University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

—The Palais Royal.
Enter St. Lo, Morluc, and Du Viray, from a gaming house, C.
Saint Lo.
Pest on the cards, the dice, the hour, the place,
Fortune, misfortune, luck, myself, the world,
And every man in it!

Du V.
Have you lost all?

St. Lo.
Drained to the bottom, and my pocket made
What prudent nature loathes—a vacuum!
I am an empty bag—a drawn-off butt;
Shake me—you will not find a jingle in me;
Tap me—I'm hollow—nothing left but noise.

Mor.
Go to Lafont, and get you filled again.

St. Lo.
Go to a usurer without a pledge!
Go to a well without a pitcher first,
And ask the water to flow up to you.
I've nothing left to draw with.—One by one,
Lafont has had my lands, my houses, horses,
My furniture, my very pots and pans!
I've not a fraction's fag end left of all
My patrimony—

Du V.
Then, before the last
Resource of want—the Morgue—try matrimony.

St. Lo.
I can't! I am in love!

Mor.
In love! ha, ha!

Du V.
Psha! With the widow Herminie de Vermont.

Mor.
A ward of Paul Lafont!

Du V.
Who, though his eyes
Are moderately sharp on most occasions,
Swears they could never see the fortune she
Declares her father left.

Mor.
Try Margaret Elmore,
The English merchant's daughter, and sole heir.
There is a bait, now, even old Lafont
Licks his dry lips at.

St. Lo.
Margaret and Lafont!
What profanation!

Mor.
Why? Lafont and Elmore
Are the two richest merchants in our city,
And what more fit than to unite them thus?

St. Lo.
And think you Elmore would consent to it?
Elmore—a man who rates a reputation
Above a life; whose own unspotted virtue
Brooks not the lightest shadow of a stain;
Whose proud, tenacious honour, holds itself
At guard against the world. He sell his child
For gold—and to a bidder like Lafont!

Mor.
'Twere hard to say: Elmore is a strange man.
When he first settled here, some three years back,
How eagerly he sought the young De Lormes,
Herminie and her brother, for no cause
But being orphans, with a knavish guardian.

Du V.
And when he found that Herminie was married,
He took Eugene, the other, to his house,
Adopted him, treated him like a son,
And till this daughter, Margaret, appeared,
All thought intended him his heir.

St. Lo.
And so
He may be yet; for Eugene loves her.

Mor.
Loves her!
You shall outbid him then—you shall adore her!

St. Lo.
Psha! What can Margaret ever be to me?
I grant her young—I grant her passing fair—
Her voice a music and her smile a spell;
Rich in attractions, talents, virtues, graces,
In all that makes her sex a glittering wonder.
I grant, had Herminie been never born,
Margaret had shone a very gem of women;
Yet she is but a woman: Herminie,
The saucy, wild, provoking Herminie,
Is—is—

Mor.
An angel—Out with it!

St. Lo.
She is—
As surely as Lafont is—

Du V.
What?

St. Lo.
A devil—
Which I'll be sworn to! Nothing merely mortal
Could have cajoled a man as he has me.
His silky smoothness is not of this world;
His sugared smile has nothing earthly in it—
None of the spice and pepper of a man!
He's never in a passion—that's not human.
Morluc—Du Viray—do now, if you love me,
Find out for me what tailor makes his clothes;
If they are fashioned like another man's—
If there is no provision for a tail?

Enter Paul Lafont and Jean Ruse, behind, R. & R.
Mor.
Lafont's a man of high repute.

St. Lo.
A devil!

Du V.
Of wealth unquestioned.

St. Lo.
Sir, I say, a devil!
I'll have him nothing less. Own him a devil,
Or we are enemies.

Mor.
Oh, if you wish it,
Lafont's a devil, then!

Du V.
So let it be,
With all my heart.

