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Princess of Bagdad

<h1>THE PRINCESS OF BAGDAD, A PLAY IN THREE ACTS,</h1> BY <big>ALEXANDRE DUMAS,</big> Jun., Of the "Académie Française." (Translated from the French.) <table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary=""> <tr><th align="center" style="font-family:sans-serif;">DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.</th></tr> <tr><td> </td></tr> <tr><td align="left">JOHN DE HUN.</td></tr> <tr><td align="left">NOURVADY.</td></tr> <tr><td align="left">GODLER.</td></tr> <tr><td align="left">RICHARD.</td></tr> <tr><td align="left">TRÉVELÉ.</td></tr> <tr><td align="left" class="smcap">A Commissary of Police.</td></tr> <tr><td align="left">LIONNETTE.</td></tr> <tr><td align="left">RAOUL DE HUN (six years).</td></tr> <tr><td align="left" class="smcap">A Lady's-Maid.</td></tr> <tr><td align="left" class="smcap">A Nurse.</td></tr> <tr><td align="left">ANTHONY.</td></tr> <tr><td align="left" class="smcap">A Footman.</td></tr> <tr><td align="left" class="smcap">A Secretary of the Commissary of Police.</td></tr> <tr><td align="left" class="smcap">Two Agents.</td></tr> <tr><td> </td></tr> <tr><td align="center">——</td></tr> <tr><td align="center" class="smcap">In Paris.</td></tr> <tr><td align="center">——</td></tr> </table> <h1>THE PRINCESS  OF  BAGDAD.</h1> <ANTIMG src="images/deco_bar.png" width-obs="150" height-obs="" alt="decorative bar" title="" /> <h3>ACT I.</h3> <div class="blockquot">A large and very elegant drawing-room, looking out on a garden. French window with balcony at the lower extremity to the right. To the left a conservatory. To the right a door opening into the apartment of Lionnette. To the left a door opening into the apartment of John. </div> <h4>Scene I.</h4> RICHARD, The Footman; afterwards JOHN and LIONNETTE. The Footman (to Richard, who waits sitting near a table, turning over some papers.) The Count de Hun is here. John enters; the Footman goes out. John. I am quite at your service, Master Richard, but I regret that you have inconvenienced yourself to come. Richard. Not at all; I live about two steps from here, and every evening, after my dinner, I take a short walk. Only, I am in a frock-coat, and you have friends. John. Men only, some club friends. Lionnette is with them in the conservatory. Richard. Muster all the courage of which you are master. John. We are ruined? Richard. Yes. John. Poor Lionnette! Richard. Alas! It is a little her fault. John. It is the fault of her mother, who reared her in luxury and without order. It is my fault, too, who was not as rich as my love; who not only never knew how to refuse her anything, but who did not even allow her time to wish for it; who told her to buy whatever she might wish for. Richard. And who also gave her by power of attorney—serious imprudence!—the right of buying, selling, of disposing of her property, and, in consequence, of yours, as it seemed fit to her. You owe one million, a hundred and seven thousand, one hundred and twenty-seven francs, fifty-two centimes. When I say, you owe, that is a figure of speech; your wife owes. In that amount there are only thirty-eight thousand francs of your own personal debts, and for which personally you have to be responsible, as you were married under the system of "separation of property." John. I authorised my wife to make debts, these debts then are mine. In other words, as she has no money, it is I who have to pay. What are my assets? Richard. There is this house in which we are, which is worth eight hundred thousand francs when one does not want to sell it, but which would be worth from five hundred and fifty to five hundred and eighty thousand, the moment one is obliged to part with it; it is mortgaged for four hundred and fifty thousand francs.... Then there are the horses, the furniture, the laces, the jewels.... John. Very few jewels. A year ago Lionnette sold every jewel she had, with that heedlessness, that lightness of disposition, and that want of consideration, which are the basis of her character, and which you so well know. Richard. Ah! well, when you have sold all that you can possibly sell, there will remain about four hundred thousand francs. John. Of capital? Richard. Of debts. John. And the entail of my property? Richard. Ten thousand pounds income, inalienable, and all in your own power, fortunately. John. Is it impossible to realize the capital? Richard. Utterly impossible. Your uncle foresaw what has happened, and, with the knowledge of your habits and the wishes of your mother, he was anxious to preserve to you always a crust of bread. There remains your sister. John (with a doubtful tone). Yes, my sister! Richard. When you were married seven years ago, you know under what conditions, you had nothing more than what remained to you of the fortune of your father, about eight or nine hundred thousand francs. You made some legal interpellations against your mother in order to marry Lionnette—I call your wife Lionnette quite unceremoniously, as I knew her from her birth,—and your mother, even in her dying hour, did not pardon you. She has looked well after your sister's interest, and out of the 6,000,000 that she had she has left you only two, of which half went to pay the debts that you had already incurred. Your mother was a woman of clear perception.... John. Yes; but she ought to have understood.... Richard. It is not easy to understand or to excuse that which wounds us in our tenderest feelings and in our most sacred traditions. The Countess of Hun, your mother, was entirely against the marriage you made. She knew you to