A SUPREME MOMENT1

A PLAY IN ONE ACT

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

NORMAN LUARD, An English diplomat.

SIR CHARLES CAMPBELL, His friend (young)

MADELEINE DEBRAY, A celebrated French actress.
JOSEPHINE BOULET, Her former friend.

CHRISTINE, A French bonne.

SCENE I.

MADELEINE DEBRAY's salon on the Boulevard Haussmann, Paris.

SCENE II. Three hours later.

Same place.

SCENE I

A room in a flat on the Boulevard Haussmann, elegantly furnished, bric-à-brac, &c., lots of flowers, an open window on the right showing a balcony with sun-blinds stretched over it. Beyond are seen the tops of trees on the Boulevard and the windows of houses opposite. Plants in the balcony. Before the window, inside, there is stretched a white rug; on it are two low wicker chairs with silk cushions, &c.; on either side of the window between the chairs is a little table large enough to hold a coffee service and a bowl of roses. All manner of knick-knacks about the room. A door faces stage on the L., and when open shows the vestibule or hall leading to outer door at the end. Between the door and the window is a grand piano put sideways, so that when any one is seated at it the player faces the window and one side of the room, three-quarters face to audience. There is a door near footlights on the L. On the R., nearer the window and still nearer the footlights, and against the wall of the room a tall cabinet; on the top of the cabinet a little antique casket. The fireplace is on the L. of stage, and has flowers and photographs, &c., upon it. There must be a little writing-table included in the furniture of the room.

TIME.-5 P.M. on a June day.

Copyright; dramatic rights secured.

MADELEINE DEBRAY leans against the mantelpiece. She is tall and slim and distinguished-looking; between 28 and 35; very simply dressed in a sort of tea-gown with sleeves that fall back. Her hair is done very simply. She appears to be in a state of depression and impatience, and she is obviously listening, waiting, and nervous. She clasps her hands now and then, or puts her head down in them as if she were pursuing a train of thought to which everything is an interruption.

JOSEPHINE BOULET is seated on a low couch near the cabinet, facing MADELEINE and the fireplace: she is about same age, quietly dressed in walking costume, and obviously belongs to the upper bourgeois class.

JOSEPHINE. I will be, going, Madeleine (half rises, then hesitates). I will go in five minutes-give me five minutes more. I have looked forward to this day so much; it is a long time since we met, and it is strange to see you rich and famous.

MADELEINE. What does it matter?

JOSEPHINE. Matter! Why, it is magnificent! I do not wonder that you look different-that you are proud

MADELEINE. Proud! I have nothing to be proud of.

JOSEPHINE. Nothing! My dear Madeleine! Why, all Marseilles is proud of you.

MADELEINE (restlessly). I wish we were at Marseilles now, Josephine, and girls together again, walking up to early Mass at Notre Dame de la Garde. Sometimes I shut my eyes and fancy I am going up the winding path again, or stand by the sea to look back at the gilt statue of Our Lady that seems to watch over the whole city. We used to see it every day of our lives, every time we raised our eyes.

JOSEPHINE. Yes, every time; and who would have dreamt of all this then? Do you remember the day when you played your first part in M. Chaudet's new comedy at the Marseilles Theatre, and

MADELEINE (impatiently crossing the room). Is it likely that I should forget? I was seventeen then-one forgets nothing that one did at seventeen. What a long year it seemed—that first one at the Marseilles Theatre-a long good year! It was through Monsieur Chaudet that I went to Avignon.

JOSEPHINE. You were there for two years?

MADELEINE. Yes, two years. Two years at Avignon—(to herself as if forgetting JOSEPHINE) and it was there that the sun rose, that my heart stirred, and I began to live.

JOSEPHINE (puzzled). You mean it was there that you began to think you would be famous?

MADELEINE. Famous? Fame is no good to any woman in the world except as a means of bringing to her the man she loves, or of

making him rejoice because she of whom every one is talking lives only for him.

JOSEPHINE. But it isn't so with you, Madeleine?

MADELEINE. Nothing is so with me-nothing and everything. JOSEPHINE. It is extraordinary! You have everything that heart could wish for, and yet

MADELEINE (coldly). No! I have only everything that ambition desires (stops breathlessly as the ting of a bell is heard, and looks eagerly towards the door).

Enter CHRISTINE, the conventional French bonne, in cap and apron, &c., with a letter on tray. MADELEINE takes a step forward, draws back disappointedly, takes the letter, and throws it carelessly on one side. Exit CHRISTINE.

MADELEINE (recovering with an effort, and evidently trying to entertain her visitor). But what can I do for you, my dear Josephine? It is unfortunate that I do not play till Thursday, but there are other theatres. You and Madame, your aunt, must go to everything

JOSEPHINE. But we came to see you-Madeleine Debray, who was once known to us all at Marseilles, and is now the greatest actress in France.

days

MADELEINE (wearily). But the theatre will not open for three

Enter CHRISTINE with a magnificent basket of flowers.

CHRISTINE. Madame, Monsieur le Duc

MADELEINE (impatiently). Take them away!

CHRISTINE. Will Madame have them placed on the balcony?

MADELEINE. No, no! Take them away. Let them be sent to the hospital, for the children.

