THE LADY OF LYONS

l)efore sudôcI ! I will go and bury myself in my château, study phil-

osophy , and turn woman-hater. Refused ! they ought to be sent to a

madhonse ! Ladies, I bave the honor to wish you a very good morn-

ing. {Exit. )

Mme. Deschap. How forward tbese men are ! — I tbink, cbild, we

kept up onr dignity. Any girl, however inexperienced, knows how

to accept an offer, but it requires a vast deal of address to refuse one

with proper condescension and disdain. I used to practice it at school

with the dancing-maâter.

Enter Damas.

Damas. Grood morning, cousin Descbappelles. "Well, Pauline, are you recovered from last night's bail? So many triumphs must be very fatiguing. Even M. Glavis sighed raost piteously when you departed; but that might be the eflfect of the supper.

Pauline. M. Glavis, indeed!

Mme. Deschap. M. Glavis ? — as if my daughter would think of M. Glavis!

Damas. Hey-day! — why not? His father left him averypretty fortune, and his birth is higher than yours, cousin Descbappelles. But perhaps you are looking to M. Beauseant — ^his father waa a marquis before the Révolution.

Pauline. M. Beauseant! Cousin, you delight in tormenting me.

Mme. Deschap. Don't mind him, Pauline! Cousin Damas, you hâve no susceptibility of feeling — there is a certain indelicacy in ail your ideas. M. Beauseant knows already that he is no match for my daughter!

Damas. Pooh, pooh! one would think you intended your daughter to marry a prince!

Mme. Deschap. Well, and if I did ? — what then ? Many a foreign prince

Damas (interrupting her). Foreign prince! — foreign fiddlestick! You ought to be ashamed of such nonsense at your time of life.

Mme. Deschap. My time of life ! — That is an expression never applied to any lady till she is sixty-nine and three-quarters ;-— and only then by the clergyman of the parish.

Enter Servant.

Servant. Madam, the carriage is at the door. {Exit) Mme. Deschap. Corne, child, put on your bonnet. You really hâve a very thoroughbred air— not at ail like your poor father.

(fondly) Ah, you little coquette ! When a young lady is always irakÎDg mischief, ît is a sure sign that she takes after her mother !

r^ii'jLlNE. Good-day, cousin Damas — and a better humor to you. (Ooing hack to the table and taking the flowers.) Who could hâve sent me thèse flowers ?

{Exeunt PAULINE and Madame Desch appelles.)

Damas. That would be an excellent girl if her head had not been tumed. I fear she is now become incorrigible ! Zounds, what a lucky fellow I am to be still a bachelor ! They may talk of the dévotion of the sex, but the most faithful attachment in life is that of a woman in love — with herself. (Exit.)

Scène 2. — Tke exterior of a amall Village Inn ; 9ign, the Golden Lion, afew Leaguesfrom LyonSj which is aeen ai a distance.

Beau. {Behind the scènes), Yes, you may hait the horses ; we shall

rest hère an hour.

Enter Bbauseant and Glavis.

Gla. Really, my dear Beauseant, consider that I hâve promised to spend a day or two with you at your château, — that I am quite at your mercy for my entertainment, — and yet you are as sileut and as gloomy as a mute at a funeral, or an Englishmen at a party of pleasure.

Beau. Bear with me! — the fact is that I am misérable.

Gla. You, the richest and gayest bachelor in Lyons ?

Beau. It is because l am a bachelor that I am misérable. Thou knowest Pauline — ^the only daughter of the rich merchant, Mons. Deschappelles ?

Gla. Know her? — who does not? — as pretty as Venus and as proud as Juno.

Beau. Her taste is worse than her pride {drawing himsdf wp). Know, Glavis, she has actually refused me !

Gla. {aside), So she has me ! — ^very consoling ! In ail cases of heart-ache, the application of another man's disappointment draws out the pain and allays the irritation, (alovd) Refused you ! and wherefore ?

Beau. I know not, unless it be because the Révolution swept away my father's title of Marquis, — and she wiU not marry a commouer. Now, as we hâve no noblemen left in France, — as we are ail citizens %iid equals, she can only hope that, in spite of the war, some English

THE LADY oF LY0K8. 235'

Milord or Grennan Count will risk his life^ by coming to Lyons, that . this jiUe du Roturier may condescend to accept him. Kefused me, and with scom ! — By Heaven, l'il not submit to it tamely : — ^I*m in a perfectfever of mortification and rage. Befnse me, indeed !

