ACT FIRST.—SCENE FIRST.
A room in the Chateau de Beaumont. Victorine de Vere and Rosalinde—the former sitting.
Rosalinde.—But consider, sweet lady, you have been betrothed from childhood to my lord the Count. You say it was your father's dying wish that you should marry him, and he has been brought up to consider you his own.
Victorine.—And for that reason wed I not the Count;
I might have loved him had I not been bid,
For he is noble, brave, and passing kind.
But, Rosalinde, when 'mid my father's vines,
A child I roamed, I shunned the rich, ripe fruit
Within my reach, and stretched my little arm
Beyond its strength, for that which farthest hung,
Though poorest too perchance. Years past away,
The wilful child is grown a woman now,
Yet wilful still, and wayward as the child.
(She Sings.)
Though you wreathe in my raven hair jewels the rarest
That ever illumined the brow of a queen,
I should think the least one that were wanting, the fairest,
And pout at their lustre in petulant spleen.
Tho' the diamond should lighten there, regal in splendor,
The topaz its sunny glow shed o'er the curl,
And the emerald's ray tremble, timid and tender—
If the pearl were not by, I should sigh for the pearl!
Though you fling at my feet all the loveliest flowers
That Summer is waking in forest and field,
I should pine 'mid the bloom you had brought from her bowers
For some little blossom spring only could yield.
Take the rose, with its passionate beauty and bloom,
The lily so pure, and the tulip so bright—
Since I miss the sweet violet's lowly perfume,
The violet only my soul can delight!
I prize not Henri—for a breath, a nod,
Can make him mine for ever. One I prize
Whose pulse ne'er quickened at my step or voice,
Who cares no more for smile from Victorine,
Whom princes sue—than Victorine for them.
But he shall love me—ay, and when he too
Lies pleading at my feet!—I make no doubt
But I shall weary of mine idle whim,
And rate him well for daring to be there!
Ros.—Please you, my lady, who is this new victim?
Vic.—Whom think you, Rosalinde? Eugene Legard! the brave young captain—lover of Carille—betrothed to her—about to marry her!
Ros.—But who's Carille, my lady?
Vic.—(Impatiently.) Now know you not the youthful village belle whose face my gallant cousin raves about? I would he'd wed the girl, and leave Legard and me as free, to wed! (Enter the Count.) What, torment! here again! (Exit Rosalinde.)
Count Henri.—Where should I be, sweet coz? I love the sunshine!
Vic.—So love you not this room—for here the sun ne'er shines.
Count.—The sun—my sun is smiling on me now!
Vic.—Oh, don't! I'm so tired of all that!
Count.—Lady, it shall not weary you again; I've borne your light caprice too long already. For the last time I come to ask of you, madam, Is it your pleasure we fulfil at once your father's last injunction?
Vic.—Ah! but this isn't the last time, Henri; I'll wager you this hand with my heart in it, you will ask me the same question a dozen times yet ere you die.
Count.—I'll not gainsay you, lady; time will show. (A short pause.) Yet, by my sword, if such your wager be, I will be dumb till doomsday.
Vic.—Then book the bet! and claim my heart and hand—(she pauses—he waits in eager hope)—on—doomsday morning, cousin!
Count.—I claim thee now or never!
Vic.—If they only hadn't said we must, Henri!
Count.—Pshaw!
Vic.—Beside, all the world expects it you know; I do so hate to fulfil people's expectations: it is so commonplace and humdrum!
Count.—Depend upon it, Lady Victorine, nobody ever expected you to do any thing reasonable or commonplace or humdrum!
(He Sings.)
Archly on thy cheek,
Worth a god's imprinting,
Starry dimples speak,
Rich with rosy tinting,—
What a pity, love,
Anger's burning flushes
E'er should rise above
Those bewitching blushes!
Warm thy lip doth glow,
With such lovely color,
Ruby's heart would show
Hues of beauty duller,—
What a shame, the while,
Scorn should ever curl it,
And o'ercast the smile
That should still enfurl it!
Soft thy dark eye beams,
With the star-night's splendor,
Now with joy it gleams,
Now with tears 'tis tender,—
Ah! what pain to feel,
Ere another minute,
Passion's fire may steal
All the softness in it!
Vic.—There! you can sing! I'll give the——hem!—his due. I only wish you could make love as well as you make verses.
Count.—And how should I make love?
Vic.—How? You should be at my feet all day and under my window all night; you should call black white when I call it so, and—wear a single hair of my eyelash next your heart for ever.
Count.—Hum! Any thing more, cousin?
Vic.—Yes: you should write sonnets on the sole of my shoe, and study every curve of my brow, as if life and death were in its rise or fall! (He turns away.) Henri, come here! (He approaches.) Come! you are a good-looking man enough, after all! Ah! why couldn't my poor father have forbidden me to marry you! He might have known I should have been sure in that case to have fallen desperately in love with you, Henri!
Count.—By Heaven, I will bear this trifling no longer! I will write instantly and propose to the peasant girl, Carille—she will be proud to be called La Contesse de Beaumont.
Vic.—Will you do so? Oh, you darling cousin! I shall love you dearly when you are once married! And, cousin, I don't believe she'll live till doomsday, do you? Don't forget that I'm to be your second—on doomsday morning, cousin. (Exit Count in a rage.) I am so happy—and Carille will be so happy too—I am sure she will! I know if I were a village girl I should be dying to be a lady—for now I am a lady I am dying to be a village girl—heigh-ho. (Exit.)