purse — an absolute amateur. You inspire me with
confidence. Citizen Prosper, and so Til make a con-
fession to you. There was a time when I, too,
transacted little bits of business of that sort, but
never without my dear father. When I was still a
child, when we all lived together, when my poor
aunt was still alive
HOST. What are you crying for.^ I think 'tis in
bad taste. Didn't you kill her ?
GRAIN. Too late. But the point I was coming to
V ^ is — take me on here. I will do just the opposite of
•^ \ Gaston. He played the thief and became one
HOST. I will give you a trial. You will produce
a fine effect with your make-up. And at a given
moment you'll just describe the aunt matter — how it
all happened — someone or other will be sure to ask
you.
GRAIN. I thank you, Citizen Prosper. And with
regard to my wages
HOST. To-night you will be a visitor on trial.
Since I am not yet in a position to pay you wages,
you will get good stuff to eat and drink ; and I shall
not mind a franc or so for a night's lodging.
GRAIN. I thank you. And just introduce me to
your other colleagues as a visitor from the provinces.
HOST. Oh, no. We will tell them right away
v^-^ 16
,Q.^
Â¥
THE GREEN COCKATOO
that you are a realymurderer. They would muchV^
prefer that.
GRAIN. Pardon me. I don't wish to do any-
thing against my interests, but I don't see why
HOST. When you have been on the boards a bit
longer, you will see why quite well.
Enter scaevola and .tules.
scAEv. Good evening, Chief.
host. How many times have I got to tell you that
the whole joke falls flat if you call me Chief?
SCAEV. Well, whatever you are, I don't think we
shall play to-night.
HOST, And why ?
SCAEV. The people won't be in the mood. There's
a hellish uproar in the streets, and in front of the
Bastille especially they are yelling like men possessed.
HOST. What matters that to us? The shouting
has been going on for months, and our audience
hasn't stayed away from us. It goes on diverting
itself just as it did before.
SCAEV. Ay, it has the gaiety of people who are
shortly going to be hanged.
HOST. If only I live to see it !
SCAEV. In the meanwhile, give us something to
drink to get me into the vein. I don't feel at all in
the vein to-night.
HOST. That's often the case with you, my friend.
I must tell you that I was most dissatisfied with you
last night.
SCAEV. Why so, if I may ask ?
c 17
THE GREEN COCKATOO
HOST. The story about the burglary was simply
babyish.
scAEv, Babyish?
HOST. To be sure. Absolutely incredible. Mere
roaring is of no avail.
SCAEV. I didn't roar.
HOST. You are always roaring. It will really be
A-necessary for me to rehearse things with you. One
J^ can never rely on your inspirations, Henri is the
only one.
SCAEV. Henri — never anything but Henri ! Henri
simply plays to the gallery. My burglary of
last night was a masterpiece. Henri will never do
anything as good as that as long as he lives. If I
don't sati_sf^_you^-jMy friend^ then Fll just gojbo a
/^raper3beatej... .T]his_i^ but a cheapjack
performance. Hallo ! {Notices grain.) Who is
tKis ? He isn't one of our lot, is he ? Perhaps
you've just engaged someone ? But what a make-up
the fellow has !
HOST. Calm yourself. 'Tis not a professional
actor. 'Tis a real murderer.
SCAEV. Oh, indeed. {Goes up to Imn,) Very glad
to know you. My name is Scaevola.
GRAIN. My name is Grain.
JULES has been walking roimd the bai' the
ivhole time, frecpiently standing still,
like a man tortured inwardly,
HOST. What ails you, Jules ?
JULES. I am learning my part.
18
THE GREEN COCKATOO
HOST. What?
JULES. Remorse. To-night I am playing a man
who is a prey to remorse. Look at me. What do
you think of the furrow in the forehead here ? Do
I not look as though all the furies of hell
(Walks up and down,)
scAEv. {roars). Wine — wine, here !
HOST. Calm yourself. There is no audience yet.
Enter henei and leocadie.
HENiir. Good evening. {He greets those sitting at
the hack xvith a light wave of his hand,) Good
evening, gentlemen.
host. Good evening, Henri. What do I see ? —
you and I^eocadie together ?
