GEORGE. No, doctor, not one of those two. No one in the world has dreaded this so much as I have; no one has ever taken such infinite precautions to avoid it. My first mistress was the wife of my best friend. I chose her on account of him; and him, not because I cared most for him, but because I knew he was a man of the most rigid morals, who watched his wife jealously and didn’t let her go about forming imprudent connections. As for her, I kept her in absolute terror of this disease. I told her that almost all men were taken with it, so that she mightn’t dream of being false to me. My friend died in my arms: that was the only thing that could have separated me from her. Then I took up with a young seamstress.
DOCTOR. None of your other friends had sufficiently reassuring morals?
GEORGE. No. You know what morals are nowadays.
DOCTOR. Better than anyone.
GEORGE. Well, this was a decent girl with a family in needy circumstances to support. Her grandmother was an invalid, and there was an ailing father and three little brothers. It was by my means that they all lived. They used to call me Uncle Raoul—I was not so green as to give my real name, you see.
DOCTOR. Oh! Your Christian name, well—besides, it is always safer.
GEORGE. Why, of course. I told her and I let the others know that if she played me false I should leave her at once. So then they all watched her for me. It became a regular thing that I should spend Sunday with them, and in that sort of way I was able to give her a lift up. Church-going was a respectable kind of outing for her. I rented a pew for them and her mother used to go with her to church; they liked seeing their name engraved on the card. She never left the house alone. Three months ago, when the question of my marriage came up, I had to leave her. They all cried over my going. I’m not inventing or exaggerating: they all cried. You see, I’m not a bad sort. People do regret me.
DOCTOR. You were very happy. Why did you want to change?
GEORGE [surprised at the question] I wanted to settle down. My father was a notary, and before his death he expressed the wish that I should marry my cousin. It was a good match; her dowry will help to get me a practice. Besides, I simply adore her. She’s fond of me too. I had everything one could want to make life happy. My acquaintances all envied me. [Miserably] And then a lot of idiots must give me a farewell dinner and make me gad about with them. See what has come of it! I haven’t any luck, I’ve never had any luck! I know fellows who lead the most racketty lives: nothing happens to them, the beasts! But I—for a wretched lark—What is there left for a leper like me? My future is ruined, my whole life poisoned. Well then, isn’t it better for me to clear out of it? Anyway I shan’t suffer any more. You see now, no one could be more wretched than I am. [Crying] No one, doctor, I tell you, no one! [He buries his face in his handkerchief] Oh, oh, oh!
DOCTOR [rising and going to him with a smile] You must be a man, and not cry like a child.