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Full text of "The romance of a poor young man : a drama, adapted from the French of Octave Feuillet / by Messrs. Pierrepont and Lester Wallack."

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Number 437, 


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Adapted by Messrs. Pierrepont and Lester Wallack. 


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Fob the Representation of which there 

1. Othello. 

2. The School for Scandal. 

3. Werner. 

4. She Stoops to Conquer. 

5. The Gamester. 

6. King Lear. 

7. A New Way to Pay Old 


8. The Road to Ruin. 

9. Merry Wives of Windsor. 

10. The Iron Chest. 

11. Hamlet. 

12. The Strange*. 

13. Merchant of Yenice. 

14. The Honeymoon. 

1 A Pl70VVO 

16. The Man of the World. 

17. Much Ado About Nothing. 

18. The Rivals. 

19. Damon and Pythias. 

20. Macbeth. 

21. John Bull. 

22. Fazio. 

23. Speed the Plough. 

24. Jane Shore. 

25. Evadne. 

26. Antony and Cleopatra. 

27. The Wonder. 

28. The Miller and His Men. 

29. The Jealous Wife. 

30. Therese. 

31. Brutus. 

32. The Maid of Honour. 

33. A Winter’s Tale. 

34. The Poor Gentleman. 

35. Castle Spectre. 

36. The Heir-at-Law. 

37. Love in a Village. 

38. A Tale of Mystery. 

39. Douglas. 

40. The Critic. 

41. George Barnwell. 

42. The Grecian Daughter 

43. As You Like It. 

44. Cato. 

45. The Beggars’ Opera. 

46. Isabella. 

47. The Revenge. 

48. The Loi-d of the Manor. 

49. Romeo and Juliet. 

50. Sardanapalus. 

51. The Hypocrite. 

52. Venice Pi-eserved. 

53. The Provoked Husband. 

54. The Clandestine Marriage. 

55. The Fair Penitent. 

56. Two Gentlemen of Verona. 

57. Fatal Curiosity. 

58. The Bello’s Stratagem. 

59. Manfred. 

60. Rule a Wife & Have a Wife. 

61. Bertram. 

62. The Wheel of Fortune. 

63. The Duke of Milan. 

64. The Good-Natnred Man. 

•>5. King John. 

66. The Beaux’ Stratagem. 

67. Arden of Faversham. 

68. A Trip to Scarborough. 

69. Lady Jane Grey. 

70. Rob Roy. 

71. Roman Father. 

72. The Provoked Wife. 

73. The Two Foscari. 

74. Foundling of the Forest. 

75. All the World’s a Stage. 

76. Richard the Third. 

77. A Bold Stroke for a Wife. 

78. Castle of Sorrento. 

79. The Inconstant. 

80. Guy Mannering. 

81. The Busy-Body. 

82. Tom and Jerry. 

83. Alexander the Great. 

81. The Liar. 

85. The Brothers. 

86. Way of the World. 

87. Cymbeline. 

88. She Would & She Would Not 

89. Deserted Daughter. 

90. Wives as they Were, and 

Maids as they Are. 

91. Every Man in his Humour. 

92. Midsummer Night’s Dream. 

93. Tamerlane. 

94. A Bold stroke for a Husband. 

95. Julius Ctesar. 

96. All for Love. 

97. The Tempest. 

98. Richard Coeur de Lion. 

99. The Mourning Bride. 

100. The Bashful Mai*. 

101. Barbarossa. 

102. The Curfew. 

103. Merchant of Bruges. 

101. Giovanni in London. 

105. Timon of Athens. 

106. Honest Thieves. 

107. West Indian. 

108. The Earl of Essex. 

109. The Irish Widow. 

110. The Farmer’s Wife. 

111. Tancred and Sigismnnda. 

112. The Panel. 

113. The Deformed Trans¬ 


114. Soldier’s Daughter. 

115. Monsieur Tonson. 

116. Edward the Black Prince. 

117. School for Wives. 

118. Coriolanus. 

119. The Citizen. 

120. The First Floor. 

121. The Foundling. 

122. Oroonoko. 

123. Love a-la-Mode. 

124. Richard the Second. 

125. Siege of Belgrade. 

126. Samson Agonistes. 

127. The Maid of the Mill, 

128. One o’Clock. 

129. Who’s the Dupe? 

is no Legal Charge. 

1 13P. Mahomet, the Impostor 

131. Duplicity. 

132. The Devil to Pay. 

133. Troilns and Cressida. 

134. Ways and Means. 

335. All in the Wrong. 

136. Cross Purposes. 

137. The Orphan; or, the U u- 
happy Marriage. 

138. Bon Ton. 

139. The Tender Husband. 

140. El Hyder ; or, the Chief of 

the Ghaut Mountains. 

141. The Country Girl. 

142. Midas. 

143. The Castle of Andalusia. 

144. Two Strings to your Bow. 

145. Measure for Measure. 

146. The Miser. 

147. The Haunted Tower. 

148. The Tailors. 

149. Love for Love. 

150. The Robbers of Calabria. 

151. Zara. 

152. High Life Below Stairs, 

153. Marino Faliero. 

154. The Waterman. 

155. Vespers of Palermo. 

156. The Farm House. 

157. Comedy of Errors. 

158. The Romp. 

159. The Distressed Mother. 

160. Atonement. 

161. Three Weeks after Marriage. 

162. The Suspicious Husbaud. 

163. The Dog of Montargis. 

164. The Heiress. 

165. The Deserter. 

166. King Henry the Eighth. 

167. Comus. 

168. Recruiting Sergeant. 

169. Animal Magnetism. 

170. The Confederacy. 

17'. The Carmelite. 

172. The Chances. 

173. Follies of a Day. 

174. Titus Andronicns. 

175. Paul and Virginia. 

176. Know Your Own Mind. 

177. The Padlock. 

178. The Constant Couple. 

179. Better Late than Never. 

180. My Spouse and I. 

181. Every One has his Fault. 

182. The Deuce is in Him. 

183. The Adopted Child. 

184. Lovers’ Vows. 

185. Maid of the Oaks. 

186. The Duenna. 

187. The Tnrnpikc Gate, 

188. Lady of Lyons. 

189. Miss in her Teens. 

190. Twelfth Night. 

191. Lodoiska. 

192. The Earl of Warwick 

193. Fortune’s Frolics. 




First Performed at Wallack’s Theatre , Aeu? lorh , 1859. 

Manuel (Marquis de Champcey) ... ... ••• .. 

Doctor Desmarets (formerly of the French Army) . 

\r nn Bevannes (a man of the world).. ... ••• 

Gas par La roque (an aged man, formerly Captain of a Privateer) 
Alain (a confidential domestic) -- 
M. Nouret (a Notary) ... 

Yvonnet (a Breton Shepherd) 

Henri . 


No. 437. Dicks’ Standard Plays. 

Mr. Lester Wallack. 
Mr. Brougham. 

Mr. Walcot. 

Mr. Dyott. 

Mr. Young. 

Mr. Levere. 

Mr. Baker. 

Mr. Oliver. 

Mr. Coburn. 


Madame Laroque (Da 
Marguerite (her daug 
Mdlle Helouin (a Go 
Madame Aubrey (a re] 
Louise Vauberger (f 


Christine (a Breton pi 

The events of the Dran 






The Gift of 

Mrs C■ F■ HuH 



ary Gannon, 

anny Reeves. 

Province of 


Exits and Entrances. — R. means Right; L. Left; D. P. Door in Flat; R. D. Right Door; L. D. 
Left Door ■ S. E. Second Entrance ; U. E. Upper Entrance ; M. D. Middle Door; L. U. E. Left Upper 
Entrance; ll. U. E. Right Upper Entrance; L. S. E. Left Second Entrance; P. S. Prompt Side; O. P. 
Opposite Prompt. 

Relative Positions. — R. means Right; L. Left; C. Centre; R. C. Right of Centre ; L. 0. Left of 

E. RC. C. LC. lh 

* * j'} ie Reader is supposed to he on the Stage, facing the Audience . 





A Boom, simply furnished — Table, Chairs, Arm¬ 
chair, Secretaire, Side-table—Door c. 


Mad. F. No; he has not yet returned. {Enters.) 
Things cannot go on in this manner much longer 
—I shall have to sneak out, and plainly too. And 
■why not? Surely he won’t take it ill from me— 
ah, no. I, who loved his poor mother so, could 
never—what’s this ? A purse ! empty! And this 
key, left carelessly lying about; that’s a had sign. 
(Opens secretaire) No, not one solitary sous—his 
last coin came yesterday to pay me the rent. In 
the drawer, perhaps- 


Des. Hallo! ( She starts.) What are you at 
there ? 

Mad. V. Me,sir? I was just—I was just- 

Des. Poking your nose into that drawer—that 
what yon call just ? 

Mad. V. I was dusting, and putting the things 
in order, sir. 

Des. I'll tell you what, Madame V., you’re an 
extraordinary woman. Yesterday, when I called, 
you were dusting—half-an-honr ago when I called, 
yon were dusting—and now, when I call again, 
you’re dusting. Where the devil you find so much 
dust to dust, I can’t think. 

Mad. V. Ah, sir, look into this drawer. 

Des. What for ? 

Mad. V. Is it not the place where, if one had 
money, one would naturally keep it? 

Des. I snppose so. What of that? 

Mad. V. See, sir, it is empty. 

Des. What’s that to me ? 

Mad. V. And his pux - se, also. 

Des. What’s that to you ? 

(Goes up and puts hat on table. 

Mad. V. (Aside.) I dare not tell him that Manuel 
is without a meal—starving—I should never be 
forgiven. His pride would be wounded, and 
nothing could excuse that. 

Des. Well, what are you cogitating shout ? Look¬ 
ing for something to dust ? 

Mad. V. I’m thinking of the Marquis, sir. 

Des. Well, what of him ? 

Mad. V. Is it not dreadful? Brought up as he 
has been—surrounded by every luxury—and now 
reduced to want even. Oh! it is too hard—too 

Des. Well, it’s his own fault, isn’t it ? There was 
enough left from the wreck of his father’s pro¬ 
perty to give him a sort of a living, and he must 
needs go and settle it all upon his little sister 

Mad. V. And for what ? To give her the educa¬ 
tion befitting her rank. 

Des. Fudge! 

Mad. V. Doctor Dcsmarets, you’ie very unfeel¬ 

Des. Oh, of course, of course. I give him good 
advice, ho rejects it. I withdraw my sympathy, 
and then I’m unfeeling. If he can’t manage better 
with the little that’s left him, egad ! he may think 
himself lucky that he can get his daily meals. 

Mad. V. Sir, he can’t even—(Aside.) Oh, if I 

Des. Can’t even what? Send for his coupe, I 
suppose, or drink Chateau Marganx—terrible 
hardships, truly. When there’s nothing else in a 
man’s pocket, he had better put his pride there, 
and button it up tight. 

Mad. V. Some day, sir, we shall find that he has 
taken poison, or cut his throat. 

Des. Ah! and then there’ll be nothing to dust. 

Mad. V. Monsieur, I repeat it—you’re unfeeling. 
But I, who loved and served his dear mother, 
whom he so much resembles-- 

Des. Not a bit—hasn’t a look of her. The father, 
the father all over. 

Mad. V. Of course. So you always say, and 
everybody knows why. You loved the poor Mar¬ 
chioness, offered her your hand, and she preferred 
the Marquis. 

Des. Madame! 

Mad. V. I don’t care. I will speak my mind. 
And because she refused you, you have no regard 
for her son. 

Des. Madame! 

Mad. V. But if he has his father’s face, he has 
his mother’s heart. 

Des. Much you know about it. 

Mad. V. And who should know if I don’t ? Havn’t 
I attended him since he was an infant ? 

Des. Well, and havn’t I attended him since he 
was an infant ? 

Mad. V- Wasn’t I with him during every sick¬ 
ness ? 

Des. Wasn’t I with him too ? 

Mad. V. Didn’t I nurse him ? 

Des. Didn’t I cure him? 

Mad. V. Wouldn’t I follow him through the 

Des. Didn’t I bring him into it ? 

Mad. V . Yes, and if things go on at this rate, he 
won’t have much to thankyou for. 

Des. How do you know ? How do you know, yon 
foolish old woman you. 

MANUEL appears, L. 

Man. Heyday! the only two friends I have in 
the world at high words ? What can have cansed 
this ? 

Mad. V. My lord, the Doctor says you-• 

Man. Me! my dear Doctor, you never were 


Madame Laroque (Daughter-in-law to Gaspar) . 

Marguerite (her daughter) . 

Mdlle Helouin (a Governess) . 

Madame Aubrey (a relative of the Laroqne family) . 

Louise Yauberger (formerly nurse to Manuel, now keeper of a lodging- 

house) .. . 

Christine (a Breton peasant girl) . 

Gnests, Servants, Peasantry, &c., &c. 

Mrs. Vernon. 

Mrs. Hoey. 

Miss Mary Gannon. 

Mrs. Walcot. 

Miss Fanny Reeves. 

The events of the Drama take place (during the 1st Act) in Paris, afterwards in the Province of 





Exits and Entrances.— R. means Right; L. Left; D. F . Door in Flat; R. D. Bight Boor; L. D. 
Left Door; S. E. Second Entrance; U. E. Upper Entrance; M. D. Middle Door; L. U. E. Lett. itpper 
Entrance; R. U. E. Right Upper Entrance; L. S. E. Le/t Second Entrance; 1. S. Piompt Side; 0. P- 

Opposite Prompt. 

Relative Positions. —R. means Right; L. Left; C. Centre; R. C. Right of Centre; L. C. Le/t of 


RC. 0. 



* * The Reader is supposed to be on the Stage, facing the Audience. 



.4 Boom, simply furnished—Table, Chairs, Arm¬ 
chair, Secretaire, Side-table—Boor c. 


Mnd. V. No; ho has not yet returned. (Enters.) 
Things cannot go on in this manner much longer 
—I shall have to speak out, and plainly too. And 
■why not ? Surely he won’t take it ill from me— 
ah, no. I, who loved his poor mother so, could 
never—what’s this ? A purse ! empty! And this 
key, left carelessly lying about; that’s a bad sign. 
(Opens secretaire) No, not one solitary sous—his 
last coin came yesterday to pay me the rent. In 
the drawer, perhaps- 


Bes. Hallo! (She starts.) What are you at 
there ? 

Mad. V. Me, sir ? I was just—I was just- 

Bes. Poking your nose into that drawer—that 
what yon call just ? 

Mad. V. I was dusting, and putting the things 
in order, sir. 

Bes. I’ll tell you what, Madame Y., you’re an 
extraordinary woman. Yesterday, when I called, 
you were dusting—half-an-honr ago when I called, 
you w r ere dusting—and now, when I call again, 
you’re dusting. Where the devil you find so much 
dust to dust, I can’t think. 

Mad. V. Ah, sir, look into this drawer. 

Bes. What for ? 

Mad. V. Is it not the place where, if one had 
money, one would naturally keep it ? 

Bes. I suppose so. What of that? 

Mad. V. See, sir, it is empty. 

Bes. What’s that to me ? 

Mad. V. And his purse, also. 

Bes. What’s that to you ? 

(Goes up and puts hat on table. 

Mad. V. (Aside.) I dare not tell him that Manuel 
is without a meal—starving—I should never be 
forgiven. His pride would be wounded, and 
nothing could excuse that. 

Bes. Well, what are you cogitating about ? Look¬ 
ing for something to (lust ? 

Mad. V. I’m thinking of the Marquis, sir. 

Bes. Well, what of him ? 

Mad. V. Is it not dreadful ? Brought up as he 
lias been—surrounded by every luxury—and now 
reduced to want even. Oh! it is too hard—too 

Bes. Well, it’s his own fault, isn’t it ? There was 
enough left from the wreck of his father’s pro¬ 
perty to give him a sort of a living, and he must 
needs go and settle it all upon his little sister 

Mad. V. And for what? To give her the educa¬ 
tion befitting her rank. 

Bes. Pudge! 

Mad. V. Doctor Desmarets, you’ie very unfeel, 

Bes. Oh, of course, of course. I give him good 
advice, he rejects it. I withdraw my sympathy, 
and then I’m unfeeling. If he can’t manage better 
with the little that’s left him, egad ! he may think 
himself lucky that he can get his daily meals. 

Mad. V. Sir, he can’t even—(Aside.) Oh, if I 

Bes. Can’t even what? Send for his coupe, I 
suppose, or drink Chateau M arganx—terrible 
hardships, truly. When there’s nothing else in a 
man’s pocket, he had better put his pride there, 
and button it up tight. 

Mad. V. Some day, sir, we shall find that he has 
taken poison, or cut his throat. 

Bes. Ah! and then there’ll be nothing to dusk. 

Mad. V. Monsieur, I repeat it—you’re unfeeling. 
But I, who loved and served his dear mother, 
whom he so much resembles- 

Bes. Not a bit—hasn’t a look of her. The father, 
the father all over. 

Mad. V. Of course. So you always say, and 
everybody knows why. Yon loved the poor Mar¬ 
chioness, offered her your hand, and she preferred 
the Marquis. 

Bes. Madame! 

Mad. V. I don’t care. I will speak my mind. 
And because she refused you, you have no regard 
for her son. 

Bes. Madame! 

Mad. V. But if he has his father’s face, he has 
his mother’s heart. 

Bes. Much you know about it. 

Mad. V. And who should know if I don’t ? Havn’t 
I attended him since he was an infant ? 

Bes. Well, and havn’t I attended him since he 
was an infant ? 

Mad. V. Wasn’t I with him during every sick¬ 
ness ? 

Bes. Wasn’t I with him too ? 

Mad. V. Didn’t I nurse him ? 

Bes. Didn’t I cure him ? 

Mad. V. Wouldn’t I follow him through the 
world ? 

Bes. Didn’t I bring him into it ? 

Mad. V. Yes, and if things go on at this rate, he 
won’t have much to thank you for. 

