Scene 1. ARGAN
ARGAN (sitting alone at a table in his bedroom, adding up his apothecary’s bills with counters, and talking to himself as he does). Three and two makes five, and five makes ten, and ten makes twenty. Three and two makes five. “Plus, on the twenty-fourth, a little enema, insinuative, preparatory, and emollient, to soften up, moisten, and refresh the gentleman’s bowels.” What I like about Monsieur Fleurant, my apothecary, is that his bills are always very civil: “the gentleman’s bowels, thirty sous.” Yes, but, Monsieur Fleurant, being civil isn’t everything; you’ve got to be reasonable too, and not fleece your patients. Thirty sous for an enema! I’m your very humble servant, and I’ve told you so already. You put them down in my other bills at only twenty sous, and twenty sous in apothecary’s language means ten sous. Here they are, ten sous (dropping some counters into a slot). “Plus, on the said day, a good detergent enema composed of double catholicon,* rhubarb, rose honey, etc., according to the prescription, to flush, clean, and scour the gentleman’s lower intestine, thirty sous.” With your permission, ten sous. “Plus, on the said day, in the evening, a hepatic, soporific, and somniferous julep compounded to put the gentleman to sleep, thirty-five sous.” I’ve no complaint about that one, for it made me sleep well. Ten, fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen sous, six deniers.* “Plus, on the twenty-fifth, a good purgative and tonic concoction of fresh cassia with Levantine senna, etc., according to Monsieur Purgon’s prescription, to expel and evacuate the gentleman’s bile, four francs.” Ah, Monsieur Fleurant, you’re joking; you have to live with your patients. Monsieur Purgon didn’t prescribe for you to put down four francs. Put down . . . put down three francs, if you please. Twenty . . . thirty sous. “Plus, on the said day, an anodine and astringent potion, to make the gentleman rest, thirty sous.” All right, ten . . . fifteen sous. “Plus, on the twenty-sixth, a carminative enema, to drive out the gentleman’s wind, thirty sous.” Ten sous, Monsieur Fleurant. “Plus, the gentleman’s enema repeated in the evening, as above, thirty sous.” Monsieur Fleurant, ten sous. “Plus, on the twenty-seventh, a good medicine compounded to speed along and drive out the gentleman’s noxious humors, three francs.” All right, twenty . . . thirty sous; I’m very glad you’re being reasonable. “Plus, on the twenty-eighth, a dose of whey, clarified and edulcorated, to dulcify, lenify, temper, and refresh the gentleman’s blood, twenty sous.” All right, ten sous. “Plus a cordial and preservative potion, compounded with twelve grains of bezoar, lemon and pomegranate syrups, etc., according to the prescription, five francs.” Ah! Monsieur Fleurant, gently, if you please; if you treat people like that, they won’t want to be sick anymore; content yourself with four francs. Twenty . . . and forty sous. Three and two makes five, and five makes ten, and ten makes twenty. Sixty-three francs, four sous, six deniers. So this month I’ve taken one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight doses of medicine and one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve enemas; and last month there were twelve doses of medicine and twenty enemas. I don’t wonder that I’m not as well this month as last. I’ll tell Monsieur Purgon this, so that he’ll set this right. Come on, have all this taken away! . . . There’s nobody here. No matter what I say, they always leave me alone; there’s no way to keep them here. (He rings a bell to summon his servants.) They don’t hear a thing, and my bell doesn’t make enough noise. (Ringing and calling out at the same time, more and more loudly and angrily) Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling: nothing doing. Ting-a-ling a-ling a-ling: they’re deaf. Toinette! Ting-a-ling a-ling a-ling: just as if I wasn’t ringing. You slut, you hussy! Ting-a-ling a-ling a-ling: I’m getting mad. (Throws away the bell and simply shouts.) Ting-a-ling a-ling a-ling: you jade, go to the devil! Is it possible that they should leave a poor invalid all alone like this? Ting-a-ling a-ling a-ling: that’s really pitiful! Ting-a-ling a-ling a-ling: oh, good Lord! They’re going to leave me here to die. Ting-a-ling a-ling a-ling!
