The Folly of Forgotten Vows A Comedy in Five Acts Dramatis Personae MONSIEUR MOLIÈRE, a merchant who having departed Paris a poor man, returns wealthy and pompous, with a memory as short as his purse is now long. MARION, his wife, a woman of virtue so steadfast that neither poverty nor temptation could shake it, and of a tongue so sharp that it could flay the hide from a mule. MADAME MOLIÈRE, the mother, whose love for her son is exceeded only by her dependence upon her daughter-in-law. MONSIEUR GROSJEAN, a wealthy country squire, fat in body and in purse, whose appetite for marriage is matched only by his lack of understanding why any woman should refuse him. MAÎTRE PLIC-PLIC, a lawyer, thin as a reed and twice as flexible, who serves as the voice of legal obstruction and comic pedantry. PIERROT, a servant, whose wit exceeds his station and whose observations provide the chorus to this comedy. ROSETTE, maid to Marion, whose loyalty is absolute and whose tongue is nearly as sharp as her mistress’s. VARIOUS SERVANTS, NEIGHBORS, AND CHORUS OF GOSSIPERS ACT I In Which a Wedding Takes Place, a Husband Departs, and a Wife Begins Her Vigil Scene I The modest house of Monsieur Molière in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. Morning. The room is decorated with garlands for a wedding feast, but the decorations have the air of having been borrowed and will need to be returned. MADAME MOLIÈRE, a widow of sixty years, is directing the placement of the last flowers with the anxiety of one who knows that appearances must be maintained even when the cupboard is bare. MADAME MOLIÈRE (arranging a wilting rose): No, no, place it there—yes, where the light from the window will catch it. If we cannot afford fresh flowers, we must at least give the impression that we have chosen to employ the fading ones for artistic effect. This is Paris, my boy—here, poverty is only a failure of presentation. MOLIÈRE (entering, dressed in his wedding finery, which fits him where it touches): Mother, I beg you, cease this fussing. The bride will arrive, we will be married, and what difference whether the roses are fresh or faded? In a week they will all be dead anyway. MADAME MOLIÈRE: A week! Listen to the philosopher! My son, you have been married but three hours in your mind, and already you speak of the decay of roses. This is not philosophy—this is the anxiety of a man who has spent his last louis on the license and wonders how he will feed his wife. MOLIÈRE (with dignity): I have prospects, Mother. The merchant Dubois has promised me a position in his counting-house. Within a year— MADAME MOLIÈRE: Within a year! Within a year we shall all be in our graves, or worse, in debtors’ prison. Prospects! A prospect is a landscape viewed from a distance, and distance, my dear boy, is the enemy of the hungry man. Enter PIERROT, the servant, carrying a tray with three glasses of wine. He is a young man of twenty-five, with a face that suggests he has seen too much of human nature to be surprised by any of it. PIERROT: The wine, Madame—though I use the term generously, for this liquid has seen grapes only in its dreams. It was pressed, I am told, from raisins that had already been blessed at three previous weddings. MADAME MOLIÈRE: Pierrot, your commentary is not required. Place the tray and hold your tongue. PIERROT (aside): Hold my tongue! If I held my tongue as often as I am commanded, I should have no tongue left to hold. It would have withered from disuse, like a muscle unexercised. A knock at the door. PIERROT opens it to admit MONSIEUR GROSJEAN, the bride’s father, and his wife, MADAME GROSJEAN. GROSJEAN is a man who has grown wealthy through the gradual accumulation of small advantages, and his face bears the permanent expression of one who has just discovered an error in his favor in a bill of accounts. GROSJEAN: Well, well! The groom! And looking, I must say, almost prosperous. Almost, mind you—like a man who has heard of prosperity and is doing his best to impersonate it. MOLIÈRE (with forced cheerfulness): Monsieur Grosjean! Welcome! And Madame Grosjean—charming, simply charming. MADAME GROSJEAN (a woman whose disappointment with life has settled permanently in the corners of her mouth): Where is the bride to sit? I trust there is a proper chair—not one of those stools that make a woman feel she is being punished for some sin she cannot remember committing. MADAME MOLIÈRE: We have prepared our best chair, Madame—an armchair with cushions, imported from Lyon. GROSJEAN (examining the chair with suspicion): Lyon? When? During the reign of Francis I? PIERROT (aside): During the reign of Francis the First, or the First Francis to sit in it—whichever came later. MADAME MOLIÈRE (through gritted teeth): Pierrot, see if the bride approaches. PIERROT exits. A murmur from outside, and then the sound of music—three musicians playing with the enthusiasm of men who have been promised payment in wedding cake. The door opens, and MARION enters, attended by ROSETTE. MARION is twenty years old, with a face that combines beauty with intelligence in proportions that disturb the peace of mind of every man who sees her. Her wedding dress is simple but immaculate, and she wears it with the dignity of a queen who has chosen to disguise herself as a bourgeois bride. She looks at MOLIÈRE, and for a moment, the room is silent. MARION (curtseying): Monsieur. MOLIÈRE (taking her hand with a mixture of awe and terror): Mademoiselle—Madame, I mean—forgive me, I am not yet accustomed to the title. MARION (with a slight smile): Nor I, Monsieur. We shall learn it together, like a new language. GROSJEAN: Well spoken! Like a new language! My daughter has always had a way with words. It is her only dowry, but I am told it appreciates in value, unlike land or livestock. MADAME GROSJEAN (sharply): Her only dowry! What of the linen? What of the chest of drawers? GROSJEAN: The linen is worn, and the chest of drawers sticks. But the words—ah, the words flow like silk! The company sits. PIERROT serves the wine. The musicians play. There is an attempt at festivity, but it has the quality of a performance given by actors who have not been paid their rehearsal wages. MADAME MOLIÈRE (raising her glass): To the bride and groom! May their union be blessed with— She stops, unable to think of a blessing that does not sound like a curse in their circumstances. MARION (helping her): With health, and patience, and the wisdom to know that love is not diminished by poverty, but only refined by it. MOLIÈRE (touched): You believe that, truly? MARION: I believe it because I must, Monsieur. What is the alternative? To believe that love requires gold to survive? If that were true, only misers could be happy in marriage. PIERROT (aside): And they are not. I have observed that misers are the most miserable of husbands, for they count the cost of everything, including affection. A loud knocking at the door. Everyone freezes. PIERROT opens it to admit a SOLDIER in the uniform of the King’s militia, accompanied by two armed men. SOLDIER: Monsieur Molière? MOLIÈRE (rising, pale): I am he. SOLDIER: By order of His Majesty, you are conscripted for service in the army. The country requires men. You will come with us immediately. Consternation. MADAME MOLIÈRE sinks into a chair. MARION rises, steadying herself against the table. MADAME MOLIÈRE: Immediately! But he was married but this hour! The feast is not concluded! The cake has not been cut! SOLDIER: Madame, the King does not consult the wedding calendar before defending his realm. The groom will come now, or he will come in chains. The choice is his. MOLIÈRE (to MARION): My dear— MARION (quietly): You must go. What else can you do? MOLIÈRE: But our marriage—our night—we have not even— MARION (with a dignity that silences him): We have made our vows before God. That is marriage. The rest is—accommodation. Go, Monsieur. Serve your King. And when you return— MOLIÈRE: When I return, I shall