CHAIN {xvho has noticed leocadie, to scaevola).
Why, I know her. {Speaks softly with the others,)
leocadie. Yes, my dear Prosper, it is I.
host. I have not seen you for a year on end. Let
me greet you. {He tries to kiss her,)
HENRI. Stop that. {His eyes often rest on leocadie
xvith pride and passion^ hut also a ceriain anxiety,)
host. But, Henri — as between old comrades — your
old chief and Leocadie.
leocadie. Oh, the good old times, Prosper !
HOST. What are you sighing about? When a
wench has made her way in the way you have ! No
doubt about it, a pretty young woman has always
a much easier time of it than we have.
HENRI {wild xvith rage). Stop it.
HOST. Why the deuce do you keep on shouting
19
w
THE GREEN COCKATOO
at me like that ? Because youVe picked up with her
once more ?
HENRI. Hold your tongue — she became my wife
, yesterday.
HOST. Your . . .? {To leocadie) Is he joking.?
LEOCADiE. He has really married me. Yes.
HOST. Then I congratulate you. ... I say, Scaevola,
Jules, Henri is married.
scAEvoi.A {covies to the front), I wish you joy
(wiiiJi's at leocadie).
JULES shakes hands ivith them both,
grain {to host). Ah ! How strange ! I saw that
woman — a few minutes after I was let out.
HOST. What do you mean ?
GitAiN. She was the first pretty woman I'd seen for
two years. I was very moved. But it was another
gentleman with whom {Goes on speaMng to host.)
HENRI (m an exalted tone as though inspired^ but
-^^C* notrtheatricallj/).^.yLeocsid\e, my love, my wife ... all
::===^ the pasFTs^over now. A great deal is blotted out
on an occasion like this.
scAEvoLA a7id JULES have gone to the back,
HOST comes forzvard again,
HOST. What sort of occasion ?
HENRI. We are united now by a holy sacrament.
That means more than any human oath. God
is now watching over us, and one ought to forget
everything which has happened before. Leocadie, a
new age is dawning. Everything becomes holy now,
20
THE GREEN COCKATOO
Leocadie. Our kisses, however wild they may be,
are holy from henceforth. Leocadie, my love, my
wife ! {He contemplates her xoith an ardent glance.)
Isn't her expression quite different. Prosper, to what
you ever knew her to have before ? Is not her fore-
head pure ? What has been is blotted out — hey,
Leocadie ?
LEOCADIE. Surely, Henri.
HENRI. And all is well. We leave Paris to-morrow\
Leocadie makes her last appearance to-night at the
Porte St. Martin, and I am playing here to-night for
the last time.
HOST. Are you mad, Henri ? Do you want to
desert me ? Besides, the manager of the Porte St.
Martin will never think of letting Leocadie go away.
Why, she makes the fortune of his house. The
young gentlemen stream thither, so they say,
HENRI. Wold your peace. Leocadie will go with
Ith 1
^ou \
me. She will never desert me. TeH-me^^^that you
_ will never des ert me, Leocadie. (Brutally) yeW me.
LEOCADIE. 1 will never desert you. '
HENRI. If you did, I would . . . (pause). I am sick i[k>..JL.^^
of this life. I want quiet — I wish to have quiet.
HOST. But what do you want to do then, Henri ?
It is quite ridiculous. I will make you a proposition.
So far as I am concerned, take Leocadie from the
Porte St. Martin, but let her stay here with me. I
will engage her. Anyway, I have rather a dearth of
talented women characters.
HENRI. My mind is made up, Prosper. We are
leaving town. We are going into the country.
21
J
..fW
THE GREEN COCKATOO
HOST. Into the country ? But where ?
HENRI. To my old father's, who lives alone in our
poor village — I haven't seen him for seven years.
He has almost given up hope of ever seeing his lost
son again. He will welcome me with joy.
piiosp. What will you do in the country .^ In the
country they all starve. People are a thousand times
worse off there than in town. What on earth will
'you do there ? You are not the man to till the
fields. Don't imagine you are.
