University of Virginia Library

FIFTH ACT.

SCENE THE FIRST.

Discovering the Duke D'Ormond asleep on a sofa, the Marchioness de Mielcour seated near him with a harp, on which she plays a short air.
(The Duke starting vehemently from the sofa. The Marchioness rises to meet him, and catches him in her arms).
DUKE D'ORMOND.
'TIS she! 'tis she! Do not you see her there?—

[The Marchioness looks about, then again turns to the Duke.]
DUKE D'ORMOND.
Dead! Julia! dead! No! I will not believe it:
This is the very coinage of my brain!

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
What ails you, Duke? Speak, dearest D'Ormond, speak!
Why are your eyes so fixed? and why do you
To one part of the room so earnestly
Direct your looks? There is nothing to be seen
There more than usual.

DUKE D'ORMOND.
Dead, and living! both
At once! It is a fearful sight!

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
Explain
Yourself: for heaven's sake, do!

DUKE D'ORMOND.
That voice! That voice!—
Is it not altered? 'Tis not as it should be!
Julia!
[Looking at the Marchioness, and then suddenly turning from her.]
Why take that shape, that damned shape!
Speak; I conjure thee, speak; but in the tones
Of thy own voice, of thy own natural voice.

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
D'Ormond!

DUKE D'ORMOND
(stopping his ears).
Oh, scream not thus! Oh, fiend of hell,
What art thou? What?—

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
Maria, thy Maria!—
Thy own beloved Maria! Is so soon
The memory of those rapturous hours effaced,
Which, ere into this inauspicious sleep
You fell, we had together passed?

DUKE D'ORMOND.
We! We!
What, you and I? Off, off! I know you not!
Why take that damned shape? If you are Julia,
Why not appear to me in Julia's form?—

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
D'Ormond, you're ill! Yes, you are very ill.
I pray you let me send for some assistance.

