University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Scene First.

—Boudoir of Beatrice D'Armine, richly furnished; a window at the back opening on a balcony, L. C.
Beatrice and Madame Tallien discovered, the former in a Greek dress, which Madame Tallien is arranging, L. C.
Beat.

Have you finished?

Mad. T.

Very nearly. The folds of the dress must hang a
little more loosely—there; and a little more of the arm shown.
How well it becomes the bracelet! Now, come and admire
yourself in the glass, my pearl of Athenian beauties!

Beat.

Oh, take it away! I'm ashamed to look at myself.

Mad. T.

Nonsense! It's a privilege that all the world
might envy. I declare you are as red as fire. What a child
it is?

Beat.

I can't help it. I never wore this sort of dress
before, and I feel quite unsuited to it, and ashamed. Now I've
obliged you by putting it on, I suppose I may please myself
by taking it off again.

Mad. T.
(laughing)

Certainly not; my carriage is waiting
for us, and the Count de Valmont with it. Come.

Beat.

I can't. I'm afraid to go out.

Mad. T.

Why? you promised me that you would.

Beat.

I can scarcely answer; I am becoming fanciful and
irritable, and don't know my own mind for two minutes together.
I never was capricious before, but I am now. I have vague
longings that I cannot define, and have lost all pleasure in
what I most enjoyed. I want something new, and that is why
I let you deck me out in this heathen fashion. But now I've
changed my mind again. You've seen me in my masquerade,
but nobody else shall. I'm out of spirits and temper, and am
fit for nothing but to stay at home.

Mad. T.
(sitting by her side)

Ah! What are you so troubled
about?

Beat.

About my father, I think. I don't know why he
doesn't come to Paris. He must have heard that he is proscribed
no longer.

Mad. T.

Dutiful daughter! (suddenly)
Have you seen the
Hurricane again?

Beat.

The—what?

Mad. T.

Your friend—you know, who made himself so
agreeable at my house the other night—the lion, as he must
not be called a bear—Monsieur—

Beat.

Martel? No, I have not seen him.

Mad. T.

Has he made no sign?

Beat.

He has written, more than once, to ask my pardon.

Mad. T.

Which you gave?

Beat.

No; he must work out his sentence. Oh, here's
somebody coming.

Mad. T.

It is only the Count.

Beat.

Provoking interruption!

Enter Valmont, L. 2 E.
Valm.
(L.)

Your carriage is waiting, madame. Ah, Duchess,
this is a revolution as it should be. Delightful revival of the
old classic days! Am I permitted to worship at the shrine of
the high-priestess of Venus? I adore everything Greek.

Beat.
(C.)

Then go to my window for a few minutes, cousin,
and look at the blue sky. It's perfectly Greek.

Valm.
(shrugging his shoulders, after walking to the window with a puzzled look)

Excuse me, but the sky is a dirty brown.

Beat.

Then see if there's anybody in the street, or read
the newspaper; it is very interesting.

Valm.

Haven't you got a doll to amuse me with?

Beat.

No, baby; stay at the window, or leave the house.

Valm.

Ah, I see. I'm interrupting a confidence.

Beat.

Intelligent man! Well, which is it to be?

Valm.

The window, by all means. (goes on to the balcony)

Beat.
(to Madame Tallien)

I have seen him under my
window fifty times.

Mad. T.
(R.)

The Count?

Beat.

No; M. Martel.

Mad. T.

Ah!

Beat.

I couldn't help pitying him, he looked so disconsolate.
I wrote to tell him he might call and see me to-day,
as he tells me he has something to say to me.

Mad. T.

What a self-sacrifice! Shall you really be able to
meet him with a decent show of civility?

Beat.

It is a distraction, at all events, and I own that the
man has interested me. It may be the triumph of seeing a
stubborn Democrat's respect for one of the proscribed race; or
perhaps a woman's pride in conquest, the greater when she
knows that no other woman has ever made that conquest
before.

Mad. T.

How do you know that?

