The Art of Being Bored
a Comedy in Three Acts:
by Edouard Pailleron:
Translated by Barret
H. Clark

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The Art of Being Bored. (Le Monde ou l’on s’ennuie). A comedy in 3 acts. By Edouard Pailleron. 11 men, 9 women. Probably the best-known and most frequently acted comedy of manners in the realm of 19th century French drama. It is replete with wit and comic situations. For nearly forty years it has held the stage, while countless imitators have endeavored to reproduce its freshness and charm. Price 50 cents.

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The
ART OF BEING BORED

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS

BY
EDOUARD PAILLERON

Translated by
BARRETT H. CLARK

Copyright, 1920, by Samuel French

EDOUARD PAILLERON

The author of “Le Monde où l’on s’ennuie” was born at Paris in 1834. Besides this, his masterpiece, he wrote numerous comedies, sentimental and satirical. Pailleron is in no way concerned with problems or “ideas”; he is content to depict the foibles and affectations of society, framing his observations into a harmonious and unified whole. This play was first produced, at Paris, in 1881, and has since held the stage.

The scenery and costumes are modern.

Owing to the large number of characters, some attention must be paid to the grouping of stage pictures. The stage-directions, if carefully followed, will supply sufficient information to enable the director to group the actors without difficulty.

THE ART OF BEING BORED

PERSONS IN THE PLAY

• Bellac
• Roger de Céran
• Paul Raymond
• Toulonnier
• General de Briais
• Virot
• Francois
• Saint-Réault
• Gaiac
• Melchior de Boines
• Des Millets
• Duchesse de Réville
• Madame de Loudan
• Jeanne Raymond
• Lucy Watson
• Suzanne de Villiers
• Countess de Céran
• Madame Arriégo
• Madame de Boines
• Madame de Saint-Réault

Scene: A drawing-room in Madame de Céran’s château at Saint Germain.

The Art of Being Bored

ACT I

A drawing-room, with a large entrance at the back, opening upon another room. Entrances up and down stage. To the left, between the two doors, a piano. Right, an entrance down-stage; farther up, a large alcove with a glazed door leading into the garden, left; a table, on either side of which is a chair; to the right, a small table and a sofa, armchairs, etc.

Francois. (Looking among the papers which litter the table) It couldn’t be on top here—nor here. Revue Matérialiste ... Revue des Cours—Journal des Savants——

(Enter Lucy.)

Lucy. Well, Francois, have you found the letter?

Francois. No, Miss Lucy, not yet.

Lucy. Pink paper—opened—no envelope?

Francois. Is it addressed to Miss Watson?

Lucy. Didn’t I tell you it was addressed to me?

Francois. But——

Lucy. The point is, have you found it?

Francois. Not yet, but I shall look everywhere, and ask——

Lucy. Don’t ask; there’s no need. But it must be found, so look carefully. Go over every foot of ground from where you gave us our letters this morning, to this room. It couldn’t have fallen anywhere else. Please, please hunt for it! (She goes out)

Francois. (Alone, as he returns to the table) “Hunt, hunt?” Revue Coloniale—Revue Diplomatique—Revue Archéologique——

(Enter Jeanne and Paul.)

Jeanne. (Gaily) Someone here! (To Francois) Madame de Céran——

Paul. (Taking her hand) Sh! (To Francois, gravely) Is Madame la comtesse de Céran in the château at present?

Francois. Yes, Monsieur.

Jeanne. (Gaily) Very well, tell her that Monsieur and Madame Paul——

Paul. (As before, coldly) Be good enough to announce to her that M. Raymond, Sub-prefect[1] of Agenis, and Mme. Raymond, have arrived from Paris, and await her pleasure in the drawing-room.

Jeanne. And that——

Paul. (As before) Sh! That’s all, please.

Francois. Very well, M. le sous-préfet. (Aside) Newlyweds!—Shall I take Monsieur’s—? (He takes their bags and rugs, and goes out)

Jeanne. Now, Paul——

Paul. No “Paul” here: “M. Raymond!”

Jeanne. What, d’you want me to——?

Paul. Not here, I tell you.

Jeanne. (Laughing) What a scowl!

Paul. Please, you mustn’t laugh out loud.

Jeanne. How is this, Monsieur, you are scolding me? (She throws herself into his arms, but he disengages himself, terrified)

Paul. Silly! That’s enough to spoil everything!

Jeanne. Oh! What a bore!

Paul. Precisely! That time you struck exactly the right note. You surely haven’t forgotten all I told you in the train?

Jeanne. Why, I thought you were joking!

Paul. Joking? So you don’t want to be a Prefect’s wife?—Tell me?

Jeanne. Yes, if it would please you.

Paul. Very well, dear. I call you dear, as we are alone, but later on, before the guests, it must be merely Jeanne. The Comtesse de Céran has done me the honor of asking me to introduce my young wife to her, and of spending a few days here at her château. Mme. de Céran’s circle is one of the three or four most influential in Paris. We are not here to amuse ourselves. I come here merely a Sub-prefect; I am determined to leave a Prefect. Everything depends on her—upon us—upon you!

Jeanne. Upon me? What do you mean?

Paul. Of course, on you! Society judges a man by his wife, and society is right. Therefore be on your guard.—Dignity without pride: a knowing smile—ears and eyes open, lips closed! Oh, compliments, as many as you like, and quotations, short and authoritative: for philosophy try Hegel; for literature, Jean Paul; politics——

Jeanne. But I don’t understand politics.

Paul. Here all the women talk politics.

Jeanne. Well, I know nothing whatever about it.

Paul. Neither do they, but that doesn’t make any difference. Cite Pufendorff and Machiavelli as if they were your own relatives, and talk about the Council of Trent as if you had presided over it. As for your amusements: music, strolls in the garden, and whist—that’s all I can allow. Your clothes must be chosen with great care, and as for Latin—use the few words I’ve taught you. In a week’s time I want it to be said of you: “Ah, that little Mme. Raymond will be the wife of a Cabinet Minister some day!” And in this circle, you know, when they say that a woman will be a Cabinet Minister’s wife, her husband is not very far from a portfolio.

Jeanne. What? Do you want to be Minister?—Why?

Paul. In order to keep from becoming famous.

Jeanne. But Mme. de Céran belongs to the opposition; what can you expect from her?

Paul. How simple you are! In the matter of political positions, there is only the slightest shade of difference between the Conservatives and their opponents: the Conservatives ask for places and their opponents accept them. No, no, my child, this is the place where reputations are made and unmade and made over again; where, under the appearance of talking literature and art, Machiavellian conspirators hatch their schemes: this is the private entrance to the ministries, the antechamber of the Academies, the laboratory of success!

Jeanne. Heavens! What sort of circle is this?

Paul. It is the 1881 edition of the Hotel de Rambouillet: a section of society where everybody talks and poses, where pedantry masquerades as knowledge, sentimentality as sentiment, and preciosity as delicacy and refinement;—here no one ever dreams of saying what one thinks, and never believes what one says, where friendship is a matter of cold calculation, and chivalry and manners merely means to an end. It is where one swallows one’s tongue in the drawing-room just as one leaves one’s cane in the hallway: in short, Society where one learns the art of being serious!

Jeanne. I should say, the art of being bored!

Paul. Precisely!

Jeanne. But if everyone bores everyone else, what possible influence can it all have?

Paul. What influence? How simple you are! You ask what influence can boredom exert, here in this country? A great deal, I tell you. You see, the Frenchman has a horror of boredom amounting almost to veneration. Ennui is for him a terrible god whose worship is celebrated by good form. He recognizes nothing as serious unless it is in regulation dress. I don’t say that he practises what he preaches, but that is only a further reason for believing more firmly: he prefers believing to finding out for himself. I tell you, this nation, which is at bottom gay, despises itself for being so; it has forgotten its faith in the good common sense of its generous laughter; this sceptical and talkative nation believes in those who have little to say, this whole-hearted and amiable people allows itself to be imposed upon by pedantic false pride and the pretentious asininity of the pontiffs of the white dress necktie: in politics, in science, in art, in literature, in everything! These they scoff at, hate, flee as from a pestilence, yet they alone preserve for these things a secret admiration and perfect confidence! And you ask what influence has boredom? Ah, my dear girl, there are just two kinds of people in the world: those who don’t know how to bore themselves, and who are nobodies; and those who know how to bore themselves, and who are somebody—besides those who know how to bore others!

Jeanne. And this is the place you’ve brought me to!

Paul. Do you want to be a Prefect’s wife? Tell me?

Jeanne. Oh, to begin with, I could never——

Paul. Oh, never mind! It’s only for a week!

Jeanne. A week! Without speaking, without laughing, without being kissed by you!

Paul. That’s before company; but when we are alone—in the dark, oh, then! Why, it will be delightful; we’ll arrange secret meetings, in the garden, everywhere—just as we did before we were married—at your father’s, do you remember?

Jeanne. Very well, very well! (She opens the piano and plays an air from La Fille de Madame Angot)

Paul. (Terrified) Very well, then! What are you doing there?

Jeanne. It’s from the opera we saw last night!

Paul. My poor child, so this is the way you follow my advice!

Jeanne. We sat in a box together—wasn’t it lovely, Paul!

Paul. Jeanne! Jeanne!—What if someone should come in! Please!

(Francois appears at the back.)

Paul. Too late! (Jeanne changes the air she was playing into a Beethoven Symphony. Aside) Beethoven,—Bravo! (He listens to the music with profound satisfaction) Ah, it’s a fact that the only place for music is the Conservatoire!

Francois. Madame la Comtesse requests Monsieur le sous-préfet to wait five minutes for her: she is in consultation with Monsieur le baron Eriel de Saint-Réault.

Paul. The Orientalist?

Francois. I do not know, Monsieur, he is the son of the scientist whose father was so talented.

Paul. (Aside) Who has so many positions to dispose of! He’s the one!—Ah, M. de Saint-Réault is here, then. I presume Mme. de Saint-Réault is with him?

Francois. Yes, M. le sous-préfet; likewise the Marquise de Loudan and Mme. Arriégo, but these ladies are at present in Paris, following M. Bellac’s course—with Mlle. Suzanne de Villiers.

Paul. There are no other guests here?

Francois. There is Madame la duchesse de Réville, Madame’s aunt.

Paul. I don’t refer to the Duchess or to Miss Watson; or to Mlle. de Villiers: they are the family! I mean guests, like ourselves.

Francois. No, M. le sous-préfet, there are no others.

Paul. And no one else is expected?

Francois. Oh, yes, M. le sous-préfet; M. Roger, the son of Mme. la comtesse, has just arrived to-day from his scientific investigations in the Orient. He is expected any moment.—Ah, and then M. Bellac, the professor, who is to spend a few days here when his lecture course is over—at least we hope so.

