The cottage as before—MELNOTTE seated before a table—writing implements, etc.—(Day breaking.)
Mel. Hush, hush!—she sleeps at last!—thank Heaven, for a while she forgets even that I live! Her sobs, which have gone to my heart the whole, long, desolate night, have ceased!—all calm—all still! I will go now; I will send this letter to Pauline’s father: when he arrives, I will place in his hands my own consent to the divorce, and then, O France! my country! accept among thy protectors, thy defenders—the peasant’s Son! Our country is less proud than custom, and does not refuse the blood, the heart, the right hand of the poor man.
Enter Widow.
Widow. My son, thou hast acted ill; but sin brings its own punishment. In the hour of thy remorse, it is not for a mother to reproach thee.
Mel. What is past is past. There is a future left to all men, who have the virtue to repent, and the energy to atone. Thou shalt be proud of thy son yet. Meanwhile, remember this poor lady has been grievously injured. For the sake of thy son’s conscience, respect, honor, bear with her. If she weep, console—if she chide, be silent. ‘Tis but a little while more—I shall send an express fast as horse can speed to her father. Farewell! I shall return shortly.
Widow. It is the only course left to thee—thou wert led astray, but thou art not hardened. Thy heart is right still, as ever it was when, in thy most ambitious hopes thou wert never ashamed of thy poor mother.
Mel. Ashamed of thee; No, if I yet endure, yet live, yet hope,—it is only because I would not die till I have redeemed the noble heritage I have lost—the heritage I took unstained from thee and my dead father—a proud conscience and an honest name. I shall win them back yet—heaven bless you! [Exit.
Widow. My dear Claude! How my heart bleeds for him.
[PAULINE looks down from above, and after a pause descends
Pauline. Not here!—he spares me that pain at least: so far he is considerate—yet the place seems still more desolate without him. Oh, that I could hate him—the gardener’s son!—and yet how nobly he—no—no—no I will not be so mean a thing as to forgive him!
Widow. Good morning, madam; I would have waited on you if I had known you were stirring.
Pauline. It is no matter, ma’am—your son’s wife ought to wait on herself.
Widow. My son’s wife—let not that thought vex you, madam—he tells me that you will have your divorce. And I hope I shall live to see him smile again. There are maidens in this village, young and fair, madam, who may yet console him.
Pauline. I dare say—they are very welcome—and when the divorce is got—he will marry again. I am sure I hope so. [Weeps.
Widow. He could have married the richest girl in the province, if he had pleased it; but his head was turned, poor child! he could think of nothing but you. [Weeps.
Pauline. Don’t weep, mother.
Widow. Ah, he has behaved very ill, I know, but love is so headstrong in the young. Don’t weep, madam.
Pauline. So, as you were saying—go on.
Widow. Oh, I cannot excuse him, ma’am—he was not in his right senses.
Pauline. But he always—always [sobbing] loved—loved me then?
Widow. He thought of nothing else. See here—he learnt to paint that he might take your likeness [uncovers the picture]. But that’s all over now—I trust you have cured him of his folly;—but, dear heart, you have had no breakfast!
Pauline. I can’t take anything—don’t trouble yourself.
Widow. Nay, madam, be persuaded; a little coffee will refresh you. Our milk and eggs are excellent. I will get out Claude’s coffee-cup—It is of real Sevres; he saved up all his money to buy it three years ago, because the name of Pauline was inscribed on it.
Pauline. Three years ago! Poor Claude!—Thank you; I think I will have some coffee. Oh! if he were but a poor gentleman, even a merchant: but a gardener’s son—and what a home!—Oh no,—it is too dreadful!
They seat themselves at the table, BEAUSEANT opens the lattice and looks in.
Beau. So—so—the coast is clear! I saw Claude in the lane—I shall have an excellent opportunity. [Shuts the lattice and knocks at the door.
Pauline. [starting]. Can it be my father?—he has not sent for—him yet? No, he cannot be in such a hurry to get rid of me.
Widow. It is not time for your father to arrive yet; it must be some neighbor.
Pauline. Don’t admit any one.
[Widow opens the door, BEAUSEANT pushes her aside and enters. Ha! Heavens! that hateful Beauseant! This is indeed bitter!
Beau. Good morning, madam! O widow, your son begs you will have the goodness to go to him in the village he wants to speak to you on particular business; you’ll find him at the inn, or the grocer’s shop, or the baker’s, or at some other friend’s of your family—make haste.
Pauline. Don’t leave me, mother!—don’t leave me.
Beau. [with great respect]. Be not alarmed, madam. Believe me your friend—your servant.
Pauline. Sir, I have no fear of you, even in this house! Go, madam, if your son wishes it; I will not contradict his commands whilst, at least he has still the right to be obeyed.
Widow. I don’t understand this; however, I sha’n’t be long gone. [Exit.
