A room in the house of MONSIEUR DESCHAPPELLES; PAULINE seated in great dejection.
Pauline. It is so, then. I must be false to Love,
Or sacrifice a father! Oh, my Claude,
My lover, and my husband! Have I lived
To pray that thou mayest find some fairer boon
Than the deep faith of this devoted heart—
Nourish’d till now—now broken?
Enter MONSIEUR DESCHAPPELLES.
M. Deschap. My dear child,
How shall I thank—how bless thee? Thou hast saved,
I will not say my fortune—I could bear
Reverse, and shrink not—but that prouder wealth
Which merchants value most—my name, my credit—
The hard—won honors of a toilsome life:—
These thou hast saved, my child!
Pauline. Is there no hope?
No hope but this?
M. Deschap. None. If, without the sum
Which Beauseant offers for thy hand, this day
Sinks to the west—to-morrow brings our ruin!
And hundreds, mingled in that ruin, curse
The bankrupt merchant! and the insolvent herd
We feasted and made merry cry in scorn,
“How pride has fallen!—Lo, the bankrupt merchant!”
My daughter, thou hast saved us!
Pauline. And am lost!
M. Deschap. Come, let me hope that Beauseant’s love—
Pauline. His love!
Talk not of love. Love has no thought of self!
Love buys not with the ruthless usurer’s gold
The loathsome prostitution of a hand
Without a heart? Love sacrifices all things
To bless the thing it loves! He knows not love.
Father, his love is hate—his hope revenge!
My tears, my anguish, my remorse for falsehood—
These are the joys that he wrings from our despair!
M. Deschap. If thou deem’st thus, reject him! Shame and ruin
Were better than thy misery;—think no more on’t.
My sand is wellnigh run—what boots it when
The glass is broken? We’ll annul the contract:
And if to-morrow in the prisoner’s cell
These aged limbs are laid, why still, my child,
I’ll think thou art spared; and wait the Liberal Hour
That lays the beggar by the side of kings!
Pauline, No—no—forgive me! You, my honor’d father,—
You, who so loved, so cherish’d me, whose lips
Never knew one harsh word! I’m not ungrateful;
I am but human!—hush! Now, call the bridegroom—
You see I am prepared—no tears—all calm;
But, father, talk no more of love
M. Deschap. My child,
Tis but one struggle; he is young, rich, noble;
Thy state will rank first ‘mid the dames of Lyons;
And when this heart can shelter thee no more,
Thy youth will not be guardianless.
Pauline. I have set
My foot upon the ploughshare—I will pass
The fiery ordeal. [Aside.] Merciful Heaven, support me;
And on the absent wanderer shed the light
Of happier stars—lost evermore to me!
Enter MADAME DESCHAPPELLES, BEAUSEANT, GLAVIS, and Notary.
Mme. Deschap. Why, Pauline, you are quite in deshabille—you ought to be more alive to the importance of this joyful occasion. We had once looked higher, it is true; but you see, after all, Monsieur Beauseant’s father was a Marquis, and that’s a great comfort. Pedigree and jointure!—you have them both in Monsieur Beauseant. A young lady decorously brought up should only have two considerations in her choice of a husband; first, is his birth honorable? secondly, will his death be advantageous? All other trifling details should be left to parental anxiety.
Beau. [approaching and waving aside Madame]. Ah, Pauline! let me hope that you are reconciled to an event which confers such rapture upon me.