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-WHAT'S NEW? -MOLIÈRE!

MOLIÈRE'S THE IMPOSTURES OF SCAPIN

A ROGER COGGIO FILM

What sad news for one in love!

What sad news for one...

Is what Silvestre told Nérine true?

What sad news...

What sad news for one in love!

You may say rubbish, but I will.

We're saying "rubbish"!

What sad news for one in love!

What a hard fate to be reduced to!

Silvestre, you heard at the harbor that my father is coming back?

Yes.

This very morning?

This very morning.

With the intention of marrying me?

Of marrying you.

To a daughter of Mr. Géronte?

Of Mr. Géronte.

And that she is on her way for that purpose?

Yes!

And it comes from my uncle?

-From your uncle. -My father has told this in a letter?

In a letter.

And this uncle knows all about our doings?

All our doings.

Oh! Speak, don't force me to wrench everything from you.

What is the use of my speaking? You don't forget one single detail.

At least advise me what I ought to do in this wretched business.

I feel as much perplexed, and need the advice of someone.

I'm undone by this unforeseen return.

And I no less.

When he hears, a storm of reprimands will burst upon me.

Reprimands are not very heavy to bear,

would to heaven I were free at that price!

But I'm very likely to pay dearly for all your wild doings,

and I see a storm of blows ready

to burst upon my shoulders.

How am I to clear the difficulties!

You should have thought of that before.

Don't plague me to death with lectures.

You plague me much more by your foolish deeds.

What am I to do?

What steps must I take?

What recourse?

How now, Mr. Octave? What is the matter with you? What is it?

What trouble are you in? You are upset.

My dear Scapin, I'm in despair,

I am lost, I am the most unfortunate of mortals.

How is that?

Don't you know what has happened?

No.

My father is returning with Mr. Géronte, they want to marry me.

Well,

what is there so dreadful about that?

You don't know what cause I have to be anxious?

No. But it only depends on you that I should soon know.

And I'm a man of consolation,

who can interest himself in the troubles of the young.

Ah! Scapin, if you could find some scheme, invent some plot,

to get me out of the trouble I am in,

I should think myself indebted to you for more than life.

To tell you the truth,

there are few things impossible to me

when I once set about them.

Heaven has bestowed on me a fair enough share of genius

for the making up of those neat strokes of wit,

for all those ingenious gallantries

to which the ignorant and vulgar give the name of impostures.

And I can boast, without vanity, that there have been few men

more skillful than I in expedients and intrigues,

and who have acquired a greater reputation in the noble profession.

But, to tell the truth,

merit is too ill rewarded nowadays,

and I have given up everything

since a certain affair which happened to me.

How? What affair, Scapin?

An adventure

in which justice and I fell out.

Justice and you?

Yes, we had a trifling quarrel.

With justice?

Yes.

She used me very badly,

and I felt so enraged against the ingratitude of our age

that I determined never to do anything for anybody.

Never mind.

Tell me about yourself all the same.

Two months ago

Mr. Géronte and my father set out, about a certain business.

-I know. -And both Léandre

and I were left,

I under Silvestre,

and Léandre under you.

Yes, I have acquitted myself very well of my charge.

Sometime afterwards,

Léandre met with a young gypsy girl, with whom he fell in love.

I know that too.

As we are great friends, he told me at once of his love,

and took me to see this girl, whom I thought good-looking,

but not so beautiful as he would have had me believe.

He never spoke of anything but her,

he exaggerated her grace and her beauty,

extolled her intellect,

spoke to me with transport of the charms of her conversation,

and related her most insignificant saying,

which he wanted me to think the cleverest thing in the world.

He often found fault with me

for not thinking as highly as he imagined I ought to

and blamed me

for being insensible to the power of love.

I do not see what you're aiming at.

One day, as I was going with him

to the people who have charge of the girl,

we heard in a small house on a by-street,

lamentations mixed with a good deal of sobbing.

We inquired what it was,

and were told by a woman

we might see there a most piteous sight, two strangers,

and unless we were quite insensible, we should be touched with it.

Where will this lead to?

Curiosity made me urge Léandre to come in with me.

We went into a low room,

where we saw an old woman dying,

and with her a servant uttering lamentations,

and a young girl

dissolved in tears,

the most beautiful, the most touching sight that you ever saw.

Oh! oh!

Any other person would have seemed frightful,

for all the dress she had on was a scanty old petticoat,

with a night jacket of plain fustian.

And turned back at the top

of her head a yellow cap,

which let her hair fall in disorder on her shoulders.

And yet dressed even thus she shone with a thousand attractions.

And all her person

was most charming and pleasant.

I begin to understand.

Had you but seen her, Scapin,

as I did, you would have thought her admirable.

Oh! I have no doubt about it, and without seeing her,

I plainly perceive she must have been charming.

Her tears were none of those unpleasant tears

which spoil the face.

She had

a most touching grace

in weeping.

And her sorrow was a most beautiful thing to witness.

I can see all that.

All who approached her burst into tears

whilst she threw herself, lovingly, on the dying woman,

whom she called her dear mother.

And nobody could help

being moved to see a girl with such a loving disposition.

Yes, all that is very touching,

and I understand that this loving disposition made you love her.

Ah! Scapin, a savage would have loved her.

Certainly, how could anyone help doing so?

After a few words,

with which I tried to soothe her grief,

we left her,

and when I asked Léandre

what he thought of her,

he answered coldly that she was rather pretty!

I was wounded how he spoke of her,

and I would not tell him the effect

her beauty had had on my heart.

We shall be here till tomorrow.

Let me finish it in a few words.

His heart takes fire then.

He cannot live without going to comfort the amiable, sorrowful girl.

His visits are forbidden by the servant,

who has become her guardian by the death of the mother.

Our young man is in despair.

He presses, begs, beseeches - all in vain.

Although without friends nor fortune, she is

of an honorable family,

and, unless he marries her, he must cease his visits.

His love increases with the difficulties.

He racks his brains, debates, reasons, ponders,

and makes up his mind. And, he has been married three days.

I see.

Now, add to this to the unforeseen return of the father,

who was not to be back so soon

the discovery which the uncle has made of the marriage,

and that other marriage between him and a daughter

which Mr. Géronte had by a second wife, whom

he married at Tarentum.

And, above all, add also the poverty

of my beloved,

and the impossibility for me to do anything for her.

Is that all?

You are both of you at a great loss about nothing.

Is there any reason to be alarmed?

Are you not ashamed, you, Silvestre, to fall short in such a small matter?

Deuce take it all! You can't

find any expedient in your noddle? You can't plan any stratagem,

invent any gallant intrigue to put matters straight?

Fie! Plague on the booby!

I wish I had had the two old fellows to bamboozle in former times,

I should not have thought much of it.

And I was no bigger than that,

when I had given a hundred delicate proofs of my skill.

I acknowledge that Heaven has not given me your talent,

and that I have not the brains like you to embroil myself with justice.

Here is my lovely Hyacintha!

Ah! Octave, is what Silvestre has just told Nérine really true?

Is your father back, and is he bent upon marrying you?

Yes, it is so, dear Hyacintha,

and these tidings have given me a cruel shock.

But what do I see? You are weeping. Why those tears?

Do you suspect me of unfaithfulness, and have no assurance of my love?

Yes, Octave, I am sure that you love me now,

but can I be sure that you will love me always?

