 | The Insolvent : or Filial Piety |  |
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ACT IV.
SCENE I.
An ANTI-CHAMBER, in Valdore's House.Enter Florella and Young Aumele.
Florella.
You a young lover, and so near his mistress—
And she asleep too—and stand wisely doubting!
Go, and protect your fears within yon night-gown;
Then safely fill your absent rival's place.
Darkness can tell no tales—if rapture does not:
If you must speak, take care you don't too soon;
Wise women know, mistakes once past are helpless.
Aumele.
But where's that sullen friend? Did he go with him?
Florella.
No, no—The count's kind, undistrusting goodness,
Thank'd the rough soldier's too officious sight,
The husband's usual way—and check'd his error.
Aumele.
Impossible!
Florella.
What can be so to woman?—
Drown'd in due tears, and rack'd by strong despair,
Fled from the garden to her chamber's shelter,
She tore her hair, beat wild her beauteous bosom;
Curs'd ev'ry sleeping star, that watch'd not innocence;
Wounded the senseless floor with bleeding nails,
As if she plough'd up graves to cover shame.
Just in this tempest of ungovern'd rage,
In comes th'all-hushing husband; kiss'd her to stillness,
And every whirlwind's wing grew fledg'd with down;
Soft lent his head on her hard-heaving bosom,
While in an eager, doubt-dispell'd embrace,
He broke the chain of fear that held her dumb.
Aumele.
No more of their embracing—pass that by.
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He told her all the rough La Foy's report,
But laugh'd at, while he told it—Generous spouse!
He scorn'd to see too clear—'twas wronging love!
Sorry he was (and there the jest grew pang-full)
That, for two endless ages—two—long—nights!
He must, that moment, leave her. All the rest
I have already told you; and thus near her,
I dare not trust, in my constraint of muscles,
To tell it o'er again—for I shall laugh;
Nay, laugh too loud—and if she wakes, all's over.
Aumele.
By Cupid's dart,
I love thee for thy virtues! Thy keen rays
Of sparkling wantonness have fir'd my fancy,
And I could kiss thee into tenfold extasy!
[Kisses her eagerly.
Florella.
Psha! mind your business, my French man of straw;
Soon kindled, soon burnt out—The proverb knew ye.
Aumele.
Well—thou shalt see I am a judge's son;
I will be stay'd, and reverend—But let me once
Catch thee behind the curtain of occasion,
And if there's judge or serjeant 'mongst 'em all
Makes sweeter use of darkness—I'm his client.
Heav'n save me! what a dreadful thought was that?
Florella.
My lady and myself, alone inhabit
This right wing of the mansion—You may secure
Undress in the next chamber; two doors farther
You'll find your hope soft sleeping. Take the night-gown,
She'll dream the count return'd. Keep your voice under;
Short murm'rings pass for eloquence in love.
Whisper, whene'er you give her breath for question,
That you receiv'd fresh orders, and return'd.
Aumele.
Sweet oracle!—Hadst thou been born in Greece,
Cupid were king of Delphos. Here, eat gold—
Melt the whole purse.
[Gives her a purse.
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One hint more I'll give you—
When you succeed, triumphant in your scheme,
Own, in soft tumult, and with humblest joy,
The pleasing theft—Lest, ignorant of that,
She might blab secrets in a husband's ear,
Wou'd set his brains a madding. Timely warn'd,
She will be glad to bury what is past;
And for her own sake, or for yours, conceal it.
Aumele.
No more, but trust me to my fate—Away;
I can no longer my fierce joys delay;
Too swiftly ended, with approaching day.
[Exeunt severally.
Enter La Foy, softly.
La Foy.
By the count's master-key I've past three doors,
Yet fail to find this closet. 'Tis no matter,
I'm sure I've sprung my quarry—So there needs
No covert, from a game already started.
How shall I act? If I alarm the house,
And he once more escapes, Valdore's blind trust,
In this chaste daughter's modesty, will break
His spleen with laughter—and conclude me mad.
