The Two Milords or the Blow of Thunder
An Internationally Air-Conditioned Play, for the Coronation-Exposition Theatres of 1937
BY STEPHEN LEACOCK
Piece in One Scene
Personnages of the Piece, in the Order of Their Apparition
MILORD SIR ROSS: Ancient Remnant of old High Scotch, sufficiently aged. He will never see again the quarantine, in effect, one would say well the sixantine. But he guards always the high and erect tail of the Scottish race. Sir Ross has adventured himself on the high Finance of the French Purse at Paris.
JEAN: Chamber valet, type known.
MILORD THE BARON ALPHONSE DE CITROUILLE: French financier, associated of Sir Ross. He is young and high, with the maintenance rather of a man of affairs than of a stump of the old French aristocracy.
MILADI MADAME LA COMTESSE FIFINE ROSS: The French wife of Sir Ross. She is young, very spiritual and very jolly, and very degaged in her allure.
The scene passes itself at Paris, in the apartment of SIR Ross, apartment sufficiently chic, one would say even coquette. One divines in its decoration the hand of a Frenchwoman.
At the lift of the curtain, SIR ROSSdiscovers himself elongated on a long chair. He is carrying a smoking, with a black pants. He has a journal in his hand, his eyes plonged in the list of the actions of the Purse of the Morning.
He sounds. JEAN appears. ‘Mister sounded?’ ‘Yes, make me mount the journal of this evening.’ ‘Mister, it is not yet arrived.’ ‘Very well; the moment it arrives make it mount the whole suite.’ ‘Perfect, mister.’
JEANmakes a false start and then reenters to announce: ‘Milord the Baron de Citrouille!’
The BARON DE CITROUILLE advances himself in the chamber; SIR ROSS, to receive him, dresses himself on his sitting-part.
The BARON, in giving him a cordial shake-hands: ‘No, no, do not put yourself on end. I pray you, rest there.’
The BARON goes to place himself on end near the chimney. He is not in tenure of evening, hut wears a complete of bureau, to know, a jacket, an open chemise, with a gray pants.
Both milords carry an air of anxiety, above all SIR ROSS.
SIR ROSS (taking the word first): ‘You come from the city?’
SIR, THE BARON: ‘From the Purse itself.’
SIR ROSS: ‘And our affairs, our actions?’
THE BARON: ‘One cannot more bad — all our actions sink!’
SIR ROSS (with an effort): ‘An instant! I forget my duties: you must be fatigued. You will drink something. Let me make you mount a bottle of whiskey-scotch.’ (He sounds.)
THE BARON: ‘My faith, you are very aimable. But let it be a half bottle: I am very little drinker.’
SIR ROSS (to JEAN, who appears): ‘Make seek a half bottle of whiskeyscotch, and mount it here.’
JEAN: ‘Yes, mister.’
SIR ROSS: ‘Mount it yourself and with it mount the evening journal.’
JEAN (hoisting his shoulders): ‘Still always not here, mister.’ (He sorts.)
SIR ROSS (essaying a calm): ‘And if the actions always fall?’
THE BARON (passing to a gridiron and taking on it a cigarette, which he lights. He speaks of a tone measured, calculated): ‘If there is nothing more to do, we are at dry of money.’
SIR ROSS: ‘Then it is the ruin!’
THE BARON (coldly): ‘For you!’
SIR ROSS (lifting himself from his sitting-part and erecting himself to the height of his high tail): ‘For me! How for you? For you, too, Citrouille!’
The BARON is about to take the word when JEAN reënters, carrying a plateau with a glass and a half bottle of whiskey-scotch. He reverses it and places it before the BARON.
SIR ROSS: ‘The journal, the journal of this evening?’
JEAN (a little impatiented): ‘Mister, still not here. But Madame la Comtesse has reëntered from her walk in her automobile, and is mounted at her boudoir.’
SIR ROSS: ‘Pray her to descend: that she does not wait: make her know that it is important.’
JEAN: ‘Yes, mister.’ (He inclines himself and sorts.)
