Macaire. The third compartment. Ay, here t——
Bertrand. S’st! (Same business.) No: fire away.
Macaire. The third compartment: it must be this.
Bertrand. S’st. (Macaire keeps box open, watching Bertrand.) All serene: it’s the wind.
Macaire. Now, see here! (He darts his knife into the stage.) I will either be backed as a man should be, or from this minute out I’ll work alone. Do you understand? I said alone.
Bertrand. For the Lord’s sake, Macaire!——
Macaire. Ay, here it is. (Reading letter.) “Preserve this letter secretly; its terms are known only to you and me; hence when the time comes, I shall repeat them, and my son will recognise his father.” Signed: “Your Unknown Benefactor.” (He hums it over twice and replaces it. Then, fingering the gold.) Gold! The yellow enchantress, happiness ready-made and laughing in my face! Gold: what is gold? The world; the term of ills; the empery of all; the multitudinous babble of the ’Change, the sailing from all ports of freighted argosies; music, wine, a palace; the doors of the bright theatre, the key of consciences, and—love’s—love’s whistle! All this below my itching fingers; and to set this by, turn a deaf ear upon the siren present, and condescend once more, naked, into the ring with fortune—Macaire, how few would do it! But you, Macaire, you are compacted of more subtile clay. No cheap immediate pilfering: no retail trade of petty larceny; but swoop at the heart of the position, and clutch all!
Bertrand (at his shoulder). Halves!
Macaire. Halves? (He locks the box.) Bertrand, I am a father. (Replaces box in office.)
Bertrand (looking after him). Well, I—am—damned!