DUMONT. It is not. Feel in your pockets. (_To the others_.) Will you have the kindness to find my patent key? ALL. Oh!! (_Hunt resumed_.) MACAIRE. Ah, well, you’re right. (_He slips key into_ DUMONT’S _pocket_.) An idea: suppose you felt in your pocket? ALL (_rising_). Yes! Suppose you did! DUMONT. I will not feel in my pockets. How could it be there? It’s a patent key. This is more than any man can bear. First, Charles is one man’s son, and then he’s another’s, and then he’s nobody’s, and be damned to him! And then there’s my key lost; and then there’s your key! What is your key? Where is your key? Where isn’t it? And why is it like mine, only mine’s a patent? The long and short of it is this: that I’m going to bed, and that you’re all going to bed, and that I refuse to hear another word upon the subject or upon any subject. There! MACAIRE (_aside_). Bitten. BERTRAND (_aside_). Sold again. (ALINE _and_ MAIDS _extinguish hanging lamps over tables_, _R. and L._ _Stage lighted only by guests’ candles_.) CHARLES. But, sir, I cannot decently retire to rest till I embrace my honoured parent. Which is it to be? MACAIRE. Charles, to my— DUMONT. Embrace neither of them; embrace nobody; there has been too much of this sickening folly. To bed!!! (_Exit violently R. U. E._ _All the characters troop slowly upstairs_, _talking in dumb show_. BERTRAND _and_ MACAIRE _remain in front C._, _watching them go_.) BERTRAND. Sold again, captain? MACAIRE. Ay, they will have it. BERTRAND. It? What? MACAIRE. The worst, Bertrand. What is man? a beast of prey. An hour ago, and I’d have taken a crust, and gone in peace. But no: they would trick and juggle, curse them; they would wriggle and cheat! Well, I accept the challenge: war to the knife. BERTRAND. Murder? MACAIRE. What is murder? A legal term for a man dying. Call it Fate, and that’s philosophy; call me Providence, and you talk religion. Die? My, that is what man is made for; we are full of mortal parts; we are all as good as dead already, we hang so close upon the brink: touch a button, and the strongest falls in dissolution. Now, see how easy: I take you—(_grappling him_.) BERTRAND. Macaire—O no! MACAIRE. Fool! would I harm a fly, when I had nothing to gain? As the butcher with the sheep, I kill to live; and where is the difference between man and mutton? pride and a tailor’s bill. Murder? I know who made that name—a man crouching from the knife! Selfishness made it—the aggregated egotism called society; but I meet that with a selfishness as great. Has he money? Have I none—great powers, none? Well, then, I fatten and manure my life with his. BERTRAND. You frighten me. Who is it? MACAIRE. Mark well. (_The_ MARQUIS _opens the door of Number Thirteen_, _and the rest_, _clustering round_, _bid him good-night_. _As they begin to disperse along the gallery he enters and shuts the door_.) Out, out, brief candle! That man is doomed.