The Mirror of Taste, and Dramatic Censor, Vol. I, No. 1, January 1810

by Unknown

A PLAY.

BY WILLIAM DIMOND, ESQ.

AUTHOR OF “ADRIAN AND ORRILA,” “HERO OF THE NORTH,”
“HUNTER OF THE ALPS,” &c. &c.

“And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy.” Beattie.

PUBLISHED BY BRADFORD AND INSKEEP, PHILADELPHIA;
INSKEEP AND BRADFORD, NEW-YORK; AND WILLIAM
M‘ILHENNNY, BOSTON.

SMITH AND MAXWELL, PRINTERS.

1810.

THE FOUNDLING OF THE FOREST.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

Count De Valmont. Baron Longueville. Florian, a foundling adopted by De Valmont. Bertrand, valet to Longueville. L’Eclair, valet to Florian. Gaspard, an old domestic.		Geraldine, niece to De Valmont. Rosabelle, her woman. Monica, an old woman. Unknown Female.
Sanguine, Lenoire,	bravoes in the pay of Longueville.	Domestics, Peasants, Dancers, &c. &c.

SCENE—The Chateau de Valmont and its environs, situate in the upper Alsace, near the River Rhine.

[ACT I.]

[SCENE I.]—A hall in the Chateau de Valmont.

Enter Bertrand, in agitation, followed by Longueville.

Ber. Forbear, my lord! to urge me further.—Would you tempt me to insure perdition?—my soul is heavy enough with weight of crimes already.

Long. Hypocrite! You, whom I have known in childhood—a villain, even from the cradle—committing crimes as pastimes—has your hand been exercised thus long in blood, to shake with conscience, and desert me now?

Ber. I have, indeed, deserved reproaches, but not from your lips, my lord! Remember, for you it was this hand was first defiled with blood—remember, too—

Long. Yes, villain! I do remember, that my misplaced bounty once gave you back a forfeit life. Twenty years past, when, as a deserter, you were sentenced, by the regiment under my command, to death, your fate was inevitable, had not I vouchsafed a pardon. Traitor! you, too, had best remember a solemn oath at that same period passed your lips, which bound you, soul and body, to my service ever—unscrupling to perform my pleasures, whether good or ill, and still to hold my secrets fast from earthly ears, though unabsolving priests renounced you on the death-bed.

Ber. (shuddering) Ay! ay! it was an oath of horror, and if you command, it must be kept. Well, then—the young, the brave, the good, kindhearted Florian—yes—he dies!

Long. Then only may your master be esteemed to live.

Ber. But whence this hatred to an unoffending youth?—one, whose form delights all eyes, and whose virtues are the theme of every tongue?

Long. Fool! that person and those virtues of which you vaunt, are with me his worst offences—they have undone my love and marred my fortunes—the easy heart of Geraldine is captivated by the stripling’s specious outside, while his talents and achievements secure him with the uncle undivided favour.

Bert. Can nothing but his blood appease your enmity?

Long. Nothing—for now my worst suspicions stand confirmed. I have declared to De Valmont my passion for his niece, and the sullen visionary has denied my suit—nay, insolently told me “Geraldine’s affections are another’s right.”—Curses on that minion’s head!—’tis for Florian De Valmont’s heiress is reserved—and shall I suffer this vile foundling, this child of charity, to lord it over those estates, for which my impatient soul has paid a dreadful earnest! No, by heavens! never!

Bert. Fatal avarice! already have we bartered for those curst estates our everlasting peace!—for those did midnight flames surprise the sleep of innocence—for those did the sacrificed Eugenia with her shrieking babe—

Long. Wretch! dare not repeat those names! Now, mark me: this night Florian returns a triumpher from his campaign—two of my trusty blood-hounds watch the road to give me timely note of his approach. One only follower attends the youth. In the thick woods ’twixt the chateau and Huningen, an ambush safely laid, may end my rival and my fears forever. In the west avenue, at sunset, I command your presence. Mark me! I command you by your oath. Exit.

Bert. Miserable man! I am indeed a slave, soul and body—both are in the thrall! I know the fiend I serve. If I attempt to fly, his vengeful agency pursues me to the world’s limit. No—my doom is fixed—I must remain the very wretch I am for life—and after life—Oh! let me not think of that!

Enter Rosabelle behind, who taps his shoulder.

Ros. Talking to yourself, Mr. Bertrand? that’s not polite in a lady’s company.

Bert. (starting) Ah! Rosabelle—good lass!—how art, Rosabelle?

Ros. Why, Mr. Bertrand, how pale you look, and your limbs quite tremble—I fear me you are ill.

Bert. Oh, no—I am well—quite well—never better.

Ros. Then you are out of spirits.

Bert. You mistake—I am all happiness—ha! ha!—all joy!

Ros. What! because the wars are over, and chevalier Florian returns to us?—’tis a blest hearing, truly—after all the hardships and dangers he has passed to see him once again in safety—

Bert. (involuntarily) Ah! would to heaven we might!

Ros. Can there be any doubt? He reaches the chateau this night—will he not be in safety then?

Bert. Yes, yes, with this night every danger certainly will cease.

Ros. Bertrand! why do you rub your hand before your eyes?—surely you are weeping.

Bert. No, ’tis a momentary pain that—but ’twill leave me soon. At night, Rosabelle, you shall see me jovial—joyous!—we’ll dance together, wench—ay, and sing—then—ha! ha! ha!—then who so mirthful, who so mad, as Bertrand. Exit.

Ros. What new spleen has bewitched the man? he is ever in some sullen mood, with scowling brows, or else in a cross-arm’d fit of melancholy; but I never marked such wildness in his looks and words before.

Geraldine speaks without.

Ger. Rosabelle.

Ros. Here, my lady, in the hall.

Enter Geraldine.

Ger. Girl! I have cause to chide you; my toilette must be changed—you have dressed me vilely—here! remove these knots—I hate their fashion.

Ros. Yet they are the same your ladyship commended yesterday.

Ger. Then ’tis the colour of my robe offends me—these ornaments are a false match to it—either all the mirrors in the house have warped since yesterday, or never did I look so ill before.

Ros. Now, in my poor judgment, you rarely have looked better.

Ger. Out! fool; you have no judgment.

Ros. Well, fool or not, there’s one upon the road who holds faith with me, or I’m a heretic. Your charms will shine bright enough, lady, to dazzle a soldier’s eye.

Ger. Ah! no, Rosabelle—you would deceive your mistress. Florian returns not as he left us; his travelled eyes have gazed on beauties of the polished court—and now he will despise the wild untutored Geraldine.

Ros. Will he? Let him beware he shows not his contempt before me. What! my own beautiful and high-born mistress; the greatest heiress in all Alsace; to be despised by a foundling, picked up in a forest, and reared upon her uncle’s charity?

Ger. Hush!—the mystery of my Florian’s birth is his misfortune, but cannot be his reproach. Our countrymen may dispute his title to command, but our enemies have confessed his power to conquer; and trust me, girl, the brave man’s laurel blooms with as fresh an honour in the poor peasant’s cap as when it circles princely brows; nay, Justice deems it of a nobler growth, for Flattery often twines the laurel round a coronet, but Truth alone bestows it on the unknown head.

Ros. I confess the Chevalier is a proper gallant for any woman. Ay, and so is the Chevalier’s man. I warrant me, that knave, L’Eclair, when he returns, will follow me about, wheedling and whining, to recollect certain promises. Well, well, let but the soldiers return with whole hearts from the war, and your ladyship and myself know how to reward fidelity. In sooth, the chateau has been but a doleful residence in their absence; the count never suffered his dwelling to be a merry one; but of late his strange humours have so increased, that the household might as well have lodged in purgatory.

Ger. Hold! I must not hear my uncle’s name pronounced with levity. An angel at his birth, mingled the divine spirit with less than human frailty; but fiends have since defaced the noble work with more than human trials. That fatal night, when the fierce Huguenots fired his castle, and buried both his wife and infant in the blazing ruin; that night of horrors has to his shocked and shrinking fancy still been ever present; there still it broods—settled, perpetual and alone! Ah! Rosabelle! the petulancies of misfortune claim our pity, not resentment. My dear uncle is a recluse, but not a misanthrope; he rejects the society of mankind, yet is he solicitous for their happiness; and while his own heart breaks in silence under a weight of undivided sorrows, does he not seek incessantly to alleviate the burthen of his complaining brethren?

Ros. I know the count has an excellent heart; but surely his temper has its flaws.

Ger. And shall we deem the sun that cheers the season less gracious in its course, because a cloud at intervals may hide or chill its beams? (A bell rings). Hark! ’tis the bell of his chamber. Perhaps he will admit me now; for four days past I have applied at the door in vain. Ah me!—these constant growing maladies sometimes make me tremble for his life. Girl! if from the turret-top at distance you espy the hastening travellers, turn, swift as thought, and call me to partake your watch! Exit.

Ros. If they arrive before sun-set, I’m sure I shall know L’Eclair a mile off by the saucy toss of his head: before that rogue went on the campaign, he certainly extorted some awkward kind of promises from me. As a woman of honour, I’m afraid it must be kept; I don’t want a husband—oh! no, positively—to be sure, winter is coming on, my chamber faces the north, and when the nights are long, and dark, and cold, when the wind blusters, and the hail patters at the casement, then a solitary woman is apt to have strange fancies, and sometimes to wish that—well, well, my promise must be kept at all events.

SONG.—Rosabelle.

Oh! come away! my soldier boy,

From war to peace incline thee;

Thy laurel, Time shall ne’er destroy.

But Love with roses twine thee.

Come, come away,

Love chides thy stay,

Oh! prithee come my soldier!

Let fife and drum preserve their place,

While softer sounds delight thee;

The fiddle shall our wedding grace,

But horns shall never fright thee.

Come, come away,

Love chides thy stay,

Oh! prithee come my soldier!

Exit.

[SCENE II.]—A saloon: a large window is open and discovers the gardens: the noise of song and dance is heard immediately below the window.

CHORUS.

Sing farewell labour,

Blow pipe and beat tabor,

Fly care far away;

In light band advancing,

Let music and dancing

Proclaim holyday.

De Valmont opens the door of an inner chamber, and crosses the stage with a quick petulant step, to ring a bell in the saloon: no answer is immediately given, and he repeats the ring with increased fretfulness.

Enter Gaspard.

De Val. So! am I heard! old man! to what strange dwelling have I been borne while sleeping? and who is your new master?

Gas. Alack! your lordship is in your own fair castle, nor other master than yourself do I, or any of my fellows serve—a kind and noble master.

De Val. You tell me wonders; I thought the master in his house had borne command among his people, but here it seems, each groom is more absolute in his humours than the lord; how is’t? do I clothe and feed a pampered herd, but to increase my torments? when I would muse in privacy, must I be baited still, and stunned with crowds and clamours? knave! drive the rabble from my gate, and rid my ears of discord.

Gas. Well-a-day! who could have foreseen this anger? my good lord ’tis but your tenantry rejoicing: this morning, I distributed your lordship’s bounty among them to celebrate chevalier Florian’s return; and now the honest grateful souls would fain thank their benefactor by the song that tells him they are happy.

De Val. Their thanks are hateful to me; ungenerous wretches! is it not enough that they are happy whilst I am miserable, but they must mock my anguish by a saucy pageant of their joys, and force my shrinking senses more keenly to remark the contrast of our fates? (Tabors, &c. without.) Quick! quick! begone and drive them from my gate (stamps imperatively).

Gas. (frighted) I am gone, my lord!—I am gone.

De Val. Hold! another word—perhaps the unthinking creatures might design this torture kindly, and I would not punish the mistakes of ignorance. Do not dismiss them harshly—I would have them indulge their gayety, but I cannot bear to be a witness of it. Gaspard, this house is Melancholy’s chosen home; and its devoted master’s heart, like a night-bird that abhors the animating sun, has been so long familiarized to misery, it sickens and recoils at the approach of mirth.

Gas. (pressing his hand) My kind, unfortunate, my beloved master!

De Val. (snatching it from him) Pshaw! I loathe pity—(shouts)—hark! again! go, go, send them from the gate, but not harshly.

Exit Gaspard.

De Val. All hearts rejoicing; mine only miserable! every peasant yielding to delight, their lord alone devoted to despair; a subtle, slow despair that, drop by drop, congeals the blood of life, yet will not bid the creeping current quite forbear to flow; that has borne its victim just to the sepulchre ’s tempting edge, but holds him there to envy, not partake its slumbers. Well, well, your own appointed hour, just heavens!—if it be the infirmity of man to repine here, it is the Christian’s hope to rejoice hereafter.

Re-enter Gaspard.

Gas. I’ve sent them hence; they’ll not be heard again; but since they may not thank, they are gone to pray for you—Mass! I had nigh forgotten—young Madam Geraldine is in the anti-room, and waits to see your lordship.