Beat.

He is a notorious woman-hater. I should like to see
him again. It would be a pleasure to read his heart in his
tell-tale face, for want of a better occupation. I should like to
study him, that's all.

Mad. T.

Yes, I like studying people too. I'm practising
on you at this moment. But don't be so absorbed in your

studies as to forget everybody else. That weathercock doesn't
hear us, does he?

Beat.

Not he. Set a child to look out at the window, and
its mind has no room for any other occupation.

Mad. T.

Well, then, the child is in danger of being arrested
again. You know how good my sources of information on
these matters are. He has been compromising himself in fresh
plots, it is said, and is what they call “suspected.” He is in
the power of your patriotic friend, my dear. If M. Martel
were to use that power—

Beat.

He would not do it.

Mad. T.

Indeed! Yet it would be an effective way of preventing
the Count from becoming your husband.

Beat.

You wrong him cruelly by saying that. He may be
a little violent at times, perhaps—

Mad. T.

A little, yes.

Beat.

But he is incapable of any meanness.

Mad. T.

Who told you so?

Beat.

My own heart—I mean I feel sure of it.

Mad. T.

A good woman's reason. I won't quarrel with it.

Valm.
(at the window, L. C.)

I beg your pardon for one
moment, but I have a most interesting fact to communicate.
Marcus Brutus Horatius Cocles is coming this way.

Beat.

Who?

Valm.

Isn't that his name, or something like it? I mean
that tremendously virtuous and excitable person who paid us
all so many compliments the other night. (Beatrice rises,

Valmont looking from the window)
He is positively coming
to this house; he advances; he stops; he takes two steps
forwards; he takes three backwards; he's going away; he's
coming back. If he goes on like this much longer, it will
take him some time to ring the bell. He has rung! Bravo!
I wonder what pretty speeches he has prepared for the occasion,
and what on earth he wants here? Confound his impudence!

Mad. T.
(to Beatrice)

For the present, good-bye. Count,
give me your arm.

Valm.

Don't be alarmed, Duchess. I'll be back directly.

Mad. T.

Not at all. You're going to take care of me.

Beat.

I give you my full permission, Count, and a dispensation
for the day.

Valm.

Do you mean to be left alone with the wild beast?
Why, he'll eat you.

Beat.

I hope not. At any rate I'll run the risk.

Valm.

Ah! Duchess, you distress me, upon my honour.
You are contracting low tastes, and the matter is becoming
serious. Save yourself by a desperate remedy, and take me
at once.

Enter Servant, L. 2 E.
Servant.

M. Martel.

Mad. T.
(to Beatrice)

Good-bye.

Beat.

I can't receive him like this. Come to my room
with me for a moment.

Mad. T.

But you didn't mind the Count?

Beat.

That's different. I don't think M. Martel is—a
classical scholar. Come.

Exit, R. 2 E.
Mad. T.
(to Valmont)

Stay here and do the honours, and
don't be afraid. The wild beast won't be tempted to eat you.

Exit after Beatrice, R. 2. E.
Valm.

But, Madame! What an absurd position! (sits

down at his ease, R.)

Enter Martel, L. 2 E., who looks at Valmont curiously.
Valm.
(bowing)

Take a chair, sir.

Mart.

I don't understand.

Valm.

It's very simple. I mean, sit down.

Mart.

I thought that this was Madame d'Armine's house.
(sits, L.)

Valm.

Quite right. I am Madame d'Armine; that is, I
represent her for the moment, as gracefully as I can. Anything
that you may have to say to her, I will repeat faithfully,
if you will tell it to me.

Mart.

Thank you. I speak the same language as the lady,
and require no interpreter.

Valm.

Not exactly the same language, I think. But, however,
the Duchess is arranging her dress. It may bore you
to wait.

Mart.

Not at all. I will sit here till she can see me.

Valm.

It may be some time, especially as it is probably
her wedding dress that she is trying on.

Mart.

Her wedding dress?

Valm.