HENRI. Time will prove that I am the man to do
even that.
^ HOST. Soon there won't be any corn growing in
any part of France. You are going to certain
misery.
HENRI. To happiness, Prosper. Hey, Leocadie ?
We have often dreamt of it. I yearn for the peace
of the wide plains. Yes, Prosper, I have seen myself
in my dreams going over the fields with her, in an
infinite stillness with the wonderful placid heavens
over us. Ay, we will ^y away from this awful and
dangerous town ; the great peace will come over us.
Is it not true, Leocadie ? We have often had such
dreams ?
LEOCADIE. Yes, we have often had such dreams.
HOST. Look here, Henri, you should consider it.
I will gladly raise your wages and I will give Leocadie
quite as much as you.
LEOCADIE. Hear you that, Henri ?
HOST. I really don't know who's to take your place
here. Not a single one of my people has such
22
THE GREEN COCKATOO
precious inspirations as you have, not one of them is
so popular with my audience as you « , . don't go
away.
HENRI. I can quite believe that no one will take
my place.
HOST. Stay by me, Henri, {Throws leocadie a
look ; she intimates that she will arrange matters.)
HENRI. And I can promise you that they will take
my departure to heart — they, not me. For to-night
— for my final appearance I have reserved something
that will make them all shudder ... a foreboding
of the end of the world will come over them . . .
for the end of their world is nigh. But I shall only
experience it from a safe distance . . . they will tell
us about it out there^Lcocadie, m any days after it
^^Eas h ap pened. . T TBut I tell you, they will shudder.
And you yourself will say, " Henri has never played
so well."
HOST. What are you going to play ? What ? Do
you know what, Leocadie ?
LEOCADIE. I never know anything.
HENRI. But has anyone any idea of what an artist
lies hidden within me ?
HOST. They certainly have an idea, and that's why
I tell you that a man with a talent such as yours
doesn't go and bury himself in the country. What
an injustice to yourself! and to Art !
HENRI. I don't care a straw about Art. I wish for
quiet. You don't understand that, Prosper; you
have never loved
HOST. Oh !
28
THE GREEN COCKATOO
JiENRi. As I love. I want to be alone with her —
that's the only way . . . that's the only way, Leocadie,
of forgetting everything. But then we shall be
happier than human beings have ever been before.
We shall have children ; you will be a good mother,
Leocadie, and a true wife. All the past, all the past
will be blotted out. {Great pause.)
LEOCADIE. 'Tis getting late, Henri. I must go to
the theatre. Farewell, Prosper ; I am glad at last to
have seen your famous den, the place where Henri
scores such triumphs.
I ^ HOST. But why did you never come ?
v>^ /V/ LEOCADIE. Henri would never let me — ^just because
o'^ \)^ ( I should have to sit next to the young men, you
» v^ V(yi\ HENRI (has gone to the bade). Give me a drink,
Scaevola.
HOST (to LEOCADIE, wheii HENRI IS Old of hearing),
Henri is an arrant fool — as though you had only sat
next to him all your life.
LEOCADIE. Now then ! no remarks of that sort.
HOST. Take my tip and be careful, you silly
gutter-brat. He will kill you one of these days.
LEOCADIE. What's up, then ?
HOST. You were seen only yesterday with one of
your fellows.
LEOCADIE. That was not a fellow, you blockhead ;
that was
HENRI {turns round quickly). What's the matter
* with you ? No jokes, if you don't mind. No more
whispering: No more secrets now. She is my wife.
24
THE GREEN COCKATOO
HOST. What did you give her for a wedding
present ?
LEOCADIE. Heavens ! he never thinks about such
things.
HENRI. Well, you shall have one this very night.
LEOCADIE. What ?
scAEv. and jules. What are you going to give
her ? ^
HENRI {quite seriously). When you have finished
your scene, you must come here and see me act.
{They laugh,)
HENRI. No woman ever had a more glorious
wedding present. Come, Leocadie. Goodbye for the
present. Prosper. I shall soon be back again.
{Exeunt henri and leocadie.)
Enter together francois, Vlcomte de
Nogeant^ and albin, Chevalier de la
Tremouille,
SCAEV. What a contemptible braggart !
