Macaire. It can’t be mine, and so it must be yours.
Dumont. It is NOT. Feel in your pockets. (To the others.) Will you have the kindness to find my patent key?
All. O!! (Hunt resumed.)
Macaire. Ah, well, you’re right. (He slips key into Dumont’s pocket.) An idea: suppose you felt in your pocket?
All (rising). Yes! Suppose you did!
Dumont. I will not feel in my pockets. How could it be there? It’s a patent key. This is more than any man can bear. First, Charles is one man’s son, and then he’s another’s, and then he’s nobody’s, and be damned to him! And then there’s my key lost; and then there’s your key! What is your key? Where is your key? Where isn’t it? And why is it like mine, only mine’s a patent? The long and short of it is this: that I’m going to bed, and that you’re all going to bed, and that I refuse to hear another word upon the subject or upon any subject. There!
| Macaire. Bitten! Bertrand. Sold again! | } | Aside. |
(Aline and Maids extinguish hanging lamps over tables, R. and L. Stage lighted only by guests’ candles.)
Charles. But, sir, I cannot decently retire to rest till I embrace my honoured parent. Which is it to be?