Scene 2. TOINETTE, ARGAN
TOINETTE (coming into the room). Here we are.
ARGAN. Oh, you slut! Oh, you hussy . . . !
TOINETTE (pretending to have bumped her head). Confound your impatience! You hurry people so that I got a big bang on the head on the corner of the shutter.
ARGAN (angrily). Ah, you traitress . . . !
TOINETTE (interrupting him and trying to keep him from shouting by always wailing). Oh!
ARGAN. It’s been . . .
TOINETTE. Oh!
ARGAN. It’s been an hour . . .
TOINETTE. Oh!
ARGAN. Since you left me . . .
TOINETTE. Oh!
ARGAN. Will you shut up, you hussy, and let me scold you?
TOINETTE. Indeedy! My word! That’s nice, after what I’ve done to myself.
ARGAN. You made me shout myself hoarse, you slut.
TOINETTE. And you, you made me bang my head; that’s just as bad; we’ll call it quits, if you like.
ARGAN. What, you hussy . . . ?
TOINETTE. If you scold me, I’ll cry.
ARGAN. You’d leave me, you traitress . . .
TOINETTE (still interrupting him). Oh!
ARGAN. You wench, you want . . .
TOINETTE. Oh!
ARGAN. What! I won’t even have the pleasure of scolding her?
TOINETTE. Scold me, have your fill of it. I’m willing.
ARGAN. You stop me, you wench, by interrupting me at every turn.
TOINETTE. If you have the pleasure of scolding me, for my part, I must have the pleasure of crying. To each his own, that’s only fair. Oh!
ARGAN. All right, I’ve got to put up with it. Take this away, you hussy, take this away. (Gets up from his chair.) Did my enema today work well?
TOINETTE. Your enema?
ARGAN. Yes. Did I produce plenty of bile?
TOINETTE. Faith! I don’t get mixed up in those affairs. It’s up to Monsieur Fleurant to poke his nose into it, since he makes his profit from it.
ARGAN. See that they have some hot water ready, for the other that I’m to take in a while.
TOINETTE. That Monsieur Fleurant and that Monsieur Purgon are having a gay old time over your body; they have a good milch cow in you; and I’d really like to ask them what ails you, for them to give you so many remedies.
ARGAN. Be quiet, you ignoramus; it’s not up to you to question the doctor’s orders. Have my daughter Angélique sent in. I have something to say to her.
TOINETTE. Here she comes of her own accord; she must have guessed what was on your mind.
Scene 3. ANGÉLIQUE, TOINETTE, ARGAN
ARGAN. Come here, Angélique; you’ve come at a good time; I wanted to talk to you.
ANGÉLIQUE. Here I am ready to hear you.
ARGAN (running over to the basin). Wait. Give me my stick. I’ll be right back.
TOINETTE (teasing him). Go quick, sir, go. Monsieur Fleurant gives us plenty of business to do.
Scene 4. ANGÉLIQUE, TOINETTE
ANGÉLIQUE (confidentially, with a languishing look). Toinette.
TOINETTE. What?
ANGÉLIQUE. Look at me a minute.
TOINETTE. Well! I’m looking at you.
ANGÉLIQUE. Toinette.
TOINETTE. Well, what, “Toinette”?
ANGÉLIQUE. Don’t you guess what I want to talk about?
TOINETTE. I have a pretty good suspicion: about our young suitor; for it’s about him that all our conversations have been for six days; and you’re not well if you’re not talking about him every moment.
ANGÉLIQUE. Since you know that, then why aren’t you the first to talk to me about him, and why don’t you spare me the pains of getting you started on the subject?
TOINETTE. You don’t give me time to, and you’re so eager about it that it’s hard to get ahead of you.
ANGÉLIQUE. I confess to you that I couldn’t possibly tire of talking about him, and that my heart warmly takes advantage of every chance to open itself to you. But tell me, Toinette, do you condemn the feelings I have for him?
TOINETTE. I wouldn’t dream of it.
ANGÉLIQUE. Am I wrong to abandon myself to these sweet impressions?
TOINETTE. I don’t say that.
ANGÉLIQUE. And would you have me be insensible to the tender protestations of the ardent passion he manifests for me?