Laf.
[Advancing.]
Ha, ha! ha, ha! How do?
[They look embarrassed.
You think I heard you. Well, what if I did?
Don't look distressed. It grieves me!—You are well?
That's right—that's right. [Embracing them.]
A little ebullition
Of youthful mirth. I'm very fond of youth—
I am, indeed—so open, so ingenuous!
Your hands again—Ha, ha! That's very good.
You've had a merry night?—Sad rogues, wild rogues!
How went the cards, St. Lo?

St. Lo.
As though you had made them—
Fleeced me of every sou!

Laf.
Dear—that's a pity!
What will you do?

St. Lo.
Starve, I suppose, or hang—
Blow out my brains—or jump into the Seine—
Or make some such short, gentlemanly ending.

Laf.
How very shocking! It distresses me—
It does indeed!

St. Lo.
Well—will you help me live, then?

Laf.
Without security? Ha! that's irregular—
Unbusiness-like—it is indeed, St. Lo—
You must not ask me—think of the example!

Mor.
Come, Lafont; you must do something for him.
The highwayman that takes the traveller's purse
Will scarcely grudge restoring a few coins
To help him on the road.—You can't do less.

Du V.
He is our friend—and if you deal too hardly,
You'll drive us to withdraw our custom.

Laf.
[Aside.]
Hm!
Well, I suppose then I must offer something—
And he's so pleasant!—“Paul Lafont's a devil!”—
“Do they make no provision for a tail?”—
I must do something for this dear St. Lo!

St. Lo.
Well—what's your answer?—Will you help me, gratis?

Laf.
Hm!—I am so soft-hearted—and I love you
So very much, St. Lo—I do indeed—
I think I must—to an old friend like you—
It's very foolish—but that's just my way!—
I had a clerk—poor fellow!—died last week—
His stool is not yet filled—and—you shall have it.

St. Lo.
Have your clerk's stool!

Laf.
His place, St. Lo.

St. Lo.
A clerk!
Your clerk!

Laf.
We give no salary the first five years,
Because of the advantages; but then
You'll learn the business—be lodged and fed—
Live all in-doors—the changes of the seasons
Will never reach you:—in your small snug office,
From dawn to midnight, let the tempest pour
Or the sun broil without, you will be safe.
[Aside.]
If he accepts this he's far gone indeed!

Mor.
[To Jean.]
But if he marries?

Jean.
Clerks must never marry.

St. Lo.
[Gasping.]
Your clerk!

Laf.
Here, Jean Rusé!—Tell dear St. Lo
The luxuries a clerk enjoys.

Jean.
I can't!

Laf.
Jean, you are jealous!—That's a wicked feeling!
Never be envious of another's good!

St. Lo.
[Dragging Jean forward.]
Come here, you dried up skin of withered parchment!
Do I look like a clerk?

Jean.
Perhaps not yet—
But after serving five-and-thirty years
You'll be much altered.

St. Lo.
Five-and-thirty years!
Go—go—poor wretch!

Laf.
Now, pray my dear St. Lo
Don't be precipitate—consider of it!

Jean.
Oh, what a wicked world!—Reject a clerkship!—
What black ingratitude!

Laf.
He'll think upon it.
He'll think upon it, Jean! Sweet gentlemen,
You'll talk to him. I cannot stay myself.
I am upon my way to our dear Elmore,
And his sweet daughter.—Ah, Sirs! There's a man!
Such wealth—such virtue!—How he makes us love him.
St. Lo, perhaps, will one day be an Elmore—
It's only to begin.—Good bye, St. Lo—
I love you very much—I do indeed!
You'll think upon my offer.—Dear Du Viray—
My very dear Morluc—I kiss your hands!

[Exit, L.
Jean.
[To St. Lo.]
Oh, most unhappy youth!—Reject a clerkship!

[Exit, L.
[Morluc and Du Viray burst into shouts of laughter
St. Lo.
Don't laugh!—I'll not endure it!—Were he not
Herminie's guardian, I'd not leave a bone
Whole in his body!—Don't stand laughing there,
But help me to abuse him!—May all plagues
Of ruined spendthrifts cling like plasters to him!
Unmanageable duns, with bills unpaid,
Growing with mushroom speed, a crop a night,
Hang on his steps!—May he for ever hold
Cards from which all the trumps have been forgot,
And dice that will throw nothing but deuce-ace!
May he—come, help me—help me!