De Val. Admit her! (Exit Gaspard) My gentle one! my desolate, orphan maid, if any softening drop were yet permitted in my cup of bitters, I think the affectionate hand of Geraldine would mingle and prepare it for my lip.

Enter Geraldine.

Ger. (Tenderly embracing him) Ah! my dear, dear uncle! how am I rejoiced by a permission to visit you again; for four long days you have secluded yourself, and indeed I have been so distressed—but I will not speak of past anxieties now; war restores its hero to our vows; Florian returns to us—are not you quite happy, uncle?

De Val. Happy? I? my good child—do not mock me.

Ger. Nay, could I intend—

De Val. Well! let it pass; you it seems, my Geraldine, are really happy; your lips confess much, but your eyes still betray more—niece, you love my adopted Florian.

Ger. Love! fy, uncle—Oh yes, yes, I do certainly love him like a brother.

De Val. Something better.—Suppose I should offer this Florian to you as a husband

Ger. (looking down demurely.) I never presume to dispute my dear uncle’s commands.

De Val. Little equivocator! answer me strictly: do you not wish to become his wife?

Ger. Indeed, I never yet have asked my heart that question.

De Val. But if Florian married any other woman, would you not hate the object of his preference?

Ger. (throwing herself upon his neck.) Ah! uncle, you have my secret: no, I would not hate my fortunate rival—I would pray for her happiness, but my heart would break while it breathed that prayer!

De Val. My excellent ingenuous child, indulge the virtuous emotions of your heart without disguise—Florian and Geraldine are destined for each other.

Ger. Generous benefactor! what delightful dazzling visions your words conjure up to my imagination; the universe will concentrate within the fairy circle of our hearth; a waking consciousness of bliss will ever freshly dress our day in flowers, and at nights, fancy will gild our pillow with the dream that merrily anticipates the future.

De Val. Enthusiast! you contemplate the ocean in a calm, nor dream how frightfully a tempest may reverse the picture.

Ger. Ambitious pride may tremble at the storm, but true love, uncle, never can be wrecked; its constancy is strengthened, not impaired by trials, and when adversity divorces us from common friendships, the chosen partners of each other’s hearts a second time are married, and with dearer rites.

De Val. (averting his face with a look of anguish) Girl!

Ger. (unnoticing his emotion) Then if they have children, how surpassing is the bliss, while their own gay prime is mellowly subsiding into age, to trace the features and the virtues they adored in youth, renewed before their eyes, and feel themselves the proud and grateful authors of each other’s joy—Ah! trust me, uncle! such a destiny is beyond the reach of fortune’s malice; ’tis the anti-type of heaven.

De Val. (Grasping her hand suddenly, convulsed with agitation.) ’Tis the distracting mockery of hell that cheats us with an hour’s ecstatic dream to torture us eternally: girl! girl! wouldst thou find happiness, die! seek it in the grave, only in the grave—a watchful fiend destroys it upon earth! Prat’st thou of love? Connubial and parental love? Ah! dear-lov’d objects of my soul! what are ye now—ashes, ashes, darkly scattering to the midnight winds. God! the flames yet blaze—here, here—my brain’s on fire! Rushes out.

Ger. Uncle! listen to your Geraldine!—Ah! ingrate that I am! the vulture that gnaws his generous heart, had slumbered for a moment, and I have waked it to renew its cruelty! my fault was unawares, yet I could chide it like a crime; my mounting spirits fall from their giddy height at once. Oh! uncle! noble, suffering uncle! would that my tears could wash away the recollection of my words. Weeps.

De Valmont suddenly returns and embraces Geraldine.

De Val. Geraldine! dear child, forgive me! my violence has terrified your gentle nature. I would not pain you, love, for worlds; but I am not always master of myself, and my passions will sometimes break forth rebellious to my reason; pity and forgive the infirmities of grief.

Ger. Ah! Sir. (Attempts to kneel.)

De Val. (Preventing her, and kissing her forehead.) Bless you, my good and innocent child; nay, do not speak to me, my happiness is lost forever, but I can pray for yours. Bless you, my child! bless you ever. Breaks from her, and exit.

Ger. My happiness! ah! if the exalted virtues of a soul like yours, my uncle, despair of the capricious boon, how shall the undeserving Geraldine presume to hope?

Enter Rosabelle.

Ros. Oh! my lady, such news, he’s arrived, he’s in the hall.

Ger. My Florian?

Ros. No, lady, not your Florian, but my L’Eclair, not quite so great a hero as his master to be sure, but yet a real, proper, mettlesome soldier every inch; he looks about him among the men so fierce and so warlike; then with the women, he’s so impudent, and so audacious;—oh! he’s a special fellow.

L’Eclair speaks without.

L’Ec. Here’s a set of rascals! no discipline? no subordination in the house! eh! look to the baggage, curry down my charger! hem! ha!

Enter L’Eclair.

Your ladyship’s devoted servant, ever in the foremost rank! never did a nine-pounder traverse the enemy’s line with more promptitude than I, Phillippe L’Eclair, unworthy private of the fifth hussars, now fly to cast my poor person at your ladyship’s gracious feet.

Ger. You are very welcome from the wars, L’Eclair, Fame has spoken of you in your absence.

L’Ec. Fy! my lady, you disorder me at the first charge,—a pestilence now upon that wicked, impertinent gossip, Fame,—will not her everlasting tongue suffer even so poor a fellow as L’Eclair, to escape? ’tis insufferable; may I presume to inquire then, what rumours have reached your ladyship’s ear?

Ger. To a soldier’s credit, trust me.—But your master, L’Eclair, where is he?

L’Ec. Ah! poor gentleman, he’s in the rearguard, I left him four leagues off, at the fortress of Huningen, unexpectedly confined by——

Ger. Confined! heavens! by what complaint?

L’Ec. Only the complaint of old age; the general commissioned my master upon his route to deliver some instructions to the superannuated commandant of the fortress; now the old gentleman proving somewhat dull of apprehension, my master though dying of impatience, was constrained to a delay of some extra hours, despatching me, his humble ambassador, forward, to prevent alarms, and promise his arrival at the chateau before midnight.

Ger. Midnight! so late?—four leagues to travel—alone—his road through an intricate forest, and the sky already seeming to predict a tempest.

L’Ec. Why, as your ladyship remarks, the clouds seem making a sort of forced march over our heads; but a storm is the mere trifling of nature in a soldier’s estimation; my master and his humble servant have faced a cannon-ball too frequently, to be disconcerted by a hail-stone.

Ger. Then you have often been employed upon dangerous service, L’Eclair?

L’Ec. Hay, I protest, your ladyship must excuse me there; a man has so much the appearance of boasting, when he becomes the reporter of his own achievements; I beg leave to refer your ladyship to the gazettes, though I confess the gazettes do but afford a soup-maigre, whip-syllabub sort of narrative, accurate enough, perhaps in the main, but plaguily incommunicative of particulars: for instance, in the recent affair at Nordlingen, I can defy you to find any mention in the gazette, that the chevalier Florian charged through a whole regiment of the enemy’s grenadiers, drawn up in a hollow square, that Phillipe L’Eclair, singly followed the chevalier, and rode over all those his master had not time to decapitate, how a masked battery suddenly opened with twelve pieces of heavy ordnance, firing red-hot balls; how the chevalier’s horse reared; how L’Eclair’s neighed; but how both officer and private, neither a whit discouraged at this dilemma, galloped their chargers gracefully up to the flaming mouth of the danger; cleared a chevaux de frise of fifteen feet at a flying leap; then dismounting; carried the battery by a coup de main; spiked the guns; muzzled the gunners with their own linstocks; and, finally compelled the principal engineer to turn cook, and grill a calf’s head at his own furnace, for the dinner of his conquerors! Now this affair which had no small influence in determining the fortune of the day, with many parallel traits, our gazetteers have unaccountably neglected to publish. My memory, perhaps, might remedy their deficiencies to any curious ear, but alas! an insurmountable modesty renders the task so painful, that I cast myself upon your ladyship’s compassion, and beseech you to forbear from further inquiry.

Ger. Ha! ha! your sensitive delicacy shall be respected L’Eclair; Rosabelle, be it your care to make the defender of his country welcome—at midnight then.—Oh! hasten on your flight, dark-wing’d hours! through your close shadows once disclose my Florian, then if ye list, be motionless, and still retard the day. Exit.

L’Ec. There, you hear young woman!—you are to make the defender of his country welcome.

Ros. I’ll do my best towards your pleasure,—what service can I lend you first.

L’Ec. Dress my wounds.

Ros. Wounds! gramercy! I never should have guessed you had any.

L’Ec. Deep, dangerous, desperate,—here! (affectedly pressing his heart) here, Rosabelle! here’s the malady; ’tis an old hurt, I took it ’ere I went on my campaign; time and absence had clapped an awkward sort of plaster on’t; but now—oh! those eyes!—the wound breaks out afresh;—must I expire?—Rosabelle! prithee, be my surgeon.

Ros. I have not the skill to prescribe, but I could administer a remedy by directions; what salve will you try first.

L’Ec. Lip-salve, you gipsy! (Kisses her furiously.)

Ros. Now, shame upon your manners, master soldier, was this a trick taught you by the wars?

L’Ec. Yes, faith! saluting is one of the first lessons in a soldier’s trade, so my dear, tempting, provoking. (Catches her round.)

Ros. Hay, keep your hands off, you have taught me enough of the manual exercise already; but say now, were you indeed so great a hero in the battle as you told my lady?

L’Ec. Pshaw! I didn’t tell her half, my modesty forbade, but for thee, my pretty Rosabelle—

Ros. Ay, with me, I’m certain your modesty will be no obstacle.

L’Ec. None, for while I gaze upon the face of an angel, the devil himself can’t put me out of countenance.

DUETTO.—Rosabelle and L’Eclair.

Ros. Tell, soldier, tell! and mark you tell me truly,

How oft in battle have you slain a foe?

L’Ec. Go, count the leaves when winds are heard unruly,

In autumn that from mighty forests blow.

Ros. Did e’er a captain, worth a costly ransom,

Own you his conqueror in the deadly broil?

L’Ec. I’ve twigg’d field-marshals, pickings snug and handsome,

Twelve waggons now are loaded with my spoil.

Both. Oh! loudly, proudly, sound the soldier’s fame!

Oh! flashy, dashy, flaunt the soldier’s dame!

Ros. Tell, soldier, tell! and mark, you tell me truly,

Did foreign maids ne’er win your roving vow?

L’Ec. O! blood and fire!—I swear I can’t speak coolly,

By Mars! to you, and only you, I bow.

Ros. Say, shall love’s chain of blossoms hold for ever?

Nor time, nor absence, bid its bloom depart?

L’Ec. Not sword, or gun, such magic links can sever,

Or rend from Rosabelle her hero’s heart.

Both. O! loudly, proudly, &c.

[SCENE III.]—A front wood, stage very dark, thunder and lightning.

Enter Longueville and Bertrand, the latter disguised and masqued.

Long. Come, sir, to your post! what! a coward even to the last? you tremble.

Bert. I do indeed, the storm is terrible, it seems as if heaven’s own voice were clamoring to forbid the deed.

Thunder.

Long. This tumult of the night assists our enterprise; its thunders will drown your victim’s dying groan. Where have you placed the bravoes?

Bert. Hard by—just where the horse-road sinks into a hollow dell, and over-spreading branches almost choke the pass, there we may rush upon the wretched youth securely, and there our poniards—

Long. Hush!—a footstep!—who passes there?

Enter 1st Bravo.

1st. Br. Sanguine!

Long. Wherefore are you here, and parted from your fellow?

1st. Br. I left him lurking in the hollow, while I sought you out to ask advice. Just now, a horse without a rider, burst furiously through the thicket where we lay; the lightning flashed brightly at the time, and I plainly marked the steed to be the very same young Florian rode, when we dogged him from the last inn, at sunset.

Bert. (involuntarily) merciful God! then thou hast preserved him.

Long. Villain! you may find your transports premature; perchance he has dismounted to seek on foot some shelter from the increasing fury of the storm; but ’tis impossible he should escape; one only path conducts to the chateau. Quick! bestow yourselves on either side, and your victim’s fate is certain. I must return to avoid suspicion.

Bert. (catching his arm.) Yet, my lord, once more reflect.

Long. (throwing him off.) Recollect your oath.

Bert. (desperately.) Yes, yes, it must be written on my memory in characters of blood.

Exeunt separately.

[ SCENE IV.]—Another part of the forest more entangled and intricate, the tempest becomes violent, and the stage appears alternately illumined by the lightning, and enveloped in utter darkness. Florian is seen advancing cautiously through the thickets from a distance.