be a man of substance. I swear it. I shall not come back to you as a beggar. MARION: I would rather have you as a beggar than not at all. But go—make your fortune. I shall be here. GROSJEAN (to his wife, in a whisper): Ten years, if he survives. And if he does not— MADAME GROSJEAN (whispering back): Silence! The girl has spirit. Let us see how much spirit ten years of waiting will leave her. MOLIÈRE embraces his mother, then turns to MARION. He takes her hand, kisses it, and then, impulsively, kisses her forehead. MOLIÈRE: Keep the house, Marion. Keep my mother. And keep—keep yourself for me. MARION: There is no danger of my doing otherwise. I am not a woman who forgets her promises, even when they are made to a man who has spent only three hours in her company. MOLIÈRE exits with the soldiers. The wedding party stands in silence. The musicians, uncertain whether to continue, play a few discordant notes and then stop. MADAME MOLIÈRE (suddenly, to MARION): You should not have been so quick to let him go. A woman has weapons—tears, fainting spells, hysterics. You used none of them. MARION: Would they have availed, Madame? MADAME MOLIÈRE: No. But they would have shown that you cared. MARION (with a faint smile): I care too much to perform my caring. If my husband does not know that I love him by my letting him go with dignity, then he does not know me at all—and ten years will not teach him. She turns and exits to the inner room. The wedding guests stand awkwardly, uncertain whether to stay or go. PIERROT (to the company): Well! The feast is ended before it began. But the cake, at least, is real. Shall I cut it, or would you prefer to take your portions home in paper? GROSJEAN: We shall go. This is no longer a wedding—it is a vigil. Come, wife. The GROSJEANS exit. MADAME MOLIÈRE sinks into a chair and begins to weep. MADAME MOLIÈRE: Ten years! I shall be in my grave before he returns. And if I am not, I shall wish I were, for the waiting will have killed whatever part of me still lives. PIERROT (offering her a handkerchief): There, there, Madame. Ten years is not so long. It is only three thousand six hundred and fifty-three days—allowing for leap years. And each day will pass, one by one, like beads on a rosary. MADAME MOLIÈRE: You have a gift for consolation, Pierrot. You should be a priest. PIERROT: I considered it, Madame. But the Church requires faith, and I have only observation. They are not the same thing, though they are often confused. He clears away the wedding cups, humming a tune. The curtain falls on the first act of this comedy, with a mother weeping, a bride in her chamber, and a husband marching toward a war he did not choose. Scene II Ten years later. The same house, but shabbier. The furniture that was old ten years ago is now ancient. Paint peels from the walls. But the room is clean—immaculately, desperately clean. It is late afternoon. MARION, now thirty years old, is mending clothes by the window. She is thinner than she was, and there are lines around her eyes that speak of years of worry. But her dignity is intact—perhaps even increased by the endurance she has shown. MADAME MOLIÈRE, now seventy, sits in the same armchair, which has grown to fit her like a second skin. She is knitting—endlessly knitting, as if the creation of garments could somehow fill the emptiness of waiting. MADAME MOLIÈRE: The soup is thin today. MARION: The soup is always thin, Madame. We have grown accustomed to it. MADAME MOLIÈRE: I was not complaining. I was merely observing. When one reaches my age, observation is the only pleasure left. I observe that the soup is thin, that the fire is low, that my son has been gone ten years and three months, and that the post brings nothing. MARION: The post brings bills, Madame. We should be grateful for its silence. MADAME MOLIÈRE: Bills! Yes, there is Grosjean, still demanding payment for that loan he made your father. As if we had forgotten! As if we could forget anything, with so little to remember! Enter ROSETTE, now thirty-five, with a basket of laundry. She has grown sharp-tongued with age, like a knife that has been whetted too often. ROSETTE: Madame, there is a man at the door. A large man. A very large man. He casts a shadow that could shelter a family of five. MARION: Who is it? ROSETTE: Monsieur Grosjean, Madame. The father. He says he comes with news. MARION (rising): News? Of what kind? ROSETTE: He did not specify. But his face has the expression of a man who has swallowed something unpleasant and wishes to share the experience. MARION: Show him in. Enter MONSIEUR GROSJEAN. He is fatter than he was ten years ago, and his prosperity has settled around him like a protective coating. He carries a cane that he does not need, for show rather than support. GROSJEAN: Daughter! Or should I say, widow? MARION (coldly): You may say daughter, Monsieur. I am no widow. My husband lives. GROSJEAN: Ah! That is the question, is it not? Whether he lives. I have news, my dear—news from the army. It seems there was a battle, a great battle, in some foreign place with an unpronounceable name. Many men died. Your husband’s name appears on no list of survivors. Silence. MARION stands very still. MADAME MOLIÈRE: No list of survivors? But that does not mean— GROSJEAN: It means, Madame, that he is dead. Or as good as dead. Ten years, no word, and now a battle in which thousands perished. The conclusion is obvious. MARION: The conclusion is not obvious to me, Monsieur. Until I see his body, or a death certificate signed by an officer who witnessed his fall, I am not a widow. GROSJEAN (impatiently): You always were stubborn, girl. But this is not about your marital status. This is about practicalities. You are young—well, youngish. You have no children. You cannot live forever on the charity of your mother-in-law and the labor of your own hands. I have come to make you an offer. MARION: An offer? GROSJEAN: There is a man—a wealthy man, a squire with land and livestock and a house that does not peel. He seeks a wife. He is willing to overlook your—shall we say, your previous attachment—in exchange for your youth and your—what remains of your beauty. MARION: You wish me to remarry? GROSJEAN: I wish you to be sensible. The squire’s name is Dubois—no relation to the merchant who once promised your husband employment. This Dubois has made his fortune in—well, the details are unimportant. He has money, he desires a wife, and I owe him forty livres. If you marry him, my debt is forgiven, and you become a woman of property. MADAME MOLIÈRE (rising, trembling): This is monstrous! My daughter-in-law, sold like a horse at market! GROSJEAN: Not sold, Madame—encouraged. Encouraged to see reason. Ten years! Ten years she has waited, and for what? For a ghost? For a memory? I am offering her a future. MARION (quietly): Monsieur, you may tell this squire that I am honored by his interest, but I cannot accept. I am married. My husband may be dead, or he may be alive. Until I know for certain, I am his wife, and no other man’s. GROSJEAN: Stubborn! Willful! Girl, do you know what poverty does to a woman? It ages her, it breaks her, it turns her into a crone before her time. In five years, no squire will want you. In ten, you will be begging in the streets. MARION: Then I shall beg with a clear conscience, Monsieur. I prefer honest poverty to dishonest comfort. GROSJEAN: Very well! Very well! But remember—I offered. When you are starving, when your mother-in-law is dead and you are alone, remember that your father offered you salvation, and you refused it! He exits, slamming the door. The sound echoes in the small room. MADAME MOLIÈRE: The man is a pig. A pig in silk stockings. MARION (with a faint smile): Silk stockings on a pig would be a waste of silk, Madame. ROSETTE: Madame Marion, you were magnificent! “I prefer honest poverty to dishonest comfort!” I shall remember that. It is the kind of line that looks well on tombstones. MARION: I do not intend