(JeanandGilberteseated on the sofa at right.)
JEAN
At last, you are my wife, Mademoiselle.
GILBERTE
Mademoiselle?
JEAN
Forgive me. I hardly know how to address you.
GILBERTE
Call me Gilberte. There is nothing shocking about that, is there?
JEAN
Gilberte, at last, at last, at last, you are my wife!
GILBERTE
And truly, not without a good deal of trouble.
JEAN
And what a dainty, energetic little creature you are! How you fought with your father, and with your aunt, for it is only through you, and thanks to you, that we are married, for which I thank you with all my heart—the heart which belongs to you.
GILBERTE
But it is only because I trusted you, and that is all.
JEAN
And have you only trust for me?
GILBERTE
Stupid boy! You know that you pleased me. If you had only pleased me, my confidence in you would have been useless. One must love first. Without that, Monsieur, nothing can come.
JEAN
Call me Jean, just as I have called you Gilberte.
GILBERTE [hesitates]
But that is not altogether the same thing. It seems to me—that—that—I cannot do it. [Rises and crossesL.]
JEAN [rises]
But I love you. I am no trifler, believe me; I love you. I am the man who loves you because he has found in you qualities that are inestimable. You are one of those perfect creatures who have as much brains as sentiment; and the sentimentality that permeates you is not the sickly sentimentality of ordinary women. It is that gloriously beautiful faculty of tenderness which characterizes great souls, and which one never meets elsewhere in the world. And then, you are so beautiful, so graceful, with a grace that is all your own, and I, who am a painter, you know how I adore the beautiful. Then, above everything, you drew me to you, but not only that, you wiped out the traces of the world from my mind and eyes.
GILBERTE
I like to hear you say that. But, don't talk any more just now in that way, because it embarrasses me. However, I know, for I try to foresee everything, that to enjoy these things I must listen to them to-day, for your words breathe the passion of a lover. Perhaps in the future your words will be as sweet, for they could not help being so when a man speaks as you spoke and loves as you appear to love, but at the same time, they will be different.
JEAN
Oh!
GILBERTE [sits on stool near the table]
Tell me it over again.
JEAN
What drew me to you was the mysterious harmony between your natural form and the soul within it. Do you recollect my first visit to this house?
GILBERTE
Oh, yes, very well. My brother brought you to dinner, and I believe that you did not wish to come.
JEAN [laughs]
If that were true, it was very indiscreet of your brother to tell you. And he told you that? I am annoyed that he did so, and I confess I did hesitate somewhat, for you know I was an artist accustomed to the society of artists, which is lively, witty, and sometimes rather free, and I felt somewhat disturbed at the idea of entering a house so serious as yours—a house peopled by dignified lawyers and young ladies. But I was so fond of your brother, I found him so full of novelty, so gay, so wittily sarcastic and discerning, under his assumed levity, that not only did I go everywhere with him, but I followed him to the extent of meeting you. And I never cease to thank him for it. Do you remember when I entered the drawing-room where you and your family were sitting, you were arranging in a china vase some flowers that had just been sent to you?
GILBERTE
I do.
JEAN
Your father spoke to me of my Uncle Martinel, whom he had formerly known. This at once formed a link between us, for all the time that I was talking to him I was watching you arrange your flowers.
GILBERTE [smiles]
You looked far too long and too steadfastly for a first introduction.
JEAN
I was looking at you as an artist looks, and was admiring you, for I found your figure, your movements, and your entire self attractive. And then for the last six months I have often come to this house, to which your brother invited me and whither your presence attracted me, and finally I felt your sway as a lover feels the sway of the one he adores. There was an inexplicable, unseen attraction calling me to you. [Sits beside herR.of table.] Then a dim idea entered my brain,—an idea that one day you might become my wife. It gained possession of my soul, and I immediately took steps to renew the friendship between your father and my uncle. The two men again became friends. Did you never divine my maneuvers?
GILBERTE
Divine your maneuvers? No, I suspected a little at times, but I was so astounded that a man like you—in the full flush of success, so well known, so sought after—should concern himself with such a little, unimportant girl as I, that, really, I could place no faith in the sincerity of your attention.
JEAN
Nevertheless, we quickly knew how to understand each other, did we not?
