University of Virginia Library

Scene First.

—Landscape and exterior of Dame Perroquet's house—Joli Cœur enters, goes to the window of the house with bugle horn, upon which he plays the symphony to
Fleur.
Little boy blue, be quiet with your horn!
We shall be caught as sure as you are born.
I start at every breath.

Joli.
That is a false start.
Let Hymen ring the bell, and, once for all, start.

Enter Dame Perroquet and Anne from house.
Dame.
How now, sir, what is all this noise about?

Fleur.
My mother's voice! I knew she'd find us out.

Dame.
What may your business with my daughter be?

Joli.
Dame Perroquet, can you ask that of me?
Didn't you give me leave yourself to woo her?
I've come this morn to pop the question to her.

Dame.
Then to your question, sir, take my reply:
I've got a better offer in my eye.

Fleur.
(entering from house)
You've something in your eye no doubt; or blindness
Can be your sole excuse for such unkindness.

Joli.
This change is sudden as a clap of thunder!

Fleur.
Ma, would you tear two faithful hearts asunder?
Who upon earth is this, Dick, Tom, or Harry,
Whom you are pleased to say that I shall marry?

Dame.
Baron Abomelique, surnamèd Blue Beard.

Fleur.
The nasty wretch! he'd better get a new beard.

Dame.
With love for you his noble heart is seared;
For you he dies.

Fleur.
Then let him die—his beard!

Joli.
You're a nice mother, ma'am, I must confess,
To lead your daughter into such a mess.
There are reports of certain wives and crimes.

Fleur.
Has he been married?

Joli.
Only nineteen times.

Fleur.
Why goodness gracious—gracious goodness me!

Dame.
Don't believe him, it's all fiddlededee.

Anne.
How strange that he should marry nineteen wives.

Fleur.
How passing strange, too, that he still survives.

Dame.
Hark—hark—I hear his trumpet and his drum.
Come, you be going, for he's going to come.

Joli.
Not I; I'll stay, and with these rumours tax him,
After his nineteen wives, by Jove, I'll ax him.
Since he has dared to cross our love so true,
I'll beard him to his face till all is blue.

Grand March, from the original Melo-dramatic Opera of “Blue Beard,” composed by Michael Kelly.
Enter Abomelique, attended.
Air—Abomelique—(his own march).
I'm a baron bold, ma'am,
Fol de riddle lol, fol de rol, fol de rol;
And my tale's soon told, ma'am,
Fol de riddle lol, &c.
From my castle gate, ma'am,
Fol de riddle lol, &c.
I have marched in state, ma'am,
Fol de riddle lol, &c.
Here to choose a wife, ma'am,
Fol de riddle lol, &c.
It's true, upon my life, ma'am,
Fol de riddle lol, &c.
So without more rout, ma'am,
Fol de riddle lol, &c
Trot your daughter out, ma'am,
Fol de riddle lol, &c.
If she suits my fancy,
Fol de riddle lol, &c.
And no fault I can see,
Fol de riddle lol, &c.
She shall be, this day, ma'am,
Fol de riddle lol, &c.
The twentieth Mrs. A., ma'am,
Fol de riddle lol, &c.

Dame.
Great sir, behold her!

Ab.
Humph! I think she'll do.

Fleur.
(aside to Dame)
I will not wed a man whose beard is blue.

Ab.
What's that she says?

Dame.
Nothing, my lord, at all.
She's charmed that such a lot to her should fall.
(aside to Fleurette)
What signifies his beard, you little flat?
His money's the right colour, think of that.

Fleur.
I don't want money, and I hate blue hair.

Ab.
What said she then?

Dame.
Nothing, my lord. (aside to Fleurette)
Beware!

Ab.
Nothing again! a jewel of a wife:
A woman who says nothing all her life.
Were she an Ethiop that would me decide—
Madam, I ask your daughter for my bride.

Joli.
(advancing)
And I forbid the banns!

Ab.
The deuce you do
If I may make so bold, pray who are you?

Joli.
One who, if thwarted in his fondest views,
Will take and shake you in your lordly shoes.

Ab.
Audacious bumpkin! Has the slave no fears?
If not for his vile head, at least his ears!

Joli.
I'll punch your head, as though it were a pumpkin,
Thick as it is—“Alone I'll do it—‘bumpkin!’”

Dame.
If you'll stand that, sir, you'll stand anything.

Ab.
I don't intend it, ma'am—seize, bind, and fling
The wretch into a dungeon, deep and dreary!

(Officers seize Joli Cœur)
Joli.
I'll not be diddled thus out of my deary.
Haven't you married nineteen wives before?

Ab.
Nineteen exactly—for they are no more.

Joli.
No more, indeed! how came they so? explain.

Ab.
“Thou troublest me, I am not in the vein.”.

Joli.
Didn't you make away with them, you brute?

Ab.
Away with him, and cut short this dispute.
Ma'amselle (to Fleurette)
, I own your beauty is transcendant;
I am a widower, and independent.
You are quite free to answer, yea or nay,
But I shall marry you, whate'er you say.

Fleur.
Take me against my will. (aside)
I'll never yield.

Ab.
I'll take the favourite against the field.

Dame.
(aside to Fleurette)
Consent at once, or else you'll get the worst.

Fleur.
I'll see him—everything whatever first.

Ab.
Quick, to my castle I invite you all,
I mean to give a breakfast and a ball;
A “déjeûné dansant.” It quite the rage is
At the West End. What, ho! you rascal pages,
Send out my cards, and bid my cooks prepare
To out-Gunter Gunter! he of Berkeley Square.

(Abomelique takes Fleurette by the hand)
Concerted Piece—“Gustave.”
Page
(advancing with the cards)
Fair dames, for one and all
I've cards of invitation
For a ball.
A breakfast will precede—a brilliant déjeûné—
A very handsome “feed,” or “spread,” as we say;
And Strauss, Musard, and Colinet,
Whom of course you know by reputation,
Are engaged expressly there to play.
A gay affair it sure will be,
A gay affair 'twill be.
Oh, happy day,
A déjeûné!
Methinks I see the glorious sight,
Pheasant pies
Tempting rise,
Champagne flies about so bright,
While Strauss' band
Play waltzes, and
Divine Musard's
Gay gallopades,
And Colinet's
(Surpassing praise),
By turns quadrille and polonaise.

Joli.
Aye, dance away,
My page so gay,
Your master shall the piper pay.

Page.
We'll dance away,
The merry day,
No matter who the piper pay.

Ab.
Take him away,
The popinjay
Most surely shall the piper pay.
She seems a young pickle.
But woman is fickle,
Her vanity tickle,
The course is soon cleared.
None else shall she marry,
I swear by Old Harry,
The day I will carry,
Or cut my Blue Beard!

Fleur.
I'm in a sad pickle;
My tears vainly trickle;
O think me not fickle,
(to Joli Cœur)
And don't be afear'd,
For ne'er will I marry,
A sort of Old Harry,
Who thinks fit to carry,
An ugly Blue Beard.

Joli.
She's in a sad pickle,
Her tears vainly trickle,
That she may be fickle,
I'm sadly afear'd!
O ne'er must she marry,
A sort of Old Harry,
Who thinks fit to carry,
An ugly Blue Beard!

Officers drag back Joli Cœur; Abomelique seizes Fleurette—Tableau closed in by