Could anyone love you without loving you forever?

I have heard say, Octave, that your sex does not love so long as ours

and that the ardor men show is a fire

which dies out as easily as it is kindled.

Then, my dear Hyacintha,

my heart is not like that of other men.

and I feel certain that I shall love you till I die.

I want to believe what you say,

and I have no doubt that you are sincere,

but I fear a power which will oppose in your heart

the tender feelings you have for me.

You depend on a father

who would marry you to another,

and I am sure it would kill me if such a thing happened.

No, lovely Hyacintha,

there is no father who can force me to break my faith to you,

and I could resolve to leave my country,

and even to die, rather than be separated from you.

Blindly, I have an aversion to whom they want me to marry,

and although I am not cruel,

I wish the sea would swallow her up or drive her hence forever.

Do not weep, then, dear Hyacintha,

for your tears kill me,

and I cannot see them without feeling pierced to the heart.

Since you wish it, I will dry my tears,

and I will wait without fear for what

Heaven shall decide.

Heaven will be favorable.

It cannot be against us if you are faithful.

I certainly shall be so.

Then I shall be happy.

She is not so bad,

and I think her pretty enough.

Here is a man who, if he would,

could be of the greatest help to us.

I have sworn with many oaths never more to meddle with anything.

Oh, no!

But if you both entreat me very much, I might....

Ah, if entreaties will obtain your help,

I beseech you with all my heart to steer our bark.

And you,

have you anything to say?

Like him,

I beseech you,

by all that is most dear to you upon Earth,

to assist us in our love.

I must have a little humanity, and give way.

There, don't be afraid, I will do all I can for you.

-Be sure that... -Hush!

Go,

and make yourself easy.

You must prepare yourself to receive your father with firmness.

I confess this frightens me,

for with him I have a natural shyness.

Yes, you must be firm from the first,

lest he take advantage of your weakness, and lead you like a child.

Now, come, try to school yourself

into some amount of firmness and be ready to answer boldly

all he can say to you.

I will do my best.

Well!

let us try a little, just to see.

Rehearse your part, and let us see how you will manage.

Come, a look of decision,

your head erect,

a bold face.

Like this?

A little more.

So?

That will do.

Now, fancy that I am your father just arrived,

answer me boldly as if it were he himself.

Take that and that and that!

What! you scoundrel, good-for-nothing, infamous rascal,

unworthy son of such a father as I,

dare you appear before me?

What! You scoundrel, good-for-nothing, infamous rascal,

unworthy son of such a father as I,

dare you appear before me

after what you have done,

and after the infamous trick you have played me during my absence?

Is this the reward of all my care?

Is this the fruit of all my devotion?

Respect due to me? Respect you retain for me?

Now then, now then.

You are insolent enough, scoundrel,

to engage yourself without my consent,

and contract a clandestine marriage!

Answer me, you villain! Answer me.

Let's hear your reasons.

Why, you seem quite lost.

I imagine I hear my father.

Yes and for this you must try not to look like an idiot.

I will be more resolute and will answer more firmly.

-Quite sure? -Quite sure.

Here is your father coming.

Oh heavens! I am lost.

Stop, Octave, stop.

He's off.

What a poor specimen it is!

Let's wait for the old man all the same.

What shall I say?

Leave him to me, only follow me.

Did anyone ever hear of such an action?

He has already heard, and is so struck that

he speaks about it.

A bold thing to do.

Let us listen.

What will they say about this fine marriage?

We have it all ready.

Will they try to deny it?

No thought of it.

Or undertake to excuse it?

That may be.

To deceive me with stories?

Maybe.

-Their words will be useless. -We shall see.

-They will not take me in. -I don't know that.

-I shall know to guard my rascal son. -We shall see.

And as for that rascal Silvestre, I will cudgel him.

Surprised if he forgot me.

Ah, ah! Here you are, most wise governor of a family,

fine director of young people!

Delighted to see you back.

'Morning, Scapin.

You have really followed my orders in a fine manner,

and my son has behaved splendidly.

-You are quite well, I see. -Pretty well.

You don't say a word, you rascal!

-Did you have a pleasant journey? -Very good.

Let me scold him!

-You want to scold? -Yes.

-Whom? -The scoundrel!

Why?

Have you not heard what happened in my absence?

Yes, some trifling thing.

Some trifling thing! Such an action as this?

You are about right.

-Such a daring thing to do! -That's quite true.

To marry...

To marry without his father's consent?

There's something to be said against it, but you shouldn't make fuss.

This is your opinion, and I will make as much fuss as I please.

Do I not have every reason to be angry?

Quite so.

I was angry myself when I first heard it,

and I so far felt interested that I rated your son.

Just ask him the fine sermons I gave him,

and how I lectured him about the little respect for his father,

whose footsteps he ought to kiss.

You could not yourself talk better to him.

But what of that? I submitted to reason,

and considered that, after all,

he had done nothing so dreadful.

What? He has done nothing so dreadful?

When he marries a perfect stranger?

What can one do? He was urged to it by his destiny.

Oh, oh! You give me there a fine reason.

Nothing better to do now than

to cheat, steal, and murder -

with the excuse that we were urged to it by destiny.

Ah, me! You take my words too much like a philosopher.

I mean to say that he was fatally engaged in this affair.

And why did he engage in it?

Do you expect him to be as wise as you are?

Can you put an old head on young shoulders, expecting the prudence

to do nothing but what is reasonable?

Just look at our Léandre, who,

in spite of all my lessons, has done even worse than that.

-And worse? -Worse.

I should like to know whether you yourself were not young once,

and have not played as many pranks as others?

It is true, I grant it.

But I confined myself to gallantry, and never did what he has done.

But what was he to do?

He sees a young person who wishes him well,

for he inherits it from you that all women love him.

He thinks her charming,

goes to see her, makes love to her,

sighs as lovers sigh, and does the passionate swain.

She yields to his pressing visits,

he pushes his fortune.

But her relations catch him with her, and oblige him to marry her by force.

What a clever cheat!

Should he suffer them to murder him?

It is still better to be married than to be dead.

I was not told it had happened in that way.

Ask him, if you like, he will tell you the same thing.

Was he married against his wish?

Yes, Sir.

Do you think I would lie?

Then he should have gone to a lawyer to protest.

He would not.

Easier to break it off.

The marriage?

-Yes. -You will not.

-I shall not? -No.

Have I not the rights of a father, and can I not have

satisfaction for the violence done?

This he will not consent to.

-He will not consent to it? -No.

My son?

Your son.

Would you have him acknowledge that he was frightened,

and that he yielded by force to what was wanted of him?

He'll take care not to confess that,

it would wrong himself, and show him unworthy of a father like you.

I don't care for all that.

He must, for his own honor and yours,

say that he married of his own free will.

For my own honor, and for his, he should say the contrary.

-I'm sure he will not. -I shall soon make him.

He will not acknowledge it, I tell you.

Or I will disinherit him.

-You? -I.

Nonsense!

-How nonsense? -You will not.

-I shall not? -No.

-No? -No.

Well! This is really too much! I shall not disinherit my son!

-No, I say. -Who will hinder me?

You, yourself.

-I? -Yes,

-you will not. -I shall.

You are joking.

I am not joking.

Paternal love will win.

-No, it will not. -Yes, yes.

-I will. -Rubbish.