be a man led by a first impression, incapable of resisting the first impulse. These tendencies are dangerous, not only for him who has them, but also for those who surround him. My age authorizes me to speak in this way to you. Your mother has only done, then, what every prudent judicious mother, loving her son, would have done in her place. In spite of everything, you married Mademoiselle de Quansas. I do not say that you were wrong; I simply make, as a lawyer and friend, the summary of a moral and legal position, and, in face of the present difficulties, I try to find out what we can obtain from it. Your sister is married, and to a husband who is head of the community. She has five children; an inheritance invested at interest, the portion which ought to come back to you having been left and allotted by your mother to the minor children; your mother made your sister swear never to alter her disposition of the property. These are all excellent reasons for keeping her brother's money. I am a lawyer; I understand these legitimate scruples of conscience! John. I start to-morrow for Rennes. I shall go to see my sister; she will yield, perhaps, for the honour of our name. Richard. That name is no longer her's. John. Nevertheless, I will try. Richard. Let us hope, but do not rely upon it. Your wife also had hope to the last, and has made a last effort among the family of ... her father: she has failed. John. Yes. Richard. There is still another plan. John. And that is? Richard. Call your creditors together, and offer them so much per cent. John. Never. Lionnette (who enters during these last words). Never! If we have a sum larger than or equal to our debts, we must pay them fully; if we have only a smaller amount, we must give it to them on account, and look for means to procure the remainder; if we are not able to do it, then we have robbed all these confiding tradesmen, and there is but one thing left for my husband and me to do, that is, to shut ourselves up in a room hermetically sealed, set light to a pan of charcoal, and die together. John (kissing her hands). I adore you. Richard. Yes, it is very fine, but like a drama or a romance, it is not reality. Lionnette. On the contrary, it is the most simple thing in the world—for me, at least. Either life, with all it is able to bestow, or death, with all it can promise; I understand nothing else. Do you think that after living as I have done, at my age I am going to allow myself to live in a garret, to go to market, and to reckon accounts with the laundress and general servant? It is unnecessary to try, I could never do it. Hunting-hound, shepherd-dog, if you like; blind-beggar's dog, never! Richard. And your son? Lionnette. My son, I would not have him die with us, it is very evident. But my son is six years old; he could still be brought up otherwise than I was. One could instil in him habits of work, and ordinary tastes, that I never had. There are 10,000 francs income from his father and the heirship inalienable; it would be misery for us, but independence for him. Men have no want of money, they only want it for their wives. It will be his duty not to love a prodigal like myself, and perhaps our example will be a warning for him. Richard. Very well. Now that we have well talked over, or rather you have well talked over, the useless and senseless, let us speak about the possible. Is it long since you have seen the Baroness de Spadetta? Lionnette. I see women as little as possible, my dear Richard, as you know well. Those who would come to me, I do not wish to see; others have had an air of making me feel their visits too great an honour. Let them stay at home; every one is free. Women, besides, are for other women nothing but enemies or accomplices. As to enemies, I have enough of them out-of-doors, without attracting them to my house; as to accomplices, I have not yet required any, and I hope to continue so. I content myself with the society of men; at least with them one knows what to adhere to, one knows quite well what they desire. But as to Madame Spadetta, that speaks for itself: she robbed me, and I turned her out, or nearly so. In any case, I want to see her no more. Richard. She robbed you! In what way? Lionnette. She knew my mother from my infancy: she was sometimes the mediator of my mother and myself with my father on matters of business, as she occupied an important place about him. A short time before his death my father said to me, "If I should die, Madame de Spadetta will remit you 1,500,000 francs." My father could leave me nothing in an official and public will, but he was incapable of telling me a thing like that if it were not true. There was left to Madame de Spadetta 2,000,000, with this note: "I am sure that Madame de Spadetta will make good use of that sum." It is clear. She kept the whole; it was easy to do. John. You have never spoken to me of that. Lionnette. What good would it have done? John. Have you claimed that amount from her? Lionnette. Certainly. She denied it. John (to Richard). You might follow it up. Richard. No; it is trust-money. The law does not recognize it, and besides.... Lionnette. I have only my word to support what I say. Madame de Spadetta replied to me that what my father had left her was in remuneration for services that her husband and she had rendered my father for thirty years. The truth is, that out of these two millions there were five hundred thousand francs for what she calls her services, and fifteen hundred thousand francs for me. It is for that that I turned her out of doors. Richard. Knowing that I have the care of your affairs, she