Number 437,
COMPLETE.
One Penny.
ss^m.
DICKS’ STANDARD PLAYS.
THE ROMANCE OF A POOR YOUNG MAN.
Adapted by Messrs. Pierrepont and Lester Wallack.
ORIGINAL COMPLETE EDITION.-PRICE ONE PENNY.
This Play can be Performed without Risk of Infringing
any Rights.
LONDON: JOHN DICKS, 313, STRAND.
__ DICKS STAND ARD PLAYS ._
Now Publishing, Price One Penny. Weekly,
DICKS’ STANDARD PLAYS,
AND
FREE ACTING DRAMA.
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
Debts.
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¬
formed.
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.
THE ROMANCE OF
A POOE YOUNG- MAN.
A DRAMA, ADAPTED FROM THE FRENCH OF “ OCTAVE FEUILLET,
BY MESSRS. PIERREPONT AND LESTER WALLACE.
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 .
Louis
No. 437. Dicks’ Standard Plays.
Mr. Lester Wallack.
Mr. Brougham.
Mr. Walcot.
Mr. Dyott.
Mr. Young.
Mr. Levere.
Mr. Baker.
Mr. Oliver.
Mr. Coburn.
r
Madame Laroque (Da
Marguerite (her daug
Mdlle Helouin (a Go
Madame Aubrey (a re]
Louise Vauberger (f
house).
Christine (a Breton pi
The events of the Dran
THE
UNIVERSITY
OF
WARWICK
LIBRARY
The Gift of
Mrs C■ F■ HuH
ernon.
oey.
ary Gannon,
'alcot.
anny Reeves.
Province of
STAGE DIRECTIONS.
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
Centre.
E. RC. C. LC. lh
* * j'} ie Reader is supposed to he on the Stage, facing the Audience .
f
4
A POOR YOUNG MAN
TABLEAU I.
A Boom, simply furnished — Table, Chairs, Arm¬
chair, Secretaire, Side-table—Door c.
MADAME VAUBERGER peeps in L.
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-
DOCTOR DESMARETS looks in.
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
hard!
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
Helen.
Mad. V. And for what ? To give her the educa¬
tion befitting her rank.
Des. Fudge!
Mad. V. Doctor Dcsmarets, you’ie very unfeel¬
ing.
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
dared-
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
world?
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
CONTINUATION OP DRAMATIS PERSON®.
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
Brittany.
COSTUME.
COSTUMES OF THE PRESENT DAY.
STAGE DIRECTIONS.
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
Centre.
R.
RC. 0.
LC.
In
* * The Reader is supposed to be on the Stage, facing the Audience.
A POOR YOUNG MAN
TABLEAU I.
.4 Boom, simply furnished—Table, Chairs, Arm¬
chair, Secretaire, Side-table—Boor c.
MADAME VAUBERGER peeps in L.
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-
DOCTOR DESMARETS looks in.
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
hard!
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
Helen.
Mad. V. And for what? To give her the educa¬
tion befitting her rank.
Bes. Pudge!
Mad. V. Doctor Desmarets, you’ie very unfeel,
ing.
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
dared-
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
A POOR YOUNG MAN.
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
living.
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
stocks.
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
rank-
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
A POOR YOUNG MAN.
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.
MADAME YAUBERGER enters
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
away.
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
dinner.
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.
DOCTOR and MADAME YAUBERGER heard
without.
Res. Nonsense, nonsense; I don’t believe a word
of it.
5
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¬
formed.
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 ?
A POOR YOUNG MAN.
Des. Eat your dinner.
Man. But am I fitted for the position ?
Des. Pretty well. You’ve learned one great
requisite.
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¬
logue.
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!
EXD OF TABLEAU I.
TABLEAU II.
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.,
&c.
DE BEYANNES, DR. DESMARETS, MADAME
LAROQUE, MARGUERITE, MADEMOISELLE
HELOUIN, MADAME AUBREY discovered.—
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
arm.)
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
steward.
(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
Baroque.)
Bev. Rather a stylish looking steward!
Mad. L. Why, Doctor, what does this mean ?
A POOR YOUNG MAN.
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
yourself.
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
rich.
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
her.)
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¬
panions.
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
him.)
Lar. No—no—no—it cannot be.
Mar. What is this ?
A POOR YOUNG MAN,
8
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
English-
Lar. The English ! Aye—aye—aye—they did it
—they were the cause, but they paid it all—paid
dearly—dearly.
Man. (Approaching. Permit me, sir, to-
Bar. Ah! No—no—no. He has blood upon him !
See—see—see-
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
Manuel.
Lar. Mannel — Manuel — ’tis very strange! I
thought-
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.
Enter MADAME AUBREY, R. C.
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¬
quisite.
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
absolutely-
(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.
9
A POOR YOUNG MAN.
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
are.
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.
Enter MADAME AUBREY, c.
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
quiet.
Mad. A. Ah, sir, you might think so; but the
least sound jars upon his poor nerves.
(Weeps.)
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
me.
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.
(Weeps.)
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.
A
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.
Enter DR. DESMARETS.
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¬
fully.
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
Harry.
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
10
A POOR YOUNG MAN.
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
joint.
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
MLLE. HELOUIN.)
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
joint.
END TABLEAU II.
Lapse of Three Months.
TABLEAU III.
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.
A POOR YOUNG MAN.
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
rhyme—
“ 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.
If-
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
me.
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
overrate-
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-
A POOR YOUNG MAN.
12
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¬
fidence.
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-
Enter MADAME AUBREY, L. h
(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
changed.
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
addressing.
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.
Enter MLLE. HELOUIN.
Man. Here comes the first misunderstanding
again.
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
life.
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
Aubrey.
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
discovery.
13
A POOR YOUNG MAN.