to need a tombstone just yet, Rosette. But thank you. She sits down again, takes up her mending, and continues to sew. But her hands tremble slightly. MADAME MOLIÈRE: You do not believe he is dead? MARION: I do not know what to believe. But I know what I promised. And I will keep that promise until there is proof—real proof, not the speculation of a father who wishes to clear his debts—that my husband is no more. MADAME MOLIÈRE: You are a better woman than my son deserves. MARION: I am a woman who keeps her word, Madame. That is not better than anyone deserves—it is simply what I am. The light fades. The curtain falls on the second scene, with two women in a shabby room, defying the world with their poverty and their pride. End of Act I ACT II In Which a Suitor Presents Himself, Is Rejected with Eloquence, and a Husband Returns Unaware Scene I Three months later. The house of Monsieur Dubois, a country estate some leagues from Paris. The room is decorated in the style of a man who has recently acquired wealth and is uncertain how to display it. There are too many paintings, too much gilt, and a general air of trying too hard. MONSIEUR DUBOIS sits in a chair that is too large for him, eating grapes with the concentration of a man performing a difficult mathematical calculation. Enter MAÎTRE PLIC-PLIC, the lawyer. He is thin, dressed in black, and carries a sheaf of papers with the reverence of a priest carrying relics. PLIC-PLIC: Monsieur Dubois, I have the contracts prepared. The marriage settlement, the property transfers, the provisions for widowhood—everything is in order. If the lady will but sign, you will be a married man within the week. DUBOIS (spitting grape seeds): The lady, Maître Plic-Plic, is the problem. The lady will not sign. The lady will not even receive me. PLIC-PLIC: Not receive you? But you are a man of substance! You have land, livestock, a house in the country and another in town! What more could a woman want? DUBOIS: She wants her husband, Maître. Her husband, who has been dead these ten years—or if not dead, as good as dead. She is obsessed with a ghost. A phantom. A memory of a man who left her a bride and would not recognize her if he saw her now. PLIC-PLIC: Ah! The persistence of feminine sentiment! It is a legal nightmare, Monsieur. A woman who will not accept the evidence of her own advantage! If all women were so stubborn, the institution of marriage would collapse, and with it, my entire profession. DUBOIS: Your profession would survive, Maître. There would still be property disputes, inheritances, lawsuits over the ownership of cats. But my happiness—my happiness is in jeopardy. I desire this woman, Maître. I desire her with a passion that surprises me. At my age—forty-five, though I admit to forty—I had thought such feelings were behind me. PLIC-PLIC: Desire is a dangerous thing, Monsieur. In my experience, it leads more often to litigation than to satisfaction. But if you are determined, perhaps we can approach the matter from a legal angle. The husband—what was his name? DUBOIS: Molière. Jean-Baptiste Molière. PLIC-PLIC (consulting his papers): Molière. Yes. Conscripted ten years ago. No word since. Presumed dead. In law, Madame, a man may be declared dead after seven years of absence without communication. This Molière has been gone ten. The lady is legally a widow, whether she chooses to acknowledge it or not. DUBOIS: You are certain? PLIC-PLIC: As certain as law can make me. Which is to say, certain enough for a court, and certain enough for a marriage license. The obstacle is not legal, Monsieur—it is sentimental. The lady has convinced herself that her constancy is a virtue. She wears her suffering like a crown. DUBOIS: Then I must find a way to remove the crown without bruising the head. I must make her see that her constancy is not virtue, but—what? Folly? Madness? PLIC-PLIC: Neither, Monsieur. Women do not respond to being told they are foolish. You must make her see that her constancy is—unnecessary. That the world has moved on. That her husband, if he lived, would not expect such devotion. DUBOIS: And how do I do that? PLIC-PLIC: That, Monsieur, is not a legal question. I am a lawyer, not a philosopher. I can tell you what is permitted; I cannot tell you what is persuasive. Enter a SERVANT. SERVANT: Monsieur, there is a man at the gate. A traveler. He asks for directions to Paris, but his horse is lame, and he requests shelter for the night. DUBOIS: A traveler? What manner of man? SERVANT: He is well-dressed, Monsieur. Foreign clothes. He speaks French with an accent—Spanish, perhaps, or Italian. He has the air of a gentleman. DUBOIS: Show him in. Perhaps a stranger’s company will distract me from my—my preoccupations. The SERVANT exits. A moment later, MOLIÈRE enters. He is forty years old now, dressed in the fashion of a Spanish gentleman—rich fabrics, a sword at his side, a hat with a feather. He has grown into his features, which have become distinguished rather than merely presentable. But there is something hard in his eyes, the look of a man who has seen too much and learned to feel too little. MOLIÈRE: Monsieur, I thank you for your hospitality. I am a traveler, returning to my native country after many years abroad. My horse, alas, has failed me at the last obstacle. DUBOIS: You are welcome, Monsieur—? MOLIÈRE: Molière. Jean-Baptiste Molière, late of Paris, lately of—various places. The army, commerce, and finally, fortune. DUBOIS (starting): Molière! But that is—the name is— PLIC-PLIC (hastily): A common name, Monsieur. Very common. There must be hundreds of Molières in France. MOLIÈRE: Hundreds, perhaps. But only one who left Paris ten years ago a conscript, and returns now—a man of means. I have traded, Monsieur. In the army I learned that war is a foolish business, but that the supplies required for war are a profitable one. I supplied the army with grain, with wine, with boots. The army supplied me with gold. A fair exchange, I think. DUBOIS: And now you return to Paris? MOLIÈRE: I return to—settle accounts. To see what remains of my former life. To discover, perhaps, whether there is anything worth returning to. PLIC-PLIC (aside to DUBOIS): Monsieur! This is the husband! The very man! Returned from the dead, like Lazarus, but with better clothes! DUBOIS (aside): Silence! Let me think! MOLIÈRE: You whisper, gentlemen. Do I intrude upon a private matter? DUBOIS: Not at all! Not at all! We were merely—surprised. The name, you see. There was a Molière, in this district, who—who left many years ago. We thought him dead. MOLIÈRE: Many have thought me dead, Monsieur. In the army, it is a common assumption. Men die so easily—of disease, of battle, of bad wine. I have learned to consider myself fortunate. DUBOIS: And your family? You have family in Paris? MOLIÈRE: A mother. And—a wife. If she still lives. If she has not—moved on, as women do, when left alone too long. DUBOIS (with forced heartiness): Moved on! Your wife! Surely not! A woman of virtue, I am certain, would wait—would remain faithful— MOLIÈRE: Ten years, Monsieur. Ten years is a long time. I was a boy when I left. I return a man—a different man. Why should she be the same woman? Why should she have waited for a ghost? PLIC-PLIC: Monsieur Molière, you speak with remarkable—philosophy. Most men in your position would expect—would demand— MOLIÈRE: Most men are fools, Maître. I have learned that expectation is the mother of disappointment. I expect nothing. Therefore, whatever I find will be—acceptable. Or at least, not surprising. DUBOIS: But if you found your wife—faithful? Constant? Devoted to your memory? MOLIÈRE (with a strange smile): Then I should suspect her of hypocrisy, Monsieur. Or of lacking opportunity. No woman is virtuous because she chooses to be. She is virtuous because she has no alternative. PLIC-PLIC: A cynical philosophy, Monsieur! MOLIÈRE: A practical philosophy, Maître. Learned in the school of experience. I have seen too