TOINETTE. God forbid!
ANGÉLIQUE. Just tell me, don’t you agree with me in seeing something providential, some act of destiny, in the unforeseen way we became acquainted?
TOINETTE. Yes.
ANGÉLIQUE. Don’t you think that the act of coming to my defense without knowing me is the mark of a really gallant gentleman?
TOINETTE. Yes.
ANGÉLIQUE. That it’s impossible to act more nobly?
TOINETTE. Agreed.
ANGÉLIQUE. And that he did all that with the best grace in the world?
TOINETTE. Oh, yes!
ANGÉLIQUE. Toinette, don’t you think he’s good looking?
TOINETTE. Assuredly.
ANGÉLIQUE. That he has the nicest manners in the world?
TOINETTE. Beyond a doubt.
ANGÉLIQUE. That there’s something noble about his words as well as his actions?
TOINETTE. That’s sure.
ANGÉLIQUE. That you could never hear anything more passionate than everything he says to me?
TOINETTE. That’s true.
ANGÉLIQUE. And that there’s nothing more irritating than the constraint I’m kept in, which blocks all communication of the sweet transports of that mutual ardor that Heaven inspires in us?
TOINETTE. You’re right.
ANGÉLIQUE. But, my dear Toinette, do you think he loves me as much as he tells me he does?
TOINETTE. Mm hmm! Those things are sometimes subject to caution. Love’s grimaces are a lot like the real thing; and I’ve seen some great actors in that field.
ANGÉLIQUE. Oh, Toinette! What are you saying? Alas! With the way he talks, would it really be possible that he wasn’t telling me the truth?
TOINETTE. In any case, you’ll soon be enlightened about that; and his resolution, that he wrote you about yesterday, to ask for your hand in marriage, is a quick way to let you know whether he’s telling you the truth or not. That will be the real proof of it.
ANGÉLIQUE. Ah, Toinette! If that man deceives me, I’ll never believe any man as long as I live.
TOINETTE. Here’s your father coming back.
Scene 5. ARGAN, ANGÉLIQUE, TOINETTE
ARGAN (sitting down in his chair). Well, now, daughter, I’m going to tell you a bit of news that you may not be expecting. Your hand is being requested in marriage. What’s that? You’re laughing. That word marriage is amusing, yes; there’s nothing more laughable for girls. Ah! Nature, nature! From what I can see, daughter, I have no need to ask you if you are willing to get married.
ANGÉLIQUE. Father, I must do whatever you are pleased to order me to.
ARGAN. I’m very glad to have such an obedient daughter. So the matter is settled, and I have promised your hand.
ANGÉLIQUE. It is for me, father, to follow all your wishes blindly.
ARGAN. My wife, your stepmother, wanted me to make you a nun, and your little sister, Louison, as well; she’s been set on that all along.
TOINETTE (aside). That innocent creature has her reasons.
ARGAN. She wouldn’t consent to this marriage, but I won out, and my word is given.
ANGÉLIQUE. Ah, father! How grateful I am to you for all your goodness!
TOINETTE. In truth, I am grateful to you for that, and that’s the most sensible thing you’ve done in your life.
ARGAN. I haven’t yet seen the person; but I’ve been told that I’d be pleased with him, and you too.
ANGÉLIQUE. Certainly, father.
ARGAN. What, have you seen him?
ANGÉLIQUE. Since your consent authorizes me to be able to open my heart to you, I shall not hesitate to tell you that chance made us acquainted six days ago, and that the request made of you is an effect of the inclination that we formed for each other at first sight.
ARGAN. They didn’t tell me that; but I’m very glad of it, and so much the better that things are that way. They say he’s a tall, nice-looking young man.
ANGÉLIQUE. Yes, father.
ARGAN. Well built.
ANGÉLIQUE. Undoubtedly.
ARGAN. Personally attractive.
ANGÉLIQUE. Yes indeed.
ARGAN. Good looking.
ANGÉLIQUE. Very good looking.
ARGAN. Sensible, and well born.
ANGÉLIQUE. Absolutely.
ARGAN. A very fine chap.
ANGÉLIQUE. As fine as can be.