Bes. How do you know ? How do you know, yon 
foolish old woman you. 

MANUEL appears, l. 

Man. Heyday! the only two friends I have in 
the world at high words ? What can have caused 
this ? 

Mad. V. My lord, the Doctor says you- 

Man. Me! my dear Doctor, you never were 


quarrelling about so unimportant a person, 
surely ? 

Be s. No matter for that. But I have some busi¬ 
ness with the Marquis, if this very positive old 
lady will allow me the luxury of an interview with 
him—a ‘private interview. Pray, ma’am, may I 
trespass on your indulgence P 

Mad. V. Truly, Doctor, your campaign in the 
Crimea has improved neither your manners, or 
your beauty. 

[Eant, L. H. 

Bes. Confound her impndence! The attack on 
my manners I could forgive, but my beauty—that’s 
a tender point. 

Man. Ah, Doctor, you must pardon her brusque 
manner. If she’s poor in courtesy, she’s rich in a 
rarer gift—fidelity. 

Bes. "Oh! hang her! let her go. And now to 
your affairs. Your father’s death occurred while 
I was with the army, in the Crimea. Rumours 
reached me there, but I have never heard the full 
particulars. I would not willingly revive a pain- 
in 1 theme, but as an old friend- 

Man. Nay, I shall be more satisfied when you 
know the facts. When you left France you know 
what our position was, and what our style of 

Bes. All the luxuries that money could procure 
—a mansion in Paris, an ancestral chateau, and a 
stable that could boast the best blood in France. 

Man. Two months after the death of my dear 
mother, I went to Italy, by my father’s desire, and 
for several years I travelled through Europe at 
my pleasure. During this time his letters to me 
were affectionate, but bi-ief, and never expressed 
any desire for my return. Two months ago, on 
arriving at Marseilles, I found several letters from 
him awaiting me, each of them begging me to 
return home with all possible haste. 

Bes. I remember, it was some time previous to 
that, that I heard his name mentioned in con¬ 
nection with some unfortunate speculations in the 

Man. I arrived at night. The ground was 
white with snow. As I passed up the avenue— 
made still darker by the old trees which over¬ 
shadowed it—I could hear the frost shaken from 
the bx-anches, seeming, as it fell around me, like a 
warning of bitter tears to come. Hardly had I 
crossed the threshold when my father’s arms were 
around me. I could feel his heart beating against 
my own, with a force almost painful. He led me 
to a sofa, and placed himself directly in froxit of 
me, when, as if longing to reveal something which 
yet he dared not name, he fixed his eyes on mine 
with an expression of supplication, of agony, of 
shame, wondrous in a man so haughty and so 
proud. It was enough ! The wrong he had com¬ 
mitted, yet could not confess, I divined full well— 
God knows how fully, how freely I forgave it! 
Suddenly, that look, which never quitted me, 
became fixed, rigid. The pressure of his hand on 
mine became a gripe of iron. He arose—the eyes 
wandered, the hand i-elaxed, and he fell dead at my 

feet! . . 

Bes. (After a pause.) Well, well, it is a sad his¬ 
tory, for fie left utter ruin for your portion. But 
come, you must not look back. “ Forward ” must 
bo the watchword now. Mr. Faveau, your family 
lawyer, tells me that the little that remained to 
you, after paying your father’s debts, you have 
appropriated to making a fine lady of your sister. 

Man. To educate her, Doctor. 

Bes. Well, well, same thing ; so that you, your¬ 
self, have literally nothing to speak of—hardly 
enough to give you bread. 

Man. Hardly. 

Bes. Under these circumstances you will perhaps 
be disposed to the favourable consideration of a 
proposal I have to make ? 

Man. Name it, sir, for at present, I confess I 
have formed no plans of my own. I was so little 
pi-epared to find myself quite a beggar. Were I 
alone in the world, I woxxld become a soldier. But 
my sister, that would involve prolonged absence 
from her—perhaps an early death. My darling— 

I cannot endxxre the thought of kixowing her com¬ 
pelled to suffer the privations, the labour, and the 
dangers of poverty. She is happy at her school, 
and young enough to remain there for some years 
to come. If I could but find some occupation by 
which, even were I obliged to impose the severest 
resti’aints upon myself, it would bo possible to save 
enough for her marriage portion, I should be more 
than content. 

Bes. An employment to suit a man of youi 

Man. Oh, my dear Doctor—rank- 

Bes. Well, well, of your education, then, is not 
easily found. Now, mark what I am going to say, 
axxd consider it well, before you come to a hasty 
conclusion. There is, among my patients, a retired 
merchant, one who has been able, by indefatigable 
industry in trade, to amass a very hand¬ 
some fortune. His daughter, an only child, and 
of conrse, the father’s darling, has, by chance, 
become acquaiixted with the state of your affairs. 
Now, I have reason to know (being on very con¬ 
fidential terms with them), I say I have reason to 
know that this girl, ambitious, handsome, rich, 
axxd accomplished, would be happy to share your 
title. I have the father’s consent, and only await 
the word from you to- 

Man. Dr. Desmarets, my name is neither for 
sale, or to let. 

Bes. Humph ! Do you know, my lord, that yoxx 
bear a remarkable resemblance to your poor 
mother ? 

Man. You must be mistaken, sir. I have always 
been told that I was more like my father. 

Bes. Not a bit! The mother, the mother, sir, 
in evei-y feature. Bxxt, bless me, it’s near eleven 
o’clock, and I have a most particular appoixxt- 
ment. As you decline considering the proposal I 
have made, we rnxxst tliiixk of something else. Axx 
l-evoir. (Aside.) The mother—eyes, nose, moxxth. 
What the devil made that stupid old woman say 
he was like his father ? 

[Erit c. 

Man. He’s a kixxd man, though a little eccentric, 
and apart from his professional duty seems actxx- 
ated by a sincere desire to serve me, and yet—and 
yet I coxxld not bring myself to ask his* charity. 
Hxxnger—starvation—are not, then, mere empty 
words. Oh ! if I do sin in my pride, I am pxxnisliod, 
for I suffer mxxch. This is the second day withoxit 
food. Why, after all, I could go into any restau¬ 
rant and diue, for I am well enough known. I 
could say I had forgotten my pxirso—have done so 
without scruple in happier times, but then I had 
the means to pay, and now—no, no, my sister, xxot 
for life, not even for Dice, will I descend to lie aud 
cheat. How weak I am ; this comes too soon upon 
my long sickness. If I could but sleep, and so 


forget my agony. And there are human creatures 
who sutler every day as I do now. My sister, my 
little sister, I seem to see thy dear face looking 
down upon me, and bidding me be comforted. 
(Music.) Thou, at least, shall never suffer. But 
for those who hear their cries of hunger repeated 
from the mouths of starving little ones, well, 
well, God comfort them ; I will not re—Oh—holy 

—charity—for—those—who—my sister—my- 

(Manuel gradually falls asleep. 

with a Tray, containing a dish or two 
with eatables, a plate, &c. She watches 
Manuel carefally while she deposits 
the tray on the chimney-piece and 
lays a cloth on the table. Manuel 
awakes as she goes back to Hie 
chim ney-piece for tray. 

Man. Eh—who’s that ? Ah, me i What are you 
doing, madame ? 

Mad. V. Did you not order diuner, my lord ? 

Man. Certainly not. 

Mad. V. Why, they told me- 

Man. Then they were mistaken. It’s for some 
of the other lodgers. 

Mad. V. But there’s no other lodgers on this 
floor, and I really cannot think what- 

Mein. At any rate, it is not for me. Take it 

Mad. V. ( After slowly taking off cloth.) 3Iy lord 
has probably dined ? 

Man. Probably. 

Mad. V. Dear me, dear me, what a pity! A good 
dinner spoiled, wasted. Really, if you had not 
dined, my lord, it would so oblige me if- 

Maxi. Will you go or not ? (See is dejectedly going, 
when Manuel calls.) Louise, I understand, and I 
thank you, but I am not well to-day. I have no 
desire to eat. 

(Re turns away. Madame Vaubcrger 
quietly comes back, and gently places 
the dinner on the table.) 

Mad. V. Ah, my lord, if you knew how you 
wound my heart! Come, now, you shall pay me 
for the dinner—there—you shall put the money 
into my hand the moment you have it. But in¬ 
deed, indeed, if you were to give me a hundred 
thousand francs, it would not cause me half the 
pleasure that I should feel in seeing you eat my 
poor little dinner. Oh, surely, surely, you can 
comprehend that! 

Man. I do, Louise, I do—and as I can’t give you 
the hundred thousand francs, why, I’ll eat your 

Mad. V. No; will you ? 

Man. Louise, your hand. Don’t be alarmed; 
I’m uot going to put money into it. 

(She timidly gives her hand.) 

Mad. Y. Oh! thank you, thank you, my lord, a 
thousand times. Now, I’ll leave you to your 
dinner. Ah ! how good of you to accept my poor 
gift. You have a noble heart. 

[Exit c. 

Man. And a monstrous appetite. My kind, 
faithful Louise. Well, well, let us to dinner, since 
dinner there is. Come, come, here’s life for an¬ 
other day or so, at least, and that’s something. 


Res. Nonsense, nonsense; I don’t believe a word 
of it. 


Mad. V. I tell you, sir, ’tis true; you might have 
seen it. 

Res. (Entering.) But, confound it, woman—I 
didn’t see it, and it was your business to tell me. 

Mad. V. It wasn’t. 

Res. It was, 

Man. What’s the matter now ? 

Res. Matter enough! That stupid woman- 

Man. Doctor, will you do me the pleasure xo 
dine with me ? 

Res. 31y lord, you have done wrong. 

Man. Indeed! 

Res. For you have wounded a friend. You have 
been cruel. 

Man. Cruel! 

Res. For you have made an old man blush. 

Man. I! 

Res. Yes, you! why was I left in ignorance ? 
How could you, Manuel ? why didn’t you ? Damn 
it, sir, how dare you starve without letting me 
know ? 

Man. Sir, I could not- 

Res. My poor boy; there, there, eat your dinner. 
I’ve news for you. 

Man. News! 

Res. Yes ; eat your dinner. 

Man. But I want to listen. 

Res. Well, you don’t listen with your mouth, I 
suppose. Eat your dinner. 

Man. But- 

Res. Devil a word you’ll get out of me, if you 
don’t eat your dinner. 

Man. Well, well. (Eats.) 

Res. Good! You remember I told you I had an 
appointment ? 

Man. Yes. 

Res. Don’t talk—eat! (Manuel eats.) That ap¬ 
pointment concerned you. ( Manuel nods.) I 
think I’ve found employment for you. 

Man. Eh? (Pauses with a bit on his fork.) 

Res. In with it. (Manuel puts it into his mouth.) 
Good ! You are aware, of course, that my practice 
and my residence is in the country. I merely came 
to Paris on your account. (Manuel lets go his fork 
to shake hands with the Roctor, who puts the fork 
into his hand again.) Well, among the families 
with whom I am most intimate, there is one, in 
particular, of great wealth and importance. The 
name is Laroqne. The family have had for some 
years past, a mauaging man, a steward, who never 
was worth much. Indeed, the only real service 
he has ever rendered them, he has just per¬ 

Mail. Ran away ? 

Res. No, died. The moment I heard of this, I 
wrote to Madame Laroque, asking his situation 
for a friend of mine. On leaving you, I went to 
the post-office, and found a letter awaiting me, 
with the full consent of the family to my request. 
To be sure the position for a man of your rank- 

Man. My rank, under present circumstances, is 
a mockery. I shall, in future, take simply my 
Christian name of 3Ianuel. 

Res. I have only mentioned you in my letters as 
Monsieur Manuel, anticipating that such would 
be your wish. You will have your own apartments 
in a pavilion near the Chateau. Your salary will 
be so regulated that you will be enabled to lay by 
a portion for your sister. Now, the only question 
remaining is, will this suit you ? 

Man. Admirably! 3Iy dear, kind friend, how 
shall I sufficiently thank you ? 


Des. Eat your dinner. 

Man. But am I fitted for the position ? 

Des. Pretty well. You’ve learned one great 

Man. What’s that ? 

Des. Economy. As to the rest, the duties are 
simple enough. And now I’ll give you some notion 
of the people yon are going to meet. There are, in 
the Chateau, without counting visitors, five 
persons. First, Moasieur Laroqne, celebrated at 
the beginning of the present century as a famous 
privateer Captain. Hence his large fortune. He 
is now a feeble old man, mind and memory a good 
deal the worse for wear. Then there is Madame 
Laroqne, his daughter-in-law, a Creole- 

Man. A Creole ? 

Des. Yes, young gentleman, an elderly Creole, 
with some eccentricities to be sure, but a good 
heart. Thirdly, there is Mademoiselle Marguerite, 
her daughter, much younger- 

Man. That’s singular. 

Des. Eat your dinner. She is proud, somewhat 
romantic, a little thoughtless- 

Man. And her disposition P 

Des. Sweet. Fourthly, Madame Aubrey, a widow, 
a sort of second cousin, old maidish, talky- 

Man. Disposition ? 

Des. Sour. Fifthly, Mademoiselle Helouin— 
Governess. Young, good looking. 

Man. Disposition ? 

Des. Doubtful. And that completes the cata¬ 

Man. Delightful! Two good dispositions out of 
five. The proportion is enormous ! 

Des. I’m glad you look at things so hopefully. 
When will you be ready to accompany me to the 
Chateau ? 

Man. To-morrow—to-day. 

Des. To-morrow will do. I shall be here for you 
early. (Going.) 

Man. I shall be ready. 

Des. (Runs against Madame V. who is coming 
in.) Confound it, woman, take care! 

Mad. V. Why, Doctor, you ran against me. 

Des. I didn’t! 

Mad. V. You did ! 

Man. What’s the matter now ? 

Des. Eat your dinner! 



A Saloon with bay windows opening on a terrrace, 
from which steps descend to lawn and grounds at 
'back—Piano, R. u. E. — Books, Papers, Vases, &c., 

As curtain rises M. De Bevannes is conversing with 
several young ladies on the terrace at back. 
Desmarets reading paper, l. c. Madame Baroque 
wrapped in furs, l. reading a book. Marguerite 
near her mother, at tapestry work. Madame 
Aubrey, R. c. knitting. Mademoiselle Helouin 
arranging flowers in vase, R. Great talking and 
laughing from the party on the terrace as the 
curtain rises. 

Bov. Very well, very well, young ladies, if you 
insist upon it. The'ladies are determined on a 
waltz on the terrace. 

Mad. L. What! in the broiling sun ? 

Bev. The roses do not fear the sun. Why should 
the lilies ? 

Ladies. (All courtesy.) Oh, how pretty. 

Bev. Yes, rather neat, I think. (To Marguerite.) 
Mademoiselle, may I hope for the honour P 

Mar. Thank you. Despite your pretty speech, 
I confess to a fear of waltzing in the sun. But I’ll 
play for you with pleasure. 

(Goes towards piano, R.) 

Bev. (Aside to her.) Always cruel. (To Mile. 
Helouin) Mademoiselle, may I request the 
pleasure ? 

Mile. H. Oh! certainly. 

Bev. (Aside to her.) Ever kind. 

(Marguerite plays—they waltz and 
gradually disappear.) 

Mad. L. Have you seen my new conservatory* 
Doctor ? 

Des. No, Madame. 

Mad. L. Well, I must show it to you, if I can 

drag myself so far. 

Des. Drag? Why, good gracious! You’re the 
picture of health this morning—fresh as a rose. 

Mad. L. Fresh ? Frozen. It’s a curious fact. 
Doctor, that since I left the Antilles, twenty 
years ago, I have never yet known what it w r as to 
feel comfortably warm. 

Des. That accounts for your continued good 
looks. Consult your cookery book, page 18" If 
yon want to preserve things fresh, you must keep 
them cold. And you, Madame, (To Madame 
Aubrey.) how do you find yourself? 

Mad. A. Very weak, Doctor. I ate a tolerable 
breakfast this morning. 

Des. (Aside.) You may say that. Three eggs and 
a broiled chicken. 

Mad. A. And I feel a fulness- 

Des. (Aside.) I should think so. 

Mad. A. In the head. 

Des. Ah ! 

Mad. A. The fact is, Doctor, I am subject to 
such continual chagrin, such cruel mortifications 
here. Dependent upon others for certain luxuries 
which I can’t get for myself. 

Des. Why not ? 

Mad. A. Things are s6 dear. Ah, Doctor, nothing 
will soothe me but death. 

Des. Well, that’s cheap ! 

Mad. A. Brute! (Aside.) 

Mar. (At piano.) Here they come again. 

(She plays. The waltzers appear on 
terrace. In the midst of this dancing, 
MANUEL comes up steps, as if from 
lawn below. They separate r. and l. 
and regard him with some astonish¬ 
ment. He has a portfolio under his 

Mar. Well, why don’t you go on ? 

Des. (Aside.) At last, (Aloud.) Madame Laroqne 
permit me to present to you, M. Manuel, the new 

(Madame Baroque rises and salutes 
Manuel, at the same time ringing a 
bell. A Servant enters and goes to 
Manuel, taking from him a’ small 
portmanteau, which he carries off. 
Marguerite goes over to l. of Madame 

Bev. Rather a stylish looking steward! 

Mad. L. Why, Doctor, what does this mean ? 


You promised a quiet, simple, steady young man, 
and you bring me a fine gentleman like this. 

(As Manuel comes down, R. C., 
Mademoiselle Helouin sees him.) 

Mile. H. (Aside.) It is the Marquis de 
Cliampcey! (Goes up to ladies.) 

Manuel. Desmarets. Bevannes. 
Madame Aubrey. Madame Laroque. 

Mademoiselle Helouin. Marguerite. 

Mad. L. Pardon, sir, you are Monsieur- 

Man. Manuel, Madame. 

Mad. L. The new steward ? 

Man. Yes, Madame. 

Mad. L. You are quite sure ? 

I)es. (Aside.) That’s not bad. 

Man. Madame! 