Enter Chalons, pensive.
Hark! there's some cautious step!—It must be he;
He enter'd with a view, that bids tread soft—
Guilt stands in need of silence. May this
Good sword and arm for ever fail me,
If he out-lives this meeting—
Chalons.
Who is there?
La Foy.
Shrink from thy horrid purpose, fatal sword:
Is not that voice Chalons's?
Chalons.
La Foy!
La Foy.
The same.
Speak softly—Why are you come hither, now?
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'Till I return'd to call you.
Chalons.
Is she innocent?
I glow with pain to wait that dear, wish'd news.
I dare be sworn, you found her watchful virtue,
Besieging heav'n with pray'rs for my return.
How have you mark'd her busied? All was hush'd,
As through the private grot I pass'd unseen;
All was serene as peace. Still midnight nods,
And nothing breathes in this lull'd house like guilt.
La Foy.
I hope, all's well—and wish you wou'd begone.
Chalons.
Begone first, self-tormenting jealousy!
Thou dire camelion, that from air's each blast
Catchest new colours—and deceiv'st to live!
Honest La Foy—'tis generous, as a god,
To change hard hasty doom—and make it mercy.
La Foy.
In mercy too, some fears I yet retain;
Remitted—but not cur'd. Go—my heart bleeds.
And shuns to tell thee more—Go hence, this moment.
Chalons.
Nay, then there's fate!
La Foy.
You'll make it fate, by staying.
Chalons.
Answer me only this.
La Foy.
Be brief—propose it.
Chalons.
What have you seen—of what I dread to hear?
La Foy.
Best friend—Your sorrows make you doubly such.
Chalons.
Go on; I find then there is cause for sorrow.
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Oh! wou'd to heaven there was not. I have seen
(Oppress'd by all thy miseries made my own,
How can I tell thee) thy fond faith's misplac'd.
I love thee more than ever; for I add
My pity to my friendship.—
Thou must prepare thy honest heart for woe.
Here, like a ghost that haunts its hidden treasure,
With melancholy glide thou stalk'st along,
Fond of the dirty earth thou tak'st for gold.
Chalons.
If thou hast pity, torture me no longer.
La Foy.
Scarce had I turn'd the corner of the street
That fronts this fatal house—ere I beheld,
Swift passing by me, muffled from their note,
Amelia's faithless favourite maid, Florella;
And close behind her, as sin follows hard
Upon temptation's heels, on stalk'd Aumele.
I saw 'em enter—Saw the door shut softly:
Watch'd, 'till the lights extinguish'd shew'd all quiet;
Then follow'd, by the way you lately taught me.
He's still within; if you, without much noise,
Search close, you'll find him closer. If he starts,
I'll seize him at his out-shot.
Chalons.
Give me thy sword.
La Foy.
I'll keep it for your use—but not your folly.
Chalons.
If you refuse it now, you stain my fame.
La Foy.
You know I wear it, but to serve your cause;
Let me go with it, you command it freely.
Chalons.
I shall be sham'd for ever, if thy rashness
Denies to trust me with it.
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So adjur'd,
I am no more its master—Use it wisely.
Chalons.
Go, and be safe then—by the way you came.
Take my repentant thanks for all past goodness,
[Embracing La Foy.
And pardon your poor friend, that—once—he wrong'd you.
Oh! my La Foy, they who have soldier's hearts,
Unmingled with the lover's, never felt
The softning pangs of tenderness we suffer.
Did you but know to what excess of joy
I rais'd my foolish hope, from this lov'd woman,
You wou'd forget my fault—and call it weakness.
La Foy.
Before you let your passion loose once more,
Take care it not deceives you. Heedfully
Convince yourself of wrongs, we now but fear;
And, above all, be mindful she's a woman.
Chalons.
Yet once embrace me, dear, too kind La Foy.
If we must meet no more—tell the hard world
My wrongs—and vindicate an injur'd name.