ARGAN. And speaking good Latin and Greek.
ANGÉLIQUE. That I don’t know.
ARGAN. And he’ll be accepted as a doctor in three days.
ANGÉLIQUE. He, father?
ARGAN. Yes. Didn’t he tell you so?
ANGÉLIQUE. No, really. Who told you?
ARGAN. Monsieur Purgon.
ANGÉLIQUE. Does Monsieur Purgon know him?
ARGAN. A fine question! Indeed he must know him, since he’s his nephew.
ANGÉLIQUE. Cléante, Monsieur Purgon’s nephew?
ARGAN. What Cléante? We’re talking about the man for whom your hand has been asked in marriage.
ANGÉLIQUE. Indeed yes!
ARGAN. Well, he’s Monsieur Purgon’s nephew, son of his brother-in-law the doctor, Monsieur Diafoirus; and this son’s name is Thomas Diafoirus, not Cléante; and we arranged that marriage this morning, Monsieur Purgon, Monsieur Fleurant, and I; and tomorrow this prospective son-in-law is to be brought to see me by his father. What’s the matter? You look all flabbergasted!
ANGÉLIQUE. That, father, is because I now know that you were talking about one person, and I understood you to mean another.
TOINETTE. What, sir? You could have made such a ludicrous plan? And with all the money you have you’d like to marry your daughter to a doctor?
ARGAN. Yes. What business is it of yours, you impudent hussy?
TOINETTE. Good Lord! Easy now. You start right in with invectives. Can’t we reason together without getting into a temper? There now, let’s talk calmly. What is your reason, if you please, for such a marriage?
ARGAN. My reason is that, seeing myself sick and infirm as I am, I want to have doctors for a son-in-law and relatives, so as to assure myself of good assistance against my illness, to have in my family the sources of the remedies I need, and to be within reach of consultations and prescriptions.
TOINETTE. Well, that’s telling me a reason, and it’s a pleasure to be answering one another gently. But, sir, put your hand on your conscience: are you sick?
ARGAN. What, you wench, am I sick? Am I sick, you hussy?
TOINETTE. Well then, yes, sir, you’re sick. Let’s have no quarrel about that; yes, you’re very sick, I grant you that, and sicker than you think: that’s settled. But your daughter should marry a husband for herself; and since she’s not sick, it’s not necessary to give her a doctor.
ARGAN. It’s for me that I’m giving her this doctor; and a daughter with the right nature should be delighted to marry whatever is useful to her father’s health.
TOINETTE. Faith, sir! Do you want me to give you a piece of advice, as a friend?
ARGAN. What is this advice?
TOINETTE. Not to think of this marriage.
ARGAN. And the reason?
TOINETTE. The reason? That your daughter won’t consent to it.
ARGAN. She won’t consent to it?
TOINETTE. No.
ARGAN. My daughter?
TOINETTE. Your daughter. She’ll tell you that she wants no part of Monsieur Diafoirus, nor of his son, Thomas Diafoirus, nor of all the Diafoiruses in the world.
ARGAN. Well, I want them. Besides, the match is more advantageous than you think. Monsieur Diafoirus has only that son for his sole heir, and what’s more, Monsieur Purgon, who has neither wife nor children, will leave him his entire estate in view of this marriage; and Monsieur Purgon is a man who has a good eight thousand francs a year of income.
TOINETTE. He must have killed a lot of people to get so rich.
ARGAN. Eight thousand francs a year is something, without counting the father’s money.
TOINETTE. Sir, all that is very well and good; but I still come back to my point. I advise you, between ourselves, to choose her another husband, and she’s not cut out to be Madame Diafoirus.
ARGAN. And I want that to be.
TOINETTE. Oh, fie! Don’t say that.
ARGAN. What do you mean, I shouldn’t say that?
TOINETTE. Why, no.
ARGAN. And why shan’t I say it?
TOINETTE. People will say you don’t know what you’re saying.
ARGAN. They’ll say what they like; but I tell you, I want her to carry out the promise I’ve given.
TOINETTE. No: I’m sure she won’t do it.
ARGAN. I’ll darned well make her.