Bev. The lady wishes to know whether you are 

Man. I have always been under that impression, 
sir. (Bevannes goes up.) 

lies. (Aside.) The conversation is becoming 
brilliant—I’ll leave them to enjoy it. 

[Exit at bach--Bevannes comes down 
to Marquis.) 

Mad. L. Sir, we are indebted to you for devoting 
your talents to our service; we really require 
them, for we have the misfortune to be immensely 

Mad. A. Misfortune, dear? 

Mad. Ii. Yes, love! wealth is a heavy burthen. 
Mad. A. But a very pleasant one. 

Mad. L. You’d find it hard to bear, dear. 

Mad. A. I should like to try, darling. 

Mad. L. I feel that I was born for the devotion 
and self-sacrifice entailed by poverty. Ah! my 
dear Bevannes, should I not have made an ex¬ 
cellent Sister of Charity! .... , ., 

Bev. You are already the next thing to it, 
Madame ? 

Mad. L. How so ? 

Bev. ( Indicating Marguerite.) The mother of 
goodness. < 

Mar. Oh, sir! 

Mad. L. But do you not agree with me ? 

Bev. In what ? 

Mad. L. That wealth is a heavy responsibility. 
Bev. Doubtless. But then you have the comfort 
of knowing there are always some devoted friends 
willing to relieve you. _ . 

Mad. L. (Rings.) But my fortune is not mine to 
dispose of—for my duty obliges me to preserve it 
for my child. 

Enter ALAIN, c. 

Alain, show this gentleman to his apartments— 
but first, you must be introduced to my father-in- 
law. Ask if Monsieur Laroque can see the gen¬ 
tleman. . __ , , 

[Suit Alam—Manuel up stage. 

And now, we will take a stroll to the conservatory. 
VYliat has become of that horrid doctor ? 

(As she rises, her shaivl falls off— 
Manuel comes forward and assists 

Oh! thank you, sir. 

Re-enter ALAIN. 

Alain. Monsieur Laroque is coming down, 
Maaame. [jfcit at back. 

Mad. L. (To Marguerite.) My dear, will you 
stay and introduce Monsieur Manuel to your 
grandpapa ? 

Mar. Certainly, if you wish it. 

Mad. L. Now, my dear Bevannes, your arm. 

Bev. (Who has been talking to Marguerite.) HU r 

Mad. L. You shall accompany us- 

Bev. (To Marguerite.) This is too bad. 

(Gtues arm to Madame Laroque.) 
Mar. Oh! Monsieur de Bevannes, how happy 
you ought to foci—arm in firm with the mother 

of goodness.” , ,,, , . , 

Bev. I do feel happy— blessed. (Madame Aubrey 

takes his other arm.) Doubly blessed. 

[Exeunt Bevannes, Madame Laroque, 
and Madame Aubrey, C. 

Mile. II. (Aside.) So, so, my lord Marquis. Weil, 
I will keep your secret, perhaps. 

[Exit, c. — Marguerite scats herself as 
they go off. . ... 

Mar. (After a pause.) Is this your first visit to 
Brittany, sir ? 

Man. It is, Mademoiselle. 

Mar. It is an interesting country, I believe, to 

strangers. , . _ . ... 

Man. Deeply interesting; though I travelled 
through it so rapidly, that I had hardly time to 
appreciate its beauties. What I did see, however, 
charmed me. 

Mar. Ah! an admirer of the picturesque, 1 per¬ 
ceive, like our governess. You two will get on 
very well together — you’ll be excellent com¬ 

Man. Mademoiselle 

Mar. Oh, yes; she adores trees, rocks, rivers, 
etcetera—things that, for my own part, I don’t 
think very interesting. 

Man. (Smiling, and throwing himself carelessly 
into a chair.) Pray, then, may I ask what you do 
think interesting ? 

Mar. (Rising.) Excuse me, sir. 

[Goes out with a slight and disdainf ul 
inclination, r. h. 

Man. A timely reproof—for I was already for¬ 
getting my position. (Alain is crossing the stage.) 
My friend, a word with you. 

Alain. Certainly, sir. 

Man. Monsieur Laroque is very old, is he not ? 

Alain. Oh, yes, sir, very old. 

Man. He was a seaman formerly, I believe ? 

Alain. Yes, sir, and a bold one, too. Up in the 
picture gallery there are paintings of some of his 
most famous battles with the English. Ah ! he 
was a terrible man. Why, sir, if you’ll believe me, 
when the fit is on him, he will walk for hours alone 
in that gallery, in a sort of dream, muttering to 
himself, and fancying that he is again on board 
his ship in the midst of fire and slaughter, and 
between you and I, sir, they do say—but, hush! 
he’s coming with his granddaughter. (Music.) 
Enter M. LAROQUE, leaning on MARGUERITE, 
R. h. u. e. 

Mar. This way, dear grandfather. So, so. How 
well and strong you are to-day. 

[Alain places chairs and exits. 

Lar. Always better and stronger when you are 
near me, my darling. (Sits down.) Thank ye, 
thank ye. 

Mar. Let me present to you Monsieur Manuel, 
our new steward. 

( Laroque, on seeing Manuel, is transfixed 
and gazes with a sort of terror at 

Lar. No—no—no—it cannot be. 

Mar. What is this ? 



Lar. But I tell yon he is dead—dead- 

Mar. Dearest grandfather! (To Manuel.) For 
heaven’s sake, sir, speak to him. 

Man. Really, Mademoiselle—I—I- 

Mar. Speak, sir! Say something—anything- 

Man. I am happy, sir, that I can devote my 
humble talents to your service. 

Lar. But he is dead- 

Man. Who ? 

Mar. The last steward- 

( Signs to Manuel to speak on.) 
Man. All the more happy, sir, as I have heard 
of your many brilliant exploits, and had relatives 
who, like yourself, have often fought against the 

Lar. The English ! Aye—aye—aye—they did it 
—they were the cause, but they paid it all—paid 

Man. (Approaching. Permit me, sir, to- 

Bar. Ah! No—no—no. He has blood upon him ! 

Mar. Grandfather, dear grandfather! Do not 
regard him. (To Manuel.) He is often thus—his 
great age—and—and—oh, sir, pray retire; join my 
mother, I beg of you. 

Man. Certainly, Mademoiselle. (Aside.) A good 
beginning, truly. 

(_Exit, c. 

Mar. Grandfather, dearest, what terrible 
thoughts are troubling you ? See, it is I, Mar¬ 
guerite, your child. 

Lar. Eh! my child! Ah, yes, true, my child, 
my own dear child ; but where is—are we alone ? 
Who stood there, just now? 

Mar. That was our new steward. Monsieur 

Lar. Mannel — Manuel — ’tis very strange! I 

Mar. What, dear grandfather ? 

Lar. Thought that—that- 

Mar. Oh, you thought you recognised him ? He 
is like someone you have seen before ? 

Lar. Yes—yes—yes—like some one I have seen 
before. But I am very old, darling, and have 
seen so many faces in my time. Well, well, I 
think I shall like him. Does he play picquet ? 
Mar. Indeed I do not know. 

Lar. I hope so, I hope so. 


Mad. A. Ah, my dear cousin! how do you find 
yourself now ? They told mo yon were ill, and 
almost frightened me to death. 

Lar. Thank ye, cousin, thank ye. It was only 
a passing weakness. 

Mad. A. Indeed, I rejoice to hear it, for I was 

fearful of some sudden--Oli! why did you not 

send for me? ’Tis very unkind of you to forget 
those who love you so. (Weeps.) 

Mar. Grandpapa, there’s one for you. 

(Aside to him.) 

Lar. (To Madame Aubrey.) Well, well, it’s very 
kind of you to be so fearful of something sudden, 
but you needn’t—I’ve made my will. (Aside to 
Marguerite.) There’s one for her! 

Mad. A. Come now, take my arm, a walk upon 
the terrace will do you so much good. There, 
don’t be afraid to lean on me. # 

Lar. You’re very kind, cousin. Thank ye, thank 
ye. (Going.) Marguerite, my darling, ask him if 
lie plays picquet. 

Mar. I will. 

Lar. Umph! do you think he does r 

Mar. I have no doubt of it. 

Lar. (As he goes out with Madame Aubrey.) I 
hope so—I hope so—I hope so ! 

(Exeunt Laroque and Madame Aubrey, c. 

Mar. My poor grandfather; spite of his failing 
memory, he sees through the disinterestedness of 
our good cousin Aubrey. But those wfild words, 
his terror at the appearance of this young man, 
what could that mean ? Or had it any meaning ? 
(Sees Madame Laroque and Manuel coming in at 
back.) My mother—and leaning on the arm of that 
person ! 

Mad. L. Precisely my own opinion, sir, my im¬ 
pression exactly; this is really charming; we agree 
upon every point. 

Man. I am flattered, Madame, to think such 
should be the case. 

Bev. (Without.) ’Pon my honour, yonng ladies* 
I can’t—I really can’t! 

Enter BEYANNES, surrounded by ladies, exclaim¬ 
ing—“ You must, indeed!” 

Bev. Would you believe it, Madame, those un¬ 
conscionable ladies insist on another waltz. 

Mar. Oh, indeed I cannot play any more. I 
must finish this to-day—it is a promise. 

Man. Pray do not let that inconvenience the 
ladies—I will play a waltz with much pleasure. 

(Touches piano.) 

Bev. Sir! 

Mar. (Haughtily.) Thank you, sir—it is not re¬ 

Man. (Aside.) Forgetting again. 

(Goes up terrace.) 

Bev. (Aside,) Pretty cool! 

Mar. Very presuming of that steward. 

Mad. L. Very polite of that gentleman. 

Bev. Highly disgusting to this gentleman. 

Mad. L. Well, Do Bevannes, you must find some 
other amusement for the ladies. 

Bev. ’Gad, I’ll soon do that. It’s positively 
fatiguing to be in such general request with them. 
They can’t do without me for one moment—they 

(Turn s and perceives Manuel, who, 
during the preceding dialogue, has 
entered into conversation with the 
ladies, and has, by this time, offered 
his arm to two of them.—They all 
accompany him off.) 

Bev. (Aside.) Well, if I were given to strong 
sentiments, I should wish that fellow at the deuce. 
As it is, I’ll content myself with simply damning 
his impudence. 

JIad. L. Do you know, my dear, that I don’t feel 
quite easy in my mind about that yonng man. 

Bev. (Aside.) Nor I, either. 

Mar. Why not, mamma ? 

Mad. L. He is much too charming to make a 
good steward. 

Mar. Really ; I do not perceive it. A person 
may be honest and well-behaved, although he does 
happen to play upon the piano. 

Bev. I don’t know that; I flatter myself I have 
seen something of the world, and experience 
has specially taught me to beware of the man 
who plays the piano. 

Mar. Mamma, dear, wall you hand me those 
scissors ? 

Mad. L. Yes, my child. (Perceives Manuel’s 
portfolio.) Whose drawing-book is this. 



Mar. That? Oh, that is the steward’s! I saw 
it in his hand when he came in. 

Mad. L. I positively must take a peep. Oh ! De 
Bevannes, look!—beautiful! What a charming 
accomplishment it is to draw well. 

Mar. Yes, for an engineer, or a builder- 

Bev. Or an actor. 

Mar. Why, gracious, Monsieur de Bevannes, you 
have said a good thing! 

Bev. Have I ? Allow me to apologize. 

Mar. Not at all; it’s your first offence. 

Mad. L. How beautifully finished these groups 

Bev. Positively, they’re not so bad. 

Mad. L. Bad! My dear sir; they’re exqnisite. 
Look, for instance, at that horse—is it not per¬ 
fection ? 

Bev. It would be, doubtless—only it happens to 
be a cow. 

Mad. L. A cow ? 

Bev. I think so ; horses aon’t go about with two 
horns. (Going R.) 

Enter MANUEL, c. 

Man. Your pardon, ladies; but I believe I left 
my drawing-book- 

Mad. L. Allow me to return it, sir—and to 
thank you for an accident which has afforded us 
much pleasure. 

Man. Madame, you are too kind—so kind, in¬ 
deed, that you have too long refrained from per¬ 
mitting me to commence my duties. With your 
consent, I will at once set about them. Your 
farm at Langeot, of which you spoke to me, is not 
more, I think, than a mile or two from this. I 
will walk over there this afternoon, and- 

Mad. L. Walk!—over such a miserable bad road 
as it is. Indeed, sir,, I could not allow it. 


Mad. A. Hush! Pray, pray, not so much noise. 
My dear cousin has composed himself to sleep. 

Bev. Noise! it appears to me we were pretty 

Mad. A. Ah, sir, you might think so; but the 
least sound jars upon his poor nerves. 


Bev. (Aside.) I never saw such a devil of a 
woman as this is to cry. 

Man. But I assure you, Madame, that I would 
rather walk. If I pretend to be your steward— 
why, steward 1 must be, and not fine gentleman. 

Mad. L. (To Marguerite.) My dear, would it be 
proper to allow M. Manuel to walk ? 

Mar. I believe it is usual for the steward to do 
so. However, I see no reason why he should not 
ride if he chooses. There are plenty of horses in 
the stable. 

Mad. A. Ah! (Weeps.) 

Bev. What’s the matter, Madame ? 

Mad. A. Talking of riding always overcomes 

Bev Excuse my peculiar mode of expression— 
but yon appear to me to pass your life in being 
perpetually overcome. 

Mad. A. Women are but fragile flowers. 


Bev. They seem to require a deal of water. 

Mad. A. But horses, sir—talking of horses, puts 
me in mind of a pet I had. 

Mad. L. A pet horse, dear ? 

Mad. A. No, love, a donkey. Oh ! (Weeps.) 

Bev. (Aside.) Now she’s watering the donkey. 


Mad. A. I had the dear little creature for two 
years. Just long enough to—pray listen, si». 

(To Manuel.) 

Man. I beg your pardon, Madame—I’m all 
attention—I heard. The creature had two ears, 
just long enough- (All laugh.) 

Mad. A. No, no; I said I had him for two years 
—just a sufficient time to love him like a child— 
when he died—died, sir, of one of those diseases 
peculiar to that class of quadruped. 

Man. Children? 

Mad. A. No, sir, donkeys! Dear me, it was— 
umph!—let me see—you must know, sir, what I 
mean? (To Bevannes.) 

Bev. Measles ? 

Mad. A. No, no, but no matter. He died- 

Bov. Peace to his ashes ! But as you were say¬ 
ing, Madame Laroque, there are plenty of horses 
in the stable, and, really, all but ruined for want 
of exercise. 


Des. Yes, that’s what you’ll all be, if you con¬ 
tinue to lounge away the days as you do. 

Mad. L. Ah, Doctor, we’ve missed you dread¬ 

Dcs. What’s the matter—anybody ill ? 

Bev. You ought to have been here just now, 
Doctor; Madame Aubrey has told the most 
touching tale. 

Des. Of a donkey ? I know, I’ve heard it often. 

Bev. But with regard to a horse for M. Manuel. 
There’s Black Harry- 

Des. Black Harry! Nobody can ride the brute ! 
He’s perfectly untameable! Why, De Bevannes, 
you tried it yourself and couldn’t. 

Bev. Ahem ! Oh—ah—yes, but I had no spurs. 

Des. Spurs! Why, you couldn’t even get upon 
his back! 

Bev. Eh—why—no—not exactly—(Aside.) Con¬ 
found him ! 

Man. (To Bevannes.) And is Black Harry so 
very unmanageable ? 

Bev. ’Pon my word I don’t see it. He has an 
insuperable objection to being mounted, but if 
you can get upon his back, and being on his back, 
can keep there, why, of course, it’s a great point 
in your favour. 

Man. (Smiling.) Certainly an important one. 

Des. If yon except a partiality for biting, and 
ditto for kicking, occasionally shying, and always 
prone to running away, he’s a pleasant beast. 

Mar. But such a beauty ! I never saw a horse I 
should like so much to ride, if he were but pro¬ 
perly broken. 

Man. (To Mad. Laroque.) Madame, have I your 
permission ? 

Mad. L. Certainly. (Manuel rings.) 

Bev. (Aside.) What’s he at now ? 

Enter ALAIN, c. 

Man. Tell one of the grooms to saddle Black 

Alain. Sir! 

Des. What? 

Mad. L. No—no- 

Man. (To Alain.) Did you hear my order ? 

Alain. Yes, sir. (dside.) There’ll be work for 
the Doctor to-day. [Ertt, c. 

Bev. (Aside.) Good. 

Man. Pray do not fear, Madame, I have beexi 
used to restive horses. I’ll just make his acquaint¬ 
ance now, and if I can succeed in gaining a small 
portion of his esteem, I will do myself the honour 



of riding him daily until he is fit for yonr 
daughter’s use. 

lies. (To Bevannes.) What the devil made you 
mention that confounded animal P You don’t like 
the new steward, eh P 

Bev. Not particularly. 

I)es. He’s good-looking. 

Bev. Inconveniently. 

Bes. And you want his neck broken ? 

Bev. No. But I should like his nose put out of 

Mad. L. I do not think I ought to permit this. 

(Noise belouv the terrace.) 

Enter ALAIN. 

Alain. The horse is ready, sir. 

Bev. I will lend yon a pair of spurs. Alain, get 
my spurs as you go down. 

Alain. Very well, sir. [Exit, c. 

Mad. L. Let me entreat you, sir. 

Man. I do assure you, there is nothing to fear. 
With your good wishes I am certain of success. 

[Exit douni steps. 

Bes. (On a terrace .) Why, here are all the ser¬ 
vants and grooms. Quite an assemblage. 

(Noise.—Criesof “ Hold him,” “ Quiet, 
sir,” “ Out of the way,” “ Stand 
clear,” &c.— Enter LADIES and 

Des. A nice, quiet animal. (Leans over.) Manuel, 
my dear boy. Sir, if you break yonr leg, you may 
mend it yourself—I won’t. 

Bev. (On a sofa.) Doctor, report progress. 
(Aside.) I’ll bet a thousand francs he doesn’t even 
mount him. 