You may say rubbish, but I will.

Gracious me, I know that you are naturally a kind-hearted man.

No, I am not kind-hearted, and I can be angry when I choose.

Leave off talking, you put me out of all patience.

Go, you rascal, run and fetch my son,

while I go to Mr. Géronte and tell him

of my misfortune.

Sir,

if I can be useful to you in any way, you have but to order me.

I thank you.

Ah! Why is he my only son?

Oh! That I had with me the daughter that Heaven has taken away from me,

so that I might make her my heir.

You are a great man and things are in a fair way.

But, on the other hand, we are greatly pressed for money,

and we have people after us.

Leave it to me, the plan is all ready.

I'm only puzzling to find a fellow to act with us,

in order to play a character I want.

But let me see,

just look at me.

Your cap to the side.

Stand on one foot.

Put your hand on your side.

Put on a furious look.

Furious.

Walk about like a king on the stage.

That will do! That will do!

Follow me.

I possess some means of changing your face and voice.

Don't embroil me with justice.

Never mind, we will share our perils like brothers,

and three years more or less on the galleys

are not sufficient to check a noble heart.

Yes, with this weather we shall have our people with us,

and a sailor who has arrived from Tarentum

told me just now that he had seen our man about to start with the ship.

But my daughter's arrival

will find things altered from what we thought,

and what you have just told me of your son

has put an end to all the plans we had made together.

Do not worry,

I give you my word I shall remove that,

and see about it now.

In all good faith, Mr. Argante, shall I tell you what?

One could never be too careful about the education of children.

You are right,

but why do you say that?

Because most of the follies of young men

come from the way they have been brought up

by their fathers.

It is so sometimes, certainly but what do you mean by saying that?

-Why do I say that to you? -Yes.

Because, if, courageously, you had corrected your son,

he would not have played you such a trick.

I see.

So that you have corrected your own much better?

Certainly,

and I should be sorry if he had done anything like what yours has done.

And if that son, so well brought up, had done worse

even than mine? What would you say?

What?

What?

What do you mean?

I mean, Mr. Géronte,

that we should never be so ready to blame the conduct of others,

and that those who live

in glass houses should not throw stones.

I really do not understand you.

I will explain myself.

Have you heard anything about my son?

Perhaps I have.

But what?

Your servant Scapin, in his vexation, only told me the thing roughly,

and you can learn all the particulars

from him or from someone else.

For my part, I will go to my solicitor at once,

and see what steps I can take in the matter.

Goodbye.

What can it be?

Worse than what his son has done!

I don't know what anyone can do more wrong than that,

and to marry without the consent of one's father

is the worst thing

that I can possibly imagine.

Ah, here you are!

Ah! Father, how glad I am to see you!

Gently, I have to speak to you first.

Allow me to embrace you...

Gently, I tell you.

Father, you deprive me of showing you my joy at your return?

Certainly, we have something to settle first of all.

But what?

Just stand there before me, and let me look at you.

What for?

Look me straight in the face.

Well?

What has taken place here in my absence?

-What has taken place? -Yes.

What did you do while I was away?

What would you have me do?

I did not want you to do anything, but I ask you now what it is you did?

I have done nothing to give you reason to complain.

-Nothing at all? -No.

You speak in a very decided tone.

It is because I am innocent.

And yet Scapin has told me all about you.

-Scapin! -Oh!

You're changing color.

He has said something?

He has. But this is not the place to talk about the business,

and we must go elsewhere to see to it. Go home at once.

I will be there presently.

Ah! Scoundrel,

if you mean to bring dishonor upon me,

I will renounce you for my son,

and you will have to avoid my presence forever!

To betray me in that fashion!

A rascal who should be

the first to keep secret what I trust him with!

To go and tell everything to my father!

Ah! I swear by all dear to me not to let such villainy go unpunished.

Scapin, show me that Argante

-who is the father of Octave. -What for, sir?

Two hundred pistoles?

I will go to law, I will go to law...

My dear Scapin, what do I not owe to you?

You are a wonderful man,

and how kind of Heaven to send you to my help!

Ah, ah! Here you are,

you rascal!

Sir, your servant, you do me too much honor.

You are setting me at defiance...

-Sir! -Ah! Léandre.

No, Octave, do not keep me back.

Eh! Sir. For mercy's sake!

Leave me to wreak my anger upon him.

Léandre, do not strike him.

What have I done to you, sir?

-What you have done, you scoundrel! -Gently, gently.

No, Octave, I will have him confess here

on the spot the perfidy of which he is guilty.

-Léandre! -Leave me alone!

Yes, scoundrel, I know the trick you have played me,

I have just been told of it.

You did not think the secret would be revealed to me, did you?

But I will have you confess it with your own lips,

or I will run you through and through with my sword.

Ah! Sir, could you really be so cruel as that?

Speak, I say.

I have done something against you, sir?

Yes, scoundrel!

And your conscience must tell you only too well what it is.

Well!

I do not know what you mean.

You do not know? Léandre!

Well, sir,

since you will have it,

I confess

that I drank with some of my friends that small cask of Spanish wine

you received as a present some days ago,

and that it was I who made that opening in the cask,

and spilled some water,

to make you believe that all the wine had leaked out.

What! Scoundrel, it was you who drank my Spanish wine,

and who suffered me to scold the servant so much,

because I thought it was she who had played that trick on me?

Yes, sir. I am very sorry, sir.

I am glad to know this.

But this is not what I am about now.

It is not that, sir?

Something else, for which I care more. You will tell me.

I do not remember doing anything else.

Will you speak?

Gently.

Yes, sir,

it is true that three weeks ago, when you sent me in the evening

to take a small watch

to the gypsy girl you love,

and I came back, my clothes spattered with mud

and my face covered with blood, I told you

that I had been attacked by robbers who had beaten me soundly

and had stolen the watch from me.

It is true I told a lie. I kept the watch, sir.

It was you who stole the watch?

Yes, sir, in order to know the time.

Ah! You are telling me fine things,

I have indeed a very faithful servant.

But it is not this I want to know.

-It is not? -No, wretch!

It is something else that I want you to confess.

-Mercy on me! -Speak at once.

Sir, I have done nothing else.

-Nothing else? -Ah! I beg... Well, sir,

you remember that ghost that six months ago

cudgeled you soundly,

and almost made you break your neck down a cellar,

where you fell running away?

Well?

It was I, sir, who was playing the ghost.

It was you, wretch, who were playing the ghost?

Only

to frighten you a little,

and cure you of making us go out every night

as you did.

I will remember in proper time all I have just heard.

Speak about this,

and tell me what it is you said to my father.

-To your father? -Yes, scoundrel!

I have not seen him since his return!

You have not?

No, Sir.

-Is that the truth? -The perfect truth,

and he shall tell you so himself.

And yet he himself told me.

With your leave, he did not tell the truth.

Sir,

I bring you very bad news concerning your love affair.

What is it now?

The gypsies are on the point of carrying off Zerbinette.

She came herself all in tears

to ask me to tell you that,

unless you take to them

before two hours are over, the money they have asked you for her,

she will be lost to you forever.

Two hours?

Two hours.

Dear Scapin, I pray for you to help me.

"Dear Scapin."

I am dear Scapin, now that I am wanted.

I will forgive you all you confessed,

and more also.

No, no. Forgive me nothing.