SIR ROSS (remitting himself on his sitting-part and resuming the entertainment): ‘But you! Ruin for you also, Mister the Baron. For both of us — as associates — is it not?’
THE BARON (raising the glass and coldly drinking the half bottle of whiskey - scotch): ‘For you alone!’
SIR ROSS: ‘But you?’
THE BARON: ‘I did not sign!’
SIR ROSS: ‘But your honor! Mister the Baron, your honor as a Citrouille!’
THE BARON (hoisting): ‘I mock myself not badly of it! In the affairs, there is not of it! Listen, Sir Ross — ’
He goes to plant himself direct in face of SIR ROSS, who holds himself seated always on his sitting-part. ‘Listen.’
At that moment JEAN announces: ‘Madame la Comtesse!’
FIFINE precipitates herself into the room — then arrests herself — in apparence surprised, confused, almost ballturned, to find both the two men there.
The BARON DE CITROUILLE remains on end; he gives no sign; he does not look at FIFINE, nor FIFINE at him.
SIR ROSS speaks: ‘Ah, you have come at once. It is very aimable on your part. I have to talk — but first let me present Mister the Baron of Citrouille. You know him well of name, is it not? La Comtesse Fifine Ross, my wife.’
The two incline themselves.
MADAME LA COMTESSE (finding her voice): ‘How do you carry yourself, Mister de Citrouille?’
DE CITROUILLE: ‘How go you, madame?’
One sees that they seem to avoid themselves of their eyes. One divines something of intrigue, of hidden. But SIR Ross does not see nothing. He lifts himself suddenly from his sitting-part and cries himself: ‘Rest, rest with my wife. I myself will descend: this soundrel of a John is hiding something.’ (He elongates himself in a hurry.)
FIFINE (pushing with a profound breath of relief): ‘Ah, I expected to find you alone — only you — ’ (She precipitates herself toward him.) ‘Ah, Alphonse! My cherished!’
They rush toward one another. The BARON passes his arm to her around the figure and poses his lips on to hers. They murmur words of love: ‘Ah, my cherished! My cabbage! My cauliflower! My toad!’
FIFINE (at last enforcing herself to quit his extraint): ‘That marches?’
THE BARON: ‘That marches! That marches marvelously! I have not told him yet. I was just going to. Everything has succeeded for us to a marvel. It was all over to-day. And what he does not know, not suspect even, for him not dishonor alone — it is the prison. Ah!’ (He lights a cigarette with cold blood.) ‘He will not trouble us no more!’
FIFINE: ‘Explain to me, a little, my cabbage. I have not even yet clearly understood. We other women, it is not for us, the Purse. How did you combine it, my petty toad?’ (She passes to him the fingers in the hairs.) ‘Tell me how.’
THE BARON: ‘Of the simplest fashion! As our actions lowered I made him sign hypotheques of margin, you comprehend, to sustain them—hypotheques which he had not the right to allocate, let it be then even for amortization — ’
FIFINE (closing to him the mouth with her jolly palm): ‘Oh, la, la, la! leave all that. I do not comprehend a word. But I know what it means to us. Oh my God! What happiness!’ (She throws herself in his arms.)
One hears voices below — a tumult — a blow of revolver.
JEAN (entering, all exsuffled): ‘Madame! Monsieur!’
BOTH: ‘What is it what it is?’
JEAN: ‘Madame! Monsieur! It is the Police!’
THE BARON: ‘The Police!’
JEAN: ‘Yes, the Police! She is here! She came to take Milord Sir Ross.’
THE BARON (with a calm): ‘And then what?’
JEAN: ‘Sir Ross asked for a moment — to seek papers — and then, there below — in the dining room — he made his brain jump!’
DE CITROUILLE: ‘He made his brain jump! He burnt his brain!’
JEAN: ‘With a blow of revolver.’
DE CITROUILLE: ‘He is dead?’
JEAN: ‘Oui, monsieur, he is dead.’ (JEAN melts into tears and sorts.)
LADY FIFINE: ‘Ah, mon chou! Viens, donc! Viens, mon crapaud!’
CURTAIN