much of human nature to believe in its excellence. Women are no better than men, and men are bad enough. He takes a glass of wine from a tray, drinks. MOLIÈRE: But tell me, Monsieur Dubois—you have not told me your name, but your servant addressed you thus—you seem to have an interest in my family. Or perhaps, in my wife? DUBOIS (flustered): I? No! That is— PLIC-PLIC: Monsieur Dubois is a public-spirited citizen, Monsieur Molière. He takes an interest in—all his neighbors. Your wife, as it happens, is one of them. Or was. She has lived these ten years in your house, supporting your mother, working—working with her hands, I believe. Sewing, washing, that sort of thing. MOLIÈRE: Has she? How—admirable. And how unnecessary. If I had known she would take such duties upon herself, I would have sent money. But I did not know. I did not know if she would even want money from a husband who had abandoned her. DUBOIS: Abandoned! You were conscripted! It was not your choice! MOLIÈRE: Was it not? I could have run away. I could have hidden. I could have paid another to take my place. I did none of these things. I went, like a sheep to the slaughter, because—because I was young, and foolish, and believed that honor was a real thing, rather than a word used by old men to send young men to their deaths. He drinks again. MOLIÈRE: But I weary you with my philosophy. You have been kind, Monsieur Dubois. I shall trespass upon your kindness no longer. Tomorrow, at first light, I shall continue to Paris. And there—I shall discover what remains of my former life. DUBOIS: You—you will not recognize your wife, Monsieur? After ten years? MOLIÈRE: I left a girl of twenty. She is now thirty. Ten years of poverty, of labor, of worry—how should I recognize her? And how should she recognize me? I am not the boy who kissed her forehead and promised to return a man of substance. I am—what I am. We shall be strangers to each other, Monsieur. Strangers who happen to share a name and a memory. He exits, followed by the SERVANT. DUBOIS and PLIC-PLIC stare at each other. DUBOIS: He does not know her. He will not recognize her. And she—she will not recognize him? PLIC-PLIC: It would seem not, Monsieur. The husband returns, but as a stranger. The comedy writes itself. DUBOIS: Comedy! This is my life, Maître! My happiness! The woman I desire is married to a man who does not even know her face! PLIC-PLIC: Then perhaps, Monsieur, you may yet have what you desire. If he does not recognize her—if she does not recognize him—who is to say what may happen? The stage is set. The players are in position. We need only—let the drama unfold. He smiles, a lawyer’s smile, full of possibilities. Scene II The same evening. The house of Molière, in Paris. MARION is preparing supper—a thin soup, some bread, a little cheese. MADAME MOLIÈRE dozes in her chair. ROSETTE enters, agitated. ROSETTE: Madame! Madame! There is news! MARION (calmly): There is always news, Rosette. The world is full of events. Most of them do not concern us. ROSETTE: This concerns us! It concerns you! Your father—Monsieur Grosjean—he has been here again! MARION: My father is always here. He comes to remind me of my folly in refusing his squire. I do not listen. He goes away. It is a ritual, like the changing of the seasons. ROSETTE: But this time he brings different news! The squire—the squire Dubois—he has a guest! A traveler! A gentleman from abroad! MARION: And this concerns me how? ROSETTE: The traveler—he asked about you! He asked about the Molière family! He is—Madame, I believe he is your husband! MADAME MOLIÈRE starts awake. MADAME MOLIÈRE: My son? My son has returned? MARION (very still): Rosette, what do you know of this? ROSETTE: Only what the kitchen maid at the squire’s house told me. A gentleman arrived, dressed like a Spaniard, with a sword and a feathered hat. He gave his name as Molière. He asked about his wife. He asked about his mother. He is coming here, Madame—tomorrow, or the next day! MADAME MOLIÈRE (weeping): My son! My boy! After ten years! MARION: Madame, we do not know—it may be another Molière. The name is common. MADAME MOLIÈRE: It is he! I feel it! A mother knows! My son has returned! MARION: Then we must prepare. Rosette, the house must be cleaned—properly cleaned, not the usual pretense. Madame, you must rest—you must be strong to receive him. And I—I must— She stops, uncertain for the first time. ROSETTE: You must what, Madame? MARION: I must decide what to feel. Ten years, Rosette. Ten years of waiting, of working, of keeping my word. And now—now he returns. What if he is changed? What if I am changed? What if we are strangers to each other? ROSETTE: Then you will become acquainted again, Madame. That is what married people do. MARION: We were married for three hours, Rosette. Three hours, and then he was gone. We are not married people. We are—two people who made promises to each other when we were different people. Whether those promises still bind us—I do not know. MADAME MOLIÈRE: He is my son! You are his wife! What more is there to know? MARION: Everything, Madame. Everything is there to know. What kind of man has he become? What has ten years of war and commerce done to him? Will he find me—changed? Disappointing? Will he wish he had not returned? ROSETTE: Madame, you are the most constant woman in Paris. If he does not see that, he is a fool. MARION: Perhaps he is a fool. Perhaps I am a fool for expecting him to be wise. We shall see, Rosette. We shall see. She returns to her cooking, but her hands shake slightly as she stirs the soup. Scene III The next morning. The orchard behind the Molière house. It is spring, and the trees are in blossom. MARION is gathering fruit in a basket, dressed in her work clothes—a simple dress, an apron, her hair covered by a kerchief. She is thinner than she was, and her face bears the marks of hardship, but there is a dignity in her bearing that transcends her circumstances. Enter MOLIÈRE, from the road. He has left his horse at the gate, and walks through the orchard, looking about him with a mixture of recognition and strangeness. He sees MARION from behind—she is reaching up to pick a branch, her back to him. MOLIÈRE (aside): A woman. A servant, perhaps, or a neighbor. But what grace in her movements! What dignity in her poverty! If this is the quality of woman one finds in Parisian orchards, I have been too long away. He approaches, making enough noise to alert her. MARION turns, startled, but does not recognize him. Ten years have changed him beyond her memory. MARION: Monsieur! You startled me. This is private property. MOLIÈRE (bowing): I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle. I am a traveler, returning to my home after many years. I sought the house of Molière. The gate was open, and I— MARION: The house of Molière? You know the family? MOLIÈRE: I—did. Once. Long ago. I knew a young man named Molière, who left this house ten years ago and never returned. MARION (with a slight tremor in her voice): You knew him? MOLIÈRE: I was—his friend. His comrade. We served together. And I have come, Mademoiselle, to bring news of him. MARION: News? What news? MOLIÈRE (with a feigned sadness): Alas, Mademoiselle, the news is not good. Your—Monsieur Molière, I mean—he fell, in battle. Three years ago. He died bravely, as men say, though I have never understood what is brave about being killed by a stranger for a cause one does not understand. MARION staggers slightly, but recovers. Her face is pale, but her voice is steady. MARION: You are certain? You saw him fall? MOLIÈRE: I saw him—after. He spoke of you, Mademoiselle. Of his wife. Of his mother. He asked me to come here, to tell you of his death, to— MARION: To what, Monsieur? MOLIÈRE: To see if you were—happy. If you had—moved on. He did not wish you to mourn him forever, Mademoiselle. He was—a practical man. He knew that life continues, even for the widowed. MARION: I see. And you—what was your