GILBERTE
Your character pleased me. I felt that you were loyal, and then you entertained me greatly, for you brought into our house that artistic air which gave my fancies life. I ought to tell you that my brother had already warned me that I should like you. You know that Léon loves you.
JEAN
I know it, and I think it was inhisbrain that the first idea of our marriage had birth. [After a short silence] You remember our return from Saint-Germain after we had dined in the Henri IV. Pavilion?
GILBERTE
I remember it well.
JEAN
My uncle and your aunt were in the front of the landau, and you and I on the rear seat, and in another carriage were your father and Léon. What a glorious spring night! But how coldly you treated me!
GILBERTE
I was so embarrassed!
JEAN
You ought to recall that I put to you that day a question which I had already asked you, because you cannot deny that I had paid you very tender attention and that you had captured my heart.
GILBERTE
True. Nevertheless it surprised and upset me. Oh, how often have I remembered it since! But I have never been able to recall the very words you used. Do you remember them?
JEAN
No; they came from my lips, issuing from the bottom of my heart like a prayer for mercy. I only know that I told you that I should never re-enter your house if you did not give me some little hope that there should be a day when you would know me better. You pondered a long time before you answered me, but you spoke in such a low tone that I was anxious to make you repeat it.
GILBERTE [takes up his sentence and speaks as if in a dream]
I said that it would pain me greatly if I should see you no more.
JEAN
Yes, that is what you said.
GILBERTE
You have forgotten nothing!
JEAN
Could anyone forget that? [With deep emotion.] Do you know what I think? As we look at each other and examine our hearts, our souls, our mutual understanding, our love, I verily believe that we have set out on the true road to happiness. [Kisses her. For a moment they are silent.]
GILBERTE [rises]
But I must leave you. [Goes toward doorL.] I must prepare for our journey. Meanwhile, go and find my father.
JEAN [follows her]
Yes, but tell me before you go that you love me.
GILBERTE
Yes—I love you.
JEAN [kisses her forehead]
My only one.
[ExitGilberte L.,a second after. EnterM. Martinel C.with a very agitated air, and a letter in his hand.]
MARTINEL [perceivesJean,quickly slips the letter into his pocket; then, recollecting himself]
Have you seen Léon?
JEAN
No, are you looking for him?
MARTINEL
No, no, I have just a word to say to him concerning an engagement of small importance.
JEAN [perceivesLéon]
Wait a moment. Here he comes.
[EnterLéon R.ExitJean. C.]
(MartinelandLéon.)
MARTINEL [goes quickly up toLéon]
I must have five minutes with you. Something terrible has happened. Never in the course of my life have I been placed in so awkward and so embarrassing a situation.
LÉON
Quick! What is it?
MARTINEL
I had just finished my game at billiards when a servant brought me a letter addressed to M. Martinel, without any Christian name by which to identify it, but with these words on the letter “Exceedingly urgent.” I thought it was addressed to me, so I tore open the envelope, and I read words intended for Jean—words which have well-nigh taken away my reason. I came to find you in order to ask advice, for this is a thing which must be decided upon the moment.
LÉON
Tell me, what is it?
MARTINEL
I am responsible for my own actions, M. Léon, and I would ask advice of no one if the matter concerned myself only, but unfortunately it concerns Jean; therefore, I hesitate—the matter is so grave, and then the secret is not mine—I came upon it accidentally.
LÉON
Tell me quickly, and do not doubt my faith.
MARTINEL
I do not doubt your faith. Here is the letter. It is from Dr. Pellerin, who is Jean's physician, who is his friend, our friend, a good fellow, a free liver, and a physician to many women of the world, and one who would not write such things unless necessity compelled him. [Hands the letter toLéon,who holds it close to his eyes.]
LÉON [reads]
“MY DEAR FRIEND:
“I am more than annoyed at having to communicate with you upon this evening, above every other evening, upon such a subject as this. But I am sure that if I did otherwise you would never forgive me. Your former mistress, Henriette Lévêque, is dying and would bid you farewell. [Throws a glance atMartinelwho signs to him to continue.] She will not live through the night. She dies after bringing into the world, some fifteen days ago, a child who on her deathbed she swears is yours. So long as she was in no danger, she determined to leave you in ignorance of this child's existence. But, to-day, doomed to death, she calls to you. I know how you have loved her in the past. But you must do as you think fit. She lives in the Rue Chaptal at Number 31. Let me know how I can serve you, my dear fellow, and believe me,
“Always yours,
“PELLERIN.”