Gla. Be comforted, my dear fellow, — I will tell you a secret. For the same reason she refnsed MS !

Beau. Yon ! that's a very différent matter ! But give me your hand, Glavis, — we'U think of some plan to humble her. MUle diables ! I shonld like to see her married to a stroUing player !

Enter Landlokd ^rom the Inn.

Land. Your servant, Citizen Beauseant, — servant, sir. Perhaps you will take dinner before you proceed to your château ; our larder is most plentifuUy supplied.

Beau. Ihavenoappetite.

Gla. Nor I. Still, it is bad traveling on an empty stomach. What hâve you got ? {Takes the MU of fare fram the Landlobd who ha8 crossed. )

(Shout witîunU) "Long live the Prince ! — Long live the Prince ! "

Beau. The Prince ! — what Prince is that? I thought we had no prince lefb in France.

Land. Ha, ha ! the lads always call him Prince. He has just won the prize in the shooting match, and they are taking him home in triumph.

Beau. Him ! and who's Mr. Him ?

Land. Who should he be but the pride of the village, Claude Melnotte ? Of course you hâve heard of Claude Melnotte ?

Gla. (giving hack the hïUof fare). Ne ver had that honor. Soup —ragoût of hare — roast chicken, and, in short, ail you hâve.

Beau. The son of old Melnotte, the gardener ?

Land. Exactly so — a wonderful young man.

Beau. How, wonderful? Are his cabbages better than other X)eople's ?

Land. Nay, he don't garden any more ; his &.ther lefk him well off. He's only a genus.

Gla. a what?

Land. A genus ! — a man who can do everything in life except anything that's useful ; — ^that's a genus.

Beau. You raise my curiosity ; — proceed.

Land. Well, then, about four years ago old Melnotte died,

and lefb his son well-to-do in the world. We then ail observed that a great change came over yonng Claude : he took to reading and Latin, and hired a professor from Lyons, who had so mach in his head that he was forced to wear a great full-bottom wig to oover it. Then he took a fencing-raaster, and a dancing-master, and a mnsicmaster ; and then he leamed topaint; andat last itwassaid that yonng Claude was to go to Paris and set up for a painter. The lads laughed at him at ôrst ; but he is a stout fellow, is Claude, and as brave as a lion, and soon taught them to laugh the wrong side of their mouths ; and now ail the boys swear by him, and ail the girls pray for him.

Beau. A promising youth, certainly. And why do they call him Prince?

Laxd. Partly because he is at the head of them ail, and partly because he has snch a proud way with him, and wears such fine clothes — and, in short, looks like a prince.

Beau. And what conld hâve tumed the foolish fellow's brain? The Révolution, I suppose?

Land. Yes — the Révolution that turns us ail topsy-turvy — the révolution of love.

Beau. Romantic young Corydon ! And with whom is he in love ?

Land. Why — but it is a secret, gentlemen.

Beau. Oh! certainly.

Land. Why, then, I hear from his mother, good soûl, that it is no less a person than the Beauty of Lyons, Pauline Deschappelles.

Beau, and Gla. Ha, ha ! — Capital !

Land. You may laugh, but it is as true as I stand hère.

Beau. And what does the Beauty of Lyons say to his suit ?

Land. Lord, sir, she never even condescended to look at him, though when he was a boy he worked in her father's garden.

Beau. Are you sure of that?

Land. His mother says that Mademoiselle does not know him by sight.

Beau, (taking Gla vis aside). I hâve hit it, — I hâve it ;— hère is our revenge ! Hère is a prince for our damsel. Do you take me ?

Gla. Deuce take me if I do !

Beau. Blockhead ! — It's as clear as a map. What if we could make this élégant clown pass himself off as a foreign prince? — lend him money, clothes, équipage for the purpose ? — make him propose to Pauline ?— marry Pauline ? Would it not be delicious ?

THE LADY OF LYONS. 23f

Gla. Ha, ha ! — Excellent ! But how shall we support the neces- Bary expenses of his Highness?

Beau. Pshaw ! Revenge is worth a much larger sacrifice than a few hundred louis ; — as for détails, my valet is the trustiest fellow in the world, and shall hâve the appointment of his Highneas's establishment. Let's go to him at once, and see if he be really ihis Admirable Crichton.

Gla. With ail my heart ; — but the dinner?

Beau. Always thinking of dinner ! Hark ye, landlord ; how far is it to young Melnotte's cottage ? I should like to see such a prodigy.

Laxd. Turn down the lane, then strike across the common, and you will see his mother's cottage. (Exit.)

