nd!

ADELE. The end for you, yes. But you never think of us!

DURAND. No, I have never thought of you, never!

ADELE. Do you begrudge us our bringing-up?

DURAND. I am only answering an unjust reproach. Go now, and I'll meet
the storm--as usual.

ADELE. As usual--h'm!

[Goes. Antonio comes in from back.]

ANTONIO. Good morning, Monsieur Durand.

DURAND. Monsieur Lieutenant has already been out for a walk?

ANTONIO. Yes, I've been down toward Cully and saw them put out a chimney
fire. Now, some coffee will taste particularly good.

DURAND. It's needless to say how it pains me to have to tell you that on
account of insufficient supplies our house can no longer continue to do
business.

ANTONIO. How is that?

DURAND. To speak plainly, we are bankrupt.

ANTONIO. But, my good Monsieur Durand, is there no way of helping you
out of what I hope is just a temporary embarrassment?

DURAND. No, there is no possible way out. The condition of the house has
been so completely undermined for many years that I had rather the crash
would come than live in a state of anxiety day and night, expecting what
must come.

ANTONIO. Nevertheless I believe you are looking at the dark side of
things.

DURAND. I can't see what makes you doubt my statement.

ANTONIO. Because I want to help you.

DURAND. I don't wish any help. Privation must come and teach my children
to lead a different life from this which is all play. With the exception
of Adele, who really does take care of the kitchen, what do the others
do? Play, and sing, and promenade, and flirt; and as long as there is a
crust of bread in the house, they'll never do anything useful.

ANTONIO. Granting that, but until the finances are straightened out we
must have bread in the house. Allow me to stay a month longer and I will
pay my bill in advance.

DURAND. No, thank you, we must stick to this course even if it leads
us into the lake! And I don't want to continue in this business, which
doesn't bring bread--nothing but humiliations. Just think how it was
last spring, when the house had been empty for three months. Then at
last an American family came and saved us. The morning after their
arrival I ran across the son catching hold of my daughter on the stairs.
It was Therese,--he was trying to kiss her. What would you have done in
my case?

ANTONIO [Confused]. I don't know--

DURAND. I know what I, as a father, should have done,
but--father-like--I didn't do it.