Flor. A plague upon all dark nights, foul ways, and runaway horses! a mettlesome madcap, to start at the lightning and plunge with me head over heels in the brushwood; in scrambling out of that thicket, I certainly turned wrong, and have missed my road—how to regain it? ’sdeath! I could as soon compose an almanac as and a clue to this puzzle. Well, I was found in a wood when a baby, and have just lived to years of discretion to be lost in a wood again! Fortune! Fortune! thou spiteful gipsy! was this an honest trick to pass upon a faithful servant, who has worn thy livery from his cradle, and taken off thy hands a thousand knocks and buffetings without a murmur? Just at this moment too, when hope and fancy were dancing merrily, and had made the prettiest ball-room of my heart—just too when the image of my Geraldine—(rain, storm increases) but a truce with meditation, this pelting shower rather advises action—(turns to an opening)—No; that can’t be the path; which ever way I turn I may only get farther entangled; then there are pit-falls, wolves, bears—yes! I’ve the prospect of a delectable night before me; what if I exercise my lungs and call for help? oh! there’s scarcely a chance of being heard; well, ’tis my forlorn hope and shall e’en have a trial. Holloa! Holloa! Holloa! a whistle answers from the right Huzza! somebody whistles from the right! kind lady Fortune! never will I call thee names again. another whistle from the opposite side. Ha! answered from the left too!—Lucky fellow!—where are you my dear boys—where are you?

Florian runs toward the right—a very vivid flash of lightning at that instant gleams upon the path before him, and displays the figure of a masqued bravo, Sanguine, with an unsheathed poniard advancing between the trees, Florian recoils.

Flor. Ha! a man armed and masqued!—perhaps some ruffian!—’sdeath! I am defenceless, my pistols were left in the saddle!

Sanguine. (advancing) Who called?

Flor. If I return no answer in the darkness I may retreat unseen.

He creeps silently to the left as the bravo advances.

San. Speak! where are you?

2d bravo emerges from the gloom and directly crosses the path by which Florian is about to escape.

Len. Here!

Thunder.

Florian at the second voice discovers himself to be exactly between the ruffians, and stops.

Flor. God!

He recedes a single step, and strikes his hand against a tree immediately behind him, the trunk of which is hollowed by time, and open towards the audience.

Ha! a tree!

By his touch he discovers the aperture, and glides into the hollow, at the very instant the two bravoes stepping forward quickly from either side of the tree, encounter each other’s extended hands in front.

San. (raising his poniard) Die!

Len. Hold! ’tis I—your comrade!

San. Why did you not answer before, I took you for—hark?

Bertrand comes through the trees from the top of the stage.

Bert. Hist! Sanguine?—Lenoire?

San. Here!—both of us.

Bert. (coming forward) Why did you whistle?

San. In answer to your call—you hallooed to us.

Bert. When?

San. But now—a minute back.

Bert. I never spoke.

San. I’ll swear I heard a voice—no doubt then but ’twas he that—

Bert. From what quarter did the cry proceed?

San. I thought it sounded hereabouts, but the storm kept such a confounded patter at the time—

Bert. Well—let us take the left-hand path; and if we hear the call repeated—

San. Ay!—our daggers meet all questions with a keen reply.

Exeunt to the left.

Flor. (extricating himself cautiously from the tree.) Eternal Providence, what have I heard! Murderers then are upon the watch for me! no, no—not for me. I cannot be the destined victim. I never yet offended a human being, and fiends themselves would not destroy without a cause for hatred. Heaven guard the threatened one, whoe’er he be! Well, Prudence at least admonishes me to avoid the left-hand path; faith any turn but that must prove the right for me. Ha! unless my eyes are cheated by a Will-o’-th’-Wisp, a friendly light now peeps out through yonder coppice. (looking out) Perhaps some woodman’s hut, with a fresh faggot just crackling on the hearth. Oh, for a seat in such a chimney corner. (Whistle again at a distance) I hear you, gentlemen, a pleasant ramble to you. Adieu, Messieurs! space be between us! yours is a left-handed destiny; I’ll seek mine to the right. Exit.

[ SCENE V.]—The outside of a cottage in the wood; a light burning in a casement.

Enter Monica, supporting herself on a crutch, and carrying a basket of flax.

Mon. Praise to the virgin! my old limbs have reached their resting place at last: what a tempest! my new cardinal is quite drenched. Well, I’ve kept the flax dry, however, that’s some comfort, (strikes against the door.) Ho, there, within—open quickly.

The door opens, and a female wildly dressed, appears; she catches Monica’s hand with affection, and kisses it.

Mon. Ah, my poor Silence! thou hast watched and fretted for me preciously, I’ll warrant: but the road from Brisac is long, and this rough night half crippled me.

The female feels her damp garments, and seems with quick tenderness to invite her into the house.

Well, well, never fright thyself, if I shiver now, a cup of warm Rhenish will soon make me glow again: ’faith I am weary though; wilt lend an arm to an old woman?

The female embraces and supports her.

Ah, there’s my kind Silence.

Exeunt into the cottage.

Enter Florian running and out of breath, from the left hand.

Flor. I’m right, by all the household gods! ’Twas no goblin of the fen that twinkled to deceive, but a real substantial weatherproof tenement shining with invitation to benighted travellers. Oh, blessings on its hospitable threshold; my heart luxuriates already by anticipation, and pants for a fireside, a supper, and a bed. Hold though—just now I was on the point of shaking hands with a cutthroat; who knows but here I may introduce myself upon visiting terms with his family? ’faith I’ll reconnoitre the position before I establish my quarters. This casement is commodiously low. (Steps to the casement on tiptoe.) I protest, a vastly neat, creditable sort of mansion! Yes—it will do! on one side blazes an excellent fire; in the middle stands a table ready covered; that’s for supper: then just opposite is a door left ajar; ay, that must lead to a bed. Ha! now the door opens; who comes forward? by all my hopes a woman! Enough; here will I pitch my tent. Whenever doubts and fears perplex a man, the form of woman strikes upon his troubled spirit like the rainbow stealing out of clouds—the type of beauty and the sign of hope! (he knocks) Now Venus send her with a kindly smile!—she comes—she comes.

The female opens the door, but on seeing Florian recoils with trepidation—he catches her hand, and forcibly detains her.

Flor. My dear madam! no alarm, for Heaven’s sake. You have thieves in your neighbourhood, but, upon my soul, I don’t belong to their fraternity. No, madam, I’m an unlucky fellow, but with the best morals in the world: the fact is, I have lost myself in the forest; the storm rages—and as I am no knight-errant to court unnecessary hardships, respectfully I entreat the hospitality of this roof for the remainder of the night.

The female surveys his figure with suspicion and timidity.

Flor. I fear ’tis my misfortune to be disbelieved; nay then, let my dress declare my character! (he releases her hand to throw open his riding-cloak, and discovers the regimental under it.) Behold! I am a soldier.

The female shrieks violently; for an instant she covers her eyes with both hands shudderingly, and then with the look and action of sudden insanity, darts away into the thicket of the wood.

Flor. (calling after her.) Madam! my dear madam! only hear me, madam! she’s gone! absolutely vanished! I wish I had a looking-glass; certainly I must have changed my face when I lost my road—no scare-crow could have terrified the poor woman more. What’s to be done? If I follow her, I shall but increase her terrors and my own difficulties. Shall I enter the cottage and wait her return? the door stands most invitingly open, and to a wet and weary wanderer, that fire sparkles so provokingly—’faith, I can’t resist the temptation—Adventure seems the goddess of the night, and I’ll e’en worship the divinity at a blazing shrine! Exit into the house.

[ SCENE VI.]—The interior of the cottage—the entrance, door, and casements are on one side—opposite is the fireplace—and a staircase in the back scene conducts to an upper chamber—a table with a lamp burning, and a frugal supper stands in the middle of the stage.—Florian is discovered when the scene draws, kneeling at the hearth and chaffing his hands before the fire.

Flor. Eternal praise to the architect who first invented chimney-corners? the man who built the pyramids was a dunce by comparison. rises and looks round him. All solitary and silent: faith, my situation here is somewhat whimsical. Well, I am left in undisturbed possession, and that’s a title in law, if not in equity. he takes off his cloak and hangs it on a chair Yes, this shall be my barrack for the night. What an unsocial spirit must the fair mistress of this cottage possess. Egad, she seemed to think it necessary, like the man and woman in the weather-house, that one sex should turn forth into the storm, so soon as the other sought a shelter from its peltings: a plague on such punctilio.

Monica enters down the staircase from her chamber.

Mon. speaking as she descends. There, my garments are changed, and we may now enjoy our supper.

Flor. Ha! another woman! but old, by the mother of the Graces!

Mon. A stranger!

Flor. Not an impertinent one, I trust. One, who in the darkness of the storm has missed his road, despairs of regaining it till morning, and craves of your benevolence a shelter for the night. You shall be soon convinced I am no dangerous guest.

Mon. with a voluble civility. Nay, young gentleman, never trouble yourself to inform me of your rank; you have told me your necessity, and that’s a sufficient claim to every comfort my little cabin can afford; pray, sir, take a seat: I am much honoured by your presence: we have a little supper toward; you must partake it, sir: here! my good Silence! come hither. Ah! I do not see— looking anxiously round the cottage.

Flor. I am afraid, my good madam, you miss one of your family.

Mon. I do, indeed, sir; and—

Flo. It was my misfortune to drive a female out of your house at the moment I entered it.

Mon. Sir!

Flor. But not intentionally, I protest. The fact is, though I have always esteemed myself as a well-manufactured person, yet something in my appearance so terrified the lady that—

Mon. Ah, I comprehend; you wear the habit of a soldier, sir, and my poor Silence never can abide to look upon that dress.

Flor. Indeed! that’s rather a singular antipathy for a female. May I inquire—is she a daughter of yours?

Mon. Not by blood, sir; but she is the child of misfortune, and as such may claim a parent in every heart that has itself experienced sorrow; but come, sir, take a seat, I beseech you; my alarm ceases now I know the cause of her absence. She is accustomed to wander in the woods by night when any thing disturbs her mind. She’ll return to me anon calm and passive as before: I have known it with her often thus. You look fatigued, sir; let me recommend this flask of Rhenish: pray drink, sir; it will do you good; it always does me good.

Flor. Madam, since you are so pressing, my best services to you—a very companionable sort of old gentlewoman this (aside); I protest, madam, I feel myself interested for this unfortunate under your protection; there was a wild and melancholy sweetness in her eye that touched me at our first exchange of looks with awe and pity; is her history a secret?

Mon. Oh, no—not a secret, but quite a mystery, you know nearly as much of it as I do; but since we are on the subject—another draught of wine, sir!

Flor. Madam, you will pledge me. And now for the mystery.

Mon. Well, sir, about sixteen years ago when I lived in Languedoc, for you must know I am but newly settled here, a stranger in Alsace, ay! about sixteen or seventeen years ago, there came a rumour to our village, of a wild woman, that had been caught by some peasants in the woods near Albi, following quite a savage and unchristian life; gathering fruits and berries for her food by day, and sleeping in the mossy hollows of a rock at night. She was brought round the country as a show. All the world in our parts went to look upon the prodigy, and you may be sure I made one among the crowd. Well, sir, this wild woman was the very creature you beheld but now. At that time she was in truth a piteous object; her form was meagre and wasted, and her wretched garment hung over it in filthy tatters; her fine hair fell in matted heaps, and the sun and the wind together had changed her skin like an Indian’s. Yet even in the midst of all this misery, there was a something so noble and so gentle in her air, that the moment I looked upon her, my curiosity was lost at once in pity and respect. The people by whom she was surrounded, were stunning her with coarse and vulgar questions, but never an answer did she deign to give, though some wheedled and some threatened; still ’twas to all alike: so most persons concluded she was dumb.

Flor. And a very natural conclusion it was, when a female remained silent, who had so excellent an opportunity of exercising her tongue.

Mon. Well, Sir, presently my turn came to approach her, when somehow my heart swelled quite painfully, to see the gracious image of our Maker degraded, and one’s own fellow creature treated like the brutes of the field, so, that when I touched her, my tears started unawares and fell upon her trembling hand. Would you believe it, sir? the poor desolate statue felt the trickling drops, and reason was rekindled by the warmth of pity. Suddenly her eyes, so lately dull and vacant, flashed with recovered brightness. She cast herself at my feet—clasped my knees—and cried out, in tones that might have moved a heart of rock—“Angel of compassion! save me from disgrace?” All present started as if a miracle were worked. “Will you preserve me?” cried the suppliant. I was a widowed and a childless woman; in an instant I raised the forlorn one to my arms, as a companion, as an adopted daughter. Her keepers were ignorant men, but not cruel; their hearts were softened by the scene, and they yielded their claims to my entreaties. I led the unfortune to my dwelling; from that moment, she has shared my mat and partaken of my morsel. I love her with the affection of a real parent, and were I now to lose her, I think my heart would break upon the grave that robbed it of its darling.

Flor. By heavens, I reverence your feelings! in truth ’tis a melancholy story.

Mon. Yes, sir; and melancholy stories make people dry, so let me recommend another cup of wine.