Run your sword through and through my body.

I should be satisfied to be killed.

No!

-No! -Come on!

-Hey! -No!

I beseech you rather to give me life by serving my love.

Nay, nay. Better kill me.

You are too dear to me for that.

I beg you make use for me of that wonderful genius of yours

that conquers everything.

Certainly not.

Kill me, I tell you.

Ah! For mercy's sake, don't think of that now,

but try to give me the help I ask.

Scapin, do something to help him.

How can I after such abuse?

I beseech you to forget my outburst, and make use of your skill.

I add my entreaties.

I cannot forget such an insult.

You must not give way to resentment.

Could you forsake me, Scapin, in this cruel extremity?

To come all of a sudden, and insult me like that.

I was wrong, I acknowledge it.

To call me a scoundrel, knave, infamous wretch!

I am really very sorry.

To wish to send your sword through my body!

I ask you to forgive me,

and if you want to see me at your feet,

I beseech you, kneeling, not to give me up.

Scapin, you cannot resist that?

Well, get up,

and remember not to be so hasty.

Will you try to act for me?

I will see.

But you know that time presses.

Don't be anxious.

How much is it you want?

Five hundred crowns.

You?

Two hundred pistoles.

I must extract this money from your respective fathers' pockets.

As far as yours is concerned, my plan is all ready.

And as for yours,

although he is the greatest miser imaginable,

we shall find it easier still,

for you know that he is not blessed

with too much intellect,

and I look upon him as a man

who will believe anything.

This cannot offend you.

There is not a suspicion of a resemblance between him and you,

and you know what the world thinks,

that he is your father only in name.

Gently, Scapin.

Besides, what does it matter?

But I see your father coming.

He is the first to cross our path.

Vanish both of you,

and tell Silvestre to come quickly, and take his part in the affair.

Hey, kid...

Such behavior and such lack of consideration!

Here he is, turning it over in his mind.

To entangle himself in an engagement like that!

Ah, rash youth.

Your servant.

Sir.

Good morning, Scapin.

You are thinking of your son's conduct.

Yes, I acknowledge it grieves me deeply.

Ah! Sir, life is full of troubles,

and we should always be prepared for them.

I was told, a long time ago,

a saying which I have never forgotten.

What was it?

That if the father of a family has been away from home,

he ought to dwell upon all the sad news

that may greet him on his return.

He ought to fancy his house burnt down, his money stolen,

his wife dead, his son married, his daughter ruined,

and be very thankful for whatever

falls short of all this.

In my little philosophy,

I have ever taken this lesson to heart,

and I never come home but I expect to have to bear

with the anger of my masters, their scoldings, insults,

kicks, blows, and horse-whipping.

And I always thank my destiny

for whatever I do not receive.

That's all very well,

but this marriage is more than I can put up with,

forcing me to break off the match.

I have come to see if we can.

Well, sir, if you will take my advice,

you will look to some other way of settling this business.

You know what a lawsuit means here,

and you'll find yourself in a strange bush of thorns.

I am fully aware you are quite right,

but what else can I do?

I think I have found something.

The sorrow that I felt for you made me rummage

in my head to find some means of getting you

out of trouble,

for I cannot bear to see kind fathers a prey to grief

without feeling sad about it,

and, besides,

I have at all times had the greatest regard for you.

I am much obliged to you.

I went to the brother of the young girl whom your son has married.

One of those fire-eaters,

one of those men all sword-thrusts, speaking only of fighting,

and who think no more of killing a man than swallowing a glass of wine.

I got him to speak of this marriage,

I showed him how easy it would be to have it broken off,

for the violence towards your son. I spoke of your prerogatives as father,

and of the weight which your rights,

your money, and your friends would have with justice.

I managed him so that at last he lent

a ready ear to the propositions

I made to him of arranging the matter for a sum of money.

In short, he will give his consent to the marriage being canceled,

provided you pay him well.

And how much?

Oh! At first things utterly out of the question.

-But what? -Things utterly extravagant.

But what?

He spoke of no less than five or six hundred pistoles.

Five or six hundred agues.

-He thinks me a fool? -What I told him.

I laughed his proposal to scorn,

and made him understand that you were not a man to be duped,

and of whom anyone can ask 500 or 600 pistoles!

However, after much talking,

this is what we decided upon.

"The time is now come," he said: "When I must go and rejoin the army.

"I am buying my equipment, and the want of money

"I am in forces me to listen to what you propose.

"I must have a horse,

"and I cannot obtain one at all fit for the service

"under 60 pistoles."

Well, yes,

I am willing to give 60.

He must have the harness and pistols,

and that will cost very nearly 20 pistoles more.

Twenty and 60 make 80.

Exactly.

It's a great deal, still, I consent to that.

He must also have a horse for his servant,

which, we may expect, will cost at least 30 pistoles.

How, the deuce! Let him go to Jericho.

He shall have nothing.

-Sir! -No, he's insolent.

Would you have his servant walk?

Let him go as he pleases, and the master too.

Now, sir, don't hesitate for so little.

Don't have recourse to law,

but give all that is asked, and save yourself from justice.

I will bring myself to give these 30 pistoles also.

"I must also have," he said, "A mule to carry..."

To the devil with his mule! We'll go before the judges.

-I beg of you! -I'll not give in.

Sir, only one small mule.

No, not even an ass.

-Consider... -I tell you, I prefer going to law.

What are you talking about, and what a resolution you are going to take.

Just cast a glance on the ins and outs of justice,

look at the number of appeals, of stages of jurisdiction,

how many embarrassing procedures,

how many ravening wolves through whose claws you will have to pass,

sergeants, solicitors, counsel,

registrars, substitutes, recorders, judges and their clerks.

There is not one of these who, for the merest trifle,

couldn't knock over the best case in the world.

A sergeant will issue false writs

without your knowing anything of it.

Your solicitor will act with your adversary,

and sell you for ready money.

Your counsel, bribed in the same way, will be

nowhere to be found when your case comes,

or else bring forward arguments the merest shooting in the air,

and will never come to the point.

The registrar will issue writs and decrees against you in absentia.

The clerk will make away with your papers,

or the officer will not say what he has seen,

and when, by the wariest precautions,

you have escaped these traps,

you will be amazed that your judges

have been set against you either by bigots

or by the women they love.

Ah! Sir, save yourself from such a hell, if you can.

'Tis damnation in this world to have to go to law,

and the thought of it is enough to drive me

to the other end of the world.

How much does he want for the mule?

For the mule, for his horse and that of his servant,

harness and pistols,

and to pay what he owes at the hotel,

200.

-Two hundred pistoles? -Yes.

No, we will go to law.

-Recollect what you are doing. -I shall go to law.

Don't go and expose yourself to...

I will go to the law.

But to go to the law you need money.

Money for the summons, you must have money for the rolls,

for prosecution, attorney's introduction,

solicitor's advice, evidence and his days in court.

Money for the consultations and pleadings of the counsel,

the right of withdrawing the briefs and for engrossed copies.

You must have money for the reports of the substitutes,

the court fees at the conclusion, for the registrar's enrolment,

drawing up of deeds, sentences, decrees,

rolls, signings and clerks' dispatches,

letting alone all the presents you will have to make.

Give this money to the man, and there you are well out of the whole thing.

Two hundred pistoles!

Yes, and you will save by it.