TOINETTE. She won’t do it, I tell you.
ARGAN. She’ll do it, or I’ll put her in a convent.
TOINETTE. You?
ARGAN. I.
TOINETTE. Fine.
ARGAN. What do you mean, “fine”?
TOINETTE. You won’t put her in a convent.
ARGAN. I won’t put her in a convent?
TOINETTE. No.
ARGAN. No?
TOINETTE. No.
ARGAN. Well now! That’s a good one! I won’t put my daughter in a convent if I want to?
TOINETTE. No, I tell you.
ARGAN. Who’ll stop me?
TOINETTE. You yourself.
ARGAN. I?
TOINETTE. Yes, you won’t have the heart to do it.
ARGAN. I will.
TOINETTE. You’re joking.
ARGAN. I’m not joking one bit.
TOINETTE. Fatherly affection will get the better of you.
ARGAN. It won’t get the better of me.
TOINETTE. A little tear or two, two arms around your neck, a tenderly uttered “my dear little papa,” will be enough to touch you.
ARGAN. All that won’t do a thing.
TOINETTE. Yes, yes.
ARGAN. I tell you I won’t back down.
TOINETTE. Fiddlesticks.
ARGAN. You mustn’t say “fiddlesticks.”
TOINETTE. Good Lord! I know you; you’re naturally good.
ARGAN (angrily). I am not good. I’m bad when I want to be.
TOINETTE. Gently, sir; you’re forgetting that you’re sick.
ARGAN. I absolutely command her to prepare to take the husband I say.
TOINETTE. And I absolutely forbid her to do anything of the sort.
ARGAN. What are we coming to? And what kind of effrontery is that, for a slut of a maidservant to talk that way in front of her master?
TOINETTE. When a master doesn’t think what he’s doing, a sensible servant has the right to correct him.
ARGAN (running after TOINETTE). Oh! You insolent hussy, I’ll brain you!
TOINETTE (running away from him). It’s my duty to oppose anything that may dishonor you.
ARGAN (in a fury, chasing her around his chair, stick in hand). Come here, come here. I’ll teach you how to talk.
TOINETTE (running around the chair ahead of ARGAN). I’m concerned, as I should be, with not letting you do anything foolish.
ARGAN. Slut!
TOINETTE. No, I’ll never consent to this marriage.
ARGAN. Gallows bait!
TOINETTE. I don’t want her to marry your Thomas Diafoirus.
ARGAN. Jade!
TOINETTE. And she’ll obey me rather than you.
ARGAN. Angélique, won’t you stop this hussy?
ANGÉLIQUE. Oh, father! Don’t make yourself sick.
ARGAN. If you don’t stop her for me, I’ll put my curse on you.
TOINETTE. And I’ll disinherit her if she obeys you.
ARGAN (weary of running after her, throwing himself into his chair). Oh! Oh! I’m done for. It’s enough to kill me.
Scene 6. BÉLINE, ANGÉLIQUE, TOINETTE, ARGAN
ARGAN. Ah! My wife, come here.
BÉLINE. What’s wrong, my poor husband?
ARGAN. Come over here and help me.
BÉLINE. What in the world is it, my sweet boy?
ARGAN. My darling!
BÉLINE. My dearest!
ARGAN. They’ve just made me angry!
BELINE. Alas! Poor little hubby! How did it happen, my dear?
ARGAN. That scoundrelly Toinette of yours got more insolent than ever.
BÉLINE. Then don’t get excited.
ARGAN. She put me in a rage, darling.
BÉLINE. Easy, sweet boy.
ARGAN. For one whole hour she opposed the things I want to do.
BÉLINE. There, there, gently.
ARGAN. And had the effrontery to tell me I’m not sick.
BÉLINE. She’s an impertinent hussy.
ARGAN. You know, sweetheart, how it really is.
BÉLINE. Yes, sweetheart, she’s wrong.
ARGAN. My love, that slut will be the death of me.
BÉLINE. There now, there now!
ARGAN. She’s the cause of all the bile I’m producing.
BÉLINE. Don’t get so upset.
ARGAN. And I’ve been telling you for I don’t know how long to dismiss her.