[Exit, as into the chamber.
La Foy.
I'll hover near, and hold attentive note
On what may want prevention. Swords us'd rashly,
May justify intrusion every where.
I haunt no beauty's bed-chambers—Pray heav'n
He finds not Aumele does.—I rais'd my voice
Higher than prudence ton'd it, purposely
To warn escape from danger.—Troth, this pain
Wounds my poor friend, beyond the cause's claim:
I cou'd half hate myself, for having given it.
[A noise of footsteps within.
That's a new step, and near me; by its sound,
'Tis from a different quarter.
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Florella.
Sure! I heard
Some noise!—and, if my fear deceiv'd me not,
The hum of busy voices. Now 'tis hush'd;
And I almost dare hope, 'twas but the echo
Of the wind's hollow groan, through empty chambers.
I'll venture list'ning at the inner door;
Lest some alarm has reach'd them.
[Passing near La Foy, he seizes her.
La Foy.
Who art thou,
That thus, in dead of night, with robber's tread,
Steal'st to some purpos'd scene of frighted guilt?
Florella.
Say rather, what presuming ruffian's grasp,
With-holds me from my duty?—Who, or what thou
May'st be, my trembling heart wants power to guess.
La Foy.
I know thy raven's croak.
Florella.
I am call'd Florella;
Attendant on the countess of Chalons.
La Foy.
Thou art the brib'd she-baw'd that led Aumele,
Hopeful of livelier pastime, to the sword,
That his vain penitence and punish'd vanity
Have fail'd to save his youth from.
Florella.
Heav'n forbid!
Alas! is Aumele dead?
La Foy.
How dar'st thou doubt it?
Florella.
Who murder'd him?
La Foy.
Say, 'twas La Foy.
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I knew
Thy voice, but too, too well.
La Foy.
Thou'rt come to die;
I waited but 'till heav'n's just anger sent thee,
For thou art doom'd to follow.
Florella.
Oh! for pity!
Spare my defenceless life. I will kneel, weep,
Beg mercy undeserv'd—and tell thee all.
La Foy.
Has the unhappy countess e'er before
Been guilty with Aumele?
Florella.
No—by my soul!
Nor is she guilty now.
La Foy.
Play'st thou at riddles?
Florella.
Hark! what's that frightful noise! I hear clash'd swords,
And die with apprehension.
La Foy.
Go—I want leisure,
But shall examine further. Do but prove
Thy lady innocent, and claim some pity.
Which is the count's gilt closet?
Florella.
See it there.
La Foy.
I have the key—In—enter—and be safe,
Lock'd from escape or danger; 'till I ripen
The growing distant hope, that may release thee.
[Shuts her in the closet. Takes the key, and puts it in his pocket.
And now, forgetful of all forms, I rush
To interpose prevention.
[Is going—Starts.
Horrid hand!
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Eyes horrid! mien confus'd—and that sword bloody,
Make needless all enquiry.
Chalons.
He is dead.
La Foy.
Alas! too sure you found him! Oh, 'twas thoughtless!
What will his father, what Valdore, what law,
Misjudging censure, and the publick tongue,
What will the world and heav'n—conceive of this?
Chalons.
I did not kill him basely.
La Foy.
Where is your wife?
Chalons.
I've given her to the winds—They'll blow her name
Round the four borders of her country's scorn.
La Foy.
Joyless Chalons!—You kill'd him in her bed?
Chalons.
No, not in bed—I found him kneeling near it.
He sigh'd, and kiss'd her hand with amorous boldness,
Mutt'ring his transports o'er it. Oft, in vain,
He try'd to interrupt her torrent rage
Of agoniz'd reproach, and conscious shame.
Cruel, unkind Aumele! I heard her say;
How can I see the sun, when day-break comes?
How meet my injur'd husband's dreaded eyes,
My reverend father's tears, my friends disdain,
The hoot of the light rabble's cutting scorn,
And all the killing anguish I must owe thee?
