The office door to the street is hung with a reed curtain, through which one obtains a glimpse of a public park in sunshine.
A small bell tinkles. After a pause it rings again.
Marie-Sidonie Cressaux pushes the reeds apart and peers in. She is an attractive young woman equal to any situation in life except a summons to a lawyer’s office.
M’su Cahusac, a dry little man with sharp black eyes, enters from an inner room.
MARIE-SIDONIE (Indicating a letter in her hand): You . . . you have asked me to come and see you.
M. CAHUSAC (Severe and brief): Your name, madame?
MARIE-SIDONIE: Mamselle Marie-Sidonie Cressaux, m’su.
M. CAHUSAC (After a pause): Yes. Kindly be seated, mamselle.
(He goes to his desk and opens a great many drawers, collecting documents from each. Presently having assembled a large bundle, he returns to the center of the room and says abruptly:)
Mamselle, this interview is to be regarded by you as strictly confidential.
MARIE-SIDONIE: Yes, m’su.
M. CAHUSAC (After looking at her sternly a moment): May I ask if mamselle is able to bear the shock of surprise, of good or bad news?
MARIE-SIDONIE: Why . . . yes, m’su.
M. CAHUSAC: Then if you are Mamselle Marie-Sidonie Cressaux, the daughter of Baptiste-Anténor Cressaux, it is my duty to inform you that you are in danger.
MARIE-SIDONIE: I am in danger, m’su?
(He returns to his desk, opens further drawers, and returns with more papers. She follows him with bewildered eyes.)
M. CAHUSAC: Mamselle, in addition to my duties as a lawyer in this city, I am the representative here of a historical society in Paris. Will you please try and follow me, mamselle? This historical society has been engaged in tracing the descendants of the true heir to the French throne. As you know, at the time of the Revolution, in 1795, to be exact, mamselle, the true, lawful, and legitimate heir to the French throne disappeared. It was rumored that this boy, who was then ten years old, came to America and lived for a time in New Orleans. We now know that the rumor was true. We now know that he here begot legitimate issue, that this legitimate issue in turn begot legitimate issue, and that—(Marie-Sidonie suddenly starts searching for something in her shopping bag) Mamselle, may I have the honor of your attention a little longer?
MARIE-SIDONIE (Choking): My fan—my, my fan, m’su. (She finds it and at once begins to fan herself wildly. Suddenly she cries out) M’su, what danger am I in?
M. CAHUSAC (Sternly): If mamselle will exercise a moment’s—one moment’s—patience, she will know all . . . That legitimate issue here begot legitimate issue, and the royal line of France has been traced to a certain (He consults his documents) Baptiste-Anténor Cressaux.
MARIE-SIDONIE (Her fan stops and she stares at him): Ba’t—Ba’tiste! . . .
M. CAHUSAC (Leaning forward with menacing emphasis): Mamselle, can you prove that you are the daughter of Baptiste-Anténor Cressaux?
MARIE-SIDONIE: Why . . . Why . . .
M. CAHUSAC: Mamselle, have you a certificate of your parents’ marriage?
MARIE-SIDONIE: Yes, m’su.
M. CAHUSAC: If it turns out to be valid, and if it is true that you have no true lawful and legitimate brothers—
MARIE-SIDONIE: No, m’su.
M. CAHUSAC: Then, mamselle, I have nothing further to do than to announce to you that you are the true and long-lost heir to the throne of France.
(He draws himself up, approaches her with great dignity, and kisses her hand. Marie-Sidonie begins to cry. He goes to the desk, pours out a glass of water and, murmuring “Your Royal Highness,” offers it to her.)
MARIE-SIDONIE: M’su Cahusac, I am very sorry . . . But there must be some mistake. My father was a poor sailor . . . a . . . a poor sailor.
M. CAHUSAC (Reading from his papers): . . . A distinguished and esteemed navigator.
MARIE-SIDONIE: . . . A poor sailor . . .
M. CAHUSAC (Firmly): . . . Navigator . . .
(Pause. Marie-Sidonie looks about, stricken.)
MARIE-SIDONIE (As before, suddenly and loudly): M’su, what danger am I in?
M. CAHUSAC (Approaching her and lowering his voice): As Your Royal Highness knows, there are several families in New Orleans that claim, without documents (He rattles the vellum and seals in his hand), without proof—that pretend to the blood royal. The danger from them, however, is not great. The real danger is from France. From the impassioned Republicans.
MARIE-SIDONIE: Impass . . .