I have made a small calculation in my head,

and I find by giving 200 pistoles to your man

you will have a margin - of at least 150 -

without considering the cares, troubles and anxieties spared.

If only to avoid being the butt of some facetious counsel,

I had rather given 300 than go to the law.

I don't care for that,

and I challenge all the lawyers to say anything against me.

You will do as you please,

but in your place, I would avoid a lawsuit.

I will never give 200 pistoles.

Ah! here is our man.

Scapin,

show me that Argante who is the father of Octave.

What for, sir?

I have just been told he wants to go to the law with me,

and to have my sister's marriage annulled.

I don't know if such is his intention,

but he won't consent to give the 200 pistoles,

-it's too much. -To the death!

Blood!

If I can but find him! I'll make mince-meat of him.

Sir, the father of Octave is a brave man,

and perhaps he will not be afraid of you.

Ah, will he not? Blood, death!

If he were here,

I would in a moment run my sword through his body.

Who is that man?

He's not the man, sir, he's not the man.

Is he one of his friends?

No, on the contrary, he's his greatest enemy.

-His greatest enemy? -Yes.

Ah, zounds! I am delighted at it.

You are an enemy of, that scoundrel Argante? Are you?

Yes. I assure you it is so.

Shake hands,

shake hands.

I give you my word, I swear

upon my honor, by the sword I wear,

by all the oaths I can take,

before the day is over,

I shall have delivered you of that knave, that scoundrel Argante.

Trust me.

But, sir, violent deeds are not allowed in this country.

I don't care, and I have nothing to lose.

He will certainly, take his precautions,

he has relations, friends, servants,

who will take his part against you.

Blood and thunder! It is all I ask, all I ask.

Ah, death! Ah, blood!

Why can I not meet him now, with these relations and friends of his?

if he would only appear before me,

surrounded by a score of them!

Why do they not fall upon me, arms in hand!

What! You villains! You dare to attack me?

Now, death! Kill and slay, no quarter,

lay on. Thrust. Firm. Again.

Eye and foot.

Ah, knaves! Rascals!

That's what you want!

I'll give you your fill.

Come on, you rabble! Come on.

Now, then, parry, now, then, you.

Parry this. Parry.

You draw back? Stand firm, man! Death! What! Never flinch, I say.

Sir, we have nothing to do with it.

That will teach you to trifle with me.

Well, you see how many people are killed

for 200 pistoles.

Now I wish you a good morning.

Scapin.

What do you say?

I will give the 200 pistoles.

I am very glad of it, for your sake.

Let us go to him, I have them with me.

Better give them to me.

You must not, for your honor, appear in this business,

now that you have passed for another,

and, besides, I should be afraid that he would ask you

for more, if he knew who you are.

True. Still I should be glad to see to whom I give my money.

Do you mistrust me?

-Oh, no, but... -Zounds! Sir,

either I am a thief or an honest man.

Would I deceive you and have any interest than yours

and my master's, with whom you want to ally?

If I have not your confidence, I will have no more to do with all this,

and you can find someone to get you out of this.

Here then.

No, sir. Do not trust your money to me.

I'd rather you trusted another with your message.

-Ah me! Here, take it. -No, no,

I tell you, do not trust me.

Who knows if I do not want to steal your money from you?

Take it, I tell you,

and don't force me to ask you again.

However, mind you have an acknowledgment from him.

Trust me, he hasn't to do with an idiot.

I will go home and wait for you.

I shall be sure to go.

That one's all right now for the other!

Hey! Hey, sir!

Sir! Hey, sir!

Sir!

That one's all right, now for the other.

Ah! Here he is.

They are sent one after the other to fall into my net.

O Heaven! O unforeseen misfortune!

O unfortunate father!

Poor Géronte, what will you do?

Scapin!

What is he saying there with that doleful face?

Scapin! Scapin!

Scapin!

Scapin!

GÉRONTE AND SONS SAILMAKERS

Scapin!

Scapin!

Scapin! Scapin!

Can no one tell me where to find Mr. Géronte?

Scapin! Scapin!

What is the matter, Scapin?

Hey!

Where could I meet him, to tell him of this misfortune?

What is the matter?

Scapin!

Scapin!

But what is...?

In vain I run everywhere to meet him.

I cannot find him.

Here I am.

He must have hidden himself in some place

which nobody can guess.

Ho! I say, are you blind? Can't you see me?

Ah! Sir, it is impossible to find you.

I have been near you for the last half-hour.

What is it all about?

-Sir... -Well!

Your son, sir...

Well! My son...

Has met with the strangest misfortune

you ever heard of.

What is it?

Well, my son?

I found him looking very sad about something you had said to him,

and in which you had very improperly mixed my name.

While trying to dissipate his sorrow,

we went and walked about in the harbor.

There, among other things,

was to be seen a Turkish galley.

A young Turk, with a gentlemanly look about him,

invited us in, and held out his hand.

We went in.

He was most civil to us, gave us some lunch,

with the most excellent fruit

and the best wine

you have ever seen.

What is there so sad about all this?

Wait a little, it is coming.

Whilst we were eating,

the galley left the harbor,

and when in the open sea, the Turk made me go down into a boat,

and said that unless you sent by me 500 crowns,

he would take your son prisoner to Algiers.

What, 500 crowns!

Yes, sir. And, moreover, he only gave me two hours to find them in.

Ah, the scoundrel of a Turk to murder me in that fashion!

It is for you, sir,

to see quickly about the means of saving from slavery

a son whom you love so tenderly.

What the deuce did he want to go in that galley for?

He had no idea of what would happen.

Go, Scapin, go quickly,

and tell that Turk that I shall send the police after him.

The police in the open sea!

Are you joking?

What the deuce did he want to go in that galley for?

A cruel destiny will sometimes lead people.

Listen, Scapin,

you must act in this the part of a faithful servant.

How, sir?

You must go and tell that Turk that he must send me back my son,

and that you will take his place until I have found the sum he asks.

Sir, do you know what you are saying?

You fancy that Turk will be foolish enough

to receive a poor wretch like me in your son's stead?

What the deuce did he want to go in that galley for?

He could not foresee his misfortune.

However, sir, remember that he has given me only two hours.

You say that he asks...

Five hundred.

Five hundred crowns!

Has he no conscience?

Conscience in a Turk!

Does he understand what 500 crowns are?

Yes, sir, he knows that is 1,500 francs.

Does the scoundrel think 1,500 francs are to be found in the gutter?

Such people will never listen to reason.

But what the deuce did he want to go in that galley for?

It is true. But what? We could not foretell.

Please, sir, hurry up.

Here is the key to my dresser.

Good. You'll open it.

Very good.

You'll find a big key on the left side,

-it is the key to the attic. -Yes.

You'll take all the old clothes in this big basket,

sell them to a used clothes dealer, and buy back my son's freedom...

But, Sir, are you dreaming?

I will not have 100 francs after all you said,

and do you know how little time you are giving me?

What the deuce did he want to go in that galley for?

Ah! What a waste of words!

Leave the galley alone, remember that time presses,

and that you are running the risk of losing your son forever.

Alas, my poor master,

perhaps I shall never see you again,

and they are taking you away to make a slave of you in Algiers!

But Heaven

is my witness that I did all I could,

and that, if you are not brought back,

it is all owing to the want of love of your father.

Wait a minute, Scapin,

I'll go and fetch that sum of money.