Mar. (Who has overheard him.) I’ll take that 
bet, sir. 

Bev. Eh ? oh ! as you please, Mademoiselle. 

Bes. By the Lord, lie’s up ! 

(Noise as before—then shout.) 

Bev. In the air P 

Dos. No, in the saddle. (Noise again.) Ah, he’s 
off 1 

Bev. Off the horse ? 

Bes. No; off on a gallop. (Noise gets more 
distant.) Egad ! they’re all scampering after him. 
What’s he doiug now P The ditch ! take care! 

MadL. He’ll be killed. 

Mad A. Oh! oh! (Weeps.) 

Mar. The horse can never do it. 

(Shouts distant.) 

Bes. Ah ! lie’s- 

Bev. In it? 

Bes. No, over it! Back again! (Shouts distant.) 
Here he comes. Egad! Black Harry’s had enough 
of it. (Shouts approach nearer.) 

Mar. (Aside.) There’s some mystery about this 
man. He lias hardly arrived, when all eyes seem 
turned to him. There certainly is a mystery. 

Mile. H. It will be cleared up, Mademoiselle. 

Enter ALAIN. 

Mar. What do you mean ? 

Mile. H. Hush! 

Alain. (To Bevannes.) Your spurs, sir. 

Bev. Oh ! I hope they assisted him. 

Alain. Didn’t want ’em, sir. 

(Great shouting below.—The ladies, who 
have been witnessing the ride, crowd 
upon the terrace, waving their hand¬ 
kerchiefs, and appear surrounding 
and congratulating MANUEL as he 
comes on up steps.) 

Bes. (To Bevannes.) Somebody’s nose is out of 


Lapse of Three Months. 


The Parle of the Chateau Laroque. ALAIN dis¬ 
covered arranging Portfol io and Brawing materials. 

Bank, it. h. 

Alain. Now, really I do thank Madame for de¬ 
puting me to wait, more especially on Monsieur 
Manuel. Steward, or no steward, he’s a perfect 
gentleman ; of that there can’t be a doubt. What 
a pity is that Mademoiselle Marguerite and he 
don’t like one another. When he says white, she 
says black. When she goes one way, he goes an¬ 
other, yet everybody else likes him. Mile. Ho- 
louin, our governess, is absolutely in love w 7 ith 
him, and the wonderful influence he has obtained 
over old Mons. Laroque in this short time, is un¬ 
accountable. He has hardly been here three 
months, and they say that all the money will be 
left according to his advice—but that’s going 
rather far, even for gossip. Well, now', his drawing 
materials are all ready for him, and—here he is to 
employ them. 

Enter MANUEL. 

Man. Alain, did you, by chance, pick up a half 
finished letter anywhere in my room P 

Alain. No, sir. 

Man. Strange ! I commenced it yesterday, and 
left it on my table, intending to finish it this morn¬ 
ing. I have searched the room thoroughly, and it 
is nowhere to be found. 

Alain. Was it of much importance? 

Man. Merely inasmuch as it related to family 
and business matters. It was for the Doctor, in 
case he should call when I was from home. How¬ 
ever, let it go. I’ll write another when I return. 
(Sits down and prepares drawing materials.) Did 
not Mademoiselle Marguerite go out on horseback 
yesterday alone P » 

Alain. Yes, sir. 

Man. How was it you did not follow her, as 
usual ? 

Alain. Oh, sir, she often goes without me. She’s 
a capital rider, and she says, to be alone sometimes, 
makes her feel more self-dependent, and yon know, 
sir, it won’t do to contradict her, for though a 
charitable, kind-hearted young lady, she’s rather 
wilful, and terribly proud. 

Man. Somewhat, perhaps, but her general man¬ 
ner appears to be more the result of a sad and 
gloomy thoughtfulness, than mere pride. 

Alain. Ah, well, I suppose, sir, that, like most 
young ladies of her age, she’s a little bit in love. 

Man. In love ? 

Alain. Yes, sir, Monsieur de Bevannes has been 
paying her great attention for some time past, aud 
it would be a grand match, for, after Monsieur 
Laroque, he is the richest’gentleman in the neigh¬ 
bourhood, and of excellent family. Ah, sir, what 
a pity it is you are not rich. 

Man. Why so, Alain ? 

Alain. Because—no matter. Have you any 
orders for me, sir P 

Man. Merely to have a good look for that letter 
when you go to my room. 

Alain. I certaiuly will, sir. [Erft L. u. s. 


Man. Married—married—aud to him. Well, and 
why not P Fool that I am! Despite of all that 
should preserve and fence my heart as with a wall 
of steel, from every impulse which could induce 
forgetfulness of my bitter lot, and the one sacred 
object of my life, still will that coward heart in¬ 
dulge in dreams—wild dreams of one day laying its 
most precious offerings at the feet which would but 
spurn them. 

Enter MADEMOISELLE HELOUIN, with basket. 

But I will conquer yet, and if the struggle be hard, 
the victory will be the more worthy . 

Mile. H. (Aside.) He is alone. Hitherto, I have 
kept his secret well; whether I will continue silent, 
depends upon himself. Courage, and the poor 
hireling may yet be a Marchioness. ( Comes down 
to him.) Oh, Monsieur Manuel, how beautiful that 
is! Yon see, while you have been painting the 
woods, I have been gathering flowers. You know 
we have a ball to-night. 

Man. Indeed P I was not aware of it. 

Mile. M. You positively don’t seem to know or 
care about anything that goes on. You are worse 

than indifferent, you are unsociable- 

Man. Pardon me, not unsociable. But I know 
my station, and think it better not to risk being 
reminded of it. 

MUe. H. (After a pause.) Monsieur Manuel. 

Man. Mademoiselle. 

Mile. H. Have I ever offended you ? 

Man. No. indeed. 

Mile. H. I have been vaiu enough to think, at 
times, that you had some friendly feeling for me. 

Man. And so I have. It is but natural. Our 
fortunes and positions are the same, or nearly so. 
Both dependent on the caprices of those who em¬ 
ploy us, both alone, friendless. This should create 
sympathy at least, if not friendship. 

Mile. H. You would not fear, then, to tell me of 
my faults P 

Man. Not if yon desired it. 

Mile. H. Indeed I do desire it. 

Man. But I only know of one. 

Mile. H. Pray name it. Nay, I shall receive it 
as a kindness 

Man. Well, then I think you admit and encou¬ 
rage somewhat too great a familiarity with the 
family in whose employment we are. Your motives 
may be, indeed, I’m sure they are, perfectly inno¬ 
cent; still they will not be so considered, for in 
this world the unfortunate are always suspected. 

Mile. II. True, tme. Spoken with a delicacy 
and candour all your own—I thank you sincerely 
—aud you will always continue as now—my true 
friend F 

Man. I shall feel honoured in the title. 

Mile. H. A true—a dear friend F 
Man. (Aside.) What is she driving at F 
Mile. H. A friend that loves me F 
Man. (Aside.) Hallo! we’re getting tender ! 

Mile. If. A friend that loves me, ardently—do 
you hear F 
Man. Distinctly. 

Mile. U. And do you comprehend F 
Man. ( Half aside.) I’m af: aid I do. 

Mile. H. Do you remember the old nursery 

“ Pluck from the flower its leafy store— 
Love me little, love me more ; 

Hearts change owners, yet combine, 

If mine is yours, aud yours is mine.” 

Come, now, let us see if yon know w'hich line 
should be yours. Shall I commence F 

Man. If you please. 

Mile. H 

“ Pluck from the flower its leafy store— 

(A pause.) 

Love me little, love mo more; (A pause.) 

Hearts change owners, yet combine. 


Man. I respectfully decline.” 

Mile. II. (Throwing away the flower, which she 
has been picking to pieces.) Then, sir 

Secs BEVANNES, who enters, L. 

Indeed, I could look at it all day—it is so beauti- 
ful!—but I positively must go. Monsieur, au 
revoir. (Aside to Manuel, as she goes.) ^ You have 
misunderstood me. \_Exil, L. u. E. 

Man. Have I F Then I must be a greater fool 
than I thought. 

Bev. (Aside.) Pretty close quarters. What the 
deuce is that goverucss after F Aud now for a 
little scientific pumping. (Comes down.) Ah, 
Monsieur Manuel, at your drawing, eh F Beauti¬ 
ful—beautiful, indeed! 

Man. You flatter. 

Bev. Not at all—but to change the subject—by 
the bye, do I interrupt your w r ork F 

Man. Not in the least. 

Bev. Well, I was going to compliment yon on the 
vast affection and confidence you have inspired iu 
poor old Laroque. 

Man. I believe he really has a kindly regard for 

Bev. Regard! my dear sir, yon are absolutely 
wouud around his heart. His affection for his 
granddaughter is very great, but no one has the 
influence over him that you have. Now, in the 
strictest confidence, I’m going to be very frank 
with you—and mark me well, yon will find it not 
to your disadvantage hereafter, if you are equally 
frank with me. 

Man. Really, I don’t quite-- 

Bev. No; but you will presently. Without 
flattery, I think yon- 

Man. (Referring to his picture.) Too green. 

Bev. EhF Oh! exactly. I was about to say I 
think you, in every way, a gentleman, therefore I 
don’t hesitate to confide in you the fact that 
yesterday, after dinner, I was just- 

Man. (To picture.) A little blue. 

Bev. EhF Oh, precisely. I was just on the 
point of proposing to Madame Laroque for her 
daughter’s hand, when it suddenly struck me that 
I should possess a double claim, if I could, in the 
first place, influence you enough in the young 
lady’s favour to make it certain that the bulk of 
Monsieur Laroque’s property would be left to her. 

Man. Monsieur Bevannes, you really very much 

Bev. Pray forgive me, but you hardly know your¬ 
self the importance of your good offices iu this 
matter. I was going on to say that my marriage 
with Marguerite was almost a settled affair, aud, 
of course, it is my duty to promote her interests in 
every possible way. I think you must concedt 
that P 

Man. Surely, but- 

Bev. Permit me. Now 7 I wish to call to your- 
mind that Madame Laroque, though a w r orthy, ex¬ 
cellent woman, is one of very simple tastes and 
habits, and, should too large a portion of the 
property bo left to her, it would tax and em- 



barrass her to an extent that would be painful to 
my feelings. I hope you appreciate my dis¬ 
interestedness in the matter. 

Man. Oh, thoroughly! Bnt I am still at a loss 
to imagine where my interference would be either 
necessary or effectual. 

Bev. My dear friend- 

Man. (Aside.) Now he’s getting tender. 

Bev. One word from you as to the proper dis¬ 
position of the money would- 

Man. Monsieur de Bevannes, let me end this at 
once by telling you that, in my opinion, any inter¬ 
ference from me in the family affairs of M. Laroque 
would be a gross and unseemly abuse of his con¬ 

Bev. And this is the return yon make for mine? 

Man. I did not solicit it, sir. 

Bev. Sir, permit me to take your hand. 

Man. Really— 

Bev. You have stood the test—you are a noble 

fellow! You are- 

(Aside.) There’s Mrs. Waterspout, by Jove! 
(Aloud.) You seem puzzled at my manner—I will 
take another opportunity of explaining. Suffice it 
now to say yon have misunderstood me. [Exit, l. 

Man. My understanding seems to be terribly at 
fault to-day. 

Mad A. (Aside.) De Bevannes has left him. A 
good opportunity for me. (Comes down.) Beau¬ 
tiful ! Exquisite indeed! 

Man. Madame- 

Mad. A. Truly, each new picture you finish is 
more lovely than the last. Oh ! (Weeps.) 

Man. What is the matter ? 

Mad. A. The painting of that sheep’s head- 

Man. Yes, Madame- 

Mad. A. Reminds me of my own portrait, taken 
in happier years, long passed away. 

Man. But there are as happy ones in store for 
you, I hope. 

Mad. A. That will depend greatly on you, Mon¬ 
sieur Manuel. 

Man. On me 1 

Mad. A. Yes. Do you know, Monsieur Manuel, 
that I find my poor cousin Laroque very much 

Man. Indeed, he is! 

Mad. A. And for the worse. In fact he appears 
to me to be sinking fast. 

Man. I’m afraid snch is the case. 

Mad. A. How fond he is of you—you, it is well 
known, possess his entire confidence. 

Man. A. I have been fortunate enough to make 
my poor services acceptable to him. 

Mad. Now, just between ourselves, in the 
strictest confidence; do you happen to be aware 
how the property will be left ? 

Man. I do not, Madame. 

Mad. A. I am in a state of painful apprehension, 
lest the dear old gentleman should over-estimate 
the desires and requirements of Madame Laroque, 
and should, therefore, curtail any little legacy 
coming to me, to make her portion larger, which 
would-be absolutely throwing money away. I 
hope you understand my entu-e want of selfishness 
in this matter!' 

Man. I think I do. 

Mad. A. I was sure yon would. Now, if you will 
use your power and settle this affair to my 
advantage, all I can say is, so noble an action would 
not go unrewarded. 

Man. I should hope not. 

Mad. A. You will find me substantially grate¬ 
ful ; you understand me ? 

Man. Entirely. 

Mad. A. And I yon ? 

Man. Not quite; but in order that you may—I 
must tell you, Madame—that when you offer mo 
money to rob your benefactor, and mine, you 
entirely and totally mistake the person you are 

Mad. A. Oh / oh! (Weeps.) 

Man. It grieves me to be so abrupt, but- 

Mad. A. It is not that, it is not that—but, to 
be thought capable of such—to be accused—oh, 
sir! you have cruelly misunderstood me. 

[Exit, weeping, L. h. 

Man. Another misunderstanding! That makes 
three friends I have secured this morning. One or 
two more of the same sort, and my business here 
will soon be finished. 


Man. Here comes the first misunderstanding 

Mile. H. M. Manuel, I thought you might like 
to know that the Doctor has just arrived- 

Man. Thank you—I’ll go to him at once. 

[Exit, h. h. 

Mile. H. So eager to avoid me Have a care, my 
lord Maiquis—spite of my insignificance, you may 
learn to rue the day you made me conscious of it. 

Enter BEVANNES, L. h. 

And here is one on whom, if I don’t very much 
mistake, I may rely for aid. 

Bev. Upon my honour, Mademoiselle, you make 
quite a pretty picture—a wood nymph’s reverie ; a 
sweet subject, now, for the pencil of our friend, 
the steward. 

Mile. H. Our friend, the steward, as you term 
him, has loftier subjects for his pictures, either 
aerial or substantial. 

Bev. Really! 

Mile. H. And in the former quality his aspira¬ 
tions are sublime 

Bev. Mademoiselle, you are an entertaining 
person, but I never guessed a conundrum in my 

Mile. H. In plain terms, then, this romantic 
gentleman aspires to create an interest in the 
heart of Marguerite. 

Bev. Oh, come! I can stand a great deal, but 
that’s rather too good. 

Mile. El. But if I can prove it ? 

Bev. The thing is too absurd. 

Mile. H. I have just parted from Madame 

Bev. I congratulate you. 

Mile. H. You jest, M. de Bevannes, but you 
may one day wake to find the steward rather a 
dangerous person. Madame Aubrey has picked 
up a letter of his, which was blown out of the win¬ 
dow of his room, into the park. Would you like 
to see it ? 

Bev. Mademoiselle, I don’t pretend to more 
virtue than my neighbours, but if I can only get 
at facts by reading another man’s letters, I’m 
afraid I shall remain in ignorance. 

Mile. IT. Marguerite is coming. Would you 
like to hear the communication I have to make ? 

Bev. The contents of the letter ? 

Mile. U. No, but still a somewhat startling 



Bev. On the whole, I think I’ll take iny depar¬ 
ture ; for when there’s mischief to be concocted, 
and two women to brew it, it would be the grossest 
vanity in any man to think he could improve the 
cookery. [Exit. 

Mila. II. Now if I can instill but one small 
drop of the poison called suspicion, her proud, im¬ 
petuous spirit will complete the work itself. 

Enter MARGUERITE, L. n. 

Mar. Really, a very tonching scene. The affec¬ 
tion existing between the good doctor and our 
steward is remarkable. If he had been M. Manuel’s 
father, he could hardly have been mere cordially 

Mile. U. And I assure you that M. Manuel’s 
father could not serve him at this moment as the 
doctor can. 

Mar. My dear governess, you seem to know more 
of this young man than you choose to reveal. I 
remember well your mysterious words to me the 
day he first rode and conquered that horse. 

Mile. H. Perhaps I have been to blame for having 
remained silent so long. But right or wrong, I 
have, until now, looked upon it as a duty to keep 
this person’s secret inviolate. 

Mar. His secret! 

Mile. H. Nor would I reveal it now, but that his 
base intentions are no longer doubtful, and silence 
would be criminal. However, I must exact your 
promise that the knowledge of it shall remain, for 
the present, between ourselves. 

Mar. You have my word. Proceed. 

Mile. H. Four years ago, when you were in Paris 
—you are aware that I was in the habit of visiting 
some of my old frends at my former school ? 

Mar. I remember. 

Mile. H. Well, I often saw there this very M. 
Manuel. He visited the school to see his little 
sister. His father was the well-known Marquis de 

Mar. Ah! 

Mile. U. It was the talk of the school that the 
family were even then much reduced. Now, they 
are totally ruined. The father is dead, and the 
son has, through the good offices of a friend, been 
placed in a position to regain the fortune he has 
lost. By what means I leave to your penetration 
to discover. 

Mar. And is it so ? (A pause.) But, after all, 
the conduct of this young man in no way justifies 
suspicion. I see him but seldom. In truth, he 
actually avoids me. 

Mile. H. Of course he does. Reserve creates in¬ 
quiry, inquiry interest. Oh, he has been well 

tutored. . 

Mar. Enough. I thank you sincerely for the 
warning. But relieve your mind of all anxiety; I 
shall know how to deal with this conscientious 
gentleman, be assured. 

