University of Virginia Library

FOURTH ACT.

SCENE THE FIRST.

An Apartment in the House of the Count.
Count Colville and Le Charier.
COUNT COLVILLE.
THIS evening I was interrupted, ere
The dire confession, which I hold myself
Pledged to impart to you, could pass my lips.
But let me hasten—since I am resolved
That so it shall be—by a solemn use
Of the present time, to frustrate any chance
Of outward circumstance, in time to come,
Of power to hinder that which I've decreed—
A dreadful secret—to impart to you!—
Your friend,—your Colville,—is a murderer!
[A long pause.
In youth I lov'd a lady, but of rank
Not equal to my own, and portionless.
Knowing 'twould be in vain to try to win
My father to consent; rich though he was,
Poor he esteemed himself, so long as there
Was opportunity t' increase his wealth.
The softening influence of connubial love,
No more remained to him, no mediatrix
Betwixt him, and his progeny, to draw
Down on them, through the intercession fond
Of a wife's love, paternal charities.
Ere I was ten years old my mother died.
Having impatiently a year endured
That hope deferred which maketh the heart sick,
I married privately. For twelve short months
My bliss seemed perfect; nor the less so seemed
From the restraint engendered by concealment;
Rather it seemed this gave to my stolen hours
Of wedded intercourse, augmented zest.
For when that intercourse was interrupted
By indispensable concerns, the joy
Anticipation brought me, scarce seemed less
Than that of actual possession.
Such a deep interest did the fervour give
Of my affection, that it seemed as life
Was one perpetual dream of happiness.—
At the expiration of a year, my wife
Became a mother: though apparently
The dangers of that season she surmounted;
Her health from that time failed; a rapid wearing
Attended with all symptoms of decay,—
Daily and visibly more and more encroached
Upon her strength. Though when a stream of joy
Was gushing from our hearts, th' allotted stipend
E'en of a bachelor, had well sufficed
For all our needs: yet from these heavier claims
On it, our child's birth, and my Lucy's sickness,
From being, at first, spent in expectancy,
We found it, in a little time, fall short
To our debts due discharge. Th' anxiety
I had, that, with all possible solaces
For her distemper, Lucy should be furnished,
Heavily taxed my means.—At last, to tell
My father of my marriage, I resolved.
He lived in the country: I in Paris. He
Had all society renounc'd. This left
No channel open by the means of which
Report could reach him of my marriage ties.
He was inexorable. Lucy dying,
He banished me for ever from his house.
Lucy grew worse and worse. I, from the day
That made us man and wife, from Lucy hid
My means ill suited to an exhibition
Adapted to our rank. Love blessed us both.
And little time, and less of inclination,
Had we to think of aught but love and bliss.
Still more tenaciously had I concealed,
When first my wife's distemper shewed itself,
The truth, in order in her weakened state,
Better to reconcile her generous nature
To meet indulgences. How could I now,
Emaciate, and enfeebled, as she was,
Risk such communication? When not only
She had become much more unfit to bear it
Than in the first stage of her malady,
But also, when, from being involved more deeply,
Of far more threatening, and appalling import,
The story now must be?—Can I proceed?
Driven by excess of anguish and despair,
I joined a desperate band who met at night
Not far from Paris: and the troublous times
Favour'd such freebooters' impunity.—
O'er this part of my narrative, let me
Pass lightly! Many deeds of violence
I took a part in, and to many more
Was witness, and much booty thence deriv'd.
One night, a band of cavaliers, as chance
Would have it, through a forest passed, not far
From our accustomed haunt:—we met,—dispers'd them!
One fired at me. I fired again, and slew him.—
But, oh my God,—my friend,—what agonies
Think you were mine;—when I beheld—his hair
Stiffen'd with clotted blood, pale, cold, a corse!—
My father! My companions had departed;
I never, from that moment, saw them more!
Next day were tidings brought me by a courier,
Though without implication on myself,
Both of my father's death, and of the means
By which his life was forfeit. I too learned
That, ere the dire catastrophe had chanced,
He, though to no one he had this disclosed,
Had in his heart relented towards his son,
And dying left me, with the rank of count,
His ample patrimony. Thus was I,—
The murderer of my father, by that father,—
Endowed by means which negatived at once
The blessing which such power had been to me,
With means to gratify that which had been
My heart's first wish since she who ruled it languished,
Th' ability not only to relieve,
But to anticipate, far wider range,
And a far more capricious catalogue,
Of wants, than my poor dying wife could feel.—
I, at the moment, had myself surrendered
To the arm of justice! But for Lucy's sake,
And for my child's, to drag on a loath'd life,
Did I submit. How could I wring her heart,
For whom I would have died, with mental pangs,
In the last conflict of her bodily weakness?—
Yet when, with all the sweetness of an angel,
The dying Lucy thanked me for procuring
Palliatives to her from that very crime
Which had a father robbed of life, oh think
What must have been my shame and desolation!
Think of the dreadful contrariety,
As to one point converged, 'twixt all that seems
Of heaven and hell! How through it did I live?—
I know not! Yet griefs are there so intense
That, as there are no outward shews to match them,
They, as respects the spectator, do bring
Impediment against their own betrayal:—
Purveyors of their own impunity.—
The pangs which revelled, as it were, within me,
As they all exhibition, so they passed
All utterance by looks, and words, and gestures.
I dared not of my father think!—Lest I
Should be detected, never did I feel
Smallest anxiety!—and perhaps this—
Though at the time I took no notice of it—
Frustrated my detection. I had sold
Myself to hell, from pliability
Of temperament; and reckless of the future
Myself I suffered now to be borne on
By time and chance. She in my arms expired,
My Lucy, blessing me for all my care.
My child still lived: this the sole hindrance was
That I did not, now, for the second time,
Myself surrender to the arm of justice.
Lest on his life I obloquy should bring,
Mine I consented to drag on. My child,
The precious being for whose sake alone
I had endured a life of speechless woe,
Was torn from me in two years afterwards
By a rapid malady. Thus was I left—
Thus am I still—poor in the midst of wealth:
And with the means of mitigating wants,
And woes of thousands, solitary, wretched.
Endowed through influence of my patrimony,
With power t' excite respect and gratitude,
And hope in others, yet myself unhoping,
Alone, and in despair, unloveable,
Unloving, and unloved! If I have known
For twenty years which have past since the last
Of these calamities, one little hour,
Abatement of my insuppressive pangs,
I must attribute it to this, that heaven
Has, in his mercy, not quite seered my heart:
To this,—that,—though I have a crime committed
Which never can be pardoned in this world,—
The effect of this has rather been in me
A deep humility, than, to confound
By a sophistical philosophy,
Or fatalism atheistical,
Right and wrong deeds;—by merging them in motives—
And extreme provocation,—to conceal
Thus, from my consciousness the magnitude
Of my delinquency!—God's name be blessed;—
From whom the latter as the former comes,
I, with the power, have had the will, to assist
The broken-hearted, and the indigent;
And to contribute to alleviate
The sufferings of those in every rank
Who needed such an advocate.