Mor.
Be in love!

St. Lo.
And let it be despairingly!

Du V.
With one
Whose fortune, added to his own, will not
Make up the purchase of their wedding-ring!

St. Lo.
That's growing personal—But yet go on!—

Mor.
And may his mistress have a guardian, too,—
A guardian like Lafont!

St. Lo.
Go on—go on!
That was a clincher!—Help me to some more—
I have not half done yet.

Enter Eugene de Lorme, R.
Du V.
Eugene!

Eug.
How now?
What is the mood to-day?

St. Lo.
Moral and savage!
There—hold your tongue—I'm cursing—

Eug.
Cursing!—Whom?

St. Lo.
Your and your sister's guardian, Paul Lafont.
Don't put me out—you'll lose the benefit!

Mor.
He has just had a dose of good advice,
And it is pinching him.—He's desperate!

Du V.
I think he'll turn a hermit.

Mor.
Ay—and grow
Extremely saintly—and extremely thin!

Du V.
De Lorme, I give you joy of your companion.
Farewell!—We've business. He is in good hands,
And we shall hear of him.

[Exeunt Morluc and Du Viray, R.
Eug.
What is the matter?

St. Lo.
Nothing worth mentioning. My wheels want greasing,
And so they shriek a little—that is all.

Eug.
Dear, dear St. Lo, when will you cast aside
These idle follies?

St. Lo.
Now, boy—now—to-day!—
From this hour forth I'll be another man.
I will not run in debt—for I've no credit—
Nor borrow—for I've no security.
Nor gamble—for I've nothing left to stake.
Nor—hear your sermons—for I have no patience!

Eug.
Why force me then to preach? Oh, well you know
I burn to call you brother—but my sister
Has always the same answer;—your wild courses,
Your thoughtless waste, your dissolute companions!—
And what can I reply?

St. Lo.
That she's an angel;
And you a lucky, calm, cold-blooded dog,
Whose virtue costs him nothing!—It's all luck—
Nothing but luck, I tell you. Here am I,
Who owned a fortune not a twelvemonth back,
What am I now? Cleaned out—drained dry—a beggar—
While you, who seemed the butt of all mischances.
Motherless from your birth—in infancy
Orphaned by violence—your father murdered—
His steward left your guardian and his heir.
For all your father's lands proved mortgaged to him—
What does it matter?—Nothing!—There's your luck—
For you up starts a stranger—Matthew Elmore—
This English merchant—takes you to his house—
Brings home a pretty daughter—gives you means
To ruffle with the bravest of her suitors—
Makes you—Psha!—Talking of it angers me!
Fortune's a jade—the world all goes by luck—
Nothing but luck!

Eug.
All this, and more than this,
Has Elmore done for me; more than my tongue
Or grateful heart can utter; and I love him
As I have dreamed a son should love his father.
Oft has my fancy called again to earth
My own lost father's unentombed remains
From the deep waters where they lie engulphed,
And animating them with Elmore's soul,
I've asked myself if I could love that father
More dearly then than I do Elmore now.

St. Lo.
And how replied your fancy?

Eug.
With a sigh!
A father!—Oh there is a magic charm
In the mere name of kindred, other words
Cannot supply!—How I have stood and watched
When Elmore gazed upon his daughter's face,
While their souls seemed to cling about each other,
And from their eyes, like two opposing mirrors,
The images received were given back,
Again to be returned, again reflected,
In endless interchange:—but upon me
His calm and chastened smile, though ever kind,
Is cold and saddened, too. Yet both are love—
That—the proud father's fondness for his child
This—the good man's compassion for the orphan.

St. Lo.
Oh that some good man, with the like good means
Would take a like compassion upon me!
I would not quarrel with his looks. Inquire
If Elmore wants another protégé!
I'm disengaged, and wholly at his service;
An orphan, too—the very thing to suit him!
I'm to be let.—I shall take little room—
My baggage will all lie in an arm-chair;
My purse pack up within a nurse-maid's thimble.

