MARQUIS. I fail to grasp . . . but if it will in any way oblige you . . . (_Does so_.) MACAIRE. Now, my lord, follow me: I take them up; you see? I put them in my pocket; you follow me? This is my hat; here is my stick; and here is my—my friend’s bundle. MARQUIS. But that is my cloak. MACAIRE. Precisely. Now, my lord, one more effort of your lordship’s mind. If I were to go out of that door, with the full intention—follow me close—the full intention of never being heard of more, what would you do? MARQUIS. I!—send for the police. MACAIRE. Take your money! (_Dashing down the notes_.) Man, if I met you in a lane! (_He drops his head upon the table_.) MARQUIS. The poor soul is insane. The other man, whom I suppose to be his keeper, is very much to blame. MACAIRE (_raising his head_). I have a light! (_To_ MARQUIS.) With invincible oafishness, my lord, I cannot struggle. I pass you by; I leave you gaping by the wayside; I blush to have a share in the progeny of such an owl. Off, off, and send the tapster! MARQUIS. Poor fellow! SCENE V MACAIRE, _to whom_ BERTRAND. _Afterwards_ DUMONT BERTRAND. Well? MACAIRE. Bitten. BERTRAND. Sold again. MACAIRE. Had he the wit of a lucifer match! But what can gods or men against stupidity? Still, I have a trick. Where is that damned old man? DUMONT (_entering_). I hear you want me. MACAIRE. Ah, my good old Dumont, this is very sad. DUMONT. Dear me, what is wrong? MACAIRE. Dumont, you had a dowry for my son? DUMONT. I had; I have: ten thousand francs. MACAIRE. It’s a poor thing, but it must do. Dumont, I bury my old hopes, my old paternal tenderness. DUMONT. What? is he not your son? MACAIRE. Pardon me, my friend. The Marquis claims my boy. I will not seek to deny that he attempted to corrupt me, or that I spurned his gold. It was thirty thousand. DUMONT. Noble soul! MACAIRE. One has a heart . . . He spoke, Dumont, that proud noble spoke, of the advantages to our beloved Charles; and in my father’s heart a voice arose, louder than thunder. Dumont, was I unselfish? The voice said no; the voice, Dumont, up and told me to begone. DUMONT. To begone? to go? MACAIRE. To begone, Dumont, and to go. Both, Dumont. To leave my son to marry, and be rich and happy as the son of another; to creep forth myself, old, penniless, broken-hearted, exposed to the inclemencies of heaven and the rebuffs of the police. DUMONT. This is what I had looked for at your hands. Noble, nobleman! MACAIRE. One has a heart . . . and yet, Dumont, it can hardly have escaped your penetration that if I were to shift from this hostelry without a farthing, and leave my offspring to wallow—literally—among millions, I should play the part of little better than an ass. DUMONT. But I had thought . . . I had fancied . . .