DUKE D'ORMOND
(with a bitter smile).
Ill? yes, I am ill! I begin to feel
Very ill! It has been a dream! But oh,
Such an one, as, with which, not to have been
Troubled, I would life's forfeiture have held—
E'en were that life a thousand times more worth
Than mine is,—a cheap compromise!—
Sit down
By me, Maria! I begin to know you
Now!
[Again looking towards the place on which he had so earnestly, and so frequently gazed.]
Is she there? I seem to see her yet!—
There!
[Pointing to the place.]
(To the Marchioness).
You remember what I said to you
Last night, of Julia? Nay, start not! Be calm.
Look not at me so! Be calm, very calm.
For I my senses feel o'th' very brink
Of alienation! Be calm, very calm!
You recollect that which I said of Julia?—
Listen, and keep that in your mind! I dreamed
That thou in a delicious paradise,
And I, together wandered. Round us breathed
Strains of the most entrancing harmony!—
We seemed like blessed immortals newly winged.
As if reflecting back the happiness,
Calm, and intense at once that filled us both,
Forms both inanimate and animate
Of beauty sprung, where'er we bent our gaze.
At once, a feeling of reality,
Was, as respected these forms, given to us,
And, to the other, each allowed, and we
Had a sense lent to us, as (in subservience
To our delight, and from the agency
Of our own wills) started to sudden birth
This wonderful assemblage of rich shapes.
Gardens, and plants of amaranthine bloom,
Bloom such as Eden only saw, conceived
Alone, by such as dwell in paradise.
Unfading bowers, and trees of lofty size,
Umbrageous, rich in leaves, and flowers, and fruits;
Immortal streams of living crystal!—founts
Of pure and everlasting copiousness.—
And gorgeous palaces, pavilion-like,
Meet temples e'en for gods. To crown all these
Seraphic forms, such as the eye ne'er saw;
Seraphic voices, such as ear ne'er heard!
Seraphic smiles, such as would win to love
A heart where fellest hate had fixed its seat.
A fervid light, intense, yet pure and holy,
Like a blessed halo, our transfigur'd forms
Enveloped. Thou and I wandered at will
In this delicious paradise! Love, deep,
Calm, permeating, cheerful, yet sublime,
Like that of innocent, adoring spirits
Transporting, ardent, yet accompanied
With the most perfect self-tranquillity,
The soul of each possessed. At once the scene
All changed! unutterable darkness now
Surrounded us. The atmosphere became
Clammy, pitch-like, and close, and nothing now
Was visible, except, from time to time,
When corruscations lurid and sulphureous,
Revealed to us, such mansions of dismay,
Such scenes of horror, as in ghastliness
Outstripped e'en any of those which the bard
Of Florence, or that greater British son
Of song immortal, have so well pourtrayed.
Chasms, yawning chasms; clouds both thunder-voiced,
And black as Erebus; bickerings horrible
Of light unnatural; now of yellow, dun
And tawny, now of fiercest lurid red.
Unutterable groans, and yells, and screams;
Lakes of bitumen, and of weltering pitch,
Emitting a sulphureous fetidness
Even to suffocation: these, and such
As these, the objects were that smote our senses.—
In one, the blackest interval of darkness,
Betwixt the corruscations I described
I suddenly perceived that, by my side,
You were no more; since, when I called on you,
No longer you made answer to my call,
As you had heretofore. Into a vast
Interminable desert, in an instant,
Of polar ice and snow was metamorphosed
This chaos of infernal images;
Rugged,—abrupt,—ice-cliff on ice-cliff piled,
And nought beside, into the firmament
Started around me! Dense and noisome fog,
O'er the whole brooded! Such a yellow fog
As, in the winter oft o'ercanopies
Some vast metropolis! and when the eye,
On the monotonous and wintry waste
With gazing tired, its speculation fixed
Where rolled (in solemn masses ocean-like,
Billowy and multitudinous as its waves)
Volumes of vapour, 'twas in canopy,
Though moving, yet impenetrable, lost!—
The only thing worse to endure than sight
Of the unbounded solitude around me
On every side, were—e'en to fearfulness—
To awful, unexpressive fearfulness—
The sentiment of mental solitude
That, at the same time, was on me impressed;
With such a sense of cold, such corse-like cold,
As I had been a petrifaction, yet
To life, and thought inexorably chained.
For some short space this lasted. Presently
I, as it were, heard th' utterance of my name.
It seemed as if it were “a wandering voice”
That floated in the air. No where it was,
Yet every where; nor was it more allied
To form, than 'twas to place. I afterwards
Near to the base of fissure in a cliff
Of ice, espied an aperture, that had
The semblance of the entrance to a cave.
Thither my steps instinctively were urged.
When I had entered it, the fissure seemed
More narrow; and that—which externally
Had had appearance, from the top o'th' cliff
To the bottom, of continuous separation;
Now o'er my head was arched! and at the end
Of a long narrow avenue, to which
The vision but imperfectly extended,
A light gleam, which, as I had now advanced
Further, than to receive a benefit
From the murky twilight of the solitude
I'd left, was, to this vault's extremity
My only guide! Onward I went, and what
Was my surprize, when I came to the end
Of this ice-fretted passage, to behold
Roofed, walled with ice, and with ten thousand cressets
Of crystalline transparency illumed,
A circular magnificent apartment.
At the far end of this, on gorgeous couch,
Or sofa, on an area placed, to which
By steps of ice, transparent, you ascend,
Beneath a canopy profusely decked
With festooned curtains, and rich drapery,
Luxuriant from its amplitude of folds,
Of gossamery lightness, I saw you,
Maria, seated in immortal beauty.
You beckoned me to you with all that grace
Of earnestness, with delicacy temper'd,
Which is your own peculiar attribute.—
Forward I rushed to clasp you in my arms.
A crash, as of the loudest thunder, smote
My ear! The whole scene vanished! and I saw,
In the same place in which I saw her last,
Julia, a corse, in my embrace. I did
Maria! But thou art not she? My brain
Is all on fire! Is not she there? Art thou
A vision or reality? If thou
Be a reality, come to my arms!
Is not she there?