Beau. True, he lives with his mother. (aside) We will not trust to an old woman's discrétion ; better send for him hither. l'il just step in and write him a note. Come, Glavis.

Gla. Yes, — Beauseant, Glavis, and Co., manufacturers of princes, Wholesale and retail, — au uncommonly genteel Une of business. But whyso grave?

Beau. You think only of the sport, — I of the revenge.

Scène 3. — llie interior of Melnotte's cottage; flowera pîaced hère and (hère; a guitar on an oaken table j with a portfolio j etc., a picture on an eaael covered by a curtain ; fencing-foila crossed over the mantélr pièce; an attempt at refinement in spite of the homeliness of the fumi" turCy etc.; a stairease to the right conducts to the upper «tory.

The WlDOW descends the staira during the shouts. {Shout without, distant) ** Long live Claude Melnotte !" "Long livo

the Prince!"

WlDOW. Hark ! there's my dear son ; carried oflf the prize, l'm

sure ; and now he'U want to treat them ail. (shouts nearer, " Long

live the Prince !")

Mel. {without.) What ! you will not come in, my friends ! Well,

well, — there's a trifle to make merry elsewhere. Good day to you

ail, — good day !

{shovi) ** Hurrah ! Long live Prince Claude ! "

Enter MELNOTTE, with a rifle in his hand. He goes to the WlDOW

and kisaes her.

Mel. Give me joy, dear mother ! — l've won the prize, — never

missed one shot ! Is it not handsome, this gun ? WiDOW. Humph ! Well, what is it worth, Claude ?

238 PETITE GBAMMAIBE FRANÇAISE.

Mel. Worth ! What is a riband worth to a soldier? Worth! everything ! Glory is priceless !

WiDOW. Leave glory to great folks. Ah! Claude, Claude, castles in the air cost a vast deal to keep up! How is ail this to end ? Wliat good does it do thee to leam Latin, and sing songs, and play on the guitar, and fence, and dance, and paint pictures? AU very fine; but what does it bring in ?

Mel. Wealth! wealth, my mother! Wealth to the mind— wealth to the heart — high thoughts — ^bright dreams — ^the hope of famé — ^the ambition to be worthier, to love Pauline.

WiDOW. My poor son! The young lady will never think of thee.

Mkl. Do the stars think of us? Yet if the prisoner see them shine into his dungeon, would'st thou bid him turn away from their lustre? Even so from this low cell, poverty, I lift my eyes to Pauline and forget my chains. {ptUs down his gun and cap near the staircase; tA6 WlDOW takes a chair and sits. Goes to the picture and draws aside the curtain,) See, thiâ is her image — painted from memory. Oh, how the canvas wrongs her! {Takes up the brush and throws it aside,) 1 shall never be a painter! I can paint no likeness but one, and that is above ail art. I would turn soldier — France needs soldiers ! But to leave the air that Pauline breathes ! What is the hour ? — 80 late ? ( Takes a chair and sits. ) I will tell thee a secret, mother. Thou knowest that for the last six weeks I hâve sent every day the rarest flowers to Pauline ? — she wears them. I hâve seen them on her breast. Ah, and then the whole universe seemed ôlled vnth odors! I hâve now grown more bold — I hâve poured worship into poetry^I hâve sent the verses to Pauline — I hâve signed them with my own name. My messenger ought to be back by this time. I bade him wait for the answer.

WiDOW. And what answer do you expect, Claude?

Mel. {rises). That which the Queen of Navarre sent to the poor troubadour: ^^ Let me see the oracle that can tell nations I am beautiful !" She will admit me. I shall hear her speak — I shall meet her eyes — I shall read upon her cheek the sweet thoughts that translate themselves into blushes. Then — then, oh, then — she may forget that I am the peasant's son!

WiDOW. Nay, if she will but hear thee talk, Claude.

Mel. I foresee it ail. She will tell me that désert is the true rank. She will give me a badge — a, flower — ^a glove! Oh, rapture! I shall join the armies of the Republiç—I shall rise — I shall win a name that

ffîJS LADY ÙP tYOKS. 239

beauty wîll not blush to hear. I shall return with the right to say to her, ** See, howlove does not level the proud, but raises the humble!" Oh, how my heart swells within me! Oh, what glorious prophète of the future are youth and hope! Who's there ?

Gaspab (v)it?iout), Gaspar.

Mel. Come in. {Th£ WiDOW opena the dôor.)

Enter Gaspae.

