BERTRAND. He’s in. I hear a board creak. What a night, what a night! Will he hear him? O Lord, my poor Macaire! I hear nothing, nothing. The night’s as empty as a dream: he must hear him; he cannot help but hear him; and then—O Macaire, Macaire, come back to me. It’s death, and it’s death, and it’s death. Red, red: a corpse. Macaire to kill, Macaire to die? I’d rather starve, I’d rather perish, than either: I’m not fit, I’m not fit, for either! Why, how’s this? I want to cry. (_A stroke_, _and groan from above_.) God Almighty, one of them’s gone! (_He falls with his head on table_, _R._ MACAIRE _appears at the top of the stairs_, _descends_, _comes airily forward and touches him on the shoulder_. BERTRAND, _with a cry_, _turns and falls upon his neck_.) O, O, and I thought I had lost him. (_Day breaking_.) MACAIRE. The contrary, dear boy. (_He produces notes_.) BERTRAND. What was it like? MACAIRE. Like? Nothing. A little blood, a dead man. BERTRAND. Blood! . . . Dead! _He falls at table sobbing_. MACAIRE _divides the notes into two parts_; _on the smaller he wipes the bloody knife_, _and folding the stains inward_, _thrusts the notes into_ BERTRAND’S _face_.) MACAIRE. What is life without the pleasures of the table! BERTRAND (_taking and pocketing notes_). Macaire, I can’t get over it. MACAIRE. My mark is the frontier, and at top speed. Don’t hang your jaw at me. Up, up, at the double; pick me that cash-box; and let’s get the damned house fairly cleared. BERTRAND. I can’t. Did he bleed much? MACAIRE. Bleed? Must I bleed you? To work, or I’m dangerous. BERTRAND. It’s all right, Macaire; I’m going. MACAIRE. Better so: an old friend is nearly sacred. (_Full daylight: lights up_. MACAIRE _blows out lantern_.) BERTRAND. Where’s the key? MACAIRE. Key? I tell you to pick it. BERTRAND (_with the box_). But it’s a patent lock. Where is the key? You had it. MACAIRE. Will you pick that lock? BERTRAND. I can’t: it’s a patent. Where’s the key? MACAIRE. If you will have it, I put it back in that old ass’s pocket. BERTRAND. Bitten, I think. (MACAIRE _dancing mad_.) SCENE II _To these_, DUMONT DUMONT. Ah, friends, up so early? Catching the worm, catching the worm? (Sitting on the table dissembling box and dissembling box . . . MACAIRE. Good-morning, good-morning! BERTRAND. Early birds, early birds. . . . ) DUMONT. By the way, very remarkable thing: I found the key. MACAIRE. No! BERTRAND. O! DUMONT. Perhaps a still more remarkable thing: it was my key that had the twisted handle. MACAIRE. I told you so. DUMONT. Now, what we have to do is to get the cash-box. Hallo! what’s that your sitting on? BERTRAND. Nothing. MACAIRE. The table! I beg your pardon. DUMONT. Why, it’s my cash-box! MACAIRE. Why, so it is! DUMONT. It’s very singular. MACAIRE. Diabolishly singular. BERTRAND. Early worms, early worms!