HOST. Good evening, you swine.
ALBIN starts bach.
FRANCOIS {without taking any notice). Was not
that the little Leocadie of the Porte St. Martin,
who went away with Henri ?
HOST. Of course it was. — If she really took great
trouble she could eventually make you remember
that even you are something of a man, eh ?
FR. {laughing). That is not impossible. It
seems we are rather early to-night.
25
THE GREEN COCKATOO
HOST. In the meanwhile you can amuse yourself
with your minion.
ALBiN is on the point of flying into a
passion,
FR. Let it pass. I told you what went on here.
Bring us wine.
HOST. Ay, that I will. The time will soon come
when you will be very satisfied with Seine water.
FR. Quite so, quite so . . . but to-night I would
fain ask for wine, and the best wine into the bargain.
HOST g(}es to the bar.
ALBIN. That is really a dreadful fellow.
FR. But just think, it\s all a joke. And, withal,
there are places where you can hear similar things in
real earnest.
ALBIN. Is it not forbidden ?
FR. (laughs). One sees that you come from the
provinces.
ALBIN. Ah ! we, too, are having a bad time of it
nowadays. The peasants are getting so insolent
. . . one doesn't know what to do any more. . . .
FR. What would you have ? The poor devils are
hungry — that is the secret.
ALBIN. How can I help it ? How can my great-
uncle help it ?
FR. Why do you mention your great-uncle ?
ALBIN. Well, I do so because they actually held a
meeting in our village — quite openly— and at the
26
THE GREEN COCKATOO
meeting they actually called my great-uncle the
Comte de Tremouille a corn-usurer.
FR. Is that all ?
ALB IN. Nay, I beg you ! —
FR, We will go to the Palais-Royal to-morrow,
and there you will have a chance of hearing the
monstrous speeches the fellows make. But we let
them speak — it is the best thing to do. They are
good people at bottom ; one must let them bawl
themselves out in that way. -^
ALBiN (pointing to scaevola, etc.). What suspicious
characters those are ! Just see how they look at one.
{He feels for his sword.)
FR. (draws his hand aivay). Don't be ridiculous.
( To the three others) You need not begin yet ; wait
till there is more audience. (To albin) TheyVe the'^
most respectable people in the world, actors are. I
will warrant you have already sat at table with
worse knaves. ^
ALBiN. But they were better attired.
HOST brings wine. Enter MicHErrK and
FIJPOITE.
FR. God be with you, children ! Come and sit
down by us.
MICH. Here we are. Come along, Flipotte. She is
still somewhat shy.
FLIP. Good evening, young gentleman.
ALBIN. Good evening, ladies.
MICH. The little one is a dear. (She sits on Albin" s
lap,)
27
y
THE GREEN COCKATOO
ALBiN. But, FranCj^ois, please explain, are these re-
spectable ladies ?
MICH. What does he say ?
FR. No, that's not quite the word for the ladies
who come here. Odds life, you are silly, Albin !
HOST. What shall I bring for their Graces ? .
MICH. Bring me a very sweet wine.
FR. (pointing to flipo'ite). A friend of yours ?
MICH. We live together. Yes, we have only one
bed between us.
FLIP, (blushhig). Would you find it a very great
nuisance to come and see it ? (Sits on francois''s lap,)
ALBIN. She is not at all shy.
scAEVOLA {stands up ; gloomily tuiiiing to the table
where the young people are). At last I've found you.
{To ALBix) And you, you miserable seducer, aren't
you ashamed that you . . . She is mine.
HOST loohs on,
FR. (^0 albin). a joke — a joke. ...
ALBIN. She isn't his
MICH. Go away. You let me sit where I want to.
SCAEVOLA stands there ivith clenched fists,
HOST {behind). Now, now ?
SCAEVOLA. Ha, ha!
HOST {takes him by the collar). Ha, ha ! {By his
side) You have not a farthing's worth of talent.
Roaring, that's the only thing you can do.
MICH, {to Francois). He did it much better a
short time ago.