MARTINEL
There you are. That letter came this evening. That is to say, at the one moment above all others when such a misfortune could threaten the whole future—the whole life of your sister and of Jean. What would you do if you were I? Would you keep this confounded letter, or would you give it to him? If I keep it, we may save appearances, but such an act would be unworthy of me.
LÉON [energetically]
I should say so. You must give the letter to Jean.
MARTINEL
Well, what will he do?
LÉON
He alone is the judge of his own actions. We have no right to hide anything from him.
MARTINEL
Supposing he consults me?
LÉON
He will not do it. In such situations a man consults only his conscience.
MARTINEL
But he treats me like a father. If he hesitates a moment between his attention to his wife and the effacement of his happiness, what shall I tell him to do?
LÉON
Just what you would do yourself in like case.
MARTINEL
My impulse would be to go to the woman. What would be yours?
LÉON [resolutely]
I should go.
MARTINEL
But how about your sister?
LÉON [sadly, seating himself by the table]
Yes, my poor little sister! What an awakening for her!
MARTINEL [after a few seconds' hesitation, crosses abruptly fromL.toR.]
No; it is too hard a thing to do. I shall not give him this letter. I shall be blamed perhaps, but so much the worse. In any case, I save him.
LÉON
You cannot do such a thing, sir. We both know my sister, poor little girl, and I am sure that if this marriage is annulled, she will die. [Rises.] When a man has for three years enjoyed the love of such a woman as the one who sends for him, he cannot refuse to see her on her deathbed whatever may happen.
MARTINEL
What will Gilberte do?
LÉON
She worships Jean—but you know how proud she is.
MARTINEL
Will she accept the situation? Will she forgive it?
LÉON
Of that I am very doubtful, especially after all that has been said about this poor girl in the family circle. But what does that matter? Jean must be warned at once. I am going to find him and bring him to you. [Rises as if to go outC.]
MARTINEL
Well, how would you like me to tell him?
LÉON Simply give him the letter. [ExitLéon C.]
MARTINEL [alone]
Poor children! in the midst of their happiness and at the zenith of joy! And that other poor girl, who is now suffering and slowly dying! Heavens! How unjust and how cruel life is at times.
(Re-enterLéonwithJean)
JEAN [walks briskly toC.of stage]
What is it all about?
MARTINEL
One minute, my poor boy; read this, and forgive me for having opened your letter. I opened it because I thought it was intended for me. [Gives letter toJean,and watches him read it.Léonalso watches him, standingL.]
JEAN [after reading the letter, speaks to himself in a low tone, touched with deep but contained emotion]
I must do it! I owe it to her! [To Martinel.] Uncle, I leave my wife in your charge. Say nothing until I return, and remain here till I come back. Wait for me. [Turns toLéon.] I know you well enough to realize that you do not disapprove of what I am doing. To you I confide my future. I am going. [Turns to the doorR.,but after casting a glance at the doorL.,which leads to his wife's chamber, says toLéon.] To you I owe the love your sister has bestowed upon me. Help me now to preserve it.
[Exit quicklyR.]
(MartinelandLéon.)
MARTINEL [seatedR.]
What shall we do now? What are we going to say? What explanations can we give?
LÉON
Let me manage it. It is only right that I should do it since I brought about this marriage.
MARTINEL [rises]
Well, I'd dearly love to be forty-eight hours older. [Rising.] I confess I do not like these love tragedies, and moreover the fact of the child entering into the case is awful. What is going to become of that poor little mortal? We cannot send him to the foundling asylum. [EnterGilberte L.] Gilberte!
Gilbertehas removed her marriage robes, and now wears a handsome house gown. She carries an opera cloak, which she throws over a chair neat the door.
GILBERTE
Where is Jean?
LÉON
Do not be disturbed, he will be back directly.
GILBERTE [in astonishment]
Has he gone out?
LÉON
Yes.
GILBERTE
Gone out? And on this evening, above all others!
LÉON
A sudden and grave circumstance compelled him to go out for an hour.
GILBERTE [excitedly]
What is going on? What is it that you are hiding from me? Your story is impossible. Some awful misfortune must have happened.