Mile. H. Indeed I feel the happier that I have at 
last confided this fact to you. Ah, my child, to 
what snares, what treachery, what deceit, does the 
possession of wealth expose the innocent, The 
thought of them makes the poor governess almost 
contented with her humble lot. Come, shall we 
walk towards the house P As we go, I shall be 
able to bring to your recollection many circum¬ 
stances, trifling in themselves, but which, when 
considered in connection with what I have now 

told you, will serve to bring full conviction to 

your mind. . , , . 

[Exeunt Marguerite, leaving her basket 
of flowers on the bank, l. h. 1 e. 

Enter MANUEL, L. h. d. e. 

Man. And now, having enjoyed the honour of a 
tete-a-tete with each of those most interested m 
inquiring into matters upon which I m strictly 
determined to be silent, I presume I shall be per¬ 
mitted to coutinue my work undisturbed. 

(He has reseated himself at his drawing.) 

MARGUERITE re-enters to Jind her basket. He 

rises. She merely looks haughtily at hint, and, in 

carrying off the basket, lets a rose Jail on the 


Man. Really her manner is more than haughty. 
’Tis almost rude. (He picks up the Jlower.) I 
suppose now, she’d grudge me this poor flower, 
yet who, though loving wildly and hopelessly as I 
do, would not think it a fair prize? No, I will 
return it. I will not be guilty of one action which 
shall give my heart the power to whisper “ Thus 
shoula’st thou not have done.” 

Re-enter MARGUERITE, L. 1 E. 

Mar. (Aside.) As I supposed. Have the kindness, 
sir, to return me that flower. I am not in the 
habit of presenting bouquets to—gentlemen. 

Man. Under which conviction, Mademoiselle, I 
was on the point of bringing it to you. 

Mar. (Aside.) Oh! for some way to make him 
feel how I despise him. Do you know, M. Manuel, 
seeing so little of you lately, I was under the im¬ 
pression that death had deprived us of another 

Man. Highly flattered that you should conde¬ 
scend to be under any impressions concerning so 
insignificant a person. 

Mar. I thought that so gifted a gentleman 
could hardly do anything without a motiye, and 
and now I am informed that your absence is at¬ 
tributable to the fact that you spend all your 
evenings with our noble relative, Mademoiselle 

Man. I certainly do, and I deny myself that 
pleasure the less because the lady happens to be 
old enough to be my grandmother. Her ancestors 
reigned here formerly, and she—the last of a 
noble race—poor and infirm, bears so well the 
dignity of her name, her age, and her misfortunes, 
that I feel almost a filial affection for her. Be¬ 
sides, it was your mother who first introduced me 
to her. 

Mar. Oh! no one means to reproach you ; on the 
contrary, I daresay Madame Laroque is obliged to 
you for your attention to the good old lady. 

Man. You may remember, too, it was your 

Mar. Oh, if you want praise or admiration from 
me, you must be content to w'ait. Though young, 
I have some experience of life. I know that there 
are two motives to most human actions. I know 
that Mile. Delonnais has a small independence. I 
know she has no heir, therefore a little extra at¬ 
tention and- 

Man. Mademoiselle, permit me to express for 
you my sincere pity. 

Mar. Sir! 

Man. Permit me to express for you my sincere 

Mar. Your pity ? 



Man. Yes, Madame—if unjust suspicion be the 
bitter fruit of experience in one so young. No¬ 
thing can merit more compassion than a heart 
withered by misbelief, almost before it has begun 
to exist. 

Mar. Are you aware of what you say, sir ? Are 
you aware to whom you speak ? 

Man. Entirely conscious. Mademoiselle, of both. 

Mar. (Bitterly.) Perhaps you expect me to ask 
your pardon ? 

Man. Assuredly I do. Wealth can afford to 
humble itself—poverty cannot. 

Mar. (As she is going, turns with a haughty 
humiltiy.) Then, sir, I ask your pardon. 

[Exit, L. 1 E. 

Man. Oh ! my sister, my darling Rose ! It needs 
all my love for thee to make endurance of these in¬ 
sults less than cowardice! Coldness and anti¬ 
pathy have increased to absolute hate and persecu¬ 
tion. She is determined to drive me hence. She 

will succeed at last, and then- 


Ah! my dear Doctor! 

Bes. I’ve eaten some lnnch, had the dust brushed 
off, and now I’m going to brush some more on. 

Man. How so ? 

Bes. Just got a letter—patient very sick— 
twenty miles ride there and back. Pleasant life, 
a doctor’s. 

Man. Where is it ? 

Bes. About four miles beyond the ruins of Elfeu. 

Man. The ruins of Elfen. 

Bes. Yes ; bnt what’s the matter with you ? you 
look feverish and queer. Anything wrong between 
you and the family P 

Man. Why, no. But-- 

Bes. But—what? They tell me you’re quite a 
great man here—old Laroque can’t live without 
you—angry because you don’t spend all your 
evenings at the Chateau—and the ladies, without 
exception, are crazy about you. 

Man. Pardon me—there’s one important excep¬ 
tion—Mile. Marguerite. 

Bes. What the devil! You don’t mean to tell 
me you can’t agree with her. 

Man. I do assure you—she loses no opportunity 
to humiliate, and even openly insult me. Indeed, 
it has lately become insufferable—so that I am 
going to tax your friendship once more, to seek for 
me some other employment. 

Bes. Now don’t be hasty, my dear boy. By 
Jove! here she comes—no she don’t—she perceives 
you—and there she goes. She don’t escape me 

Man. Nay, my dear Doctor, I beg of you- 

Des. Stuff ! nonsense ! I’ll just give her a piece 
of my mind. f Exit, l. 1 e. 

Man. I very much fear the Doctor’s zeal in my 
cause will lead him into trouble with this proud 
girl—but I am resolved. Here I will not, can not 
remain. Rose, my darling, thy marriage dowry 
must be sought and won elsewhere. I will at once 
visit my poor old friend, and say farewell. Mar¬ 
guerite I will see no more—no faltering now—a 
good resolve once taken, action should be speedy. 
To-night the horse I have almost learned to love, 
because she would one day ride him, shall V>ear me 
for the last time. [Exit R. H. 

The DOCTOR and MARGUERITE are heard out¬ 
side—then enter. 

Bes, Can’t help it, if 1 do offend you. The young 
man is my friend- 

Mar. Doctor- 

Bes. My friend, Mademoiselle— and I never de¬ 
sert a friend, even though he has incurred the dis¬ 
pleasure of your proud ladyship. 

Mar. Do you not regard me as a friend ? 

Bes. I should rather think so ; known you since 
you were a baby ; disposition altered since 

Mar. For the better ? 

Bes. Don’t know that. When yon are angry now 
it’s a storm —then it was only a squall. 

Mar. This is no jesting matter. Doctor Des- 
marets, I have always considered you a man of 

Bes. Much obliged to you. I’ve been under the 
same impression myself. 

Mar. What then is the meaning of this plot p 

Bes. Plot! 

Mar. This young man, this steward you have so 
kindly supplied us with, he has been recognised. 
He is known! 

Bes. Well, suppose he is ; what of it ? 

Mar. Why does he bear a false name ? 

Bes. He don’t. 

Mar. Doctor- 

Bes. Manuel is his Christian name. I suppose 
he may make what use of it he pleases. Whether 
he puts it first or last, is nobody’s business but 
his own. 

Mar. His motive ? 

Bes. His motive, Mademoiselle, is worthy of 
himself, and proceeds from a sense of honest 
pride, which many would do well to imitate. He 
is a gentleman, and a man of honour, reduced to 
sudden poverty, and compelled to labour for a 
livelihood. Now, I’m not acute enough to per¬ 
ceive any plot in all this. But I do perceive that 
you are doing your best to dxfive him from this 

Mar. Doctor, your word is enough. I believe 
you, and I thank you. Ob, it is so sad to look 
only on the gloomy side of things. I thank you 
so much, and never liked you half so well as 1 do 

(While speaking this speech, she searches 
for the rose she has taken from 
Manuel, and, on Jinding it, places it 
in her bosom.) 

Bes. No! 

Mar. No! 

Des. What a pity- 

Mar. Eh? 

Bes. That I can’t stay to luxuriate in your 
friendship. I have only time to say good-bye to 
your mother, then I must be off. 

Mar. Well, now, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. To 
prove I’m in earnest, I’m going to take my horse, 
and bear you company part of the way. 

Bes. My child, it will be dark before* I get there. 

Mar. But there’ll be a lovely moon, and I want 
to see the ruined tower of Elfen by moonlight. 
So say no more, for I’m resolved. 

Bes. Well, my experience, professional and per¬ 
sonal, has taught me that when a woman is deter¬ 

l v. E. 

Mad. L. You are right, my dear Bevannes, I con¬ 
fess it. 

Bev. Oh, there is no doubt he is, absolute per¬ 
fection, the rara avis, so long sought for, found at 



Mad. L. Laugh as yon please, I positively adore 

Bcv. You’ll ask me to the wedding, I hope ? 

Mad. L. Go along with you. Well, my child, 
have you persuaded that obstinate man to stay till 
morning ? 

Des. That obstinate man regrets he must go 
within the hour. 

Alain. (Without.) Go away, you troublesome 
little thing! 

Enter CHRISTINE and ALAIN, R. h. u. e. 

Mad. L. What’s the matter Y 

Alain. This little girl will insist on searching 
the park for some gentleman she wishes to see, 
belonging to the Chateau. 

Mad. L. That will do—leave her here. 

[E.vit Alain, R. H. 

Bcv. Now, small specimen of rustic humanity, 
what do yon want? 

Mad. L. What is your name, little one ? 

Chris. Christine, Madame. My grandfather- 

Bcv. Never mind your pedigree—which of us do 
you want Y 

Mad. L. Be quiet. Well, my dear ? 

Chris. My grandfather is very old and blind, if 
you please, and—and—oh ! I want to see the nice, 
good gentleman. 

Des. Bevannes, she don’t want you. 

Chris. The handsome gentleman. 

Bev. Doctor, she don’t want you. 

Chris. Please, Madame, may I tell you what 
happened yesterday ? 

Mad. L. Yes, child, go on. 

Chris. My grandfather has a dog that leads him 
ibout—poor old Spot—such a pet- 

Enter MADAME AUBREY, L. h. u. e. 

Mad. A. A pet 1 are you talking of a pet ? 

Bev. Yes; but don’t weep, Madame—it isn’t a 
donkey. Go on, little girl. 

Chris. Well, yesterday, we three—grandfather, 
Spot, and I, were sitting near the stream, in the 
village, by the mill-dam, when some wicked boys— 
oh 1 such dreadful wicked boys, came by. They 
seized poor Spot and threw him into the water. 
He was nearly being crushed by the mill-wheel, 
when a dear, kind gentleman, who was riding by 
on a beautiful black horse- 

Enter MANUEL, R. H. 

Oh ! there he is. Oh, sir ! I’m so glad I’ve found 

Man. (Aside.) Oh, confound it 1 what brings you 
here, you little pest ? 

Chris. Don’t be angry, sir—yon rode away so 
fast, yesterday, I had no time to thank you, and I 
wish to do so now. 

Bev. Beautiful subject for a nautical drama: 
“ The Desperate Diver; or, The Drowning Dog of 
the Dam.” 

Man. Ridiculous enough, I admit. However, I 
did jump into the water after poor Spot. 

Chris. You did, you did, indeed! Ah! sir (To 
Bevannes) , you laugh—but perhaps, if you were old 
and blind, you wouldn’t think it such a joke. 

Bev. I assure you, my dear, it would have given 
me infinite pleasure to have saved your dog. 

Dcs. You save a dog ? Why, you can’t swim. 

(All laugh. 

Bev. Here are ten francs, child, go away. 

Chris. And now, sir— (To Manuel) — I’ll go 
directly, if you give me just one one kiss. 

Man. (Angrily.) Upon my word- 

Mud. L. Now I insist upon it you do. Poor little 
thing, I’m snre she deserves it. 

Man. (Laughing ) Well,then— (Kissesher) —now, 
go home, there’s a dear. 

Chris. Oh! I will, I will; good-bye. 

Mad. L. Well, haven’t you got one. for mo ? 
Claris. Oh, dear, yes, Madame. (Kisses Mad. L.) 
Bev. You’re forgetting your money. 

Chris. Oh, dear no, sir. . 

(Takes it and curtsies. 

Bev. Now a kiss for me ? 

Chris. Oh, dear, no, sir. 

(Curtsies and exits.—All laugh except 
Madame Aubrey. 

Mad. A. Oh ! (Weeps. 

Bev. Weeping for my disappointment, Madame? 
Mad. A. No—sir—no. 

Mad. L. A most interesting little girl. 

Mad. A. That’s it, that’s it. She reminds me of 
a circumstance that occurred in my youth, before 

my marriage. You must know I had a little- 

Des. Hallo! (Takes Marguerite hastily up stage.) 
Bev. Ahem ! (Takes Madame Baroque.) 

Mad. A. Eh! What! (Calling after them as 
they go off.) You don’t understand me! A little 
niece —Oh! this too dreadful! 

(Sinks into chair.) 


Interior of a room in the Tourer of Elfcn. A large 
breach in the wall at back, through which the 
distant country is dimly seen. Night coming on. 
YVONNET discovered upon the balcony, listening. 
Singing in the distance. When the singing is done, 
enter MANUEL. 

Man. What are you at there, my good fellow ? 
Yvonnet. (Startled.) I was listening to the sing¬ 
ing, sir. 

Man. Who are the singers ? 

Yvon. The reapers, sir, returning home. 

Man. Yon, I suppose, are the keeper of these 
ruins ? 

Yvon. Yes, sir. I am the shepherd that minds 
the sheep, and shows the tower to strangers. 

(Shows key.) 

Man. (Giving money.) There. 

Yvon. Thank you, sir. 

Man. Are you never afraid here, all alone ? 
Yvon. Afraid! No, indeed—that is, not in the 

day-time, but at night- 

Man. Ah, ah! then you have fairies, or spirits, 
or ghosts here, eh ? 

Yvon. (Disdainfully.) Sir, do you take me for a 
superstitious fool ? It’s all very well for people 

who don't know any better, but I- 

Man. Then yon do not believe in anything of the 
kind Y 

Yvon. I should think not, indeed. But if you 
come to talk about the white lady, that’s quite 
another matter. 

Man. Oh ! so there’s a white lady, is there ? 
Trim. Yes, sir, there is indeed, and she walks 
about on the top of that tower over there, and 
where there are no stairs cithev. But she is never 
seen in the day, only in the night, when it is quite 

Man. (Laughing.) Yes, she is seen when it ia 
too dark to see. 


Yvon. (Looking out.) Ah, confound those sheep, 
at their old tricks again. (Shouts.) Hi! hi! I 
don’t believe there’s such a troublesome set of 
brutes in the whole country, always climbing 
where they have no business. Hi! hi! 

(Throws a stone.) 

Man. Why don’t you jump down there ? 

Yvon. Try it yourself, if you want to break your 
neck, my fine gentleman. Are you going to stay 
long ? It is getting late. 

Man. Don’t be uneasy, I shall go presently. 

Yvon. The sooner the better. I ain’t a coward, 
but I feel more comfortable away from here. 

[Krit R. 

Man. This is a fine old ruin. How is it that I 
have never found it out before ? I must bring my 
sketch-book here some day. Alas ! I forgot that 
for me there is no future here, to-morro.w—’Tis 
but a sad farewell that I must bid the scenes I had 
begun to love so well. Wretched heart! Is it, 
then, because reason, honour, everything, forbids 
my loving her that—Ah ! were I not the guardian 
of an existence more precious than my own, I 
should long ago have fled this torture ! (Goes up.) 


Mar. This is most fortunate, when the moon 
rises the view will be charming. (Suddenly sees 
Manuel.) Sir, I beg your pardon, I was not aware 
indeed (Going.) 

Man. Excuse me, Mademoiselle, I am not at 
home here—permit me to retire. (Going.) 

Mar. (Crossing.) Stay, sir. As we happen to be 
alone, will you answer me fully and frankly, one 
question ? They tell me my manner towards you 
is abrupt, unkind, even at times, offensive. 

Man. I have never complained. 

Mar. But you would leave us ? 

Man. Mademoiselle. 

Mar. And they say that I am the cause. Your 
departure, sir, would occasion my mother sincere 
sorrow, which I am anxious to spare her, if it be 
in my power; but I am at a loss to know what 
explanation to make you. What am I to say P—that 
the language which has offended you is not always 
sincere; that perhaps, after all, I myself can 
appreciate joys and pleasures more exalted than 
those which the mere possession of wealth can 
give. Well, it is possible—but am I so much to 
blame, that I use my powers to stifle thoughts 
which are forbidden me. 

Man. Forbidden ? 

Mar. Yes, forbidden. It may, perhaps, appear 
like affectation to complain of a destiny which so 
many envy—but, like my mother, I believe that 
were I less rich I should be the more happy. You 
have reproached me with my continual distrust. 
But in whom can I trust? I, who from my in¬ 
fancy have been surrounded—do I not know it too 
well ?—but by false friends, grasping relatives, 
and suspicious suitors! Do you suppose that I 
am weak and foolish enough to attribute to my 
own attractions, the care, the solicitude, with 
which so many of these parasites surx-ound me; 
and even if a pure and noble heart (should such 
a thing exist in this world) were capable of seek¬ 
ing and loving me for what I am— not for what I 
have— I should never know it—(With meaning)— 
for I should never dare the risk ! And this is why I 
shun, repulse, almost hate all that is beautiful and 
good—all that speaks to me of that heaven, which 
is, alas! forbidden me. (The reapers are again 

heard singing in the distance — w th emotion and in 
an undertone.) What is that ? 

(Listens—lets her head fall upon her 
hands, and weeps.) 

Man. Tears! 