28
THE GREEN COCKATOO
scAEvoLA {to host). FiTi not in the/vein. Fll
make a better show later on, when m^e people are
here ; you see, Prosper, I need an audience.
Enter the duc de cadignan.
DUKE. Already in full swing !
MicHE'rrE and FLiPoriE go up to Mm,
MICH. My sweet Duke.
FR. Good evening, Emile . . . (introducing) My
young friend, Albin, Chevalier de Ti'emouille — the
Duc de Cadignan.
DUKE. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.
( To the girh^ who are hanging on to him) Leave me
alone, children ! (To albin) So you, too, are having^ 1/
a look at th is droll tavern ? " /
albin. It bewilders me in the extreme.
FR. The Chevalier has only been in Paris a few
days.
DUKE (laughing). Then you have certainly chosen
a nice time.
ALBIN. How so ?
MICH. He still has that delicious perfume ! There
isn't another man in Paris who has such a pleasant
smell. (To albin) . . . You can't perceive it like
that.
DUKE. She speaks of the seven or eight hundred
whom she knows as well as me.
FLIP. Will you let me play with your sword, dear ?
(She draws his sxcord out of its sheath and flashes
it about,)
29
THE GREEN COCKATOO
GRAIN (to host). He's the man — 'twas him I
saw with her with
HOST lets him go 07i^ seems asto7iished,
DUKE. Henri is not here yet, then? {To albin)
If you see him, you will not regret having come
here.
HOST (to duke). Oh, so youVe here again, are
you ? I am glad. We shall not have the pleasure
much longer.
DUKE. Why ? I find it very nice at your place,
HOST, I believe that. But since in any case you
will be one of the first , . .
ALBIN. What does that mean ?
HOST. You understand me well enough. The
favourites of fortune will be the first ! (Goes to the
back,)
DUKE (afte7' reJlectio7i), If I were king, I would
make him my Court Fool ; I mean to say, I should
have many Court Fools, but he would be one of
them.
ALBIN. What did he mean by saying that you
were too fortunate ?
DUKE. He means. Chevalier . . .
. k) ALBIN. Please, don't call me Chevalier. Every-
y body calls me Albin, simply Albin, just because I
' .V^^look so young.
\ AL' DUKE (smiling). Good. . . . But you must call me
^ ^^ Emile— eh ?
ALBIN. With pleasure, if you allow it, Emile.
DUKE. They have a sinister wit, have these people.
30
THE GREEN COCKATOO
FR. Why sinister ? I find it quite reassuring. So ^
long as the mob is in the mood for jests, it will ^
never come to anything serious. "^
DUKE. Only the jests are much too strange. I
learnt a thing to-day that gives food for thought.
FR. Tell us.
FLIP, and MICH. Ay, tell us, sweet Duke !
DUKE. Do you know Lelange ?
FR. Of course — the village . . . the Marquis de
Montserrat has one of his finest hunts there.
DUKE. Quite right ; my brother is now at the
castle with him, and he has written home about the
things I am going to tell you. They have a mayor
at Lelange who is very unpopular.
FR. If you can tell me the name of one who is
popular
DUKE. Just listen. The women of the village
paraded in front of the mayor's house with a coffin.
FLIP. What ? Did they carry it ? Carry a coffin ?
I wouldn't like to carry a coffin for anything in the
world.
FR. Hold your tongue. Nobody is asking you to
carry a coffin. (To the duke) Well ?
DUKE. And one or two of the women went into
the mayor's house and explained to him that he
must die, but they would do him the honour of
burying him.
FR. Well, have they killed him ?
DUKE. No ; at least, my brother doesn't write any-
thing about it.
FR. Well then . . . blusterers, talkers, clowns —
31
THE GREEN COCKATOO
that's what they are. To-day they're roaring in
Paris at the Bastille for a change, just as they've
already done half a dozen times before » . .
DUKE. Well, if I were king I should have made an
end of it long ago.
ALBiN. Is it true that the king is so good-natured ?
DUKE. You have not yet been presented to His
Majesty ?
FR. This is the first time the Chevalier has been
in Paris.
DUKE. Yes, you are incredibly young. How old,
if I may ask ?