M. CAHUSAC: But Your Royal Highness has only to put Herself into my hands.
MARIE-SIDONIE (Crying again): Please do not call me “Your Royal Highness.”
M. CAHUSAC: You . . . give me permission to call you Madame de Cressaux?
MARIE-SIDONIE: Yes, m’su. Mamselle Cressaux. I am Marie-Sidonie Cressaux.
M. CAHUSAC: Am I mistaken . . . hmm . . . in saying that you have children?
MARIE-SIDONIE (Faintly): Yes, m’su. I have three children.
(M. Cahusac looks at her thoughtfully a moment and returns to his desk.)
M. CAHUSAC: Madame, from now on thousands of eyes will be fixed upon you, the eyes of the whole world, madame. I cannot urge you too strongly to be very discreet, to be very circumspect.
MARIE-SIDONIE (Rising, abruptly, nervously): M’su Cahusac, I do not wish to have anything to do with this. There is a mistake somewhere. I thank you very much, but there is a mistake somewhere. I do not know where. I must go now.
M. CAHUSAC (Darts forward): But, madame, you do not know what you are doing. Your rank cannot be dismissed as easily as that. Do you not know that in a month or two, all the newspapers in the world, including the New Orleans Times-Picayune, will publish your name? The first nobles of France will cross the ocean to call upon you. The bishop of Louisiana will call upon you . . . the mayor . . .
MARIE-SIDONIE: No, no.
M. CAHUSAC: You will be given a great deal of money—and several palaces.
MARIE-SIDONIE: No, no.
M. CAHUSAC: And a guard of soldiers to protect you.
MARIE-SIDONIE: No, no.
M. CAHUSAC: You will be made president of Le Petit Salon and queen of the Mardi Gras . . . Another sip of water, Your Royal Highness.
MARIE-SIDONIE: Oh, m’su, what shall I do? . . . Oh, m’su, save me! —I do not want the bishop or the mayor.
M. CAHUSAC: You ask me what you shall do?
MARIE-SIDONIE: Oh, yes, oh, my God!
M. CAHUSAC: For the present, return to your home and lie down. A little rest and a little reflection will tell you what you have to do. Then come and see me Thursday morning.
MARIE-SIDONIE: I think there must be a mistake somewhere.
M. CAHUSAC: May I be permitted to ask Madame de Cressaux a question: Could I have the privilege of presenting Her—until the great announcement takes place—with a small gift of . . . money?
MARIE-SIDONIE: No, no.
M. CAHUSAC: The historical society is not rich. The historical society has difficulty in pursuing the search for the last documents that will confirm madame’s exalted rank, but they would be very happy to advance a certain sum to madame, subscribed by her devoted subjects.
MARIE-SIDONIE: Please no. I do not wish any. I must go now.
M. CAHUSAC: Let me beg madame not to be alarmed. For the present a little rest and reflection . . .
(The bell rings. He again bends over her hand, murmuring “. . . obedient servant and devoted subject . . .”)
MARIE-SIDONIE (In confusion): Good-bye, good morning, M. Cahusac. (She lingers at the door a moment, then returns and says in great earnestness) Oh, M. Cahusac, do not let the bishop come and see me. The mayor, yes—but not the bishop.
(Enter Madame Pugeot, a plump little bourgeoise in black.
Exit Marie-Sidonie.
M. Cahusac kisses the graciously extended hand of Madame Pugeot.)
MME. PUGEOT: Good morning, M. Cahusac.
> M. CAHUSAC: Your Royal Highness.
MME. PUGEOT: What business can you possibly be having with that dreadful Marie Cressaux! Do you not know that she is an abandoned woman?
M. CAHUSAC: Alas, we are in the world, Your Royal Highness. For the present I must earn a living as best I can. Mamselle Cressaux is arranging about the purchase of a house and garden.
MME. PUGEOT: Purchase, M. Cahusac, phi! You know very well that she has half a dozen houses and gardens already. She persuades every one of her lovers to give her a little house and garden. She is beginning to own the whole parish of Saint-Magloire.
M. CAHUSAC: Will Your Royal Highness condescend to sit down? (She does) And how is the royal family this morning?
MME. PUGEOT: Only so-so, m’su Cahusac.
M. CAHUSAC: The Archduchess of Tuscany?
MME. PUGEOT (Fanning herself with a turkey’s wing): A cold. One of her colds. I sometimes think the dear child will never live to see her pearls.
