MACAIRE. The contrary, dear boy. (HE PRODUCES NOTES.)
BERTRAND. What was it like?
MACAIRE. Like? Nothing. A little blood, a dead man.
BERTRAND. Blood! . . . Dead! HE FALLS AT TABLE SOBBING. MACAIRE DIVIDES THE NOTES INTO TWO PARTS; ON THE SMALLER HE WIPES THE BLOODY KNIFE, AND FOLDING THE STAINS INWARD, THRUSTS THE NOTES INTO BERTRAND'S FACE.)
MACAIRE. What is life without the pleasures of the table!
BERTRAND (TAKING AND POCKETING NOTES). Macaire, I can't get over it.
MACAIRE. My mark is the frontier, and at top speed. Don't hang your jaw at me. Up, up, at the double; pick me that cash-box; and let's get the damned house fairly cleared.
BERTRAND. I can't. Did he bleed much?
MACAIRE. Bleed? Must I bleed you? To work, or I'm dangerous.
BERTRAND. It's all right, Macaire; I'm going.