Be quick, then, for I am afraid of not being in time.

You said 400 crowns, did you not?

No, 500.

-Five hundred crowns! -Yes.

What the deuce did he want to go in that galley for?

Quite right, but be quick.

Could he not have chosen another walk?

It is true, but act promptly.

Cursed galley!

That galley sticks in his throat.

Here, Scapin,

I had forgotten

that I have just received this sum in gold,

and I had no idea it would so soon be wrenched from me.

Take it.

This is for my son's freedom.

Yes.

But mind you tell that Turk that he is a scoundrel.

Yes.

-An infamous wretch. -Yes.

A man without conscience, a thief.

Leave it to me.

He will receive 500 crowns to give up all his rights.

Yes.

A man without conscience, a thief.

All right.

And that, if ever I catch him, he will pay for it.

Yes.

Go, go quickly, and fetch my son.

Hallo! Sir.

Well?

And the money?

Did I not give you it?

No, indeed, you put it back in your pocket.

Ah!

It is grief which troubles my mind.

So I see.

What the deuce did he want to go in that galley for?

Cursed galley!

Scoundrel of a Turk! May the devil take you!

He can't get over the 500 I wrench from him,

but he has not yet done with me,

and I will make him pay in a different money

his imposture about me to his son.

Well, Scapin, have your plans been successful?

Have you done anything towards alleviating my sorrow?

Here are 200 pistoles from your father.

How happy you make me.

But I could do nothing for you.

Then I must die, sir,

for I could not live without Zerbinette.

Hallo!

Stop, stop, my goodness,

how quick you are!

What can become of me?

There, I have all you want.

Ah, you bring me back to life again.

But I give it you on one condition, that you will allow me to revenge

myself for the trick he has played.

Do as you please.

You promise it to me?

Yes.

There, take these 500 crowns.

Ah! I will go at once and buy her whom I adore.

I tremble for you from head to foot and...

I see half a dozen soldiers coming together.

Yes, your lovers have decided that you should be together,

and we are acting according to their orders.

Such an order has nothing in it but what is pleasant to me.

I receive such a companion with joy,

and it will not be my fault

if the friendship which exists between those we love

does not exist also between us two.

I accept the offer,

and I do not draw back when friendship is asked of me.

And when love is asked of you?

Ah, love is a different thing.

One runs more risk, and I feel less determined.

You are determined enough against my master,

and yet what he has just done

ought to give you confidence to respond to his love as you should.

As yet I only half trust him,

and what he has just done

is not sufficient to reassure me.

I'm of a happy disposition.

But though I laugh, I am serious about many things,

and he will find himself deceived if he thinks it enough

for me to be altogether his.

He will have to give something besides money,

and for me to answer to his love as he wishes me,

he must give me his word, with certain little ceremonies

which are thought indispensable.

It is so he understands this matter.

He only wants you as his wife,

and I am not a man to have mixed in this business

if he had meant anything else.

I believe it

since you say so,

but I foresee certain difficulties with the father.

We shall find a way of settling that.

The similarity of our fate

ought to strengthen the tie of friendship

between us. We are both subject to the same fears,

both exposed to the same misfortune.

You have this advantage at least that you know who your parents are,

and that, sure of their help, when you wish to make them known,

you can secure your happiness

by obtaining a consent to the marriage you have contracted.

I, on the contrary, have no such hope to fall back upon,

and my position is little to satisfy a father

whose whole care is money.

That is true, but you have this in your favor,

that the one you love

is under no temptation of contracting another marriage.

A change in a lover's heart is not what we should fear the most.

We may justly rely on our own power to keep the conquest we have made,

but what I particularly dread

is the power of fathers, we cannot expect them moved by our merit.

Alas!

Why must the course of true love never run smooth?

How sweet it would be to love with no link wanting

in those chains which unite two hearts.

How mistaken you are!

Security in love forms a very unpleasant calm.

Constant happiness becomes wearisome.

We want ups and downs in life,

the difficulties which beset our path in this world revive us,

and increase our sense of pleasure.

Do tell us about that stratagem of yours,

which, I was told, is so very amusing,

and how you managed to get money out of your old miser.

Telling me something amusing is not lost upon me,

and I repay those by the pleasure it gives me.

Silvestre here will do that as well as I.

I am nursing in my heart a certain little scheme of revenge

which I mean to enjoy thoroughly.

Why do you engage in enterprises that may bring you trouble?

I delight in dangerous enterprises.

You would give up the idea if you would listen.

I prefer listening to myself.

Why engage in such a business?

Why trouble yourself?

It is because I can see that you will bring a storm of blows upon yourself.

Well, it will be on my shoulders, and not on yours.

You are master of your own,

at liberty to dispose of them as you please.

Such dangers never stop me,

and I hate those fearful hearts which,

by dint of thinking of what may happen,

never undertake anything.

But we shall want you.

I shall soon be with you again.

It shall not be said a man has put me into a position of betraying myself,

and of revealing secrets which it were better should not be known.

Scapin, and how have we succeeded about my son's mischance?

Your son is safe, sir,

but you now run the greatest danger imaginable,

and I sincerely wish you were safe in your house.

How is that?

While I am speaking to you, people are looking for you.

For me?

-Yes. -But who?

The brother of that young girl whom Octave has married.

He thinks you are trying to break off that match, to give to your daughter

the place she occupies in the heart of Octave,

And he has resolved

to wreak

his vengeance upon you.

All his friends, men of the sword

are looking out for you, and are seeking you everywhere.

I have met with scores here and there, soldiers of his company,

who question every one they meet,

and occupy in companies all the thoroughfares leading to your house,

so that you cannot go home

without falling into their hands.

What can I do, my dear Scapin?

I am sure I don't know, sir,

it is an unpleasant business.

I tremble for you from head

to foot and...

Wait a moment.

Well?

No, no, 'tis nothing.

Could you not find out some means of saving me?

I can think of one, but I should run the risk of a sound beating.

Ah! Scapin, show yourself a devoted servant.

Do not forsake me,

I pray to you.

I will do what I can.

I feel for you a tenderness

which renders it impossible for me to leave you without help.

Be sure I will reward you for it.

And I promise you this coat of mine when it is a little more worn.

Wait a minute.

I have just thought, at the proper moment,

to save you.

You must get into this sack, and I...

No.

From head to foot...

No, 'tis nobody.

As I was saying, you must get in here,

and must be very careful not to stir.

I will put you on my shoulders, and carry you like a bundle of something.

I shall take you through your enemies,

safely into your house.

When there, we will barricade the door

and send for help.

-A very good idea. -The best possible.

You will see.

-Ah, you shall pay me for that lie. -What?

I only say that your enemies will be finely caught.

Get in right to the bottom,

and above all,

be careful not to show yourself and not to move,

whatever may happen.

You may trust me to keep still.

Hide yourself, here comes one of the bullies! He is looking for you.

What?

Vat! I shall not hab de pleasure to kill dis Géronte,

and one vill not in sharity show me vere is he?

Do not stir.

Pardi!

I vill find him if he lied in de mittle ob de eart.

Do not show yourself.

Ho!

you man vid a sack!

Sir!

I will give thee a pound if thou vilt tell me where dis Géronte is.

Looking for Mr. Géronte?

"Yes, dat I am.

And on what business, sir?

-For vat pusiness? -Yes.

