ALBERTO (through his sobs). You too, Lucrezia! Oh, I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it.
LUCREZIA (turning back desperately). But what do you want me to do? Why should you expect me to hold your hand?
ALBERTO. I thought better of you, Lucrezia. Let me go. There is nothing left for me now but death. (He rises to his feet, takes a step or two, and then collapses into another chair, unable to move.)
LUCREZIA (torn between anger and remorse). Now do behave yourself sensibly, Bertino. There, there … you mustn’t cry. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you. (Looking towards the left along the path taken by AMY and DOLPHIN.) Oh, damnation! (She stamps her foot.) Here, Bertino, do pull yourself together. (She raises him up.) There, now you must stop crying. (But as soon as she lets go of him his head falls back on to the iron table with an unpleasant, meaty bump. That bump is too much for LUCREZIA. She bends over him, strokes his head, even kisses the lustrous curls.) Oh, forgive me, forgive me! I have been a beast. But, tell me first, what’s the matter, Bertino? What is it, my poor darling? Tell me.
ALBERTO. Nobody loves me.
LUCREZIA. But we’re all devoted to you, Bertino mio.
ALBERTO. She isn’t. To-day she shut the door in my face.
LUCREZIA. She? You mean the French-woman, the one you told me about? Louise, wasn’t she?
ALBERTO. Yes, the one with the golden hair.
LUCREZIA. And the white legs. I remember: you saw her bathing.
ALBERTO (lays his hand on his heart). Ah, don’t remind me of it. (His face twitches convulsively.)
LUCREZIA. And now she’s gone and shut the door in your face.
ALBERTO. In my face, Lucrezia.
LUCREZIA. Poor darling!
ALBERTO. For me there is nothing now but the outer darkness.
LUCREZIA. Is the door shut forever, then?
ALBERTO. Definitively, for ever.
LUCREZIA. But have you tried knocking? Perhaps, after all, it might be opened again, if only a crack.
ALBERTO. What, bruise my hands against the granite of her heart?
LUCREZIA. Don’t be too poetical, Bertino mio. Why not try again, in any case?
ALBERTO. You give me courage.
LUCREZIA. There’s no harm in trying, you know.
ALBERTO. Courage to live, to conquer. (He beats his breast.) I am a man again, thanks to you, Lucrezia, my inspirer, my Muse, my Egeria. How can I be sufficiently grateful. (He kisses her.) I am the child of your spirit. (He kisses her again.)
LUCREZIA. Enough, enough. I am not ambitious to be a mother, yet awhile. Quickly now, Bertino, I know you will succeed.
ALBERTO (cramming his hat down on his head and knocking with his walking-stick on the ground). Succeed or die, Lucrezia. (He goes out with a loud martial stamp.)
LUCREZIA (to the waiter who is passing across the stage with a coffee-pot and cups on a tray). Have you seen the Signorina Toomis, Giuseppe?
WAITER. The Signorina is down in the garden. So is the Signore Dolphin. By the fountain, Signorina. This is the Signore’s coffee.
LUCREZIA. Have you a mother, Giuseppe?
WAITER. Unfortunately, Signorina.
LUCREZIA. Unfortunately? Does she treat you badly, then?
WAITER. Like a dog, Signorina.
LUCREZIA. Ah, I should like to see your mother. I should like to ask her to give me some hints on how to bring up children.
WAITER. But surely, Signorina, you are not expecting, you—ah….
LUCREZIA. Only figuratively, Giuseppe. My children are spiritual children.
WAITER. Precisely, precisely. My mother, alas! is not a spiritual relation. Nor is my fiançée.
LUCREZIA. I didn’t know you were engaged.
WAITER. To an angel of perdition. Believe me, Signorina, I go to my destruction in that woman—go with open eyes. There is no escape. She is what is called in the Holy Bible (crosses himself) a Fisher of Men.
LUCREZIA. You have remarkable connections, Giuseppe.
WAITER. I am honoured by your words, Signorina. But the coffee becomes cold. (He hurries out to the left.)
LUCREZIA. In the garden! By the fountain! And there’s the nightingale beginning to sing in earnest! Good heavens! what may not already have happened? (She runs out after the waiter.)
(Two persons emerge from the hotel, the VICOMTE DE BARBAZANGE and the BARONESS KOCH DE WORMS. PAUL DE BARBAZANGE is a young man—twenty-six perhaps of exquisite grace. Five foot ten, well built, dark hair, sleek as marble, the most refined aristocratic features, and a monocle, SIMONE DE WORMS is forty, a ripe Semitic beauty. Five years more and the bursting point of overripeness will have been reached. But now, thanks to massage, powerful corsets, skin foods, and powder, she is still a beauty—a beauty of the type Italians admire, cushioned, steatopygous. PAUL, who has a faultless taste in bric-à-brac and women, and is by instinct and upbringing an ardent anti-Semite, finds her infinitely repulsive. The Baronne enters with a loud shrill giggle. She gives PAUL a slap with her green feather fan.)