Flor. Madam, I can’t refuse the challenge—(aside) the old lady certainly designs to send me under the table. But pray, madam, have you never discovered the cause of that distress, from which you first relieved this suffering woman?

Mon. Never. On the subject of her early adventures she remains inflexibly silent. I have often tried to win the secret from her, but though she is mild and rational enough upon all other themes, yet, let but a hint remind her of her former wretchedness, her wits directly start into disorder, and for whole hours, nay, sometimes days together, she remains a lunatic. I do not even know her name, but call her Silence, because her voice is heard so very rarely. I think her dejection has increased since we quitted Languedoc, for about two months since, a kinsman of mine died, and bequeathed me this cottage with some land here in Alsace; ’tis a lone house, and the thick woods about I fear remind my poor Silence too much of her former way of life, sometimes she wanders in them half the night.

Flo. Are you not fearful of her safety? these woods are full of danger; within this half hour, I myself have encountered three ruffians lurking for their prey.

Mon. Ruffians! young gentleman. Blessed Mary save us!—’tis true, I am a stranger in these parts, but never did I hear of such neighbours. Well, well, I fear not for my child, she has no wealth to tempt a plunderer. Poverty is the mother of ills, but her offspring generally respect each other. Come, sir, finish the flask; and now let me prepare your chamber for the night. (rises.)

Flor. Kind hostess! I am bounden to you ever. (rises and fills his glass) Here’s woman! beauteous, generous woman! admired when we are happy, but in our adversity adored! (drinks.)

Mon. (curtseying) Sweet sir, down to the very ground I return your gallantry.

Flor. Hist!—don’t I hear footsteps in the wood?

Mon. (listening) Ah, yes, perhaps my child returns to us.

The casement is thrust open, and Bertrand with the two bravoes look into the cottage.

Mon. Ah! men in masks!

Bert.’Tis he! (they disappear from the casement.)

Flor. Swift! help me swift to bar the door!

Mon. Ah! ’tis forced already! (noise at door.)

The door is burst, the two bravoes instantly spring upon Florian and grapple with him. Bertrand seizes the woman.

Mon. Murder! murder!

Bert. Silence, or you die!

Florian struggles towards the centre of the stage in front, and is there forced down upon one knee.

Flo. Is it plunder that you seek? what is your purpose with me? speak!

San. Learn it by this! (raises his dagger.)

Bert. Hold! not here, drag him into the wood, despatch him there!

Flo. Inhuman villains! by your soul’s best hope—I charge you—I implore you—

Bert. (stamping furiously, and casting Monica from him) Toward the wood!—Follow me!

Bertrand turns to the door, and the bravoes struggle to force Florian after him, at that instant, the unknown female enters from the wood, and pauses in the door-way exactly opposite to Bertrand, his advanced arm falls back nerveless by his side, his limbs shake with strong convulsion, and he reels backwards.

Bert. Support me, ah! save me, or I die!

The bravoes release Florian to fly towards Bertrand, who sinks in their arms. The female, with a light and rapid step crosses in front of the group to the middle of the stage where Florian remains kneeling, she spreads her wild drapery before the victim, and places herself between him and the ruffians in the attitude of protection.

Bert. (pursuing her with his eye deliriously) Look! look! she rises from the grave! she blasts me with her frown! away! away! heaven itself forbids the deed!

The ruffians rush forth into the wood again. Florian and Monica catch the hands of the unknown to their lips in transport, and the curtain falls suddenly upon the scene.

End of act I.

[ ACT II.]

[ SCENE I.]—A gallery in the chateau.

Enter Longueville and Bertrand.

Long. Traitor! infamous, unblushing traitor! Florian has arrived, arrived in safety: every way I have been betrayed; and now to screen your perfidy from punishment, you dare insult my ear with forgeries too monstrous and too gross for patience.

Bert. Hear me, my lord! as I have life, as I have a soul, so have I spoken truly, the grave yawned asunder to forbid the blow, it was no vision of my cowardice—I saw—distinctly saw-it was Eugenia! as in her days of nature, entire and undecayed, the spectre-form stood terribly before me, it moved—it gazed—it frowned me into madness!

Long. Villain! still would you deceive me!

Bert. Ah, my lord, you would deceive yourself. I swear it was Eugenia, her shadowy arms were stretched between the lifted dagger and the prostrate youth; while her swift dark eye flashed on mine with brightness insupportable: such was her dreadful look, when, with her bleeding infant clinging to her breast, she sprang into the flames, and—

Long. Hush! the doors of an inner chamber open, and De Valmont appears conversing with Florian and Geraldine. We are interrupted; quick! change those ruffled features into smiles, quick! mark me, wretch!

De Val. (coming forward) My boy, your preservation was indeed a miracle. Ascribe not to the vague results of chance, that which belongs to Providence alone. Ah, here is my kinsman—one, whose anxious fears on your account, have held him a sleepless watcher through the night.

Long. (with affected fervency) Florian! a thousand welcomes: the return of friends at all times is a joy, but when they come through dangers to our arms, there’s transport in the meeting. Tell me—what strange tale is this I catch imperfectly from every lip? can it be possible you were assailed last night by ruffians in the wood?

Flor. Yes, my dear baron, yes! but morning has chased away night, and I am out of the wood now; therefore let us banish gloomy retrospections, and yield the present hour to bliss without alloy.

De Val. Not so: in this your friends must claim an interest dearer than your own: these men of blood shall be pursued to justice, if Alsace yet hold them.

Long. Be that my task. (to Flor.) Should you recognize their persons?

Flo. Positively no—their disguises were impenetrable.

Ger. But their voices, Florian, you heard them speak?

Flo. True, sweet Geraldine, a few broken sentences; but their accents were not framed like thine, to touch the ear but once, yet vibrate on the memory forever.

Long. Indulge my curiosity, how were you preserved?

Flo. Well, baron, since you will force me to act the hero in my own drama, thus runs my story: I was defenceless, helpless, hopeless: two sturdy knaves had mastered my struggling arms, and the dagger of a third gleamed against my throat, when suddenly a female form appeared before us; in an instant, as if by magic, the murderers relaxed their hold, shuddered, recoiled, uttered cries, and fled the spot, the female mute and motionless remained.

Bert. (aside to Longueville.) You mark.

Long. (repulsing him.) Silence!

Flo. Cowardice is ever found the mate of Cruelty: this stranger was doubtless regarded by the villains as a preternatural agent, she proved however, a mere mortal, frail and palpable as ourselves.

Bert. (listening with tremulous attention.) God! living!

Long. (not regarding Bertrand, who has drawn behind.) Whence came this woman? What was she?

Flo. Alas! the most pitiable object in nature—an unhappy maniac; she resides at the same cottage where I found shelter from the storm.

Bert. (as if electrified by a sudden thought.) Direct me, heaven!

He glides silently out of the gallery unobserved by all.

Long. Were not any other circumstances linked with this adventure?

Flo. None of consequence: but I suspect one of the ruffians was known to this wretched woman; her incoherent words implied that she recognized in him an ancient enemy; but her frail remains of intellect, were, for a time, quite unsettled by the terror of the scene; she fled from me to her chamber in dismay, and at daybreak I left the cottage without a second interview.

Long. Florian! it is necessary this woman should be interrogated further—(with much emotion) not a moment must be lost—dear count, excuse me for an hour, my anxiety admits not of delay. I will myself visit this cottage instantly. Exit.

Ger. (half aside to De Valmont) Uncle, if the baron tarries beyond the hour, we must not wait for his return, recollect it is to be at noon exactly.

Flo. (overhearing.) And what at noon, dear Geraldine?

De Val. (smiling) Florian, you are destined to be our hero in peace as well as war—my niece has planned a little fête in compliment to the conquerors of Nordlingen.

Ger. Fy, uncle, Florian was not to have known of it till the moment, you have betrayed my secret, now as a due punishment for the treason, I impose upon you to appear at our fête in person.

De Val. What a demand!—I, who never—

Ger. Nay, if it be only for a minute, positively you must come among us—nay, I will not be denied.

De Val. Well, you reign a fairy sovereign for the day, and if it be your will to play the despot, your subjects, though they murmur, must obey.

Ger. (embracing him) There’s my kindest uncle! thanks! Florian I warn you not to stir towards the terrace till I summon you, beware of disobedience, I have the power to punish.

Flor. And to reward also.

Ger. Ah! at least I have the inclination, it will be your own fault if ever my actions and my wishes dissociate, or Geraldine refuse a boon when Florian is the suitor. Exit.

Flor. (looking after her) Geraldine! too kind, too lovely Geraldine, ah! sir, is she not admirable?

De Val. She has been accounted so by many in your absence. I cannot estimate her beauty, but I know her virtue; and the last fond wish left clinging to this heart is Geraldine’s felicity. I shall endeavour to secure it, by uniting her in marriage with a worthy object.

Flor. Sir!—marriage did you say? Gracious heaven! Marriage!

De Val. What is it that surprizes you? I can assure you, Geraldine already has been addressed by lovers.

Flor. To doubt it were a blasphemy against perfection. Oh! Sir, it is not that—oh! no.

De Val. Wherefore, my dear Florian, so much emotion? Does the idea of Geraldine’s marriage afflict you?

Flor. I am not such an ingrate—her happiness is the prayer of my soul to heaven, and I would perish to insure it.

De Val. (after a pause, during which he regards the agitated Florian with tender earnestness.) Young man, I have long since determined to address you with a brief recital of circumstances necessary to your future decisions in life. Every word of that recital must draw with it a life-drop from my heart, for I shall speak to you of the past, and recollection to me is agony. The trial we once have considered as inevitable, it is fruitless to defer. Draw yourself a seat, and afford me for a few minutes your fixt attention.

Florian presents a chair to the Count, and then seats himself.

De Val. Florian, you now behold me, such as I have seemed, even from your infancy—a suffering, querulous, cheerless, hopeless, broken-hearted man—one who has buried all the energies of his nature, and only preserves a few of its charities tremblingly alive. It was not with me always thus—I once possessed a mind and a body vigorously moulded, a heart for enterprize, and an arm for achievement. Grief, not time, has palsied those endowments. Born to exalted rank, and luxuriously bread, like the new-fledged eaglet rushing from his nest at once against the sun, eager, elate, and confident, I entered upon life.

Flor. Ah! that malignant clouds should obscure so bright a dawn!

De Val. My spirit panted for a career of arms—civil war then desolated France, and, at the age of twenty, I embraced the cause of my religion and my king. Fortune, prodigal of her flatteries, twined my brow with clustering laurels, and at the close of my first campaign, my sovereign’s favor and the people’s love already hailed me by a hero’s title. Fatigued with glory—then—ah! Florian! then it was I welcom’d love!—a first, a last, an only and eternal passion! (Pauses with emotion.)

Flor. Nay, sir, desist—these recollections shake your mind too strongly.

De Val. No, no—let me proceed. I can command myself—Florian! I wooed and won an angel for my bride—my expression is not a lover’s rhapsody—at this distant period, seriously I pronounce it—Eugenia approached as closely to perfection as the Creator has permitted to his creature! Such as she was, to say I loved her were imperfect phrase! my passion was enthusiasm—was idolatry! Our marriage-bed was early blessed with increase—and as my lip greeted with a father’s kiss the infant, my heart bounded with a new transport towards its mother.—My felicity seemed perfect! Now, Florian, mark! My country a second time called me to her battles; I left my kinsman, Longueville, to guard the dear-ones of my soul at home, then sped to join our army in a distant province. I was wounded and made prisoner by the enemy. When I recovered health and liberty, I found a rumour of my death had in the interval prevailed through France. I trembled lest Eugenia should receive the tale, and flew in person to prevent her terrors. It was evening when I reached the hills of Languedoc, and looked impatiently towards my cheerful home beneath. I looked—the last sunbeam glared redly upon smoking ruins! Oh! oh! the blood now chills and curdles round my heart—the wolves of war had rushed by night upon my slumbering fold—fire and sword had desolated all. I called upon my wife and my infant. I trembled on their ashes while I called! (he sinks back exhausted in his chair.)

Flo. Tremendous hour! so dire a shock might well have paralized a Roman firmness.

De Val. (resuming faintly.) Florian, there is a grief that never found its image yet in words. I prayed for death—nay, madness! but heaven, for its own best purposes, denied me either boon. I was ordained still to live, and still be conscious of my misery. For many weeks I wandered through the country, silent, sullen, stupified! My people watched, but dared not comfort me. Abjuring social life, I plunged into the deepest solitudes, to shun all commerce with my kind. ’Twas at the close of a sultry day, the last of August, that I entered a forest at the foot of the Cevennes, and worn with long fatigue and misery, stretched myself upon the moss for momentary rest. On the sudden, a faint and feeble moan pierced my ear; instinctively I moved the branches at my side, and at the foot of a rude stone-cross beheld a desolate infant, unnaturally left to perish in the wilderness! It was famishing—expiring. I raised it to my breast, and its little arms twined feebly round my neck Florian! thou wert heaven’s gracious instrument to reclaim a truant to his duties! Welcome! I cried to thee, young brother in adversity!—“thou art deserted by thy mortal parents, and my heavenly father has forsaken me!” From that moment I felt I had a motive left to cherish life, since my existence could be useful to a fellow-being—my wanderings finished, and I settled in Alsace. Eighteen years have followed that event; but I shall not comment on their course.