Pauline. Sir, I divine the object of your visit—you wish to exult in the humiliation of one who humbled you. Be it so; I am prepared to endure all—even your presence!
Beau. You mistake me, madam—Pauline, you mistake me! I come to lay my fortune at your feet. You must already be disenchanted with this impostor; these walls are not worthy to be hallowed by your beauty! Shall that form be clasped in the arms of a base-born peasant? Beloved, beautiful Pauline! fly with me—my carriage waits without—I will bear you to a home more meet for your reception. Wealth, luxury, station—all shall yet be yours. I forget your past disdain—I remember only your beauty and my unconquerable love!
Pauline. Sir! leave this house—it is humble: but a husband’s roof, however lowly, is, in the eyes of God and man, the temple of a wife’s honor! Know that I would rather starve—yes—with him who has betrayed me, than accept your lawful hand, even were you the prince whose name he bore.—Go.
Beau. What! is not your pride humbled yet?
Pauline. Sir, what was pride in prosperity in affliction becomes virtue.
Beau. Look round: these rugged floors—these homely walls—this wretched struggle of poverty for comfort—think of this! and contrast with such a picture the refinement, the luxury, the pomp, that the wealthiest gentleman of Lyons offers to the loveliest lady. Ah, hear me!
Pauline. Oh! my father!—why did I leave you?—why am I thus friendless? Sir, you see before you a betrayed, injured, miserable woman!—respect her anguish.
[MELNOTTE opens the door silently, and pauses at the threshold.
Beau. No! let me rather thus console it; let me snatch from those lips one breath of that fragrance which never should be wasted on the low churl thy husband.
Pauline. Help! Claude!—Claude!—Have I no protector?’
Beau. Be silent! [showing a pistol.] See, I do not come unprepared even for violence. I will brave all things—thy husband and all his race— for thy sake. Thus, then, I clasp thee!
Mel. [dashing him to the other end of the stage]. Pauline—look up, Pauline! thou art safe.
Beau. [levelling his pistol]. Dare you thus insult a man of my birth, ruffian?
Pauline. Oh, spare him—spare my husband!—Beauseant—Claude—no—no [faints].
Mel. Miserable trickster! shame upon you! brave devices to terrify a woman! Coward!—you tremble—you have outraged the laws—you know that your weapon is harmless—you have the courage of the mountebank, not the bravo!—Pauline, there is no danger.
Beau. I wish thou wert a gentleman—as it is, thou art beneath me.— Good day, and a happy honeymoon.—[Aside.] I will not die till I am avenged. [Exit.
Mel. I hold her in these arms—the last embrace
Never, ah never more, shall this dear head
Be pillow’d on the heart that should have shelter’d
And has betray’d!—Soft—soft! one kiss—poor wretch!
No scorn on that pale lip forbids me now!
One kiss—so ends all record of my crime!
It is the seal upon the tomb of hope,
By which, like some lost, sorrowing angel, sits
Sad memory evermore; she breathes—she moves
She wakes to scorn, to hate, but not to shudder
Beneath the touch of my abhorred love.
Places her on a seat. There—we are strangers now!
Pauline. All gone—all calm
Is every thing a dream? thou art safe, unhurt
I do not love thee;—but—but I am woman,
And—and—no blood is spilt?
Mel. No, lady, no; My guilt hath not deserved so rich a blessing As even danger in thy cause.
Enter WIDOW.
Widow. My son, I have been everywhere in search of you; why did you send for me?
Mel. I did not send for you.
Widow. No! but I must tell you your express has returned.
Mel. So soon! impossible!
Widow. Yes, he met the lady’s father and mother on the road; they were going into the country on a visit. Your messenger says that Monsieur Deschappelles turned almost white with anger when he read your letter. They will be here almost immediately. Oh, Claude, Claude! what will they do to you? How I tremble! Ah, madam! do not let them injure him—if you knew how he doated on you.
Pauline. Injure him! no, ma’am, be not afraid;—my father! how shall I meet him? how go back to Lyons? the scoff of the whole city! Cruel, cruel, Claude [in great agitation]. Sir, you have acted most treacherously.
Mel. I know it, madam.
Pauline [aside.] If he would but ask me to forgive him!—I never can forgive you, sir.
Mel. I never dared to hope it.
Pauline. But you are my husband now, and I have sworn to—to love you, sir.
Mel. That was under a false belief, madam; Heaven and the laws will release you from your vow.
Pauline. He will drive me mad! if he were but less proud—if he would but ask me to remain—hark, hark—I hear the wheels of the carriage—Sir—Claude, they are coming; have you no word to say ere it is loo late? Quick speak.
Mel. I can only congratulate you on your release. Behold your parents
Enter MONSIEUR and MADAME DESCHAPPELLES and COLONEL DAMAS.
