MACAIRE. My friends, one word: I perceive by your downcast looks that you have not recognised the true nature of your responsibility as citizens of time. What is care? impiety. Joy? the whole duty of man. Here is an opportunity of duty it were sinful to forego. With a word, I could lighten your hearts; but I prefer to quicken your heels, and send you forth on your ingenuous errand with happy faces and smiling thoughts, the physicians of your own recovery. Fiddlers, to your catgut! Up, Bertrand, and show them how one foots it in society; forward, girls, and choose me every one the lad she loves; Dumont, benign old man, lead forth our blushing Curate; and you, O bride, embrace the uniform of your beloved, and help us dance in your wedding-day. (_Dance_, _in the course of which_ MACAIRE _picks_ DUMONT’S _pocket of his keys_, _selects the key of the cash-box_, _and returns the others to his pocket_. _In the end_, _all dance out_: _the wedding-party_, _headed by_ FIDDLERS, _L. C._; _the_ MAIDS _and_ ALINE _into the inn_, _R. U. E._ _Manet_ BERTRAND _and_ MACAIRE.) SCENE VIII MACAIRE, BERTRAND, _who instantly takes a bottle from the wedding-table_, _and sits with it_, _L._ MACAIRE. Bertrand, there’s a devil of a want of a father here. BERTRAND. Ay, if we only knew where to find him. MACAIRE. Bertrand, look at me: I am Macaire; I am that father. BERTRAND. You, Macaire? you a father? MACAIRE. Not yet, but in five minutes. I am capable of anything. (_Producing key_.) What think you of this? BERTRAND. That? Is it a key? MACAIRE. Ay, boy, and what besides? my diploma of respectability, my patent of fatherhood. I prigged it—in the ardour of the dance I prigged it; I change it beyond recognition, thus (_twists the handle of the key_); and now . . .? Where is my long-lost child? produce my young policeman! show me my gallant boy! BERTRAND. I don’t understand. MACAIRE. Dear innocence, how should you? Your brains are in your fists. Go and keep watch. (_He goes into the office and returns with the cash-box_.) Keep watch, I say. BERTRAND. Where? MACAIRE. Everywhere. (_He opens box_.) BERTRAND. Gold. MACAIRE. Hands off! Keep watch. (BERTRAND _at back of stage_.) Beat slower, my paternal heart! The third compartment; let me see. BERTRAND. S’st! (MACAIRE _shuts box_.) No; false alarm. MACAIRE. The third compartment. Ay, here t— BERTRAND. S’st! (_Same business_.) No: fire away. MACAIRE. The third compartment: it must be this. BERTRAND. S’st! (MACAIRE, _keeps box open_, _watching_ BERTRAND.) All serene; it’s the wind. MACAIRE. Now, see here! (_He darts his knife into the stage_.) I will either be backed as a man should be, or from this minute out I’ll work alone. Do you understand? I said alone. BERTRAND. For the Lord’s sake, Macaire!—