Flor. (with energy.) Yet, sir, those years must not, shall not pass forgotten. Deeds of generous charity have made them sacred, and an orphan’s blessing wafts their eulogy to heaven—he casts himself at De Valmont’s feet). Friend! protector! more than parent! the beings who had called me into life denied my claim, and you performed the duties nature had renounced. Ah! sir, I am thoughtless, volatile, my manners wild—but, from my inmost soul, I love, I reverence, I bless my benefactor!

De Val. Rise young man! your virtues have repaid my cares. Here let us dismiss the past, and advert to the future. Geraldine is my heiress; my niece and my vassals must receive the same master: both are objects of my care, and I would confide them only to a man of honor. Florian! let Geraldine become your wife—be you hereafter the protector of my people.

Flor. Merciful powers! what is it that I hear? I?—the child of accident and mystery: a wretched foundling: I?

De Val. Young man, your sentiments and your actions have proved themselves the legitimate offspring of honor, and I require no pedigree for limbs and features. Fortune forbade you to inherit a name, but she has granted you a prouder boast: you have founded one. Common men vaunt of the actions of their forefathers, but the superior spirit declares his own! Nay, no reply—I never form or break a resolution lightly. I know your heart: I am acquainted with Geraldine’s; they beat responsive to each other—your passion has my consent: your marriage shall receive my blessing. Farewell.

He exits suddenly, and prevents Florian by his action from any reply.

Flor. Heard I aright? Yes, he pronounced it—“Geraldine is thine.” Earth’s gross substantial touch is felt no more: I mount in air, and rest on sunbeams! Oh! if I dream now—royal Mab! abuse me ever with thy dear deceits; for in serious wakeful hours, truth ne’er can touch my senses with a joy so bright. O! I could sing, dance, laugh, shout; and yet methinks, had I a woman’s privilege, I’d rather weep; for tears are pleasure’s oracles as well as grief’s.

Enter L’Eclair.

L’Ec. So, Captain! you are well encountered. I have sad forebodings that our shining course of arms is threatened with eclipse. If I may use the boldness to advise, we shall strike our tents, and file off in quick march without beat of drum. Our laurels are in more danger here than in the midst of the enemy’s lines.

Flor. How now! my doughty ’squire: what may be our present jeopardy?

L’Ec. Ah! captain, the sex—the dear seductive sex; this house is the modern Capua, and we are the Hannibals of France, toying away our severe virtues amid its voluptuousness. One damsel throws forward the prettiest ancle in anatomy, and cries, “Mr. L’Eclair, I’m your’s for a Waltz”: a second languishes upon me from large blue melting eyes, and whispers, “Mr. L’Eclair, will you take a stroll by moonlight in the grove?” while a third, in all the ripe round plumpness of uneasy health, calls the modest blood to my fingers’ ends, by requesting me “to adjust some error in the pinning of her ’kerchief.” O! captain, captain, heros are but men, men but flesh, and flesh is but weakness; therefore, let us briefly put on a Parthian valor, and strive to conquer by a flight!

Flor. Knave! prate of deserting these dear precious scenes again, and I’ll finish your career myself by a coup-de-main. No, no; change churlish dreams and braving trumpets to mellifluous flutes. I am to be married. Varlet, wish me joy.

L’Ec. Certainly, captain, I do wish you joy; when a man has once determined upon matrimony he acts wisely to collect the congratulations of his friends beforehand, for heaven only knows, whether there may be any opportunity for them afterwards. May I take the freedom to inquire the lady?

Flor. ’Tis she—L’Eclair, ’tis she, the only she, the peerless, priceless Geraldine.

L’Ec. “Peerless” I grant the lady, but as to her being “priceless,” I should think for my own poor particular, that when I bartered my liberty for a comely bedfellow, I was paying full value for my goods, besides a swinging overcharge for the fashion of the make.

Flor. Tush! man, ’tis not by form or feature I compute my prize. Geraldine’s mind, not her beauty, is the magnet of my love. The graces are the fugitive handmaids of youth, and dress their charge with flowers as fleeting as they are fair; but the virtues faithfully o’erwatch the couch of age, and when the flaunting rose has wither’d, twine the cheerful evergreen, crowning true lovers freshly to the last! Exit.

L’Ec. “True lovers!” well, now I love Love, myself, particularly when ’tis mix’d with brandy! like the loves of the landlady of Lisle, and the bandy-legg’d captain.[*]

SONG.

A landlady of France, she loved an officer, ’tis said,

And this officer he dearly loved her brandy, oh!

Sigh’d she, “I love this officer, although his nose is red,

And his legs are what his regiment call bandy, oh!”

2

But when the bandy officer was order’d to the coast;

How she tore her lovely locks that look’d so sandy, oh!

“Adieu my soul!” said she, “if you write, pray pay the post,

But before we part, let’s take a drop of brandy, oh!”

3

She fill’d him out a bumper, just before he left the town,

And another for herself, so neat and handy, oh!

So they kept their spirits up, by their pouring spirits down,

For love is, like the cholic, cured with brandy, oh!

4

“Take a bottle on’t,” said she, “for you’re going into camp;

In your tent, you know, my love, ’twill be the dandy, oh!”

“You’re right,” says he, “my life! for a tent is very damp;

And ’tis better, with my tent, to take some brandy, oh!”

---

[*] For this speech, and the song that follows, the author is indebted to the pen of George Colman, Esq.

[ SCENE II.]—The Cottage.

Enter Monica and Bertrand.

Mon. In truth, sir, I have told you every circumstance I know concerning my poor lodger. But wherefore so particular in your inquiries?

Bert. Trust me, I have important motives for my curiosity. Seventeen years ago, I think you said: and in the woods near Albi?

Mon. Ay, ay, I was accurate both in time and place.

Bert. Every incident concurs. Gracious heaven! should it prove—my good woman, I suspect this unfortunate person is known to me; bring me directly to the sight of her!

Mon. Hold! sir, I must know you better first. I fear me, this poor creature has been hardly dealt with; who knows, but you may be her enemy?

Bert. No, no, her friend; her firm and faithful friend: suspence distracts me: lead me to her presence instantly!

Mon. Well, well, truly, sir! you look and speak like an honest gentleman; but tho’ I consent, I doubt whether my lodger will receive you; her mind is ill at ease for visitors. All last night I overheard her pacing up and down her chamber, moaning piteously and talking to herself; towards day-break, all became quiet, then I peeped thro’ the crevice of her door and saw that she was writing. I never knew her write before, I knocked for admittance, but she prayed me not to interrupt her for another hour.

Bert. Does she still keep her chamber?

Mon. She has not quitted it this morning—hark! I think I hear her stir, (goes to the stair-foot and looks up) ay! her door now stands open, place yourself just here, and you may view her plainly without being seen yourself; her face is turned towards us, but her eyes are fixed upon a writing in her hands.

Bertrand looks for a moment to satisfy his doubts, then rushes forward and casts himself upon his knee transportedly.

Bert. She lives! Eternal mercy! thanks! thanks!

Mon. Holy St. Dennis! the sight of her has strangely moved you: collect yourself, I pray, she comes towards us.

Bert. Oh! let me cast myself before her feet!

Mon. (restraining him) Hold, sir! whatever be your business, I beseech you to refrain a little, I must prepare her for your appearance, her spirits cannot brook surprise, back! back!

Bertrand withdraws, and Eugenia descends the stair with a folded paper in her hand—she appears to struggle with emotion, and running towards Monica, casts her arms passionately around her.

Eug. My kind mother! this is perhaps our last embrace; we must part.

Mon. Part! my child! what mean you?

Eug. Ah! it is my fate, my cruel unrelenting fate that drives me from you, from the last shelter and the only friend I yet retain on earth.

Mon. Explain yourself; I cannot comprehend.

Eug. Mother! I have an enemy, a dreadful one. Seventeen years have veil’d me from his hate in vain: those years have wasted the victim’s form, but the persecutor’s heart remains unchanged: my retreat is discovered: the wretches who were here last night too surely recognized me; soon they may return, and force me; oh! thought of horror. No, no, here I dare not stay.

Mon. My poor innocent! whither would you go?

Eug. To the woods and caves from which you rescued me. Mother, the wilderness must be my home again. I fly to wolves and vultures to escape from man! Receive this paper, ’tis the written memoir of my wretched life; read it when I am gone: my head burned and my hand trembled while I traced those characters: yet ’tis a faithful history. Mother! I dare not thank your charity, but heaven will remember it hereafter: bestow upon me one embrace, and then let me depart in silence.

Monica gives a sign to Bertrand to advance.

Mon. Yet hold some moments; a stranger has been inquiring here this morning who describes himself your friend.

Eug. Ah! no, no: the tomb long since has covered all my friends; ’tis some wily agent of my foe! Ah! forbid him mother; let him not approach me.

Mon. ’Tis too late; he is already in the house.

Eug. Where?

Monica points, and Eugenia’s eyes following her direction, rest upon the prostrate figure of Bertrand, who has placed himself in a posture of supplication, and concealed his face with his hands.

Eug. (gazing intensely with apprehension.) Speak! you kneel and still are silent. Ah! what would you require of me?

Bert. (uncovering his face without raising his eyes) Pardon! pardon!

Eug. (shrieking and flying) Ah! Bertrand.

Bert. (catching her mantle) Stay! angel of mercy, stay and hear me. He that was your scourge now yields himself your slave: a wretched penitent despairing man lies humbled in the dust before you, and implores for pardon.

Eug. (pauses—presses her crucifix to her lips, and then replies with fervor.) Yes! charity and peace to all! Nay, heaven forgive thee, sinful man, I never will accuse thee at its bar.

Bert. Angel! my actions better than my prayers may plead with heaven for mercy: the cruel wrongs that I have offered, yet in part may be atoned—lady, I come to serve and save you.

Eug. Ah! to what fresh terrors am I yet devoted?

Bert. Might we converse without a witness? in your ear only dare I breathe my purpose.

Mon. Nay, I will not be an eaves-dropper: my child you do not fear this person now? I’ll leave you with him—nay, ’tis best—perchance he comes indeed with service. My blessings go with you, stranger, if you mean her fairly, but if you wrong or play her false, a widow’s curse fall heavy on your death-bed.

Exit up the staircase.

A pause of mutual agitation.

Eug. Speak! man of terrors—say what has the persecuted and undone Eugenia yet to dread?

Bert. The baron Longueville—

Eug. That fiend!

Bert. He now is in the neighbourhood; as yet he dreams not that you live: but accident this very hour might betray you to his knowledge. Lady! I possess the means. O blessed chance! to shield you from his malice.

Eug. And wilt thou; O! wilt thou, Bertrand, at last extend a pitying arm to raise the wretch, thy former hate had stricken to the ground? I have been despoiled of fortune, fame, and health: my brain has been distracted by thy cruelty: yet now preserve me from this worst extreme of fate: let me not die the slave of Longueville, all my injuries, all my sufferings are forgotten, and this one gracious act shall win thy pardon for a thousand sins.

Bert. Lady! my o’er weighed conscience heaves impatiently to cast its load. (sinks on his knee) Lo! at your injured feet I kneel, and solemnly pronounce a vow, the tyrant Longueville shall mar your peace no more.

The cottage-door silently opens, and Sanguine looks in—he makes a sign to Longueville who follows, and they glide to the further end of the cottage unperceived; where they remain in anxious observation of the characters in front.

Eug. Rise! your penitence wears nature’s stamp, and I believe it honest.

Bert. Oh! lady, your words redeem me from despair: but say, to ease a heart that aches with wonder: say, by what prodigy you ’scaped the flames of that tremendous night, when all believed you perished?

Eug. (shuddering.) Ah! what hast thou said? my dream of confidence dissolves, and now I turn from thee again with horror! Again I view thy murderous poniard reared to strike! Again my wounded infant shrieks upon my bosom, and the fiery gulf yawns redly at my feet! begone? begone! for now I hate thee!

Bert. Ah, not to me—to Longueville ascribe the horrors of that night. (Aside) What shall I say? I dare not own to her that De Valmont lives. Hear me, lady; scarce was your lord’s untimely fall reported, when the cruel Longueville in secret plotted to remove his infant heir, the only bar that held him from a rich succession; by hellish means he won me to his cause: his hand it was that oped the castle gates at midnight to the foe, and when the fierce Huguenots rushed shouting through the halls, still his hand it was that fired the chamber where you slept in peace: to save your child you rushed distracted to the rampart’s edge; just as I followed to complete my prey, a falling turret crossed my path, and presently the general fabric sank in ruin.