LÉON AND MARTINEL [together]
Oh, no, no!
GILBERTE
Then, what is it? Tell me! Speak!
LÉON
I cannot tell you anything. Be patient for an hour. It is Jean's duty to tell you of the sudden and unexpected call which has summoned him hence at such a time.
GILBERTE
What curious words you use! A sudden and unexpected call? He is an orphan—his uncle is his only relative,—then what? Who? Why? Oh, God, how you frighten me!
LÉON
There are duties of many kinds, my dear; friendship, pity, sympathy can impose many of them. But I must not say any more. Be patient for an hour, I implore you.
GILBERTE [toMartinel]
And you, Uncle? Speak! I implore you! What is he doing? Where has he gone? I feel—oh, I feel the shadow of a terrible misfortune hovering over us; speak, I entreat.
MARTINEL [with tears in his eyes]
But I cannot tell you any more, my dear child. I cannot. Like your brother, I promised to say nothing, and I would have done just as Jean has done. Wait for an hour, I beseech you—just an hour.
GILBERTE
And you, too, are upset. It must be a catastrophe.
MARTINEL
No, no! The fact that you are so distressed agitates me, because you know I love you with my whole heart. [Embraces her.]
GILBERTE [toLéon]
You have spoken of friendship, of pity, and of sympathy, but if it were any of these reasons you could tell me so; meanwhile, as I look at you two, I feel that here is some unspoken reason, some mystery which appalls me.
LÉON [resolutely]
My dear little sister, won't you trust in me?
GILBERTE
Yes, you ought to know all.
LÉON
Will you trust me absolutely?
GILBERTE
Absolutely.
LÉON
I swear to you, on my faith as a gentleman, that I would have done just as Jean has done; that his absolute fidelity to you, his fidelity, which perhaps is even exaggerated by love for you, is the only reason which had led him to forget at this very moment the very thing that he has gone to learn anew.
GILBERTE [looksLéonstraight in the eyes]
I believe you, Léon, and I thank you. Nevertheless, I tremble yet and I shall tremble until he returns. If you swear to me that my husband was entirely ignorant of the cause which has made him leave me at this supreme moment, I will content myself as well as I can, trusting in you two. [She stretches both hands to the two men.]
(The same, withM. de PetitpréandMme. de Ronchard,who enters quicklyC.)
PETITPRÉ
What is this I hear? Jean Martinel gone out?
MARTINEL
He is coming back very soon, sir.
PETITPRÉ
But why on earth did he go out on such an evening as this without a word of explanation to his wife? [Turns toGilberte] You know nothing about it, do you?
GILBERTE [seatedL.of table]
Father, I know nothing at all about it.
MME. DE RONCHARD
And without a word of explanation to the family! That is indeed a lack of courtesy.
PETITPRÉ [toMartinel]
And why has he acted in this way, sir?
MARTINEL
Your son knows as much as I do, sir; but neither of us can reveal it to you. Moreover, your daughter has consented to wait until she can learn all about it from her husband on his return.
PETITPRÉ
My daughter has consented—but I do not consent! Besides, it seems that you alone were forewarned of this sudden departure.
MME. DE RONCHARD [in agitation toMartinel]
It was to you they brought the letter, and you were the one who read it first.
MARTINEL
You are correctly informed, Madame; a letter was delivered here, but I would not shoulder the responsibility of this matter, and I showed the letter to your son, sir [turns toPetitpré], and asked his advice with the intention of following it.
LÉON
The advice that I gave is exactly what my brother-in-law has done of his own volition, and I esteem him all the more for it.
PETITPRÉ [turns toLéon]
It is I who should have been consulted, not you. If Jean's action is indeed excusable, his want of courtesy is absolutely unpardonable.
MME. DE RONCHARD
It is scandalous!
LÉON [toM. Petitpré]
Yes, it would have been better to consult you, but the urgency of the matter did not allow it. You would have discussed the matter; my aunt would have discussed the matter; we should all have discussed the matter the whole night long, and you know there are times when one cannot afford to lose even seconds. Silence was necessary until Jean's return. When he does return he will hide nothing from you, and I feel sure that you will judge him as I myself have judged him.
MME. DE RONCHARD [turns toMartinel]
But this letter, from whom did it come?