name, Monsieur? MOLIÈRE: I am—Don Juan. Of Seville. A traveler, as I said. MARION: Don Juan. A famous name. A name associated with—certain qualities. MOLIÈRE (with a smile): I am not the Don Juan of legend, Mademoiselle. I am merely a man who has traveled far and seen much. And who, seeing you, regrets that he must bring such sad news. MARION: The news is not sad, Monsieur. It is—expected. Ten years, with no word. I had prepared myself for this. I am only surprised that it took so long for someone to bring it. MOLIÈRE: You are—remarkably composed, Mademoiselle. MARION: I have had practice in composure, Monsieur. Poverty teaches it. Waiting teaches it. The slow erosion of hope teaches it better than any philosophy. MOLIÈRE: And now? Now that you are free—what will you do? MARION: Free? Am I free? I am a widow, Monsieur, with no means, no family that acknowledges me, and a mother-in-law who depends upon me for her daily bread. Freedom, in such circumstances, is another word for destitution. MOLIÈRE: But surely—there are men who would— MARION: Who would what, Monsieur? Marry me? For my beauty, which has faded? For my youth, which has passed? For my dowry, which never existed? I am thirty years old, Monsieur. I have worked with my hands for ten years. I am not an attractive prospect for marriage. MOLIÈRE: You underestimate yourself, Mademoiselle. You have—a quality. A dignity. A grace that transcends your circumstances. MARION: Pretty words, Monsieur. I have learned to distrust pretty words. They are usually the prelude to an offer that is not honorable. MOLIÈRE (placing his hand on his heart): Mademoiselle! You wound me! I am a gentleman! MARION: A gentleman who lies about his name and his origins. A gentleman who brings news of death with a smile. A gentleman who looks at me as if I were—a fruit to be plucked, rather than a woman to be respected. MOLIÈRE (retreating): Mademoiselle, I assure you— MARION: Do not assure me, Monsieur. I have had enough of assurances. You tell me my husband is dead. Very well. I accept your word, though I have no reason to trust it. Now go. Leave me to my grief, if grief is what I feel. It is none of your concern. She turns away, resuming her work. MOLIÈRE stands watching her, fascinated despite himself. MOLIÈRE (aside): What a woman! What spirit! What fire! If this is the quality of woman my—if this is what Molière left behind, he was a fool to stay away so long. And if she is now free— He approaches again, his manner changed, more intimate. MOLIÈRE: Mademoiselle—Madame, I should say—forgive me. I have been clumsy. I have been—insensitive. But seeing you, so beautiful, so proud, so—alone—I could not help myself. I spoke as a fool speaks, thinking only of my own admiration, not of your feelings. MARION (without turning): You are still speaking, Monsieur. You have not yet learned silence. MOLIÈRE: I will learn, Madame. I will learn whatever you wish to teach me. But first—allow me to make amends. You are alone now. You have no protector. Let me—let me be your friend. Your adviser. Your— MARION (turning): My what, Monsieur? MOLIÈRE: Your servant, Madame. Your devoted servant. I have means. I have influence. I could—help you. Establish you. Make you—comfortable. MARION: Comfortable? How? MOLIÈRE: There are—arrangements, Madame. Discreet arrangements. A house, perhaps. Servants. The means to live as a woman of your quality deserves to live. In exchange—for your—friendship. MARION: My friendship? Or my—compliance? MOLIÈRE (with a smile): You are direct, Madame. I admire that. Very well—let us be direct. I desire you. I desire you with a passion that surprises me. I am not a young man, Madame—I am forty years old. I have known many women. But none—none have affected me as you do. Your pride, your dignity, your—your resistance—it inflames me. MARION: I am a widow of one hour, Monsieur. You bring me news of my husband’s death, and within minutes, you are making me—propositions. Is this what they teach in Seville? Or is this merely your nature? MOLIÈRE: My nature, Madame. I am a man who knows what he wants, and who pursues it. I want you. I will have you. The question is—how? Will you come to me willingly, as a woman of sense, recognizing the advantages I offer? Or must I—persuade you? MARION: Persuade me? How? MOLIÈRE: I have means, Madame. Gold. Influence. The power to make your life comfortable—or uncomfortable. Your mother-in-law, for instance—she is old. She requires care. I could—see that she receives it. Or not. MARION: You threaten me? MOLIÈRE: I offer you a choice, Madame. A pleasant life, with me, in comfort and security. Or—a difficult life, alone, with an old woman to support and no means to do so. MARION looks at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, she smiles. It is not a pleasant smile. MARION: Monsieur, you have given me much to think about. Your—offer. Your—threats. Your—admiration. I must consider. MOLIÈRE: Consider? But— MARION: I am a woman, Monsieur, not a servant to be ordered. I require time. Tomorrow, at this same hour, return to this orchard. I will give you my answer. MOLIÈRE (delighted): Tomorrow! You will—you will accept me? MARION: I will give you my answer, Monsieur. That is all I promise. Now go. I have grief to attend to, and you have—interfered with it long enough. MOLIÈRE: Until tomorrow, then, Madame! Tomorrow! He exits, almost skipping with delight. MARION watches him go, her face hardening. MARION (to herself): So, my husband is dead. And this—this vulture—this carrion-eater—comes to pick my bones before the body is cold. Very well, Monsieur “Don Juan.” Tomorrow you shall have your answer. And it will be such an answer as you do not expect. She picks up her basket and exits, her back straight, her head high. The curtain falls on the second act, with a wife deceived by her own husband, and a husband unaware that he has just attempted to seduce his own wife. End of Act II ACT III In Which a Husband Attempts to Purchase What Cannot Be Bought, and a Wife Delivers a Scolding for the Ages Scene I The same orchard, the next day. It is afternoon, and the sunlight filters through the blossoms, creating a scene of such pastoral beauty that it seems almost a mockery of the human folly about to unfold. A nightingale sings in the distance—a touch of theatrical convenience that would be remarked upon in any other context but is here accepted as the appropriate accompaniment to seduction. Enter MOLIÈRE, dressed even more richly than before, as if his garments could compensate for his moral poverty. He carries a small casket, which he opens and closes nervously, revealing glimpses of gold within. MOLIÈRE (to himself): Today is the day. Today I conquer. She will resist—of course she will resist. That is her nature, her charm. But gold, my friend, gold conquers all. I have yet to meet the woman who could look upon a casket of louis d’or and remain indifferent. They weep, they protest, they speak of virtue and honor—but show them the gold, and they melt like snow in April. He positions himself beneath a tree, attempting a pose of casual elegance. MOLIÈRE: I shall be gentle. I shall be persuasive. I shall not repeat the clumsiness of yesterday. Today, I am not a vulture—I am a lover. A devoted lover, offering his heart and his purse with equal generosity. Enter MARION, from the house. She is dressed in her best clothes—not the finery of a wealthy woman, but the clean, modest garments of a respectable bourgeois wife. Her hair is neatly arranged, her face composed. She carries no basket today. She walks with the dignity of a woman who knows exactly what she is about. MOLIÈRE (aside): She comes! And how transformed! Yesterday she was a servant; today she is a queen. What a woman! What a prize! He steps forward, bowing with exaggerated gallantry. MOLIÈRE: Madame! You honor me with your presence. I have waited—how I have waited! The hours have been centuries, the minutes eternities! MARION (coldly): Spare me your