came to find me out.... Lionnette. To.... Richard. To offer you five hundred thousand francs. Lionnette. On the part of whom? for she is a person equal to any kind of embassy. Richard. On the part of your father's family. Lionnette. What does she demand in return?... Richard. The giving up.... Lionnette. Of all my father's letters. Richard. Yes; you knew it? Lionnette. I suspected it, from a few words she said to me. I refuse to do so. Richard. Your mother, before she died, handed over, for a much less important amount, all the letters that she also possessed from your father. Lionnette. My mother did as she pleased; I, too, shall do as I please; and, as my mother is dead, I refrain from saying all I think. Richard. Why do you care so much about those letters? Lionnette. You ask me that, Mr. Richard? Why do I care so much for the letters of a father whom I loved, who loved me, the man who was my father, and who is dead? Richard. What do you intend to do with them? Lionnette. To keep them, to read them over again, as I do now from time to time, when the living trouble or disgust me; and when I die, carry them with me and give them back to him—to him—if it be true that one meets again in death those one has loved in life. Who knows? Perhaps, after being so powerful on earth, he will have no one but me in heaven. So I must keep something by which he may know me—up there—since he was not able to recognize me here below. John (to Richard). How can one help worshipping that woman? (He takes her head between his hands and kisses her hair.) There. Richard (taking the hand of Lionnette). The fact is that she has the blood of a good race in her, and that they named you very appropriately, calling you Lionnette—little lioness; but unfortunately it is not with that that creditors are paid, and I offer you the only way which is open to you. Lionnette. God has hitherto given, God will give again; if He forget us, then chance must take us. <h4>Scene II.</h4> GODLER, NOURVADY, TRÉVELÉ. Trévelé (going towards Lionnette.) Tell me, Countess, are we, yes or no, Godler the ever youthful, Nourvady the ever grave, and I, Trévelé, the ever jesting—are we, yes or no, invited by you, Countess, the ever beautiful, and by your husband, the ever blissful (it would be difficult for him to be otherwise)—are we, yes or no, invited to dine at your table and to spend the evening with you afterwards? Lionnette. Yes. Trévelé. Then, lovely countess, permit me to observe that you are never where we are. Kindly give us information. When one sees you one loves you; but when one loves you where does one see you? Lionnette (smiling). Here. Trévelé. We supposed so, but it is now two hours since.... Lionnette. Oh! not two hours! Trévelé. Three hours ago you forsook us in the middle of the conservatory. First, a domestic came to look for the count; we accepted that affliction: but, in your turn, you disappeared without even troubling any one to come and look for you. Well, we are all three charming—Godler, Nourvady, and I; it is difficult to find three more delightful and witty men, but we have such a habit of seeing each other that we do not enjoy ourselves at all when we are by ourselves. So if, after having us for seven hours, you discover you have had enough of us, tell us so without ceremony. We are going to drive back to the club, where we shall have a good game of baccarat; we will try, Godler and I, to win a hundred thousand francs from that millionaire Nourvady;—that will make him cheerful, perhaps. Lionnette. Gentlemen, I offer you every excuse. It was on account of a most important and unforeseen affair. (She presents Richard.) Master Richard, solicitor, an old friend of mine. (She introduces the gentlemen.) Mr. de Trévelé, Mr. Godler, Mr. Nourvady. (The gentlemen bow.) And now, to strengthen you after all your fatigue and trouble, I am going to offer you a cup of tea, iced coffee, or chocolate. (She approaches the table, upon which, during this discourse, the servants have put the articles mentioned.) Raoul (entering with his nurse, who remains near the door, and going to his mother). Mamma! Lionnette. Gentlemen, here is my son, whom I beg to present to you. Bow, Raoul. (Raoul bows already like a man of the world, putting his heels together and bending his head; Trévelé and Godler kiss him; Nourvady kisses his hand, after hesitating a moment; Raoul goes back to his mother, who kisses him, putting her arm round his neck.) Raoul. Take care, you will crumple my collar. Lionnette. I beg your pardon, I wanted to kiss you. You don't love me, then? Raoul. Oh, yes, I love you very much. Lionnette. Then you are going to help me pour out the tea? Raoul. No; I came to ask not to go to bed yet. I should prefer to play with Jane's little nephew, who has come with his mother to see her, but she will not let me without your permission. Lionnette. Very well, I give you leave. Run away now, my child. Raoul. Good bye. (He goes away running.) Lionnette. And you go away like that? (Raoul bows again, and wants to go away. Lionnette shows him Richard.) And Mr. Richard? And your father, too? (At each name mentioned Raoul passes to the person, who kisses him. One can see he is in a great hurry to run away. When he gets to John, the latter takes him in his arms and kisses him very warmly.) John. Don't be afraid, I am not going to crumple your collar. (He puts the child on the ground again, who tries afresh to escape.) Lionnette (who during this time is serving the tea). And me, Raoul. (Raoul runs back again and kisses his mother.) Lionnette (with a sigh). Go and play, my child, go; and