LUCREZIA. In the garden! By the fountain! And there's the nightingale beginning to sing in earnest! Good heavens! what may not already have happened? (_She runs out after the waiter_.)

(_Two persons emerge from the hotel_, the VICOMTE DE BARBAZANGE _and the_ BARONESS KOCH DE WORMS. PAUL DE BARBAZANGE _is a young man--twenty-six perhaps of exquisite grace. Five foot ten, well built, dark hair, sleek as marble, the most refined aristocratic features, and a monocle_, SIMONE DE WORMS _is forty, a ripe Semitic beauty. Five years more and the bursting point of overripeness will have been reached. But now, thanks to ma.s.sage, powerful corsets, skin foods, and powder, she is still a beauty--a beauty of the type Italians admire, cushioned, steatopygous._ PAUL, _who has a faultless taste in bric-a-brac and women, and is by instinct and upbringing an ardent anti-Semite, finds her infinitely repulsive. The Baronne enters with a loud shrill giggle.

She gives_ PAUL _a slap with her green feather fan_.)

SIMONE. Oh, you naughty boy! Quelle histoire. Mon Dieu! How dare you tell me such a story!

PAUL. For you, Baronne, I would risk anything even your displeasure.

SIMONE. Charming boy. But stories of that kind.... And you look so innocent, too! Do you know any more like it?

PAUL (_suddenly grave_). Not of that description. But I will tell you a story of another kind, a true story, a tragic story.

SIMONE. Did I ever tell you how I saw a woman run over by a train? Cut to pieces, literally, to pieces. So disagreeable. I'll tell you later.

But now, what about your story?

PAUL. Oh, it's nothing, nothing.

SIMONE. But you promised to tell it me.

PAUL. It's only a commonplace anecdote. A young man, poor but n.o.ble, with a name and a position to keep up. A few youthful follies, a mountain of debts, and no way out except the revolver. This is all dull and obvious enough. But now follows the interesting part of the story.

He is about to take that way out, when he meets the woman of his dreams, the G.o.ddess, the angel, the ideal. He loves, and he must die without a word. (_He turns his face away from the Baronne, as though his emotion were too much for him, which indeed it is_.)

SIMONE. Vicomte--Paul--this young man is you?

PAUL (_solemnly_). He is.

SIMONE. And the woman?

PAUL. Oh, I can't, I mayn't tell you.

SIMONE. The woman! Tell me, Paul.

PAUL (_turning towards her and falling on his knees_). The woman, Simone, is you. Ah, but I had no right to say it.

SIMONE (_quivering with emotion_). My Paul. (_She clasps his head to her bosom. A grimace of disgust contorts Paul's cla.s.sical features. He endures Simone's caresses with a stoical patience_.) But what is this about a revolver? That is only a joke, Paul, isn't it? Say it isn't true.

PAUL. Alas, Simone, too true. (_He taps his coat pocket_.) There it lies. To-morrow I have a hundred and seventy thousand francs to pay, or be dishonoured. I cannot pay the sum. A Barbazange does not survive dishonour. My ancestors were Crusaders, preux chevaliers to a man. Their code is mine. Dishonour for me is worse than death.

SIMONE. Mon Dieu, Paul, how n.o.ble you are! (_She lays her hands on his shoulder, leans back, and surveys him at arm's length, a look of pride and anxious happiness on her face_.)

PAUL (_dropping his eyes modestly_). Not at all. I was born n.o.ble, and n.o.blesse oblige, as we say in our family. Farewell, Simone, I love you--and I must die. My last thought will be of you. (_He kisses her hand, rises to his feet, and makes as though to go_.)

SIMONE (_clutching him by the arm_). No, Paul, no. You must not, shall not, do anything rash. A hundred and seventy thousand francs, did you say? It is paltry. Is there no one who could lend or give you the money?

PAUL. Not a soul. Farewell, Simone.

SIMONE. Stay, Paul. I hardly dare to ask it of you--you with such lofty ideas of honour--but would you ... from me?

PAUL. Take money from a woman? Ah, Simone, tempt me no more. I might do an ign.o.ble act.

SIMONE. But from me, Paul, from me. I am not in your eyes a woman like any other woman, am I?

PAUL. It is true that my ancestors, the Crusaders, the preux chevaliers, might in all honour receive gifts from the ladies of their choice--chargers, swords, armour, or tenderer mementoes, such as gloves or garters. But money--no; who ever heard of their taking money?

SIMONE. But what would be the use of my giving you swords and horses?

You could never use them. Consider, my knight, my n.o.ble Sir Paul, in these days the contests of chivalry have a.s.sumed a different form; the weapons and the armour have changed. Your sword must be of gold and paper; your breastplate of hard cash; your charger of gilt-edged securities. I offer you the shining panoply of the modern crusader. Will you accept it?

PAUL. You are eloquent, Simone. You could win over the devil himself with that angelic voice of yours. But it cannot be. Money is always money. The code is clear. I cannot accept your offer. Here is the way out. (_He takes an automatic pistol out of his pocket_.) Thank you, Simone, and good-bye. How wonderful is the love of a pure woman.

SIMONE. Paul, Paul, give that to me! (_She s.n.a.t.c.hes the pistol from his hand_.) If anything were to happen to you, Paul, I should kill myself with this. You must live, you must consent to accept the money. You mustn't let your honour make a martyr of you.

PAUL (_brushing a tear from his eyes_). No, I can't.... Give me that pistol, I beg you.

SIMONE. For my sake, Paul.

PAUL. Oh, you make it impossible for me to act as the voices of dead ancestors tell me I should.... For your sake, then, Simone, I consent to live. For your sake I dare to accept the gift you offer.

SIMONE (_kissing his hand in an outburst of grat.i.tude_). Thank you, thank you, Paul. How happy I am!

PAUL. I, too, light of my life.

SIMONE. My month's allowance arrived to-day. I have the cheque here.

(_She takes it out of her corsage_.) Two hundred thousand francs. It's signed already. You can get it cashed as soon as the hanks open to-morrow.

PAUL (_moved by an outburst of genuine emotion kisses indiscriminately the cheque, the Baronne, his own hands_). My angel, you have saved me.

How can I thank you? How can I love you enough? Ah, mon pet.i.t bouton de rose.

SIMONE. Oh, naughty, naughty! Not now, my Paul; you must wait till some other time.

PAUL. I burn with impatience.

SIMONE. Quelle fougue! Listen, then. In an hour's time, Paul cheri, in my boudoir; I shall be alone.

PAUL. An hour? It is an eternity.

SIMONE (_playfully_). An hour. I won't relent. Till then, my Paul. (_She blows a kiss and runs out: the scenery trembles at her pa.s.sage._)

(PAUL _looks at the cheque, then pulls out a large silk handkerchief and wipes his neck inside his collar_.) (DOLPHIN _drifts in from the left.

He is smoking a cigarette, but he does not seem to be enjoying it_.)

PAUL. Alone?

DOLPHIN. Alas!

PAUL. Brooding on the universe as usual? I envy you your philosophic detachment. Personally, I find that the world is very much too much with us, and the devil too; (_he looks at the cheque in his hand_) and above all the flesh. My G.o.d, the flesh.... (_He wipes his neck again_.)