SIMONE. Oh, you naughty boy! Quelle histoire. Mon Dieu! How dare you tell me such a story!
PAUL. For you, Baronne, I would risk anything even your displeasure.
SIMONE. Charming boy. But stories of that kind…. And you look so innocent, too! Do you know any more like it?
PAUL (suddenly grave). Not of that description. But I will tell you a story of another kind, a true story, a tragic story.
SIMONE. Did I ever tell you how I saw a woman run over by a train? Cut to pieces, literally, to pieces. So disagreeable. I’ll tell you later. But now, what about your story?
PAUL. Oh, it’s nothing, nothing.
SIMONE. But you promised to tell it me.
PAUL. It’s only a commonplace anecdote. A young man, poor but noble, with a name and a position to keep up. A few youthful follies, a mountain of debts, and no way out except the revolver. This is all dull and obvious enough. But now follows the interesting part of the story. He is about to take that way out, when he meets the woman of his dreams, the goddess, the angel, the ideal. He loves, and he must die without a word. (He turns his face away from the Baronne, as though his emotion were too much for him, which indeed it is.)
SIMONE. Vicomte—Paul—this young man is you?
PAUL (solemnly). He is.
SIMONE. And the woman?
PAUL. Oh, I can’t, I mayn’t tell you.
SIMONE. The woman! Tell me, Paul.
PAUL (turning towards her and falling on his knees). The woman, Simone, is you. Ah, but I had no right to say it.
SIMONE (quivering with emotion). My Paul. (She clasps his head to her bosom. A grimace of disgust contorts Paul’s classical features. He endures Simone’s caresses with a stoical patience.) But what is this about a revolver? That is only a joke, Paul, isn’t it? Say it isn’t true.
PAUL. Alas, Simone, too true. (He taps his coat pocket.) There it lies. To-morrow I have a hundred and seventy thousand francs to pay, or be dishonoured. I cannot pay the sum. A Barbazange does not survive dishonour. My ancestors were Crusaders, preux chevaliers to a man. Their code is mine. Dishonour for me is worse than death.
SIMONE. Mon Dieu, Paul, how noble you are! (She lays her hands on his shoulder, leans back, and surveys him at arm’s length, a look of pride and anxious happiness on her face.)
PAUL (dropping his eyes modestly). Not at all. I was born noble, and noblesse oblige, as we say in our family. Farewell, Simone, I love you—and I must die. My last thought will be of you. (He kisses her hand, rises to his feet, and makes as though to go.)
SIMONE (clutching him by the arm). No, Paul, no. You must not, shall not, do anything rash. A hundred and seventy thousand francs, did you say? It is paltry. Is there no one who could lend or give you the money?
PAUL. Not a soul. Farewell, Simone.
SIMONE. Stay, Paul. I hardly dare to ask it of you—you with such lofty ideas of honour—but would you … from me?
PAUL. Take money from a woman? Ah, Simone, tempt me no more. I might do an ignoble act.
SIMONE. But from me, Paul, from me. I am not in your eyes a woman like any other woman, am I?
PAUL. It is true that my ancestors, the Crusaders, the preux chevaliers, might in all honour receive gifts from the ladies of their choice—chargers, swords, armour, or tenderer mementoes, such as gloves or garters. But money—no; who ever heard of their taking money?
SIMONE. But what would be the use of my giving you swords and horses? You could never use them. Consider, my knight, my noble Sir Paul, in these days the contests of chivalry have assumed a different form; the weapons and the armour have changed. Your sword must be of gold and paper; your breastplate of hard cash; your charger of gilt-edged securities. I offer you the shining panoply of the modern crusader. Will you accept it?
PAUL. You are eloquent, Simone. You could win over the devil himself with that angelic voice of yours. But it cannot be. Money is always money. The code is clear. I cannot accept your offer. Here is the way out. (He takes an automatic pistol out of his pocket.) Thank you, Simone, and good-bye. How wonderful is the love of a pure woman.
SIMONE. Paul, Paul, give that to me! (She snatches the pistol from his hand.) If anything were to happen to you, Paul, I should kill myself with this. You must live, you must consent to accept the money. You mustn’t let your honour make a martyr of you.
PAUL (brushing a tear from his eyes). No, I can’t…. Give me that pistol, I beg you.
SIMONE. For my sake, Paul.
PAUL. Oh,