amuse yourself well. (Lionnette, a cup in each hand, presents one to Godler, the other to Trévelé.) Godler (touching Lionnette's hand with his lips). Dare I be so bold? Lionnette. If you wish it. Trévelé. And I? Lionnette. And you, too. Only, take the cups, or you will burn my hands with the tea. Godler. And you, Nourvady? Nourvady. Thank you, I ask for nothing, not even a cup of tea. (John chats with Richard in a corner.) Trévelé. And the Countess will be right never to give you anything. People who ask nothing are often those who wish too much. Under cover of forty millions.... Nourvady. My money has nothing to do with this. Trévelé. Certainly not; but all the same, when one has forty millions one finds a great many things easier than when one has, like me, only one. Ah, well, I must say, to the credit of Nourvady, it is in vain that he has two millions income at least—because he is a man who makes the best of his capital. He is, after all, the most sentimental of us three, and who takes love most seriously. He is a millionaire Anthony, and in our time it is remarkable. Godler. And useful. (Richard and John, who have chatted in a corner of the drawing-room, make their way to the terrace, where they chat in sight of the public.) Nourvady. I do not know why Trévelé always assails me on the score of my fortune, of which I talk as little as possible. I am rich, but it is through no fault of mine. If that had depended on me alone, it certainly would never have happened. I am not clever enough to make forty millions. Fortunately, I had a father who was very intelligent, and, at the same time, very honourable. This father had a large bank at Vienna, which was very prosperous. He died, leaving me forty millions. It was, therefore, necessary to resign myself to accept them. Lionnette. Easy resignation, I think, and that I should have had like you. Nourvady. Ah! Madam, a fortune is a burden like anything else, at least for a man, for women have more grace and intelligence in spending money than we. But with much simplicity, a few efforts of the intellect, a little ingenuity in the way of rendering services—there is sometimes a way to get out of the difficulty—for a man. Trévelé. And you get out of it remarkably well, my dear fellow! If we tease you about your millions, it is because it is the only subject we can joke you upon. Nourvady (holding out his hand to him). Rest assured, my dear Trévelé, that I am never offended at your jokes. Godler (to Trévelé). It is very fortunate for you, for if Nourvady were at all susceptible you would have a nice time. Trévelé. Why? Godler. Because he kills a bird at every shot. Trévelé. But I am not a bird. Godler. And he hits the mark eleven times out of twelve, and barely escapes the twelfth. Nourvady. Fortunately I have an easy temper, which I have acquired by self-control, for I was naturally violent and irritable. Godler. That poor Marnepont discovered something of that. Nourvady. Don't let us speak of that. Lionnette. Oh, yes, please let us speak of it. I knew Mr. de Marnepont very well, and I have heard in fact that he was killed. By you, then? Nourvady. Alas! yes, madam. Lionnette. In a duel? Nourvady. Certainly. I did not assassinate him. Lionnette. He was very annoying. Nourvady. That was not the only reason of his death. He had other defects. He was insolent, and, above all, a liar. Lionnette. What insolence was he guilty of? What lie did he tell? I will wager there was a woman in the case. (Richard is gone. John hears all that is said, leaning upon the back of the couch where his wife is sitting.) Nourvady. No, madam, it concerned me pitifully. Mr. de Marnepont calumniated me. He said I was hump-backed, which is not true. I have only the left shoulder a little higher than the right. Lionnette. That is not seen at all. Nourvady. It is not seen any longer, especially since that duel. In any case, no one says any more about it. My father, it is true, had a round back—at the close of his life principally. He had worked hard, stooping over a desk. That makes one round-shouldered in the end. Poor father! he said to me: "You have one shoulder higher than the other, the left; you get that from me; I ask your pardon for it, and I will endeavour to leave you what will make you forget it. But there are some people who will mock much more willingly at you as you will be very rich. Be strong in all sword-play, then; that will equalize everything." I followed the advice of my father, and I am astonished at the result. Then, as Mr. de Marnepont was a very good shot, I chose the pistol as our weapon. I was affronted, so wished to show him what good play was. We were allowed to fire at will; he fired first, and lodged a ball in my right shoulder, which naturally made me make this movement (he raises his right shoulder a little), for it was very painful, and I suffer from it often still. There are some days when my right arm is as if paralyzed. Whoever would get the better of me if I affronted him, has only to choose the sword; I should probably be killed at the second thrust. Trévelé. And Marnepont? Nourvady. Ah, well! In making the movement occasioned by the pain, this shoulder was for the moment higher than that. (He raises the right arm a little.) "Ah, said my opponent, laughing, I made a mistake, it is the right which is highest." It was not bad—for him, but it was bad taste. Then I fired. It was the first time that poor fellow showed any wit; he wasn't used to it; it killed him. Godler (quite low to Trévelé). He wants to rise in the estimation of our hostess; he is a clever fellow. Lionnette (looking at