MARQUIS. No, sir, I do not.
MACAIRE. My lord, I am a poor man.
MARQUIS. Well, sir? and what of that?
MACAIRE. The affections, my lord, are priceless. Money will not buy them; or, at least, it takes a great deal.
MARQUIS. Sir, your sentiments do you honour.
MACAIRE. My lord, you are rich.
MARQUIS. Well, sir?
MACAIRE. Now follow me, I beseech you. Here am I, my lord; and there, if I may so express myself, are you. Each has the father's heart, and there we are equal; each claims yon interesting lad, and there again we are on a par. But, my lord-and here we come to the inequality, and what I consider the unfairness of the thing-you have thirty thousand francs, and I, my lord, have not a rap. You mark me? not a rap, my lord! My lord, put yourself in my position: consider what must be my feelings, my desires; and-hey?
MARQUIS. I fail to grasp . . .
MACAIRE (_with irritation_). My dear man, there is the door of the house; here am I; there (_touching_, MARQUIS _on the breast_) are thirty thousand francs. Well, now?
MARQUIS. I give you my word of honour, sir, I gather nothing; my mind is quite unused to such prolonged exertion. If the boy be yours, he is not mine; if he be mine, he is not yours; and if he is neither of ours, or both of ours . . . in short, my mind . . .
MACAIRE. My lord, will you lay those thirty thousand francs upon the table?
MARQUIS. I fail to grasp . . . but if it will in any way oblige you . . .
(_Does so_.)
MACAIRE. Now, my lord, follow me: I take them up; you see? I put them in my pocket; you follow me? This is my hat; here is my stick; and here is my-my friend's bundle.
MARQUIS. But that is my cloak.
MACAIRE. Precisely. Now, my lord, one more effort of your lordship's mind. If I were to go out of that door, with the full intention-follow me close-the full intention of never being heard of more, what would you do?
MARQUIS. I!-send for the police.
MACAIRE. Take your money! (_Dashing down the notes_.) Man, if I met you in a lane! (_He drops his head upon the table_.)
MARQUIS. The poor soul is insane. The other man, whom I suppose to be his keeper, is very much to blame.
MACAIRE (_raising his head_). I have a light! (_To_ MARQUIS.) With invincible oafishness, my lord, I cannot struggle. I pass you by; I leave you gaping by the wayside; I blush to have a share in the progeny of such an owl. Off, off, and send the tapster!
MARQUIS. Poor fellow!
SCENE V
MACAIRE, _to whom_ BERTRAND. _Afterwards_ DUMONT
BERTRAND. Well?
MACAIRE. Bitten.
BERTRAND. Sold again.
MACAIRE. Had he the wit of a lucifer match! But what can gods or men against stupidity? Still, I have a trick. Where is that damned old man?
DUMONT (_entering_). I hear you want me.
MACAIRE. Ah, my good old Dumont, this is very sad.
DUMONT. Dear me, what is wrong?
MACAIRE. Dumont, you had a dowry for my son?
DUMONT. I had; I have: ten thousand francs.
MACAIRE. It's a poor thing, but it must do. Dumont, I bury my old hopes, my old paternal tenderness.
DUMONT. What? is he not your son?
MACAIRE. Pardon me, my friend. The Marquis claims my boy. I will not seek to deny that he attempted to corrupt me, or that I spurned his gold.
It was thirty thousand.
DUMONT. Noble soul!
MACAIRE. One has a heart . . . He spoke, Dumont, that proud noble spoke, of the advantages to our beloved Charles; and in my father's heart a voice arose, louder than thunder. Dumont, was I unselfish? The voice said no; the voice, Dumont, up and told me to begone.
DUMONT. To begone? to go?
MACAIRE. To begone, Dumont, and to go. Both, Dumont. To leave my son to marry, and be rich and happy as the son of another; to creep forth myself, old, penniless, broken-hearted, exposed to the inclemencies of heaven and the rebuffs of the police.
DUMONT. This is what I had looked for at your hands. Noble, nobleman!
MACAIRE. One has a heart . . . and yet, Dumont, it can hardly have escaped your penetration that if I were to shift from this hostelry without a farthing, and leave my offspring to wallow-literally-among millions, I should play the part of little better than an ass.
DUMONT. But I had thought . . . I had fancied . . .
MACAIRE. No, Dumont, you had not; do not seek to impose upon my simplicity. What you did think was this, Dumont: for the sake of this noble father, for the sake of this son whom he denies for his own interest-I mean, for his interest-no, I mean, for his own-well, anyway, in order to keep up the general atmosphere of sacrifice and nobility, I must hand over this dowry to the Baron Henri-Frederic de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest.
(_Together_: _each shaking him by the hand_ . . .
DUMONT. Noble, O noble!
BERTRAND. Beautiful, O beautiful!
DUMONT. Now Charles is rich he needs it not. For whom could it more fittingly be set aside than for his noble father? I will give it you at once.