you are a selfish egotist, and you find your happiness in the tears and suffering of those who love you! Good-by! [She starts to go again.]
Lamblin. Mathilde, Mathilde, dear! To-morrow?
Madame Cogé [returning]. Do you want me to tell you something else? When a man is married and wants to have a mistress, he would do much better and act more uprightly to leave his wife!
Lamblin [simply]. Why?
Madame Cogé. Why?—Good evening! [She goes out.]
Lamblin. Mathilde, Mathilde! Did I make her angry? Oh, she'll forget it all in a quarter of an hour. My, what a headache! [Catching sight of Marthe, who enters from the right.] Marthe! She looks furious! She saw Mathilde go out! What luck!
Marthe [furiously]. Who was that who just left?
Lamblin. Why—
Marthe. Who was that who just left? Answer me!
Lamblin. It was—
Marthe. Madame Cogé, wasn't it? Don't lie, I saw her! What can you be thinking of? To bring your mistress here! I don't know what's prevented my going away before, and leaving you to your debauchery! This is the end—understand? I've had enough. You're going to live alone from now on. [He starts to speak.] Alone. Good-by, monsieur!
Lamblin [moved]. Marthe! [She dashes out. Lamblin goes to the door through which Marthe has gone.] Marthe, Marthe, little one! Tell me that you forgive me. [Coming down-stage.] It's all up! Good Lord!
[Enter Madame Bail.]
Lamblin [goes to her, nearly in tears]. Oh, Mother, all is lost!
Madame Bail. No, no, you great child! I know everything, and I promise it will be all right.
Lamblin. No, no, I tell you. Marthe told me she wanted to leave me.
Madame Bail. Now, don't carry on that way. I don't want to see you cry.
Lamblin. But how can I be calm when my whole future is ruined?
Madame Bail. Nothing of the sort. Don't you think I know my own daughter? She is too well educated, she has too much common sense, to leave you.
Lamblin [a little consoled]. You think so? Oh, if that were only true!
Madame Bail. But it is true! She's crying now; her tears will ease her, and make her change her mind.
Lamblin. Yes, yes, let her cry, let her cry all she wants to!
Madame Bail. I tell you she is yours; she loves you.
Lamblin [brightening]. Is that true? [Madame Bail nods.] How happy I am! [A pause. His attitude changes.] But there's one thing that troubles me.
Madame Bail. What?
Lamblin [embarrassed]. No, nothing.
Madame Bail. Confide in me. Tell me. [A pause.]
Lamblin. Well, that lady who came here this evening—I'm afraid I was a little short with her. I think I offended her. I practically showed her the door.
Madame Bail. Don't worry about that. Perhaps you weren't so rude as you thought you were.
Lamblin. No, I'm sure. I know very well that—
Madame Bail. You mustn't worry and get all excited—
Lamblin. Do you know anything about it?
Madame Bail. No, nothing, only—as I rather suspected what was going on in here—and was afraid—of a quarrel—I met her as she was going out, and I—spoke to her.
Lamblin [taking her hands—joyfully]. I thank you! [They are both embarrassed for a moment, then sit down.] Ah, good. Well, and Marthe?
Madame Bail [pointing to Marthe who enters]. There she is. What did I tell you? [Marthe enters without saying a word. She brings her work, Madame Bail takes up hers, and sits next her. A pause. Madame Bail speaks to Marthe.] What a pretty design! Where did you find the pattern?
Marthe. I just picked it up at the store.
Madame Bail. It's charming. I must get one like it.
Lamblin [ill at ease]. May I see it, little one? [Marthe unrolls the embroidery for him and shows it.] Oh, it's perfectly lovely! We men would be hard put to it to make anything half as beautiful! [He laughs awkwardly, and pours out some cognac, in full sight of Marthe.]
Marthe [quickly]. That's ridiculous, Alfred. [Then she says slowly, as she lowers her eyes.] You'll make yourself ill!
Lamblin [in perfect contentment]. How charming she is!
[Curtain.]
FRANÇOISE' LUCK
A Comedy
By Georges de Porto-Riche
(La Chance de Françoise.)
Translated by Barrett H. Clark.
Copyright, 1917, by Stewart & Kidd Company.
All rights reserved.
| PERSONS REPRESENTED |
| Marcel Desroches. Guérin. Jean. Françoise. Madeleine. |
| Scene: Auteuil. Time: Present. |
Presented for the first time December 10,1888, in Paris, at the Théâtre Libre.
Françoise' Luck is reprinted from "Four Plays of the Free Theatre," translated by
Barrett H. Clark by permission of Messrs. Stewart & Kidd
Company, Cincinnati, Ohio.
FRANÇOISE' LUCK
A Comedy
By Georges de Porto-Riche
[A studio. At the back is a door opening upon a garden; doors to the right and left; likewise a small inconspicuous door to the left. There are a few pictures on easels. The table is littered with papers, books, weapons, bric-a-brac. Chairs and sofas. It is eleven o'clock in the morning.]
Françoise [a small, frail woman, with a melancholy look, at times rather mocking. As the curtain rises she is alone. She raises and lowers the window-blind from time to time]. A little more! There! Oh, the sunlight! How blinding! [Glancing at the studio with satisfaction.] How neat everything is! [In attempting to take something from the table, she knocks some papers to the floor.] Well! [Seeing a letter, among the papers she is picking up.] A letter! From Monsieur Guérin—[Reading.] "My dear friend, why do you persist in keeping silence? You say very little of the imprudent woman who has dared to become the companion of the handsome Marcel! Do you recompense her for her confidence in you, for her courage? You are not at all like other men: your frivolity, if you will permit the term, your—" [Interrupting herself.] He writes the word! [Continuing.] "Your cynicism makes me tremble for you. Absent for a year! How much friendship gone to waste! Why were we thrust apart the moment you were married? Why did my wife's health make sunlight