M. Deschap. My child! my child!
Mme. Deschap. Oh, my poor Pauline!—what a villanous hovel this is! Old woman, get me a chair—I shall faint I certainly shall. What will the world say? Child, you have been a fool. A mother’s heart is easily broken.
Damas. Ha, ha! most noble Prince—I am sorry to see a man of your quality in such a condition; I am afraid your highness will go to the House of Correction.
Mel. Taunt on, sir; I spared you when you were unarmed—I am unarmed now. A man who has no excuse for crime is indeed defenceless!
Damas. There’s something fine in the rascal, after all!
M. Deschap. Where is the impostor?—Are you thus shameless, traitor? Can you brave the presence of that girl’s father?
Mel. Strike me, if it please you—you are her father.
Pauline. Sir—sir, for my sake; whatever his guilt, he has acted nobly in atonement.
Mme. Deschap. Nobly! Are you mad, girl? I have no patience with you— to disgrace all your family thus! Nobly! Oh you abominable, hardened, pitiful, mean, ugly villain!
Damas. Ugly! Why he was beautiful yesterday!
Pauline. Madame, this is his roof, and he is my husband. Respect your daughter, or let blame fall alone on her.
Mme. Deschap. You—you—Oh, I’m choking.
M. Deschap. Sir, it were idle to waste reproach upon a conscience like yours—you renounce all pretensions to the person of this lady?
Mel. I do. [Gives a paper.] Here is my consent to a divorce—my full confession of the fraud which annuls the marriage. Your daughter has been foully wronged—I grant it, sir; but her own lips will tell you that, from the hour in which she crossed this threshold, I returned to my own station, and respected hers. Pure and inviolate, as when yestermorn you laid your hand upon her head, and blessed her, I yield her back to you. For myself—I deliver you for ever from my presence. An outcast and a criminal, I seek some distant land, where I may mourn my sin, and pray for your daughter’s peace. Farewell—farewell to you all, for ever!
Willow. Claude, Claude, you will not leave your poor old mother? She does not disown you in your sorrow no, not even in your guilt. No divorce can separate a mother from her son.
Pauline. This poor widow teaches me my duty. No, mother,—no, for you are now my mother also!—nor should any law, human or divine, separate the wife from her husband’s sorrows. Claude—Claude—all is forgotten forgiven—I am thine for ever!
Mme. Deschap. What do I hear?—Come away, or never see my face again.
M. Deschap. Pauline, we never betrayed you!—do you forsake us for him?
Pauline. [going back to her father]. Oh no—but you will forgive him too; we will live together—he shall be your son.
M. Deschap. Never! Cling to him and forsake your parents! His home shall be yours—his fortune yours—his fate yours: the wealth I have acquired by honest industry shall never enrich the dishonest man.
Pauline. And you would have a wife enjoy luxury while a husband toils! Claude, take me; thou canst not give me wealth, titles, station—but thou canst give me a true heart I will work for thee, tend thee, bear with thee, and never, never shall these lips reproach thee for the past.
Damas. I’ll be hanged if I am not going to blubber!
Mel. This is the heaviest blow of all!—What a heart I have wronged!— Do not fear me, sir; I am not all hardened—I will not rob her of a holier love than mine. Pauline!—angel of love and mercy!—your memory shall lead me back to virtue!—The husband of a being so beautiful in her noble and sublime tenderness may be poor—may be low born;—(there is no guilt in the decrees of providence!)—but he should be one who can look thee in the face without a blush,—to whom thy love does not bring remorse,—who can fold thee to his heart, and say,—“Here there is no deceit!” I am not that man!
Damas. [aside to MELNOTTE]. Thou art a noble fellow, notwithstanding; and wouldst make an excellent soldier. Serve in my regiment. I have had a letter from the Directory—our young general takes the command of the army in Italy,—I am to join him at Marseilles, I will depart this day, if thou wilt go with me.
Mel. It is the favor I would have asked thee, if I dared. Place me wherever a foe is most dreaded,—wherever France most needs a life!
Damas. There shall not be a forlorn hope without thee!
Mel. There is my hand!—mother, your blessing. I shall see you again,—a better man than a prince,—a man who has bought the right to high thoughts by brave deeds. And thou!—thou! so wildly worshipped, so guiltily betrayed, all is not yet lost!—for thy memory, at least, must be mine till death! If I live, the name of him thou hast once loved shall not rest dishonored;—if I fall, amidst the carnage and the roar of battle, my soul will fly back to thee, and love shall share with death my last sigh!—More—more would I speak to thee!—to pray!—to bless! But no; When I am less unworthy I will utter it to Heaven!—I cannot trust myself to [turning to DESCHAPPELLES] Your pardon, sir; they are my last words Farewell! [Exit.
Damas. I will go after him.—France will thank me for this.
Pauline [starting from her father’s arms]. Claude!—Claude!—my husband!
M. Deschap. You have a father still!
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