Paul. (Aside) Ah, that’s why there are so many ladies!—Very well, thank you.

Francois. Then M. le sous-préfet will be good enough to wait?

Paul. Yes, and tell Mme. la comtesse not to hurry. (Francois goes out) Whew! You gave me a turn with that music! But you got out of it beautifully, changing Lecocq to Beethoven! Rather good, that!

Jeanne. Stupid, am I not?

Paul. I know better now! We still have five minutes; I’ll tell you a little about these people: it’s best to be on the safe side.

Jeanne. Oh, never mind!

Paul. Come, Jeanne, five minutes! You must know something about them!

Jeanne. After each “something” you must kiss me!

Paul. All right, then; what a child you are! I won’t be long: mother, son, friend, and guest,—everyone of them very serious!

Jeanne. How amusing that will be!

Paul. Don’t worry, there are two who are not so serious. I have kept them for the last.

Jeanne. One moment, please, pay me first! (She counts on her fingers) Madame de Céran, one; her son Roger, two; Miss Lucy, three; the two Saint-Réault; one Bellac, one Loudan and one Arriégo, that makes eight! (She puts her cheek up to be kissed)

Paul. Eight what?

Jeanne. Eight “somethings“—pay.

Paul. What a child! There, there, there! (He kisses her)

Jeanne. Not so fast: retail, if you please.

Paul. (After having kissed her more slowly) There, does that satisfy you?

Jeanne. For the present. Now, let’s have the two who are not serious!

Paul. First, the Duchesse de Réville, the aunt, a handsome old lady who was a beauty in her day——

Jeanne. (Questioningly) Hmm?

Paul. So they say! A bit brusque and direct—but an excellent lady and very sensible—as you’ll see. But last and best, Suzanne de Villiers! She, is not at all serious—it’s a fault with her.

Jeanne. At last, somebody who’s frivolous, thank Heaven!

Paul. Girl of eighteen, a tom-boy, chatter-box, free with her tongue and her manners—with a life-history that reads like a novel.

Jeanne. Umm! Lovely, let’s hear it!

Paul. She’s the daughter of a certain widow—

Jeanne. Yes?

Paul. Well? Daughter of a widow—and that ass Georges de Villiers, another nephew of the Duchess; she adored him. A natural child.

Jeanne. Natural? How lovely!

Paul. The mother and father are dead. The child was left an orphan at the age of twelve with a princely heritage and an education to match. Georges taught her Javanese. The Duchess, who adores her, brought her into the home of Madame de Céran, who detests her, and gave her Roger for a tutor. They tried their best to keep her in a convent, but she ran away twice; they sent her back a third time and—here she is again! Imagine that state of affairs! And that’s the end of the story—good, isn’t it?

Jeanne. So good that you needn’t pay me the two kisses you owe me.

Paul. (Disappointed) Ohh!

Jeanne. But I’ll pay you! (She kisses him)

Paul. Silly! (The door at the back opens) Oh! Saint-Réault and Madame de Céran! No, she didn’t see us. Now—ahem—ready!

(Enter Mme. de Céran and Saint-Réault. They pause in the doorway, not seeing Paul and Jeanne.)

Mme. de Céran. No, no, no, my friend, not the first poll! Listen to me, 15-8-15 the first poll—— There was a secret ballot on that one and therefore on the second: it’s very simple!

Saint-Réault. Simple? Simple? Now the second poll, since I have only four votes on the second poll, with our nine votes on the first poll—that leaves us only thirteen on the second!

Mme. de Céran. And our seven on the first—that makes twenty on the second! Don’t you see?

Saint-Réault. (Enlightened) Ahhh!

Paul. (To Jeanne) Very simple!

Mme. de Céran. I repeat, beware of Dalibert and his Liberals. At present the Academy is Liberal—at present—at present! (They come down-stage, talking)

Saint-Réault. Isn’t Revel also the leader of the New School?

Mme. de Céran. (Looking at him) Ohh! Revel isn’t dead yet, is he?

Saint-Réault. Oh, no!

Mme. de Céran. He isn’t ill?

Saint-Réault. (Slightly embarrassed) Oh, he’s always in poor health.

Mme. de Céran. Well, then?

Saint-Réault. We must always be prepared, mustn’t we?—I’ll keep my eyes open.

Mme. de Céran. (Aside) There’s something at the bottom of all this! (Seeing Raymond, and going toward him) Ah, my dear Monsieur Raymond, I was forgetting all about you; pardon me!

Paul. My dear Countess! (Presenting Jeanne) Madame Paul Raymond!

Mme. de Céran. You are most welcome here, Madame! Consider yourself in the home of a friend. (Presenting them to Saint-Réault) Monsieur Paul Raymond, Sub-prefect of Agenis, Madame Paul Raymond, Monsieur le baron Eriel de Saint-Réault.

Paul. I am especially happy to make your acquaintance since, as a young man, it was my privilege to know your illustrious father. (Aside) He stuck me on my final examinations!

Saint-Réault. (Bowing) What a pleasant coincidence, M. le Préfet!

Paul. Especially pleasant for me, M. le Baron!

(Saint-Réault goes to the table and writes.)

Mme. de Céran. You will find my house a trifle austere for a person of your youth, Madame. You have only your husband to blame for your stay here.—It has its moments of monotony, but you may console yourself with the thought that resignation means obedience, and that in coming here you had no choice.

Jeanne. (Gravely) As regards that, Mme. la comtesse, “To be free is not to do what one wishes, but what one judges to be best”—as the philosopher Joubert has said.

Mme. de Céran. (Looking approvingly at Paul) That is quite reassuring, my dear. But I think you will find that no matter how intellectual our circle may be, it is not lacking in esprit. Indeed this very evening you will find the soirée particularly interesting. Monsieur de Saint-Réault has been kind enough to offer to read to us from his unpublished work on Rama-Ravana and the Sanscrit Legends.

Paul. Really! Oh, Jeanne!

Jeanne. How fortunate we are!

Mme. de Céran. After which I believe I can promise you something from Monsieur Bellac.

Jeanne. The Professor?

Mme. de Céran. Do you know him?

Jeanne. What woman doesn’t? How delightful that will be!

Mme. de Céran. An informal talk—ad usum mundi—a few words, gems of wisdom; and finally, the reading of an unpublished play.

Paul. Oh! In verse?

Mme. de Céran. The first work of a young man —an unknown poet, who is to be introduced to me this evening and whose play has just been accepted by the Théâtre-Francais.

Paul. How fortunate we are to be able to enjoy among these charming people another of these wonderful opportunities that one finds nowhere except beneath your roof.

Mme. de Céran. Doesn’t this literary atmosphere frighten you, Madame? Your charms will be wasted at a soirée like this.

Jeanne. (Seriously) “What appears a waste to the vulgar is often a gain”—as M. de Tocqueville has said.

Mme. de Céran. (Looking at her in astonishment—aside to Paul) She is charming! (Saint-Réault rises, and goes toward the door) Saint-Réault, where are you going?

Saint-Réault. (As he goes) To the station—a telegram. Excuse me—I’ll be back in ten minutes. (He goes out)

Mme. de Céran. There is certainly something at the bottom of all this! (She looks among the papers on the table—to Jeanne and Paul) I beg your pardon! (She rings, and after a moment Francois appears) The papers?

Francois. M. de Saint-Réault took them away this morning. They are in his room.

Paul. (Drawing Le Journal Amusant from his pocket) If you wish the——

Jeanne. (Quickly checking him and at the same time producing the Journal des Debats[2] from her pocket and offering it to Mme. de Céran) This is to-day’s paper, Countess.

Mme. de Céran. With pleasure—I am curious about—please pardon me again! (She opens the paper and reads)

Paul. (To his wife) Bravo! Keep it up! The Joubert was excellent and the de Tocqueville—I say!

Jeanne. It wasn’t de Tocqueville—it was I.

Paul. Oh!

Mme. de Céran. (Reading) “Revel very ill.” Just what I thought. Saint-Réault isn’t losing much time. (Handing the paper to Paul) I found out what I wanted to know, thank you. But I shan’t keep you, you shall be shown to your rooms. We dine sharp at six; you know the Duchess is very punctual. At four tea is served; at five we take a stroll and at six have dinner. (The clock strikes four) Ah, four already, and here she is! (The Duchess enters, followed by Francois, who brings her chair and her work-basket. A maid brings tea. The Duchess sits in the chair placed for her) My dear Aunt, allow me to present——

Duchess. (Settling herself) Wait a minute—wait a minute. There! Present whom? (She looks through her lorgnette) It isn’t Raymond that you want to present, is it? I’ve known him for a long time.

Paul. (Advancing with Jeanne) No, Duchess, but Madame Paul Raymond, his wife,—if you please!

Duchess. (Gazing at Jeanne, who bows) She’s pretty—very pretty! With my Suzanne, and Lucy, despite her glasses, that makes three pretty women in my house—and heaven knows that’s not too many! (She drinks) And how on earth did a charming girl like you happen to marry that awful Republican?

Paul. (Chaffingly) Oh, Duchess, I a Republican!

Duchess. Well, you were one, at least! (She drinks again)

Paul. Oh, well, like everyone else, when I was little. That is the measles of politics, Duchess, everybody has to have it.

Duchess. (Laughing) Ah, oh, ah, the measles! Isn’t he funny! (To Jeanne) And you, my dear, you like a joke once in a while, too?

Jeanne. Oh, Duchess, I have no objection to a little frivolity—in moderation.

Duchess. That isn’t very frivolous, but it’s better than nothing. Well, well—I like a little frivolity myself, especially in a person of your age. (To the maid) Here, take this away. (She hands her cup to the maid)

Mme. de Céran. (To the maid) Will you show Madame Raymond to her room, Mademoiselle? (To Jeanne) Your room is this way, just next to mine——

Jeanne. Thank you, Madame. (To Paul) Come, dear.

Mme. de Céran. Oh, no, I have put your husband over there on the other side, among the workers: my son, the Count and Monsieur Bellac, in the Pavilion, which we call—a little pretentiously, perhaps—the Pavillion of the Muses. (To Paul) Francois will show you the way. I thought you would be able to work better there.

Paul. Admirable arrangement, Countess; I thank you. (Jeanne pinches him) Oh!

Jeanne. (Sweetly) Go, my dear.

Paul. (Aside to her) You’ll come at least and help me unpack my trunks?

Jeanne. How can I?

Paul. Through the upper corridor.

Duchess. (To Mme. de Céran) If you think it pleases those two to separate them like that——

Jeanne. (Aside) I’ve gone too far!

Mme. de Céran. (To Jeanne) Aren’t you pleased with this arrangement?

