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Madame Cogé [in a high voice]. You make me tired. So there.
Lamblin. Don't scream so! I tell you, I wouldn't go out to-night for anything under the sun. Yesterday, Heaven knows, I was only too happy to be with you: we enjoyed ourselves; it was most pleasant. As for this evening—no: to-morrow. We decided on Mondays, Wednesday, Fridays, and a Sunday from time to time. I have no wish to alter that schedule. I'm regulated like a cuckoo clock. You don't seem to believe that. I strike when I'm intended to strike.
Madame Cogé. That is as much as to say that you like me three days a week, and the rest of the time I mean as little to you as the Grand Turk! That's a queer kind of love!
Lamblin. Not at all. I think of you very often, and if you were to disappear, I should miss you a great deal. Only it's a long way between that and disturbing my equilibrium.
Madame Cogé. And I suppose you love your wife?
Lamblin. Are you jealous?
Madame Cogé. I am, and I have reason to be be....
Lamblin. How childish of you! You know very well that you are the only woman, only—
Madame Cogé. Ah, there is an "only"!
Lamblin. Yes,—only, just because I love you is no reason why I should feel no affection for her, and that you should treat her as you do! She is so devoted!
Madame Cogé. What is there so extraordinary about her?
Lamblin [becoming excited]. She does for me what others would not do—you for instance! She has a steady affection for me; I keep it for my bad moments; her action doesn't turn in every wind. You should see her, so resigned, so anxious to do everything for my comfort and convenience! She's worried when I have a headache, she runs for my slippers when I come home in wet weather—from your house! [Deeply moved.] You see that cognac there? That was the second glass I poured out for myself this evening; the moment I started to drink it her little hand stretched forth and took it from me, because she said I would make myself ill! [He starts to weep.] You know, I poured it out just in order that she should prevent my drinking it. These things stir the heart! [A pause.] Now you must go.
Madame Cogé. No, no. I love you, and I—
Lamblin. You are selfish. And you know I can't stand selfish people. You want to deprive me of a quiet evening in the bosom of my family.
Madame Cogé. I want you to love me, and me alone. I want you to leave your home if need be.
Lamblin. Yes, and if I were to fall sick—which might happen, though I have a strong constitution, thank God!—I know you. You're the best woman in the world, but that doesn't prevent your being a little superficial!
Madame Cogé. Superficial!
Lamblin. Yes, you are, and you can't deny it! Your dropping in on me, like a bolt from the blue, proves it conclusively. And when you once begin chattering about yourself, about your dresses, oh, my! You never stop. You can't be serious, your conversation is not the sort that pleases a man, flatters and amuses him.
Madame Cogé. Oh!
Lamblin. You never talk about him! One night I remember, I was a little sick and you sent me home. There they made tea for me. The cook was already in bed, and Marthe didn't hesitate an instant to go to the kitchen and soil her hands!
Madame Cogé. When was that? When was that?
Lamblin. For God's sake, don't scream so! Not more than two weeks ago.
Madame Cogé. You didn't say what was the matter with you, that's all.
Lamblin. I complained enough, Heaven knows. [A pause.]
Madame Cogé. Then you won't come?
Lamblin. No.
Madame Cogé [resolutely]. Very well, then, farewell.
Lamblin. Now, you mustn't get angry. [He puts his arm round her waist]. You know I can't do without you. You are always my dear little Mathilde, my darling little girl. Aren't you? Do you remember yesterday, eh? You know I love you—deeply?
Madame Cogé. On Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and from time to time on Sundays. Thanks! [She starts to go.]
Lamblin. Mathilde!
Madame Cogé. Good evening. [Returning to him.] Do you want me to tell you something? Though I may be superficial, 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.
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