Nourvady, who is going towards Godler and Trévelé, one sitting and the other standing at the other side of the room). He is peculiar, that man. John. Do you find him odd? Lionnette. Yes, he is so unlike any one else. John. Indeed? Lionnette. What is the matter with you? What are you thinking about? John. I am thinking that that odd man is very happy. Lionnette. In having the left shoulder higher than the right, and a ball in the latter? John. In having what I have not, in having forty millions. Lionnette. Ah, yes, that would help us out of our difficulties. John. My poor Lionnette, I am very unhappy. Lionnette. Why? John. Because I am not able to give you any longer what I formerly gave you. Lionnette. I shall do very well without it. John. You are incapable of it; you said it yourself just now. Lionnette. There are moments when I no longer know what I say; you must not pay attention to it. Chance has done much for me in my life; it may still find a way. John. And if chance gets tired, and if you also get as tired? I shall never say—"if you love me no more;" in your heart you have never loved me. Lionnette. Why did I marry you, then? John. Because your mother advised you to do it. Lionnette. It is perhaps the only good advice she ever gave me, and I assure you I have been very grateful for what you have done for me. John. Gratitude is not love. Lionnette. Love comes afterwards. John. A long time afterwards, for it has not come yet. Lionnette. The most beautiful creature in the world could not give more than she has. I have given all I had to give. Is it love? Is it not love? I know not. I have no line of comparison, never having given to any one but you. (She hesitates a moment before continuing.) John. You were going to say something else. Lionnette. No. John. Yes. Say it, whatever it was. (He draws Lionnette by the hand, close to him.) Godler. There are the plots beginning again. An odd kind of a house this. (The three persons go out on the terrace, and from there into the garden, where one sees no more of them.) Lionnette. I was going to say that perhaps you find that I do not love you enough, because you love me too much. Then you have been much too good to me; you have done whatever I wished; you did wrong. You should have been more my master, in order to counterbalance the bad influence of my mother, to change my habits, to offer more resistance, and to save me from myself. John. To save you? What have you done then? Lionnette. I have ruined you. John. That is all. Lionnette. It is quite enough. John. You have never thought of.... Lionnette. Of what? John. Of another? Lionnette (laughing). You are mad. You have always been a little inclined that way. It is true that if you had not been silly you would never have married me. John. Whether I am mad or not, answer my question. Lionnette. No, you can be assured on that point. I have never thought of any one else. John. And if I were to die; if I killed myself; if you, in the end, became a widow, and that man who is there—that strange man, that millionaire—made you an offer, would you marry him? Lionnette. We have not arrived at that yet. John. Who can tell? In the meantime that man loves you, and wishes to go so far as to make you love him without waiting for my death. You have remarked it as well as I. Lionnette. Where is the woman who does not discover such things? Ask those who have never, by anyone, been told or allowed to see that they were loved, what they think of life. Our dream is to hear such declarations; our art is to listen to them; and our genius and power not to believe in them. John. Has he declared himself? Lionnette. Never. John. Your word for it. Lionnette. My word of honour. John. It will come to that. Lionnette. He will not be the last, I hope. What do you want to make of it? John. He will declare himself, perhaps, at the moment when nothing remains for you but misery or suicide: both are equally hard for a young and beautiful woman. Lionnette (seriously and haughtily). You are confounding me with some other woman whom you loved before me. Do I expose myself to these suppositions by my ways of living? Ah! no, no. I have many defects but no vices, I believe; and, in spite of my anxiety for the future, I have never yet dreamed of these ways of escape. I trust never to think for a moment of them. John. How much I love you! You have in you all that is most strange and noble in this world. You have a power over me almost superhuman. I think of no one but you; I want nothing but you; I dream only of you. If I suspect, it is because I love you. When you are not here, I do not exist: when I find you again, I tremble like a child. I implore you never to trifle with that love,—so deep, and, yet, so troubled. I do not ask you to love me beyond your power of loving; but love none other more than me. You know not—I do not know myself—what the result might be. When I think of the future, I grow giddy. (In a low, eager voice) I adore you! I adore you! (During the last words Nourvady has come on to the stage again. He has looked at John and Lionnette. He takes his hat; Godler and Trévelé follow him.) Lionnette. Do not speak so low; you could be heard. John. Kiss me, then. Lionnette. You wish me to kiss you. Here? John. Here. Lionnette. Before everybody? John. Before him. Lionnette. The same subject. Take care! You are doing him a great honour. John. It is an idea that I have. Lionnette. You would like it? John. Yes. Lionnette. You know well you must not dare me to anything. John. I implore you. Lionnette. Once, twice, three times (kissing him on both cheeks). So much the worse for