Didn't you know she was going to be married?
Widows of twenty will do it, though it's a weakness. You
don't seem comfortable. You are bored I can see.

Mart.

No.

Valm.

I am afraid you are.

Mart.

No; I tell you, no.

Valm.

Very well, you ought to know best. A charming
woman, the Duchess, is she not? Ah, I ought to consider
myself a very lucky man.

Mart.

The Count de Valmont, I think?

Valm.

The same. Your penetration does you credit.

Mart.

I may have something to say to you.

Valm.

Delighted to hear it. So far, you have not said

much. But you have lost your opportunity for the present—
here comes the Duchess.

Re-enter Beatrice, R. 2 E., with a cloak thrown over her dress, and Madame Tallien; Martel rises, and he and Beatrice bow.
Mad. T.

Come, M. de Valmont.

Valm.

At your service. (aside)
I flatter myself I've made
Brutus extremely uncomfortable. Good-bye, Duchess!
(warmly kissing her hand, then going to the door, returning and

kissing it again)
Cousin, good-bye!

Beat.
(impatiently)

That's enough; good-bye!

Mart.
(watching Valmont, aside, as he turns at the door, and kisses his hand to Beatrice)

How well a box on the ear
would suit that puppy.

Exeunt Madame Tallien and Valmont, L. 2 E.—a pause.
Beat.
(R. C.)
Well? Are you penitent?

Mart.
(L. C.)
Yes.

Beat.
Overwhelmed?
And from the very bottom of your heart?

Mart.
I am—whatever you would have me be.

Beat.
Then you confess your sins and ask my pardon?

Mart.
I only know this, that I cannot live
In your displeasure.

Beat.
Why did you make that scene the other night?

Mart.
Because I thought, and you had let me think—

Beat.
What?

Mart.
That we two were friends.

Beat.
Well, and what then?

Mart.
The sudden news of your intended marriage
Dispelled my dream.

Beat.
Had I said anything
That gave you the right to think me free?

Mart.
No.

Beat.
Had you asked me if I was or not?

Mart.
No.

Beat.
Then why were you angry? Tell me, why?

Mart.
Because I love you, and am jealous! Lady,
Forgive me, but it is a bitter pain
That wrings this truth unwillingly from me.
I cannot talk the language of your world,
Or play dissembler after your world's fashion.
Our peasant passions are as rude as we—
Our hate is to the death, our love to madness!
And I—I never loved before! The foe
That I had laughed at took my heart by storm,
All in a moment, irresistibly!
If you but knew the insensate thoughts and dreams,
Fearful and rash by turns, that have been mine.
If you but knew, since first I met with you,
How often I have passed before your doors,
How often I have followed in your path,
And never dared to cross it! How my life,
My heart, my soul, are yours, and yours alone!
Why am I here, to court a helpless pain
Of my own seeking? I have no hope—none!
I look for nothing—wish for nothing—ask
For nothing! But I love you—that is all.
What right have I to speak these words to you?
None, and I know it. This, my doom of torture,
Is of my own pronouncing. You and I
Are sundered as the poles—as heaven and earth!
My birth is not as your birth, and my speech
Is of another tongue. The power that we,
Men of the people, have won over you,
But makes the gulf between us wider yet.
You have the right to choose your husband. Well,
I know it, but my jealousy is mad,
And every nerve in all my body thrills
And tingles at the thought that you can give
Your beauty to another! That a man,
Other than I, should live to be your lord,
Makes my blood boil within me! I am jealous
Of who comes near you—could have struck down dead,
Here where he stood, that fool who kissed your hand!
Why do you wear that dress—why fall so low?
Leave such things to the shameless, you whose crown
Of glory is your spotless purity!
That you should let a man see you like that.
(Beatrice moves)
Oh, pardon me, I knew not what I said!
But I no longer know myself, my brain
Is turning. Hardened soldier as I am,
I tell you I could find it in my heart
To throw myself down at your feet and ery!

