ACT I

Scène 1. — A room in the house of M. Desch appelles, at Lyons. Pauline reclining on a sofa; Makian, her maid, fanning her. Flowers and notes on a table heside the sofa. Madame Deschappelles seated at a table. The gardens are seen from the open Windows.

Mme. Deschap. Marian, put that rose a little more to the left — {Mabiai^ alters the position of a rose in Pauline's hair) — Ah, so! — that improves the hair, — the tournure, the je ne sais quoi ! You are certainly very handsorae, child!— quite my style; — I don't wonder that you make such a sensation!- old, young, rich, and poor, do homagetothe beauty of Lyons! Ah, we live again in our children, — especially when they hâve our eyesand complexion!

Pauline (languidly). Dear mother, you spoilyour Pauline! (aside) I wish I knew who sent me thèse flowers!

Mme. Deschap. No, child ! If I praise you, it is only to inspire you with a proper ambition. You are born to make a great marriage. Beauty is valuable or worthless according as you invest the property to the best advantage. Marian, go and order the carriage! {Exit Maeian.)

Pauline. Who can it be that sends me, every day, thèse beautiful flowers ? — ^how sweet they are!

Enter Sekvant.

Servant. Monsieur Beauseant, madam.

Mme. Deschap. Let him enter. Pauline, this is another offer! — I know it is! — Your father should engage an additional clerk to keep the account book of your conquests.

Enter Beauseant.

Beau. Ah, ladies, how fortunate I am to find you at home! (aside) How lovely she looks! — It is a great sacrifice I make in marrying into a family in trade!- they will be eternally grateful! (aloud) Madam, you will permit me a word with your charming daughter. {approaches Pauline, who rises disdainfully) Mademoiselle, I hâve ventured to wait upon you, in a hope that you must long since hâve divined. Last night, when you outshone ail the beauty of Lyons, you completed your conquest over me ! You know that my fortune is not exceeded by any estate in the province — you know that but for the Révolution, which has defrauded me of my titles, I should be noble. May I, then, trust that you may not reject my alliance ? I offer you my hand and heart.

Pauline (aside). He has the air of a man who confers a favorî (aloud) Sir, you are very condescending — I thank you humbly; but, being duly sensible of my own demerits, you must allow me to décline the honor you propose. (Curtsies, and turns away.)

Beau. Décline! impossible! — you are not serious! Madame, suffer me to appeal to you. I am a suitor for your daughter 's hand — the settlements shall be worthy her beauty and my station. May I wait on M. Deschappelles ?

Mme. Deschap. M. Deschappelles never interfères in the domestic arrangements, — you are very obliging. If you were still a marquis, or if my daughter were intended to raarry a commoner, — why, perhaps, we might give you the préférence.

Beau. A commoner! — we are ail commoners in France now.

Mme. Deschap. In France, yes; but there is a nobility still left in the other countries in Europe. We are quite aware of your good qualities, and don't doubt that you will find some lady more suitable to your pretensions. We shall be always happy to see you as an acquaintance, M. Beauseant! My dear child, the carriage will be hère presently . ( Ooes to Pauline. )

Beau. Say no more, madam !— say no more ! (aside) Refused ! and by a merchant's daughter '. — refused ! It will be ail over Lyons

"before suiiset ! I will go and bury myself in my château, study philosophy, and turn woman-liater. Refused ! they ought to be sent to a madhouse ! Ladies, I hâve the honor to wish you a very good morning. (Exit. )

Mme. Deschap. How forward thèse men are ! — I think, child, we kept up our 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 schooî wlth the dancing-master.

Enter DAMAS.

Damas. Good morning, cousin Deschappelles. Well, Pauline, are you recovered from last night's bail ? So many triumphs must be very fatiguing. Even M. Glavis sighed most piteously when you departed; but that might be the efifect 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 a very pretty fortune, and his birth is higher than yours, cousin Deschappelles. But perhaps you are looking to M. Beauseant — his father was 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 î — 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. Come, 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 iraking mischief, it is a sure sigu that she takes after lier mother !

Jr^^rjLfNE. Good-day, cousin Damas — and a better huraor to you. {Going lack 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 turned. 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. — The exierior of a small Village Inn ; sign, the Golden Lion, afew Leaguesfrom Lyons, which is seen at a distance. Beau. {Behind the scènes). Yes, you may bait the horses ; we shall rest hère an hour.

Enter Beauseant 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 silent 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 I 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 himself up). Know, Glavis, she has actually refused me !

Gla. {adde). 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, (aloud) Refused you ! and wherefore ?

Beau. I know not, unless it be because the Révolution swept away my father's title of Marquis, — and she will not marry a commoner. Now, as we haveno noblemen left in France,— as we are ail citizens ^od equals, she can only hope that, in spite of the war, some Euglish

THE LADY oF LYONS. 235

Milord or German Count will risk Lis life, by coming to Lyons, that this fiïïe du Roturier may condescend to accept him. Refused me, and with scorn ! — By Heaven, l'il not submit to it tamely : — l'ra in a perfect fever of mortification and rage. Refuse me, indeed !

Gla. Be comforted, my dear fellow, — I will tell you a secret. For tlie same reason she refused me !

Beau. You ! that's a very différent matter ! But give me your hand, Glavis, — we'll tMnk of some plan to humble her. Mille diables ! I should like to see her married to a stroUing player !

Enter Landloed from the Inn.

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

Beau. I hâve no appetite.

