Collected Works (Vol. III)

THE SIRE DE MALETROIT’S DOOR SI marry you. I do not love you, or you me. [Astde.] Half a lie is better than no truth. [Aloud.] I will not ruin your life—and I can commit suicide by merest idleness, a talent I am master of, and one most agree- able to my nature. BLANCHE, Oh! Monsieur Denys, but I love you. [Comes and clings to hts knees.) I dot I do! I will not kill myself, but I will make you love me—— DENYS. A harder task than you think, little one. BLANCHE. Or tolerate me at least. [ Crees. DENYS. O bother ! I shall cry too in a minute. BLANCHE. You are very unkind. I hate you. DENYS. How much of all this is truth? What with pity and drawing-room manners and so on, Truth is the kernel of a devilish hard nut. They say she lives at the bottom of a well—where one is drowned. [Looks down, craning, as tf tntoawell.| St. Denys grant I may find her at the end of a rope— where one is hanged. [With gesture ap- propriate. | [BLANCHE curls herself up in chair and sobs bitterly. DENYS goes to window and looks gloomily out. [Mimics ALAIN.] Hooks. Iron hooks. Fastened into the wall. Strong. H’m! and there is the Lady BI— oh! curséd luck—do you clap me on the shoulder like a good comrade? No! you get round my neck like a lover! Oh! was ever gallant VOL. III. in such a scrape before? But dawn cannot be far off: I shall—swing myself lightly out of it. BLANCHE, [ Sobbing. } Denys ! Monsieur Denys! Monsieur DENYS. She has my name pat enough. O poor little girl! If only I didn’t love her, with what a good will would I marry her. The nearer one comes to it, the clearer one sees that death is a dark and dusty corner, where a man lies hidden and forgotten till the archangel’s — broom. I have few friends now : once I am dead I shall have none. BLANCHE. [ Falters.] You forget Blanche de Maleé- troit, DENYS. You have a sweet nature, Mademoiselle, and you are pleased to estimate a little service far beyond its worth. BLANCHE. No, sir, I say more: I recognise in you a spirit that should not give the fas to the noblest man in France. DENYS. And yet hereI die in a mousetrap—with no more noise about it than squeaking. my own LA pause. BLANCHE. I cannot have my champion think so meanly of himself. DENYS. [Aszde.] Ah! could I forget that I was asked in pity and not in love! [4dvances, checks himself, round and goes to window. F STUTNES