poetry, Monsieur. I am here to give you my answer, not to listen to your metaphors. MOLIÈRE: Your answer! Yes! But first—allow me to express my admiration. You are—radiant today, Madame. The sorrow of yesterday has given way to a—transcendent beauty. Grief becomes you. Or rather, the conquest of grief becomes you. MARION: I have not conquered my grief, Monsieur. I have merely—set it aside. For the present. There are matters that require my attention. MOLIÈRE: Matters! Yes! Our matter! Our—arrangement! He opens the casket, displaying the gold within. MOLIÈRE: I have brought—evidence of my sincerity, Madame. A small token. A mere nothing, compared to what I am prepared to offer. But sufficient, I think, to demonstrate that my intentions are—honorable. MARION (looking at the gold): Honorable? You use that word strangely, Monsieur. In my understanding, honorable intentions do not require gold to recommend them. MOLIÈRE: But gold—gold smooths the path, Madame. Gold removes obstacles. Gold— MARION: Gold purchases, Monsieur. That is its function. You are attempting to purchase me. Let us be clear about that. MOLIÈRE (flustered): Purchase! What a word! I am offering—support. Protection. A life of ease and comfort. In exchange for—your affection. Your—companionship. MARION: My body, Monsieur. That is what you want. Let us not dress it in prettier words. You want my body, and you are prepared to pay for it. You are, in short, treating me as a whore. MOLIÈRE: Madame! I protest! MARION: Protest all you like. The facts remain. You bring me news of my husband’s death—news that may or may not be true—and within the hour, you are offering me gold in exchange for my virtue. If that is not the behavior of a man who treats women as commodities, I do not know what is. MOLIÈRE: You misunderstand me! I admire you! I respect you! I— MARION: You admire me as a collector admires a rare specimen. You respect me as a merchant respects a valuable cargo. Your admiration and respect are not the kind that any woman should desire. She walks around him, examining him as if he were a disappointing purchase. MARION: Let me tell you what I see, Monsieur “Don Juan.” I see a man of forty years, dressed in the clothes of a younger man, attempting to purchase what he cannot earn by merit. I see a man who has learned nothing in his travels except that gold can compel compliance. I see a man who looks at a woman and sees not a human being, but a possession to be acquired. MOLIÈRE: You are harsh, Madame! MARION: I am honest, Monsieur. There is a difference. You should try it sometime. Honesty, I mean. It is refreshing, like cold water on a hot day. Though I suspect you would find it uncomfortable, like a shoe that has not been broken in. MOLIÈRE (attempting to regain control): Madame, I understand that you are—upset. The news of your husband’s death— MARION: What of it? MOLIÈRE: It has—distressed you. Naturally. You are not yourself. If you were yourself, you would see that my offer is—reasonable. Generous, even. MARION: Reasonable! Generous! Listen to him! He offers to make me his whore, and calls it generosity! He asks me to betray my marriage vows—vows I kept for ten years, through poverty and hardship—and calls it reasonable! Her voice rises, carrying across the orchard. MARION: Ten years, Monsieur! Ten years I waited! Ten years I worked! Ten years I kept myself pure for a husband who might never return! And now—now that he is dead—now that I am finally, truly free—you think I should throw that purity away? For gold? For comfort? For the dubious pleasure of your company? MOLIÈRE: But—what else will you do? You have no means! No family! No— MARION: I have my honor, Monsieur! I have my self-respect! I have the knowledge that I kept my word, that I did what was right, even when it was hard! These are not nothing, whatever you may think! MOLIÈRE: Honor! Self-respect! Fine words, Madame! But words do not fill the belly! Words do not keep out the cold! Words do not pay the rent! MARION: No, Monsieur. But they allow a woman to look herself in the mirror without shame. They allow her to sleep at night with a clear conscience. They allow her to walk down the street with her head high, knowing that she has not sold herself for any price! She approaches him, her eyes blazing. MARION: You think you are offering me a choice, Monsieur. You are not. You are offering me a trap. A gilded trap, to be sure, but a trap nonetheless. You want me to become what you can buy and sell at will. You want me to depend upon your generosity, your whim, your continued interest. And when that interest fades—as it will, for men like you tire quickly of their possessions—what then? Then I am discarded, used, ruined. A woman with a past and no future. MOLIÈRE: I would not—I could not— MARION: You could, and you would. Do not lie to me, Monsieur. I know your type. I have seen you before, in the market, in the streets, in the theater. Men who think that gold entitles them to anything they desire. Men who believe that a woman’s virtue is merely a commodity to be negotiated. Men who have never understood that there are things in this world that cannot be bought! She turns away, her breast heaving with emotion. MARION: Go, Monsieur. Take your gold and go. I want none of it. I want none of you. I would rather starve in the gutter than accept a single coin from your hands. MOLIÈRE (desperate): But—your mother-in-law! You said yourself—she depends upon you! If you refuse me, how will you care for her? MARION: I will care for her as I have always cared for her—with my labor, with my love, with my devotion. Not with your gold. Not with the price of my soul. MOLIÈRE: Your soul! Dramatic, Madame! Very dramatic! But we are not talking about your soul! We are talking about—a practical arrangement! A mutually beneficial— MARION: There is nothing mutual about it, Monsieur. You would benefit by possessing me. I would lose—everything. My self-respect. My honor. The memory of my husband, which I have preserved these ten years. You ask me to trade all of this—for what? For a comfortable prison? For the status of a kept woman? She laughs, a bitter sound. MARION: No, Monsieur. A thousand times no. And if you were a man of any decency, you would not ask. You would see that a woman who has kept her vows for ten years is not a woman to be purchased like a horse at market. You would see that virtue, true virtue, is not a negotiable commodity. You would see—and you would respect what you see. MOLIÈRE (aside): What a woman! What fire! What spirit! I have never encountered—never dreamed— He approaches her again, his manner changed, more genuine. MOLIÈRE: Madame—Marion—if I may call you that—I beg your forgiveness. I have been—clumsy. Insensitive. A fool. But you must believe me when I say that my admiration for you is genuine. I have never met a woman—never—who spoke with such conviction, such passion, such— MARION: Such what, Monsieur? MOLIÈRE: Such integrity. Such—nobility of spirit. You shame me, Madame. You shame me with your virtue, your constancy, your—your refusal to compromise. I am not accustomed to being shamed. I do not know how to respond. MARION: You could respond by leaving, Monsieur. That would be the appropriate response. MOLIÈRE: But I cannot leave! Not now! Not after—after what you have shown me! You have opened my eyes, Madame. I see now that I have been living in darkness. That I have mistaken gold for value, possession for love, compliance for affection. You have shown me the truth—and I cannot turn away from it. MARION: I have shown you nothing, Monsieur, except that I am not for sale. If that is a revelation to you, then you have lived a very sheltered life. MOLIÈRE: Sheltered! Hardly! I have traveled the world! I have seen— MARION: You have seen the world, but you have not understood it. You have observed, but you have not learned. You have experienced, but you have not grown. A man of forty who still believes that gold can buy love has learned