Mar. (With transport.) Well, yes, I can weep. 
Enough—I did not intend, sir, to burthen yon with 
so much of my confidence; but now you know me 
better. You see I have a heart, and if ever I have 
wounded yours, I hope you will forgive me. (Gives 
her hand, which he kisses, respectfully.) See; the 
pledge of our friendship shall be this flower, which 
I rudely demanded from you this morning. (Gives 
rose.) Now let us go (returning), and never let 
this subject be revived between us. 

Man. Never! 

Mar. But before I go, I must see the view from 
yonder height. 

Man. I beg you will not venture—do not run 
such a risk. 

Mar. Oh ! I am not afraid. 

Man. At least take my hand, then. 

(She mounts the platform outside of the 
window. It begins to grow dark.) 

Mar. The height is fearful, but the view is very 
beautiful. I could gaze on it for ever. 

Enter YVONNET. He looks round without seeing 

Yvon. Ah! he’s gone at last. I sha’n’t be long 
in following him ; I don’t like this place. 

[Exit, locking door after him. 

Night comes on, the moon lighting the scene beyond. 

MARGUERITE comes down from tower, aided by 


Mar. There comes the night, in good earnest; 
fortunately, the moon will help us to regain our 
horses. Gome, sir, let us hasten. 

(Low music from orchestra. Manuel 
tries to open door.) 

Man. That stupid fellow has fastened it while 
we were upon the tower. 

Mar. (Anxiously.) Call to him, he cannot be far 

Man. (Upon platform.) Hallo! Come back, will 
you? Now he sees me, but he only runs the 
faster—takes me for the white lady, I suppose. 
Confound the fool! 

Mar. (Looking abou*.) No other means of egress! 
What is to be done ?—they will die with anxiety at 

Man. Stay! I can descend by those trees, per¬ 

Mar. ’Tis useless—there is an enclosed court¬ 
yard below. 

Man. It is in vaiu—this door resists all my 
efforts. I know not what to do. 

(While Marguerite has gone upon plat¬ 

Mar. Great Heaven! I see it all. (To Manuel, 
with restrained passion.) Marquis de Champcey ! 

Man. (Turns quickly.) My name ! 

Mar. (Slowly.) You boast a long ancestral 
descent. Pray tell me, sir, are you the first 
coward of your name ? 

Man. Madame! 

Mar. (Violently.) It is you— i/ou who have 
bribed this boy to imprison us here! 

Man. Merciful Heavens! 

Mar. Ah, I comprehend your purpose, I under¬ 
stand it all. To-morrow this accident will be 



noised abroad; the over-ready tongue of scandal 
will be busy with my uame, a name which, if less 
ancient than your own, is full as stainless, and 
you trust to my despair to make me yours! But 
this vile trick which crowns all your base manoeu¬ 
vring, I will thwart. I tell you, sir, that I would 
incur the world’s contempt, the cloister, anything 
—even death itself—rather than the disgrace, the 
ignominy, the shame, of uniting my life to yonrs ! 

' Man. (Calmly.) I entreat you to be calm. Call 
reason to your aid. I understand and respect your 
distress, but let not your anxiety prompt you to 
do me wrong. Consider ! How could I have pre¬ 
pared such a snare, and even were it in my power, 
how have I ever given you tho right to think me 
capable of such baseness ? 

Mar. (Passing, h.) All that I know of you gives 
me that right. For what purpose do you enter 
our house under a false name, in a false character ? 
We were happy before you came. Yon have 
brought us sorrow, misery, which we dreamed not 
of. To attain your object, to repair the breach iu 
your fortune, you have usurped our confidence, 
sported with our purest and most holy sentiments. 
Have I not seen all this ? And when you now 
pledge to me your honour—that honour which was 
too °poor and weak to save yon from these un¬ 
worthy actions—have I not reason to doubt! Have 
I not the right to 3Com and disbelieve. 

Man. Marguerite, listen to me! I love you, it 
is true, and never did love more ardent, more dis¬ 
interested, more holy, live in the heart of man. 
But here, with the eyes of Heaven upon us, I 
swear that, if I outlive this night, all beloved as 
you are, were you upon your knees at my feet, 
never would I accept a fortune at your hand. 
Never! My heart is yours, yours to break, to 
crush, to trample in the dust, if it so please you, 
but my honour, Madame, is my own, and that I 
will preserve. And now pray—pray for a miracle. 
It is time. (Runs to tower.) 

Mar. What would you do ? God of mercy! You 
shall not—you shall not! 

Man. Think, Marguerite, your name! 

Mar. You shall not! Forgive me ! If you love 
me, forget what I have said, for pity’s sake, for 

Man. (Disengaging himself.) Loose your hold. 

(He repulses her, and leaps upon tower. 
Singing heard afar off.) 

Mar. (Falling on her lenees.) Manuel! Manuel! 
Madman ! hear me. It is death ! 

Mad. It is honour! 

(Throws himself down.—Marguerite, 
with a shriek, falls insensible.) 
end op tableau iv. 


Handsomely furnished Room in Chateau Laroque— 
Doors k. and L., and u.— Candles lit. Easy chai'i. 
—Table and bell, R. c.— Lighted lamp. 

MOISELLE HELOUIN discovered—Madame 
Loroque is walking about in much agitation. 

Mad. L. (To Alain.) You say she went out on 
horseback ? 

Alain. Yes, Madame. 

Mad. L. Did she say at what hour she would be 

Alain. No, Madame. 

Bev. Did she not tell you she would be early m 
the ball-room this evening ? 

Mad. L. She did; and that only makes me the 
more apprehensive. This anxiety is torture. 

Bev . Be assured, Madame, she is safe. You 
know she is often out late on fine evenings. 

Mad. L. But never after dark. Can nobody even 
tell which way she went ? . 

Mile. H. There is one person, I tlunk, might give 
us some information. 

Mad. L. Oh! who ? Why did you not say so 

before ? , , ,, 

Mile. H. I have no doubt M. Manuel could en¬ 
lighten ns, if he chose. 

Mad. L. Monsieur Manuel! what should he know 

about it ? . ,, 

Bev. Exactly. I do not clearly perceive why the 
steward must be better informed of the young 
lady’s movements, than her mother. 

Mile. H. Nor I. Yet I think it would bo worth 
while to ask him. 

Mad. L. Alain, ask Monsieur Manuel, if he will 
be so good as to come to me, at once. 

Alain. Monsieur Manuel had also gone out on 
horseback, Madame, and has not yet returned. 

Mile. H. Ahem! 

Mad. A. Ah, ha ! 

Bev. And pray, at what time did he go out ? 

Alain. Just before Mademoiselle Marguerite, sir. 

(A pause.) 

Mad. L. You are ail marvellously silent ! What 
do you imagine ? what do you infer Speak, if 
you would not drive me mad ! Still silent! ( To 

Mile. Hclouin.) Mademoiselle, your looks convey 
some hidden meaning. (To Mad. Aubrey.) Cousin. 

Mad. A. Oh! (Weeps.) 

Mad. L. What’s the use cf that, Madame ? speak 
out. I always knew you were a fool—don’t make 
me think yon are a complete idiot! Bevannes,. 
what does all this mean ? 

Bev. Alain. 

Alain. Sir ? 

Bev. Did Mademoiselle go out alone ? 

Alain. No, sir ; with the Doctor. 

Mad. L. Ah ! then all is well. 

Bev. Humph! 

Mad. L. Bevannes, what do you mean ? will you 
explain or not ? 

Mile. II. Madame, your generous nature and 
partiality for the steward, has somewhat blinded 
your judgment; those who love you have been 

more watchful. This Monsieur Manncl is- 

Enter MANUEL— His dress disordered — His face 

pale, with slight marks of blood upon his fore¬ 

Man. Here, Madame, you did me the honour to 
send for me. 

Mile. H. You have just returned, sir ? 

Man. This moment—I met Alain on the stair. 

Mad. L. But you are hurt, Monsieur. 

Man. Nothing of importance, I assure you ; the 
horse fell with me, and got a few scratches— 
nothing more—a little cold water will set all to 

Mad. L. This seems to be a night of misfor¬ 

Mad. A. (Sighs.) Ah! 

Mad. I. Do be quiet. 

Man. What has happened, Madame ? 

Mad. L. Marguerite went out on horseback just 
after you, and has not yet returned. 



Man. Oh, don’t be alarmed—I met her. 

Mad. L. Oh !—when ?—where ? 

Man. About six o’clock, on the road to Elfen— 
?he told me she was going on to look at the 

Mad. L. Good heavens! the ruins arc in the 
midst of the forest, aud the roads dreadful! She 
must have lost her way! Alain! 

Enter ALAIN. 

. Order the carriage. [Exit Alain.] I will send 
directly—I will go myself. 

Man. You may rest certain, Madame, that you 
will hud her. In the meantime, I will get rid of 
the evidences of my trifling fall. Be assured your 
daughter is quite safe. [Exit, u. 

Mad. L. Come, Bevannes, order your horse, and 
ride by the carriage. 

Bev. Thank you, but, with your permission, I’ll 
ride in the carriage. The road is a bad one, and if 
one horse stumbles, another may. 

Mad. L. Well, well, any way you please, only 
come. [ Exit c. 

Mad. A. Ah, poor girl, poor girl- (weeps.) 

Bev. Don’t be so distressed, Madame. It’s not 
your little niece. 

Mad. A. Monsieur de Bevannes, you are a brute ! 

Bev. So is a donkey, Madame, and yet one died 
rich in your affection. Ah, if I could only have 
inherited a portion of his wealth. [Exit c. 

Mad. A. I wonder if he means that. He never 
said anything so civil before. I’ve a great mind 
to- (Going.) 

Mile. H. Stay—that letter of the steward’s which 
yon found in the park- 

Mad. A. Well P 

Mile. H. Have you got it with you ? 

Mad. A. Of course. 

Mile. H. Give it to me. 

Mad. A. To i/o w! Why? 

Mile. H. No matter. Suffice it that my hopes, 
and yours—the very life of all our plans—depend 
on the use I shall make of that letter. 

Mad. A. Oh, well, take it. (Gives letter.) I’m 
sure you’ll make much better use of it than I can. 
(Aside.] Upon my life I’ll go and ask Bevannes 
what he meant by that. [Exit, c. 

Mile. II. Why, why did nature endow me with a 
heart to suffer, an intellect to comprehend ? Had 
I beeu born a fool, like that woman, this de¬ 
pendent state would have brought with it calm 
endurance, if not happiness. But, as I am, it is 
misery. How easy is bounty to the rich. How 
natural is virtue to the happy. He heard my words 
as he came in—must have divined their purport. 
Well, well, if I have taught him to despise me, he 
shall learn to fear me, too. He dared to read me a 
lesson, aud I hate him for it, even though I profit 
by it. If I must fall, he shall share the ruin he lias 
ft ftused 


Mar. Helouin! 

Mile. H. Marguerite! 

Mar. Hush! To prevent remark, I came by the 
small stairway, through the conservatory. My 
mother has been anxious. 

Mile. If. Much alarmed. She lias gone to seek 

y °Mar. I kuow it. I have sent Alain to overtake 
and bring her back. Before she comes, I have a 
word to say to you. It is of Monsieur Manuel. I 
have strong reason to believe that you have most 

strangely misjudged his character and his inten¬ 

Mile. 11 I know him to be the Marquis de 

Mar. And I know that if his birth be noble, his 
heart is no less so. 

Mile. H. It is very recently, then, that you have 
made the discovery 

Mar. True. Now mark. You have seen the ruins 
of Elfen ? 

Mile. H. I have. I was once there with a party, 
and was the only woman who dared ascend the 

Mar. You know the danger, then. Well, I care 
not now if all the world should hear it. We were 
alone. By accident, imprisoned in those ruins. I 
rashly, blindly, falsely accused him, and he, to 
save my honour and his own, plunged from that 
tower into the gulf beneath ! 

Mile. H. But he escaped. 

Mar. I know it, and have thanked God for the 
miracle. I had not strength to implore. 

Mile. H. Upon my word, this is an extraordinary 

Mar. Mademoiselle- 

Mile. H. And understands so well how to turn 
his talents to the best account. Why, poor child, 
and you don’t see through all this ? Yesterday, it 
was a swimming match, producing an admirably 
plauned and effectual scene. To-night, it is an ex¬ 
hibition of daring activity. The gentleman has 
been brilliantly educated. 

Mar. You evidently hate him. 

Mile. If. And why ? On my account ? No! 
What is he to me ? But when I see that he dares 
to bring his plots and machinations here, and in¬ 
tends you for their victim, I am free to confess, I 
do despise and hate him ! 

Mar. Those are grave accusations. What proof 
have you to support them ? 

Mile. H. Ah, you suspect me. For the sake of 
this stranger, you doubt the truth of one you have 
known for years! Well, be it so—I will give you 
proof, since you demand it. Do you know his 
handwriting P 

Mar. I do. I have had to look over many papers 
he has copied for my mother. 

Mile. II.. Look at that letter. Now, listen. 
(Reads.) ‘‘My dear Desmarets,—I follow your 
instructions exactly. But will they avail to win 
for me the bright reward for all I have to endure. 
I do not think the dowry will be as large as I had 

Mar. Great Heavens! 

Mile. H. “ But I have sworn to win it, and 
though there are many obstacles here to make the 
task a hard one, yet, to achieve it, I will serve, 

like Jacob, for forty years, if need be-” What 

a pity he did not finish it. This was found under 
the window of his room by Madame Aubrev, and 
by her handed to me. 

Mar. Enough. My resolution is taken. 


Mad. L. Oh, my dear child! what a state I have 
been in about you. How did yon get back ? What 
happened ? 

Mar. The shepherd who locks up the tower of 
Elfen happened to fasten it before I left. Some 
reapers returning home heard my cries and 
brought him back to release me—that is all. ’ 



Enter MANUEL, R. 

Mad. L. Ah, Monsieur, you have recovered from 
the effects of your fall, I hope ? 

Man. Entirely, Madame. 

Mad. L. (To Marguerite.) But you, my child, 
must be fatigued, nervous- 

liar. On the contrary, dearest mother, I never 
felt better or more cheerful than to-night, which 
I will prove to you whenever the ball commences. 

Bev. The ball! why, surely, you’ll never think 

Mar. Dancing ? Indeed but I shall though—and 
you, M. de Bevannes, will be my first partner, will 
you not ? 

Bev. With the greatest delight—but pray, let 
me advise- 

Mar. Advise nothing—you shall be my chief 
cavalier for the evening. 

Bev. But my dress- 

Mar. Your residence i3 hardly two miles from 
this; you can go home, dress, and be here again— 
all within an hour. 

(Speaks to Madame Baroque.) 

Bev. (Aside.) This anxiety portends something. 
Bevannes, my boy, the chase is nearly over, for 
the quarry is in sight. 

Mar. Nonsense, my dear mother! I will have 
my own way for once. 

Mad. L. For once! 

Mar. My carriage shall take M. do Bevaunes, 
and bring him back. Where are all the servants ? 
Here, some one—oh ! the steward! go and order 
my carriage. 

Mad. L. (Surprised other tone of voice.) My dear! 

Man. (Quietly rising arid ringing a hell, which 
summons ALAIN, who enters.) I believe 
Mademoiselle Marguerite has some orders for you. 

Alain. Mademoiselle- 

Mar. I have none—you may leave the room. 

[Edit Alain, R. 

Bev. Come, come, this sort of thing won’t do. 

Mar. Monsieur de Bevannes. 

Bev. As you please—but permit me to regret 
that I have not the right to interfere here. 

Man Your regret is unnecessary, sir—for if I 
did not see fit to obey the lady’s orders, I hold 
myself at yonrs. 

Bev. Enough, sir ; I shall act accordingly. 

Mad. L. Gentlemen, I beg, I entreat- 

Mar. Monsieur de Bevannes. 

Bev. Mademoiselle ? 

Mar. Have the goodness to follow me—I must 
speak with you in the presence of my mother only. 
Not a word, if you would ever speak with me 
again—follow me now, at once. 

[Exit with Madame Baroque, c. 

Bev. (To Manuel.) I believe, sir, wo comprehend 
each other ? 

[Manuel how s —Exit Bevannes, c.— 
Manuel turns and encounters the look 
of Mile. Kelouin, who curtsies and 
exits, c. 

Man. I see plainly now to whom I owe all this. 
Well, well, what matters it to whom? The one 
thin ray of light upon my desolate and gloomy 
path has venished. Pshaw! This is no time for 
dreams or vain regrets. (Bings.) 

Enter ALAIN. 

Has Dr. Desmarets returned ? 

Alain. No, Monsieur. 

Man. The moment he arrives I must see him. 

Alain. I know—I know all about it, I overheard. 
Oh, sir, this is most unfortunate. 

Man. It is, but unavoidable. I did not seek 

Alain. And that devil of a Bevaunes is a fine 
swordsman, and the best pistol-shot in Brittany. 

Man. So much the better. The contest will be 
the more equal. 

Alain. Indeed! 

Man. I have had much practice with both 

Alain. Oh, then, pray do me one favour, sir. 
Don’t kill him, but hit him iu the leg. He’s so 
deuced proud of his leg and foot. 

Man. There, that will do. Let me know the 
instant the Doctor arrives. 

Alain. I will, sir, I will, but don’t forget the leg 
—the leg, sir, if you love me. [Eait. 

Man. For myself, it matters not, but my sister, 
my little darling, helpless sister—should I fall— 
Oh! Heaven, let my errors be so atoned, and look 
down in pity on the oi'phan child, bereaved of 
earthly succour, to be the more dependant upon 

(As he raises his head, he perceives 
Bevannes approaching, and his hear¬ 
ing becomes calm and resolute.) 


Bev. Monsieur Manuel, can I have a few words 
with yon ? 

Man I am at your service, sir. 

Bev. What I am about to say, considering onr 
position, may seem irregular, but I obey orders 
which cannot be disputed. Besides I believe no 
man can doubt my courage- 

Man. Not I, be assured, sir. 