Eug. A wayward destiny that night was mine; at once both saved and lost! a hidden passage dug beneath the rampart, twining through many a cavern’d maze, at distance opened to the woods. I reached the secret entrance of that pass, just as the turret fell and screened me from pursuit. Concealing darkness wrapt my flying steps: the roar of death sank far behind, and ere the dawn, in safety with my child, I gained the forest.

Bert. Your child! eternal powers! the infant then escaped my blow.

Eug. Thy dagger’s point twice scarred his innocent hand, but failed to reach the life. (Bertrand gesticulates his transport) A sanguine cross indelibly remained; but nature and his mother’s tears assuaged the pain. Charitable foresters, ignorant of our rank, relieved our wants and changed our robes for rustic weeds; thus disguised, my infant in my arms, on foot I travelled far and long, seeking ever by the loneliest paths, to reach my sovereign’s court, and at the throne of power implore for justice.

Bert. O! does the infant yet survive? Speak, lady! bless me with those words—he lives.

Eug. No, Bertrand, no; fortune but mocked me with a moment’s hope to curse me deeper still through ages of despair. In vain I snatched my darling boy from poniard and from flame: when way-lost in the wilderness, but for a moment did I quit my treasure, the mazes of the wood ensnared my step: the fever of my body rushed upon my brain: I wandered, never to return; while my forsaken infant—he perished, Bertrand. Ah! my brain begins to burn afresh! mark me, he perished terribly: inquire not further.

Bert. (deeply affected.) Thou suffering excellence! be witness heaven! the monster that I was, no longer has a life; thy tears have drowned it quite, and now it strangely melts in pity and remorse. Come, lady, let me bestow thee in a safe retreat: the hoarded wages of my sinful youth, I’ll use as offerings to redeem thy peace: far hence in foreign lands a certain refuge waits our flight, and there secure from Longueville—

The Baron suddenly stands before them in the centre: Eugenia shrieks and Bertrand stands aghast and trembles.

Bert. Undone forever?

Long. (furiously to Sanguine) Guard well the door—let not a creature enter or depart.

Sanguine advances by his direction. Eugenia flies by the stairs to the upper chamber. Longueville, after a short pause of indecisive passion, draws a poniard and seizes upon Bertrand.

Long. Wretch!

Bert. Strike! yes, deep in this guilty bosom, strike at once, and rid me of despair.

Long. Thou double traitor! thy perjuries now meet their just reward. Tremble at impending death.

Bert. No; I have not feared to live in vice, and will not shrink at least to die for virtue.

Long. (throwing him off.) No; I will not take the wretched forfeit: thou’rt spared from hate, not pity; I gave thee back thy life, but I will study punishments, to make the boon a curse unutterable.

Bert. Tyrant, I defy thy vengeance to increase my torments; the innocent, I pledged myself to save, already stands devoted to destruction, and the measure of my anguish and despair is full.

Long. (to Sanguine) Sanguine, ascend the stair, and force that wretched woman to my presence.

Bert. Hold, hold, my lord! recal those threatning words. O God! what damning crime is in your thoughts? pause—yet for a moment, pause, ere you barter to the fiend your soul for ages. Omnipotence hath interposed with miracles and still preserved you from the guilt you sought, your conscience yet is undefiled with blood.

Long. Away! my purpose is resolved.

Bert. Will you then reject the mercy Heaven extends? (kneels and catching his cloak.) Hear me, my lord; nay, for your own eternal being, hear me; as you now deal with this afflicted innocent, even so, hereafter, shall the God of judgment deal with you.

Long. I brave the peril, (call aloud) hasten, Sanguine, produce my victim.

Bert. (Desperately.) Cover me mountains! hide me from the sun! (He casts himself upon the ground.)

Sanguine returns precipitately from above.

Sang. My lord, one fatal moment has undone your scheme, the female has escaped.

Long. Villain! escaped.

Bert. (raising himself in frantic joy.) Ha!

Sang. I found the casement of the upper chamber open, some twisted linen fastened to the bar, nearly reached to the ground without, and proved the method of her flight; a beldame who must have aided her escape, remains alone above, (turning towards the window,) ha! I catch a female figure darting through the trees at a distance; she runs with lightning speed,—now—she turns towards the castle.

Long. Distraction! if she gains the castle, I am lost forever; pursue! pursue!

Longueville and Sanguine rush out.

Bert. (Vehemently.) Guardians of innocence, direct her steps! He follows them.

[ SCENE III.]—A Gallery in the Chateau.

Enter Rosabelle followed by Gaspard.

Gasp. Ha! young mistress Rosabelle, whither so fast I pray? ’faith, damsel, you are fleet of foot.

Ros. Yet my steps are heavier than my heart, for that’s all feather, ready for any flight in fancy’s hemisphere; give thought but breath, and ’twere blown in a second to the moon or the antipodes, wilt along with me, Gaspard?

Gasp. What, to the moon or the antipodes? Alack! damsel, I should prove but a sorry travelling companion upon either road; no, no, youth is for night; but age for falls.

Ros. Wilt turn a waltz anon, and be my partner in the dance?

Gasp. Hey! madcap, have we dances toward?

Ros. Ay! upon the terrace presently, all the world will assemble there; the lady Geraldine and myself for beauty; and then for rank, we shall have the count himself, and the baron, and the chevalier, and—

Gasp. Out upon you, magpie; would you delude the old man with fables? his lordship, the count, among revellers! truly a pleasant jest; I have been his watchful servant these twenty years, and never knew him to abide the sight or sound of pleasures.

Ros. Then I can acquaint you, he proposes on this day to regale both his eyes and his ears with a novelty; I heard him promise lady Geraldine to join the pastimes on the terrace.

Gasp. Oh! the blest tidings: damsel, thy tongue has made a boy of me again.

Ros. Now charity forefend, for so should I bring thee to thy second childhood.

Gasp. Ah! would you fleer me! his lordship among revellers! oh! the blest prodigy! well, well, I give no promise, mark; but should a certain damsel lack a partner, adod. I know not—sixty-live shows with an ill-grace in a rigadoon, but for a minuet: well, well, St. Vitus strengthen me, and I accept thy challenge. Exit.

Ros. Go thy ways, thou antique gallantry; thy pledge shall never be endangered by my claim; I’m for a brisker partner in every dance through life, I promise thee.

AIR.—Rosabelle.

On the banks of the Rhine, at the sun-setting hour,

Oh! meet me, and greet me, my true love, I pray!

Or feasting, or sleeping, in hall, or in bower,

To the Rhine-bank, oh! true love, rise up and away!

On that bank, an old willow dejectedly grieves

And drops from each leaf, for love’s falsehoods, a tear;

Go! rivals, and gather the willow’s pale leaves,

For falsehood ne’er cross’d between me and my dear.

Exit.

[ SCENE IV.]—The Castle Gardens decorated for a Fête, and crowded with Dancers and Musicians: a lofty Terrace crosses the extremity of the Stage, from which Village-Girls advance, scattering flowers before Geraldine, who is led by Florian to an open Temple between the Side-scenes, containing three Seats.

Ger. (Pointing to the centre seat) There is our hero’s seat of triumph: nay, my commands are absolute, and you have no appeal, I reserve this for my uncle, he will join us presently.

They seat themselves—a ballet immediately commences—boys, habited as warriors, pay homage before Florian, and hang military trophies round his seat. Girls enter, as wood-nymphs, &c. who surprise and disarm the warriors, then remove the trophies, and replace them with garlands. The warriors and nymphs join in a general dance—Suddenly a piercing shriek is heard: the action of the scene abruptly stops, and Eugenia, entering from the top of the stage, rushes distractedly between the groups of dancers, and casts herself at the feet of Geraldine.

Eug. Save me! save me!

Ger. Ah! what wretched supplicant is this?

Flor. By heavens! the very woman who yesternight preserved my life.

Longueville enters in pursuit.

Long. (Advancing rapidly, with instant self-command) Dear friends! Heaven has this hour appointed me the agent of its grace. I have discovered in this wretched woman, the long-lost wife of an ancient friend, at Baden; lend your assistance to secure her person ’till I can apprise the husband of this unexpected meeting.

Eug. No, no, I have no husband—they have murdered him; he would betray—destroy me. (catching Geraldine’s robe) Oh! you, whose looks are heavenly-soft, to you I plead: protect me from this fiend.

Ger. How earnestly she grasps my hand, indeed—indeed her agony seems genuine.

Long. You are deceived, she utters nought but madness, her mind has been for years incurably diseased; come, away! away!

He seizes violently upon Eugenia to force her with him, she clings to Geraldine in anguish.

Eug. Forsake me not! I have no protector to invoke but you.

Ger. Forbear, my lord, I cannot find that wildness you proclaim; forbear, and recollect the rights of hospitality never yet were violated at my uncle’s gate. Lady, dismiss your fears, here sorrow ever meets a ready shelter, for here resides the Count De Valmont.

Eug. Who?

Ger. The excellent, the suffering Count De Valmont.

Eug. (starting up with recurring insanity.) Ha! ha! ha! come to the altar,—my love waits for me, weave me a bridal crown!

Long. (triumphantly.) Behold! can you doubt me now?

Ger. Too painfully I am convinced; miserable being! Ah! remove her hence, before my uncle joins us; so terrible an object would inexpressibly afflict him.

Flor. Yes, yes; remove her hence! but O! I charge you treat her with the tenderest care.

Long. (eagerly to his people.) Advance! bear her to my pavilion! mark! to my pavilion on the river-bank!

The men seize upon Eugenia—the Count appears at the same moment advancing from the extremity of the Terrace.

De Val. My friends! I come to join your pleasures.

Eug. (struggling violently.) Hark! he calls me to his arms—unhand me! nay, then oh! cruel, cruel, cruel.

Overcome by her exertions, she sinks into a swoon and falls in the arms of the two men. Longueville rapidly draw her veil across to conceal her features from the Count as he advances.

Long. Away with her this instant!

He turns quickly toward the Terrace and catches De Valmont’s arm as he descends to prevent his approach—then turns imperatively to the men.

Long. Quick! Quick! away!

De Valmont pauses in surprize: Longueville maintains his restraining attitude. Florian and Geraldine join to arrest his steps: the bravos withdraw the insensible and unresisting Eugenia upon the opposite side: The various characters dispose themselves into a picture, and the curtain falls upon the Scene.

End of act II.

[ ACT III.]

[ SCENE I.]—The Steward’s Room, Gaspard and L’Eclair discovered drinking, the latter half-intoxicated.

Gas. Adod! a very masterpiece of the military art? Why this Turenne must be a famous captain. I’ll drink his health, (drinks) Odso! where did we leave the enemy? Oh! the Bavarians were just driven across the Neckar, and had destroyed the bridge. Well, and then what did our troops?

L’Ecl. They clashed after them thro’ the river like a pack of otters.

Gasp. Hold; you said just now the river wasn’t fordable.

L’Ecl. Did I? Pshaw, I only meant, it wasn’t fordable to the enemy: no, poor devils! they couldn’t ford it certainly; but as to our hussars: whew! such fellows as they would get thro’ any thing, were it ever so deep to the bottom. (takes the flask from Gaspard and drinks).

Gasp. O! the rare hussars! Now this is a conversation just to my heart’s content. I dearly love to hear of battles and sieges. The household are all retired to rest, and my room is private; so here we may sit peaceably, and talk about war for the remainder of the night.

L’Ec. Bravo! agreed: we’ll make a night of it; but harkye, is not this room of yours built in a queer sort of a circular shape?

Gasp. No; a most perfect square.

L’Ec. Well, I never studied mathematics; but, for a perfect square, methinks it has the oddest trick of turning round with its company I ever witnessed.

Enter Rosabelle.

Ros. Here’s a display of profligacy! So, gentlemen, are these your morals? Methinks you place a special example before the household; drinking and carousing thus after midnight, when all decent persons ought to be at rest within their beds.

Gasp. Marry now, my malapert lady! How comes it you are found abroad at these wild hours?

Ros. I have always important motives for my conduct. A strange female waits at the castle-gate, who clamors for admittance; she seems in deep distress, refuses to accept denial or excuse, and demands to speak with the person of first consequence in the family. Now, Mr. Gaspard, as you happen to be steward—

Gasp. (rises pompously) I am of course the personage required. You say a female?

Ros. Yes; she waits for you in heavy trouble at the gate.

Gasp. I fly. Gallantry invites, and I obey the call. Good Mr. L’Eclair, I cast myself upon your courtesy for this abrupt departure:

’Tis woman tempts from friendship, war, and wine—

My fault is human—my excuse divine! Exit.

Ros. In sooth, the old gentleman has not forgotten his manners in his cups; but as to you, sir, (to L’Eclair) how stupidly you sit—have you nothing to say for yourself?

L’Ec. (rising and reeling towards her). Much, very much—love—midnight—all snug and private.

