MACAIRE. Dreams, dreams! We are what we are; and what are we? Who are you? who cares? Who am I? myself. What do we come from? an accident.
What's a mother? an old woman. A father? the gentleman who beats her.
What is crime? discovery. Virtue? opportunity. Politics? a pretext.
Affection? an affectation. Morality? an affair of latitude. Punishment?
this side the frontier. Reward? the other. Property? plunder.
Business? other people's money-not mine, by God! and the end of life to live till we are hanged.
BERTRAND. Macaire, I came into this place with my tail between my legs already, and hungry besides; and then you get to flourishing, and it depresses me worse than the chaplain in the jail.
MACAIRE. What is a chaplain? A man they pay to say what you don't want to hear.
BERTRAND. And who are you after all? and what right have you to talk like that? By what I can hear, you've been the best part of your life in quod; and as for me, since I've followed you, what sort of luck have I had? Sold again! A boose, a blue fright, two years' hard, and the police hot-foot after us even now.
MACAIRE. What is life? A boose and the police.
BERTRAND. Of course, I know you're clever; I admire you down to the ground, and I'll starve without you. But I can't stand it, and I'm off.
Good-bye: good luck to you, old man! and if you want the bundle-
MACAIRE. I am a gentleman of a mild disposition and, I thank my maker, elegant manners; but rather than be betrayed by such a thing as you are, with the courage of a hare, and the manners, by the Lord Harry, of a jumping-Jack-(_He shows his knife_.)
BERTRAND. Put it up, put it up: I'll do what you want.
MACAIRE. What is obedience? fear. So march straight, or look for mischief. It's not _bon ton_, I know, and far from friendly. But what is friendship? convenience. But we lose time in this amiable dalliance.
Come, now an effort of deportment: the head thrown back, a jaunty carriage of the leg; crook gracefully the elbow. Thus. 'Tis better.
(_Calling_.) House, house here!
BERTRAND. Are you mad? We haven't a brass farthing.
MACAIRE. Now!-But before we leave!
SCENE IV
_To these_, DUMONT
DUMONT. Gentlemen, what can a plain man do for your service?
MACAIRE. My good man, in a roadside inn one cannot look for the impossible. Give one what small wine and what country fare you can produce.
DUMONT. Gentlemen, you come here upon a most auspicious day, a red-letter day for me and my poor house, when all are welcome. Suffer me, with all delicacy, to inquire if you are not in somewhat narrow circumstances?
MACAIRE. My good creature, you are strangely in error; one is rolling in gold.
BERTRAND. And very hungry.
DUMONT. Dear me, and on this happy occasion I had registered a vow that every poor traveller should have his keep for nothing, and a pound in his pocket to help him on his journey.
MACAIRE (_aside_). A pound in his pocket?
BERTRAND (_aside_). Keep for nothing?
MACAIRE (_aside_). Bitten!
BERTRAND (_aside_). Sold again!
DUMONT. I will send you what we have: poor fare, perhaps, for gentlemen like you.
SCENE V
MACAIRE, BERTRAND; _afterwards_ CHARLES, _who appears on the gallery_, _and comes down_
BERTRAND. I told you so. Why will you fly so high?
MACAIRE. Bertrand, don't crush me. A pound: a fortune! With a pound to start upon-two pounds, for I'd have borrowed yours-three months from now I might have been driving in my barouche, with you behind it, Bertrand, in a tasteful livery.
BERTRAND (_seeing_ CHARLES). Lord, a policeman!
MACAIRE. Steady! What is a policeman? Justice's blind eye. (_To_ CHARLES.) I think, sir, you are in the force?
CHARLES. I am, sir, and it was in that character-
MACAIRE. Ah, sir, a fine service!
CHARLES. It is, sir, and if your papers-
MACAIRE. You become your uniform. Have you a mother? Ah, well, well!
CHARLES. My duty, sir-
MACAIRE. They tell me one Macaire-is not that his name, Bertrand?-has broken jail at Lyons?
CHARLES. He has, sir, and it is precisely for that reason-
MACAIRE. Well, good-bye. (_Shaking_ CHARLES _by the hand and leading him towards the door_, _L. U. E._) Sweet spot, sweet spot. The scenery is . . . (_kisses his finger-tips_. _Exit_ CHARLES). And now, what is a policeman?
BERTRAND. A bobby.
SCENE VI
MACAIRE, BERTRAND; _to whom_ ALINE _with tray_; _and afterwards_ MAIDS
ALINE (_entering with tray_, _and proceeding to lay table_, _L._) My men, you are in better luck than usual. It isn't every day you go shares in a wedding feast.
MACAIRE. A wedding? Ah, and you're the bride.