LE CHARIER.
Thus you
Have found employment. Thus has your life been
Supplied with something like an object.

COUNT COLVILLE.
Yes.—
But long I've wished to quit my native land.
Not only here too many objects wake
Yearnings for—an impossibility!—
Me to become like other men; but here,
Do what I may, do they too potently
Remind me of the past, to allow the hope
I ever here can that composure gain,
To be possessed of which, in some degree
Is needful for me, would I dedicate
Myself effectively to other's interests.
To-morrow I at noon have an appointment
With Julia Villeneuve: as you recollect
Her coming here this evening broke the thread
Of my sad story. I have seen enough
Of her to feel assured she well deserves
The Duke her cousin even as he was
In better days; and that it must be she—
Hid as his brightness now is by a cloud—
That will—if any one can—bring him back
To the fair light of virtue and of peace.
Till this end be achieved, I, for myself,
No purpose have. In D'Ormond I behold
Not only possibility of all
That I, had I not fallen, might have been,—
But also of much more. With this I see
Like perilous propensity to fall:—
And, were this so, as he surpasses me
In a capacity for excellence,
So would he—and I shudder to think of it—
In that for crime, and consequent remorse.—
I wish that you would go to his abode
To-night, and learn if he have been there seen
Of late. But do not let my name transpire.
As, should he hear it, probably by change
Of residence, to-morrow he would frustrate
My resolution to converse with him.
And if he be not there; I pray you try
To learn, where he may, with most likelihood
Be found. I need not say discretion use
In this research. Farewell.

[Exit.
LE CHARIER
(alone).
It pleases me
That he has given me this embassy.
It turns a train of thought too tragical!—
I do not know whether to marvel most
At the deep nature of his crime! or most
To pity the excess of his remorse;
Or most to reverence the sublimity
Of his repentance and return to virtue.

SCENE THE SECOND.

An Apartment in the House of the Marchioness de Mielcour.
Courtenaye. (alone).
(The apartment supposed to exhibit the appearance of preparations being made for a banquet for the Duke D'Ormond, Courtenaye, and the Marchioness. The Duke and the Marchioness are withdrawn.—A table covered, with lamps, &c. &c. Writing Implements before Courtenaye).
COURTENAYE.
YES, yes! I know that she'll consent to this.
This very evening shall she give her hand
To the Duke D'Ormond. But a meddling priest,
As was my first intent, when first this scheme
Rushed on my thoughts, must not be here admitted.
'Tis difficult in an enterprize like this,
So complex, in an instant to perceive
All its particular bearings. Thus the tie
Would be legitimate; and then, ah then,
I, by a fatal inadvertency,
Might, had he offspring, be, by this one act,
Self-disinherited of D'Ormond's wealth.
This must not be! How shall I manage? Could
Despard?—Ah, let me see?—
Would D'Ormond know him?
De Mielcour never saw him! As respects
Her, all then is in safety. But—again
Where can I find him? For it must be done
This very night, if done at all, since D'Ormond
To-morrow morning, as we now have planned,
Abides the ordeal of an interview
With his late mistress. Despard two hours since
From hence departed, with a view to guard
His new found fair one.—Ah, had I then
This scheme proposed to him. The lucky thought
Then had not struck me, and besides I was
Called by him from De Mielcour in such haste,
I had not time to muster at my will
My scattered project: yes, he will be here
For that same letter which he bade me write,
In Colville's name, to his fair fugitive.
Ah! this is lucky: thus all things conspire
To consummate the scheme. But let me read
This letter which I've written.
[Walking backwards and forwards, and reading the letter, to be sent,

---

195

as from Count Colville, to Julia, by Despard.]
Here comes D'Ormond.

(Enter the Duke D'Ormond).
COURTENAYE.
I am glad the Marchioness has left us here.
I wish to intercede for her. Conduct
Yourself towards her with generosity.—
Duke, your good fortune with this lady, has
Made me quite splenetic. I have beheld
De Mielcour like to please ere now: but she
Was still the vict'ress, and her lovers were
Her slaves. Now is the scene quite changed. sighs,
And looks, and sighs again: and by the hour
Will she fantastically prate of you.—
Trust me, that, for two hours this evening I
Have, in being listener to her long encomiums
On your sublime perfections, penance paid
Which—from the test to which they put my patience,—
Would save me, were I convert to the faith,
From fear, of purgatorial discipline.

DUKE D'ORMOND.
Courtenaye, you jest.

COURTENAYE.
I jest in earnest then!—
Take my word for it, you self-torturing sceptic,
I jest on that which is no jest to me.—
I own I've no aversion to a good
Satyric, comic, and ironical
Analysis of my dear absent friends.—
I love to have them made ridiculous.
Would to the world all men were banished it,
Who cannot ridicule, or be ridiculous.
But how do you think this humorous phiz of mine
Could to a worshipful solemnity
Compose itself, while, for two mortal hours,
I was obliged to sit, and nod assent
To a dull catalogue of charms and graces?—

DUKE D'ORMOND.
This is too much!—I will not stay with you
Another moment.—If you e'en had told me
Of some sly scandal you and she had hatched,
I could have listen'd with more patience.

COURTENAYE
(aside).
Tut!—
Of some sly scandal? It shall e'en be so!
I'll put his taste in bitters to the test.
(To the Duke).
You've hit the mark, Duke! She did, I must own,
Put in a little mixture of the acid.

DUKE D'ORMOND.
She did! Did she?

COURTENAYE.
You men of sentiment,
She said, yourselves conducted so by rule,
And such magnificent hard phrases mouthed,
You seemed more like those that the science learned,
Than those that were about to seize a fortress.

DUKE D'ORMOND.
She said so?—

COURTENAYE.
Yes, She said,—I mean not you,
But men of sentiment,—you take me?—made
Love as a minuet is danced at court,—
With wondrous grace, and measured gravity.
And that you ne'er forgot the retenu,
The imposing, and respectful ceremony,
Fit for a royal presence: but she added
Were we court gentlewomen in full dress,
They could not seem more literally to think
The farthingale, and tight laced stomacher,
The ruff, the sack, the inflexible brocade
Were integral constituents of our person.