Jeanne. Perfectly, Madame la comtesse; and you know better than anyone else quid deceat, quid non. (She bows)

Mme. de Céran. (To Paul) She is perfectly charming!

(They go out; Paul right, Jeanne left.)

Duchess. (Seated near the table at the left, working at her fancy-work) Ah, she knows Latin! She ought to be congenial to the company!

Mme. de Céran. You know Revel is very ill.

Duchess. He is never anything else,—what’s that to me?

Mme. de Céran. (Sitting down) What do you mean, Aunt? Revel is a second Saint-Réault. He holds at least fifteen positions: leader of the New School, for instance—a position which leads to any number of others! Just the thing for Roger. He returns to-day, and I’ve asked the Minister’s secretary to dinner this evening, you know.

Duchess. Yes, a new one: Toulonnier.

Mme. de Céran. I take away his position from him to-night.

Duchess. So you want to make your son the leader of a school?

Mme. de Céran. It’ll be another stepping-stone, you know, Aunt.

Duchess. You have brought him up to be a mere chess-pawn, haven’t you?

Mme. de Céran. I have made of him a serious-minded man, Aunt.

Duchess. Yes, I should think so! A man of twenty-eight, who has never—done a foolish thing in his life, I’ll wager! It’s a perfect shame!

Mme. de Céran. At thirty he will enter the Institute, and at thirty-five the Chamber of Deputies.

Duchess. So you want to begin again with your son, and do with him as you did with his father?

Mme. de Céran. Did I make so miserable a failure of him?

Duchess. I say nothing about your husband: a dryasdust creature, with a mediocre intellect—!

Mme. de Céran. Aunt!

Duchess. Of course, your husband was a fool!

Mme. de Céran. Duchess!

Duchess. A fool who happened to know how to behave himself! You forced him into politics, you’ll admit that. And then, all you could make of him was Minister of Agriculture and Commerce. That isn’t much to boast about. But enough of him; Roger’s another matter: he has brains and spirit enough—or will have, God willing—or he’s no nephew of mine. That never occurred to you, did it?

Mme. de Céran. I am thinking of his career.

Duchess. And his happiness?

Mme. de Céran. I have thought of that, too.

Duchess. Ah, yes! Lucy, eh? They correspond, I know that. That’s fine! A young girl who wears glasses and has a neck like a——! And you call that thinking of his happiness!

Mme. de Céran. Duchess, you are quite incorrigible!

Duchess. A sort of meteorite, who fell among us, intending to stop two weeks, and remained two years: a blue-stocking who writes letters to scholars and translates Schopenhauer!

Mme. de Céran. A rich, intellectual, highly-educated and well-born orphan, niece of the Lord-Chancellor, who recommended her: she would be a splendid wife for Roger, and——

Duchess. That English iceberg? Brrrr! Just to kiss her would freeze the nose off his face! But you’re on a false scent. In the first place Bellac has his eye on her—yes, the Professor! He’s asked me too many questions about her to leave any doubt in my mind. And what is more, she seems fond of him.

Mme. de Céran. Lucy?

Duchess. Yes, Lucy,—like all the rest of you! You’re all mad over him. I know more about this than you do.—No, no! Lucy is not the woman for your son!

Mme. de Céran. I know your schemes: Suzanne is the woman!

Duchess. I don’t deny it. I have brought Suzanne here for that very purpose. I arranged that he should be her tutor and her master, so to speak, in order that he might marry her,—and marry her he shall!

Mme. de Céran. You have counted without me, Duchess; I shall never consent.

Duchess. And why not? A girl who——

Mme. de Céran. Is of questionable origin, questionable attraction, without education and manners.

Duchess. (Bursting into laughter) My living image at her age!

Mme. de Céran. Without fortune! Without family!

Duchess. Without family? The daughter of my poor Georges? My handsome, good, kind Georges!—And she’s your cousin after all!

Mme. de Céran. A natural child!

Duchess. Natural? Aren’t all children natural? You amuse me! She’s been legally recognized! And good heavens, when the devil’s put his finger in the pie why shouldn’t the rest of us? Me, too, eh?

Mme. de Céran. The devil has put his finger in the pie, but not the way you think. You are on the false scent.

Duchess. Oh, the Professor! Yes, Bellac. You told me that. You think no woman can follow his lectures without falling in love with him?

Mme. de Céran. But Suzanne hasn’t missed a single lecture, Aunt, and she takes notes and corrects them and copies them—I tell you Suzanne is in earnest. And while he is speaking she never takes her eyes off him; she drinks in every word. And you think that is all for the sake of science! Nonsense, it isn’t the science she loves, it’s the scientist. That is as plain as day. You have only to watch her when she’s with Lucy. She is dreadfully jealous. And this recently acquired coquetry in a girl of her disposition—! She sighs, sulks, blushes, turns pale, laughs, cries——

Duchess. April showers! She’s just coming into bloom. She’s bored, poor child!

Mme. de Céran. Here?

Duchess. Here? Do you think it’s amusing here? Do you suppose that if I were eighteen, I should be here, among all your old ladies and your old gentlemen? I should say not! I’d associate with young people all the time; the younger the better, the handsomer the better, the more admirers I had the better! There are only two things that women never grow weary of: loving and being loved! And the older I grow the more I realize that there is no other happiness in the world!

Mme. de Céran. There are more serious things in life than that, Duchess.

Duchess. More serious than love? Nonsense! Do you mean to say that when that is gone, there is any other happiness left? When we are old, we have false pleasures, just as we have false teeth, but there is only one true happiness, and that is love, love!

Mme. de Céran. Oh, Aunt, you are too romantic!

Duchess. The fault of my years! Women find romance but twice in their lives: at sixteen in their own hearts, at sixty in the hearts of others. Well, you want your son to marry Lucy; I want him to marry Suzanne. You say Suzanne is in love with Bellac; I say, Lucy. Perhaps we are both wrong; it is for Roger to decide.

Mme. de Céran. How?

Duchess. I shall explain the whole situation to him the moment he arrives.

Mme. de Céran. Do you intend——?

Duchess. He is her tutor! (Aside) He must know.

(Enter Lucy.)

Lucy. (In a low-cut evening gown) I believe your son has arrived, Madame.

Mme. de Céran. The Count!

Duchess. Roger!

Lucy. His carriage has just come into the court.

Mme. de Céran. At last!

Duchess. Were you afraid he wouldn’t return?

Mme. de Céran. I feared he would not return in time. I was anxious about that place for him.

Lucy. Oh, he wrote me this morning that he would return to-day, Thursday.

Duchess. And you missed one of the Professor’s lectures in order to see him that much sooner. Hm, that’s lovely!

Lucy. That wasn’t the reason, Madame.

Duchess. (Aside to Mme. de Céran) You see?—No? Why then?

Lucy. No, I was looking for—I—it was another matter.

Duchess. I don’t suppose it is for that Schopenhauer gentleman you are all dressed up like that, is it?

Lucy. Is there not to be company this evening, Madame?

Duchess. (Aside to Mme. de Céran) Bellac, that’s as plain as day! (To Lucy) Let me congratulate you, then. I have nothing to complain of, except those frightful glasses. Why do you wear such awful things?

Lucy. Because I cannot see without them, Madame.

Duchess. A nice reason! (Aside) Isn’t she practical! I detest practical people! She’ll pass, she’s not as thin as I thought she was! These English occasionally disappoint one pleasantly!

Mme. de Céran. Ah, here’s my son!

(Enter Roger.)

Roger. Mother! Mother! How good it is to see you again!

Mme. de Céran. How good it is to see you, my dear! (She holds out her hand, which he kisses)

Roger. What a long while it is since I’ve seen you!—Once more! (He kisses her hand again)

Duchess. (Aside) That embrace wouldn’t smother anyone!

Mme. de Céran. The Duchess, my dear!

Roger. (Approaching the Duchess) Duchess!

Duchess. Call me Aunt, and give me a kiss!

Roger. My dear Aunt! (He starts to kiss her hand)

Duchess. No! No! On the cheek! You must kiss me on the cheek! That is one of the privileges of age—Look at him now! Same little fellow as ever! Oh, you’ve let your moustache grow; isn’t he charming!

Mme. de Céran. I hope, Roger, you will shave that off!

Roger. Don’t let it disturb you, Mother, I shall do it at once!—Ah, how do you do, Lucy?

Lucy. How do you do, Roger? (They shake hands) Have you had a pleasant trip?

Roger. Oh, most interesting. Think of it, an almost unexplored country, a veritable paradise for the scholar, the poet, and the artist—but I wrote you all about that!

Duchess. (Sitting down) Tell me about the women.

Mme. de Céran. Duchess!

Roger. (Astonished) What women do you mean, Aunt?

Duchess. Why, the Oriental women they say are so beautiful. Ah, you villain!

Roger. Let me assure you, Aunt, I had no time to investigate that—detail!

Duchess. (Indignantly) Detail, indeed!

Roger. (Smiling) Besides, the Government did not send me there for that!

Duchess. What did you see, then?

Roger. You will find that in the Revue Archéologique.

Lucy. Tombs of Eastern Asia; isn’t that the subject, Roger?

Roger. Yes, Lucy; now among those mounds—

Lucy. Ah, the mounds—those Tumuli——

Duchess. Come, come, you can chatter when you two are alone! Tell me, aren’t you tired? Did you just arrive?

Roger. Oh, no, Aunt. I’ve been in Paris since yesterday.

Duchess. Did you go to the theater last night, Roger?

Roger. No, I went at once to see the Minister.

Mme. de Céran. Good! And what did he have to say to you?

Lucy. I’ll leave you alone!

Mme. de Céran. You needn’t go, Lucy.

Lucy. Oh, I think I ought to go. I shall return in a few minutes. I’ll see you later.

Roger. (Taking her hand) Until later, Lucy.

Duchess. (Aside) There’s a grand passion indeed!

(Lucy goes out. Roger accompanies her as far as the door to the left, while Mme. de Céran takes her place in the arm-chair, at the other side of the table.)

Mme. de Céran. Now, let’s hear what the Minister had to say!

Duchess. Ah, yes! Let’s hear. We’re anxious to know.

Roger. He questioned me as to the results of my trip and asked me to submit my report as soon as possible, promising me a reward on the day it was handed in. You can guess what that reward will be. (He touches the lapel of his coat, as if to show the ribbon of the Legion of Honor)

Mme. de Céran. Officer? That’s all very well, but I have something better. And then?

Roger. Then he asked me to convey to you his kindest regards, and begged you keep him in mind when that law came up for consideration by the Senate.

Mme. de Céran. I shall keep him in mind if he keeps me in mind.—You must set to work on your report at once.

Roger. Immediately!

