Collected Works of Booth Tarkington

by Booth Tarkington

  LOUIS. Myself. One of my mistakes, that is all.

  ELOISE [indifferently]. Your mirth must be indefatigable if you can still laugh at those.

  LOUIS. I agree. I am a history of error.

  ELOISE. YOU should have made it a vocation; it is your one genius. And yet — truly because I am a fool I think, as Anne says — I let you hector me into a sillier mistake than any of yours.

  LOUIS. When?

  ELOISE [flinging out her arms]. Oh, when I consented to this absurd journey, this tiresome journey — with you! — An “escape”? From nothing. In “disguise.” Which doesn’t disguise.

  LOUIS [his voice taut with the effort for selfcommand]. My sister asked me to be patient with you, Eloise —

  ELOISE. Because I am a fool, yes. Thanks. [Shrewishly.] And then, my worthy young man?

  [He rises abruptly, smarting almost beyond endurance.]

  LOUIS [breathing deeply]. Have I not been patient with you?

  ELOISE [with a flash of energy]. If I have asked you to be anything whatever — with me! — pray recall the petition to my memory.

  LOUIS [beginning to let himself go]. Patient! Have I ever been anything but patient with you? Was I not patient with you five years ago when you first harangued us on your “Rights of Man” and your monstrous republicanism? Where you got hold of it all I don’t know —

  ELOISE [kindling]. Ideas, my friend. Naturally, incomprehensible to you. Books! Brains! Men!

  LOUIS. “Books! Brains! Men!” Treason, poison, and mobs! Oh, I could laugh at you then: they were only beginning to kill us, and I was patient. Was I not patient with you when these Republicans of yours drove us from our homes, from our country, stole all we had, assassinated us in dozens, in hundreds, murdered our King?

  [He walks the floor, gesticulating nervously.]

  When I saw relative after relative of my own — aye, and of yours, too — dragged to the abattoir — even poor, harmless, kind André de Laseyne, whom they took simply because he was my brother-in-law — was I not patient? And when I came back to Paris for you and Anne, and had to lie hid in a stable, every hour in greater danger because you would not be persuaded to join us, was I not patient? And when you finally did consent, but protested every step of the way, pouting and —

  ELOISE [stung]. “Pouting!”] —

  LOUIS. And when that stranger came posting after us so obvious a spy —

  ELOISE [scornfully]. Pooh! He is nothing. Louis. IS there a league between here and Paris over which he has not dogged us? By diligence, on horseback, on foot, turning up at every posting-house, every roadside inn, the while you laughed at me because I read death in his face! These two days we have been here, is there an hour when you could look from that window except to see him grinning up from the wine-shop door down there?

  ELOISE [impatiently, but with a somewhat conscious expression]. I tell you not to fear him. There is nothing in it.

  LOUIS [looking at her keenly]. Be sure I understand why you do not think him a spy! You believe he has followed us because you — ELOISE. I expected that! Oh, I knew it would come! [Furiously.] I never saw the man before in my life!

  LOUIS [pacing the floor]. He is unmistakable; his trade is stamped on him; a hired trailer of your precious “Nation’s.”

  ELOISE [haughtily]. The Nation is the People. You malign because you fear. The People is sacred!

  LOUIS [with increasing bitterness]. Arent you tired yet of the Palais Royal platitudes? I have been patient with your Mericourtisms for so long. Yes, always I was patient. Always there was time; there was danger, but there was a little time.

  [He faces her, his voice becoming louder, his gestures more vehement.]

  But now the Jeune Pierrette sails this hour, and if we are not out of here and on her deck when she leaves the quay, my head rolls in Samson’s basket within the week, with Anne’s and your own to follow! Now, I tell you, there is no more time, and now —

  ELOISE [suavely]. Yes? Well? “Now?”

  [He checks himself; his lifted hand falls to his side.]

  LOUIS [in a gentle voice]. I am still patient.

  [He looks into her eyes, makes her a low and formal obeisance, and drops dejectedly into the chair at the desk.]

  ELOISE [dangerously]. Is the oration concluded?

  LOUIS. Quite.

