Mon. Part! my child! what mean you?
Eug. Ah! it is my fate, my cruel unrelenting fate that drives me from you, from the last shelter and the only friend I yet retain on earth.
Mon. Explain yourself; I cannot comprehend.
Eug. Mother! I have an enemy, a dreadful one. Seventeen years have veil’d me from his hate in vain: those years have wasted the victim’s form, but the persecutor’s heart remains unchanged: my retreat is discovered: the wretches who were here last night too surely recognized me; soon they may return, and force me; oh! thought of horror. No, no, here I dare not stay.
Mon. My poor innocent! whither would you go?
Eug. To the woods and caves from which you rescued me. Mother, the wilderness must be my home again. I fly to wolves and vultures to escape from man! Receive this paper, ’tis the written memoir of my wretched life; read it when I am gone: my head burned and my hand trembled while I traced those characters: yet ’tis a faithful history. Mother! I dare not thank your charity, but heaven will remember it hereafter: bestow upon me one embrace, and then let me depart in silence.
Monica gives a sign to Bertrand to advance.
Mon. Yet hold some moments; a stranger has been inquiring here this morning who describes himself your friend.
Eug. Ah! no, no: the tomb long since has covered all my friends; ’tis some wily agent of my foe! Ah! forbid him mother; let him not approach me.
Mon. ’Tis too late; he is already in the house.