DUKE D'ORMOND.
Call you this listening to my eulogy?
By Jove, rather than be so eulogized,
I would she had exhausted utterly
All the vituperative eloquence
Of female malediction.

COURTENAYE.
Then your stores
Of rich imaginative sentiment!
Your rapid eloquence; your exquisite,
And tremulous susceptibility!—
Ovid himself would turn with envy pale,
While you in metaphors luxuriate;
Or periods round, which close developements
Of feelings, if not indescribable,
Which by not other had been e'er described.—
Desires immortal, occult sympathies;
Congeniality of ravished souls!
Tender, and mystical presentiments,
And all the mysteries of the human heart!

DUKE D'ORMOND.
This is too much! Perdition seize yourself,
And her, myself, and all the universe!—
You've said enough to give to any man
Such a self-loathing, as will cleave to him
To all eternity! Since good old times
Of chivalry are past, and men have had
Recourse to argument instead of arms,
The spirit is evaporate, and lost,
Which gives all relish to society.—
“Just in proportion as the weapon, we
“Now use, the tongue, is of less absolute
“Decision than the sword, so deeper wounds,
“And bitterer pangs, and fiercer feller hate,
“More acrimonious animosities,
“Does it excite, than the good honest one,
“Whose home-thrusts were a countercheck to malice.
“Men's hatred then, like the electric spark
“Along a bar of steel, passed swiftly off
“At the sword's point, and ended in the shock,
“And manly brunt, of noble chivalry.—
“Now is the hatred deep of seeming friends!
“While mutual foes honoured in former times,
“The mutual valour of each other's bearing!
“Then flourished all the courtesies of life;
“Now hatred flourishes, and as it is
“To the body hurtless, so the nobler part,
“The soul,—it doth,—with most pestiferous humours,
“Which have no passage thence,—inoculate!
“Whence putrifying rottenness, and plagues,
“Faithlessness, treachery, manœuvring wiles,
“Base machinations, and night-gendered intrigues,
“Distemper'd noisomeness, and loathsome death!
“By this abandonment, what have we gained?
“More of the sway of reason? No! What lost?—
“All that fine tact which deems no wounds so deep
“As those which gestures, looks, and words can give.
“Saving our bodies, we have lost our souls!
“And bought our safety at the price of that,
“Honour,—which gives alone to safety charms.
“Life in itself is little worth! Worth nought
“When in compare with reputation placed!—
“Who is to take the measure of a question?—
“Where arbitrators, umpires, shall we find
“Impeccable, and incorrupt enough,
“If 'tis to be by its intrinsic claim,
“And metaphysick evidence decided,
“'Stead of that good old argument, the sword?—
“The villain, or the fool, now gain the day
“By ridicule, or bullying: or worse,—
“By that which brings more scandalous abuse
“Than,from the droit du duel, ever sprung,
“Or e'er could spring, if it were practised more,
“And prostituted more, than e'er it was
“In any civilized community,
“The art of intellectual prize-fighting,
“The age's talking gladiatorship!”
The sword's test, if we grant it not the test
Of that cause being righteous which unsheathed
It from its scabbard, was, at least, the test
That each who had recourse to it, could not be,
While living, recreants from the point of honour.
As, where this sentiment reigns paramount
Society can never worthless be,—
As, where it reigns, no man could sit, and hear,
Tamely, such argument for just offence
As I have heard from you;—and finally,—
Since,—though I see around me on all sides
Defaulters from it—I hold this creed still;—
I therefore challenge you, by morrow's dawn,—
The choice of place, of weapons, and attendants,
Leaving to you—in mortal strife to meet me.

COURTENAYE
(aside).
This most triumphantly crowns all my wishes!
I will not take him at his word to-night.—
But thus I'm furnished with a hint which gives
Me power, whenever I've the will to do't,
If I know not of any other means
Myself to disencumber of him. This
Gives me such power, since it has given me
Knowledge, that I have nought to do to obtain it,
But touch this point of honour's delicate edge
And straight—he's moved—like puppet is he moved
To my soliciting.—But I have now
Galled him enough! This sedative must be
By double dose of stimulus countervailed,
Or by myself my scheme will be defeated.—
Should I accept this challenge, and he fall,
I am an outlaw, thence comes banishment,
And forfeiture of his inheritance.—
No, let him have his fighting mood indulged,
But not till I've a proxy found, who may
Be my cat's paw, while I the booty seize.

DUKE D'ORMOND,
(Who during this soliloquy had been walking backwards and forwards at the farther end of the apartment).
What? Do you add contempt of my just claim,
To your contemptuous speech? Why answer not?

COURTENAYE,
(Stretching out his hand).
My friend, you but mistook me all this while.—
Mere envy D'Ormond, take my word for it;
Mere jealousy and envy! and as proof
Of this, here is my hand! The hand of one,
A whimsical, but a warm-hearted friend!—
Mere jealousy! Why you would have me more,
Or less, than man! I am so full of gall,
Had I not let a little of it find
A disemboguing at the tip o' my tongue,
I swear that I had burst!

DUKE D'ORMOND.
For once be serious.—
Thou see'st that I am so! Is't not enough,
For thee to put to a perpetual jar
My heart-strings in society? We may—
Surely we may, when thus we are alone,
Each other understand.

COURTENAYE.
I never was
More serious in my life! Nay, my excess
Of levity, was only self-love's dalliance,
So to hide superfluity of spleen.
Somehow, somehow, it must have found a vent!
I ask your pardon! From men blessed like you,
Forgiveness must anticipate repentance.
A man so fortunate that's not forgiving,
Would be a mere Thersites in ill luck.—
Nay, if I would not stake my life to come;
All future possible contingencies
Of joys invisible and visible,
To be thyself this blessed moment, brand
Thy friend for the remainder of his days,
As a poltroon and liar! But what must
We poor fools do, that are quite out of favour
With time, place, person, opportunity?—
“With time! I am older than you by ten years!—
“With place! I am an alien from my country!
“With person! Are you not preferred o'er me
“By judgment of our mutual paramour?—
“With opportunity! I staked my all,
“My little all to-night, and it is gone!—
“No! we must either put a good face on it,
“Or go hang, drown, poison, or shoot ourselves.
“And 'faith, I think a merry vein ne'er stands
“In such good stead, as when you are i'th' mood,
“To give yourself up, if you had it not,
“To all the devils in Christendom.” But now
I'm “serious” as you call it. On my word,
Duke, she is dying for you. I said always
That you sly, sentimental cavaliers
Achieved more amorous trophies in one hour
Than we frank, merry-hearted, gallant fellows,
Whose souls sit quivering on our lips, can hope
To win in any twelvemonth. I cannot
In sober sadness talk about my heart,
A serious business make of amorous dalliance,
Or be impassion'd with an earnest look.
But, curse it, you that are all over heart,
Like animals in every part alive,
When some new freak of fashion you're discussing,
More eloquence can put in such a theme,
Than such a thoughtless spark as I can do
In catalogue raisonnée of all mankind's
Enslavers, e'en from royal Bathsheba,
Down to the present time. Why did not she,—
The Marchioness,—tell me, that one glance of your's,
One subtle smile, playing, and quivering round
Your soul conveying lips,—nay one,—the least
Important, and impassion'd of your gestures,—
More meaning, in one moment, could convey,
Than other men, with their best utterance, could,
In whole course of their lives?