Beat.
Don't speak like that. Louis, you frighten me!
It is no fault of mine, indeed, indeed,
If I was pledged before I met with you.
Cannot you like a woman as a friend,
Without this passionate and violent love?
Listen, my friend, my dear friend. You will let me
Give you that name? Some one is coming. Hush!

Enter Servant, with letter, L. 2 E.
Servant.
From Madame Tallien.

Beat.
You permit me, sir?
Exit Servant, L. 2. E.
(opens and reads aside)

What's this? “I have just learned
beyond all doubt that the Count de Valmont is in immediate
danger. He will be arrested to-night, by the order of
Martel. If you can do anything, do.”

I don't believe it. Say this is not true.

(gives Martel letter)
Mart.
I had forgotten. I came here to day
To warn you of your cousin's danger.

Beat.
What!
Then it is true?

Mart.
Yes.

Beat.
And you tell me so?

Mart.
I hold the proofs, undoubted, of new treasons
Of this De Valmont. He engaged in plots
Against the State as soon as he was free.
Of the Committee I alone know this;
And may be bound by duty to arrest him.

Beat.
Is this revenge under the guise of duty?
You fight a duel with your rival, choosing
The guillotine for weapon?

Mart.
If it please you,
Kill me; but spare me such a stab as that.
Do you deliberately ask of me
To violate a sacred trust, that I
May bring your lover back into your arms?

Beat.
I ask you that, that I would ask of no man
Whom I believed less noble. If this man
Is, as you say my lover, your own heart
Should show you where the path of duty lies.
A stranger, you might send him to his death.
Your rival, for your very jealousy,
You feel and know that you should leave him free.
He shall quit Paris. I will answer for it.
I ask of you to spare him—for his safety,
And for your honour.

Mart.
Do you love him?

Beat.
What,
And if I do? For your own sake spare him.

Mart.
And you will marry him?

Beat.
Yes.

Mart.
Be it so.
It shall be as you wish. The Count de Valmont
Is guilty; and a servant of the State
I cannot do this thing. But if my post
On the Committee is resigned, my colleagues
Need never know of this; and, if you will,
To-morrow—he can take you—for his wife.

Beat.
(aside)
I think I never saw a man before!
You will do this?

Mart.
I have said so. Now good-bye,
For you and I must never meet again.
The blow that you have given me is heavy,
And I must wrestle with the pain alone.
Heaven bless you.

Beat.
Do not leave me yet.

Mart.
I must.
I have stayed too long. For God's sake let me go.

Beat.
One moment. For perhaps—I am not sure—
I may find means to break this marriage off.

Mart.
Madame!

Beat.
It never was my father's wish
To force it on me. I have never loved
My cousin, but I felt indifferent
Till now. All that is changed. The Count de Valmont
May free me from my promise.

Mart.
Do not mock me:
It were too cruel.

Beat.
Do you think I would,
Even for a moment? If so eagerly
I pressed you for an answer to my prayer,
It was for your sake, more than for the Count's;
At least, I think so. That which you have done
More than saves him, for it ennobles you.
It was no common victory you won,
And from my soul I thank, and I admire you.
I must be frank and fearless with you now;
If I refuse the Count this hand of mine,
I pay the forfeit, for I give him life;
And if I find—perhaps—I cannot say,
Some other man to woo me for his wife,
Who begged me hard enough—some day, not yet,
He might not find me quite invincible.

Mart.
Am I awake or dreaming? No; your eyes
Confirm the half avowal of your tongue.
I am not good at words. I—is it true
That you will be my wife?

Beat.
Oh, not so fast!
For there are some conditions to be made
Before the garrison surrenders quite.
Of this I am resolved, never to wed
Unless before the altar of my faith;
For, frankly, I am no philosopher,
And I believe in my old-fashioned prayers.
So now you know what work you have to do;
And if you love me, set our churches open.