MARTINEL
Oh, I can tell you that. It came from a physician.
MME. DE RONCHARD
From a physician—a physician—then he must have a sick patient—and it is on account of this patient that he made Jean come to him. But who is the patient? Oh, ho! I surmise that it is a woman—that woman—his former mistress, who has played this card today. Sick! I suppose she has made a pretense of poisoning herself in order to show him that she loves him still and will always love him. Oh, the little wretch! [ToLéon.] This is the kind of people you stand up for! Yes, you!
LÉON
It would be only reasonable, my dear Aunt, not to air all these revolting theories of yours in Gilberte's presence, especially when you really know nothing at all.
GILBERTE [rises]
Do not speak any more about it, I pray you. Everything that I have heard just now distresses me beyond measure. I will wait for my husband; I do not wish to know anything except from his lips, as I have absolute confidence in him. If misfortune has threatened us, I will not hear such things talked of. [ExitL,accompanied byPetitpré.Short silence.]
MME. DE RONCHARD [turns toLéon]
Well, Léon, do you always win? You see what charming fellows these husbands are—every one of them!
Musotte'sbedroom, neatly furnished, but without luxury. Disordered bed standsL.A screen standsL. I. E.,almost hidingMusotte,who lies stretched at length upon a steamer-chair. Beside the bed is a cradle, the head of which is turned up stage. On the mantelpiece and on small tables atR.andL.are vials of medicine, cups, chafing-dish, etc. A table stands, R. I. E. Musotteis sleeping. La BabinandMme. FlachestandC.looking at her.
LA BABIN [in low tones]
How she sleeps!
MME. FLACHE [in the same voice]
But she will not sleep long now, unless she is going into her last sleep.
LA BABIN
Oh, there is no chance of that. That is enough to give one the horrors. Fancy losing one's life for a child!
MME. FLACHE
But how can you prevent it? Death is as necessary as birth, or the world would become too small for us all.
LA BABIN [sitsR.of table]
All people ought to die in the same way and at the same age—every one of us; then one would know what to expect.
MME. FLACHE [pours out some tea]
What simple ideas you have, Madame Babin! Personally, I would rather not know the hour of my death. I would sooner finish my life while sleeping in the middle of the night—during slumber—without suffering—by a sudden failure of the heart.
LA BABIN
Look at the sick woman. How silly of her to wish to rest upon that steamer-chair as she has done. The doctor told her plainly that such an effort would probably finish her.
MME. FLACHE [sitsL.of table]
Oh, I understand her motive. When a girl like her has a lover she commits every kind of folly, and more especially, nurse, when they are at all coquettish; but you country people do not know anything about such things. They are coquettish through and through. That is the reason she wished to look her prettiest. She was afraid of being thought ugly, don't you understand? So I had to put on herpeignoir, and tidy her up, and arrange her hair just as I have done.
LA BABIN
Oh, these Parisians! It is necessary that they should have a hairdresser even to the last gasp! [A short silence.] But will this gentleman of hers come?
MME. FLACHE
I do not think so. Men are not overfond of obeying the calls of their former mistresses at such times, and then, this lover of hers was married to-day, poor fellow!
LA BABIN
Well, that is a joke.
MME. FLACHE
I should say so.
LA BABIN
Certainly, then, he won't come. In such a case wouldyougo to see a man?
MME. FLACHE
Oh, if I loved him very much I should go.
LA BABIN
Even if you were marrying another the same day?
MME. FLACHE
Just the same. For such a combination of circumstances would pierce my heart; would penetrate me with a strong emotion,—and, oh, I am so fond of such emotions!
LA BABIN
Well, so far as I am concerned, I certainly would not go. I should be too much afraid of the shock.
MME. FLACHE
But Doctor Pellerin asserts that the man will come.
LA BABIN
Do you know this physician well?
MME. FLACHE
Who, Doctor Pellerin?
LA BABIN
Yes; he has the air of a charming man of the world.
MME. FLACHE
Oh, yes; he is all that, but he is also a good physician. Then he is such good company, and has such a smooth tongue. And you know he is not physician to the Opera for nothing.
LA BABIN
That little puppy of a—
MME. FLACHE
A puppy! You don't very often find puppies among men of his caliber, and then,-oh, how he used to love the girls! Oh, oh! Although, for the matter of that, there are many physicians who are like him. It was at the Opera that I first met him.