DUKE D'ORMOND,
(Affecting not to hear him).
To-morrow night
Will you go with me to the masquerade,
At the Duke D'Ypres?

COURTENAYE.
Yes:—no:—methinks,
If I give no more heed to the diversion,
Than you do to the question you are asking,
And my reply to it,—when I am there,
I, a female Pygmalion much shall need,
To put a soul into my carcase.

DUKE D'ORMOND.
Come,
Let us an end put to this foolery!—
I see that at cross-purposes we are.
Therefore, au revoir. I will hence awhile.—
My soul, though happy, still is sick with thought.
I would go meditate, and try to bring
This shapeless chaos of confused feeling
Into some discipline that may be borne.

[Exit.
COURTENAYE
(alone).
That Despard now were here! I have no doubt,
Seeing how much he's caught by his fair prize,
That he will with alacrity consent
A project to promote which so much tends
To throw his unprotected fugitive
Entirely in his power. 'Tis nigh the hour
That he appointed to receive from me
This letter. Though time presses, till I've seen
Despard, I will not drop most distant hint
To D'Ormond of this marriage. He besides
Is so irresolute, and seems to shrink
So much from any step that stamps a deed
With an irrevocable character,
'Twere better that the ceremony trod
Close on the heels of its proposal to him.—
De Mielcour will be with him here ere long;
I'll leave them then together; and meanwhile
Will Despard see. Then will I pounce on him,
When his soul's melted by excess of love;
And if in this mood I should cope with him,
And all be ready for the marriage rite,
Surely he will not feel so churlishly
As not to thank me that I thus have catered,
At least as it shall seem to him, to take
All scandal from his coming happiness.
I'll school De Mielcour to say nought of this
To D'Ormond: and besides a woman's pride
Would rather that the project be proposed
By any lips than her's. But should they ever
Discover this my treachery? Then, methinks,
Will they not make the tie legitimate?—
Ah, long ere this,—for projects like to mine,
Or soon succeed, or have an early death,—
He shall be soul and body mine, if still,
Which much I doubt whether he will, he breathe
The vital air!
How luckily, in the very nick
Of time, here comes the Marchioness.

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
Is not the Duke here? Courtenaye, where is he?
My porter tells me that he just has passed
The outer court. Whither at such an hour?—

COURTENAYE.
He told me that he went to meditate.
(Aside).
Ah! this is as it should be! 'Twill be well
To ply her with this marriage, while her heart,
Like a young girl's fond of a truant bird,
Feels doubtful whether her precarious,
Volatile favourite be safely caged.
(To the Marchioness).
So Marchioness, while you devote yourself,
A willing victim, to a woman's fondness,
Have I been pondering on the likeliest means,
To render this your love,—for sure I am,
Though you confess it not to me, that love
For D'Ormond in your heart has subtly crept,—
To render this your love a source to you
Of lasting happiness: though I, alas!
Thus throw away all hope of earthly joy.

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
Explain yourself. What is this riddle? say.—

COURTENAYE.
Love you not D'Ormond?

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR
(aside).
What shall I say? To him
If I speak truth, so little he believes
That it is ever spoken, and so seldom
Speaks he the truth himself,—never perhaps
Except to serve in purposes of fraud,—
That he'll not credit me.—
(To Courtenaye).
Why ask you this?—

COURTENAYE.
Because I wish to serve you.

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
Me! To serve?—
I thought in this scheme I was to serve you.

COURTENAYE.
Now hear me. If, as I have shrewdly guessed,
D'Ormond has gained an interest in your heart,
Why,—why not marry him?—

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
Are you sincere?

COURTENAYE.
As far as I would be your friend, I am.—
As far as I would be my own, I am not.
This tie which I magnanimously proffer,
From my care for your honour, is to me,
And to my comfort, fatal. But methinks,
'Tis for your interest, and I lay aside,
When that I contemplate, all selfish thoughts
Of my own happiness.

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
But why this marriage?

COURTENAYE.
Nothing will fix Duke D'Ormond but a tie
From which he can't escape. It wearies me
To see him in irresolution waste
His noble powers. You might do much with him.

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
'Twas but this day, this very day, you asked
My aid, to make him to yourself subservient.
“A little of his wealth would do me service:”
Said you not this? What has thus changed you?

COURTENAYE.
He,
Himself. I have been talking with him now!
And find him so devoutly fond of you,
No more can I resist, when I behold
How serious, and how absolute his love
For you, to serve him, and yourself: and sure
I am, no service in the world of mine,
Can equal that which I am rendering him
In pleading with you to become his wife.

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
Should I consent, would D'Ormond?—

COURTENAYE.
Would he? Aye!—
Would he consent to be in Paradise?—
Would he consent, having a foretaste had
Of joys of heaven, lasting to render them?

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
Have you no drift in this beyond the sphere
Of my perceptions?