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
received.
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
Champcey.
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
ground.
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
steward-
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
Delounais.
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
wish-
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
pity.
Mar. Your pity ?
A POOR YOUNG MAN.
14
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-
Enter DOCTOR DESMARETS, L. u. e.
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
though.
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
then-
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
honour.
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
place.
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
to-day.
(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¬
mined—
Enter MADAME LAROQUE—DE BEVANNES
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
last.
15
A POOR YOUNG MAN.
Mad. L. Laugh as yon please, I positively adore
him.
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
you.
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.)
END OF TABLEAU III.
TABLEAU IY.
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
dark.
Man. (Laughing.) Yes, she is seen when it ia
too dark to see.
16 A POOR YOUNG MAN.
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.)
Enter MARGUERITE, R.
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
them.
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
MANUEL.
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
off.
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
home.
Man. Stay! I can descend by those trees, per¬
haps—
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¬
form.)
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
A POOR YOUNG- MAN.
17
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
mine!
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.
TABLEAU V.
Handsomely furnished Room in Chateau Laroque—
Doors k. and L., and u.— Candles lit. Easy chai'i.
—Table and bell, R. c.— Lighted lamp.
DE BEVANNES MADAME LAROQUE,
MADAME AUBREY, ALAIN, MADE¬
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
back.
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¬
head.
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
rights.
Mad. L. This seems to be a night of misfor¬
tunes.
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.
IS
A POOR YOUNG MAN
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
ruins.
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
Enter MARGUERITE, c.
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¬
tions.
Mile. 11 I know him to be the Marquis de
Cliampcey
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
tower.
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
man.
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
hoped-”
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.
Enter MADAME LAROQUE and BEVANNES, c.
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. ’
19
A POOR YOUNG MAN.
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
of-
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
it-
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
weapons.
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
thine.
(As he raises his head, he perceives
Bevannes approaching, and his hear¬
ing becomes calm and resolute.)
Enter BEVANNES, C.
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,
and-
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
ability.
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
A POOR YOUNG MAN.
20
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.
(MONSIEUR LAROQUE opens door
and looks in—He is very pale and ap¬
pears much exhausted—He looks back
and beckons, as if to followers—Music
ceases.)
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
pause.)
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.
A POOR YOUNG MAN.
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.)
Enter ALAIN, DESMARETS, MADAME
LAROQUE, and MLLE. HELOUIN.
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.
(Music.
(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.)
END OF TABLEAU V.
Lapse of Some Months.
Alain. Very well, Mademoiselle.
21
[Exit.
TABLEAU VI.
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.
Enter MADEMOISELLE HELOUIN.
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
days.
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¬
sent.
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
birth-
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-
A POOR YOUNG- MAN.
22
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,
MLLE. MARGUERITE, M. DE BEVANNES,
DESMARET, MONS. NOURET, MLLE.
HELOUIN, MADAME AUBREY, MANUEL,
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
relations.
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 !
(Weeps.)
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-
A POOR YOUNG MAN.
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.
[Barit.
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
attention.
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
from-
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
mislaid-
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
23
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.
Enter MDLLE. HELOUIN.
M lie. U. Good. I could not have wished it other¬
wise. (To MAD. LAROQUE and DESMARETS,
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
destroyed.
(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.)
A POOR YOUNG MAN.
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
along.
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.)
THE END.
DICKS’ STANDARD PLAYS
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.
339.
340.
341 .
342.
343.
344.
345.
3-46.
347.
348.
349.
350.
351.
352.
353.
354.
355.
356.
357.
358.
359.
360.
361.
362.
363.
364.
365.
366.
367.
368.
369.
370.
371.
372.
373.
374.
375.
376.
377.
378.
379.
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.
Esmeralda.
Joan of Arc.
Town and Country.
( The Middy Ashore.
( Matteo Falcone.
The Duchess of Malfi.
Naval Engagements.
Victorine.
The Spectre Bridegroom.
Alice Gray.
C Fish O at of Water
(. Family Jars.
Rory O'More
Zarah.
( 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.
Love.
The Fatal Dowry.
CThe Bengal Tiger.
( Kill or Cure.
Paul Clifford,
The Dumb Man of Mar
pVipcitpr
The Sergeant’s Wife.
Jonathan Bradford.
Giideroy.
( 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
DICKS’ STANDARD PLAYS.
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
419.
420.
421.
422.
423.
424.
425.
426.
427.
428.
429.
430.
431.
432.
433.
434.
435.
436.
437.
438.
/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
Frankenstein
The Fairy Circle
/ Sea-Bathing at Home
i The Wrong Man
The Farmer’s Story
The Lady and the Devil
Vanderdecken
Romance of a Poor Young
Man
/ 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.
To the Theatrical Profession, Amateurs, and others, this edition will prove invaluable, as
stage directions, costumes, &c., are given.
London: John Dicks, 313, Strand. All Booksellers.
To the Public.—Notwithstanding the cheapness of this Edition of Standard PI:
arrangements have been entered into with Mb. John Maddison Morton, the emin
author, for introducing many of his most successful new Comedies and Farces.
Authors desirous of selling the Copyrights of their Pieces, are requested to apply
letter to Mr. John Dicks, 313, Strand, London. As it is intended to confine*
publication to the superior productions of the stage, it will be needless to offer anytl I
that has not been eminently successful.
DICKS’ PIANOFORTE TUTOR
This book is full music size, and contains instructions and exercises, full of s
plicity and melody, which will not weary the student in their study, thus rendering
work the best Pianoforte Guide ever issued. It contains as much matter as those tut
for which six times the amount is charged. The work is printed on toned paper
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of the Pianoforte ought to possess this companion to the tutor to assist him at obtuii
proficiency on the instrument.
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