BÉLINE. Good Lord, dear boy! There are no servants, men or women, who don’t have their faults. Sometimes one is forced to put up with their bad qualities on account of the good ones. This one is adroit, careful, diligent, and above all faithful; and you know that nowadays you need great precautions about the people you take on. Here now! Toinette!
TOINETTE. Madame?
BÉLINE. Why in the world do you make my husband angry?
TOINETTE (sweetly). I, Madame? Alas! I don’t know what you mean, and all I think of is pleasing the master in all things.
ARGAN. Oh, the traitress!
TOINETTE. He told us he wanted to give his daughter in marriage to the son of Monsieur Diafoirus; I answered that I thought it was an advantageous match for her, but that I thought he’d do better to put her in a convent.
BÉLINE. There’s no great harm in that, and I think she’s right.
ARGAN. Ah, my love! You believe her! She’s a scoundrel: she said all kinds of insolent things to me.
BÉLINE. Well, I believe you, my dear. There, pull yourself together. Listen, Toinette, if you ever make my husband angry, I’ll put you out. Here, give me his fur-lined cloak and some pillows, so I can get him comfortable in his chair. You’re all every which way. Pull your nightcap well down over your ears; there’s nothing like getting air in your ears for catching cold.
ARGAN. Oh, my darling! I’m so grateful to you for all the care you take of me!
BÉLINE (putting the pillows around ARGAN and arranging them). Get up, let me put this under you. Let’s put this one here for you to lean on, and that one on the other side. Let’s put this one behind your back, and that other one there to prop up your head.
TOINETTE (putting a pillow roughly over his head and running off). And this one to protect you from the evening dew.
ARGAN (getting up in anger and throwing all the pillows at TOINETTE). Ah, you scoundrel, you’re trying to smother me!
BÉLINE. There now, there now! Why, what’s the matter?
ARGAN (out of breath, throwing himself into his chair). Oh, oh, oh! I’m all in!
BÉLINE. Why do you get so angry? She meant well.
ARGAN. My love, you don’t know the malice of that she-devil. Ah! She’s got me beside myself; and I’ll need more than eight doses of medicine and a dozen enemas to make up for all this.
BÉLINE. There, there, my little sweet, calm down a bit.
ARGAN. Honey, you’re my only consolation.
BÉLINE. Poor dear boy.
ARGAN. To try to show my gratitude for the love you bear me, sweetheart, I want, as I told you, to make my will.
BÉLINE. Ah, my darling! Let’s not talk about that, I beg you. I can’t abide the thought of it, and the very word will makes me shudder with pain.
ARGAN. I had told you to speak to your notary about that.
BÉLINE. There he is in there; I brought him with me.
ARGAN. Then have him come in, my love.
BÉLINE. Alas, my dear! When someone really loves her husband, she’s hardly in any condition to think about all that.
Scene 7. The NOTARY, BÉLINE, ARGAN
ARGAN. Come here, Monsieur de Bonnefoy, come here. Have a seat, please. My wife has told me, sir, that you’re a very reliable man and quite a good friend of hers; and I’ve asked her to speak to you about a will I want to make.
BÉLINE. Alas! I just can’t talk about those things.
NOTARY. She explained your intentions to me, sir, and the plan you have for her; and on that score I have this to tell you, that you can’t give anything to your wife by your will.
ARGAN. But why not?
NOTARY. Common law opposes it. If you were in a region of statute law, that could be done; but in Paris and the regions of common law, at least most of them, that can’t be done, and that disposition would be null and void. The only provision that man and woman conjoined in marriage can make for each other is a mutual gift inter vivos; even then there must be no children, whether of the two conjoined, or of either one of them, at the time of the decease of the first to die.
ARGAN. That’s a mighty impertinent common law, that a man can’t leave anything to a wife who loves him tenderly and takes such care of him. I’d like to consult my lawyer to see how I might do something.