COURTENAYE.
Hear me, on my knees,
My eyes suffused with tears; (my beating heart—
See how it throbs—with such a fever maddens
Of contradictory and ardent wishes
Betwixt the mighty sacrifice I make,
And the disinterested ecstasy
With which he has inspired me, that I can
Scarcely my thoughts articulate): hear me then,—
If nature can bear the tremendous conflict,
And spare me utterance, from the unutterable
Emotions that are mine, confess to you
The process of this change. Love has done all,
Almighty love! I have conversed with D'Ormond;
And, as I live, he so has melted me
By his description of his love for you,
That I start up from 'neath his influence,
A man regenerate. His ardent passion,
And the warm phrases in the which he's clothed it,
Have wrought on all my nature to a change.
I do abhor myself in dust and ashes,
For all my past degeneracy. So poor,
So mean, so abject, worldly projects seem,
Such is the indigence in which they starve
Who on them batten, or to me so seems it,
Since I have quaffed, though from another's cup,
Of the rich beverage of delicious passion,
That I'm on fire to prove that I'm not quite
Unworthy to be loved, by serving one
From whom I first have heard, warm from the lips,
From whom I first have seen, bright from the eyes,
On the cheeks mantling, moulding every gesture
To an inimitable suasive grace,
From whom I've caught first, living from the heart,
Love's language, spirit, and beatitude.
Since I cannot be your's, for I am now
A man of fortunes wrecked, and 'twould be cruel,
E'en were you willing, as I am not vain
Enough to think you are, to ask of you
To join your fate to mine: since I must now
Your love forswear, and yet am all on fire
With love's vast power, seeing its force in him,
Since I, in short, cannot his votary be,
I am resolved his victim to become.—
You must have D'Ormond. I have found a priest,
Who, this night, will unite you.
No,—no scruples.

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR
(aside).
Can this be true? If love can work such change,
Seen in another, in his selfish heart,
What must its triumph be, when, like a gem
Of rarest value, in a casket rich
As that of D'Ormond's bosom, 'tis enshrined?—

[The Servant of Courtenaye enters and announces Despard.]
COURTENAYE
(aside).
She must not see him.
(To the Servant).
Bid him wait.
(To the Marchioness).
This man
Comes with a message from a reverend friar
For whom I've sent a quest.—

[A Servant of the Marchioness enters and announces the return of the Duke D'Ormond.]
COURTENAYE.
The Duke's returned,
Please you dear Madam leave us here awhile,
This emissary of the friar and me.
(Aside).
The Duke's return now is most opportune,
But he must not see Despard.

[Courtenaye here whispers to the Servant to bring Despard to the apartment where he now is, after the Marchioness has left it, by a different passage from the one through which the Duke had passed. The Marchioness desires the same servant, when Courtenaye has finished speaking to him, to shew the Duke into the Salle de Compagnie, with the assurance that she will join him immediately].
COURTENAYE
(to the Marchioness).
But first tell me,
Will you, if here the priest come, give consent
To join your hand with D'Ormond?
He, I know,
Wishes this consummation fervently.
He begged of me to break it thus to you.
But he'll not mention it himself, till I
Have told him, whether, as ambassador
For him, in this affair, I've prosperous been.
Time presses—Answer me, I pray you. When
I, with this man have spoken, I'll to D'Ormond
With your reply. How do I pity him
E'en for this brief suspense!—

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
Till you see D'Ormond
This subject shall not pass my lips.

COURTENAYE.
And he,
I know has not the heart to speak to you,
Till he from me receive your answer.

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
Well.—
Perhaps this suit if made by D'Ormond's lips
Might gain from me a favourable hearing.

[Exit.
(Enter Despard).
DESPARD.
Here have I sought you, Courtenaye, that you may
Play off the scheme which we betwixt ourselves
Have with such pains matured. But what have you
Been doing at De Mielcour's this last hour?

COURTENAYE.
I've laid a train: and now I only want
Fit instrument to touch and play it off,
And then the whole is gained. But let us first
Read o'er this letter which I've penned for you.

DESPARD.
Shew me the letter. You say that you can
Perfectly imitate Count Colville's writing?

COURTENAYE.
Perfectly. I so many times have seen
Letters addressed by him to D'Ormond. Here,—
You see I have already penned it.—

[Giving a letter to Despard, who reads.
DESPARD
(reading).
“Madam.”

COURTENAYE.
I
Was forced in this way to begin; for I
Know not the lady's name.

DESPARD.
How then
Have you addressed the letter?

COURTENAYE.
Not at all.—
But thank my wit for finding out a cause,
And one of likeliest seeming, to assign
For that omission. Here,—i'th' postscript. Read it.

DESPARD
(reading the postscript).

“I have sent this letter without a superscription,
as I thought it best that your name should not be
known to the people of the house in which you are,
thus will your honour the better be guarded. I have
given such orders for its delivery as cannot fail to ensure
it.”

COURTENAYE.

Now read the letter.

DESPARD
(reading).

“I have discovered the place to which you have
been carried. I called at your hotel an hour after
you had quitted me, in order to pass a part of the
evening with you; and to my great consternation
found that you were not returned thither: having
some knowledge that a party of gentlemen, of whom
the Duke D'Ormond forms one, frequents that house,

I enquired whether he or any of his comrades had
been there about the time that you were; I found that
they had; and that one of them disappeared just at
the time that you got into the chariot which brought
you to my house; I know his name, and will tell it
you when we meet.”

COURTENAYE
(to Despard).

You see that I have kept your secret there.

DESPARD
(reading).

“I went to his house; and discovered through one
of his servants, that you are there, but could not gain
admission to you; I further discovered through the
same servant, that it is his wish that you should meet
the Duke D'Ormond to-morrow at the hour of matins.
Comply with this wish, by all means. Depend on my
meeting you also, and trust that all yet will end
well.”

“Colville.”

DESPARD.
Excellent! Now to hinder all surmise,
Seal this: and be it given to the lady
As though a special messenger from Colville
Had brought it to her. So will I affect
Ignorance of such transaction. But do you
Think she will have credulity enough
To trust to this?—

COURTENAYE.
Oh, never doubt of that!
She has been yet used to a country life,
Where every one to every one is known,
And every incident: and thus, to her
This will appear a chance of every day.

DESPARD.
I only hope the Duke will not insist
Upon a second interview.

COURTENAYE.
Leave that
To me. I'll take good care to make the first
Too tragical, for him to wish to have,
Or perhaps for him e'en to live to see,
A second.

[Courtenaye folds and seals the letter. Then gives it to a servant of his, who is in waiting, telling him to take it to the house of Despard, and to desire that it may be presented to a lady there, and that she may be told that a messenger brought it to the door, who waits for an answer, which he requires may be delivered to him.]
DESPARD.
You will meet me at the hour
Of matins, at the Marchioness de Mielcour's?