Mart.
All that man's heart can in its strength conceive,
All that man's hand can dare and execute,
By honour not forbidden, shall be done,
Is done, to serve your will or please your fancy.
The criminal who on the scaffold hears
The sudden news of pardon, does not breathe
Heaven's air as greedily as I do now.
My Beatrice! how beautiful you are,
And oh, how gloriously that dress becomes you!

(throws himself at her feet)
Beat.
Here, take this picture; it is like, they say—
And use it for a safeguard when you feel
One of those fits of passion coming on;
For in those moods you are rather dangerous.
(Martel kisses her hand as he takes the picture)
Enter Lille, L. 2 E.
My father!

Lille.
Beatrice!

(they embrace)
Beat.
(turning to Martel)
For a time, good-bye.

Martel bows to Beatrice and Lille, and exit, L. 2 E., with a passionate look at Beatrice.
Lille.
Who is that gentleman?

Beat.
He is a member
Of the Committee.

Lille.
In this house? The villain!

Beat.
Have you forgotten him, Louis Martel,
The son of your old tenant, whom you favoured
In the old days? He was my friend, you know,
And you approved it.

Lille.
He has well repaid
Such favour at our hands; his gratitude
Is strangely shown. But it is stranger still
That you, my daughter, should receive him here.
Such men as that are not for you to know.

Beat.
And yet we owe your safety, sir, to him.

Lille.
How so?

Beat.
My letter told you, did it not,
He struck your name from the proscription list?

Lille.
I will take no such favour from such hands;
I thought myself in danger, still proscribed,
And will remain so. But the day will come,
When I shall owe my safety to my sword;
If not, I will be dead, or live in exile.

Beat.
Oh, what new deed of madness does this bode?
How can a band of scattered fugitives
Prevail with men who have subdued the world?

Lille.
This time, on all sides, fortune favours us;
We never played upon so grand a scale
The game of righteous war. England lends vessels;
The Bretons are in arms along the coast;
And every gentleman, both young and old,
A few days hence, will meet in Brittany.
I shall be there, and have but time to snatch
A hasty glimpse of you, ere yet once more
We meet in arms this rebel peasantry.
But tell me, was I dreaming, Beatrice,
Or did I see that fellow, that Martel,
Kissing my daughter's hand?

Beat.
I have no wish
To hide the truth; the witness of your eyes
Did not deceive you—he did kiss my hand—
That man, Martel, is worthy you and me,
And I have pledged myself to be his wife.

Lille.
His wife! a peasant's wife! Unsay that word.

Beat.
That peasant is the noblest man alive.
Merit alone is now nobility;
And I, who without shame could stoop to wear,
For ducal coronet, the servant's coif,
Am proud to throw the menial garb aside,
To be a statesman's and a hero's wife.
I love him and I glory in my love!

Lille.
Is it a child of mine who dares blaspheme
The name I gave her? Has democracy,
The accursed plague spot, tainted my race too,
And degradation crowned our house's fall?
What! All the pride of our great lineage
To end in gutter-blood—to die with you?
Madame Martel, the wife of her own serf?
Her thing, her chattel! Woman, are you mad?
Have you forgot the sea of gentle blood
That lies between this scum of the earth and you,—
Your brother's, and your husband's, and your king's?

Beat.
He had no hand in that; he knew it not;
Was with the army of the Rhine. If blood
Was ever shed by him, 'twas sword in hand.

Lille.
He is the accomplice of the murderers,
If not a murderer. Hear me, Beatrice!
I had rather see you lie dead at my feet,
Had rather with my own hand lay you there.
Than see you married to this man. But if
I may not take your life, you shall take mine.
Go then and do this thing, and before Heaven
I swear that I will never live to be
The witness of this crowning infamy.
Give up the match, or I denounce myself
To the assassins, to your chosen friends,
And to the church the daughter's path shall lie
Over the father's grave.

Beat.
Oh, silence, silence!

