SCENE I
ALINE and MAIDS; _to whom_ FIDDLERS; _afterwards_ DUMONT _and_ CHARLES.
_As the curtain rises_, _the sound of the violins is heard approaching_.
ALINE _and the inn servants_, _who are discovered laying the table_, _dance up to door L. C._, _to meet the_ FIDDLERS, _who enter likewise dancing to their own music_. _Air_: '_Haste to the Wedding_.' _The_ FIDDLERS _exeunt playing into house_, _R. U. E._ ALINE _and_ MAIDS _dance back to table_, _which they proceed to arrange_
ALINE. Well, give me fiddles: fiddles and a wedding feast. It tickles your heart till your heels make a runaway match of it. I don't mind extra work, I don't, so long as there's fun about it. Hand me up that pile of plates. The quinces there, before the bride. Stick a pink in the Notary's glass: that's the girl he's courting.
DUMONT (_entering_; _with_ CHARLES). Good girls, good girls! Charles, in ten minutes from now what happy faces will smile around that board!
CHARLES. Sir, my good fortune is complete; and most of all in this, that my happiness has made my father happy.
DUMONT. Your father? Ah, well, upon that point we shall have more to say.
CHARLES. What more remains that has not been said already? For surely, sir, there are few sons more fortunate in their father: and, since you approve of this marriage, may I not conceive you to be in that sense fortunate in your son?
DUMONT. Dear boy, there is always a variety of considerations. But the moment is ill chosen for dispute; to-night, at least, let our felicity be unalloyed. (_Looking off L. C._) Our guests arrive: here is our good Curate, and here our cheerful Notary.
CHARLES. His old infirmity, I fear.
DUMONT. But Charles-dear boy!-at your wedding feast! I should have taken it unneighbourly had he come strictly sober.
SCENE II
_To these_, _by the door L. C._, _the_ CURATE _and the_ NOTARY, _arm in arm_; _the latter owl-like and titubant_
CURATE. Peace be on this house!
NOTARY (_singing_). 'Prove an excuse for the glass.'
DUMONT. Welcome, excellent neighbours! The Church and the Law.
CURATE. And you, Charles, let me hope your feelings are in solemn congruence with this momentous step.
NOTARY (_digging_ CHARLES _in the ribs_). Married? Lovely bride? Prove an excuse!
DUMONT (_to_ CURATE). I fear our friend? perhaps? as usual? eh?
CURATE. Possibly: I had not yet observed it.
DUMONT. Well, well, his heart is good.
CURATE. He doubtless meant it kindly.
NOTARY. Where's Aline?
ALINE. Coming, sir! (NOTARY _makes for her_.)
CURATE (_capturing him_). You will infallibly expose yourself to misconstruction. (_To_ CHARLES.) Where is your commanding officer?
CHARLES. Why, sir, we have quite an alert. Information has been received from Lyons that the notorious malefactor, Robert Macaire, has broken prison, and the Brigadier is now scouring the country in his pursuit. I myself am instructed to watch the visitors to our house.
DUMONT. That will do, Charles: you may go. (_Exit_ CHARLES.) You have considered the case I laid before you?
NOTARY. Considered a case?
DUMONT. Yes, yes. Charles, you know, Charles. Can he marry? under these untoward and peculiar circumstances, can he marry?
NOTARY. Now, lemme tell you: marriage is a contract to which there are two constracting parties. That being clear, I am prepared to argue categorically that your son Charles-who, it appears, is not your son Charles-I am prepared to argue that one party to a contract being null and void, the other party to a contract cannot by law oblige or constrain the first party to constract or bind himself to any contract, except the other party be able to see his way clearly to constract himself with him.
I donno if I make myself clear?
DUMONT. No.
NOTARY. Now, lemme tell you: by applying justice of peace might possibly afford relief.
DUMONT. But how?
NOTARY. Ay, there's the rub.
DUMONT. But what am I to do? He's not my son, I tell you: Charles is not my son.
NOTARY. I know.
DUMONT. Perhaps a glass of wine would clear him?
NOTARY. That's what I want. (_They go out_, _L. U. E._)
ALINE. And now, if you've done deranging my table, to the cellar for the wine, the whole pack of you. (_Manet sola_, _considering table_.) There: it's like a garden. If I had as sweet a table for my wedding, I would marry the Notary.
SCENE III
_The Stage remains vacant_. _Enter_, _by door L. C._, MACAIRE, _followed by_ BERTRAND _with bundle_; _in the traditional costume_
MACAIRE. Good! No police.
BERTRAND (_looking off_, _L. C._). Sold again!
MACAIRE. This is a favoured spot, Bertrand: ten minutes from the frontier: ten minutes from escape. Blessings on that frontier line! The criminal hops across, and lo! the reputable man. (_Reading_) '_Auberge des Adrets_, by John Paul Dumont.' A table set for company; this is fate: Bertrand, are we the first arrivals? An office; a cabinet; a cash-box-aha! and a cash-box, golden within. A money-box is like a Quaker beauty: demure without, but what a figure of a woman! Outside gallery: an architectural feature I approve; I count it a convenience both for love and war: the troubadour-twang-twang; the craftsmen-(_makes as if turning key_.) The kitchen window: humming with cookery; truffles, before Jove! I was born for truffles. Cock your hat: meat, wine, rest, and occupation; men to gull, women to fool, and still the door open, the great unbolted door of the frontier!
BERTRAND. Macaire, I'm hungry.
MACAIRE. Bertrand, excuse me, you are a sensualist. I should have left you in the stone-yard at Lyons, and written no passport but my own. Your soul is incorporate with your stomach. Am I not hungry, too? My body, thanks to immortal Jupiter, is but the boy that holds the kite-string; my aspirations and designs swim like the kite sky-high, and overlook an empire.
BERTRAND. If I could get a full meal and a pound in my pocket I would hold my tongue.