NOTARY. It’s not lawyers you should go to, for ordinarily they’re strict about those things and imagine it’s a great crime to deal with the law by fraud. They’re people who make difficulties and are ignorant of the detours of conscience. There are other people to consult who are much more accommodating, who have expedients for quietly getting around the law and making something just that isn’t permitted; who know how to smooth out the difficulties of an affair and find ways to elude the common law by some indirect advantage. Without that, where would we be every day? There has to be some facility in things; otherwise we wouldn’t get anything done, and I wouldn’t give you a sou for our business.
ARGAN. Indeed, my wife had told me that you were very able, and a very reliable man. How can I go about it, if you please, to give her my estate and keep it from my children?
NOTARY. How can you go about it? You can quietly pick out some intimate friend of your wife, to whom in your will you’ll give in due form all that you can; and then this friend will give everything back to her. Or again, you can contract a large number of obligations, all above board, toward various creditors, who will lend their names to your wife, and will put into her hands a declaration that what they’ve done was only to serve her. You can also, while you are alive, put ready cash in her hands, or notes that you may have, made payable to the bearer.
BÉLINE. Good Lord! You mustn’t worry yourself about all that. If ever I don’t have you, my sweet boy, I don’t want to stay in this world.
ARGAN. My darling!
BÉLINE. Yes, my darling, if I’m unhappy enough to lose you . . .
ARGAN. My dear wife!
BÉLINE. Life won’t mean a thing to me anymore.
ARGAN. My love!
BÉLINE. And I’ll follow in your footsteps, to let you know the affection I have for you.
ARGAN. My darling, you’re breaking my heart. Console yourself, please.
NOTARY. These tears are out of season, and things haven’t come to that yet.
BÉLINE. Ah, sir! You don’t know what it is to have a husband you love tenderly.
ARGAN. The only regret I’ll have if I die, my darling, is not to have a child by you. Monsieur Purgon told me he’d have me have one.
NOTARY. That may still come.
ARGAN. I’ll have to make my will, my love, in the way the gentleman says; but as a precaution, I want to put into your hands twenty thousand francs in gold, which I have in the panel of my alcove, and two notes payable to the bearer that are due me, one from Monsieur Damon, and the other from Monsieur Gérante.
BÉLINE. No, no, I don’t want any of that at all . . . Ah! How much did you say there was in your alcove?
ARGAN. Twenty thousand francs, my love.
BÉLINE. Don’t talk to me about money, I beg you . . . Ah! How much are the two notes?
ARGAN. My darling, one is for four thousand francs, and the other for six.
BÉLINE. All the money in the world, my darling, is nothing to me compared with you.
NOTARY. Shall we proceed to the will?
ARGAN. Yes, sir; but we’ll be better in my little study. (Gets up, then remembers his illness.) My love, take me in, please.
BÉLINE. Come on, my poor sweet little boy.
Scene 8. ANGÉLIQUE, TOINETTE
TOINETTE. There they are with a notary, and I heard them talking about a will. Your stepmother isn’t falling asleep, and no doubt it’s some conspiracy against your interests that she’s pushing your father into.
ANGÉLIQUE. Let him dispose of his money as he likes, provided he doesn’t dispose of my heart. You see, Toinette, the plans they’re making to do violence to it. Don’t abandon me, I beg you, in the extremity I’m in.
TOINETTE. I, abandon you? I’d rather die. Your stepmother can make me her confidante and try to get me to work for her all she likes, but I’ve never been able to have any inclination for her, and I’ve always been on your side. Leave it to me: I’ll do everything to serve you; but to serve you more effectively I want to change my line of attack, cover up the zeal I have for you, and pretend to fall in with the feelings of your father and your stepmother.
ANGÉLIQUE. Try, I beseech you, to let Cléante know about the marriage they’ve arranged.
TOINETTE. I have no one to use for that purpose but my sweetheart Punchinello, the old usurer, and it will cost me a few sweet nothings that I’m willing to spend for you. For today it’s too late; but tomorrow bright and early I’ll send for him, and he’ll be delighted to . . .
BÉLINE (offstage). Toinette!
TOINETTE. They’re calling me. Good night. Rely on me.
FIRST INTERLUDE
(Punchinello, coming to serenade his mistress, is interrupted by the violinists, then by the watch, whom he has to pay off to avoid being beaten. Since this interlude has nothing to do with the rest of the play, it is omitted here.)