Mme. de Céran. Did you leave cards for the Speaker of the House?

Roger. Yes, this morning, and for General de Briais and Mme. de Vielfond.

Mme. de Céran. Good! It must be known that you have returned. I’ll have a paragraph sent to the papers.—And one thing more: those articles you sent back from the East were very good. But I noticed with astonishment a tendency toward—what shall I say?—imagination, “fine” writing; descriptions, irrelevancies—even poetry—(Reproachfully) Alfred de Musset, my son!

Duchess. Yes, the article was most interesting: you must be more careful.

Mme. de Céran. The Duchess is joking, my dear. But be careful about poetry; never do it again! You are concerned with serious subjects; you must be serious yourself.

Roger. But I had no idea, Mother!—How can you tell when an article is serious?

Duchess. (Holding up a pamphlet) When the pages aren’t cut!

Mme. de Céran. Your Aunt exaggerates, but take my advice: no more poetry!—And now, dinner at six. You have an hour to work on your report. I shan’t keep you any longer. Go to work, my dear.

Duchess. Just a moment! Now that this tender and affecting scene is over let us talk business, if you please. What about Suzanne?

Roger. Oh, the dear child! Where is she?

Duchess. Attending a course of lectures on Comparative Literature.

Roger. Suzanne?!

Duchess. Yes, Bellac’s course.

Roger. Bellac, who is he?

Duchess. One of this winter’s crop! The season’s fad in scholars. A gallant knight from the Normal School, who makes love to the ladies, is made love to by them—and consequently makes a comfortable living. The Princess Okolitch, who is mad about him, like all the old ladies, conceived the idea of having him deliver a course of lectures in her salon, with literature as an excuse, and gossip as a result. It appears that your pupil, having seen all these grand ladies smitten with this young, amiable, and loquacious genius, has followed in the footsteps of her elders.

Mme. de Céran. It is no use, Duchess——

Duchess. I beg your pardon; Roger is her tutor and he ought to know everything!

Roger. But what does all this mean, Aunt?

Duchess. It means that Suzanne is in love with this gentleman; now do you understand?

Roger. Suzanne! That child! Nonsense!

Duchess. It doesn’t take so long for a child to change into a woman, you know.

Roger. Suzanne!

Duchess. Well, at least that is what your mother says.

Mme. de Céran. I say that that young lady is openly courting favor with a man much too serious to marry her, but gallant enough to amuse her, and to have this going on under my own roof,—though it isn’t as yet scandalous—is decidedly improper.

Duchess. (To Roger) Do you hear that?

Roger. But, Mother, you surprise me! Suzanne, a little child I left in short dresses, climbing trees, a child I used to punish with extra lessons, who used to jump on my knee and call me Daddy—— Come, come! It is impossible! Such demoralization at her age!

Duchess. Demoralization? Because she is in love! You are a true son of your mother, if there ever was one! At “her age”! You ought to have seen me when I was that old! There was a hussar, in a blue and silver uniform! He was superb! His brains were all in his sword-hilt! But at my age—! A young heart is like a new land: the discoverer is seldom the ruler. Now it seems—this Bellac—oh, it doesn’t seem possible, and yet—young girls, you know—- We must take care! (Aside) I don’t believe a word of it, but I’ll be on my guard!—And that is why I want you to do me the favor of burying your Tumuli and giving your attention to her, and her alone.

(Enter Suzanne.)

Suzanne. (Stealing up behind Roger, puts her hands over his eyes) Who is it?

Roger. (Rising) Ehh?

Suzanne. (Stepping in front of him) Here I am!

Roger. (Surprised) But,—Mademoiselle!

Suzanne. Naughty man! Not to recognize your own daughter!

Roger. Suzanne!

Duchess. (Aside) He’s blushing!

Suzanne. Well, aren’t you going to kiss me?

Mme. de Céran. Suzanne, that’s not quite the thing——

Suzanne. To kiss your father? The idea!

Duchess. (To Roger) Kiss her, why don’t you!

(Suzanne and Roger kiss.)

Suzanne. How happy I am! Just think, I had no idea you were coming home to-day! Mme. de Saint-Réault told me just now at the lecture; so, without saying a word—I was right near the door—I whisked out and ran to the station!

Mme. de Céran. Alone?

Suzanne. Yes, all alone! Oh, it was fun! The funniest part—wait till I tell you! When I got to the ticket office I found I didn’t have a sou, and, what do you think?—a gentleman who was buying his ticket offered to buy one for me. Oh, he was a very nice young man! He happened to be going to St. Germain, too, and when he offered to buy my ticket, another man offered, too: a respectable-looking old gentleman,—and then another—and after him, any number of others, who were standing there. They were all going to St. Germain. “But, Mademoiselle, I beg you—I really cannot allow you to——” “Allow me—no, me,—I beg you, Mademoiselle!” I let the old respectable gentleman buy the ticket—for the sake of appearances.

Mme. de Céran. You allowed him to——?

Suzanne. I couldn’t very well stay where I was, could I?

Mme. de Céran. From a perfect stranger?

Suzanne. But he was such a respectable old gentleman! And he was very nice to me! He helped me into the train. So nice of him! Of course, all the rest were, too; they all got into the compartment with us.—And it was so jolly! Such fun! They offered me their places, every one! They opened the window for me, and then fell all over themselves being nice to me! “This way, Mademoiselle! Not there, you’ll be in the sun!” And they pulled down their cuffs, and twirled their moustaches, and bowed and scraped as if I’d been some grand lady—Oh, it’s fun to go by yourself! And the respectable old gentleman kept talking all the time about his immense estates, but what did I care about that?

Mme. de Céran. Why, this is outrageous!

Suzanne. But the funniest thing of all was when we arrived, I found my purse in my pocket; I paid the respectable old gentleman for the ticket, made a pretty curtsey to the other gentlemen, and then I ran off. Oh, you should have seen how they all looked at me! (To Roger) Just as you do now! Why, what’s the matter? Kiss me again!

Mme. de Céran. (To the Duchess) There’s an impropriety even worse than the rest!

Suzanne. Impropriety!

Duchess. You see, she’s perfectly innocent!

Mme. de Céran. A young girl traveling alone in a train!

Suzanne. Doesn’t Lucy go out alone?

Mme. de Céran. Lucy is not a girl of sixteen!

Suzanne. No: she’ll never see twenty-four again!

Mme. de Céran. Lucy is able to take care of herself.

Suzanne. Why? Because of those glasses of hers?

Duchess. (Laughing) Now, Suzanne! (Aside) I adore that girl!

Mme. de Céran. Lucy wasn’t expelled from the convent!

Suzanne. That isn’t fair, and you know it! I was so bored—!

Mme. de Céran. Your tutor knows——

Suzanne. But he doesn’t know why—you’ll see if it wasn’t unfair. When I used to get bored in class, I sat near the door leading into the garden. Oh, it was so easy! I had a clever plan! When everything was as quiet as could be, I shouted at the top of my voice, “Long live the great Voltaire!” Sister Séraphine at once ordered me to leave the room. It was perfectly simple, and it only took a moment. One day when the sun was shining beautifully, I was looking out of the window, and all at once I shouted, “Long live Voltaire!” I listened, there was no answer. I shouted again, “Voltaire!” Silence again! Very much surprised, I turned around: the Mother Superior was there: I hadn’t heard her come in! Tableau! But she didn’t send me into the garden, oh, no! She sent me here! I didn’t care! I had had enough of that convent life.—I’m a woman now!

Mme. de Céran. Your conduct fails to reveal the fact.—Mme. de Saint-Réault must be very anxious about you.

Suzanne. Oh, the lecture was almost over: she will be here in a moment, with M. Bellac and the others. Oh, his lecture to-day——!

Duchess. (Looking at Roger) Hm!

Suzanne. And the way those women applauded! And the crowd! And what wonderful gowns! It was like a wedding at Ste. Clotilde! It was—(Throwing a kiss) superb!

Duchess. (Looking at Roger) Hm!

Suzanne. Superb! You ought to have heard those women! “Charming, charming!” Madame de Loudan was squeaking like a Guinea-pig. Ugh, ugh! I detest that woman!

Duchess. (Looking at Roger) Hm! (To Suzanne) Are those the notes you took at the lectures?

Suzanne. Oh, I take others besides. (To Roger) You’ll see!

Duchess. (To Roger, picking up the notebook from the table, where Suzanne had left it on entering) Well, let’s see—(The clock strikes five) Oh, and my walk! (Aside to Roger) Now you understand Bellac’s role in this matter?

Roger. No, I——

Duchess. Examine it, study it,—it’s a manuscript worth your while deciphering; that’s your profession.

Roger. I don’t understand anything about this?

Duchess. It is your duty, you know, as her tutor.

Mme. de Céran. (Aside) That’s a waste of time!

Duchess. (Aside, looking at Roger) That has waked him up!

Suzanne. (Aside, looking at all of them) What are they all up to?

(The Duchess and Mme. de Céran go out.)

Suzanne. Why do you stare at me? Because I went out alone? Are you angry?

Roger. No, Suzanne, but you ought to know better than to——

Suzanne. Are you angry with me?

Roger. No, only——

Suzanne. Then it’s because you consider me a woman now, is it? Do you? Tell me, I want so much to know!

Roger. Yes, you are a woman now, and it is for that very reason that we must respect the conventions.

Suzanne. (Snuggling up to him) Scold me, I love to hear you, dear!

Roger. (Gently pushing her away) There now, stay over there.

Suzanne. So you don’t want me to call you “dear,” either?

Roger. It would be better not to.

Suzanne. That isn’t easy.

Roger. And there are other questions of propriety which you must consider. That is exactly what I was objecting to——

Suzanne. Oh, yes, I know, I have no manners. M. Bellac is never tired of telling me so!

Roger. Ah, Monsieur——?

Suzanne. But what can you expect? There is no help for it! It’s not my fault, I tell you, it’s not my fault. It is not so easy as you think; I made a vow with myself that when you came back you would find me just as formal as Lucy, that I would wear myself out learning!—Here I’ve been studying six months—and then all of a sudden you appear and, whist—there goes six months’ work for nothing!

Roger. (Reproachfully) For nothing?

Suzanne. Oh, how glad I am you’ve come! Oh, how I love you! I adore you!

Roger. Suzanne, Suzanne! I beg of you not to use words that you cannot possibly understand.

Suzanne. What? That I don’t understand? I tell you I adore you! You, you funny old thing, don’t you love me, too? Why are you so funny? Do you love me better than Lucy?

Roger. Suzanne!

Suzanne. Are you sure? You’re not going to marry her?

Roger. Suzanne!

Suzanne. They told me you were.

Roger. Nonsense!

