NOTARY. Now, lemme tell you: marriage is a contract to which there are two constracting parties. That being clear, I am prepared to argue categorically that your son Charles--who, it appears, is not your son Charles--I am prepared to argue that one party to a contract being null and void, the other party to a contract cannot by law oblige or constrain the first party to constract or bind himself to any contract, except the other party be able to see his way clearly to constract himself with him. I donno if I make myself clear? DUMONT. No. NOTARY. Now, lemme tell you: by applying justice of peace might possibly afford relief. DUMONT. But how? NOTARY. Ay, there's the rub. DUMONT. But what am I to do? He's not my son, I tell you: Charles is not my son. NOTARY. I know. DUMONT. Perhaps a glass of wine would clear him? NOTARY. That's what I want. (_They go out, L.U.E._) ALINE. And now, if you've done deranging my table, to the cellar for the wine, the whole pack of you. (_Manet sola, considering table._) There! it's like a garden. If I had as sweet a table for my wedding, I would marry the Notary. SCENE III _The Stage remains vacant. Enter, by door L.C., MACAIRE, followed by BERTRAND with the bundle; in the traditional costume_ MACAIRE. Good! No police! BERTRAND (_looking off L.C._). Sold again! MACAIRE. This is a favoured spot, Bertrand: ten minutes from the frontier: ten minutes from escape. Blessings on that frontier line! The criminal hops across, and lo! the reputable man. (_Reading._) "'Auberge des Adrets,' by John Paul Dumont." A table set for company; this is fate: Bertrand, are we the first arrivals? An office; a cabinet; a cash-box--aha! and a cash-box, golden within. A money-box is like a Quaker beauty: demure without, but what a figure of a woman! Outside gallery: an architectural feature I approve; I count it a convenience both for love and war; the troubadour--twang-twang; the craftsmen----(_Makes as if turning key._) The kitchen window: humming with cookery; truffles, before Jove! I was born for truffles. Cock your hat: meat, wine, rest, and occupation; men to gull, women to fool, and still the door open, the great unbolted door of the frontier! BERTRAND. Macaire, I'm hungry. MACAIRE. Bertrand, excuse me, you are a sensualist. I should have left you in the stone-yard at Lyons, and written no passport but my own. Your soul is incorporate with your stomach. Am I not hungry too? My body, thanks to immortal Jupiter, is but the boy that holds the kite-string; my aspirations and designs swim like the kite sky-high, and overlook an empire. BERTRAND. If I could get a full meal and a pound in my pocket I would hold my tongue.