you. There! Godler (laughing.) Ah! my friends, ah! You have decidedly a manner of your own of receiving. The Servant (entering). Some one wants to see the Count. Godler. Too late, my man, too late! He ought to have come a minute earlier. The Servant. I beg your pardon, Sir? Godler. Go, go! It would be too long to explain. John (to the Servant). Who wants to see me? The Servant. It is a clerk of Mr. Richard. John. Very well, I will go to him. (To Godler and to Trévelé) I am coming back immediately. Godler. Don't study us. (Godler and Trévelé accompany John to the room at the end, where they remain some moments talking in sight of the public; and, when John is gone away, they remain there, walking up and down, during the scene between Lionnette and Nourvady.) Nourvady (goes towards Lionnette, hat in hand). Adieu, Countess. Lionnette. Are you going to leave us? Nourvady. Yes, your house is in a visible agitation. There is less indiscretion in perceiving it than in remaining. Lionnette. When shall we see you again? Nourvady. Never! Lionnette. You are going away? Nourvady. No; but I shall come here no more. Lionnette (laughing). You did not enjoy your dinner? Nourvady. Do me the honour of listening to me to the end. Godler (to Trévelé, on seeing Lionnette seat herself again, and Nourvady approach her.) That's well! With the other now. Nourvady. I love you (Lionnette makes a movement). You know it; and you ought to have foreseen that I should one day tell you so. Lionnette. Yes; it is only five minutes ago that my husband and I were speaking about it. Nourvady. Do not laugh. You may tell by the tone of my voice that I am very serious. I love you passionately. You do not love me; you do not even think of me. It is probable that you will never love me. I possess nothing of all the essentials to tempt a woman like yourself—except a fortune. Lionnette (rising to retire). Sir! Nourvady. Have patience! I am not capable of failing in respect towards you, as I love you. You are ruined—irreparably ruined. You can accept, it is true, the proposals that Madame Spadetta has had made to you, and free yourself in that manner. There would be no longer debt, but there would be straitened circumstances, and, perhaps, misery. Without counting that, it would be a great grief for you to give up, for ever, certain letters; a grief that whoever loves you ought to spare you. Lionnette (re-seating herself). How do you know that? Nourvady. With money one knows all one wants to know, especially when Madame Spadetta is able to furnish all the information one requires. Do you remember, Countess, that one day, some months ago, passing through the Champs Elysées with your husband and me, you remarked at No. 20 a private house that was nearly finished. Lionnette. Yes. Nourvady. You admired then the exterior elegance of that house. That was sufficient to induce me to resolve that no man should inhabit it;—another time you might have looked mechanically in passing on that side, and the proprietor at his window might have imagined that it was at him the lovely Countess of Hun was looking. I have bought that house, and I have had it furnished as elegantly as possible. If, in a year, in two years, in ten years, if—to-morrow—circumstances force you to sell this house where we are at this moment, think of that house in the Champs Elysées that no one has ever yet inhabited. The carriages are waiting in the coach-houses, the horses in the stables, the footmen in the ante-rooms. The little door that this key opens is only for you. (He shows a little key.) That door you will easily recognize: your monogram is on it. From the moment you cross it, if you cross the threshold one day, you will not even have the trouble of opening another with it; all the doors will be open in the way that leads to your apartment. In the drawing-room is an Arabian coffer of marvellous workmanship; this coffer contains a million in gold, struck on purpose for you: it is virgin gold, such as gold ought to be that your little hands deign to touch. You can make use of all in this coffer; when it is empty it will fill itself again—it is a secret. The deeds which confer upon you the ownership of this house are deposited in one of the cabinets in the drawing-room. You will have only to sign them whenever you may like legally to be the owner. Is it necessary to add that you owe nothing to anyone for all that, and that you will remain absolute mistress of your actions? To-morrow I shall pass the day in that house, to assure myself that all there is in a fit state to receive you; and I shall never appear there again until you tell me yourself to come—or to remain there. (Lionnette takes the key that Nourvady has laid upon the table while talking; rises, and goes to throw it out of the open window; passes before Nourvady in going to rejoin Godler and Trévelé.) Nourvady (while she passes in front of him). That window looks upon your garden, Countess, not upon the street. In a garden a key can be picked up again. (He bows, and leaves her, to take his departure.) Lionnette (in a low voice). The insolent fellow! Jane (entering, to Lionnette). Master Raoul will not go to bed, Madam. Lionnette. Very well; I am coming. (She goes out by the door from which Jane has spoken to her.) Trévelé (to Godler). Again running away! that is too strong. This time, let us go too. Nourvady. No, remain; I think you will be wanted here. Good bye. (He goes away.) <h4>Scene III.