Suzanne. Then why do you write to her?—Oh, I know; you’ve written twenty-seven letters to her—I’ve counted them, twenty-seven!

Roger. Those were nothing but——

Suzanne. And one more this morning. Were they all “nothing buts”? What was in that letter that came this morning?

Roger. I merely wrote that I should arrive on Thursday.

Suzanne. That you would arrive on Thursday? Was that all, really? But why didn’t you write to me? Then I’d have been the first to see you.

Roger. But haven’t I written to you—often?

Suzanne. Often? Ten times. And then nothing but little insignificant notes at the bottom of someone else’s letter—the kind you’d write to a baby. I’m not a baby any longer: I’ve been thinking a lot these last six months; I’ve learned a heap of things.

Roger. What have you learned? (Suzanne leans against his shoulder and cries) Why, Suzanne, what’s wrong?

Suzanne. (Wiping her eyes and trying to laugh) And then I’ve worked—! Oh, how I worked! Piano, that horrid piano—I’m up to Schumann now, that’s proper enough, isn’t it?

Roger. Oh!

Suzanne. Shall I play you something of his?

Roger. Not now, later!

Suzanne. All right.—And I’ve learned so much!

Roger. You are attending Professor Bellac’s lectures, aren’t you? So he’s taken my place!

Suzanne. Yes, he’s been so nice! I love him, too.

Roger. Indeed!

Suzanne. Are you jealous of him?

Roger. I?

Suzanne. Tell me if you are; I’ll understand. I’m so jealous! But why should you be? You’re my father, aren’t you?

Roger. Oh, your father——

Suzanne. What’s wrong? Be nice to me, the way you used to!

Roger. The way I used to? Oh, no!

Suzanne. Yes, the way you used to! (She attempts to embrace him)

Roger. No, no, no, Suzanne, don’t do that!

Suzanne. Why not?

Roger. Come now, that’s enough! Run away now! (Sits on the sofa)

Suzanne. I like you that way!

Roger. Be a little bit reasonable.

Suzanne. Oh, we’ve had enough reasonableness for to-day. (She ruffles his hair, laughing)

Roger. Run away, now! A big girl like you!

Suzanne. (Jealously) If I were only Lucy——

Roger. Now, now! Please, dear!

Suzanne. There, you said “dear.” Forfeit! (She sits on his knee and kisses him)

Roger. Again!

Suzanne. All right, again! (She kisses him)

Roger. (Repulsing her as he rises) This is too much!

Suzanne. I’m an awful tease, am I not? Well, I’ll get my notebooks for you: they’ll calm us down a little. (She stops in the doorway and looks at him) Oh, here are the ladies and M. Bellac! What! Lucy in an evening gown? Wait one moment! (She runs out)

Roger. (Agitated) This is decidedly too much!

(Enter the Duchess.)

Duchess. Well?

Roger. Well——

Duchess. How excited you look!

Roger. You see, she was so affectionate—too affectionate!

Duchess. Yes, I advise you to complain! See what I have found! (She takes a mounted photograph from between the leaves of Suzanne’s notebook)

Roger. A picture——

Duchess. Of the Professor, yes——

Roger. In her notebook.

Duchess. But look here——

Roger. May I——?

The Ladies. (Outside) What a lovely lesson! Magnificent!

Duchess. There’s the beautiful object! Surrounded by his bodyguard!

(Enter Bellac, Madame Arriégo, Madame de Loudan, Madame de Saint-Réault, Madame de Céran, and Lucy.)

Mme. de Saint-Réault. Superb! Simply superb!

Bellac. Oh, spare me, Madame de Saint-Réault!

Mme. de Loudan. Ideal! I call it ideal!

Bellac. Marquise!

Mme. Arriégo. Beautiful! It stirred me to the depths of my being!

Bellac. Oh, Madame Arriégo!

Mme. de Loudan. Ladies, there is only one thing to say about it all! M. Bellac was so eloquent that he was positively dangerous! But then—isn’t he always a little dangerous?

Bellac. Please, Madame de Loudan!

Mme. de Loudan. I’m simply mad about your genius! Yes, indeed, mad! And about you, too! Oh, I don’t hide it. I tell everyone about it! Brazenly! You are one of the gods on my Olympus! You have become a fetish to me!

Mme. Arriégo. You know, I have his autograph in my pocket! (Displays locket) There!

Mme. de Loudan. (Shows a pen which she carries in the bosom of her gown) And I carry one of his pens!

Duchess. (Aside to Roger) Silly sheep!

Mme. de Loudan. (To Mme. de Céran) Ah, Countess, I didn’t see you at the lecture to-day?

Mme. de Céran. (Introducing Roger) Here is my excuse! Ladies, my son!

Ladies. Ah, Count!

Mme. de Loudan. The exile has returned!

Roger. (Bowing) Ladies!

Mme. de Céran. (Introduces Bellac to her son) Monsieur Bellac—Count Roger de Céran!

Mme. de Loudan. I see that your excuse was a good one—but Lucy?

Lucy. I was busy here.

Mme. de Loudan. How could you stay away, his Muse?

Bellac. (Gallantly) Ah, Marquise, I can only say that you were there!

Mme. de Loudan. He is charming! (To Lucy) You don’t know what you missed.

Lucy. Oh, I know——

Mme. Arriégo. No, she can have no idea! It was a burning flame, a fire of passion!

Mme. de Loudan. What flowing eloquence! What delicacy of imagination!

Bellac. With such an audience, who could not be eloquent?

Duchess. And what was the subject to-day?

Ladies. LOVE!

Duchess. (To Roger) Of course!

Mme. Arriégo. So poetic!

Mme. de Loudan. And so scientific! He is half psychologist, half dreamer; he plays with the scalpel as well as the lyre! It was—there was only one thing I couldn’t agree with: that the basis of love is instinct.

Bellac. But, Marquise, I was speaking of——

Mme. de Loudan. Oh, no, no!

Bellac. I was speaking of love in Nature!

Mme. de Loudan. Instinct! The idea! Ladies, come, we must defend ourselves! Help me. Come to the rescue, Lucy!

Bellac. She will not help you, Marquise; she agrees with me.

Mme. de Saint-Réault. Is it possible, Lucy?

Lucy. Instinct?

Mme. de Saint-Réault. In love?

Mme. de Loudan. That would be robbing the soul of its most precious possession: according to you, then, Lucy, nothing is good, or bad.

Lucy. (Coldly) There is no question about good or bad, Madame, it is merely a question of the existence of the species.

Ladies. (Protesting) Oh!

Duchess. (Aside) She’s prosaic enough about it!

Mme. de Loudan. (Indignantly) Why, you’re stripping love of all its romance!

Lucy. Hunter and Darwin——

Mme. de Loudan. No one better than I knows the weaknesses of the flesh. Matter dominates and masters us! I know it, I feel it! But leave us at least the psychic refuge of pure ecstasy!

Bellac. But, Marquise——

Mme. de Loudan. Be quiet, you’re a villain! I will not deny my god; that would be sacrilege. I’m very angry with you!

Duchess. (Aside) Little fool!

Bellac. I hope we shall be reconciled, after you read my book.

Mme. de Loudan. But when will that be? The entire world is waiting for that book! And you don’t say a word about it! You won’t even tell us the title!

Ladies. Tell us the title! At least the title!

Mme. Arriégo. Lucy, you make him tell us.

Lucy. Well, what is the title?

Bellac. (To Lucy, after a moment’s hesitation) “Miscellanies.”

Mme. de Loudan. Oh, how lovely! But when does it appear?

Bellac. I am hurrying it through the press, and I count on its helping me to the honor to which I aspire.

Mme. de Céran. To which you aspire?

Mme. Arriégo. What more can he wish?

Mme. de Loudan. What more can the child of Fortune wish?

Bellac. Poor Revel is on his last legs, you know. In the event of anything happening to him, I have announced myself as candidate for the position of director of the New School.

Duchess. (To Mme. de Céran) Number three!

Bellac. Ladies, if Revel should die—which God forbid!—I recommend myself to your good graces, and your influence.

Ladies. You may count on us, Bellac!

Bellac. (Approaching the Duchess) And you, Duchess, may I hope——?

Duchess. You mustn’t ask me anything before dinner. The weakness of the flesh “dominates me,” as Madame de Loudan says. (The clock strikes) There, you have only fifteen minutes! Get dressed at once, and we’ll talk the matter over at table.

Mme. de Céran. At table? But M. Toulonnier hasn’t arrived yet, Duchess.

Duchess. That makes no difference to me. We dine sharp at six, whether he is here or not.

Mme. de Céran. Dine without him, a General Secretary?

Duchess. Oh, under the Republic!

(Enter Suzanne, with her notebooks under her arm; she puts them on the table, right.)

Mme. de Céran. I am going to meet him. (To Bellac) My dear Professor, you will be shown to your room. (She rings and, a moment later, enter Francois)

Bellac. Pray don’t trouble, Countess, I have the good fortune to know the way. (Aside to Lucy) Did you get my letter?

Lucy. Yes, but——

(Bellac makes a sign for her to be silent, bows and goes out, right.)

Mme. de Loudan. And now, ladies, let us adjourn and make ourselves beautiful!

Mme. Arriégo. Come!

Mme. de Céran. Come with me, Lucy.

Lucy. With pleasure, Madame!

Mme. de Loudan. In that gown? Are you not afraid of the seductive charm of this spring evening, my dear?

Lucy. Oh, I shan’t be cold!

Mme. de Loudan. You are a true daughter of the Land of Fogs! I am very much afraid of the night air!

(Madame de Loudan goes out with Madame Arriégo, left. As Lucy starts to follow Madame de Céran into the garden, she is intercepted by Francois.)

Francois. I still can’t find the pink paper, Mademoiselle.

Suzanne. (Picking up a pink paper which she has knocked off the table, while putting her notebooks on it. Aside) A pink paper! (She looks at the paper)

Lucy. Ah, yes, the letter we were looking for this morning!

Suzanne. (Aside, quickly hiding the letter behind her back) That you were looking for this morning!

Lucy. (As she is leaving the room) Never mind looking for it now. (She goes out into the garden; Francois follows her)

Suzanne. (Looking at Lucy as Roger enters) The letter this morning!

(Enter the Duchess.)

Duchess. How’s this? You’re not ready yet? Nor you? What are you doing here?

(Suzanne looks at Roger without answering.)

Roger. (To the Duchess) Ah, these are the notebooks! Give them to me, Suzanne. (He goes to her, she hands them to him, looking at him in silence) What’s the matter with her?

Duchess. Let me look at those notebooks!

(Roger goes to the Duchess, who is seated left. Suzanne, to the right of the table, tries without being seen to open the paper which she holds in her left hand.)

