 | A Son of The Soil |  |
Scene Third.
—A Suite of Rooms in Madame Tallien's house, richly furnished in the classical style.Guests grouped about the stage in the different dresses of the day; Representatives, Nobles, Ladies in the Greek dress, &c.; amongst the others, Martel, L., conversing with the Members of the Committee, L.; in another part of the room, Hoche.
Mart.
(to Member of Committee)
It is arranged, then,
about the Duke de Lille?
1st Committeeman.
His name shall be removed from the
proscription list at once. Your reasons are all-sufficient.
(he
retires—Hoche comes forward, C., seeing Martel)
Hoche.
Can I believe my eyes?
Mart.
That depends on what they tell you.
Hoche.
You here? Here, you?
Mart.
Obviously.
Hoche.
I had no idea that I was so eloquent. You reflected
on all I said, and changed your mind?
Mart.
Precisely. I changed my mind.
Hoche.
Bravo! Come and be introduced to our hostess.
Mart.
(C., drawing back)
Later!
Hoche.
(C.)
No, at once. Courage! Let us face the enemy
together.
(leads Martel to Madame Tallien)
Madame, I
bring you one of my oldest and best friends, as you desired me,
Citizen Martel, representative and member of the Committee,
but better known on the bivouac by the Rhine than in the
drawing-rooms of Paris, and more afraid of one woman than of
twenty regiments.
Mad. T.
My dear General, we owe you all thanks
(with a
look at Beatrice)
for your conquest. I trust that your friend,
in whose praise I have heard so much, has only to know us, to
fear us a little less than his enemies fear him. You see I did
not overrate that winning tongue of yours, after all.
Hoche.
My horses are gone!
Mad. T.
I would not rob you for the world. I only wanted
to teach you not to mistrust yourself or me.
Mart.
(after bowing to Madame Tallien, crosses to Beatrice, R.)
I have done as you wished, madame. Your
father may return to Paris.
Beat.
(R.)
Thank you from the bottom of my heart. You
have acted generously, and have a lasting claim on my friendship.
I can never thank you enough.
Mad. T.
(to one of the Guests)
Well, Barras, what news?
Guest.
Nothing particular. The democrats are agitating,
and the absentees are conspiring. Bah! nothing but last dying
struggles. My best news is, that the wines are good, and the
women pretty; and that we have a delightful concert to-night.
Mad. T.
A concert is well enough in its way; but when
are we to have the Opera again? where the spiders are spinning
their webs over the dear old decorations. Ah, Mr. Martel,
give us back our Opera!
Beat.
Give us back something better, first. The very air
is sighing for a different music, now long dumb—the music of
the church bells. How long must God's house be turned into
a barrack room? Oh, M. Martel, give us back our churches!
Mart.
But, madame—
Hush! You shall not blaspheme before me. I mean
to convert you in spite of yourself. Come to my house, tomorrow,
and hear the rest of my sermon.
A Young Girl.
(to Madame Tallien)
Ah, madame, when
are we to get something better than the Opera! Shall we never
have another ball?
Mad. T.
That is a real want, is it not?
Girl.
It is, indeed. We are tired of wearing eternal
mourning—two years of scaffolds, and murders, and all sorts
of dreadful things. We want to see if our feet have forgotten
how to keep time in their horrid Republican shoes. A ball—
gives us a ball!
Guests.
Yes, Madame Tallien, give us a ball.
Valm.
(coming forward)
Young ladies, you shall have one.
Indeed, we have just been arranging the victims' ball.
Mad. T.
What does that mean?
Valm.
All the guests are to be people who have suffered
from Mother Guillotine.
Girl.
How horrid!
Valm.
I don't mean personally, of course; but by the loss
of some relation—a father, mother or wife. We have settled
the preliminaries, and everything is to be typical of the
occasion. Instead of bowing we are to nod our heads, as if
they were just cut off, like this.
(making a sign with his hand)
The ladies are to wear cypress in their hair. Pretty idea, is
it not?
Mad. T.
Cheerful, very! When is the entertainment to
come off?
Valm.
In a fortnight.
Mad. T.
The authorities will scarcely permit it.
Valm.
Ah, bah! We'll carry loaded canes with us, and our
Jacobin friends will run like hares when they see them.