Bev. To be brief, I am commissioned by the 
ladies to express their regret for what has just 
occurred. Mademoiselle Marguerite, in a moment 
of forgetfnlness, gave you certain orders, which 
it was plainly not your province to fulfil. Your 
susceptibility was justly wounded. We admit it, 

Man. Not one word more, sir, I entreat. 

Bev. Your band. (Manuel gives his hand.) The 
ladies also desire me to express their hope that 
this momentary misunderstanding will not de¬ 
prive them of your good offices, the value of which 
they fully appreciate, and I am extremely happy 
in having acquired, within the last few minutes, 
the right to join my entreaty to theirs. My most 
ardent wish is about to be gratified. 

Man. Indeed? 

Bev. And I shall feel personally obliged if you 
will not refuse us your aid upon the eve of an 
event which family affairs and the failing health 
of old Monsieur Laroque compels us to hasten. 

Enter ALAIN, with a box containing deeds, £c., l. h. 

Oh, thank you. Place it on the table. [Alain does 
so and exits.! These are the private papers and 
memoranda of Mons. Laroque, and the ladies beg, 
as a proof of their entire confidence, that you wili 
examine them and take notes of such matters as 
will prove important to the marriage contract. 

Man. I shall obey their orders to the best of mv 

Bev. Thank yon, my dear fellow. I feel assured 
yon will, and now, I trust, we shall in future 
understand one another better. I do not think 



that, hitherto, either of us has formed a correct 
estimate of the other. I protest to you that I’m 
disposed to like you immensely. Por myself, I’m 
a very nice man, but I must be cultivated. Cul¬ 
tivate me, my dear sir, and I give yon my word, 
you’ll find me one of the most agreeable fellows 
you ever knew ; you will, indeed. Cultivate me, I 
beg. [Exit, l. c. 

Man. Well, well. He is her equal in fortune, 
and therefore, of course, above suspicion. Poor 
girl! She is unaware that, in this world, the 
greatest beggars are not always the poorest. She 
would see how I can support the torture she in¬ 
flicts. She shall be gratified, for she shall see me 
even at the foot of the altar. But she will not 
triumph there, for her pride, lofty as it is, shall 
pale before my own. Now to my work. (Sits and 
turns over papers.) Nothing here that I have not 
seen before. “ Title Deeds to ”—Umph ! “ Lega¬ 
cies to my children.” “ Marriage portion for 
Marguerite,” and—Ah! What’s this ? My name! 
“ The Antilles ”—yes, I remember, our family had 
large estates there, but that was long ago. Let me 
see, let me see. (He reads, and as he does so his 
face expresses, first, surprise, and then conviction 
and triumph.) Great Heaven! and can this be 
so ? Miserable old man ! This, then, is the secret 
of your wanderings, your visions, and of my un¬ 
sought influence. And now, now I have them in 
my power. They shall find that there is still some 
blood left in the heart that they would crush. The 
proud, unfeeling girl has yet to learn the meaning 
of that bitter word, humility , and she shalllearn 
it. (Marguerite speaks without.) 

Mar. He will soon return, dear mother. Mean¬ 
time, I will prepare for the ball. 

(She enters, crosses slowly, and exit, 
after a look at Manuel.) 

Man. No—no—I can not! Never, never, by my 
act, shall the blush of shame crimson that noble 
face. Laroque cannot live long. Let his crime 
and bis confession die before him. (Music.) To 
my deep love I consecrate the sacrifice. 

(Burns paper. While he contemplates it 
burning, MADAME AUBREY looks 
in unseen by him.) 

SCENE II.— A hall in the Chateau. 

Enter BEYANNES and ALAIN, meeting, 
l. h., 1, E. 

Bcv. Alain, who arrived just now ? 

Alain. The Doctor, sir. He’s gone to Monsieur 
Laroquo’s room. 

Bcv. Is Mademoiselle Marguerite’s carriage ready 
for me ? 

Alain. Quits ready, Monsieur. 

Bev. Very well. Tell the ladies I shall be back 
in an hour, at most. 

Alain. You’ll have to drive fast, sir, to do it in 
the time. 

Bev. I shall make my toilette less perfect than 
usual, and take an elaborate revenge another time. 

Enter DESMARETS, R. h., 1, E. 

Iks. Bevannes, that you ? where are you off to ? 

Bev. Home, for a short time. 

Dcs. Better stay where you ai*c—the ladies may 
want your assistance. 

Bev. I know—at the ball- 

Des. Ball ? stuff! If I don’t mistake, you’ll 

have something else to think of. Alain, let that 
prescription be sent to the village immediately. 

Alain. Yes, Doctor. [Exit L. 

Bev. Why, what’s the matter ? 

Des. Old Laroque is very ill to-night. By the 
bye, w'hat’s this he told me about a marriage in the 
family ? 

Bev. Quite true. The fair Marguerite has be¬ 
come alive to my merits—she knows me at last. 

Des. And accepts you ? 

Bev. Of course. 

Dcs. Little fool. 

Bcv. Sir! 

Des. I don’t mean you. 

Bev. Ah! 

Des. I tell you what, my friend, you hardly 
know what you’ve undertaken. I wish you joy— 

I wouldn’t have the management of that girl for a 
trifle. Ecod! if she takes a fancy to the moon, 
she’ll expect you to give it her. 

Bcv. Oh, I’m not afraid. However, I’ll go and 
dress, as it is her wish, and take the chance of the 
ball coming off. 

Des. And you’ve determined to marry her ? 

Bcv. Most certainly. 

Des. Spite of all her caprices ? 

Bev. Decidedly. 

Des. And if she w r ants the moon ? 

Bev. She must fetch it herself. [Exit. 

Des. Queer match—what does it mean? As to 
her loving that fellow, I don’t believe a word of it. 
Now to the old man—it won’t do to leave him 
alone—he’s got one of his wandering fits on him, 
and he’ll be all over the house if I don’t look to 
him. What a nice quiet life a doctor’s is. [Exit. 

SCENE III .—Same as First—Music. 

MANUEL discovered asleep —MADAME AUBREY 
opens door and looks in. 

Mad. A. Worn out with the day’s excitement, 
he’s asleep at last. (Comes in.) What could that 
paper have been I saw him burn ? Ah! there’s 
the envelope he threw away, when he put it in the 
flame. (Picks it up.) So, so—what’s that? a foot¬ 
step. fE.rit R. h. 

and looks in—He is very pale and ap¬ 
pears much exhausted—He looks back 
and beckons, as if to followers—Music 

Bar. This way—this way—quickly—but silently. 
Silently, men, or we shall spoil all. Remember, 
they are English, and spare not! no quarter! no 
quarter, mind—but softly—softly—and fire not 
until I give the word ! Then—then—every drop 
of Saxon blood shall float a ■world of crime from off 
my soul! One moment— now ! now! 

(He raises his arm as if to strike, when 
he sees Manuel, upon whose face the 
lamps throws a powerful light—A 

Heaven have mercy! ’tis he. At such an hour as 
this I can not be mistaken! It is he —(Manuel 
awakes.) My Lord Marquis! 

MARGUERITE appears, c. 

Man. Wliat is this ? 

Lar. Pity—pity—and forgive me. 

(Manuel all at once comprehending, 
advances to M. Laroque.) 

Man. Miserable man, I pity, and I forgive. 


Mar. What docs this moan ? 

Man. Oh, nothing, Mademoiselle, but I thought 
it better to humour his delirium. 

(Laroque staggers. Manuel places Inin 
in a chair.) 


Mar. Grandfather, dearest, speak to mo it is 
Marguerite, your child, to whom you were always 
so good, who loves yon so. You have some thought, 
some remembrance which torments you. Is it not 
bo ? Tell me, dearest, tell your own Marguerite. 


(Laroque looks up, makes one or two en- 
dcavours to speak, when his head again 
falls on his breast.) 

Mar. Mother! mother! Oh, Heavens! Can 
nothing be doue ? 

(Dr. Desmarets peaces his hand on La¬ 
roque’s heart, and looks at Manuel, 
who, in answer to an appeal Jrom 
Marguerite and Madame Laroque, 
points upwards.) 


Lapse of Some Months. 

Alain. Very well, Mademoiselle. 




Saloon in the Chateau Laroque, splendidly decorated 

and furnished, Arches n. L. and c. ALAIN and 

Servants discovered arranging furniture, lighting 

lamps, &c. — Music. 

Alain. There, now. I think everything i3 pretty 
well arranged here, so run away all of yon, and see 
to the preparations outside. [Exeunt servants .] 
’Pon my life, I’m nearly done up. All of a sudden 
to change a house that has, for the last five months, 
appeared like a mourning-coach, into a dandified, 
bright-looking mansion prepared for a marriage 
fete, requires more inventive genius than ever I 
shall get credit for. If I could only extend my 
transforming powers to the faces of the family, I 
should be much gratified, for such a grim-looking 
household exists not in Brittany at this moment. 
There’s Mile. Marguerite. The nearer the time 
approaches for the marriage, the paler she grows. 
Madame Laroque does nothing but freeze and 
shiver, Mons. Manuel is absent for days together, 
and Madame Aubrey weeps a good tea-cupful about 
every two hours. Cheering work, very. 


mie. H. Alain, go and tell Monsieur Manuel I 
wish for a few moments’ conversation with him. 

Alain. Monsieur Manuel, Mademoiselle ? Why, 
bless you, he’s been at Langeot for the last three 

Mile. H. He has returned. I saw him ride into 
the court-yard some fifteen minutes since. 

Alain. Where shall I tell him to come to you, 
Mademoiselle ? 

Mile. H. Are all your preparations made here ? 

Alain. Yes, Mademoisc-lle. I have sent the ser¬ 
vants to other work. 

Mile. H. Request Mons. Manuel, then, to see me 
here, and to come instantly, as it is important I 
should speak to him at once. 

(Mile. Helouin goes to Arches and ascer¬ 
tains that no one is near to listen.) 

Mile II. And now, Manuel Marquis de Champcey, 
we will try the issue. How often and how vainly 
do I question my own heart. Were Manuel otbei 
than he is, should I pursue him thus r’ Y* hat 
motive sways my action ? Is it love. Am n ion i. 
Both ? I know not, and will not reflect. I here 
Iie 3 Mie path. Some resistless impulse urges me 
along, nor will I, can I swerve, till all is won or lost. 

Enter MANUEL, u. 

Man. Mademoiselle, good evening. Alain in¬ 
forms me that you wish to speak with me. 

Mile. II. For a few moments. \our stay at 
Langeot has been shorter than usual. 

Man. I returned a day earlier than I had in¬ 
tended, Respect for the family suggests that ^ 
should not be absent on an occasion like the pre¬ 

Mile. H. An occasion that gives you an oppor¬ 
tunity of showing that you possess moral as well 
as physical courage, of no common order. 

Man. You are pleased to be enigmatical. 

Mile. H. I shall indulge in no enigma that you 
cannot speedily solve. And now, Manuel, take 
good heed of what I say, bnt I warn you do not 
judge me by a common standard. My nature and 
my sad dependant lot, place me beyond the pale 
of those born for a happier fate. From the first 
hour we met, my heart was drawn insensibly 
towards you. Still that heart was safe. A mere 
spark existed, which reason and reflection might 
have killed; you yourself, in defining the bond ot 
sympathy between us, raised from that spark a 

flame. _ , . 

Man. Madame, in justice to myself, I must in¬ 
terrupt you. Never by word or deed have I- 

Mile. H. Go on, sir, pray do not spare me. 
Never have you encouraged , you would say. Well, 

I grant it. Be it so. Your reserve and coldness 
could not alter me. What fire but burns the 
fiercer in the frosty air ? And yet if you have 
pride, so too have 1, and I will confess that some¬ 
thing more exists to keep the flame alive than 
love. Ambition, and the hope to triumph over 
one who is a rival. These, I am free to own, would 
be incentives enough for me, if love existed not. 

Man. Mademoiselle, at the risk of appearing 
vain, I must tell you you are most fortunate. 

Mile. if. Indeed, sir—how so ? 

Man. In saving all this to a gentleman. 

Mile. H. Oh, sir, of that I’m well aware—by 

Man. And principle. I do not affect to despise 
the one, but I take more pride in the other. The 
first is for the present buried. Therefore, if you 
have any appeal to make, let it be to the last. 

Mile. II. I have an appeal to make, but, even 
though compelled to differ with so sage an ad¬ 
viser, I shall make it to an ally more powerful 
than either. 

Man. And what is that ? 

Mile. H. Self interest. 

Man. Yon think so ? 

Mile. H. I’m sure of it. 

Man. Will you permit me to suggest that an im¬ 
portant ceremony is to take place in this room to¬ 
night, and the hour approaches. 

Mile. H. Well, then, if I appear abrupt, attri- 



bute it to your delicate reminder, and not to my 

own desire. You love Marguerite Laroque- 

Man. Mademoiselle, tliis is beyond- 

Mile. 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 honour 
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. 

Mile. 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—accom¬ 
plished, 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. 

Mile. 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. 

Enter ALAIN, then two SERVANTS, who arrange 
tables, chairs, &c.—Enter MADAME LAROQUE, 
and GUESTS. 

Mad. L. (To Servants.) That will do—you may 
retire. [Exeunt Alain and Servants. 

Des. Before you proceed to business, Monsieur 
Nouret, I will make a few preliminary remarks, if 
you will allow me. 

Mons. Nouret. Certainly, Doctor. Pray speak. 
Des. For the information of those friends of the 
family who are yet unacquainted with the facts, I 
wish to state that, before the death of M. Laroque, 
he wrote a letter to be given to me, his oldest 
friend, when he was no more. I shall read a short 
extract. (Reads.) “For these reasons it is my 
earnest desire—nay, positive injunction—that my 
grand-daughter’s marriage shall take place withiu 
six months of my death, with the same ceremonies 
and rejoicings as though I wore still living, and 
the reading of the will shall immediately succeed 
the marriage.” And now, Monsieur, before pro¬ 
ceeding, it is necessary for you to state that all is 
ready for the reading of the will immediately on 
our return. 

Mons. N. I trust all will bo ready, Doctor; but, 
at present, I cannot say it is so, for, although I 
And the will and codicils of the deceased to be in 
the most perfect order, and numbered in regular 

succession, I have, thus far, been unable to dis¬ 
cover the first of the series, marked No. 1. All 
the rest are here—2, 3, 4, and 5—but 1 is wanting. 
Now the legacies are, with the exception of a few 
to the old servants, entirely to M. Laroque’s blood 

Mad. A. (Weeps.) Oh! 

Mons. N. Be comforted, Madame, he was indeed 
a kind man. His blood relations have all been 
thought of. 

Mad. A. But I’m not a blood relation. Oh ! 


Mile . H. Is it not possible that the missing paper 
may contain- 

Mod. A. No doubt of it, no doubt of it. And 
that is burnt. 

All. Burnt! 

Mile. H. You saw Mons. Manuel, the steward, 
burn a paper. You found the envelope, and gave 
it to me ? 

Mad. A. I did, but I never- 

Mile. H. Silence! (Gives envelope to Monsieur 
Nouret.) Examine that, sir. 

Mons. N. It is the handwriting of the deceased, 
and the envelope of the peculiar size and make of 
all the others. (All loolc at Manuel.) 

Mad. L. Monsieur Manuel, what have you to say 
to this P 

Bet). Speak, sir. 

Matt. The lady is right, I did burn the paper. 

Mad. L. Great Heavens! (All rise.) 

Man. But she is mistaken as to the purport of 
the document. 

Bet). Upon my soul, this is a little too strong. 

Mad. B. Oh, Monsieur Manuel, do not tell mo 
you have so far abused our confidence. Do not tell 
me that one whom I had begun to love almost as a 
son, has fallen low enough to commit so vile an 
act. I am an old woman, sir, and in the course of 
nature you must outlive me. My child is pro¬ 
vided for. You shall share with me while I live, 
and all I have shall be yours at last if yon will but 
refute this—if you will but give me the joy of 
knowing you are innocent. 

Mons. N. Come, sir, this painful matter may be 
set at rest, perhaps, if you will tell us the contents 
of that paper. 

Des. Manuel, my son. 

Mad. L. Oh, for my sake! 

Man. (Looks at Marguerite and says.). I will not 
speak. [Ea-it Dcsmarets, l. h. tt. e. 

Mad. B. (After a short pause.) Then, sir, much 
as it pains me, you must clearly understand that 
we can live no longer under the same roof. 

Man. (Going.) I know it, Madame. 

Mar. And (He turns at the sound of her voice,) 
have you nothing, not one word, to say in your de¬ 
fence ? 

Man. Not one word. [Exit, R. h. 

Mad. L. Oh, Marguerite, my joy on this occasion 
is lost in this most unhappy discovery. 

Mar. (Aside.) And my misery doubled. Do not 
follow me, dear mother, I will rejoin you directly. 

[Ea’it, l. H. u. E. 

Mad. A. Oil! (IFc^ps.) 

Bcv. My dear Madame, I beg to remind you that 
this is my wedding day. Pray reserve your tears 
till after the ceremony. (Re-enter DESMARETS.) 
My friends, if you will adjonru to the reception 
room, the carriages will be ready immediately. 

[Exeunt guests and Madame Aubrey. 

Des. (To Mile. H.) Mademoiselle, you do not ap- 


pear as much shocked as we are by this unfor¬ 
tunate discovery. 

Mile. II. Simply, Doctor, because, knowing the 
gentleman, I am not surprised. 

Des. You are not ? 

Mile. H. Not at all. 


Des. Umph! Bevannes, my dear fellow, I’m loth 
to delay an event which, by a popular but pleasant 
fallacy, is supposed to be the happiest in a man’s 
life, but I must request, before wo go to the chapel, 
that you will give me a few moments of your 

Bev. Certainly, Doctor; the evening’s before us. 
Pray vary the entertainment according to your 
own taste. 

Des. My dear Madame, I must also request your 
presence, and, as what I am about to say is im¬ 
portant, and guests are still arriving, this apart¬ 
ment will soon become too public for our purpose ; 
therefore, with your permission, we’ll retire to the 
library, which—as the works it contains are purely 
instructive—is about the last place our fashion¬ 
able friends are likely to visit. 