COURTENAYE.
Precisely at that hour. Wait here till you
Receive the lady's answer. Meanwhile listen.—
Despard, I have to name a project to you.
Will you assist me? I this evening wish
To make De Mielcour D'Ormond's seeming bride.
But this must not by a legitimate tie
Be now accomplished. Heirs might then arise.
And I, to 'scape one evil, thus might rush
Into another far more terrible!—
For I have reasons of my own for wishing
Him to be childless; at least, as respects
Lawful inheritors of his vast wealth.—
Will you the priest's part play? Could you succeed
To modulate your voice, and drawlingly
To mouth out, with monotonous nasal twang,
The formal homily, your cowl and gown,—
Especially as all this plot will be
Transacted by the mimic light of tapers,—
Sufficiently your person would disguise.

DESPARD.
Trust me for this. I have e'en for the nonce
A cowl and gown, in which some weeks ago
Accoutred, I made shift to shrive a fair,
And willing votary: in the solemn whine,
And formal antics of hypocrisy,
I am, believe me, though 'tis I that say it,
A most consummate adept.

COURTENAYE.
This I knew
Ere thus I spake to you; and this my knowledge
Emboldened me to speak thus. I erewhile
Worked on De Mielcour so persuasively,
Yet with such shew of seeming sacrifice
Of my dear love for her; I have so feigned
That tender interest for her honour has,
Spite of my own despair, urged me to this,
That she at last has yielded. Further too
I have persuaded her that thus the secret
May, of our own love, by this seeming tie
Be better guarded: though methought at this,
A faint, yet bitter and incredulous smile,
Played on her beauteous lips. But to the Duke
Nothing of this will she say. From my lips,—
And at the critical moment, when most warm
He from her converse comes: (for there's the rub,—
Lest he should recreant prove) then to his ear
Will I this hint impart. Meanwhile, it is
Resolved by me that she shall still impute,
That same decision to the which I'll goad him,
To his intense idolatry for her.

DESPARD.
All shall be done as you desire.—

COURTENAYE.
I would
Converse awhile with D'Ormond. Meanwhile you
Yourself disguise. Procure a missal. Come.
In the first place I'll leave the pair together.—
Get you the ring.—Hither return:—and when
I know that all things are in readiness,
And not till then, I will by one bold stroke,—
E'en as 'tis said, that, by some serpent's eye,
The victim, which, by instinct taught, it seeks,
Is fascinated,—by its abrupt ostent,
And subtle choice of opportunity,
Throw, ere he be aware, around his feet,
Though seeming now a wreath of blooming myrtle,
Frail, and most easy to unravel, yet
Inextricably, a still galling chain.

DESPARD.
I see your scheme: and am at your command.
[The Servant of Courtenaye enters with a note directed to Count Colville.

---

222

While Courtenaye is opening it, Despard thus speaks aside]
I am the more ready to concur in this,
Since, all on fire as I am to possess
My beauteous prisoner, it so much augments
The chances, that she now will wholly be
On my protection thrown.

COURTENAYE
(reading the letter).

“To the Count Colville.”

“Sir—I will be guided by your direction: thankful
am I that you have discovered the place to which
I am so unhandsomely brought: but I will not complain,
as now I have a prospect of such speedy release.

“I have not signed my name, lest this note should
fall into the hands of those who might have additional
reason to betray me if they knew who I was.”

DESPARD.
What can she mean by this? She must, methinks,
With all this circumspection, be of rank.
Spite of her sweet simplicity, the girl's
Not without cunning, and prompt artifice.

COURTENAYE.
What woman ever was? I here had hoped,—
Though I said nothing,—and, to tell the truth,
This was one motive dictating the letter,—
To wind her name out.—

DESPARD.
We in time shall know it.

COURTENAYE.
All is as it should be.—Be here again
Ere the night close. When you are come, send word
Through my own page, who is in waiting here.—
Dumb am I, and invisible to both
De Mielcour, and the Duke, till you return:
That he may not have opportunity
To be irresolute, I will not seek
Admission to him, till, by your return,
You give the signal.—Now,—dispatch;—away!

DESPARD.
To-night we're fortunate;—we men of intrigue:
Like Cæsar we may say, we came, we saw,
We conquered: for behold in few brief hours,
By us two plots are hatched, arranged, matured!

[As they are separating, Despard returns and recalls Courtenaye, who is just passing the threshold on the opposite side of the apartment.]
DESPARD.
But, Courtenaye, should this plot of our's be known?
The Duke is powerful: 'twill be no slight rub.—

COURTENAYE.
The times are troublous, and impunity
Attends far heavier crimes: but I am full,
Brim full of projects; and I scarce can doubt
That, ere reflection to Duke D'Ormond come,
I shall have so unravelled his life's web,
That I again may wind it at my will,
Or draw it out to its extremity.
E'en as the child's breath, or the playful winds,
Dally capriciously with thistles' beard,
The seeded dandelion, or a tuft
Of flax with filaments scarce visible,
Or as least gust doth quench a dying flame,
Will I annihilate its last least remnants.
Risk we this chance. Greatly would we obtain,
We greatly too must hazard. Can we be
Worse off than we are now? Here is a chance
May better us; for if I win, as sure
I hope to win some of his ample stores,
You shall be also sharer in the spoil.—

DESPARD.
Farewell! On this condition I am your's.

[Exit.
COURTENAYE
(alone).
Poor, easy fool! These semi-men,—these men
Part knave, part coward, coward the better half,—
Hold but their lives in fee, as ready tools
To cater with their souls emasculate
For spirits who can sway them, and they ought
To think themselves by such a sufferance honoured.

[Exit.

SCENE THE THIRD.

A Salle de Compagnie in the Hotel of the Marchioness de Mielcour.
The Duke D'Ormond and the Marchioness de Mielcour.
MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
SO you return at length! Cruel to me
Was the last hour's suspense.

DUKE D'ORMOND,
(aside).
How beautiful
She is! Oh, may I only find her mind
As lovely as her form, then am I blessed!

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
Or I, in my opinion, am deceived,
Or I may feel assured to acquire in you,—
What is to me a novelty in life,—
In you may hope to find a friend!

DUKE D'ORMOND.
A friend?
Nay more!—A lover!—An adorer! I
Am your's! and you may mould me to your will.

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR,
(Making room for the Duke on a sofa).
Let us be seated. Sit down here.—I have
Much now to say to you!

DUKE D'ORMOND.
Oh! that I could
Forget that there were in the world, save you
And me, a creature else. I would, to-night
With dreams of everlasting happiness
Fain flattered be! For I should cease to live
With one more shock, one severing of the heart.

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
Duke, I suspect, were your wish gratified,
That soon, with such exclusive intercourse,
You would be palled.