  ELOISE [suddenly volcanic]. Then “now” you’ll perhaps be “patient” enough to explain why I shouldn’t leave you instantly. Understand fully that I have come thus far with you and Anne solely to protect you in case you were suspected. “Now” my little man, you are safe: you have only to go on board your vessel. Why should I go with you? Why do you insist on dragging me out of the country?

  LOUIS [wearily]. Only to save your life; that is all.

  ELOISE. My life! Tut! My life is safe with the People — my People!

  [She draws herself up magnificently.]

  The Nation would protect me! I gave the people my whole fortune when they were starving. After that, who in France dare lay a finger upon the Citizeness Eloise d’Anville!

  LOUIS. I have the idea sometimes, my cousin, that perhaps if you had not given them your property they would have taken it, anyway. [Dryly.] They did mine.

  ELOISE [agitated]. I do not expect you to comprehend what I felt — what I feel!

  [She lifts her arms longingly.]

  Oh, for a Man! — a Man who could understand me!

  LOUIS [sadly]. That excludes me!

  ELOISE. Shall I spell it?

  LOUIS. YOU are right. So far from understanding you, I understand nothing. The age is too modern for me. I do not understand why this rabble is permitted to rule France; I do not even understand why it is permitted to live.

  ELOISE [with superiority]. Because you belong to the class that thought itself made of porcelain and the rest of the world clay. It is simple: the mud-ball breaks the vase.

  LOUIS. YOU belong to the same class, even to the same family.

  ELOISE. YOU are wrong. One circumstance proves me no aristocrat.

  LOUIS. What circumstance?

  ELOISE. That I happened to be born with brains. I can account for it only by supposing some hushed-up ancestral scandal. [Brusquely.] Do you understand that?

  LOUIS. I overlook it.

  [He writes again.]

  ELOISE. Quibbling was always a habit of yours. [Snapping at him irritably.] Oh, stop that writing! You can’t do it, and you don’t need it. You blame the people because they turn on you now, after you’ve whipped and beaten and ground them underfoot for centuries and centuries and —

  LOUIS. Quite a career for a man of twenty-nine!

  ELOISE. I have said that quibbling was — LOUIS [despondently]. Perhaps it is. To return to my other deficiencies, I do not understand why this spy who followed us from Paris has not arrested me long before now. I do not under stand why you hate me. I do not understand the world in general. And in particular I do not understand the art of forgery!

  [He throws down his pen.] ELOISE. YOU talk of “patience”! How often have I explained that you would not need passports of any kind if you would let me throw off my incognito. If any one questions you, it will be sufficient if I give my name. All France knows the Citizeness Eloise d’Anville. Do you suppose the officer on the quay would dare oppose —

  LOUIS [with a gesture of resignation]. I know you think it.

  ELOISE [angrily]. You tempt me not to prove it. But for Anne’s sake —

  LOUIS. Not for mine. That, at least, I understand. [He rises.] My dear cousin, I am going to be very serious —

  ELOISE. O heaven!

  [She flings away from him.]

  LOUIS [plaintively]. I shall not make another oration —

  ELOISE. Make anything you choose. [Drumming the floor with her foot.] What does it matter?

  LOUIS. I have a presentiment — I ask you to listen —

  ELOISE [in her irritation almost screaming]. How can I help but listen? And Anne, too! [With a short laugh.] You k
now as well as I do that when that door is open everything you say in this room is heard in there.

  [She points to the open doorway, where MADAME DE LASEYNE instantly makes her appearance, and after exchanging one fiery glance with ELOISE as swiftly withdraws, closing the door behind her with outraged emphasis.]

  ELOISE [breaking into a laugh]. Forward, soldiers!

  LOUIS [reprovingly]. Eloise!

  ELOISE. Well, open the door, then, if you want her to hear you make love to me! [Coolly.] That’s what you’re going to do isn’t it?

  LOUIS [with imperfect self-control]. I wish to ask you for the last time —

  ELOISE [flouting]. There are so many last times!

  LOUIS. TO ask you if you are sure that you know your own heart. You cared for me once, and —

  ELOISE [as if this were news indeed]. I did? Who under heaven ever told you that?

  LOUIS [flushing]. You allowed yourself to be betrothed to me, I believe.

