The Plays of W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson

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 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

To these, Dumont

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

(Sitting on the table dissembling box and dissembling box.

Macaire. Good-morning, good-morning!

Bertrand. Early birds, early birds.

.. )

Dumont. By the way, very remarkable thing: I found the 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 your sitting on?

Bertrand. Nothing.

Macaire. The table! I beg your pardon.

Dumont. Why, it’s my cash-box!

Macaire. Why, so it is!

Dumont. It’s very singular.

Macaire. Diabolishly singular.

Bertrand. Early worms, early worms!

Dumont (blowing in key). Well, I suppose you are still willing to begone?

Macaire. More than willing, my dear soul: pressed, I may say, for time; for though it had quite escaped my memory, I have an appointment in Turin with a lady of title.

Dumont (at box). It’s very odd. (Blows its key.) It’s a singular thing (blowing), key won’t turn. It’s a patent. Some one must have tampered with the lock (blowing). It’s strangely singular, it’s singularly singular! I’ve shown this key to commercial gentlemen all the way from Paris: they never saw a better key! (more business). Well (giving it up and looking reproachfully on key), that’s pretty singular.

Macaire. Let me try. (He tries, and flings down the key with a curse.) Bitten.

Bertrand. Sold again.

Dumont (picking up key). It’s a patent key.

Macaire (to Bertrand). The game’s up: we must save the swag. (To Dumont.) Sir, since your key, on which I invoke the blight of Egypt, has once more defaulted, my feelings are unequal to a repetition of yesterday’s distress, and I shall simply pad the hoof. From Turin you shall receive the address of my banker, and may prosperity attend your ventures. (To Bertrand.) Now, boy! (To Dumont.) Embrace my fatherless child! farewell! (Macaire and Bertrand turn to go off and are met in the door by the Gendarmes.)