SCENE THE SECOND.

Duke D'Ormond, Marchioness de Mielcour, Julia, Courtenaye, and Despard.
[Enter to the Duke, and the Marchioness, silently, and from behind a folding screen, which intercepts the sight of them from the two first named persons, to the very spot where the Duke fancied that he had seen Julia, Julia herself, Courtenaye, and Despard.]
DUKE D'ORMOND
(to the Marchioness).
DOST thou not see her there?—

[Hides his face with his hands. Julia meanwhile feels overcome: she makes an effort to dart forward to the

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Duke, and sinks at his feet. A long silence and general embarrassment ensue. At last, as the Marchioness perceives that the Duke remains fixed in his posture, clenching his hands over his eyes, and Julia almost motionless on the ground, though once or twice she raises her eyes with somewhat of an appealing look to the Duke, and as the Marchioness begins to guess who she is, she beckons to Courtenaye and Despard to assist her in removing either the Duke or Julia to another room: but though these gentlemen wish to restrain Julia so far as to prevent her and the Duke from understanding each other, and therefore are anxious to keep her in a sort of side play with themselves, and are alarmed at the present crisis, when she had, as it were, escaped from their grasp, yet as the project of the Marchioness would utterly defeat their schemes, they affect not to understand her.]
MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR,
(To Courtenaye).
One,—one of them remove! Let him not see her.

COURTENAYE
(aside to Despard).
Not see her!—But he shall!—

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR,
Look, look at him!
At her!—Ye wretches, it appears to you
A feast,—this spectacle of misery!

[While she speaks, Julia, looking up, without changing her kneeling or recumbent posture, slowly and gently raises one hand, and is about to take that of the Duke.]
DUKE D'ORMOND
(starting).
Touch me not! touch me not! Touch not pollution.

JULIA,
(Casting a fearful gaze around the room, towards the Marchioness, and Courtenaye, and Despard).
Ill is he? Are ye not his friends?

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
He is
Very ill, madam. And as I infer
From your deportment, that himself and you
Have been ere now acquainted, and since deep
May be the interest you feel for him,
And he for you, I do entreat of you
Now to withdraw into another room,
Or with these gentlemen, or me, as he
Is far too ill now to be taxed with conflict.

JULIA.
D'Ormond! 'Tis Julia now addresses you;
Do you not know her voice? If but one word,
I do conjure you, speak.

DUKE D'ORMOND.
Am I in hell?—
Off, off! terrific vision!—

COURTENAYE
(aside to Despard).
Yes, it works,—
The poison works as we could wish it.

JULIA,
(Looking fearfully towards Maria).
Has he
Been long ill, madam? I entreat of you
This mystery to unravel. I cannot
Thus leave him.

DUKE D'ORMOND.
But you shall! Some one must leave me.
I am beset, haunted, tormented!—No!
No, no!—It is myself that haunt myself!—
I am myself my own fierce tormentor!—
Angelic creature!

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR,
(Seizing Julia by the wrist, and making an effort to separate her from D'Ormond).
Madam, come with me.
Let us withdraw.

COURTENAYE,
(Going up to Despard, and pointing to Julia).
Do you say something to her.
No matter what it is, so it be done
With air of an established intercourse.

DESPARD.
I understand you! Thank you for the hint.

[Despard goes up to Julia, and affects to speak in her ear with the familiarity of an old friend.]
COURTENAYE,
(Now going up to D'Ormond).
Be more a man!
[Pointing to Despard and Julia.]
You see who she is with.
What? Break your heart for mistress of another!

DUKE D'ORMOND.
Curse on thy tongue! Surely all hell is turned
Loose upon me!—This am I to endure!—
(To Julia).
False woman, quit my sight!—For ever quit
My sight!—For ever be thou banished!—
(To the Marchioness.)
Here!—
Here my sole haven is of lasting peace.
Let us retire.