I vill, pardi! trash him vid one stick to dead.

Oh! people like him are not thrashed with sticks,

and he is not a man to be treated so.

Vat! dis fob of a Géronte, dis prute, dis cat.

Mr. Géronte, sir, is neither a fop, a brute, nor a cad,

and you ought to speak differently.

Vat! you speak so mighty vit me?

I am defending, as I ought, an honorable man who is maligned.

Are you one friend of dis Géronte?

Yes, sir, I am.

Ah, ah!

You are one friend of him, dat is goot luck!

Here is vat I give you for him."

Sir!

Sir!

Gently! Ah, pray.

Dere, bear him dat from me.

Goot-pye.

Ah! the wretch. Ah!... ah!

Ah! Scapin,

I can bear it no longer.

Ah! Sir, I am bruised all over,

and my shoulders are as sore as can be.

How! It was on mine he laid his stick.

I beg your pardon, Sir, it was on my back.

What do you mean? I am sure I felt the blows, and feel them still.

No, I tell you, it was only the end of his stick

that reached your shoulders.

You should have gone a little farther back, then, to spare me, and...

Take care, here is another man who looks like a foreigner.

Frient,

me run like one Dutchman,

and me not fint all de tay dis treatful Géronte?

Hide yourself well.

Tell me, you, sir gentleman, if you please,

know you not vere is dis Géronte, vat me look for?

No, sir, I do not know where Géronte is.

Tell me, trutful,

me not vant much vit him.

Only to gife him

one tosen plows vid a stick,

and two or tree runs vid

a swort tro' his shest.

I do not know where he is.

It seems me I see sometink shake in dat sack.

Excuse me, sir.

I pe shure dere is sometink or oder in dat sack.

Not at all, sir.

Me should like to gife one plow of de swort in dat sack.

Ah! Sir, beware, pray you, of doing so.

Put, show me ten vat to be dere?

-Gently, sir. -Why chently?

You have nothing to do with what I am carrying.

And I, put I vill see.

You shall not see.

Ah! vat trifling.

It is some clothes of mine.

Show me tem, I tell you.

I will not.

You vill not?

No.

I make you feel this shtick upon de sholders.

I don't care.

Ah! you vill poast!

Goot-bye,

dat is one littel lesson teach you

to speak so insolent.

Ah! Plague the crazy jabberer!

I am broken.

Ah! I am dying.

Why the deuce do they strike on my back?

Take care, I see half a dozen soldiers coming together.

Now, we must discover Géronte,

let us look everywhere carefully.

We must spare no trouble, scour the town,

and not forget one single spot.

Let us search on all sides.

Which way shall we go? Let us go that way.

No, this. On the left.

On the right. No, yes.

Hide yourself well.

Ah, here is his servant.

I say, you rascal,

you must tell us where your master is.

Ah, gentlemen, don't hurt me.

Come one, tell us where he is.

Speak. Be quick.

At once.

Make haste. Now.

Ah, gentlemen, one moment.

If you do not tell us at once where your master is,

we will shower a rain of blows on your back.

I had rather suffer anything than tell you where my master is.

Very well, we will cudgel you soundly.

Do as you please.

You want to be beaten, then?

I will never betray my master.

Ah! you will have it -

-there. -Oh!

Ah! Infamous wretch!

Rascal!

Scoundrel!

It is thus that you murder me?

Ah! I will make you pay for it.

Ah, ah! I must really come and breathe a little.

What an amusing story!

What a good dupe that old man is!

This is no matter for laughter, and you have no business to laugh at it.

Why? What do you mean, sir?

I mean you ought not to laugh at me.

-Laugh at you? -Yes.

How! Who is thinking of laughing at you?

Why do you come and laugh in my face?

This has nothing to do with you. I am only laughing with myself

at the remembrance of a story.

The most amusing story in the world.

I don't know if it is because I am interested in the matter,

but I never heard anything so absurd as the trick

just played by a son to his father to get money out of him.

By a son to his father to get money?

Yes.

And if you want to know how it was done, I will tell you.

I naturally long to impart to others the funny things I know.

Pray, tell me that story.

Willingly.

I shall not risk much by telling it you,

for it is an adventure which is not likely to remain secret long.

Fate placed me

among one of those bands of people who are called gypsies,

and who, tramping from province to province,

tell you your fortune,

and do many other things besides.

When we came to this town, I met a young man, who,

on seeing me, fell in love with me.

He followed me everywhere,

and, like all young men, he imagined

that he had but to speak and things would go on as he liked,

but he met with a pride which forced him to think twice.

He spoke of his love to the people in whose power I was,

and found them ready to give me up for a certain sum of money.

But the sad part of the business was

my lover found himself in exactly the same condition

as most young men of good family, that is, without any money at all.

His father, although rich, is the veriest old skinflint

and greatest miser you ever heard of.

Wait a moment - what is his name?

I don't remember it - can't you help me?

Can't you name someone in this town

known to be the most miserly in the place?

No.

There is in his name some Ron... Ronte.

Or... Oronte.

No.

Gé...

Géronte?

Yes, Géronte,

that's my miser's name. I have it now, it is the old churl I mean.

Well, our story.

Our people wished to leave this town today,

and my lover would have lost me for lack of money

if, in order to wrench some out of his father, he had not

made use of a clever servant he has.

As for that servant's name, I remember it very well.

His name is Scapin.

He is a most wonderful man,

and deserves the highest praise.

Ah, the wretch!

But just listen to the plan he adopted to take in his dupe -

I can't think of it without laughing heartily!

He went

to that old screw -

and told him that while he was walking about the harbor

with his son...

They noticed

a Turkish galley,

a Turk had invited them to come in and see it,

that he had given them some lunch...

and that, while they were at table,

the galley had gone into the open sea,

that the Turk had sent him alone back,

with the express order to say to him that, unless he sent him

500 crowns,

he would take his son to be a slave in Algiers.

You may imagine our miser, our stingy old curmudgeon,

in the greatest anguish,

struggling between his love for his son and his money.

Those 500 crowns

asked of him are 500 dagger-thrusts.

He can't bring his mind to tear out, as it were, this sum from his heart,

and his anguish makes him think of the most ridiculous means

to find money for his son's ransom!

He wants to send the police into the open sea after the Turk's galley!

He asks his servant to take the place

of his son till he has found the money to pay for him -

he has no intention of giving!

He yields, to make the 500 crowns,

three or four old suits which are not worth 30.

The servant shows him each time how absurd what he proposes is,

and each reflection of the old fellow is accompanied by an agonizing,

"But what the deuce did he want to go in that galley for?

"Ah!, cursed galley. Ah, scoundrel of a Turk!"

"But what the deuce did he want to go in that galley for?"

At last, after many hesitations,

after having sighed and groaned for a long time...

But it seems to me that my story does not make you laugh,

what do you say to it?

What I say... That the young man is a scoundrel -

a good-for-nothing fellow -

who will be punished by his father for the trick he has played him,

that the gypsy girl is a bold,

impudent hussy to come and insult a man of honor,

who will get what she deserves, debauching sons of good families,

and that the servant is an infamous wretch, whom Géronte

will take care to have hung before tomorrow is over.

Where are you running away to?

Do you know you were speaking to your lover's father?

I began to suspect so,

and related to him his own story without knowing who he was.

His story?

