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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Act 2. A dark, empty stage. Marat (standing up) It's all a blur. It’s all a little dizzy. I just have dreamed a scary dream as if two vagabond philosophers robbed me and killed. I must admit it's a bit strange: I used to dream of danger, I was close of being caught up with death and that was when I woke up in a sweat but this dream seems to last for now. A dream within a dream. It's weird. I suppose I shouldn't have to drink a single malt with a red wine. But what is that? I think, I hear footsteps behind the stage. What if my greedy drunkards decided to come back? I’d better hide behind the curtain. (Marat hides. Charles in mask comes out) Do you see? It is indeed a dream. Not dream, but Cirque. At first, a pair of angry clowns, than a Punch in a long nosed mask. Look, how he’s nervous! He must be waiting for somebody, frowning, pacing about, sighing, every minute looking at face of watch. Bonjour, Monsieur. Charles Good God! You frightened me! Oh, wait a second. I know you! It’s fun to see my killer postmortem. Though, it doesn't matter. You must leave. My fiancée is on her way here right now and I would rather not see here to see you. Marat (to himself) Holy dreams, he tells me to leave my own dream! Let’s turn cad on, because a dreamer can allow himself in dreams nearly anything he wants. A pretty? Charles Who? Marat Your fiancée. Charles You know it better than anyone. Marat Looks like the Punch likes talking riddles. So, what is her name? Charles Who’s? Marat Fiancée! Charles You know it better. Marat Go to hell! Charles Her name is Charlotte. Marat Oh, my God, what a charlottish name! An apple pie, that’s what it tastes like. Charles Well, it's up to you. But you yourself have recently extolled its virtues. “Charlotte! Chocolate and cherries! A babycakes!” Marat Shut up! About cherries and babycakes she was the only one who knew. I don’t believe it! How comes you know? There's something weird here. Take off your mask! Charles If you say so, Monsieur. (Charles takes off his mask) Marat So is it you?! It can't be! I have seen the butcher lifted your severed head by its long hair from the basket. You are dead! Charles Well, may be dead and may be not enough. There are more things in heaven and earth, Friend of the People. Anyway, a friend of people isn’t friend of mine, but I will tell you as a friend… Though, I will not. I'll let you guess. Marat I guess enough to throw this gauntlet in your face! Charles Slow down, Monsieur.. You want to fight? So let a formal duel to settle your blood feud. A la court paille? A volonte?* Marat No matter. A fistfight. Charles Okay, I’m in. The Commentator’s Voice May I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen? And welcome to a night of boxing! In one corner here's the young… Whatever. I would like to introduce to you Charles Barbaroux. Jean-Paul Marat is in the other corner and he’s mad. So, we begin. Let's see who beats up who. At the same moment, clenching their fists, keeping their elbows to themselves, the boxers began to circle, waltzing round each other. Quick left shot out and caught Marat on crunchy tooth. That's a good start! Dodging tricky lunge, Marat attempted a side strike and got himself such a ferocious blow in the eyebrow that he staggered, nearly missed the most vicious of the dozen swipes. Ducked under Charles’s right, he crouched, feinted and jabbed his rival’s nose but at once was punished in the head. They bounced away, resuming circles. Frankly, if I were to choose between these two, I would bet on… Bang on the jaw! And, as Marat was tumbling, Charles managed to hit him another time. Get up and waltz around, Salvatore! Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee! Oh, look, Marat woke up, back to the fray! Alas, he’s tired. Legs aren't working well. The legs in boxing like the hands in sex: they play small parts but they require skill. Charles stepped up pressure, furiously bombarding his rival with a hail of blows. Marat tried clinch with him but all to no avail. Marat collapsed. Charles won. The curtain, please. Charles Death is a bad excuse to end the strife. We’re doomed to conflict even afterlife. (leaves) * Duel's types
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