Mon. Well, well, truly, sir! you look and speak like an honest gentleman; but tho’ I consent, I doubt whether my lodger will receive you; her mind is ill at ease for visitors. All last night I overheard her pacing up and down her chamber, moaning piteously and talking to herself; towards day-break, all became quiet, then I peeped thro’ the crevice of her door and saw that she was writing. I never knew her write before, I knocked for admittance, but she prayed me not to interrupt her for another hour.
Bert. Does she still keep her chamber?
Mon. She has not quitted it this morning—hark! I think I hear her stir, (goes to the stair-foot and looks up) ay! her door now stands open, place yourself just here, and you may view her plainly without being seen yourself; her face is turned towards us, but her eyes are fixed upon a writing in her hands.
Bertrand looks for a moment to satisfy his doubts, then rushes forward and casts himself upon his knee transportedly.
Bert. She lives! Eternal mercy! thanks! thanks!
Mon. Holy St. Dennis! the sight of her has strangely moved you: collect yourself, I pray, she comes towards us.
Bert. Oh! let me cast myself before her feet!
Mon. (restraining him) Hold, sir! whatever be your business, I beseech you to refrain a little, I must prepare her for your appearance, her spirits cannot brook surprise, back! back!
Bertrand withdraws, and Eugenia descends the stair with a folded paper in her hand—she appears to struggle with emotion, and running towards Monica, casts her arms passionately around her.
Eug. My kind mother! this is perhaps our last embrace; we must part.