Man. Will you permit me to suggest that an important ceremony is to take place in this room to-night, and the hour approaches.
Mlle H. Well, then, if I appear abrupt, attribute it to your delicate reminder, and not to my own desire. You love Marguerite Laroque—
Man. Mademoiselle, this is beyond—
Mlle H. You love Marguerite Laroque. That love is hopeless. Everything is prepared for the ceremony you speak of, and if a shade of doubt as to her destiny existed, it can live no longer now. I possess a secret which, if given to the world, will compromise your honesty as a man, your honor as a gentleman, and sink the proud name you bear to a depth that even the despised governess could look down upon with pity. Manuel Marquis de Champcey, give me the title she can never bear, and I am silent. A wife none the less devoted because, at first, unsought—a friend none the less sincere, though newly found.
Man. Mademoiselle, you are a singular instance of a well known fact.
Mlle H. And what may that be, sir?
Man. That the cleverest people sometimes do the silliest things. Had you been a simple, uneducated rustic, you would have reflected seriously before you lowered yourself in the opinion of the man you professed to love. But, as you are—accomplished, shrewd, and resolute, you have taken the worst road by which to gain the end you coveted. Nay more; you have allowed impulse to snatch the reins from principle, and those unbroken steeds, Passion and Ambition, have taken the bit in their mouths, galloped off with common sense, and I very much fear it will cost you some time and trouble to come up with them. I need hardly add, Mademoiselle, that I decline continuing this conversation.
[Exit.
Mlle H. [After a pause.] Be it so. The sooner ended the sooner to my work. I swear, the thought of the revenge I'll take on this proud fool, makes me all but rejoice in failure. [Music heard without.] The guests are arriving. I must not be found here.
[Exit.