DUKE D'ORMOND.
You, Marchioness,
Yet know me not! The burthen of existence
Is a fatigue to me. I could endure
To live with poverty, with obloquy,
With sickness;—but bereft of sympathy
I cannot drag on life! A second self
I want! The eternal craving of the heart,
Which many have described, and few have felt,
An inextinguishable passion is
In me. Maria, love me.—Tell me that
I make you happy. In the quivering glance
Of your frank eye, one moment suffer me
To recognize the maddening fire that burns
Within the very centre of my soul,
And D'Ormond thinks himself supremely blessed.
I am no man of gallantry. I am
Of female conquests no monopolist.
But who would condescend to owe to me
Her happiness, she, she will find there lives
A vernal season of ne'er-failing love
'Neath my unprepossessing gravity.—
And that the more she condescends to trust
To its perennial freshness, more and more
'Twill be exuberant e'en to th' utmost verge
To which in it she may place confidence.
My cold demeanour more is the result
Of a superfluous fervour, which congeals,
And stagnates,—forming thus an icy crust
Over my heart, from never meeting with
Fitting excitement for its exercise,—
Than from a scant defectiveness of nature.
Though in the midst of worldly happiness,
I am half heart broken! One more shock,
One more disruption of my sympathies,
And that illusion utterly is gone,
Failing in which, our most voluptuous passions,
Behold, from those things which should call them forth,
All their bloom fled: their beauty, freshness gone,
And nothing seem they but the lifeless forms,
Appalling skeletons, of what they were.

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
I can but half conceive your meaning! While
You thus address me, you impress me more
With the conviction that you have sustained
Wrongs, real or fancied, from some absent object,
Rather than that a pleasure you receive
From any present one. Confess, at least,
There is in this your style of making love
Originality; and besides this,
At least, no flattery.

DUKE D'ORMOND.
The happy flatter,
And only they! And they alone are happy
Who are themselves by things or persons flattered.
For there are flatteries in things as well
As individuals. The best that I
Can offer, is by my loquaciousness,
And egotism, to afford you proof
Of perfect confidence: and who confides
E'en grief,—while he confides, his grief is lost.
Grief that can be confiding is not grief!
The real grief is voiceless, and as with it
Dies all that vanity which loves to dwell
On themes of self; so also, with the hope,
Dies all the power, of waking sympathy.

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
You're the first lover, I e'er heard of, Duke,
Who chose a metaphysical tirade
T'amuse a lady's private audience.
This seems to me an ominous beginning;
And what imports it to the present hour.

DUKE D'ORMOND.
Not much indeed! But to retort, I may
Say, you're the first, I ever met with, lady,
To whom a metaphysical tirade
Would not appear misplaced: I cannot tell
Whether or not confession like to this
Will flatter you. But is it not to say
In higher sense, converse with one is sweet,
Proving that in society with her
The deepest workings of a lonely mind
Feel a spontaneous soliciting
To unused utterance, than 'twould be to seek
To amuse her ears with vapid flatteries
Of beauty and of grace, whose very speech,
While they her person adulate, imply
Misprision of her soul?

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
Well:—very well!
I see you men must flatter our frail sex,
And perhaps then the most insidiously,
When you the most ingeniously disdain
All flattery.

DUKE D'ORMOND.
I love you lady! Love you to distraction!—
But certain questionings will vex my heart
Of th' influence which Courtenaye has o'er you.
And then my withered, and checked impulses,
Run into wild discourse. For happiness—
With me it is so—is a quiet thing!—
But these my words are shapings of a soul
Which dallies with its woe; and throws it off
In phrases strange and wild; like flowers unplucked
Will, ere they quite die, to the fresh breeze give
Their sere leaves, and uncultivated blooms.
I cannot love you as bequest of Courtenaye.
I am exacting. If I am to love
Intensely, I must be intensely loved:
And not intensely loved, intensely love,
I care not to be loved, or love, at all!
The art has Courtenaye of inflicting pain,
Yet his soil aiming with such subtle skill
That all its strokes are, e'en when most they wound,
Unrecognizable, invisible,
And unrecordable!

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR
(aside).
With such a view
Of Courtenaye's character, and 'tis methinks,
Not a mistaken one, what semblance is there
That he should chuse him as ambassador,
To woo me as his bride?

DUKE D'ORMOND.
Could I suppose,
E'en for an instant, that you were in league
With Courtenaye, I enough should not esteem
Our separation, though we severed were
Far as from pole to pole.

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR
(aside).
Unlikelier still
That he should Courtenaye chuse as emissary.
Perhaps 'tis jealousy. Love never was
Where jealousy was not.

DUKE D'ORMOND.
But such a thought
I will not entertain! You could not give me
A smile Maria—such a smile as that—
If I were warranted in such suspicion.
I will not think it! I will think you love me!—
And though I have not sacrificed one life—
Though I could wish to sacrifice a thousand
For you—I will believe that you are mine
As much as though the point that made you so,
Of honour, had been tried in th' only way,
'Twixt Courtenaye and myself, in which such questions—
At least in my opinion,—can be
Decided satisfactorily.

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR
(aside).
Strange!
This is very strange! The test will be
If Courtenaye have or have not falsely played,
When he and D'Ormond once have met. Till then
I will be silent. I have given my word
For this, and will not break it. This may be
To prove the temper of my soul towards him
Ere he my hand demand. He cannot know
That Courtenaye yet has urged me on this point:
If I believed he did, and thought he played
A simulated part, my woman's pride
Ne'er could such insult pardon.—
(To the Duke).
D'Ormond, you
Are a strange creature!—You appoint a meeting
With a fair lady; first you read to her
A long, emphatic, speculative thesis,
Stuffed full of metaphysic terms, and now
The droit du duel is the theme you chuse!
“Was ever woman in this humour wooed?—
“Was ever woman in this humour won?—”
At least this is original in the art
Of making love. Such recipe gives Ovid
To his disciples.—It appears to me
As if your self-tormenting soul's perverseness
Could only be allayed, or gain possession
Of me on terms accordant to your taste,
Could you have rescued me, as valorous knights
Are said to have done, in tales of chivalry,
Fair damsel, in enchanted fortress bound?
Had you won me by proof of hardihood,
By dint of sword, by levelling with the ground
Castle or barbacan; by scaling walls,
Binding discourteous paynim ravisher,
Dishorsing mailed soldan with your lance,
And by encountering all the prodigies,
“Hair-breadth escapes in the imminent deadly breach,”
Adventures, hardships, and strange accidents,
We read of in romantic rhapsodies.—
Thus, ere you bind the myrtle round your brow,
Acquiring laurels in the field of Mars.

