the only one to be punished? Ah, Julie, my little Julie, pity me. I’m very unhappy. [He weeps, bowed over the table, his head in his hands].
JULIE [putting her hand upon his head and speaking in a low expressionless voice] Poor fellow.
ANTONIN [still weeping] You are sorry for me, aren’t you. Say you are.
JULIE. Yes, we are both of us victims.
ANTONIN. That’s it. Ever since I was born my parents have taught me that the great thing in life was to be rich.
JULIE [nodding sadly] Mine too.
ANTONIN. Unless one gets on nobody thinks anything of one.
JULIE. And marriage is one of the ways of getting on.
ANTONIN. That’s what ruined us.
JULIE. Yes. It has ruined our lives as it has ruined so many others.
ANTONIN [recovering his composure] You understand, then? You do understand, don’t you?
JULIE [dully] Yes.
ANTONIN [taking her hand, which she does not draw away] You’re not angry? [Julie says nothing]. It is all over, isn’t it? [patting her hand] All quite over and done with. [She is still silent]. You see that I mustn’t do anything that might damage the business? You see that?
JULIE. Yes.
ANTONIN. And that it’s better not to offend people who may be useful to us. Isn’t it?
JULIE. Yes.
ANTONIN. After all, why shouldn’t one go to Mass? Come, come. [He smiles]. We have been silly, haven’t we, to say all that. It’s forgotten now, isn’t it? Say it’s forgotten.
JULIE [reluctantly] Yes.
ANTONIN [recovering his spirits] That’s a good little woman. There, there. One disputes, one flies into a passion, one runs on and on, one says terrible things [laughing]. What things you said to me. Oh, it was shocking. But there, we’ll never speak of it again. Never. Never. Let’s make it up. [He takes her in his arms: hesitating, she lets him do so]. We’re friends again, eh? And now go and wash your face, or people will see you’ve been crying. Are my eyes red, too? No, I expect not. Shall I tell you something? You won’t believe it. You’ll be shocked. Do you know, I almost think perhaps it’s as well we’ve said all these things to each other. You see, now we know each other better. You understand about some of my worries. The business isn’t going as I should wish. That makes my temper rather quick at times. No: things might be better. If you would say a word to Caroline, perhaps she would change her mind about that money.
JULIE [still on her guard] I will try.
ANTONIN. That’s a good girl. And it’s only for a little while that we shall have to be careful. We are only two and we shall pull through it. Luckily we’ve only ourselves to think of. Imagine what it would be if we were expecting a baby!
JULIE. That would give me courage.
ANTONIN. Nonsense, my dear. We can do very well without that.
JULIE [alarmed] But we are going to have children, aren’t we?
ANTONIN [after a moment’s hesitation, firmly] No.
JULIE. Why not?
ANTONIN. How absurd you are. Because I don’t choose, of course.
JULIE. But we’ve often talked of having children. You’ve made plans with me about what we should do with them.
ANTONIN [laughing] I know. You liked it, and it was something to talk about. But for the future we’re to be perfectly straight with one another.
JULIE. Do you mean that we are never to have any children?
ANTONIN [nods] We can’t afford them, my dear, at present. And if we wait till we’re forty [shrugs], people would laugh.
JULIE. Don’t you know what it was that made me willing to marry? Don’t you know that it was this thought of having children, this and this alone, that decided me? And you refuse me this. To be a wife, to be a mother, is the natural end of life for me. And something will be wanting and my life will be incomplete, and I shall not have lived if my arms have never clasped a baby born of my flesh; if I have never suckled it, cried over it, felt all the cares and all the joys that mothers feel. And you would rob me of this. Merely because you love money, because you are self-seeking and ambitious. Great Heavens, to think that you should have such power over my life! People talk of tyranny; they make revolts against Governments; there are women who clamor for a vote; who demand that the marriage law should be the same for women as for men; and they don’t understand that it is marriage itself they should attack, that they should attack with fury, since it allows such an infamy.
ANTONIN. For goodness sake don’t begin again. Remember, we made it up.
JULIE. Made it up! Just God, what name is there vile enough for me to fling in your face? Are you so utterly base that you think now there can be any thought of reconciliation between us? After what you have just told me, do you suppose that I would submit to—Think what it means. Think what the thing you men call love means to women if it has neither affection nor children for its justification.
ANTONIN. I won’t answer you. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re mad, and I shall treat you accordingly. To begin with, go to your room and try to calm yourself. Go. [He tries to take her by the arm].
JULIE [shrieking] Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me! [She pushes him violently away].
ANTONIN [furious] Look here, Julie; I’m not going to stand this. I tell you to go to your room at once.
JULIE. Don’t touch me.
ANTONIN. I shall touch you if I please. Oh, you may scream if you like. You’re my wife, and I’ve the right to do as I choose with you.
JULIE. Take your hands off me. I hate you, I say. I hate you.
ANTONIN. You hate me. I dare say. But if you suppose that I’m a genteel husband out of a book, who lets his wife lock her door against him, you’re vastly mistaken. I’ve married you, I love you, and I intend to keep you. Hate me, do you? Very well. Escape from me if you can. [He takes her in his arms. There is a struggle. Furniture is overturned. No word is spoken, but you can hear their deep breathing. Suddenly Antonin cries out] Curse you, you’ve bitten me!
JULIE. Yes. And I will kill you if you don’t let me go!
ANTONIN [transported with rage] We shall see which of us is master.
JULIE. We shall see!
ANTONIN. We shall! [Antonin goes out in a violent passion].
Julie, left alone, straightens her hair and dress mechanically, muttering to herself inaudibly. Suddenly she falls upon a couch, and then upon the ground, where she lies sobbing in an agony of misery.