eat deal.

MARQUIS. Sir, your sentiments do you honour.

MACAIRE. My lord, you are rich.

MARQUIS. Well, sir?

MACAIRE. Now follow me, I beseech you. Here am I, my lord; and there, if
I may so express myself, are you. Each has a father's heart, and there
we are equal; each claims yon interesting lad, and there again we are on
a par. But, my lord--and here we come to the inequality, and what I
consider the unfairness of the thing--you have thirty thousand francs,
and I, my lord, have not a rap. You mark me! not a rap, my lord! My
lord, put yourself in my position; consider what must be my feelings, my
desires; and--hey?

MARQUIS. I fail to grasp....

MACAIRE (_with irritation_). My dear man, there is the door of the
house; here am I; there (_touching MARQUIS on the breast_) are thirty
thousand francs. Well, now?

MARQUIS. I give you my word of honour, sir, I gather nothing; my mind is
quite unused to such prolonged exertion. If the boy be yours, he is not
mine; if he be mine, he is not yours; and if he is neither of ours, or
both of ours ... in short, my mind....

MACAIRE. My lord, will you lay those thirty thousand francs upon the
table?

MARQUIS. I fail to grasp ... but if it will in any way oblige you....
(_Does so._)

MARCAIRE. Now, my lord, follow me: I take them up; you see? I put them
in my pocket; you follow me? This is my hat; here is my stick; and here
is my--my friend's bundle.

MARQUIS. But that is my cloak.

MARCAIRE. Precisely. Now, my lord, one more effort of your lordship's
mind. If I were to go out of that door, with the full intention--follow
me close--the full intention of never being heard of more, what would
you do?

MARQUIS. I!--send for the police.

MARCAIRE. Take your money! (_Dashing down the notes._) Man, if I met you
in a lane! (_He drops his head upon the table._)

MARQUIS. The poor soul is insane. The other man, whom I suppose to be
his keeper, is very much to blame.

MARCAIRE (_raising his head_). I have a light! (_To MARQUIS._) With
invincible oafishness, my lord, I cannot struggle. I pass you by; I
leave you gaping by the wayside; I blush to have a share in the progeny
of such an owl. Off, off, and send the tapster!

MARQUIS. Poor fellow! (_Exit._)

SCENE V

_MARCAIRE, to whom BERTRAND. Afterwards DUMONT_

BERTRAND. Well?

MARCAIRE. Bitten!

BERTRAND. Sold again!

MARCAIRE. Had he the wit of a lucifer-match! But what can gods or men
against stupidity