Mel. Welcomci, Gaspar, welcome. Where is the letter ? Why do you tum away, man? Where is the letter ? (Gaspab gives Mm one.) This! This is mine, the one I intrusted to thee. Didst thou not leave it ?

Gaspab. Yes, I left it.

Mel. My own verses returned to me. Nothing else!

Gaspab. Thou wilt be proud to hear how thy messenger was honored. For thy sake, Melnotte, I hâve borne that which no Frenchman can bear without disgrâce.

Mel. Disgrâce, Gaspar! Disgrâce?

Gaspab. I gave thy letter to the porter, who passed it from lackey to lackey till it reached the lady it was meant for.

Mel. It reached her, then; you are sure of that! It reached her — ^well, well!

Gaspab. It reached her, and was returned to me with blows. Dost hear, Melnotte ? with blows ! Death! are we slaves still that we are to be thus dealt with, we peasants!

Mel. With blows? No, Gaspar, no ; not blows!

Gaspab. I could shew thee the marks if it were not so deep a shame to bear them. ' The lackey who tossed thy letter into the mire swore that his lady and her mother never were so insulted. What could thy letter contain, Claude ?

Mel. (looking over the letter), Not a line that a serf mighr not bave written to an empress. No, not one.

Gaspab. They promise thee the same greeting they gave me, if you will pass that way. Shall we endure this, Claude ?

Mel. {wringing Gaspab' s hand). Forgive me, the fault was mine ; I hâve brought this on thee ; I will not forget it ; thon shuit be avenged ! The heartless insolence.

Gaspab. Thou art moved, Melnotte ; think not of me ; l would go through fire and water to serve thee ; but, — a blow ! It it not th© \rui96 that galls,— it is the Umh, Melnotte. {jg(nng)

Mel. Say, what message? — How insulted? — Wherefore? — What the offense ?

Gaspae. Did you not write to Pauline Deschappelles, the daughter of the rich merchant?

Mel. Well?

Gaspab. And are yon not a peasant — ^a gaidener's son ? — ^that was the offense. Sleep on it, Melnotte. Blows to a French citizen^ blows! (ExU.)

WiDOW. Now you are cured, Claude !

Mel. {tearing tke letter). So do I scatter her image to the winds — I will stop her in the open streets — I will insuit her — I will beat her menial ruf&ans — I will — (turns mddenly to WiDOw) Mother, am I humpbacked — deformed — hideous ?

WlDOW. You?

Mel. a coward — a thief— a liar ?

WiDOW. You?

Mel. Or a dull fool — a vain, driveling, brainless idiot?

WiDOW. No, no.

Mel. What am I then — worse than ail thèse ? Why, I am a peasant ! What bas a peasant to do with love ? Vain révolutions, why lavish your cruel ty on the great? Oh, that we — we, the hewers ot wood and drawers of water — had been swept away, so that the proud might leam what the world would be without us ! (paces the stage excitedly.)

Enter Servant /rom the Inn.

Seevant. a letter for Citizen Melnotte.

Mel. a letter ! from her perhaps — who sent thee ?

Servant. Why, Monsieur — I mean Citizen — Beauseant, who stops to dine at the Golden Lion, on bis way to his château.

Mel. Beauseant! {reads) *'Young man, I know thy secret — ^thou lovest above thy station ; if thou hast wit, courage, and discrétion, I can secure to thee the realization of thy most sanguine hopes ; and the sole condition I ask in return is, that thou shalt be steadfast in thine own ends. I shall demaud from thee a solemn oath to marry her whom thou lovest ; to bear her to thine home on thy wedding night. I am serions — if thou wouldst learn more, lose not a moment, but foUow the bearer of this letter to thy friend and patron, — Charles Beauseant."

^i£L. Can I believe my eyes ? Are our own passions the sorcerers

AtîCÊ IN WoiTÎ>ÊftlÀiTD. 241

èhat raise up for us spirits of good or evil ? I will go instantly. {Exit Servant.)

WiDOW, What is this, Claude?

Mbl. "Marry her whom thou lovest" — **bear her to thineown home.'*— Oh, revenge and love; which of you is the stronger? {gazing on the picturé) Sweet face, thou smilest on me from the canvas ; weak fool that I am, do I then love her still? No, it is the vision of my own romance that I hâve worshiped ; it is the reality to which I bring scorn for scorn. Adieu, mother ! I will retum anon. (exit WiDOW up the staircase) My brain réels — the earth swims before me. (looks again at the letter) * * Marry her whom thou lovest: ' ' No, it is not a mockery . I do not dream ! ( Exit. )