CHRISTINE. Yes, Madame.

[Exit CHRISTINE. JOSEPHINE. Monsieur le Duc!-in Marseilles they say that you have hundreds of lovers.

MADELEINE (turning quickly). And every woman who has hundreds of lovers would gladly see them all dead at her feet for one single hour with some man who has never been her lover, or who has ceased to be one. (Cynically) I should have thought you might have known that, even at Marseilles.

! *

JOSEPHINE. It is so with you, Madeleine?

MADELEINE. Nothing is so with me-nothing and everything; I have told you that already . . . Josephine, my friend, I am tired— you must go. To-morrow you shall come and see my dresses if you like, and my jewels

JOSEPHINE. Yes, I will go (rising). I expected to find you so gay, so happy-but

I have

MADELEINE. You have come on a bad day, that is all my moods, my changes, my parts to play in life as well as on the

stage... My part to-day is-waiting . . . I cannot give out to you, I am taking in so much myself. Go away now, Josephine, but come to-morrow, dear friend. At noon we will eat our déjeuner, and then we will drive in the Bois and talk of all that we remember, you and I-of Marseilles before I was famous and when we were both poor. JOSEPHINE. And you must tell me about Avignon. I have not seen you since—it must be eight years.

MADELEINE. And I will tell you about Avignon. The whole world seemed to have found its way into a dream there to give itself up to the joy of living-to fill every hour so full one could have died of happiness; but now- -now it is all different. You had better go, Josephine; I must be alone-go, dear—

JOSEPHINE. You are so strange, Madeleine, I can't understand you; but perhaps you are studying the new part

MADELEINE. Yes, yes, perhaps I am studying the new part. Here is your little cloak; let me put it on To-morrow we will be gay. Adieu, my friend.

JOSEPHINE. Adieu, dear Madeleine.

...

[They embrace. Exit JOSEPHINE. MADELEINE (with a sigh of relief as the door closes). She is gone!... (Stands still for a moment struggling to control herself, walks across the room, throws herself across a chair and leans her face against the back of it; gets up again and says passionately to herself) If I could have seen him die it would have been bettersorrow only breaks one's heart-but scorn-the scorn I feel for him (clasping her hands), seems to burn my soul out . . . He has been so cruel, so insolent and he is afraid to come and yet I love him -that man! whom I now see clearly .. though I shrink from him and long to tread him under my feet, I love him. Oh! Holy Mother, you know how I love him, and have loved him! that I would face all the world for him, in shame or pain, if he willed-or conquer it for him, and bring it to his feet with triumph; but he, he would do nothing-nothing for me for me who remember all—his vows, his entreaties and he doesn't know what courage means-coward that he is when I die I will leave him my little finger (throws herself down again with a cry of pain). I cannot bear it! Oh! dear God, I cannot bear it; be merciful and do not make me. (The door opens; she stifles another cry and turns quickly.)

Enter CHRISTINE.

MADELEINE (impatiently). What is it, Christine-is there anything?

CHRISTINE. Madame, I have a letter from my sister at Saint-Cloud. The little son is ill again if Madame does not want me this evening, I might go and see him. There would be time after the dinner to go and return before ten o'clock.

MADELEINE (who has listened like a woman in a dream). Yes, yes, Christine, you can go—I shall not want any dinner; but you can put it ready-that will be enough.

CHRISTINE. Thank you, Madame.

[As CHRISTINE is about to go, MADELEINE calls her back impatiently, and speaks as if she had remembered a necessary duty and is in haste to perform it.

MADELEINE. Christine! You must take the little one something -there are raspberries and cakes; if you come to me before you go, I will give you a present for him.

CHRISTINE. Thank you, Madame. Madame is always so thoughtful, so good to all the world. (She waits for an acknowledgment, but MADELEINE has turned away.)

[The ting of the bell is heard again, MADELEINE's hands

lock almost affrighted in each other; she crosses the stage and leans against the cabinet as if to steady herself.

CHRISTINE (with an air of certainty). Voilà!-Monsieur. It is a long time since he has been to see Madame

it.

MADELEINE (looking towards the door). Go!

CHRISTINE. It is surely his ring; I always know the manner of (Exit CHRISTINE. She returns in a moment and announces 'Monsieur Luard.')

Enter NORMAN LUARD.

[Exit CHRISTINE, shutting the door. [The man who has entered is tall and dark; about five-and-thirty; he has a cold and distinguished manner. He bows to MADELEINE as he enters, and they stand facing each other in silence for a moment after the door is shut, she with her head put back, still leaning against the cabinet, he half curiously. LUARD. Well? What is it, Madeleine?

MADELEINE (with a long sigh and speaking breathlessly). You have come!

LUARD. You insisted.

MADELEINE. Why didn't you write? I sent you so many letters; a man usually answers—

LUARD. I had nothing to say.

MADELEINE (scornfully). And silence is so valorous!

LUARD (polite, yet evidently impatient). Did you send for me to have a final quarrel? It was hardly worth while.

MADELEINE. Perhaps. But, as you say, it was hardly worth while. When do you go to England?

LUARD. To-night at nine, from the Gare St.-Lazare. I have