Mad. L. Had we not better wait until we return 

Des. By no means. What I have to say must be 
said at once; and so, Madame, permit me. 

(Offers arm) 

Bev. Doctor, that’s a remarkably nice young 
man yon recommended for steward. 

Des. Never mind him. We’ll talk about him to¬ 
morrow. [ Exeunt . 

Enter MANUEL, dressed for travelling. 

Man. For her, for her, this bitter, bitter trial. 
Oh, let that thought sustain me. Falsely I had 
imagined that the chauge from the sweet dreamy 
days of my youth, to the stern realities of my man¬ 
hood, had created for me that tower of strength 
to the unfortunate—endurance. But, no, no; too 
truly do I feel that, until this moment, I have not 
known what utter misery is—one last, last look at 
scenes made sacred by her presence; at objects 

hallowed by her touch, and then, and then-- 

(He sinks into a chair.) 

Enter MARGUERITE. She comes down slowly. 

Mar. Manuel! 

Man. Marguerite! 

Mar. Hush! move not, nor speak till you have 
heard me. I am here to ask forgiveness. 

Man. Forgiveness! 

Mar. Now, now, I know your truth, too late, 
oh, Heavens! too late I know your pure, unselfish 
heart. You bore suspicion, insult, scorn, but I 
believed you not. How nobly you risked life for 
honour; yet I believed you not. 

Man. At last, then- 

Mar. At last, conviction came ; that letter you 

Man. Relating to my sister- 

Mar. Aye, and not to me. I know it now, Des- 
marets told me all. 

Man. And could you think- 

Mar. I did, I did. Oh, do not scorn me, but 
grant my prayer, the first, the last you’ll ever hear 
from Max’guerite. There is some mystery hidden 
beneath your refusal to speak of the paper you 
destroyed—some reason which refers to me. Do 
not deny it, for I know it. You cannot deceive 
the watchful eyes of love—for I love you, Manuel. 
We must part, and for ever. My word is pledged 


already for my marriage with Bevannes. But by 
the love which you professed for me, for your dear 
sister’s sake, for mine (She kneels), clear your good 
name of this foul stain. Oh, Manuel! Manuel! do 
it in pity for the rash, unhappy girl, who, with 
ruin staring at her from the fatal rock, suspicion, 
spite of reason, spite of warning, wildly, madly 
dashed herself upon the shore, and made her heart 
a wreck. 


M lie. U. Good. I could not have wished it other¬ 
who appear, with MAD. AUBREY, Guests, and 
MONS. NOURET.) Look, Madame! Look, sir! 
Observe the faithful, loyal steward, who, not con¬ 
tent with fraud and betrayal of his trust, still 
lingei's on the scene of his disgrace. Behold the 
proud gentleman, who completes his list of honoui’- 
able actions by ensnaring the affections of that 
unthinking girl—the betrothed wife of another, the 
daughter of his benefactress. ( Madame Baroque 
and Dcsmarets raise Marguerite, who is almost faint¬ 
ing.) Well, you hear all this; you witness it—you 
are men and stir not—your friend is betrayed—an 
aged lady insulted in your pi'esence, yet there 
stands the man, erect and fearless. Will you bear 
this, I say, or will you cast him forth like the dog 
he is ? 

(The gentlemen make a movement 
towards Manuel.) 

Des. Stop. Befoi-e Mons. Manuel departs, I have 
a piece of intelligence to communicate, which it is 
important for him, as well as yon, to hear. You 
will the better comprehend it, if I request your 
patience while I read a poi’tion of this jiaper, left 
in my care by Mons. Laroque, with discretionary 
power to destroy or reveal its contents as my 
judgment should dictate. Under the present 
circumstances I choose the latter course. This is 
in the old man’s own handwriting, and you will 
admit, is an important episode in his histoi*y. The 
events described occurred in the West Iixdies. 
(Reads.) “ On the appx-oacli of hostilities between 
“the French aixd English, my father, Pierre 
“Laroque, who was steward to the then Marquis 
“do Champcey, received orders to sell imme- 
“diately, the magxiificent estates on the 
“ island, and then to joixx the Marquis (who com- 
“ manded a small French fleet), and to bi-ing with 
“ hixn the money realized from the sale. The 
“ estates were sold for a vex-y large sum. With 
“ this money my father and myself started to join 
“the Marquis, but on our way were interrupted 
“ by an English fi-igate and taken prisoners. My 
“father died defending himself. I was promised 
“ xny life, and permission to escape with whatever 
“money we had with us when taken, if I would 
“ reveal the hiding-place of the French fleet. How 
“ shall I write the words ? I yielded. A large 
“ English force attacked them. The Marquis was 
“ killed, and I came to France a wealthy but 
“ dishonoured man.” Such is the confession left 
in my hands. Such is the confession which makes 
the present Marquis de Champcey master of this 
and all the property the old man left, and such is 
the duplicate of the paper which that young man 

(Great sensation among all the dramatis 
persona:. The Doctor leads Marguerite 
to Manuel, then turns and embraces 
Mad. Laroque. Guests crowd round 
Manuel, congratulating him.) 


Mile. R. (To Madame Aubrey.) Harkye, 
Madame- . , 

Mad. A. Oil! go away, yon nasty thing. You ve 
made a pretty mess of it. You’ve caused me to do 
mischief enough. I won’t be corrupted by you 
any more. 

(She goes to Manuel, and slialces hands 
with him violently.) 

Mile. H. (Aside.) Baffled. Foiled at evety turn. 
(Enter BEVANNES.) All! no. One hope is left. 
Mons. de Bevannes, you are well arrived. In good 
time to defend your honour, which is grievously m 
peril here. That man, the steward, by a strange 
reverse of fortune, has become master of this 
great estate. 

Bev. So I have already been informed. 

Mile. H. Well, look here. Have you eyes ? 

Bev. Madame, you wound my vanity. 

Mile. H. Do you not see that the new master 
here is likely to become lord where you alone 
should reign ? Will you tamely submit and give 
her up ? , 

Bev. Madame, you just now reflected on my 
Derson, now you do worse; you attack my 
heart. Do you think I am the man to step between 
two devoted young creatures for my own selfish 
ends ? No ! The moment I found the dear girl 
was penniless, I destroyed the contract, and, in the 
most generous manner, gave her back her word. , 

Mad. L. I won’t go near her. I do believe she d 
bite me. Doctor, will you have the goodness ? 

Bes. (To Mile. Helouin.) Mademoiselle, we were 
very anxious just now for somebody to turn out— 
I don’t wish to be un gallant—but what is. going to 
take place here will coincide so little with your 
arrangements, that the ladies think that per- 

ha MZle. H. Enough, sir. (To Manuel.) If I am 
criminal, you shall not call me hypocrite. I go, 
and as a parting gift, take from me such wishes 
for your future, as bitter scorn and baffled hate 
may leave. ,, , [Exit. 

Bev. A very nice young person that. 

Bes. But come, come, what the deuce are you all 
standing here for? 

Enter ALAIN. 

Alain. Please, Madame, the grounds are lit up, 

the carriages ready, and all the country folks are 

^DcJuCome. The bride and bridegroom. Come 

Mar. Now—at once ? Oh, Doctor. 

Bes. Now—at once ? Of course; do you think 
all our pretty preparations are to go for nothing ? 

Bev. Mademoiselle, I’ve got myself up utterly 
regardless of expense, and if somebody am t 
married, I shall withdraw my consent. 

Mad. A. Oh, Monsieur de Bevannes do not let 
that deter you, if you meant what you said the 
evening Monsieur Laroque died. 

Bev. I! 

Mad. A. Why, be it so. 

Bev. Be it so ? Be it what, Madame ? 

Mad. A. I will dispense with further courtship. 

Bev. You may, for an indefinite period. 

(They go wp.) 

Bes. So, as soon as Manuel has changed his 

Mar. Nay, dear Manuel, you shall not change it. 
For the last time, obey the headstrong girl. In 
that dress you often bore her taunts and insults; 
in that same dress you shall receive her vows of 

love and duty. , 

Man. Let it be so then. I will but ask one orna¬ 
ment—the bud you wear upon your breast. (She 
detaches it from her dress.) Look at it, dearest. 
It lacks the rich colour and the gorgeous blush of 
one you gave me once before. But that was lost 
and trampled under foot. There let it fade, and 
typify the errors and misfortunes past, whilst this, 
just putting forth its beauty into life, shall be an 
emblem of dear hopes and happiness to come. 

(Alain gives a signal—the same chorus 
as in fourth tableau is heard. The 
curtains are suddenly drawn bach 
from the three arches, showing the 
park and. grounds splendidly illumi- 
vninated with coloured lamps, and 
the peasantry assembled in their pic¬ 
turesque Breton holiday costume; a 
troop of little girls, headed by Chris¬ 
tine, form, and strew flowers before 
Manuel and Marguerite, and the 
Curtain falls on a Tableau.) 



94. The Way to Keep Him. 

.95. Braganza. 

196. No Song no Supper. 

.97. Taming of the Shrew. 

'98. The Spanish Student. 

199. The Double Dealer. 

!• 0 , The Mock Doctor. 

101. The Fashionable Lover. 

10*2. The Guardian. 

10 1 . Cain. 

104. Rosina. 

105. Love’s Labour’s Lost 

106. The Hunchback. 

107. The Apprentice. 

108. Raising the Wind. 

109. Lovers’ Quarrels. 

110. The Rent Day. 

111. Chrononhotonthologos. 

112. His First Champagne. 

113. Pericles, Prince of Tyre. 

114. Robinson Crusoe. 

:15. He’s Much to Blame. 

116. Elia Rosenberg. 

117. The Quaker. 

118. School of Reform. 

119. King Henry IV. (Parti.) 

120. 15 Tears of a drunkard’s life 
in. Thomas and Sally. 

122 . Bombastes Furioso. 

123. First Love. 

121. The Somnambulist. 

125. All’s Well that Ends Well. 

126. The Lottery Ticket. 

127. Gustavus Vasa. 

128. Sweethearts and Wives. 

129. The Miller of Mansfield. 

130. Biack-Eyed Susan. 

181. King Henry IV. (Part 2.) 

132. The Station-house. 

133. The Recruiting Officer. 

131. The Tower of Nesle. 

135. King Henry V. 

136. The Rendezvous. 

1 137. Appearance is Against Them 

138. William Tell. 

139. Tom Thumb. 

140. The Rake's Progress. 

111. King Henry VI. (Parti.) 

142. Blue Devils. 

143. Cheats of Seaoin. 

114. Charles the Second. 

145. Love Makes the Man. 

116. Virginins. 

117. The School for Arrogance. 
548. The Two Gregories. 

149. King Henry V (Part 2.) 

150. Mrs. Wiggins. 

151. The Mysterious Husband. 

152. The Heart of Midlothian. 

153. King Henry VI. (Part 3.) 

154. The Illustrious Stranger. 

155. The Register Office. 

156. Dominique. 

157. The Chapter of Accidents. 

158. Descarte. 

159. Hero and Leander. 

160. A Cure for the Heartache. 

161. The Siege of Damascus. 

62. The Secret. 

63. Deaf and Dumb. 

64. Banks of the Hudson. 

65. The Wedding Day. 

63. Laugh When You Can, 

67. What Next ? 

38. Raymond and Agues. 

269. Lionel and Clarissa. 

270. The Red Crow. 

271. The Contrivance. 

272. The Broken Sword. 

273. Polly Honeycomb. 

274. Nell Gwynne. 

275. Cymon. 

276. Perfection. 

277. Count of Narbonne. 

278. Of Age To-morrow. 

279. The Orphan of China. 

280. Pedlar’s Acre. 

281. The Mogul’s Talo. 

282. Othello Travestie. 

283. Law of Lombardy. 

284. The Day after the Wedding. 

285. The Jew". 

286. The Irish Tutor. 

287. Such Things Are. 

288. The Wife. 

289. The Dragon of Wantley. 

290. Suil Dhuv, the Coiner. 

291. The Lying Valet. 

292. The Lily of St. Leonaid’s. 

293. Oliver Twist. 

294. The Housekeeper. 

295. Child of Nature. 

296. Home, Sweet Home. 

297. Which is the Mau. 

298. Caius Gracchus. 

299. Mayor of Garratt. 

300. Woodman. 

301. Midnight Hour. 

302. Woman’s Wit. 

303. The Purse. 

304. The Votary of Wealth. 

305. The Life Buoy. 

306. Wild Oats. 

307. Rookwood. 

308. The Gambler’s Fate. 

309. Herne the Hunter. 

310. “Yes!” and “No!” 

311. The Sea Captain. 

312. Eugene Aram. 

313. The Wrecker’s Daughter. 

314. Alfred the Great. 

o-j c f The Wandering Minstrel 
X Intrigue. 

o 1R ( My Neighbour’s Wife. 

' t The Married Bachelor. 

317. Richelieu. 

318. Money. 

319. Ion. 

320. The Bridal. 

321. Paul Pry. 

322. The Love Chase. 

323. Glencoe. 

o 0 , ("The Spitalfields Weaver. 

X Stage Struck. 

325. Robert Macaire. 

326. The Country Squire. 

327. The Athenian Captive 
Barney the Baron. 

The Happy Man. 

329. Der Freischutz 

330. Hush Money. 

331. East Lynne. 

332. The Robbers. 

333. The Bottle. 

334. Kenilworth. 

335. The Mountaineers. 

336. Simpson and Co. 

337. A Roland for an Oliver * 
ooo ( Siamese Twins. 

X The Turned Head. 



341 . 






































The Maid of Croissey. 

Rip Van Winkle. 

The Court Fool. 

Unole Tom’s Cabin. 

( Deaf as a Post. 

1A Soldier's Courtship. 
The Bride of Lammermof: 
Gwynneth Vaughan. 

Joan of Arc. 

Town and Country. 

( The Middy Ashore. 

( Matteo Falcone. 

The Duchess of Malfi. 
Naval Engagements. 

The Spectre Bridegroom. 
Alice Gray. 

C Fish O at of Water 
(. Family Jars. 

Rory O'More 

( Love in Humble Life. 

< Fifteen Years of Labe a 
C Lost. 

A Dream of the Future 

< Mrs. White. 

(. Cherry Bounce. 

The Elder Brother 
The Robber’s Wife 
fThe Sleeping Draught 
X The Smoked Miser. 


The Fatal Dowry. 

CThe Bengal Tiger. 

( Kill or Cure. 

Paul Clifford, 

The Dumb Man of Mar 


The Sergeant’s Wife. 
Jonathan Bradford. 

( Diamond cut Diamond 
X Philippe. 

A Legend of Florence 
David Copperfield. 

Dombey and Son. 

Wardock Kennilson 
Night and Morning. 
Lucretia Borgia 
Ernest Maltravers. 

oqa (The Dancing Barber. 
(Turning the Tables. 

381. The Poor of New York. 

382. St. Mary’s Eve. 

383. Secrets worth Knowing. 

384. The Carpenter of Rouen. 

385. Ivanhoe. 

386. The Ladies’ Club. 

007 ( Hercules. King of Clubs 
X Bears not Beasts. 

388. Bleak House; or, Poor Jo. 

389. The Colleen Bawn 
.390. The Shaughraun. 

391. The Octoroon. 

392. Sixteen String Jack. 

393. Barnaby Rudge. 

394. The Cricket on the Hearth. 

395. Susan Hopley. 

396. The Way to get Married. 

397. The Wandering Jew. 

398. The Old Curiosity Shop. 

399. Under the Gaslight 

400. Jane Eyre. 

401. Raffaelle the Reprobate 


4 Q 2 ( Hunting a Turt’.e 
' l Catching an Heiress. 
f A Good Night’s Rest 

403. Lodgings for Single Gen* 
L tlemen 

404. The Wi*eh Boys 

(" The Swiss Cottage 
I’Twas I 
406. Clari 

ja? fSudden Thoughts 
* '* l_How to Pay the Rent 
408. Mary, Queen of Scots 
.(V) fThe Culprit 
4 uy. jj oar ^i n g School 
410. Lucille 

i fThe Four Sisters 

* LNothing to Nurse 
412. My Unknown Friend 
., q fThe Young Widow 

’ LMore Blunders than One 
414. Woman’s Love 
c f A Widow's Victim 

* LA Day after the Fair 
416. The Jewess 

_ fThe Unfinished Gentleman 
' * fThe Captain is not A-miss 
418. Medea 





















/The Twins 
0 My Uncle’s Card 
Martha Will’s 
( Love’s Labyrinth 
( Ladder of Love 
The White Boys 
/ Mistress of the Mill 
i Frederick of Prussia 
Mabel’s Curse 
( A Perplexing Predicament 
\ A Day in Paris 
The Rye House Plot 
The Little Jockey 
The Man in the Iron Mask 
The Dumb Conscript 
The Heart of London 
The Fairy Circle 
/ Sea-Bathing at Home 
i The Wrong Man 
The Farmer’s Story 
The Lady and the Devil 
Romance of a Poor Young 

/ Under which King 
\ “ Tobit’s Dog” 

439. His Last Legs 

440. The Life of an Actress 

441. White Horse of the Pep 

442. The Artist’s Wife 
I 443. Black Domino 

444 . The Village Outcast. 

445. Ten Thousand a T ear 

446. Beulah Spa 

'447. Perils of Pippins 

448. The Barrack Room 

449. Richard Plantagenet 

450. The Red Rover 

451. The Idiot of Heidelberg 

452. The Assignation 

453. The Groves of Blarney 

454. Ask no Questions 

455. Ireland as it is 

456. Jonathan in England 

457. Inkle and Yarico 
‘458. The Nervous Man 

459. The Message from the £ 

460. The Black Doctor 

461. King O’Neil 

ARO < Forty and Fifty 

[ Tom Noddy’s Secret 
463. The Irish Attorney 

Each Play will be printed from the Original Work of the Author, without Abridgment. 

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