Roger. (Looking at Suzanne—astonished) That’s strange!

Duchess. (To Roger, drawing him toward her) Come here, closer—my eyes are bad——

Roger. (Lowering the notebooks, as he steals a glance at Suzanne. Suddenly he seizes the Duchess by the arm, and whispers) Aunt!

Duchess. (To Roger, aside) What’s the matter now?

Roger. Look! But don’t turn your head! She’s trying to read something! A letter, you see! She’s trying to hide it, don’t you see?

Duchess. Yes!

Suzanne. (Who has opened the letter; reading) “I shall arrive Thursday.” (Astonished) From Roger! The one Lucy got this morning! (She looks at the letter) But why is it written that way, without any signature? (Continues reading) “This evening at ten; in the conservatory. Say you have a headache.” Ah!

Duchess. What can it be? (Calling) Suzanne!

Suzanne. (Surprised; puts the letter behind her back, and goes toward the Duchess) Yes, Aunt?

Duchess. What are you reading there?

Suzanne. I, Aunt? Nothing.

Duchess. I thought that—come here!

Suzanne. (Slipping the letter under the books on the table, as she goes toward the Duchess) Yes, Aunt?

Duchess. (Aside) This is curious!

Suzanne. (Near the Duchess) What is it, Aunt?

Duchess. Get my mantle for me.

Suzanne. (Hesitating) But——

Duchess. You don’t care to?

Suzanne. Oh, certainly, Aunt!

Duchess. It’s in my room; hurry! (Suzanne goes out. To Roger) Quick! On the table!

Roger. What?

Duchess. The letter! She’s hidden it! I saw her!

Roger. Hidden it? (He goes to the table and looks for the letter)

Duchess. On the corner, there! Under the black book. Don’t you see anything?

Roger. No—oh, yes!—a pink paper. (He takes the letter and brings it to the Duchess, reading it as he walks) Oh!

Duchess. What is it?

Roger. (Reading) “I shall arrive Thursday.” From Bellac!

Duchess. (Snatching the letter from him and reading it) From—? But it isn’t signed. And the handwriting——?

Roger. Yes, disguised. Oh, he’s a crafty one! But “I shall arrive Thursday” applies to me as well as to him!

Duchess. (Reading) “This evening at ten in the conservatory. Say you have a headache.” A rendezvous! (Giving him the letter) Quick, put it back, I hear her coming!

Roger. (Agitated) All right. (Puts letter back in place)

Duchess. Come now.

Roger. Very well.

Duchess. Hurry up! (Roger resumes his position by the side of the Duchess) And be calm! Here she is. (Suzanne re-enters. The Duchess turns over the leaves in the notebook) Well, these are very good, very good!

Suzanne. Here’s your mantle, Aunt.

Duchess. Thank you, dear. (Aside to Roger) Speak up.

(Suzanne goes to the table, takes the letter, glances through it, turning away as before.)

Roger. (Agitated) There are—well—er—certain—you have made wonderful progress—er—I am astonished—(Aside to Duchess, pointing to Suzanne) Aunt!

Duchess. (Aside) Yes, she’s picked it up again; I saw her. (The dinner-gong sounds) The second bell! Hurry and get dressed, Suzanne! You’ll never be ready in time.

Suzanne. (Aside as she looks at Roger) A rendezvous! With Lucy! Oh!

(She goes up to Roger without saying a word and, looking him straight in the eye, takes her notebooks out of his hand, tears them and throws the pieces angrily to the floor; then she goes out.)

Roger. (Astonished; turning to the Duchess) Aunt!

Duchess. A rendezvous!

Roger. With Bellac!

Duchess. Nonsense!

Roger. (Falling into a chair) Who could have imagined such a thing!

(Voices heard outside. The door at the back opens.)

Duchess. (Looking out) Ah, here comes Toulonnier! And everybody, and dinner, too! Quick, go and dress! It will calm your nerves; you’re very pale.

Roger. Suzanne! It’s not possible! (He goes out)

Duchess. No, it’s not possible! And yet——!

(Enter Madame de Céran, Toulonnier, M. and Mme. de Saint-Réault and a moment later, Lucy, Madame de Loudan, Madame Arriégo, with Bellac in their midst.)

Mme. de Céran. (Introducing Toulonnier to the Duchess) The Secretary General, Aunt.

Toulonnier. (Bowing) Madame la duchesse!

Duchess. My dear Monsieur Toulonnier, we were just going to sit down without you.

Toulonnier. I hope you will pardon me, my dear Duchess, but—business, you know! We are literally up to the ears in work. You’ll permit me to leave early, I trust?

Duchess. With pleasure!

Mme. de Céran. (Embarrassed) Ah, Monsieur Bellac!

Toulonnier. (To whom Mme. de Céran introduces Bellac) Monsieur! (He and Bellac shake hands and talk)

Mme. de Céran. (Coming to the Duchess) Be nice to him, Aunt; please.

Duchess. Your Republican friend? Nonsense! A man who gives us twenty minutes of his time as if he were a king! The idea!

Mme. de Céran. You will at least allow him to escort you to the table?

Duchess. I should think not! Keep him yourself! I’ll take little Raymond. He’s much more amusing.

(Enter Roger, dressed for dinner.)

Roger. (To the Duchess, frightened) Aunt!

Duchess. Well, what is it now?

Roger. Oh, something—I just overheard something in the corridor upstairs. It’s unbelievable.

Duchess. Well, what?

Roger. I didn’t see who was speaking, but I’m sure I heard——

(Raymond and Jeanne enter furtively.)

Duchess. Well, what?

Roger. The sound of a kiss! What do you think of that?

Duchess. Of a what?

Roger. Yes, I’m sure I heard it!

Duchess. Well, who——

Mme. de Céran. (Introducing to Toulonnier) Monsieur Paul Raymond, Sub-prefect of Agenis.

Raymond. Monsieur le Secrétaire-Géneral! (Introducing Jeanne) Madame Paul Raymond.

(Suzanne enters, wearing an evening gown.)

Mme. de Loudan. (Seeing Suzanne) Ohh!

Bellac. Ah, my young pupil!

(Murmurs of astonishment.)

Roger. (To the Duchess) Look, Aunt! Décolletée! It’s disgraceful!

Duchess. I don’t think so. (Aside) She’s been crying.

Francois. (Announcing) Dinner is served.

Roger. (Approaching Suzanne, who is conversing with Bellac) I must know! (Offering her his arm) Suzanne! (Suzanne looks at him coldly and takes the arm of Bellac, who is speaking with Lucy)

Bellac. (To Suzanne) How the rest will envy me, Mademoiselle!

Roger. (Aside) This is too much! (He offers his arm to Lucy)

Duchess. What does this mean?—Come, Raymond, give me your arm. (Raymond approaches her) My friend, one must suffer much before one becomes a Prefect!

Paul. The suffering is by no means unpleasant, Duchess.

Duchess. You’re going to sit next to me at the table. We’ll slander the Government!

Paul. Oh, Duchess! And I one of her servants! Oh, no!—But there is nothing to prevent my listening to you!

Curtain.

ACT II

(Same scene as Act I.)

(Bellac, Toulonnier, Roger, Paul Raymond, Madame de Céran, Madame de Loudan, the Duchess, Suzanne, Lucy, Jeanne, seated in a semi-circle, listening to Saint-Réault, who is finishing his lecture.)

Saint-Réault. And make no mistake about it! Profound as these legends may appear because of their baffling exoticism, they are merely—my illustrious father wrote in 1834—elemental, primitive imaginings, in comparison with the transcendental conceptions of Brahmin lore gathered together in the Upanishads, or indeed in the eighteen Paranas of Vyasa, the compiler of the Veda.

Jeanne. (Aside to Paul) Are you asleep?

Paul. No, no—I hear some kind of gibberish.

Saint-Réault. Such, in simple terminology, is the concretum of the doctrine of Buddha.—And at this point I shall close my remarks.

(Murmurs. Some of the audience rise.)

Several Voices. (Weakly) Very good! Good!

Saint-Réault. And now—(He coughs)

Mme. de Céran. (Eagerly) You must be tired, Saint-Réault?

Saint-Réault. Not at all, Countess!

Mme. Arriégo. Oh, yes, you must be; rest yourself. We can wait.

Several Voices. You must rest!

Mme. de Loudan. You can’t always remain in the clouds. Come down to earth, Baron.

Saint-Réault. Thank you, but—well, you see, I had already finished.

(Everybody rises.)

Several Voices. So interesting!—A little obscure!—Excellent!—Too long!

Bellac. (To the ladies) Too materialistic!

Paul. (To Jeanne) He’s bungled it.

Suzanne. (Calling) Monsieur Bellac!

Bellac. Mademoiselle?

Suzanne. Come here, near me.

(Bellac goes to her.)

Roger. (Aside to the Duchess) Aunt!

Duchess. (Aside to Roger) She’s doing it on purpose!

Saint-Réault. (Coming to table) One word more! (General surprise. The audience sits down in silence and consternation) Or, rather a favor!—This study of mine, of which, in spite of the narrow limits and popular character made necessary by my audience——

Duchess. He is polite, isn’t he?

Saint-Réault. The importance will perhaps have been realised,—this study, I say, was in 1821, sixty years ago, begun, or—I will go so far as to say, discovered by the genius whose son I have the honor to be——

Paul. (To Jeanne) He’s standing in a dead man’s shoes!

Saint-Réault. This trail which he has blazed, I, too, have followed, and not without distinction, if I may be permitted to say so. Another, coming after us, has tried to snatch a few words of wisdom from the eternal Verity of the Sphinx, until our time unfathomed in any theogony. I speak of Revel, highly esteemed both as scholar and gentleman. My illustrious father is dead, and Revel is not long for this earth—if he has not already passed away. Therefore I alone am left monarch of this new domain of science of which my father, Guillaume Eriel de Saint-Réault, was the discoverer. I, alone! (Looking at Toulonnier) May those who govern us, those who are invested with power and authority, those upon whom will devolve the delicate task of choosing a successor to our lamented colleague—whom perhaps we shall mourn to-morrow—may these eminent men (Looking at Bellac, who is speaking with Toulonnier) in spite of the more or less legitimate solicitations to which they are prey, make an impartial, enlightened choice, determined solely by the threefold requirements of age, aptitude and acquired experience—a choice of a successor worthy to my illustrious father, and of the great work which is his,—and of which, I repeat, I am the sole living representative.

(Everyone rises. Applause and general confusion. Meanwhile servants enter with refreshments.)

Several Voices. Splendid! Bravo!

Paul. At last I understand what he’s driving at!

Mme. de Céran. A candidate for Revel’s place!

Bellac. In the Academy, the New School, in everything!