(Martel, who has heard Valmont, starts up, Beatrice stops him)
Beat.
(to Martel)
He is speaking of the assassins who
disgrace your cause; and not of you.
(Martel sits down, looking at Valmont, who has not observed him)
Valm.
We know these heroes pretty well by this time; a
pack of bloodhounds, who only bark round the guillotine, and
attack those who can't show fight. We have thrashed them
at the Club, in the Palais Royal, at the Tuileries; and given
many a Jacobin a cold bath in the fountain—not before he
wanted it.
Guests.
(laughing)
Bravo!
Mart.
(rising)
Damnation!
Beat.
(aside to him)
Be still.
We will lay siege to their Club some day with stones,
or smoke the fellows out of their lair.
Mart.
The puppy! Am I to bear—
Beat.
Why should you mind what he says? Restrain
yourself, I command—I entreat you.
(Martel remains quiet;
to Valmont)
Count, in this company your remarks are not
in the best taste. Let me beg you to say no more, if I have
any influence with you.
Valm.
My sweet cousin!
Mart.
(aside)
The Count de Valmont!
Valm.
Your influence is unbounded already. When will
you give yourself the right to use it openly?
Mart.
(aside)
What does he mean?
Valm.
Madame Tallien, help me to subdue this charming
rebel. Tell her it is high time we were married, after being
engaged six months.
Mart.
Great Heaven!
Beat.
Don't talk of that now. You are just out of prison;
still suspected; you would only compromise me.
Valm.
Then secure the protection of the government for
love's young dream. Your eyes could do that any day, for I
hear that the Committee are highly susceptible, and never say
“No” to a pretty woman.
Beat.
Count!
Valm.
Don't frown, it's unbecoming. You can't have any
scruple in fascinating these awkward tyrants of ours, and
giving them a lesson, surely. Make use of them first, madame,
and laugh at them afterwards.
Mart.
(springing up)
Right! that is the way to treat those
fellows on whom all honourable scruples are thrown away.
You do them too much honour, madame, in condescending to
play with them.
Val.
I don't know who you are, sir, but you are a very
sensible man.
Beat.
Be silent! (to Valmont)
and you! (to Martel— Valmont turns away laughing—Guests approach and form in groups about the rooms)
Mart.
Poor devils! Monsters, we all know they are!
But they are children, too, in ignorance!
Under their rough and scarred outsides there lie
Fresh feelings easily stirred, soft hearts that need
Small skill to trifle with, and to deceive.
We never learnt the polished treacheries
And the fine treasons of nobility.
This gentleman and his good friends, I hope,
Will bring the old times back again, and then
You need not stand on ceremony with us.
You will hire slaves to beat us.
Beat.
(to Martel, aside)
Are you mad?
What are you doing? Oh, for your own sake
Be silent, or for mine! Do you not see
You draw all eyes upon us? It is cruel
To shame me thus.
Mad. T.
(coming forward)
M. Martel, I beg you,
In common courtesy, to spare her this.
Or, as you are a man, to leave my house.
Beatrice—gentlemen—
Mart.
(throwing aside all restraint, as all gather round to listen)
Yes, I will go!
Would that my foot had withered on the threshold,
Before I ever crossed it. I will go,
But not till I have thrown back in your teeth
Your scorn of the Republic I adore.
You think, you miserable Royalists,
That with your petty plots and trickeries
You can undo the Revolution's work,
Upset the giant brood her womb has borne
In place of dolls like you! We have beaten back
Europe in arms, with ten kings at her head,
With rags upon our backs, and pike in hand!
Our heroes struck Prussians and Englishmen,
Not their own womankind and helpless babes!
Our nobles fought barefooted—but for fame,
And not for gold! Our patriots died for France,
Which you had harried with your foreign friends.
Will you face such as we are? We shall toss you
Even to the winds, like straw! Sneer as you please,
Insult us, and awake the memories
Of your own evil story, whose black roll
We would forget and bury but for you!
Worry with your small stings the lazy lion,
Whose roar would drive you to your caves and holes!
Stand back, you hounds, and let a Frenchman pass!
He rushes out, L., all standing back to let him pass—the doors are thrown wide open—group.
| A Son of The Soil | |