M. CAHUSAC: And the Dauphin, Your Royal Highness?
MME. PUGEOT: Still, still amusing himself in the city, as young men will. Wine, gambling, bad company. At least it keeps him out of harm.
M. CAHUSAC: And the Duke of Burgundy?
MME. PUGEOT: Imagine! The poor child has a sty in his eye!
M. CAHUSAC: Tchk-tchk! (With solicitude) In which eye, madame?
MME. PUGEOT: In the left!
M. CAHUSAC: Tchk-tchk! And the Prince of Lorraine and the Duke of Berry?
MME. PUGEOT: They are fairly well, but they seem to mope in their cradle. Their first teeth, my dear chamberlain.
M. CAHUSAC: And your husband, madame?
MME. PUGEOT (Rises, walks back and forth a moment, then stands still): From now on we are never to mention him again—while we are discussing these matters. It is to be understood that he is my husband in a manner of speaking only. He has no part in my true life. He has chosen to scoff at my birth and my rank, but he will see what he will see . . . Naturally I have not told him about the proofs that you and I have collected. I have not the heart to let him see how unimportant he will become.
M. CAHUSAC: Unimportant, indeed!
MME. PUGEOT: So remember, we do not mention him in the same breath with these matters!
M. CAHUSAC: You must trust me, madame. (Softly, with significance) And your health, Your Royal Highness?
MME. PUGEOT: Oh, very well, thank you. Excellent. I used to do quite poorly, as you remember, but since this wonderful news I have been more than well, God be praised.
M. CAHUSAC (As before, with lifted eyebrows): I beg of you to do nothing unwise. I beg of you . . . The little new life we are all anticipating . . .
MME. PUGEOT: Have no fear, my dear chamberlain. What is dear to France is dear to me.
M. CAHUSAC: When I think, madame, of how soon we shall be able to announce your rank—when I think that this time next year you will be enjoying all the honors and privileges that are your due, I am filled with a pious joy.
MME. PUGEOT: God’s will be done, God’s will be done.
M. CAHUSAC: At all events, I am particularly happy to see that Your Royal Highness is in the best of health, for I have had a piece of disappointing news.
MME. PUGEOT: Chamberlain, you are not going to tell me that Germany has at last declared war upon my country?
M. CAHUSAC: No, madame.
MME. PUGEOT: You greatly frightened me last week. I could scarcely sleep. Such burdens as I have! My husband tells me that I cried out in my sleep the words: “Paris, I come!”
M. CAHUSAC: Sublime, madame!
MME. PUGEOT: “Paris, I come,” like that. I cried out twice in my sleep: “Paris, I come.” Oh, these are anxious times; I am on my way to the cathedral now. This Bismarck does not understand me. We must avoid a war at all costs, M. Cahusac . . . Then what is your news?
M. CAHUSAC: My anxiety at present is more personal. The historical society in Paris is now confirming the last proofs of your claim. They have secretaries at work in all the archives: Madrid, Vienna, Constantinople . . .
MME. PUGEOT: Constantinople!
M. CAHUSAC: All this requires a good deal of money and the society is not rich. We have been driven to a painful decision. The society must sell one of the royal jewels or one of the royal fournitures which I am guarding upstairs. The historical society has written me, madame, ordering me to send them at once—the royal christening robe.
MME. PUGEOT: Never!
M. CAHUSAC: The very robe under which Charlemagne was christened, the Charles, the Henris, the Louis, to lie under a glass in the Louvre. (Softly) And this is particularly painful to me because I had hoped—it was, in fact, the dream of my life—to see at least one of your children christened under all those fleurs-de-lis.
MME. PUGEOT: It shall not go to the Louvre. I forbid it.
M. CAHUSAC: But what can I do? I offered them the scepter. I offered them the orb. I even offered them the mug which Your Royal Highness has already purchased. But no! The christening robe it must be.
MME. PUGEOT: It shall not leave America! (Clutching her handbag) How much are they asking for it?
M. CAHUSAC: Oh, madame, since it is the Ministry of Museums and Monuments they are asking a great many thousands of francs.
MME. PUGEOT: And how much would they ask their Queen?
M. CAHUSAC (Sadly): Madame, madame, I cannot see you purchasing those things which are rightly yours.
MME. PUGEOT: I will purchase it. I shall sell the house on the Chausée Sainte Anne.
M. CAHUSAC (Softly): If Your Majesty will give five hundred dollars of Her money I shall add five hundred of my own.
MME. PUGEOT (Shaken): Five hundred. Five hundred . . . Well, you will be repaid many times, my dear chamberlain, when I am restored to my position (She thinks a moment) Tomorrow at three. I shall bring you the papers for the sale of the house. You will do everything quietly. My husband will be told about it in due time.