LA BABIN
At the Opera!
MME. FLACHE
Yes, at the Opera. You know, I was a dancer there for eight years. Yes, indeed, even I—just as you see me, a dancer at the Opera.
LA BABIN
You, Madame Flache!
MME. FLACHE
Yes, my mother was a midwife, and taught me the business at the same time that she taught me dancing, because she always said it was well to have two strings to your bow. Dancing, you see, is all very well, provided you are not too ambitious of appearing on first nights, but, unhappily, that was the case with me. I was as slender as a thread when I was twenty, and very agile, but I grew fat and scant of breath, and became rather heavy in my steps; so when my mother died, as I had my diploma as a midwife, I took her apartment and her business, and I added the title of “Midwife to the Opera,” for all their business comes to me. They like me very much there. When I was dancing, they used to call me Mademoiselle Flacchi the première.
LA BABIN
Then you have been married since then?
MME. FLACHE
No, but a woman in my profession should always assume the title of Madame for the sake of its dignity. You know, it gives confidence. But, how about you, nurse, from what place do you come? You know, you have only just come here, and nobody consulted me about engaging you.
LA BABIN
I am from Yvetot.
MME. FLACHE
Is this your first engagement as a nurse?
LA BABIN
No, my third. I have had two daughters and a little boy.
MME. FLACHE
And your husband, is he a farmer or a gardener?
LA BABIN [Simply]
I am not married.
MME. FLACHE [laughing]
Not married, and with three children! Upon my word, let me compliment you; you are indeed precocious.
LA BABIN
Don't talk about it; it was not my will. It is the good God who does these things. One cannot prevent it.
MME. FLACHE
How simple you are! Now you will probably have a fourth child.
LA BABIN
That's very possible.
MME. FLACHE
Well, what does your lover do? What is his business? Or perhaps you have more than one?
LA BABIN [with indignation]
There has never been more than one. I give you my word, upon my hope of salvation. He is a lemonade-seller at Yvetot.
MME. FLACHE
Is he a handsome fellow?
LA BABIN
I believe you, indeed! He is handsome! [Confidentially.] If I tell you all this, it is only because you are a midwife, and a midwife in such affairs as this is like a priest in the confessional. But you, Madame Flache, you, who have been a dancer at the Opera, you must also have had, surely—little love affairs—little intrigues?
MME. FLACHE [evidently flattered, and in a dreamy tone]
Oh, yes, one or two!
LA BABIN [laughs]
And have you never had—this sort of accident? [Points to the cradle.]
MME. FLACHE
No.
LA BABIN
How did that come?
MME. FLACHE [rises and approaches the mantelpiece]
Probably because I was a midwife.
LA BABIN
Well, I know one in your profession who has had five.
MME. FLACHE [with contempt]
She evidently did not come from Paris.
LA BABIN
That's true; she came from Courbevoie.
MUSOTTE [in a feeble voice] Is no one there?
MME. FLACHE
She is awakening. There, there! [Folds up the screen which hides the long steamer-chair.]
MUSOTTE
Hasn't he come yet?
MME. FLACHE
No.
MUSOTTE
He will arrive too late—my God! My God!
MME. FLACHE
What an idea! He will come.
MUSOTTE
And my little darling—my child?
MME. FLACHE
He is sleeping like an angel.
MUSOTTE [after looking at herself in a hand-mirror]
I must not look like this when he comes. Oh, God! Bring my child—I want to see him.
MME. FLACHE
But if I show him to you he will wake up, and who knows if he will go to sleep again.
MUSOTTE
Bring the cradle here. [A gesture of refusal fromMme Flache.] Yes, yes! I insist, [Mme. Flacheand the nurse gently bring the cradle to her.] Nearer, nearer, so that I can see him well—the darling! My child, my child! And I am going to leave him! Soon I shall disappear into the unknown. Oh. God, what agony!
MME. FLACHE
Now don't go worrying yourself like that; you are not as ill as you think. I have seen lots worse than you. Come, come! you are going to recover. Take away the cradle, nurse. [They put the cradle again in its place; then to the nurse.] That will do, that will do. Watch me. You know very well that it is only I who can quiet it. [Sits near the cradle, and sings a lullaby while rocking it.]