Mme. de Céran. (Aside) I might have expected it!

Servant. (Announcing) The General! Comte de Briais!—Monsieur Virot!

(Enter the General and M. Virot.)

General. (Kissing Madame de Céran’s hand) Countess!

Mme. de Céran. Ah, Senator——

Virot. (Kissing Madame de Céran’s hand) Madame la comtesse!

Mme. de Céran. (To Virot) Too late! my dear Deputy, too late!

General. (Gallantly) One cannot come too early to your salon, Countess!

Mme. de Céran. Monsieur de Saint-Réault was speaking; can one say more?

General. (Bowing to Saint-Réault) My loss!

Virot. (Taking the General to the left) Well, Senator, if the House passes the law, will you vote it down?

General. Of course—at least the first time! The Senate must do that much.

Virot. Ah! Duchess!

(Together with the General, they go to greet the Duchess. Paul Raymond and Jeanne slip out of the room into the garden.)

Mme. de Céran. (To Saint-Réault) You surpassed yourself this evening, Saint-Réault!

Mme. Arriégo. Yes, you surpassed yourself. There is no other word for it.

Mme. de Loudan. Ah, Baron, Baron, what a world you have opened up to us! How captivating are these first stammering professions of primitive faith! And that Buddhist Trinity, oh, I’m quite mad about it!

Lucy. (To Saint-Réault) Pardon my boldness, Monsieur, but in your enumeration of the Sacred Books, it seemed to me that you omitted something.

Saint Réault. (Piqued) Ah, you think so, Mademoiselle?

Lucy. I did not hear you mention either the Mahabarata or the Ramayana.

Saint Réault. But those are not the Sacred Books, they are merely poems whose ancient origin rendered them objects of veneration to the Hindoos. They are works of literature, merely.

Lucy. But nevertheless, the Academy of Calcutta——

Saint-Réault. I merely give you the opinion of the Brahmins! You have another of your own?

Suzanne. (Loudly) Monsieur Bellac!

Bellac. Mademoiselle?

Suzanne. Give me your arm; let’s take a little walk. I want the air!

Bellac. But, Mademoiselle——

Suzanne. Don’t you wish to?

Bellac. But just at this time——?

Suzanne. Do come! (She almost drags him out)

Roger. (To the Duchess) She’s going out with him!

Duchess. Follow them!—Wait, I’ll go with you—I need a breath of air myself; he’s put me to sleep with his Brahmins, the old fakir! (They go out)

Toulonnier. (To Saint-Réault) Very learned and full of new ideas—(In an undertone) I caught that hint of yours, my dear Baron. There was really no need. We are all on your side. (They shake hands)

Mme. de Céran. (To Saint-Réault) I beg your pardon! (Aside to Toulonnier) You won’t forget my boy?

Toulonnier. I shall no more forget my promise than—I will yours.

Mme. de Céran. You understand, you will receive your six votes in the Senate. You understand also that on the publication of his report——

Toulonnier. You are well aware, Countess, that we are all on your side.

Paul. (To Jeanne, as they come in from the garden) That time they did see us!

Jeanne. It was too dark to see anything under the trees.

Paul. We were almost caught before dinner. Twice would be too much! I don’t want to risk it.

Jeanne. Didn’t you promise to kiss me every time we were in the dark? Yes or no?

Paul. (Excitedly) Do you want to be the wife of a Prefect? Yes or no?

Jeanne. (Equally excited) Yes, but meanwhile I’m not going to be his widow!

(Madame de Céran goes to them.)

Paul. (Aside to Jeanne) The Countess! (Aloud) Really, Jeanne, you prefer the Bhagavata?

Jeanne. Oh, the Bhagavata, my dear——

Mme. de Céran. Did you understand any of that mass of erudition, Madame? Poor Saint-Réault seemed particularly wordy and obscure this evening!

Paul. (Aside) The jealous rival!

Jeanne. But towards the end, Countess, he was clear enough.

Mme. de Céran. Ah, yes, about his candidacy; you understand?

Jeanne. Well, after all, if faith requires science to support it, has not science some need of faith?—as Monsieur de Maistre has said.

Mme. de Céran. Very good indeed! I must introduce you to a gentleman who will be very useful to you: General de Briais, the Senator.

Jeanne. And how about the Deputy, Countess?

Mme. de Céran. Oh, the Senator is more powerful!

Jeanne. But the Deputy is more active!

Mme. de Céran. Really, my dear Raymond, you are very fortunate. (Pressing Jeanne’s hand) And so am I! (To Jeanne) Good—I’ll introduce you to both!

Paul. (Following Jeanne, who follows Mme. de Céran) Angel!

Jeanne. Aren’t we going where it’s dark pretty soon?

Paul. Yes, my angel, but wait until the rest are gone! I’ll tell you: while the tragedy is being read!

Servant. (Announcing) Madame la baronne de Boines—Monsieur Melchior de Boines!

(Enter Mme. de Boines and Melchior.)

Baroness. (To Madame de Céran, who is about to receive her) Ah, my dear, am I in time?

Mme. de Céran. You are too late for Science, too early for Poetry! I am waiting for my poet.

Baroness. Who is he?

Mme. de Céran. An unknown.

Baroness. Young?

Mme. de Céran. I know nothing whatsoever about him, but I am assured that this is his first work. Gaiac is bringing him—you know Gaiac, of the Conservateur? They should have been here at nine. I can’t imagine what keeps them.

Baroness. I shall profit by the circumstance, for I came to see neither scholar nor poet. I came to see him, my dear: Bellac! Think of it, I’ve never met him! He is so attractive, they tell me! Princess Okolitch is quite mad about him, you know. Where is he? Oh, show him to me, Countess!

Mme. de Céran. I was just looking for him, and I—(Seeing Bellac enter with Suzanne) There!

Baroness. Is that he, coming in with Mlle. de Villiers?

Mme. de Céran. (Astonished) Yes!

Baroness. How lovely he is, dear! Isn’t he handsome! And you let him go about with that young girl!

Mme. de Céran. (Aside—looking at Suzanne and Bellac) That’s strange——

Melchior. And may I shake hands with Roger?

Mme. de Céran. I doubt if you can at this moment. He must be hard at work. (Enter the Duchess and Roger. Aside, looking at these latter) What’s this—and with the Duchess?

Roger. (To the Duchess, greatly agitated) Well, did you hear, Aunt?

Duchess. Yes, but I saw nothing.

Roger. It was certainly a kiss, that time!

Duchess. And a good smack! Who is there here who would kiss like that?

Roger. Who, indeed?

Duchess. (Seeing Madame de Céran, as she approaches them) Your mother!

Mme. de Céran. How is this, Roger, aren’t you supposed to be at work?

Roger. No, Mother, I——

Mme. de Céran. Well, well, what about your Tumuli?

Roger. I have plenty of time: I can work on it to-night, and later in the week.

Mme. de Céran. The idea! The Minister is waiting!

Roger. Let him wait, Mother! (He goes away)

Mme. de Céran. (Stupefied) Duchess, what does this mean?

Duchess. Tell me, isn’t someone going to read us some sort of nonsense this evening? Some tragedy——?

Mme. de Céran. Yes.

Duchess. Your reading is to be in the next room, isn’t it? Get the people out of here, will you? I shall need this room at once.

Mme. de Céran. Why?

Duchess. I’ll tell you during the tragedy.

Servant. (Announcing) Monsieur le vicomte de Gaiac! Monsieur des Millets!

(Enter de Gaiac and des Millets.)

Duchess. Well—I—look at your poet! There he is!

Several Voices. The poet!—The young poet!—Where?—Where is he?

Gaiac. Will you ever forgive me, Countess? I was kept at the office. (Aside) I was writing up your soirée!—Monsieur des Millets, my friend the tragic poet, whose talent you will soon have an opportunity of appreciating.

Des Millets. (Bowing) Madame la comtesse!

Duchess. (To Roger) So that is the young poet! He’s an odd one!

Mme. Arriégo. (Aside to the other ladies) How awful!

Baroness. He’s gray!

Mme. de Saint-Réault. Bald!

Mme. de Loudan. He has no talent: he’s much too ugly, my dear!

Mme. de Céran. We are very happy, Monsieur, my guests and I, to be favored with your presence!

Mme. de Loudan. (Approaching him) A virgin triumph, Monsieur! How grateful we are!

Des Millets. (Confused) Ah, Madame!

Mme. de Céran. And it is really your first work, Monsieur?

Des Millets. Oh, but I have written several poems!

Gaiac. Crowned by the Academy, Madame la comtesse.

Jeanne. (To Paul, admiringly) Crowned!

Paul. (To Jeanne) Mediocritas!

Mme. de Céran. And this is your first attempt in the realm of the drama? Ah, well, maturity of years guarantees maturity of talent!

Des Millets. Alas, Madame la comtesse, the play was written fifteen years ago!

Ladies. Fifteen years!—Is it possible?! Really?

Gaiac. Ah, Des Millets has faith in his work! We must encourage those who have faith, should we not, ladies?

Mme. de Loudan. Of course! We must encourage the tragic form, must we not, General? Tragedy——

General. (Interrupting himself in his conversation with Virot) Eh? Oh, yes, tragedy! Horace! Cinna! Of course, we must! Tragedy is necessary for the masses—(To Des Millets) May we have the title?

Des. Millets. Philippe-Auguste!

General. Fine subject! Good military subject!—In verse, isn’t it?

Des Millets. Oh, General! A tragedy——!

General. A good many acts, I suppose?

Des Millets. Five.

General. Ha! Ha! Good! Good!

Jeanne. (Aside to Paul) Five acts! How lovely! We’ll have plenty of time——!

Paul. Sh-h!

Mme. de Loudan. The road to Parnassus is long!

Mme. de Saint-Réault. What a mighty effort!

Mme. Arriégo. It must be encouraged!

(Suzanne’s laugh is heard above the murmur of the conversation.)

Mme. de Céran. Suzanne!

Duchess. (To Madame de Céran) Lead out young Euripides and his press agent! Get rid of the lot of them!

Mme. de Céran. Now ladies, shall we go into the large drawing-room and hear the reading? (To Des Millets) Are you ready, Monsieur?

Des Millets. As you please, Madame la comtesse.

Paul. (Aside to Jeanne) Age before beauty!

Mme. de Céran. Come, ladies!

Mme. de Loudan. (Intercepting her) Oh, but first, Countess, let us—the ladies and me—carry out our little plot! (Going to Bellac, and saying with an air of supplication) Monsieur Bellac?

Bellac. Marquise?

Mme. de Loudan. I want to ask a great favor of you.

Bellac. (Graciously) The favor which you ask me becomes as nothing in comparison with the favor you do me in asking it so charmingly.