Go—for if here, by some disast'rous chance,
Discover'd—'twill undo me. Patience bore it,
Even to this madding length—'twas all it cou'd,
And I was tame no longer.
La Foy.
'Twas indeed
Too much for injur'd excellence, like thine,
To bear, from blind depravity of taste,
That left to feed upon a boundless lawn,
And brows'd on a dry common!
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Out, at once,
Burst my relentless rage. Swift stept I to him,
Sending thy honest sword before—That ne'er,
'Till then, had arm'd a hand unworthy. Take,
I cry'd, regardless of the shrieks she rais'd,
Take a defence undue—protect thy vileness—
Nor let me basely kill, tho' basely wrong'd.
He rose—leap'd back, and wonder'd—Paus'd, stood dumb,
And, for awhile, declin'd his urg'd defence.
“I should not,” he began—and purpos'd more,
“In such a cause as this”—I stopp'd him short—
Pour'd in reproach, and rous'd him into firmness.
He, in his turn, grew hot—came fiercely on—
Met the vindictive point—Sigh'd loud, and fell.
La Foy.
Trembling I ask—rash, violent Chalons!
Ask with a friend's too apprehensive dread;
Ask, since I must prepare my ear for anguish,
What follow'd this beginning?—The offence
Was bitter—bitterer still th'offender's fate!
Oh, 'twas enough!—and ask'd no weak partaker.
Chalons.
Ease that ungrounded pain—I cou'd not wound her.
Oh! had'st thou seen, and heard, thou had'st not fear'd it.
Speechless with horror—wasting fruitless tears;
Trembling, with force that shook the curtains round her;
Wringing her hands, in half-rais'd attitude,
And bending o'er the bed, through night's pale gleam,
She mark'd the bleeding form, and eye'd it ghastly.
“Cruel, lost, shameless wanton!—Oh!” I cry'd,
“I want a name to speak thee!—Shou'd I kill thee,
“What marble heart of censure durst reproach me:
“But I remember what thou, wanton, did'st not;
“And, for thy sex, I spare thee. Be this room
“Thy prison, 'till that venerable judge,
“Thy own shock'd father, sentence, or release thee.”
There, as I turn'd to go, th'unhappy starter
Sprung from her pillow, caught my feet, and held 'em;
Clung, like her beauty's influence, fast and painful;
Hung her dragg'd weight on my retarded knees,
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Fainting and hopeless, she relax'd her hold.
I snatch'd th'afflicting moment, shook her from me;
And, prison'd in her chamber, left her captive,
Companion of a flatterer cold and dumb,
And now grown tasteless of a lady's liking.
La Foy.
Poor, poor Amelia! what a fate is yours!
How fall'n, from yester morning's awe-mix'd shine,
Of white untainted beauty—Since 'tis thus,
I must approve the sad appeal propos'd,
To an impartial judge, at once, and father:
His influence too, in your judicial process,
Will balance, and 'twill all be needful there,
The vengeance of a judge less just than he.
Chalons.
Too generous, ill-rewarded, lov'd Valdore!
How shall my sick'ning soul find strength to meet him!
I cannot—'Tis impossible.
La Foy.
'Tis necessary:
Leave to my care that melancholy duty;
I'll bring him first prepar'd to stand the shock.
Chalons.
But break not in on his too short repose;
Shake not his unsuspecting heart abruptly;
Wait 'till his usual hour of waking comes:
'Twill be too soon, however long delay'd,
To sigh such sorrows to him.
La Foy.
I'll go listen.
[Exit.
Chalons.
Oh what a change can one short hour bestow!
To bury man's best hopes in endless woe!
Beauty's frail bloom's a cheat! Valour's brief fame
An empty sound—The shadow of a name!
Riches are envy's bait—Scorn haunts the poor—
In death alone, from pain we rest secure.
[Exit.
End of the fourth Act.
| The Insolvent : or Filial Piety | |