Eug.
Nay, not while mine is full.

St. Lo.
You're a kind fellow—
Perhaps I'll take you at your word, and use you;
If not, I shall not thank you aught the less:
And let your Margaret be but of my mind,
You'll win her from them all!

Eug.
Oh name her not!
To my own heart I dare not breathe my love.
I am the creature of her father's bounty.
Yet were I lord of kingdoms—nay, of worlds,—
To ask the love of Margaret would seem
As though I bade the silver queen of night
Curtain her beams from every other eye,
To shine on me alone.

St. Lo.
I've seen the moon
Shine brighter on a puddle than an ocean!
And women love that best on which their love
Can show most liberal.—Do you still doubt?
Then look at me!—I'll go and woo your sister
More hotly now than ever.—Follow me!
And, as I prosper, make me your example.

Eug.
[Laughing.]
You an example!

St. Lo.
And why not, good friend?
What wins a widow will not lose a maid!

[Exeunt, R.

SCENE II.

—A Chamber in Matthew Elmore's House, with preparations for a toilette.
Jenny discovered arranging the dressing-table, R.
Jenny.

Well! I like France—and so does my young
lady, Miss Margaret, too, I warrant! Why, though we
have been here only a couple of months, I feel just as if I
had been born a Frenchwoman—gentility comes so naturally
to me! In England, Tom the coachman used to call
me pretty Jenny Jarman. Poor Tom!—But Jenny Jarman!
What a horrid name! Now, Monsieur Friponneau,
the valet, whispers to me—Ah belle Anatole Charmant!
Charmant means charming, which he says I am, both by
name and by nature; and Anatole, he tells me, is the
French for Jenny. How much nicer it sounds!—Anatole
Charmant—Jenny Jarman! Oh there is no sort of comparison
between them!—But kark! I hear my young
lady's voice.—Ay, and there is Madame de Vermont with
her as usual. What a comfort it is to see a widow always
so gay and merry! really it is quite a temptation to marriage!

Enter Margaret and Herminie de Vermont, R. D. F.
Mar.
I have been idle, and the morning wears:
I shall be chid for my late toilette. Come,
We must make haste, good Jenny!

Jenny.

Anatole, if you please, Mamselle, from this out.—
I have been translated.

Mar.

Translated!

Jenny.

Yes. Anatole is the French for Jenny; and as
all our other English has to be translated, Monsieur Friponneau
has persuaded me to undergo the operation too.

Mar.
[Laughing.]
Beware, girl! for they teach false lessons here,
And we are too apt scholars.

Jenny.

Oh, but the masters are so pleasant!—And all
alike. Why, lovers in France are as plentiful as sprats at
Christmas; while England is like a ship on short allowance
—there is not one for half-a-dozen of us!

Mar.
Fie, fie, girl! To your task. I shall be late.
You know, my father's love, which makes of me
The unskilled mistress of his house, demands
I should receive his friends.

Her.
(L. C.)
Your father's friends!
Thou little hypocrite! Where did they hide
Before your father's daughter came? Till then
No man had fewer; but with Margaret
They flocked as thick as swallows with the summer;
Till, in a month, good, quiet, peaceful Elmore
Found himself master of the destinies
Of half the raving, moon-struck youths of Paris.
Thanks to that duteous daughter, whose sole care
Was—to do honour to her father's friends!

Mar.
Go to! You are an idle chatterer.

Her.
Do you weary of me?

Mar.
No—talk on—talk on—
I'll think of other things.

Enter Page, L.
Page.
Monsieur Lafont
Presents his humble duty to you, Madam,
And waits below.

Mar.
I am not ready yet
For visitors—so tell Monsieur Lafont.
[Exit Page, L.

Her.
Oh, my poor guardian!—Why, thou saucy girl,
So short an answer to so rich a wooer!

Mar.
Wooer!—Oh, wherefore will he thus persist
In this most monstrous suit?—Why haunt a house
Where no one welcomes him?