Ros. Mercy O me! the wretch is certainly intoxicated; how wickedly his eyes begin to twinkle. Why, Scapegrace, I’m sure you’re not sober.

L’Ec. Don’t say so, pray don’t, you wound my delicacy. O! Rosabelle! beautiful but misjudging Rosabelle! I am unfortunate, but not criminal. This morning I beheld only one Rosabelle, and yet I was undone; now I seem to behold two Rosabelles; ergo, I either see double, or am doubly undone. There’s logic for you. Now, could a man who wasn’t sober, talk logic? only answer me that.

Ros. What shall I do with him? If I leave him here, he’ll drink himself into a fever. I must e’en coax him. L’Eclair, come, come, my dear L’Eclair, let me prevail upon you to go to bed; I’m going to bed myself.

L’Ec. O! fy, that’s too broad; I blush for you; would you delude my innocence?

Ros. The profligate monster! I delude!

L’Ec. Well, I yield to fate: stars! veil your chaste heads, and thou. O! little candle, hide thy wick! behold the lamb submitting to the sacrifice. (Reels to embrace her.)

Ros. Why, you heathen monster! how dare you talk to me about lambs and sacrifices? ah! if you stir another step, I’ll alarm the family! I can scream, sir!

L’Ec. I know you can; but pray, don’t, somebody might hear you, and that would be very disappointing, recollect I have a character to lose.

Ros. And have not I a character too, Sir?

L’Ec. Hush! hush! Let’s drops the subject.

Ros. How now, sirrah! have you any thing to say against my character?

L’Ec. Oh! no, I never speak ill of the dead.

Ros. Why, you vile insinuating, but I shall preserve my temper though you have lost your manners: well, assuredly of all objects in creation, the most pitiable is a man in liquor.

L’Ec. There’s an exception—a man in love.

[DUETT.—Rosabelle and L’Eclair.]

Ros. The precept of Bacchus to man proves a curse,

The head it confounds, and the heart it bewitches.

L’Ec. I’m sure, the example of Cupid is worse,

For he walks abroad without shirt, drawers, or breeches.

Ros. Pshaw! Cupid, you dolt, has rich garments enough.

L’Ec. Nay, his wardrobe’s confin’d to a plain suit of buff.

Ros. ’Twas Bacchus taught men to drown reason in cans.

L’Ec. ’Twas Cupid taught ladies the first use of fans.

Ros. How diff’rent the garland, their votaries twine,—

How genteel is the myrtle—how vulgar the vine!

L’Ec. Of myrtle or vine I pretend not to know,

But a fig-leaf I think would be most apropos: Exeunt.

[ SCENE II.]—The Count’s Chamber—De Valmont is discovered gazing in profound meditation upon a miniature picture.

De Val. Eugenia!

Now of the angel race, and hous’d in Heaven!

Forgive, dear saint! these blameful eyes that flow

With human love, and mourn thy blessedness.

O! ye strange powers! with what excelling truth

Has Art’s small hand here mimic’d mightiest Nature!

What cheeks are these! could Death e’er crop such roses?

Eyes! star-bright twins! fair glasses to fair thoughts,

Where, as by truest oracles confest,

The godlike soul reveals itself in glory.

Your glances thrill me! amber-twinkling threads!

Half bound by grace, half loos’d by winds, how strays

This shining ringlet o’er this clear white breast!

Like the pale sunshine streaking wintry snows!

These lips have life—yea! very breath; a sweet

Warm spirit stirs thru’ the cleft ruby now!

They move—they smile—they speak. Soft! soft! sweet heavens!

I’ll gaze no more; there’s witchcraft in this skill,

And my abus’d weak brain may madden soon! conceals the picture in his bosom

The spell is hidden, still th’ illusion works:

O! in my heart Eugenia art thou trac’d—

There—there—thou livest—speakest—yet art mortal.

Strong memory triumphs over death and time,

In all my circling blood—each vein—each pulse

Wherever life is, ever there art thou.

Gaspard speaks without.

Gasp. Go, go; his lordship may not be disturb’d.

Mon. (without) Away! I have a cause that must be heard.

De Val. How now! voices in the anti-room! Ho!

Enter Gaspard.

Gasp. Alack! that folk will be so troublesome: my good lord! here’s a strange woman; truly a most obstinate spirit, who craves vehemently to be heard, on matters (so she reports) of much importance to your lordship.

De Val. Nay, in the morning be it; not at this hour.

Gasp. I told her so; my very words; but truly, her grief seems to have craz’d her reason.

De Val. How! is she unhappy then? her sorrows be her passport here; admit her instantly: where should the afflicted heart prefer a prayer, if kindred wretchedness deny its sympathy?

Gaspard introduces Monica.

Mon. So! you are seen at last, my lord! men say your heart is good; grant Heaven! I find it so; but ah! perhaps it is too late. Yes, yes; I fear it: the dove is in the vulture’s grip already.

De Val. Woman! what strange distraction’s this? Give me a knowledge of your griefs with method.

Mon. I will, I will, but anguish stifles me; O! my lord, my lord, this is your castle, and here she fled for shelter, yet cruel hearts refused her prayer. I have been told by your people that the baron’s pavilion on the river-bank is made her prison; she will be murdered there: oh! my lord, gracious lord, save her, save her!

She throws herself passionately at his feet.

De Val. Rise; attempt composure, your words are riddles to me.

Gasp. My lord! ’tis of the poor lunatic she speaks; she whom the baron has confined: this woman claims her as her charge.

De Val.I saw the person not, but heard in brief her story from the baron; rest, good woman, rest; my kinsman is her friend.

Mon. No, no, he is a monster thirsting for her blood: here, here, I have read his character.

Producing Eugenia’s MSS.

De Val. Beware! you offend me; grief yields no privilege to slander.

Mon. I am not a slanderer, indeed, indeed, I am not; here are proofs: your lordship, I find, is called the Count De Valmont; had you not once a relation of the same title, who fell in battle with the Huguenots eighteen years ago!

De Val. Never.

Mon. Yet ’twas the same title: ay, here ’tis written: “in forcing the passage of the Durance.”

De Val. How! ’tis of myself assuredly you read; I was reported falsely in that very action to have fallen; and for a time my death was credited through France.

Mon. Ah! my lord! my lord! O! it rushes on my heart—nay, give but a moment; speak; were you once wedded to a lady named Eugenia?

De Val. Woman! ah, name beloved!—wherefore that torturing question?

Mon. Yes, yes; it is—it must be so—I cannot, here—read—this!—(giving the scroll).

De Val. Eternal Powers! Eugenia’s well-known character! when and whence did you procure this writing?

Mon. This very morning, from her own hand, my lord, Eugenia lives to bless and to be blessed again.

De Valmont starts as if stricken to the center, for a moment his features express amazement, then incredulity, and lastly indignation.

De Val. Begone! thou wretched woman, lest I forget thy sex, and kill thee for thy cruelty.

Mon. Nay, let me die, but not be doubted: read, read, and let your eyes assure your soul of joy!

The Count faintly staggers back into a seat, and then fastens his eyes upon the scroll with a frenzied earnestness.

Gasp. Woman! if you have spoken falsely, my noble master’s heart will break at once.

Mon. By the great issue, let my words be judged!

De Val. (reading) “The chamber burst in flames, I snatched my infant from its slumber, I heard the voice of Longueville direct our murder, ruffians rushed towards us to perform his bidding.” (starting forward with uncontrolable fury) Oh! God of wrath and vengeance! hear thou a husband’s and a father’s prayer! strike the pale villain! oh! with thy hottest lightning blast him dead! a curse, a tenfold curse o’erwhelm his death-bed! Traitor! thou shalt not ’scape, this hand shall rend thy heart-strings, I’ll smite thee home.

In the delirium of his passion he draws his sword, and strikes with it as at an ideal combatant, his bodily powers forsake him in the effort, he reels, and falls convulsed into Gaspard’s arms.

Gasp. Help! help! death is on him, help there swiftly!

Geraldine rushes in, followed by domestics.

Ger. Whence these cries? ah Heavens! what killing sight is this? uncle, uncle, speak to me, ’tis Geraldine that calls.

Enter Florian from the opposite side.

Flor. My patron! ha! convulsed! dying. Eternal Mercy spare his sacred life!

Ger. Nay, bend him forward, his eyes unclose again—he sees—he knows us.

The Count in silence draws a hand from Geraldine and Florian within his own, and presses them together to his heart.

Flor. How fares it, sir? bless us with your voice.

De Val. Ah! Ah! (he grasps the scroll and points to it emphatically, but cannot articulate.)

Flor. O! for a knowledge of your gracious pleasure, speak sir, pronounce one word.

De Val. (very faintly and with effort.) Longueville: ah fly, preserve—(again his accents fail him, he seems to collect all his remaining strength for one short effort, and a second time just articulates— Longueville! (he relapses into insensibility.)

Flor. Enough! I comprehend your will; nay, bear him gently in, I’ll to the river-bank and seek the Baron!

Geraldine, &c. bear the count off on one side, Florian rushes away by the opposite.

[ SCENE III.]—A rugged Cliff that overhangs the River.

Enter Longueville and Sanguine.

Long. Tardy, neglectful slave! still does he loiter?

Sang. Nay, return to the pavilion; the signal soon must greet us: you bade Lenoire to sound his bugle when he reached the bank.

Long. Ay, thrice the blast should be repeated; still must I listen for those notes of destiny in vain? hark! here you nothing now?

Sang. Only the rising tide that murmurs hoarsly as it frets and chafes against the bank below us.

Long. Is midnight passed?

Sang. Long since: just as we crossed the glen the monastery chime swang heavy with the knell of yesterday.

Long. A guiltless end that flighted yesterday hath reached. O! that the morrow found as clear a tomb! When the next midnight tolls, Eugenia, thou wilt rest in blessedness, whilst thy murderer—Ah! what charmed couch shall bring the sweet forgetful slumber at that hour to me? Midnight, the welcome sabbath of unstained souls, O, to the murderer thou art terrible—silence and darkness that with the innocent make blessed time, to him bring curses, for then through sealed ears and close-veiled eyes, strange sounds and sights will steal their way, that in the hum and glare of day-light dare not stir: then o’er the wretch’s forehead ooze cold beads of dew—-in feverish, brain-sick dreams, with starts and groans: on beds of seeming down he feels the griding rack, and finds himself a hell more fierce, than fiends can show hereafter.

Sang. How now, my lord? unmanned by conscience? Nay, then, let Eugenia live.

Long. Not for an angel’s birthright! think’st thou I would deign to breathe on wretched sufferance? No, no; her death is necessary to my honor and my peace. Come on! my hand may falter, but my heart’s resolved; ’tis sworn, inexorably sworn: Eugenia dies.

Exeunt.

[ SCENE IV.]—The river-bank—the Rhine flows across the stage at distance—on one side a pavilion extends obliquely, through the lower windows of which lights appear—nearly opposite is a small bower of lattice-work.—The moon at full, has just risen above the German bank, and pours its radiance upon the water. Bertrand is discovered watching the pavilion.

Bert. I watch in vain; all means of access to the prisoner are debarred: her chamber now is dark and silent: still tapers glare and voices murmur from the hall beneath: the baron and Sanguine are there: ’tis against life these midnight plotters stir. Oh! that this heart might bleed to its last guilty drop in ransom for Eugenia! Soft! does not the dashing of a distant oar disturb the silence of the tide? Yes; just where the moonlight gleams a boat now crosses rapidly; it rows towards this bank; it pauses now in stillness—what may this mean? the hour so late, the spot so unfrequented and remote. (A bugle is sounded three times) Ha! a bugle sounded thrice! too sure the omen of some fatal deed. I will not quit this spot—no, Eugenia, I will preserve or perish with thee! Soft, the pavilion opens. Bower, receive me to thy friendly shades! watch with me blessed spirits.

He retires into the bower fronting the pavilion. Longueville advances cautiously from the pavilion.

Long. ’Twas the signal! the boat has reached the bank, Ho! Lenoire! advance: no eye observes thy step.

Enter Lenoire along the bank by an entrance between the bower and the river.

Len. All is prepared: your orders are fulfilled.

Long. Laggard! too many precious moments have been wasted in their execution: the moon has risen high, and casts a brightness round scarce feebler than the day: your course may be observed.

Len. Dismiss that fear: nothing that lives hath voice or motion: now, not e’en the solitary fisher spreads his nets upon the stream.

Long. Where have you left the boat?

Len. Under the bank in shade, fastened to the roots of yon tall willow.

Long. Sanguine shall accompany you; then when you reach the middle of the current—

Len. Ay, where it flows deep and strong; Eugenia’s funeral rites are few and brief.

Long. To-morrow, I shall report she has been conveyed in safety to her friends upon the German bank—thus all inquiry stands forever barred.

Bertrand, who watches from the bower, clasps his hands in despair and groans aloud.