nothing in his travels except the location of the best inns. She picks up her skirt, preparing to leave. MARION: I have wasted enough time on you, Monsieur. I have grief to attend to, a household to manage, and a mother-in-law who requires my care. Good day. MOLIÈRE (blocking her path): Wait! Please! I cannot let you go like this! Not without—without some gesture! Some proof that I am not the monster you think me! MARION: I do not think you a monster, Monsieur. I think you a fool. There is a difference. Monsters are rare; fools are common. You are merely one of many. MOLIÈRE: Then let me prove that I can be—more! Let me show you that I am capable of—of respect! Of genuine feeling! Of— He reaches into his coat and pulls out a document. MOLIÈRE: Here! This is—this is a letter of credit. For five thousand livres. It is yours, Madame. Yours unconditionally. No strings attached. No demands made. Take it—for your mother-in-law, for yourself, for whatever purpose you choose. And know that it is given—not as payment, but as—as tribute. As acknowledgment of your worth. MARION looks at the document, then at him. MARION: Five thousand livres? Unconditionally? MOLIÈRE: Unconditionally. I swear it. Take it, and think of me—not as a would-be seducer, but as—a friend. A friend who recognizes your quality and wishes to—honor it. MARION takes the document, examines it. MARION: This is—very generous, Monsieur. Suspiciously generous, one might say. MOLIÈRE: Not generous! Just! You deserve it! You deserve far more! If I had ten times this amount, I would give it to you freely, knowing that it could never equal the value of what you have shown me today. MARION: And what have I shown you, Monsieur? MOLIÈRE: That there are—better things than gold. That there are—higher values than comfort. That there are—women in this world who cannot be bought at any price. I had forgotten that such women existed. I had begun to believe that—all women were—negotiable. You have reminded me that I was wrong. And for that reminder, I am grateful. MARION folds the document and hands it back to him. MARION: I cannot accept this, Monsieur. MOLIÈRE: Cannot? But why? It is freely given! No obligation! No— MARION: It is not freely given, Monsieur. It is given in exchange for—what? For my good opinion? For my forgiveness? For the hope that, having accepted your gift, I might be more—amenable to your advances in the future? MOLIÈRE: No! I swear! I would never— MARION: You would, Monsieur. Perhaps not consciously. Perhaps you truly believe that your intentions are pure. But gifts of this magnitude are never pure. They always carry—expectations. Hopes. And I will not place myself in your debt. I will not give you that—leverage. She steps back, her chin high. MARION: I told you yesterday, Monsieur, that I prefer honest poverty to dishonest comfort. That remains true. I will support my mother-in-law as I have always supported her—through my own labor, my own resourcefulness, my own determination. I do not require your charity. I do not want your gold. And I certainly do not desire your—friendship. MOLIÈRE: You refuse everything? MARION: Everything. Now, for the last time—go. Leave me in peace. And if you have any decency left in you, do not return. She turns and walks toward the house. MOLIÈRE stands frozen, the document in his hand, the casket of gold at his feet. For a moment, he seems about to pursue her. Then he stops, his shoulders sagging. MOLIÈRE (to himself): Refused! Refused! Five thousand livres, and she refused it! What kind of woman—what manner of creature— He picks up the casket, closes it slowly. MOLIÈRE: I have been humbled. I, who have humbled so many others. I have been scorned. I, who have scorned so many. I have been—taught a lesson. And the teacher—a woman! A poor woman! A widow of one day! He laughs, a strange sound. MOLIÈRE: What a comedy! What an exquisite comedy! The seducer seduced—by virtue! The purchaser refused—at any price! If I were not the object of it, I would applaud! He exits, still laughing, but there is something new in his laughter—not quite respect, but something approaching it. The curtain falls on the third act, with a wife triumphant in her virtue and a husband defeated by the very qualities he sought to overcome. Scene II The house of Molière, later that evening. MARION is preparing supper, her movements brisk and efficient. MADAME MOLIÈRE sits in her chair, watching her daughter-in-law with concern. MADAME MOLIÈRE: You are—disturbed, my dear. I can tell. You have been disturbed since this morning. What happened in the orchard? MARION: Nothing of consequence, Madame. A stranger. A traveler. He brought—news. MADAME MOLIÈRE: News? Of my son? MARION: He claimed—he claimed that your son was dead. Killed in battle, three years ago. MADAME MOLIÈRE gasps, her hand to her heart. MADAME MOLIÈRE: Dead! My son! Dead! MARION: That is what the man said. But—I do not know if I believe him. There was something—false about him. Something theatrical. As if he were playing a part. MADAME MOLIÈRE: Playing a part? But why? Why would anyone pretend that my son was dead? MARION: To—persuade me. To—soften me. To make me more—amenable to his advances. MADAME MOLIÈRE: His advances! But—you are married! You are— MARION: A widow, he thought. A widow of one day. And therefore—available. For purchase. She tells the story, briefly but completely. MADAME MOLIÈRE listens, her face a mixture of horror and admiration. MADAME MOLIÈRE: And you refused him? The gold? Everything? MARION: Everything, Madame. I am not a woman to be bought. I told him so. I told him—many things. MADAME MOLIÈRE: What kind of man—what manner of creature—would approach a grieving widow with such—such— MARION: A man who believes that all women have their price, Madame. A man who has never encountered—resistance. I taught him differently. Whether he learned the lesson, I do not know. A knock at the door. ROSETTE enters. ROSETTE: Madame, there is a gentleman at the door. He says—he says he is your husband. Both women freeze. MADAME MOLIÈRE: My son! It is he! I knew it! I felt it! MARION: Wait! We do not know— But MADAME MOLIÈRE is already at the door, flinging it open. MOLIÈRE stands there, dressed in his traveling clothes, but without the feathered hat and Spanish affectations. He is simply dressed, simply presented—and utterly transformed from the man in the orchard. MOLIÈRE: Mother! MADAME MOLIÈRE: My son! My boy! After ten years! She embraces him, weeping. MARION stands in the background, her face pale, her eyes wide. MOLIÈRE: Mother, I have returned. I have—so much to tell you. So much to— He sees MARION, and stops. His face goes pale. MOLIÈRE: You! MARION: You! They stare at each other. The recognition is mutual, instantaneous, devastating. MADAME MOLIÈRE: You know each other? But—how? MARION (her voice trembling with fury): Oh, yes, Madame. We know each other. We spent—how long was it, Monsieur? An hour? Two?