Her.
Two strong attractions,
Beauty and wealth. Lafont adores them both.
Besides, your father is his rival now
In trade; but this would make their interests one.
How they could play into each other's hands!
What snug monopolies! Oh, he will win you!
You are your father's goods—his stock in trade;
The merchant sells his wares to the best chapman—
And few can bid a price with Paul Lafont.
How I should like to hear them haggling for you!

Mar.
Stay, Herminie! I know you do but jest—
Yet there are themes on which a jest appears
A kind of irreligion. One of these
Is my dear father's name. Unworthy doubt
Never approached it—never! If his heart
Has any worship lower than the skies,
It is his honour; if he has a thought
Still dearer than that honour, 'tis his child.

Her.
Forgive me—I but jested on Lafont.

Mar.
Name him no more. I should despise him, were it
But for your own and for your brother's wrongs:
Yet in himself there's that—I scarce know what—
Which makes me shrink from him. His bonied sweetness
Moves my aversion—his eternal smoothness
Wakes my antipathy. I think I see
A coiled up serpent in his half closed eye:
It may be prejudice, yet, Herminie,
I'd rather meet my father's sternest frown,
Than Paul Lafont's smooth smile.

Her.
Come to my arms,
And let me kiss thee!

Re-enter Page, L.
Page.
Count D'Autun, my lady,
Tenders his service.

Mar.
I will come anon.

[Exit Page, L.
Her.
D'Autun. Now there's a gallant that is rich,
Generous, young, well featured, well proportioned—
A very pearl of men. How's the heart now?
Is there no palpitation?

Mar.
[Extending her arm.]
Feel my pulse.

Her.
[Taking it.]
One—two—three—four—a most provoking pulse!
Firm as a rock—dull as the step of time.
Oh, I am out of patience! Margaret,
Like a good girl, come, make a full confession!
I die to know the truth—who is the man?

Mar.
Psha! not a soul of them.

Her.
Stay—that's a fib!
I see a blush—a little crinkling smile!
Desanges?—still steady!

Mar.
Ay—or it beats false.

Her.
Rochard?—Now whip that little wrist of thine.
This is a piece of clockwork, not a pulse!
It stirs no more for the best men in Paris,
Than if I named my brother, poor Eugene—
Oh, mercy on us! what a leap was there!
And what a blush! You're ill—extremely ill!
My wicked brother! It was he—

Mar.
Go, madcap!
[Rising.
Girl, you have surely finished—

Jenny.
Oh, your hair—

Mar.
My hair is excellent, I have no doubt.

Jenny.
And that left sleeve—

Mar.
Quite right—the sleeve's perfection.
There—any thing will do! I am not used,
You know, to be fastidious in my dress.

Re-enter Page, L.
Page.
The Sieur Eugene, my lady, is below.

Mar.
[Eagerly.]
Ha! say I'm coming—that is, presently.
No—never mind. There, there—you need not wait.

[Exit Page, L.
Her.
My brother! Oh, you must not venture near him.
You know his very name alarmed you! Nay,
Indeed you must not—'twill be dangerous!
Stay where you are.

Mar.
[Going to a glass.]
Oh, you provoking girl!
How ill you've dressed me! never half so badly!
This hair is frightful—do it all again—
Yet that will take so long—

Her.
Nay, but you know,
“My hair is excellent!”

Mar.
And then this sleeve—
See how it hangs!

Her.
“The sleeve's perfection!”

Mar.
Psha!
Why, look yourself—the dress is all awry—
I cannot be seen thus!

Her.
“I am not used
To be fastidious in my dress!”—Dear Margaret,
I must embrace you! Nay, don't turn away!
Never did book delight me half so much,
As that most simple one in which I read
Thy heart!

Mar.
You are a simpleton yourself!
Like an ambitious child, who knows not yet
A single letter, you would seize the volume,
Turn the page upside down, and so pretend
To read its matter. Fiction—all pure fiction,
Framed out of your own brain! [To Jenny.]
—There, you may go, girl.