  ELOISE. “Allowed” is the word, precisely. I seem to recall changing all that the very day I became an orphan — and my own master! [Satirically polite.] Pray correct me if my memory errs. How long ago was it? Six years? Seven?

  LOUIS [with emotion]. Eloise, Eloise, you did love me then! We were happy, both of us, so very happy —

  ELOISE [sourly]. “Both!” My faith! But I must have been a brave little actress.

  LOUIS. I do not believe it. You loved me. I — [He hesitates.]

  ELOISE. DO get on with what you have to say.

  LOUIS [in a low voice]. I have many forebodings, Eloise, but the strongest — and for me the saddest — is that this is the last chance you will ever have to tell — to tell me —

  [He falters again.]

  ELOISE [irritated beyond measure, shouting]. To tell you what?

  LOUIS [swallowing]. That your love for me still lingers.

  ELOISE [promptly]. Well, it doesn’t. So that’s over!

  LOUIS. Not quite yet. I —

  ELOISE [dropping into a chair]. O Death!

  LOUIS [still gently]. Listen. I have hope that you and Anne may be permitted to escape; but as for me, since the first moment I felt the eyes of that spy from Paris upon me I have had the premonition that I would be taken back — to the guillotine, Eloise. I am sure that he will arrest me when I attempt to leave this place to-night. [With sorrowful earnestness.] And it is with the certainty in my soul that this is our last hour together that I ask you if you cannot tell me that the old love has come back. Is there nothing in your heart for me?

  ELOISE. Was there anything in your heart for the beggar who stood at your door in the old days?

  LOUIS. IS there nothing for him who stands at yours now, begging for a word?

  ELOISE [frowning]. I remember you had the name of a disciplinarian in your regiment.

  [She rises to face him.]

  Did you ever find anything in your heart for the soldiers you ordered tied up and flogged? Was there anything in your heart for the peasants who starved in your fields?

  LOUIS [quietly]. No; it was too full of you.

  ELOISE. Words! Pretty little words!

  LOUIS. Thoughts. Pretty, because they are of you. All, always of you — always, my dear. I never really think of anything but you. The picture of you is always before the eyes of my soul; the very name of you is forever in my heart. [With a rueful smile.] And it is on the tips of my fingers, sometimes when it shouldn’t be. See.

  [He steps to the desk and shows her a scribbled sheet.]

  This is what I laughed at a while ago. I tried to write, with you near me, and unconsciously I let your name creep into my very forgery! I wrote it as I wrote it in the sand when we were children; as I have traced it a thousand times on coated mirrors — on frosted windows.

  [He reads the writing aloud.] “Permit the Citizen Balsage and his sister, the Citizeness Virginie Belsage, and his second sister, the Citizeness Marie Balsage, and Eloise d’Anville” — so I wrote!— “to embark upon the vessel Jeune Pierrette—” You see?

  [He lets the paper fall upon the desk.]

  Even in this danger, that I feel closer and closer with every passing second, your name came in of itself. I am like that English Mary: if they will open my heart when I am dead, they shall find, not “Calais,” but “Eloise”!

  ELOISE [going to the dressing-table]. Louis, that doesn’t interest me.

  [She adds a delicate touch or two to her hair, studying it thoughtfully in the dressing-table mirror.]

  LOUIS [somberly]. I told you long ago —

  ELOISE [smiling at her reflection]. So you did — often!

  LOUIS [breathing quickly]. I have nothing new to offer. I understand. I bore you.

  ELOISE. Louis, to be frank: I don’t care what they find in your heart when they open it.

  LOUIS [with a hint of sternness]. Have you never reflected that there might be something for me to forgive you?

  ELOISE [glancing at him over her shoulder in frowning surprise]. What!

  LOUIS. I wonder sometimes if you have ever found a flaw in your own character.

  ELOISE [astounded]. So!

  [Turning sharply upon him.]

  You are assuming the right to criticize me, are you? Oho!

  LOUIS [agitated]. I state merely — I have said — I think I forgive you a great deal —

  ELOISE [beginning to char]. You do! You bestow your gracious pardon upon me, do you? [Bursting into flame.] Keep your forgiveness to yourself! When I want it I’ll kneel at your feet and beg it of you! You can kiss me then, for then you will know that “the old love has come back”!