—in the orchard this very afternoon. He told me you were dead. He offered me gold for my—virtue. He threatened me with—poverty, with—abandonment. And now—now he stands here, and calls you Mother! MADAME MOLIÈRE: What? What is this? MOLIÈRE (desperately): I did not know! I swear, I did not know! I thought—I believed— MARION: You believed what? That your wife was a servant to be purchased? That your wife was a whore to be negotiated with? That your wife—your wife, Monsieur, your wife whom you left ten years ago and never wrote to, never sent for, never acknowledged—that this wife would fall into your arms for the price of a few louis? MOLIÈRE: I am your husband! I am Jean-Baptiste Molière! I returned— MARION: You returned! Yes! You returned! And the first thing you did—the very first thing—was to attempt to seduce your own wife! Not knowing it was she! Not recognizing the woman you swore to love and cherish! What kind of husband—what kind of man—does such a thing? She advances on him, her fury now fully unleashed. MARION: Ten years, Monsieur! Ten years I waited! Ten years I worked! Ten years I kept myself faithful to a memory—a phantom—a ghost of a man who had kissed me once and disappeared! And when you finally return—when you finally deign to come back—what do you do? You do not come to the house! You do not announce yourself! You skulk in the orchard! You lie about your name! You tell me you are dead! And then—you try to buy me! MOLIÈRE: I was—testing you! I wanted to see— MARION: Testing me! Testing my virtue! As if it were yours to test! As if you had any right—any claim—to my loyalty, after ten years of silence! MADAME MOLIÈRE: Children! Please! This is— MARION: Do not “children” us, Madame! Your son is no child! He is a man—a man who has learned nothing in ten years except how to dress like a Spaniard and how to proposition women in orchards! MOLIÈRE: I have learned! I have changed! I am not the boy who left— MARION: No! You are worse! The boy who left was poor, but he was honest! He did not lie! He did not deceive! He did not attempt to purchase what should be given freely! You have become—corrupted! Corrupted by your travels, by your gold, by your—your contempt for everything decent and honorable! She turns away, her whole body shaking with emotion. MARION: I want a divorce. I want a separation. I want— MOLIÈRE: A divorce! But—you cannot! We are Catholic! We are— MARION: I want you out of this house! Out of my life! I never want to see you again! Do you understand? Never! She exits to her room, slamming the door. The sound echoes through the house. MADAME MOLIÈRE (to her son): What have you done? What have you done? MOLIÈRE: I—I did not know! I thought—I wanted to see what kind of woman she had become! Whether she was—worthy! MADAME MOLIÈRE: Worthy! Worthy! She kept me alive these ten years! She worked! She starved! She sacrificed! And you— you test her? You try to buy her? My son, my son, what has become of you? She sinks into her chair, weeping. MOLIÈRE: Mother, I— MADAME MOLIÈRE: Do not speak to me! Do not speak! I cannot bear to hear your voice! You have destroyed—everything! Everything! The curtain falls on the third act, with a husband exposed, a wife enraged, and a mother weeping for the son she no longer recognizes. End of Act III ACT IV In Which a Wife Demands Her Freedom, a Husband Discovers the Depths of His Folly, and a Lawyer Complicates Everything Scene I The next morning. The house of Molière. MOLIÈRE has spent the night in the stable, having been barred from his wife’s presence and his mother’s favor. He enters the kitchen, disheveled, unshaven, looking more like the poor conscript who left ten years ago than the wealthy merchant who returned. PIERROT is preparing breakfast—a simple meal of bread and cheese. He regards his master with the expression of a man who has witnessed much and is prepared to witness more. PIERROT: Good morning, Monsieur. You look—refreshed. The stable agrees with you, apparently. Many gentlemen find that a night among the livestock restores their perspective. MOLIÈRE: Spare me your wit, Pierrot. I am in no mood for it. PIERROT: No mood for wit! But wit is the only sustenance available this morning, Monsieur. The cheese is hard, the bread is stale, and the coffee—well, we have no coffee. Wit is all that remains on the menu. MOLIÈRE: How is my wife? PIERROT: Your wife, Monsieur? Ah, yes. The lady who is your wife in law but your enemy in fact. She is—well, she is awake. She is dressed. She is preparing—something. I know not what. But I suspect it involves you, and I suspect you will not enjoy it. MOLIÈRE: She is still angry? PIERROT: Angry, Monsieur? Angry is too small a word. She is—furious. Incensed. Wrathful. If she were a goddess, she would be Nemesis herself, pursuing you across the earth until justice is done. As she is merely a woman, she will have to content herself with more—earthly—methods of retribution. Enter MARION, from the inner room. She is dressed in her best clothes, but not for display—for battle. She carries a document, which she places on the table between them. MARION: Good morning, Monsieur. I trust you slept well? The stable is comfortable, I am told, for those accustomed to the company of horses. MOLIÈRE: Marion—my dear— MARION: Do not “my dear” me, Monsieur. I am not your dear. I am not your anything. I am—was—your wife. And I am here to inform you that I intend to cease being your wife. She pushes the document toward him. MARION: This is a petition for separation. I have consulted with Maître Plic-Plic—yes, the same lawyer who advises your friend Dubois. He informs me that while divorce is impossible under our laws, separation is not. I am requesting a legal separation, on the grounds of—abandonment, cruelty, and attempted adultery. MOLIÈRE: Attempted adultery! But—I am your husband! I cannot commit adultery with my own wife! MARION: You did not know I was your wife when you attempted to seduce me, Monsieur. You thought me a stranger. A servant. A woman of easy virtue. Your attempt was therefore adulterous in intent, if not in fact. Maître Plic-Plic assures me that the distinction is legally significant. MOLIÈRE: This is—this is absurd! I am your husband! I have rights! MARION: Rights? What rights? The right to abandon me for ten years? The right to return and attempt to purchase me like a slave? The right to deceive me, to lie to me, to— MOLIÈRE: I was testing you! I wanted to see— MARION: Testing me! Yes, so you said. Testing my virtue, as if it were a commodity to be quality-controlled! Well, Monsieur, your test has had consequences. I have failed you—I have failed your test of compliance. I have demonstrated that I am not for sale, not at any price. And now—now I am testing you. Let us see how you enjoy being on the receiving end of judgment. She sits, her back straight, her hands folded. MARION: Sign the petition, Monsieur. Grant me my freedom. And we can both get on with our lives. MOLIÈRE: And if I refuse? MARION: Then I shall take other measures. I shall go to the authorities. I shall inform them that you attempted to solicit a respectable woman for immoral purposes. I shall— MOLIÈRE: You would not! MARION: Would I not? You underestimate me, Monsieur. You have always underestimated me. You thought me a foolish girl who would wait faithfully for ten years without complaint. You thought me a weak woman who could be purchased with gold. You thought me a— MOLIÈRE: I thought you—beautiful! Virtuous! Worthy of— MARION: Worthy of what? Of your tests? Of your propositions? Of your contempt? She rises, her voice rising with her. MARION: Let me tell you what I have been worthy of, Monsieur. I have been worthy of ten years of poverty. Ten years of labor. Ten years of supporting your mother, keeping your house, maintaining your name—while you were off making your fortune and forgetting that you had ever had a wife! MOLIÈRE: I did not forget! I never forgot! MARION: Then why did you not write? Why did you not send for me? Why did you not—at the very least—inform me that you were alive? MOLIÈRE: I was—ashamed! I was poor! I had nothing to offer! MARION: You had yourself! You had your life! You had—the fact of your existence! That would have been enough! That would have sustained me! MOLIÈRE: I wanted to return in triumph! I wanted to come back as a man of substance, not as a beggar! MARION: And so you remained silent. For ten years. And when you finally did return—when you finally deigned to show yourself—you came in disguise. You lied about your name. You told me you were dead. And then—you tried to buy me. She laughs, a bitter sound. MARION: What a comedy! What an exquisite comedy! The husband who does not recognize his own wife! The wife who scorns her own husband! If I were not the victim of it, I would applaud! MOLIÈRE: I am sorry! I am so sorry! I did not know—I did not think— MARION: No. You did not think. That is the problem. You have never thought—of anyone but yourself. Your pride. Your ambition.