Yes, I was so full of that story I longed to tell it.

What does it matter?

So much the worse for him.

Things cannot be made either better or worse.

You were in a hurry to chatter.

It is indiscreet not to keep silent on your own affairs.

He would have heard it from somebody else.

Hullo! Silvestre.

Go in, my master is calling.

So you agreed, you rascals,

you agreed - Scapin, you, and my son, to cheat me out of my money,

and you think I will bear it patiently?

If Scapin is deceiving you, it is none of my doing.

I assure you that I have nothing whatever to do with it.

We shall see, you rascal! We shall see.

And I am not going to be made a fool of for nothing.

Ah!

Mr. Argante,

you see me in the greatest trouble.

And I am in the greatest sorrow.

This rascal, Scapin, has got 500 crowns

out of me.

Yes, and this same rascal, Scapin,

200 pistoles out of me.

He was not satisfied with 500,

but treated me besides in a manner I am ashamed to speak of.

He shall pay for it.

I shall have him punished for the trick.

And I mean to make an example of him.

Heaven grant I do not catch my share of all this!

But, Mr. Argante, this is not all,

and misfortunes, as you know, never come alone.

I was looking forward today to seeing my daughter,

who was everything to me,

and I have just heard that she left

Tarentum a long while since,

and there is reason to suppose the ship was wrecked, and she is lost.

But why did you keep her in Tarentum,

instead of enjoying the happiness of having her with you?

I had my reasons for it,

some family interests forced me till now

to keep my second marriage secret.

But what do I see?

What! You here, Nérine?

Mr. Pandolphe, how...

Géronte, and do not use the other name.

The reasons which forced me to take it

at Tarentum exist no longer.

Alas! What sorrow that change of name has caused us,

what troubles to find you!

And where are my daughter and her mother?

Your daughter, sir, is not far from here,

but before I go fetch her,

I ask you forgive me for having married her,

because of the forsaken state we found ourselves in.

-My daughter is married? -Yes, sir.

And to whom?

To a young man, called Octave, the son of a certain Mr. Argante.

-O Heaven! -What an extraordinary coincidence.

Take us quickly to where she is.

Come into this house.

Go in first,

follow me, follow me,

Mr. Argante.

Well, this is a strange affair.

What are our people doing?

I have two things to tell you.

One is that Octave is all right,

our Hyacintha is, it seems, the daughter of Géronte,

and chance has brought to pass what the wisdom of the fathers decided.

The other, that the old men threaten you with the greatest punishments,

particularly Mr. Géronte.

Threats are but clouds which pass away far above our heads.

Take care.

They may reconcile, and leave you in the lurch.

Leave that to me. I shall find the means of soothing their anger, and...

Go away, I see them coming.

Come, my daughter, come to my house.

My happiness would be perfect if your mother had been with you.

Oh, Léandre.

Here is Octave coming just at the right time.

Come, my son, come and rejoice with us

about the happiness of your marriage. Heaven...

No, father,

all your proposals for marriage are useless.

I must be open and you know how I am engaged.

-But you do not.... -I know all I care to know.

Mr. Géronte's daughter...

Will never be anything to me.

It is she who...

Forgive me, but I shall abide by my resolution.

-Listen! -I will listen to nothing.

Your wife....

No, father,

I would rather die than lose my dear Hyacintha.

All you would do is useless, this is to whom my heart is engaged.

I will have no other wife.

Well, she is whom we give you.

You listen only to your own foolish whim.

Yes, Octave, this is my father whom I have found again,

and all our troubles are over.

Let us go home, we shall talk more comfortably at home.

Ah, father, I beg of you the favor

not to part me from this charming young lady.

She has noble qualities, which will be sure to make you like her

when you know her.

A girl with whom your brother is in love,

and who told me to my face so many insulting things?

Pray forgive me, sir,

I would not have spoken that way had I known who you were,

and I only knew by reputation.

By reputation?

Father, she is most virtuous, and the love my brother has for her is pure.

It is all very well.

You try now to persuade me to marry my son to a stranger, a street girl!

My father, you must no longer say that I love a stranger

without birth or wealth.

Those from whom I bought her have just told me

she belongs to an honest family here.

They stole her when she was four years old,

A bracelet they gave me,

to discover her family.

Ah!

To judge by this bracelet,

this is my daughter whom I lost at four years old.

-Your daughter? -Yes, my daughter.

I know all her features again. My dear child!

Oh! what wonderful events!

Ah, gentlemen, a most sad accident has taken place.

-What is it? -Poor Scapin...

A rascal whom I shall see hung.

Alas! Sir, you will not have that trouble.

As he was passing near a building, a bricklayer's hammer fell

on his head and broke his skull, leaving his brain exposed.

He is dying, and he asked to be brought

to speak to you before he dies.

Where is he?

Here he is.

Gentlemen,

you see me... Oh!

You see me in a sad state.

Oh! I would not die

without coming to ask forgiveness

of all those I may have offended. Oh!

Yes, gentlemen,

before I give up the ghost,

I beseech you

to forgive me all I have done amiss,

and particularly Mr. Argante

and Mr. Géronte. Oh!

Oh, I forgive you,

die in peace, Scapin.

It is you, sir,

I have offended the most, because of the beating with the cudgel which...

Don't talk anymore, I forgive you.

It has been foolhardy for me, the beating with the cudgel which...

Leave that alone.

I feel in dying an inconceivable grief

-for the beating which I.... -Ah, me! Be silent.

That unfortunate beating I gave...

Be silent, I tell you, I forgive you.

Alas! How good you are.

But is it really with all your heart

you forgive me the beating which I...?

Don't mention it.

I forgive you everything. You are punished.

Ah! Sir, how much better I feel for your kind words.

Yes, I forgive you, but on one condition, that you die.

How! Sir?

I retract my words if you recover.

All my pains are coming back.

Mr. Géronte, let us forgive him without any conditions,

for we are all so happy.

Well, so be it.

Let us go to supper, and talk of our happiness.

And you,

take me to the end of the table,

it is there I will await death.

Ah! What sad news for one in love!

What a hard fate to be reduced to!

You have heard at the harbor that my father is coming back?

To tell you the truth, there are few things impossible to me

when I once set about them.

Heaven has bestowed on me a fair share of genius

for the making of wit, for all those ingenious gallantries

to which the ignorant and vulgar give the name of trickery,

and I can boast, without vanity,

that there have been very few men more skillful

than I in expedients and intrigues,

and who have acquired a greater reputation in the noble profession.

What the deuce did he want to go in that galley for?

But to go to the law you need money.

You said 400, did you not?

No, 500.

Twenty and 60 make 80.

Ah! Scapin, I am broken.

And three years more or less

on the galleys are not sufficient to check a noble heart.

I will give the 200 pistoles.

He will receive 500 crowns to give up all his rights.

I hate those fearful hearts

which, by dint of thinking of what may happen,

never undertake anything.

-I will never give 200. -Rubbish.

You may say rubbish, but I will.

Gracious me, I know that you are naturally a kind-hearted man.

You must have money for the pleadings.

Does the scoundrel think that 1,500 francs are found in the gutter?

Such people will never listen to reason.

And three years more or less

on the galleys are not enough to check a noble heart.

ADAPTED FROM CHARLES HERON WALL'S TRANSLATION IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN

K. M. Kownacki Subtitling: Hiventy by TransPerfect