Ladies. Oh, how lovely!

Mme. de Loudan. This poetic tragedy will doubtless occupy the remainder of the evening; it will certainly prove a fitting climax!—Please say a few words beforehand—as few as you like! Of course, Genius must not be overtaxed! But, please just a few words. They will be received like the Manna of old!

Suzanne. Please, Monsieur Bellac!

Mme. Arriégo. Be generous!

Baroness. We throw ourselves at your feet!

Bellac. (Defending himself) Oh, ladies!

Mme. de Loudan. Come to our assistance, Lucy—you, his Muse! You plead with him!

Lucy. Of course; I ask him now.

Suzanne. And I, I want him too!

Voices. Oh, oh!

Mme. de Céran. Suzanne!

Bellac. Well, since you force me——

Mme. de Loudan. Oh, he will! Quick, a chair!

(Commotion about Bellac.)

Mme. Arriégo. A table.

Mme. de Loudan. Shall we make a circle?

Mme. de Céran. Give him a little room, ladies.

Bellac. Pray, no formality!

Virot. (To the General) You must be careful, the law is very popular.

Ladies. Sh-h!

Bellac. Please, no stage-setting—nothing that—

Virot. Well, yes—but the voters?

General. My position is perfectly safe!

Ladies. Sh-h! Oh, General!

Bellac. Nothing to suggest the school-room, the platform, or pedantry. Please, ladies, let it be an informal chat: ask me no questions.

Mme. de Loudan. (With clasped hands) Oh, Monsieur Bellac, tell us about your book!

Mme. Arriégo. (With clasped hands) Yes the book!

Baroness. (With clasped hands) Your book, yes!

Suzanne. (With clasped hands) Oh, Monsieur Bellac!

Bellac. Irresistible supplications! And yet I must protect myself; until everyone shall have the opportunity of seeing my book, no one shall.

Mme. de Loudan. (With meaning) Mm—no one?

Bellac. Ah, Marquise, “Take care! There may be a secret!” as Fontenelle said to Mme. de Coulanges.

Ladies. Charming! Charming!

Baroness. (Aside to Mme. de Loudan) How clever!

Mme. de Loudan. He is more than clever.

Baroness. What then?

Mme. de Loudan. His wit has wings; you’ll see.

Bellac. This is neither the time nor the place, you will admit, ladies, to plumb the depths of certain of those eternal problems and mysterious enigmas of life and the Beyond which harass and torment noble souls, like your own!

Ladies. Ah, the “Beyond,” my dear, the “Beyond!”

Bellac. But, aside from this, I am quite at your service. There is one point, however, which comes to my mind, a point eternally discussed and never settled, upon which I ask your leave to say a few words.

Ladies. DO, do!

Bellac. I shall speak, then with a threefold purpose:—first, to fulfill your request, ladies; (Looking at Mme de Loudan) to bring back a friend who has been led away.——

Baroness. (Aside to Mme. de Loudan, who modestly drops her eyes) That is you, my dear!

Bellac. (Looking at Lucy) And to combat an adversary who has proved exceedingly dangerous—in more ways than one.

Ladies. That means Lucy!—It is Lucy!—Lucy!

Bellac. My subject is—Love!

Ladies. (Approving) Ahh!—Ahh!

Duchess. For a change!

Suzanne. Bravo!

(Low murmurs.)

Jeanne. (To Paul) That young lady is feeling very fit, it seems!

Bellac. Concerning love!—The weakness which is a strength!—The sentiment which is a faith! The only religion, perhaps, which knows no scoffers!

Ladies. Ah!—Charming!—Charming!

Mme. de Loudan. (To the Baroness) Ah, the wings, my dear—the wings!

Bellac. I spoke this morning—in the course of my lecture on German Literature at the Princess’s—of a certain philosopher who made instinct the basis and the rule of all our actions and all our thoughts.

Ladies. (Protesting) Oh!—Oh!—Oh!

Bellac. And now, ladies, I take occasion emphatically to declare that that opinion is not my opinion, and that I deny the theory with every fiber of my soul and being!

Ladies. Good! Excellent!

Baroness. (Aside to Mme. de Loudan) What pretty hands!

Bellac. No, ladies, no! Love is not, as the German philosopher has it, a purely specific passion; a deceitful illusion shackling mankind in order to work its own ends! No, a hundred times no! if we have souls!

Ladies. Yes!—Yes—

Suzanne. Bravo!

Duchess. (Aside to Roger) She is certainly doing that on purpose!

Bellac. Leave to the Sophists and to vulgar natures such soul-stunting theories; do not even consider them; answer them with silence, the language of the outcast!

Ladies. Charming!—Charming!——

Bellac. God forbid I should go so far as to deny the sovereign influence of beauty over the uncertain wills of men! (Looking about him) I see too much about me by way of refutation to that argument!

Ladies. Ah!—Ah!

Roger. (To the Duchess) He looked at her!

Duchess. Yes.

Bellac. But above this material and mortal beauty, there is another, time-defying, invisible to the naked eye, which the soul of purity serenely contemplates and cherishes with an unearthly love. That love, ladies, is the true Love, the mingling of two spirits, their flight far from the terrestrial mire—into the infinite blue of the ideal!

Ladies. Bravo!

Duchess. (To herself, rather loudly) Nonsense!

Bellac. (Looking at her) That love, mocked at by some, unknown to most,—I declare, my hand on my heart, that it does exist! In the souls of the elect, as Proudhon says——

Voices. (Protesting) Oh, Proudhon——!

Mme. de Loudan. Oh, Bellac!

Bellac. A writer whom I am astonished to find myself quoting—I beg your pardons! In the souls of the elect, there is nothing of earth.

Ladies. How delicate! Charming!

Duchess. (Bursting forth) Nonsense!

Ladies. Oh, Duchess!

Bellac. (Bowing to the Duchess) And yet, it exists. Noble spirits have felt it, great poets sung its praises, and in the seats of Heaven, the apotheosis of our dreams, we see, enshrined about with haloes of ethereal brightness, those immortal figures, everlasting proof of an undying and psychic love: Beatrice, Laura——

Duchess. Laura, the mother of eleven, my dear Monsieur!

Ladies. Duchess!

Duchess. Eleven! And you call her love psychic!

Mme. de Loudan. They were not Petrarch’s, Duchess; let’s have fair play.

Bellac. Héloise——

Duchess. Oh, she!

Bellac. And their sisters of more recent date: Elvira, Eloa, and many others, known and unknown. That cohort of pure and unknown loves, is growing from day to day—I call all womankind to witness!

Ladies. Ah, my dear, how true!

Bellac. The soul has a language all its own; its aspirations, its pleasures and its tortures belong to it: are its very existence. And if it be chained to the body, it is like the wing of a bird: in order to raise it to the heights!

Ladies. Ah, bravo!

Bellac. (Rising) This is what modern science ought to take into consideration—(Looking at Saint-Réault) that science which a leaden materialism drags down to earth—I shall add, since our venerable master and friend made an allusion not long since—perhaps a trifle over-hasty—to a loss which science, I hope, will not have to complain of—I shall add—(Looking at Toulonnier, to whom Saint-Réault is speaking) in fine, this is what he should teach to the youth who have been under the guidance of Revel, he—whoever he may be—who will be chosen to carry on the work; and not only (asking the pardon of our illustrious colleague) upon the insufficient authority vested in those who have “acquired the right,” or erudition, or age—ought he to base his claim, but upon the irresistible power of a mind imbued with the spirit of youth and of a fiery ardor which is not to be extinguished!

Voices. Bravo!—Charming!—Exquisite!—Delicious!

(Everyone rises. Confused murmurs of conversation. The ladies surround Bellac.)

Duchess. (Aside) That for you, Saint-Réault!

Paul. (Aside) Candidate number two!

Mme. de Loudan. Ah, Monsieur Bellac!

Suzanne. Dear Professor!

Baroness. A veritable banquet of the soul!

Mme. Arriégo. Beautiful!

Bellac. Oh, ladies, I have but given words to your ideas.

Mme. de Loudan. Flatterer! Charmer!

Bellac. Are we reconciled yet, Marquise?

Mme. de Loudan. How can one be angry with you? (Introducing the Baroness) Madame la baronne de Boines—another conquest! She is at your feet already!

Baroness. You made me weep, Monsieur.

Bellac. Oh, Madame la baronne!

Mme. Arriégo. Isn’t it superb!

Baroness. Superb!

Suzanne. And how warm he is! (Bellac looks for his handkerchief) You haven’t one? Here! (She gives him her handkerchief)

Bellac. Oh, Mademoiselle!

Mme. de Céran. Suzanne! The idea!

Suzanne. (To Bellac, as he returns her handkerchief) Oh, keep it, I’m going to get you a drink.

Mme. de Loudan. (Going toward the table before which Saint-Réault spoke, upon which is a tray and glasses of sugar-and-water) Here, drink!

Roger. (Aside to the Duchess) Look, Aunt!

Duchess. She’s too brazen about it to be in earnest.

Bellac. (Aside to Lucy) And are you convinced?

Lucy. Oh, for my part, the concept of love—No, I’ll tell you later!

Bellac. In a little while?

Lucy. Yes—would you like a glass of water? (She goes up-stage)

Mme. de Loudan. (Arriving with a glass of water) No! Let me! The god must pardon me: I can offer you only water, as the secret of Nectar-making is lost!

Mme. Arriégo. (Arriving with a glass of water) A glass of water, Monsieur Bellac?

Mme. de Loudan. No, no—take mine! Mine!

Mme. Arriégo. No, mine!

Bellac. (Embarrassed) Well, I——

Lucy. (Handing him a glass of water) Here!

Mme. de Loudan. Oh, he’ll choose Lucy, I know!—I’m so jealous!—No, mine! mine!

Suzanne. (Arriving with another glass of water and forcing it upon Bellac) No, no, he’ll take mine! Ha, ha! the fourth thief!

Lucy. But, Mademoiselle—!

Mme. de Loudan. (Aside) That little girl has impudence!

Roger. (To the Duchess, indicating Suzanne) Aunt!

Duchess. What’s the matter with her?

Roger. It’s just since Bellac has come!

(The doors are opened and the large drawing-room is seen, lighted.)

Duchess. At last! (To Madame de Céran) Take away your company—now is your chance!

Mme. de Céran. Come, ladies, our tragedy is about to be read! In the large drawing-room! After the reading we shall take tea in the conservatory.

Lucy, Bellac and Suzanne. (Aside) In the conservatory!

Roger. (Aside to the Duchess) Did you notice Suzanne? She started!

Duchess. And so did Bellac!

Mme. de Loudan. Come, ladies, the Muse is calling us.

(The guests pass slowly into the large drawing-room.)