Lille.
Or shall I kneel to you, humble myself
Even to the dust, to pray that you will spare me
This bitter outrage! Beatrice, on my knees—

Beat.
Father, not that! Oh, you are cruel, cruel.
I had hoped that the unforgiving past
Might in my cause be buried, and my hand
Be the fair pledge of peace, my hand and—his.
But if it may not be, and if your pride
Is unrelenting and resentful still,
If you forbid this marriage, I—oh, Louis!

(falls half fainting into Lille's arms as the scene changes)

Scene Second.

—Before Martel's House.
Enter Hoche, L. 1. E., and Aristides, R. 1 E., meeting.
Hoche.

Good morning, citizen. Is Martel at home? I am
come to look for him.

Aris.

I have just left him; he's changed, bewitched, done
for, and it's a woman that has done it. To think of his being
caught by a woman! By-the-bye, I want to introduce my wife
to you.

Hoche.

Eh! has a woman caught you too?

Aris.

Oh, no; this isn't a woman, it's a female citizen!

Hoche.

Ah! accept my congratulations.

Aris.

A real citizen! Fought at the barricades, she did,
and has made two speeches at the club about the rights of the
sex. That knocked me over completely, and we were married
the next day, citizen fashion, by shaking hands on our bargain.
General, when do you start for the war in Brittany?

Hoche.

To-morrow. Your wife won't let you join us, I
suppose?

Aris.

On the contrary. She wants to join too, and I want
to ask you to take us both for the honeymoon. I'm sick of
Paris! Those accursed Aristocrats broke up our club yesterday,
and the Committee have sold themselves to the devil—I

mean, to the Royalist party. I shake the Paris dust off my
feet, and hey for a fair field in Brittany, in the teeth of the
English and the Aristocrats. If you want a solid grenadier,
warranted to stand fire, I'm your man.

Hoche.

And I am yours. But what am I to do with your
wife?

Aris.

With Ceres—that's her name, that is. She wants to
be a vivandière, and a beauty she'll make: pour out the
brandy with a will, and serve in the ranks, if required. Is it
a bargain?

Hoche.

Most willingly. You are just the sort of people I
want. I start with Martel to-morrow.

Aris.

Have you asked him?

Hoche.

Not yet. I am come to make the proposal now.

Aris.

Then he won't come; take my word for it. I caught
him mumbling over a scented letter just now. Bah! Goodbye,
General. I wish you success with him, but I don't think
you will have it. I must go and help Ceres to pack up her
trousseau. (crosses, L.)

Hoche.

We don't allow much luggage.

Aris.

Don't be alarmed. It's only a musket and a keg of
brandy.

Exeunt severally.

Scene Third.

—A Room in Martel's House.
Martel discovered seated, L., with a letter in his hand.
Mart.

She is coming here to-night to this house. “Be at
home this evening.” How bare the room looks! I must send
for some flowers to brighten it.

Enter Hoche, R. 2 E.

You here?

Hoche.

Good news, Martel; my arrangements are made.
I start to-morrow for Brittany, and have full power to choose
my own officers. I want you to be my adjutant.

Mart.

Me?

Hoche.

The place is in great request, but none but you
shall have it, old friend. Be ready to-morrow morning.

Mart.

To-morrow?

Hoche.

Don't answer like an echo! Are you holding back?
I tell you, man, the war has begun.

Mart.

Give me a fortnight, a week only, and I will join you.

Hoche.

The English won't wait a week or a day for you.
Do you mean to arrive when the battle is over? Is your
spirit grown cold? For shame! Start with me to-morrow,
or you shall never serve with me again. Take my offer, or let
it alone.

Enter Servant, R. 2 E., announcing.
Servant.

The Duchess d'Armine.

Exit, R. 2 E.
Hoche.

Ah! I understand.

Mart.

Leave me—at once.

Hoche.

This is what keeps you from the army.

Mart.

Leave me, I say. For pity's sake, go.

Hoche.

I will leave you for a few minutes, but for pity's
sake I shall come back again. Think over it.

Exit, L. 2 E., as Beatrice enters, R. 2 E.
Mart.
Welcome to my poor house, my queen, my love!
I have waited, with this letter at my lips,
For you and happiness.