ALBIN. I only look so young ; I am already seven-
teen.
DUKE. Seventeen 1 — how much is still in front of
you ! I am already four-and- twenty ! . . . I am
beginning to regret how much of my youth I have
missed !
FR. {laughs). That is good. You, Duke —you
count every day lost in which you have not conquered
a woman or killed a man.
DUKE. Only the unfortunate thing is that one
^ never makes a conquest of the right woman, and
always kills the wrong man. And that as a matter
of fact is how one misses one's youth. You know
what Rollin says ?
FR. What does Rollin say ?
DUKE. I was thinking of his new piece that they
are playing at the Comedie — there is such a pretty
simile in it. Don't you remember ?
FR. I have no memory for verses.
32
THE GREEN COCKATOO
DUKE. Nor have I, unfortunately ... I only re-
member the sense. He says, youth which a man does
not enjoy is like a feather-ball, which you leave lying
in the sand instead of throwing it up into the air.
ALBiN {like a zaiseacre). I think that is quite right.
DUKE. Is it not true ? The feathei^ gradually lose
their colour and fall out. 'Tis better for it to fall
into a bush where it cannot be found.
•^ ALBIN. How should one understand that, Emile ?
DUKE, ^is more a matter of feeling than of under-
standing. If I could repeat the verses, you would
understand it at once.
ALBIN. I have an idea, Emile, that you, too, could
make verses if you wished.
DUKE. Why?
ALBIN. Since you have been here, it seems to me
as though life were flaming up.
DUKE (smiling). Yes ? Is life flaming up ?
FR. Won't you come and sit with us after all ?
Meanivhile^ tzvo nobles come in and sit
down at a distant table, host appears
to be addressing insidts to them.
DUKE. I cannot stay here. But in any case I will
come back again.
MICH. Stay with me.
FLIP. Take me with you. {They try to hold him,)
HOST {coming to the front). Just you leave him
alone. You're not bad enough for him by a long
way. He's got to run after a whore off* the streets —
that's where he feels most in his element,
D 83
THE GREEN COCKATOO
DUKE. I shall certainly come back, if only not to
miss Henri.
Fii. What do you think, when we came, Henri
was just going out with Lcocadie.
DUKE. Keally — he has married her. Did you
know that?
FR. Is that so ? What will the others have to say
to it ?
ALBiN. What others ?
FR. She is loved all round, you know.
DUKE. And he wants to go away with her . . .
what do I know about it ? . . . Somebody told me.
HOST. Indeed ? Did they tell you ? {Glances at
the DUKE.)
DUKE {having first looked at host). It is too silly.
f Leocadie was made to be the greatest, the most
1 splendid whore in the world.
FR. Who doesn't know that?
DUKE. Could anything be more unreasonable than
to take people away from their true calling ? {As
FRANCOIS laughs) I am not joking. Whores are
born, not made — just as conquerors and poets are.
FR. You are paradoxical.
DUKE. I am sorry for her, and for Henri. He
should stay here — no, not here — I should like to bring
him to the Comedie — though even there — I always feel
as though nobody understood him as well as I do. Of
course, that may be an illusion, since I have the same
feeling in regard to most artists. But I must say if I
were not the Due de Cadignan, I should really like
to be a comedian like him — like him, I say . . .
34
THE GREEN COCKATOO
ALB IN. Like Alexander the Great.
DUKE {smiling). Yes, like Alexander the Great.
(To FLIP.) Give me my sword. (He puts it in the
sJieath,) (Slowly) It is the finest way of making fun
of the world ; a man who can portray whatever he
wants to is worth more than all of us. (albin looks
at him in astonishment,) Don't you reflect on what""*
I say. ''Tis all only true at the actual moment.
Good-bye.
MICH. Give me a kiss before you go.
FLIP. Me too !
They hang on to him^ the dukk kisses
them both at once and goes. In the
meanrchile :
ALBIN. A wonderful man !
FR. That is quite true ; . . . but the existence of
men like that is almost a reason for not marrying.
ALBIN. But do explain ; what are those girls ?
Fii. Actresses. They, too, belong to the troupe of