Jenny.
[Aside.]

Go!—yes, that's always the way, just
as the conversation is growing interesting! But as long as
doors are made with key-holes, I'll not be brought up in
ignorance!

[Flounces out, R.
Mar.
And I must hasten now to meet these people,
If but to 'scape from you. Ha! here's my father—
Now I shall have a champion!

Enter Matthew Elmore, L. D. F.
Elm.
[Entering.]
So thou shalt!
[Embraces her.
Why, what's the matter, girl? Why, Margaret!
As full of blushes as the morning, when
The sun peeps in through her half opened curtains,
And finds her sleeping! What has happened, child?
What have they done to thee?

Mar.
Oh, she torments me
With saucy jests, such as one's cheek can't choose
But tingle at. Forbid her!

Her.
[Laughing.]
Don't attempt it!
I will not be forbid—

Elm.
Yes, Herminie,
You will. You know the jealous care with which
I watch my budding rose—grown far away,
In bleak but wholesome air; transplanted now
Into this rank and doubtful soil of France,
Because my selfish fondness could not bear
That it should bloom away from me. I'd have her
Gay, happy, courted, and admired; but yet
I must not let you spoil my English girl!

Mar.
[Affectionately.]
Nor shall they, father! Am I not with you,
And is not that always to be at home?
The truant slip, that once was severed from you,
Now, grafted back into the parent stem,
Grows all again your own.

Elm.
[Regarding her earnestly.]
Art sure of that?
Art sure thou art not, like so many more,
A parasite, twining about my boughs,
Only to feed upon my sap?

Mar.
Oh, no!
I am your own true branch.

Elm.
Beware, beware!
This world we live in, child—'tis a strange world—
And, like a cur, will snap at the same hand
It licked an hour before. If this same world—
It is a giddy thing—which fawns so now,
Should one day turn on me—if it should find
My gold but tinsel—call my seeming virtue
Smooth-faced hypocrisy—brand my proud name
With its most damning marks—think'st thou, would still
Thy fond affection know no cooling?

Mar.
No!
If such could be—though such can never be—
Then I would fly that world with thee, and go
Where we would have no world but one another.
But why do you so often in your talk
Start off to doubts and questionings like these?

Elm.
Do I? I did not know it. 'Tis perhaps
That love is jealous—restless; not content
To be loved as we are, we seek assurance
We should be loved no less if we were other.
Love is not reason—yet I think thou lovest me?

Mar.
And I'll be sworn I do!

Her.
And I'll be sworn
She wishes you a thousand leagues away,
E'en while she tells you so! Have you forgot
What sighing suitors wait for her below?

Elm.
[Smiling.]
In truth I had! Well, child, thou hast the choice
Of some of the most gentle blood of France.

Her.
Choice! Give a maid a choice!—The good man doats!
Why, ev'n a widow scarcely gets as much!
Oh, this is heresy against all custom!

Elm.
Then we will make new customs, Herminie.
If I would buy my child a house, a horse,
A trinket, bauble—should I not consult
Her taste on what would pleasure her?—and yet
Might each be soon exchanged if she disliked it.
Or if I would bring home some youthful friend,
As her companion for a vacant hour,
Should she not have a voice in what should be
The character of that selected friend?
Yet might she snap at will the slender tie.
Then, when the question is of one to be
The partner of her life to its last breath,
The sharer of her heart's most sacred thoughts,
The breast in which her own should pour its joys,
Or rest its griefs—for grief will come to all—
The altar of her home—her other self—
The substitute for all the outer world,
For which the outer world must be resigned
Without a sigh: in such a gift as this,
Shall my girl have no voice?

Mar.
My own best father!

Elm.
Come! We will go and meet these wooers, child.
I'll ask no wealth but that more pure than gold—
An honest heart; and thou canst choose no other.

Her.
Be not too sure of that! Lovers are made
Like pastry—all with tempting outside crusts;
But what they have within we can but guess
Till we begin to taste—a privilege
Never allowed us till they're bought and paid for!

[Exeunt, L.