THE ACTOR. I!
THE BARON. Thanks, servant of the goddess—what’s her name—? The goddess of drama—tragedy—whatever is her name—?
THE ACTOR. The muse, idiot! Not the goddess—the muse!
SATINE. Lachesis—Hera—Aphrodite—Atropos—oh! To hell with them all! You see—Baron—it was the old man who stuffed the actor’s head full with this rot . . .
THE BARON. That old man’s a fool . . .
THE ACTOR. Ignoramuses! Beasts! Melpomene—that’s her name! Heartless brutes! Bastards! You’ll see! He’ll go! “On with the orgy, dismal spirits!”—poem—ah—by Béranger! Yes—he’ll find some spot where there’s no—no . . .
THE BARON. Where there’s nothing, sir?
THE ACTOR. Right! Nothing! “This hole shall be my grave—I am dying—ill and exhausted . . .” Why do you exist? Why?
THE BARON. You! God or genius or orgy—or whatever you are—don’t roar so loud!
THE ACTOR. You lie! I’ll roar all I want to!