Long. Ha! what sound was that?

Len. (looking cautiously round.) Some tree moaning to the blast—no more.

Long. Now then! yet hold! wherefore come you not masked? some of the peasantry may chance to stir ere you return, and I should wish your persons were unmarked by any.

Len. I left a mask within the boat; this flowing mantle will conceal my dress—trust me both form and feature shall effectually be hid.

Bertrand makes a gesticulation of hope towards the pavilion, then glides silently round the angle of the bower, and starts along the bank.

Long. ’Tis well! (to the pavilion.) Ho! Sanguine! lead forth your charge: despatch, Lenoire! return to the boat, and row it swiftly hither! Away!

Exit Lenoire.

She comes! Ill-starred Eugenia! fate chides the lingering echo of thy step, yet but a moment and ’tis hushed forever.

Sanguine leads Eugenia from the pavilion.

Eug. Ah! whither do you lead me? Speak, in pity—nay, nay, I prithee force me not; this is a savage hour, and I must fear your purpose, speak, whither would you hurry me? Ah! Longueville! now then I read my answer—’tis to death—to murder!

Long. Lady, you misjudge my purpose—true, that once I proved myself your foe, perhaps a kindless one; time and pity have extinguished hate. Across the Rhine, upon the German bank, a safe asylum is provided, where peace shall gild the evening of your life, and cure the memory of its early woes; ’tis necessary you should cross the river before dawn; a boat is now in readiness to bear you over.

Eug. No, no, I find a language in your eye more certain than your lip—murder—midnight murder is its direful theme. Thou wretched man! rather for thee than for myself I kneel. Pause, Longueville! raise but thine eye to yon clear world, thick-sown with shining wonders—think, that throughout the boundless beauteous space, an omnipresent, and all-conscious spirit is; think, that within his awful eye-beam, now thy actions pass, and presently before his throne must wait for judgment; think, that whene’er he touched the veriest worm, that crawls on this base sphere, with life, mighty his will encompassed it with safety! then, tremble, creature as thou art, to spurn his law by whom thou wert created, nor quench with impious hand, that gifted spark Omnipotence hath once ordained to glow.

Long. Lady, already I have said, your auguries wrong me (the noise of a combat sounds from the bank.) Ha! the crash of swords! Sanguine! fly to the spot. Lenoire, I fear me, is in danger.

Exit Sanguine.

Confusion to my hopes! what ill-beamed planet rules the hour? Eugenia, return to the pavilion.

Eug. Not, while succour seems so nigh, help! help!

Long. Dare but repeat that cry, by heavens! this very moment is your last. (draws a dagger.) Nay, nay, you strive in vain,—away!

Longueville forces Eugenia into the pavilion, then drags a bar across the door.

What cursed step has wandered on these banks to thwart my ripe design? Perdition to the meddling slave! his life shall pay the forfeit of his rashness.

Re-enter Sanguine.

Sang. My lord, the combatants, whoe’er they were, had vanished ere I reached the spot; close to the water’s edge the turf was stained with blood, and already to a distance from the bank, Lenoire had rowed away the boat; I called aloud, but he increased his speed, and gave no answer.

Lon. ’Sdeath! some prying hind has stolen on our plans; doubtless Lenoire has been assailed and for a while avoids the bank, fearful of further ambush; follow me to search yon winding path; if the villian have received a wound, traces of blood will guide us to his haunt,—vengeance direct our steps! Exit, with Sanguine.

Eugenia appears at the lower windows through a grating.

Eug. Fond, trusting heart! art thou again deceived? does the great thunder sleep, and are the heavens still patient of a murderer’s crimes; yes, yes, the sounds have ceased, and now a dreadful stillness sits upon the night; the tomb seems imaged in the hour. Hope in the breathless pause forsakes my breast forever.

Enter Florian.

Flor. Ha! lights still burning—fortunately then he has not retired to rest,—baron! baron!

Runs to the door.

Eug. (Shrieks.) Ah! the voice of succour—turn, turn in pity—snatch me from despair—preserve me from the grave.

Flor. Heavens!

Involuntarily he withdraws the bar, and Eugenia darting forth, clings wildly round him.

Flor. Unhappy woman! whence these transports?

Eug. Swear to preserve me, swear not to yield me to the murderer’s dagger; no, no, you have a human heart; am I not safe with you?

Flor. My honor and my manhood both are pledges for your safety: but who is the enemy you dread!

Eug. Longueville; he seeks my life: nay, nay, I am not mad, indeed I am not; turn not from me: look with compassion on a desolate, devoted creature, whom man conspires to wrong, and Heaven forgets to aid.

Flor. Appease these agonies; by my eternal hope, I swear, whatever the danger, or the foe that threatens, I will defend you with my life from injury.

Eug. A wretch’s blessing crown thee for the generous vow! oh! let my soul dissolve and gush in tears upon this gracious hand!

Eugenia enthusiastically clasps Florian’s hand, and covers it with tears and caresses; suddenly a new impulse appears to direct her actions: she rubs the back of the hand she has seized with strange earnestness, and a tremor pervades her entire frame.

Flor. Why do you fasten thus your looks upon my hand: what moves your wonder?

Eug. (tremblingly.) This scar, this deep, deep scar, that with a crimson cross o’erseams your hand; speak, how gained you first this dreadful mark?

Flor. From infancy I recollect the stamp, its cause remains unknown.

Eug. Who were your parents?

Flor. Alas! that knowledge never blessed my heart. I am a foundling: eighteen years since, in a forest at the foot of the Cevennes—

Eug. Ah! did watchful angels then—yes, yes, twice the dagger struck! ’tis nature’s holy proof!

Flor. Merciful heavens! you then possess the secret of my birth: woman! woman! pronounce my parents’ name, and I will worship you.

Eug. Your parents! ah! they were, ah! ah!

She attempts to enfold him with her arms, but faints as he receives the embrace.

Flor. Speak! I conjure you, speak! breathe but their sacred name! she hears me not, and nature struggles at my heart in vain!

Enter Longueville and Sanguine at distance.

Long. The lurking knave, whate’er his aim, has fled beyond our search, and all is now secure. Has Lenoire return’d your signal to approach the bank?

Sang. He rows towards us now—nay, look—the boat draws close.

Long. Then to our last decisive deed!

Passing to the pavilion he beholds the characters in front, and starts.

Ha! confusion and despair! Eugenia rescued, and in Florian’s arms!

Flor. Help, baron!—swiftly help!—aid me to preserve a dying woman!

Long. Florian! by what wild chance at such unwonted hour I find you on this spot, admits not of inquiry now—but for this fair impostor, resign her to my care—with me her safety is at once assured.

Flor. Pardon me, Longueville; whate’er the laws of courtesy demand, I yield—but to this female’s fate my soul is newly bound by ties so strange and strong, that even your displeasure must not part us.

The alarum-bell tolls from the castle.

Long. Ha! the castle is alarmed—look out, Sanguine:—what means this tumult?

Sang. My lord! the glare of numerous torches wavers through the grove—this way the crowd directs its course.

Long. Distraction!—Florian, beware my just resentment, and instantly resign this woman! (Attempting to force her from him.)

Flor. Never!—my word stands pledged for her protection, and only with my life will I desert my honor.

Long. Hell!—ho! Lenoire!—Lenoire!

He rushes furiously to the bank, and motions to the boat.

Eug. (just recovering.) Stay, blessed vision!—(recognizing Florian) ah! ’twas real—I fold him to my heart, and am blessed at last.

The boat, rowed by a man enveloped in a mantle and a masque, at that instant gains the bank.

Long. (triumphantly) Ha! the boat arrives!—now then presumptuous boy! receive the chastisement you dare provoke.

He draws and rushes upon Florian, who disengages himself from Eugenia and stands upon the defence.

Flor. In the just cause I would not shrink before a giant’s arm! (they engage.)

Eug. (frantic) Inhuman Longueville!—forbear! forbear!

While Florian encounters Longueville, Sanguine suddenly darts upon Eugenia, who is too enfeebled to resist; by the action of a moment he transports her from her protector’s side to the Baron’s. Florian’s position is next to the audience, so that Longueville’s sword now equally intercepts him from Eugenia and from the river.

Long. (Perceiving his advantage) Away!—drag—her to the boat—be mine the task to curb her champion’s valor.

Flor. Hold! dastard—unless thou art dead to every sense of manhood—hold!

Long. Boy! I triumph, and deride thy baffled spleen.

Sanguine lifts Eugenia into the boat, and the masque receives her.

Eug. (from the boat) Great nature! speed my dying words!—Thou dear-lov’d youth! thy mother blesses thee—long-lost—late-found—behold! she struggles now to bless her child—and now she dies content!

Flor. Eternal Providence! what words were those?—Longueville!—Barbarian!—Fiend!

He rushes madly upon the Baron, who parries the assault; then in an agony casts himself before his feet.

Oh! if thou art human, hold!—I kneel—I fall thy slave—spurn me—trample on my neck—take my life—but O! respect and spare my parent!

Sang. (from the boat) Decide, my lord; the crowd approach, already they o’erlook the bank.

Long. ’Twere vain to pause—I founder upon either course—nay then, revenge shall brighten ruin; swift! plunge your poniards in Eugenia’s bosom! let me behold my victim perish, and then commit me to my fate!

Flor. (starting up in desperation) Monster!

Long. They come—obey me, slaves!

Sanguine draws Eugenia back, and the Masque lifts a dagger over her.

Sang. We are prepared.

Long. Now.

Sang. Comrade! strike!

Masque. Ay! to the heart!

The Masque rapidly darts his arm across Eugenia’s figure and plunges the dagger into Sanguine, who reels beneath the blow and falls into the stream.

(triumphantly) Eugenia is preserved!

With one arm he supports the lady, and with the other snatches away the masque and discovers the features of Bertrand.

Long. Bertrand—perfidious slave! eternal palsies strike thy arm!

Gaspard, Monica, Domestics, &c. with torches, enter at the moment and surround the baron, whose surprise bereaves him of power to resist.

Flor. Secure the villain, yet forbear his life—Mother! Mysterious blessing—ah! yield her to my arms—my heart!

Bertrand resigns Eugenia to Florian’s embrace.

Eug. My boy, my only one—Bertrand! life is thy gift, and now indeed I bless thee for the boon.

Bert. I swore to save you, I have kept my oath, unseen I watched, unknown I ventured in your cause—your forgiveness half relieves my soul, and now I dare to pray for heaven’s!

Enter De Valmont, supported by Geraldine and Domestics.

De Val. Ah! ’tis she, dear worshipp’d form; she lives—she lives.

Eug. Ah! shield me—Florian, yon phantom shape—death surely hovers near—

De Val. Nay, fly me not, Eugenia! tis thy lord, thy living lord, thy once beloved De Valmont calls: thou dear divorced-one bless these outstretch’d arms—I kneel and woo thee for my bride again!

Florian leads Eugenia trembling and uncertain to the Count, he catches her irresolute hand.

Eug. Indeed, my wedded lord!—I wept for a dear warrior once; and did the sword forbear so just a heart?—ah! chide not love, joy kills as well as grief—

She sinks gradually into his embrace, and he supports her on his breast in speechless tenderness.

Long. Detested sight! well, well, curses are weak revenge, and I’ll disdain their use.

Flor. Remove the monster to some sure confinement. The Count hereafter shall pronounce his punishment.

Long. Already I endure my heaviest curse. I view the objects of my hatred crown’d with joy. Come! to a dungeon!—darkness is welcome, since it hides me from exulting foes! Exit.

Ger. (advancing with tenderness.) Florian!—friend—ah! yet a dearer name—you rob me of a birth-right, still I must greet my new-found kinsman.

Flor. Geraldine! what means my love?

De Val. Florian! Heaven mysteriously o’er-watch’d thy hour of peril, and led a father through the desert, unconsciously to succour and redeem his child.

Flor. Ha! De Valmont’s glorious blood then circles in these veins!—My parent, my preserver! Ha! twice has existence been my father’s gift.

De Val. My pride thus long in humbleness!—my forest-prize! my foundling boy!—thou had’st my blessing ere I knew thy claim. Eugenia, greet our mutual image. Ah! wilt thou weep, sweet love. Thou bendest o’er his forehead e’en as a lily, brimming with clear dews, that stoops in beauteous sorrow to embathe its neighbouring bud. Thro’ many a storm of perilous and marring cares o’erborne, our long-benighted loves at last encounter on a sun-bright course, and reach the haven of domestic peace.

Thus Judah’s pilgrim—one whose steps in vain

Climb sky-crown’d rocks—o’erpace the burning plain,

Just when his soul despairs—his spirits faint,

Achieves the threshold of his long-sought Saint:

The desert’s danger—storms and ruffian-bands—

All sink forgotten as the shrine expands—

Feet cure their toil that touch the hallow’d floors—

He rests his staff—kneels, trembles, and adores!

Exeunt Omnes.