</h4> GODLER, TRÉVELÉ. Trévelé (to Godler, while eating a cake). I assure you that Nourvady is a personage apart. Listen now; let us eat all the cakes, drink all the lemonade, and during that time you can solve the enigma, for at length you ought to know what is going on in this house, you who have always been a friend of the Marchioness of Quansas. It is said even.... Godler (after looking around him). In 1853. Trévelé. You are decided? Godler. In 1853. Trévelé. Why did you never tell it? Godler. In 1853 there was a Madam Duranton, who kept a shop in the rue Traversière. Trévelé. Where may the rue Traversière be? Godler. It was a little cross street, of compromised fame, leading from the rue St. Honoré to the rue Richelieu. Madame Duranton, a widow—one could not be more a widow—sold left-off clothes. You can imagine the rest.... Trévelé. Yes, I see, I see; make haste. Godler. Madame Duranton, at whose house two or three friends and I went sometimes to pass the evening, and who gave us sometimes cider and chesnuts in her little back shop.... Trévelé. In 1853? Godler. In 1853. Trévelé. How old were you? Godler. I was 39 years old. Trévelé. You are old, then? Godler. I am 66. Trévelé. You don't look that age. Godler. Because I get myself up very well. Trévelé. What a good fellow! Go on. Godler. Would you like us to make a bet? Trévelé. No, you would gain it; Florimond has told it to me. Godler (who is sitting down). Very well; go and shut the window, and give me something to drink. Trévelé. Go on. Godler. Madame Duranton had a daughter. Trévelé. To whom you made love? Godler. To whom we all made love, without any good intention—you can understand. The young girl, then between 18 and 19 years old, was a beautiful creature, with naturally golden hair, like women have artificially now-a-days, with violet-blue eyes, cheeks like a rose of Bengal, and teeth and lips resembling almonds between two halves of a cherry. (During this time Godler from time to time arranges his whiskers, and a lock of hair which falls over his forehead, with a little comb that he takes out of his pocket.) Trévelé. One could almost wish to taste thereof. You are a poet! Godler. That I had from my youth. At that time.... Trévelé. In your youth? Godler. No, in 1853, there were a king and queen.... Trévelé. Who reigned.... Godler. Exactly. Trévelé. Happy time! Where did they reign? Godler. At Bagdad. Trévelé. Thank you. Godler. This king and this queen had an only son, who was to succeed them. This son, 23 years old, took much too seriously his part of heir-presumptive. But what was the use of having a crown, if, in his turn, he was not to have an heir to leave it to? However, nothing in the young prince indicated the least inclination towards love, legitimate or otherwise. Trévelé. He was not like you. Godler. No, he was not like me. Trévelé. Go on. Godler. Always study; always reflection; always indifference. Trévelé. A strange prince! Godler. The ambassadors opened negotiation upon negotiation uselessly with foreign courts in view of a political alliance. Several young princesses of surrounding countries, of Hindostan, of Persia, and even of Europe.... Trévelé. How well you relate a thing! Godler. Were waiting full-dressed, their hair well-dressed and splendidly perfumed, for the king of Bagdad to ask their hand for his son. The telegraph replied always: Wait! Wait! Trévelé. Go on quickly. Godler. A chamberlain had a very simple idea. Trévelé. In general the ideas of chamberlains are very simple. Godler. This was, to let the prince travel, in order that he might see other women than those of Bagdad, since they were acknowledged to be insufficient, and to send him at once to Paris. Trévelé. Bad complaints require strong remedies. Godler. But this was not all; beauty was necessary, and it must be stock of a particular kind: also those that he did not marry must differ only in rank from the one he did marry. In fact, it was not a Lyc&oelig;nion, but a perfect Chloe, that was sought for the instruction of this Daphnis, and it was not to be child's play. Trévelé. I see the young Lionnette dawning. But how did everything come about? Godler. That will make the subject of the following chapter. The ambassador of Bagdad came with us sometimes in the evening, to eat chesnuts and drink cider at Madame Duranton's. Trévelé. And he discovered a way of leading the prince to eat the cherries and almonds? Godler. Who acquired such a taste for these delicious fruits, that he wanted to eat nothing else, had no wish to go away, had no inclination whatever for study, no longer wished to reign—he wanted to marry. However, the king, informed and satisfied on the subject, recalled his son. He must go back to Bagdad. Daphnis wept, and Chloe also. Trévelé. You are king, you cry, and I depart. Godler. And that is how the beautiful Lionnette came into the world; having for legal father a Marquis de Quansas, a ruined gentleman, rather a bad character, who turned up just at the right moment to lay his hand on a marriage portion, give his name to the mother and daughter, and die a short time after, without falling into the hands of the correctional police, as every one expected to see him do. Trévelé. Then the countess is daughter of a prince? Godler. Daughter of a king, even—for the prince succeeded his father. Trévelé. What a strange country! Godler. Daughter of a king and of an adventuress; daughter herself of no one knows who. From that comes, no doubt, the strangeness in the nature of Lionnette, whom we, who know the circumstances, named, when she was very young, the Princess of Bagdad. People never knew what it meant, but it is useless for all the world to know what some things mean. Trévelé. And the mother, the Marchioness of Quansas, has she seen the king again