Beat.
(R. C.)
I bring to you
Sorrow, not happiness. Call up your courage,
For you will need it.

Mart.
(L. C.)
Why, what does this mean?
Our marriage—

Beat.
Is impossible!

Mart.
Who dares
To come between us? Who—

Beat.
My father! None
But he can alter me.

Mart.
And you submit?

Beat.
I have done all I could—all woman can.
I have pleaded, prayed and struggled, hard and long;
But struggled, prayed and pleaded, all in vain.

Mart.
Oh!

Beat.
If I marry you, I kill my father.
I cannot do it.

Mart.
Oh!

Beat.
Martel, my friend—

Mart.
One moment. And, to make your work complete,
You mean to be your cousin's wife?

Beat.
Oh, no!

Mart.
You may be; there is no impediment.
I have resigned my post, and he is free.
You have played your game most skilfully, Madame.

Beat.
You don't believe that.

Mart.
Have no fear of me.
I spare you both entreaty and complaint.
Your low-born lover will not hurt your pride
By words of passion or of insolence.
I loved you, it is true, and and with a love
In which my friends, my country, and the world
Were buried and forgot. I thought in you
To find a heart and not a coat of arms.
Poor blinded fool! the lesson was deserved,
And I can laugh at the mistake I made—
Taking a high-born lady for a woman!
Bah! I can break my chain as easily
As you can. Go!
(she goes silently to the door, R., when he breaks out suddenly, and she pauses, trembling)
Great heaven! was it not you
Who gave me hope I dreamed not of? You placed
The cup of happiness between my lips
To dash it down when I was drunk with it!
I would have fled from you—you held me back!
If you had crushed and spurned me in your scorn
I should have had no right to hate you. But
To do this is a devil's cruelty!
I loved you, woman, as men seldom love!
I loved you to the peril of my honour—
Ay, and I knew it. I could see, for you,
Old friends look coldly on me. What were they
Or anything to me? I could forget
To hate, to work, to think—and all for you!
What can I do now? How shall I revive
The fire that you have trodden out, the soul
That you have parched within me? Give me back
The power of loving anything but you!
Give me my old life and old strength again.
And make me what I was before I knew you,
Or keep your word to me. Oh, God! Oh, God!

Beat.
If only for a moment, look at me.
Look at me, Louis! Are you then so blind,
Or is my face so subtle a dissembler?
Can you not read my bitter suffering there?
Can you not hear the echo in my voice
Of the same blow that kills my heart and yours?
Louis, I love you—and the wound you bear
Is not more mortal or more sharp than mine.
The thought of you has grown into my life,
And it will never leave me till I die.
I love you, and I neither wish nor care
To hide or to deny it. Reason bade me.
To write, but not to come. My heart rebelled,
And forced me here, to look on you once more;
And then I thought that—if I told you this—
You might be—less unhappy—I myself
Be stronger to endure. Think kindly of me;
Forget me—No! I know you can't do that!
Forgive me—pity me! and now good-bye!

Mart.
You love me?

Beat.
Yes.

Mart.
Then leave your world, as I will!
Give up your father—I give up my country.
Come with me—where you will, and let our lives
Be only for each other—all in all!
If you love me, what matters all the rest?
Will you do this?

Beat.
I cannot. Let me go.

Mart.
You love me? It's a lie!

Beat.
No! but I leave you!

Exit, R. 2 E.
(he stands overcome for a moment, then takes out Beatrice's picture, looks at it, throws it on the ground, and sets his foot on it)
Mart.
So be it with my dream!
Enter Hoche, L. 2 E.
I'll go with you!

Hoche.
Good! But we start to-morrow.

Mart.
No, to-night!

Hoche.
Why is your purpose changed so suddenly?

Mart.
What matters that! I long to meet these nobles—
I long to fight—to murder them—that's all!

Hoche.
Well said! You are yourself again.

Mart.
I? (aside)
Never!

(he falls into a chair—Hoche watching him)