M. Deschap. Till then, adieu—come Beauseant.
[Exeunt BEAUSEANT and DESCHAPELLES
Damas. The man who sets his heart upon a woman
Is a chameleon, and doth feed on air;
From air he takes his colors—holds his life,—
Changes with every wind,—grows lean or fat,
Rosy with hope, or green with jealousy,
Or pallid with despair—just as the gale
Varies from North to South—from heat to cold!
Oh, woman! woman! thou shouldst have few sins
Of thine own to answer for! Thou art the author
Of such a book of follies in a man,
That it would need the tears of all the angels
To blot the record out!
[Enter MELNOTTE, pale and agitated.
I need not tell thee! Thou hast heard—
Mel. The worst! I have!
Damas. Be cheer’d; others are fair as she is!
Mel. Others! The world is crumbled at my feet!
She was my world; fill’d up the whole of being—
Smiled in the sunshine—walk’d the glorious earth—
Sate in my heart—was the sweet life of life.
The Past was hers; I dreamt not of a Future
That did not wear her shape! Mem’ry and Hope
Alike are gone. Pauline is faithless! Henceforth
The universal space is desolate!
Damas. Hope yet.
Mel. Hope, yes!—one hope is left me still—
A soldier’s grave! Glory has died with love.
I look into my heart, and, where I saw
Pauline, see Death!
[After a pause].—But am I not deceived?
I went but by the rumor of the town;
Rumor is false,—I was too hasty! Damas,
Whom hast thou seen?