since that adventure? Godler. Often, and for several years. Thence comes the great luxury and style of the house. But she became so badly-conducted, and abused so much the goodness of the king to her, that he—himself now become father of a large family, as everything led to hope after his return from Paris, and the marchioness no longer being young—lost all patience, and gave no more money, except to his daughter, whom he adored, and whom he saw in secret. But he died quite suddenly. Trévelé. I know whom you mean. Godler. Then we both know it, that is sufficient. After the death of the king all the resources disappeared. Fortunately, the love and marriage of our friend John de Hun were found in the nick of time, to maintain for some time the importance of the house; but at this moment I think the downfall is not far off, and all these comings and goings of to-day may very well be the last signs of it. All the legitimate ways are exhausted; there remains nothing now but the others. Trévelé. Which are happily the most numerous. It costs too much for us, my poor old Godler. For the present it is just the affair of the gloomy millionaire: we shall see later on. There is nothing more to drink; they have quite forgotten us. Put your comb in your pocket again, your lock of hair is very well like that; now let us go away. A peculiar kind of a house. Where is my hat? (While they both look for their hats, their backs turned to the bottom of the room, John enters, very pale, and visibly affected.) <h4>Scene IV.</h4> THE SAME PERSONS, JOHN. John. I beg your pardon, gentlemen, for having left you so long alone in my house, but I have been suddenly called away. I reckoned upon being back sooner. And.... (He draws his hand across his forehead.) Godler. You are suffering much? John. It is nothing.... A little fatigue, it is very warm. Trévelé. We are going away. John. However, it may be that I shall stand in need of two sure friends. Can I count upon you? Trévelé (aside). Nourvady was right. Godler. Certainly; we shall breakfast, Trévelé and I, to-morrow at 12 o'clock at the club. If you have anything to say to us. John. Thank you. Till to-morrow then. Godler (aside, as he goes out). Poor fellow. Trévelé (aside, as he goes out). The weather is getting stormy, as the sailors say. <h4>Scene V.</h4> John alone at first, afterwards Lionnette. John, standing alone, lays his hand on the top of a chair; then he pulls off his cravat and loosens the collar of his shirt, as if he were suffocating and wished to breathe more freely. He goes at length to the window, breathes the air strongly two or three times, and walks towards the door by which Lionnette went out: Lionnette enters by the same door when he is half-way towards it. John (standing still). Where have you come from? Lionnette. I have just come from putting the child to bed, who was very disobedient this evening, and I came back to find the gentlemen again. John. They are all three gone. Lionnette. What is the matter with you? You are quite pale.... What has happened again? John. You want to know? Lionnette. Yes, certainly. I ask you to tell me. John (walking up to her and putting his fist towards her face). When I think how I failed in respect for my mother, who died cursing me, and all for this creature. Lionnette (coming up to him). I do not understand. John. You do not understand! Lionnette. No; I believe, I hope, that you are still madder than usual. What is it? John (drawing some papers from his pocket). What is all this? It is this, that Mr. Nourvady has had all your debts paid. He had no wish to do me the honour of paying mine; but you, you owe nothing any more. That is what it is. Now do you understand? Lionnette (stupified). Mr. Nourvady! John. Yes, Mr. Nourvady, your lover! Lionnette (indignantly). My lover! John. Yes, your lover, to whom you have sold yourself and my name, your honour and mine, for some hundreds of thousands of francs. For your own honour it is too much, but for mine it is too little. Lionnette. Perhaps you will tell me what all this means? John. Mr. Richard has just sent some one for me; on his return home this evening he found all the bills of your creditors sent back to him receipted, at the same time writing that they were all fully paid. By whom? You know well. (He throws the papers on the table.) Lionnette. I swear to you.... John (mad with rage). 'Tis false? 'Tis false! There was a way, painful for you, to free yourself; it was proposed to you at first; you obstinately rejected it.... You had your own reasons, it was useless! The contract was concluded and carried out. Since when, may I ask? Lionnette. Ah! when will you have finished insulting me! I tell you that of which you accuse me is not true. At present, if you do not believe me, do whatever you like. John (exasperated). I turn you out of doors. Lionnette. Unfortunately, this house is mine, and I remain in it. John. It is true; I beg your pardon! I forgot that your mother had foreseen all. This house, paid for by me, is yours, but the debts incurred by you are paid by some one else. It is a compensation. It is I who will leave this house, you may rest contented. I am going at once.... I am going to look for some money—at my sister's—it signifies not where. I must find some, even if I have to steal in my turn. And after that we shall see. Adieu! (He goes away with a menacing gesture.) Lionnette (alone). Adieu! (Shrugging her shoulders, and going towards her apartment.) The idiot! (She goes into her room.) <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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