The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 15

Macaire. Mark well. (The Marquis opens the door of Number Thirteen, and the rest, clustering round, bid him good-night. As they begin to disperse along the gallery he enters and shuts the door.) Out, out, brief candle! That man is doomed.

DROP

ACT III

As the curtain rises, the Stage is dark and empty. Enter Macaire, L.U.E., with lantern. He looks about

SCENE I

Macaire, Bertrand

Macaire (calling off). S’st!

Bertrand (entering L.U.E.). It’s creeping dark.

Macaire. Blinding dark; and a good job.

Bertrand. Macaire, I’m cold; my very hair’s cold.

Macaire. Work, work will warm you: to your keys.

Bertrand. No, Macaire, it’s a horror. You’ll not kill him; let’s have no bloodshed.

Macaire. None: it spoils your clothes. Now, see: you have keys and you have experience: up that stair and pick me the lock of that man’s door. Pick me the lock of that man’s door.

Bertrand. May I take the light?

Macaire. You may not. Go. (Bertrand mounts the stairs and is seen picking the lock of Number Thirteen.) The earth spins eastward, and the day is at the door. Yet half an hour of covert, and the sun will be afoot, the discoverer, the great policeman. Yet half an hour of night, the good, hiding, practicable night; and lo! at a touch the gas-jet of the universe turned on; and up with the sun gets the providence of honest people, puts off his nightcap, throws up his window, stares out of house – and the rogue must skulk again till dusk. Yet half an hour and, Macaire, you shall be safe and rich. If yon fool – my fool – would but miscarry, if the dolt within would hear and leap upon him, I could intervene, kill both, by heaven – both! – cry murder with the best, and at one stroke reap honour and gold. For, Bertrand dead —

Bertrand (from above). S’st, Macaire.

Macaire. Is it done, dear boy? Come down. (Bertrand descends.) Sit down beside this light: this is your ring of safety, budge not beyond – the night is crowded with hobgoblins. See ghosts and tremble like a jelly if you must; but remember men are my concern; and at the creak of a man’s foot, hist! (Sharpening his knife upon his sleeve.) What is a knife? A plain man’s sword.

Bertrand. Not the knife, Macaire; O, not the knife.

Macaire. My name is Self-Defence. (He goes upstairs and enters Number Thirteen.)

Bertrand. He’s in. I hear a board creak. What a night, what a night! Will he hear him? O Lord, my poor Macaire! I hear nothing, nothing. The night’s as empty as a dream: he must hear him; he cannot help but hear him; and then – O Macaire, Macaire, come back to me. It’s death, and it’s death, and it’s death. Red, red: a corpse. Macaire to kill, Macaire to die? I’d rather starve, I’d rather perish, than either: I’m not fit, I’m not fit for either! Why, how’s this? I want to cry. (A stroke, and a groan from above.) God Almighty, one of them’s gone! (He falls with his head on table, R. Macaire appears at the top of the stairs, descends, comes airily forward and touches him on the shoulder. Bertrand, with a cry, turns, and falls upon his neck.) O, O, and I thought I had lost him. (Day breaking.)

Macaire. The contrary, dear boy. (He produces notes.)

Bertrand. What was it like?

Macaire. Like? Nothing. A little blood, a dead man.

Bertrand. Blood!.. Dead! (He falls at table sobbing. Macaire divides the notes into two parts;on the smaller he wipes the bloody knife, and folding the stains inward, thrusts the notes into Bertrand’s face.)

Macaire. What is life without the pleasures of the table?

Bertrand (taking and pocketing notes). Macaire, I can’t get over it.

Macaire. My mark is the frontier, and at top speed. Don’t hang your jaw at me. Up, up, at the double; pick me that cash-box; and let’s get the damned house fairly cleared.

Bertrand. I can’t. Did he bleed much?

Macaire. Bleed? Must I bleed you? To work, or I’m dangerous.

Bertrand. It’s all right, Macaire; I’m going.

Macaire. Better so: an old friend is nearly sacred. (Full daylight: lights up. Macaire blows out lantern.)

Bertrand. Where’s the key?

Macaire. Key? I tell you to pick it.

Bertrand (with the box). But it’s a patent lock. Where is the key? You had it.

Macaire. Will you pick that lock?

Bertrand. I can’t; it’s a patent. Where’s the key?

Macaire. If you will have it, I put it back in that old ass’s pocket.

Bertrand. Bitten, I think. (Macaire dancing mad.)

SCENE II

ZTo these, Dumont

Dumont. Ah, friends, up so early? Catching the worm, catching the worm?

Dumont. By the way, very remarkable thing: I found that key.

Macaire. No!

Bertrand. O!

Dumont. Perhaps a still more remarkable thing: it was my key that had the twisted handle.

Macaire. I told you so.

Dumont. Now, what we have to do is to get the cash-box. Hallo! what’s that you’re sitting on?

Bertrand. Nothing.

Macaire. The table! I beg your pardon.

Dumont. Why, it’s my cash-box!