DUKE D'ORMOND.
This in one sense is true. I might compare
Myself to Sampson i'th' Philistine's gripe.—
Unspeakable, immitigable, is
The unreconciled disgust of my whole being
At the manœuvring, crooked policy,
The machiavelian stratagems of Courtenaye.
Yet to distraction I love you! and I
Should hold myself the happiest of men
Had not he been the means of making me
Acquainted with you;—but by doing that—
Which, when I contemplate your wondrous charms,
I scarcely can, without supposing him
Or more or less than man, think that he did
Without some private reservation—
The very greatness of the benefit,
The spirit of self-sacrifice it asks,
So little seem they of his temperament
Spontaneous growths, their very glory feeds
The whirl and tempest of suspicious thought.
I know he's lax in principle; how then
When that which might that of the stoutest shake,
Is placed within his reach, can I believe
That he, with generosity unheard of,
With an unparalleled devotedness
To me, can that surrender?—

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
Think you then
That I am fallen so low, so very low,
That like transferrable property, I am
A mere commodity at other's will?

DUKE D'ORMOND.
Forgive me, madam, if, e'en for an instant,
My words could such interpretation bear.
I speak of him, not you!—Such dark surmise—
Though most ingenious in self-torturing
I be,—ne'er yet presumed to glance at you:
You live in brightness unapproachable
By brooding and distempered jealousies;
And inasmuch as of their spurious birth
That brightness may be parent, just so much
They fall off from you in their consequences,
As vapours which the sun draws from the earth,
Fall to that earth again condensed in showers,
Nor dare, except to eyes which are beneath them,
To cast a moment's shade upon its glory.
You are that sun, these fogs and mists of passion,
Which you have raised in me, attaint you not,
They but accite to their tribunal dim,
The prejudiced, the earthy qualities
Of your idolaters.

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
Ingeniously,
Yes, most ingeniously have you, Duke, found
A clue by which to extricate yourself
From your perplexity. I never knew
Before—but I suppose 'tis love that gives it—
That you with such address were gifted.

DUKE D'ORMOND.
Hear me.—
When contemplating you my thoughts appear
Suspicions rather than realities,
Which, to the soul sick with excess of bliss,
And insufficient to endure its transports,
Suggest that its powers are not infinite;
And that there must be somewhat to remind
Us of the imperfection of our nature
E'en in the very ecstasy of joy.—
In short, Maria, when I look on you,
These fancies seem the questionings alone
To the soul incident, when ushered first
To bliss, beneath the which its nature totters,
From having to its deep intensity
Been unaccustomed. May they not be likened,
As to recriminations, and revenges,
Of our mortality and finiteness,
When our immortal energies assert
Their right to grasp at, having found means of,
Immortal happiness.

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR
(aside).
Oh, how I am
Unworthy to awaken the affections
Of a nature like to this. The time has been—
But, ah, that time is past redemption gone.
(To the Duke).
If by self-questioning you are perplexed,
What must I be? We—both of us—
But you in far less measure than myself—
Have somewhat to remind us we are mortal,
And thence imperfect. Yet may not the thought
That each the other's feeling comprehends,
Each sympathizes with the imperfections
And all the sufferings thence entailed on each;—
Participation of imperfectness
If unaccompanied by vanity—
To a nearer union lead, than when two minds
Proudly aloof each from the other stand
Like fortresses impregnable, both wrapped
In self-complacency? Especially
May not this be the case, where suffering
Is, on the part of the beloved one,
Not in proportion to delinquency,
But rather wholly is the bitter fruit
Of an excessive sensibility,
Which gives, in such a case, a power to wound
To that delinquency, which, in no other,
Without that tremulous sensibility
It could possess.

DUKE D'ORMOND.
Oh, Marchioness, you are
My better angel! In this cordial grasp
May all my splenetic, repining thoughts,
For ever be forgotten.

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
How can I
Better to-night withdraw myself from you
Than by a fervent joining in this wish.

[Exit Marchioness.
[Enter Courtenaye, unseen by the Duke, by the door opposite to the one by which the Marchioness has withdrawn, and who is supposed to have been waiting for her departure].
COURTENAYE
(aside).
Now will I take him in the melting mood;
Nor will I gradually, but with abrupt
Promptness, will hurry him, ere he have time
For thought, into this snare I've laid for him.
(To the Duke).
I've a proposal now to make to you.—
The Marchioness de Mielcour and yourself
Will ne'er be happy till you both are joined
In ties indissoluble; you and she,—
The noble-minded Mielcour! I am so
Convinced of this, and further so convinced
That by affording you facilities
For this close union, I best proved to you
My faithful love, further was so convinced
That you, with your procrastinating spirit,—
With your—what shall I call it?—dalliance with
Absolute purposes, arising from
A melancholy mood of mind, from griefs,
Which, though to me you never have divulged them,
I, not the less, am sure prey on your heart:—
And of their nature too I've a shrewd guess.—

DUKE D'ORMOND.
Come! To the point. Why all these ambages?—
A plain tale ever may be plainly told.—
You touch a tender part! What is your drift?—

COURTENAYE.
This then,—that, for the reasons I've expressed,
And others not expressed,—and, hark ye, with
The Marchioness' consent,—she knows it all;—
I have a priest procured, who waits hard by,
E'en in the anti-chamber, to perform,
Betwixt De Mielcour and yourself, the rite
Of holy matrimony! But hark! she thinks,
That this request originates in you.—
I ventured on this stratagem to save
A woman's blushes. Therefore, pray you, see
Not to betray the innocent artifice
To which I was led by deep interest in
The welfare of you both.—
[The Duke walks backwards and forwards as in deep thought. While he does this, Courtenaye thus soliloquizes.]
'Tis true the Marchioness knows this:—and let
Him think that it with her originates.
I brought the priest, and still the will in me
To her consent was father. What of this?—
If he suppose it had from her its birth
'Twill bind him faster to consummate it.
He cannot be so recreant a gallant
As when a lady (as he thinks she's done)
Provides him with an instrument on purpose
To join her hands with his, as to refuse
To accomplish that, which she, with complaisance
So flattering to his vanity, has planned.

DUKE D'ORMOND
(returning).
It shall be as you wish. Call the priest in.

COURTENAYE.
He's now conferring with the Marchioness.
(Aside).
The blow must now be struck, or all is lost.
No time for conference shall they have. For, D'Ormond,
Thy soul's the very nursery of doubt.
She may have scruples too.
(To the Duke).
The priest is here.
Come let us join him.

DUKE D'ORMOND.
Well.—It shall be so.

[Exeunt.