Becky Sharp Page #5

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Ah, good!

The trunk, mam.

Bring it here.

Open it!

Now we shall see what we shall see.

Angels of Bath!

What the deuce is this?

Not what a respectable female I should gaze on.

And look at this!

Pantomime. And an orange wig!

Confound you, leave her things alone.

She's acting on my orders, Rawdon.

Here's her rouge...

Ah, cosmetics, sinful, sinful.

Give me that.

And here is Becky Sharp herself.

Wait! It's Becky's own handwriting.

"A Portrait of my Mother".

Becky Sharp's mother a dancer?

At the risk of contradicting you, mam,

Miss Sharp's mother was an aristocrat.

A French lady by the name of Montmorency.

You're wrong, Rawdon.

I have it on Miss Rebecca's own authority

that her mother's name was Denier.

Here it says

"a portrait of my mother by my father".

A painter fellow?

And I had it on Becky's own authority that her father

was distinguished and rich.

I don't care what that blasted thing says.

I don't believe a word of it, not a single word of it.

Believe it, Mr. Crawley.

Believe anything, everything!

Only these relics, they're mine, sacred to me.

And no hand shall ever touch them but my own.

How well I remember that sweet smile.

Her portrait painted in exile.

This is how she looked always when she'd bend over my bed,

singing me to sleep.

Yes, my mother was a dancer. She danced herself

and she taught others to dance.

But she was an aristocrat.

Oh, make no mistake about that.

A Montmorency of the finest blood of France.

And that was the thing for which

she was exiled by the Revolution.

Her chteau burned, her estate confiscated,

her fortune taken from her.

Yes, she danced. Danced to feed her baby,

her only child.

To clothe me, to shelter me!

Do you wonder now why I treasure these things

that remind me of my mother?

Oh, this string of beads!

Miss Rebecca! Don't.

Not all diminishes when the heart is pure.

How dare you! Apologize to Miss Sharp at once!

Miss Sharp, we apologize...

Poor girl!

We were so unjust to her.

A little brandy, please.

Send for Dr. Crackenbush.

I know I'm going to die.

We must all part when the hour cometh.

Come in.

Becky, darling, why didn't you tell me?

Do you suppose I would have cared who your mother was,

how you were brought up?

Why did you have to hide things from me?

If you had led my life you would want to hide

something even from yourself.

Oh, tell me, are you sorry about yesterday?

I Sorry? My Becky darling, you're my wife now,

my own sweet wife.

Your wife! We've been married less then 24 hours

and already you doubt my words.

I don't, darling. I only want to know...

Know? Want more? Still more? Endlessly?

Do you want to hear about my father?

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