  LOUIS [miserably]. When you kneel —

  ELOISE. Can you picture it — Marquis?

  [She hurls his title at him, and draws herself up in icy splendor.] I am a woman of the Republic!

  LOUIS. And the Republic has no need of love.

  ELOISE. Its daughter has no need of yours!

  LOUIS. Until you kneel to me. You have spoken. It is ended.

  [Turning from her with a pathetic gesture of farewell and resignation, his attention is suddenly arrested by something invisible. He stands for a moment transfixed. When he speaks, it is in an altered tone, light and at the same time ominous.]

  My cousin, suffer the final petition of a bore. Forgive my seriousness; forgive my stupidity, for I believe that what one hears now means that a number of things are indeed ended. Myself among them.

  ELOISE [not comprehending]. “What one hears?”

  LOUIS [slowly]. In the distance.

  [Both stand motionless to listen, and the room is silent. Gradually a muffled, multitudinous sound, at first very faint, becomes audible.]

  ELOISE. What is it?

  LOUIS [with pale composure]. Only a song!

  [The distant sound becomes distinguishable as a singing from many unmusical throats and pitched in every key, a drum-beat booming underneath; a tumultuous rumble which grows slowly louder. The door of the inner room opens, and MADAME DE LASEYNE enters.]

  ANNE [briskly, as she comes in]. I have hidden the cloak and the dress beneath the mattress. Have you —

  LOUIS [lifting his hand]. Listen!

  [She halts, startled. The singing, the drums, and the tumult swell suddenly much louder, as if the noise-makers had turned a corner.]

  ANNE [crying out]. The “Marseillaise”!

  LOUIS. The “Vultures’ Chorus”!

  ELOISE [in a ringing voice]. The Hymn of Liberty!

  ANNE [trembling violently]. It grows louder.

  LOUIS. Nearer!

  ELOISE [running to the window]. They are coming this way!

  ANNE [rushing ahead of her]. They have turned the corner of the street. Keep back, Louis!

  ELOISE [leaning out of the window, enthusiastically]. Vive la —

  [She finishes with an indignant gurgle as ANNE DE LASEYNE, without comment, claps a prompt hand over her mouth and pushes her vigorously from the window.]

  ANNE. A mob — carrying torches and dancing
. [Her voice shaking wildly.] They are following a troop of soldiers.

  LOUIS. The National Guard.

  ANNE. Keep back from the window! Aman in a tricolor scarf marching in front.

  LOUIS. A political, then — an official of their government.

  ANNE. O Virgin, have mercy!

  [She turns a stricken face upon her brother.]

  It is that —

  LOUIS [biting his nails]. Of course. Our spy.

  [He takes a hesitating step toward the desk; but swings about, goes to the door at the rear, shoots the bolt back and forth, apparently unable to decide upon a course of action; finally leaves the door bolted and examines the hinges. ANNE, meanwhile, has hurried to the desk, and, seizing a candle there, begins to light others in a candelabrum on the dressing-table. The noise out side grows to an uproar; the “Marseillaise” changes to “Çaira”; and a shaft of the glare from the torches below shoots through the window and becomes a staggering red patch on the ceiling.] ANNE [feverishly]. Lights! Light those candles in the sconce, Eloise! Light all the candles we have.

  [ELOISE, resentful, does not move.] Louis. NO, no! Put them out!

  ANNE. Oh, fatal!

  [She stops him as he rushes to obey his own command.]

  If our window is lighted he will believe we have no thought of leaving, and pass by.

  [She hastily lights the candles in a sconce upon the wall as she speaks; the shabby place is now brightly illuminated.]

  LOUIS. He will not pass by.

  [The external tumult culminates in riotous yelling, as, with a final roll, the drums cease to beat. MADAME DE LASEYNE runs again to the window.]

  ELOISE [sullenly]. You are disturbing yourselves without reason. They will not stop here.

  ANNE [in a sickly whisper]. They have stopped.

  LOUIS. At the door of this house?

  [MADAME DE LASEYNE, leaning against the wall, is unable to reply, save by a gesture. The noise from the street dwindles to a confused, expectant murmur. Louis takes a pistol from beneath his blouse, strides to the door, and listens.]