M. CAHUSAC: I understand. I shall be very discreet.
(The bell rings. M. Cahusac turns to the door as Mamselle Pointevin starts to enter.)
I shall be free to see you in a few moments, mamselle. Madame Pugeot has still some details to discuss with me.
MLLE. POINTEVIN: I cannot wait long, m’su Cahusac.
M. CAHUSAC: A few minutes in the park, thank you, mamselle.
(Exit Mamselle Pointevin.)
MME. PUGEOT: Has that poor girl business with a lawyer, M. Cahusac? A poor schoolteacher like that?
M. CAHUSAC (Softly): Mamselle Pointevin has taken it into her head to make her will.
MME. PUGEOT (Laughs superiorly): Three chairs and a broken plate. (Rising) Well, tomorrow at three . . . I am now going to the cathedral. I do not forget the great responsibilities for which I must prepare myself—the army, the navy, the treasury, the appointment of bishops. When I am dead, my dear chamberlain—
M. CAHUSAC: Madame!
MME. PUGEOT: No, no!—even I must die some day . . . When I am dead, when I am laid with my ancestors, let it never be said of me . . . By the way, where shall I be laid?
M. CAHUSAC: In the church of Saint Denis, Your Royal Highness?
MME. PUGEOT: Not in Notre Dame?
M. CAHUSAC: No, madame.
MME. PUGEOT (Meditatively): Not in Notre Dame. Well (Brightening) we will cross these bridges when we get to them. (Extending her hand) Good morning and all my thanks, my dear chamberlain.
M. CAHUSAC: . . . Highness’s most obedient servant and devoted subject.
MME. PUGEOT (Beautifully filling the doorway): Pray for us.
(Exit Madame Pugeot. M. Cahusac goes to the door and bows to Mamselle Pointevin in the street.)
M. CAHUSAC: Now mamselle, if you will have the goodness to enter.
(Enter Mamselle Pointevin, a tall and indignant spinster.)
MLLE. POINTEVIN: M’su Cahusac, it is something new for you to keep me waiting in the public square while you carry on your wretched little business with a vulgar
woman like Madame Pugeot. When I condescend to call upon you, my good man, you will have the goodness to receive me at once. Either I am, or I am not, Henriette, Queen of France, Queen of Navarre and Aquitania. It is not fitting that we cool our heels on a public bench among the nursemaids of remote New Orleans. It is hard enough for me to hide myself as a schoolmistress in this city, without having to suffer further humiliations at your hands. Is there no respect due to the blood of Charlemagne?
M. CAHUSAC: Madame . . .
MLLE. POINTEVIN: Or, sir, are you bored and overfed on the company of queens?
M. CAHUSAC: Madame . . .
MLLE. POINTEVIN: You are busy with the law. Good! Know, then, La loi—c’est moi. (Sitting down and smoothing out her skirts) Now what is it you have to say?
M. CAHUSAC (Pauses a moment, then approaches her with tightly pressed lips and narrowed eyes): Your Royal Highness, I have received a letter from France. There is some discouraging news.
MLLE. POINTEVIN: No! I cannot afford to buy another thing. I possess the scepter and the orb. Sell the rest to the Louvre, if you must. I can buy them back when my rank is announced.
M. CAHUSAC: Alas!
MLLE. POINTEVIN: What do you mean “alas”?
M. CAHUSAC: Will Your Royal Highness condescend to read the letter I have received from France?
MLLE. POINTEVIN (Unfurls the letter, but continues looking before her, splendidly): Have they no bread? Give them cake. (She starts to read, is shaken, suddenly returns it to him) It is too long. It is too long . . . What does it say?
M. CAHUSAC: It is from the secretary of the historical society. The society remains convinced that you are the true and long-sought heir to the throne of France.
MLLE. POINTEVIN: Convinced? Convinced? I should hope so.
M. CAHUSAC: But to make this conviction public, madame, to announce it throughout the newspapers of the world, including the New Orleans Times-Picayune . . .
MLLE. POINTEVIN: Yes, go on!
M. CAHUSAC: To establish your claim among all your rivals. To establish your claim beyond any possible ridicule . . .
MLLE. POINTEVIN: Ridicule!
M. CAHUSAC: All they lack is one little document. One little but important document. They had hoped to find it in the archives of Madrid. Madame, it is not there.