Gla. Nor I. Still, it is bad traveling on an empty stomach. What hâve you got ? ( Takes the MU of fare from the Landloed who has crossed. )

(Shout without) "Long live the Prince ! — Long live the Prince ! "

Beau. The Prince ! — what Prince is that? I thought we had no prince left 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 MU of 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 people's ?

Land. Nay, he don't garden any more ; his father left 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 left his son well-to-do in the world. We then ail observed that a great change came over young Claude : lie took to reading and Latin, and hired a professer from Lyons, who had so much in his head that he was forced to wear a great full-bottom wig to cover it. Then he took a fencing-master, and a dancing-master, and a musicmaster ; and then he learned to paint ; and at last it was said that young Claude was to go to Paris and set up for a painter. The lads laughed at him at first ; 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 ?

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

Beau. And what could hâve turned 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 ne ver 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 ?

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

Beau. Pshaw ! Re venge is wortli a much larger sacrifice tlian a few hundred louis ; — as for détails, my valet is the trustiest fellow in the world, and shall hâve the appointment of his Highness' s establishment. Let's go to him at once, and see if he be really this 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.

Land. 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) \Ve 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, — an uncommonly genteel Une of business. But why so grave ?

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

Scène 3. — TJte interior of Melnotte's cottage; flowers placed hère and tJiere; a guitar on an oaJcen table, with a portfolio, etc., a picture on an easel covered by a curtain ; fencing-foils crosscd over the mantélpiece ; an attempt at refinement in spite of the homeliness of the furniture, etc. ; a staircase to the right conducts to the upper story.

The WlDOW descends the stairs during the shouts. {Shout without, distant) " Long live Claude Melnotte !" ''Long live

the Prince!"

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

sure ; and now he'll 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 !

{shout) " Hurrah ! Long live Prince Claude ! "

Enter Melnotte, with a rifle in his hand. He goes to the WiPOW

and kisses 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 ?

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

WiDOW. Leave glory to great folks. Ah ! Claude, Claude, castles in tlie air cost a vast deal to keep up! Howis ail this to end? What good does it do thee to leam Latin, and sing songs, and play on the guitar, and fence, and dance, and paint pictures? Ail 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 ne ver think of thee.

Mel. Do the stars think of us? Yet if the prisoner see them shine into bis 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. {puis down his gun and cap near the staircoM ; the WlDOW takes a chair and sits. Goes to the picture and draws OMde the curtain.) See, this is her image— painted from memory. Oh, how the canvas wrongs her! (Takes up the brush and throws it aside.) I 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 ? — so late ? ( Takes a chair and sits. ) I will tell thee a secret, mother. Thou knowest that for the last six weeks I bave sent every day the rarest flowers to Pauline ? — she wears them. I bave seen them on her breast. Ah, and then the whole universe seemed filled with odors! I bave now grown more bold — I bave poured worship into poetry — I bave sent the verses to Pauline — I bave signed them with my own name. My messenger ought to be back by thistime. I bado 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 Republic — I shall rise — I shall win a name that

beauty will 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 withln me! Oh, what glorious prophets of the future are youth and hope! Who's there ?

Gaspar (without). Gaspar.

Mel. Come in. {The WiBOW opens the door.)

Enter GaspaE.

Mel. Welcome, Gaspar, welcome. Where is the letter ? Why do you turn 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 ?

Gaspae. Yes, I left it.

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

Gaspae. 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 ?

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

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

Gaspae. 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!

Gaspae. 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 Une that a serf mighr not hâve written to an empress. No, not one.

Gaspae. They promise thee the same greeting they gave me, if you will i)ass that way. Shall we endure this, Claude ?

Mel. {ivringing Gaspae's hand). Forgive me, the fault was mine ; I hâve brought this on thee ; I will not forget it ; thou shult be avenged ! The heartless insolence.

Gaspae. Thou art moved, Melnotte ; think not of me ; l would go throngh lire and water to serve thee ; but, — a blow ! It i not the Iruise that galls, — it is the hlush^ Melnotte. {going)

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

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

Mel. Well?

Gaspae. And are you not a peasant — a gardener's son? — that was the offense. Sleep on it, Melnotte. Blows to a French citizen, blows ! (Exit.)

WiDOW. Now you are cured, Claude !

Mel. {tearing the 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 rufiSans — I will — {turns suddenly to WlDOw) Mother, am I humpbacked — deformed — hideous ?

WiDOW. 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 has a peasant to do with love ? Vain révolutions, why lavish your cruel ty on the great ? Oh, that we — we, the hewers oî wood and drawers of water — had been swept away, so that the proud might learn what the world would be without us ! {paces the stage excitedly.)

Enter Servant /row the Inn.

Servant. 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 his way to his château.

Mel. Beauseant! (reads) "Young man, I k now 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 thiue own ends. I shall demand from thee a solemn oath to marry her whom thou lovest ; to bear her to thine home on thy wedding uight. I am serions — if thou wouldst learn more, lose not a moment, but follow the bearer of this letter to thy friend and patron, — Charles Beauseant."

Mel. Can I believe my eyes ? Are our own passions the sorcerers

that raise up for us spirits of good or evil ? I will go instantly. (^'xîYSeevant.)

WiDOW. What is this, Claude?

Mel. " Marry her "whom thou lovest" — **bear her to thine own home.''— Oh, revenge and love; which of you is the stronger? {gazing on the pidure) 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 vsrhich I bring scorn for scorn. Adieu, mother ! I will return anon. {exit WiDOW up the staircase) My brain réels — the earth swims before me. {looks again ai the letter) ' ' Marry her whom thou lovest. ' ' No, it is not a mockery. I do not dream ! ( Exit. )