But he is soon to change his mind; for while, after picking flowers for his father's brow, he is plucking fruit for breakfast, a young girl rushes upon the scene, singing:
Ah, good old man,
Ah, share my grief!
Have you seen a traveller pass this way?
This traveller, whom the girl is pursuing, is her father. The old man has not seen him; and, as she is inconsolable, she eats her breakfast and then goes to sleep; then every one else goes in search of the lost father, whom Armand, the young man who picks flowers for the paternal brow, finds all the more easily from the fact that the man he is looking for has a wooden leg and is sixty years old.
Louise's happiness at sight of her recovered father can be imagined—a happiness all the greater because Armand's father, after a short explanation is made, recognizes in him the old soldier who saved his life at the battle of Nefeld, and thereby lost the leg which royal munificence has replaced with a wooden one. This unexpected turn of fortune justifies the double title, "Filial Love, or the Wooden Leg."
As long as poor Madame Fromont's part required her to rouse the echoes of the Alps with her demands for her father, and to mourn because she had lost him, her grief and tears stood her in good stead. But as soon as she found him, the contrast between her actual and her theatrical situation, since she had lost her father forever, looked her in the face with all its appalling truth. The actress ceased to be an actress, and the woman became wholly the daughter and wife. She uttered a cry of agony, repulsed her stage father, and fell fainting into the arms of the young man, who carried her from the stage.
The curtain fell. Then a great tumult filled the hall.
The majority of the spectators took sides with poor Madame Fromont, applauding her madly, and shouted: "Enough! Enough!" Others called: "Citizeness Fromont! Citizeness Fromont!" as much with the intention of giving her an ovation as of obliging her to continue her rôle. A few malevolent ones, a few hardened Catos, Tétrell among their number, cried: "The play! The play!"
After this frightful tumult had lasted about five minutes, the curtain rose again, and the poor widow, clad in mourning garments, came out leaning upon Fleury's arm, feeling that his wound lent her some slight protection. She was scarcely able to stand as she endeavored to thank some for their manifest sympathy and to implore mercy of the others.
At sight of her the whole hall rang with shouts of applause, which would have been unanimous, if a hiss, coming from the balcony, had not protested against this general opinion. But scarcely had the hiss made itself heard than a voice from the parterre answered it with the exclamation: "Wretch!"
Tétrell turned quickly, and leaning over the balcony cried: "Who said wretch?"