[He embraces the Marchioness, and then retires with her.]
COURTENAYE,
(To Julia, who advances, though hesitatingly, to follow the Duke).
Nay, madam, stay here! You
See he is ill. If you will be more calm,
I will repair to him, and bring you word
Of his condition.

JULIA.
Nay, but I will follow.

COURTENAYE.
If you provoke me thus, so it must be!—
I must command here! Despard, you assist
To move this lady to another place.

[They each take a hand of Julia, and forcibly drag her out of the room.]
(The Marchioness re-entering, followed by the Duke D'Ormond).
MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
What noise was that? They're gone!—

DUKE D'ORMOND.
Could I believe this?
That Julia! That angelic, spotless Julia;
To come, with her unhallowed paramour,
To insult me to my face?—But stop, perchance,
This is but the fulfilment of my dream.
This what was meant by her prefigured death!
For now she's dead to me, quite dead! Can I
Believe this to be so?—

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
Believe this? No!—
Look at her face, and you cannot believe it!—
Hear her speak once, and you cannot believe it!
Her gestures see, and you cannot believe it.
There must be some mistake! I did not know
She was in Paris: never heard her name
Either by Courtenaye or by Despard mentioned.
And yet a confidential intercourse
'Twixt her and Despard seems establish'd.

DUKE D'ORMOND.
No!—
It is not possible! The universe,
If she no longer virtuous prove herself
Is but a splendid system of imposture.

(Enter Courtenaye).
COURTENAYE.
Galling enough!—Here Despard and I brought
His mistress here, thinking by this to set
Your mind at ease: thinking that seeing thus
How the affair stood 'twixt him, and that lady
Without compunction, and without reserve,
You might the more resign yourself to love,
To pleasure, and this lady. Thus it is:—
Whenever you most try to serve your friends,
You oft produce effects quite opposite
To those which you wish to achieve, by some
Unlucky contre tems or blunder.

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
Still
The interview was very ill-advised,
Just at this moment. So abrupt! so sudden!

COURTENAYE
(aside to the Marchioness).
Hush! Hush! I have my reasons! But not now.
Another time I will explain them.

DUKE D'ORMOND.
Have
I in the world a friend? Realities
Are th' individuals round me, or the mere
Coinage of my distempered brain? Alas,
Nought seems to go on as 'twas wont to do.
No man's deportment longer seems to me
Spontaneous or befitting. I could fancy
That every one around me played a part;
And that I, as designed to be their victim,
Am the only one, of motives ignorant
Which actuate the agents I observe,
In one conspiracy 'gainst me.

COURTENAYE.
Tush, tush!—
A truce with your self-teazing phantasies!
Your pretty country mistress, innocent,
Religious, dutiful, although she seemed,
Has only, in the end, turned out to be,
What all such paragons of excellence
Are, a mere flirt, and hypocrite.—For you,—
'Tis well you have, in time, the truth discovered!—

[A violent scream is heard from the next apartment.]
JULIA
(within).
I will—yes—I will see him! Though I must
Die at his feet.

[The Duke D'Ormond goes up to the door through which Julia had been dragged by Courtenaye and Despard, and finds it locked.]
DUKE D'ORMOND.
Who—who has dared do this?—
There's treachery here. Open this door, or I
Will burst the lock.

JULIA
(from within).
D'Ormond!

DUKE D'ORMOND.
Oh, let me hear
Your voice!

[While the Duke is endeavouring to force the door, Courtenaye skulks behind him and unlocks it, but not unperceived by the Marchioness.]
MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
Miserable villain! In my house such freedoms!—

[The Duke brings in Julia, who looks wildly about the room, and is apparently quite unconscious of the objects near her.]
JULIA.
Was this well done? Here, here I came alone!
My mother I have buried! There, there, there,
[Pointing to the ground.]
I laid her there! Her coffin I beheld
As it sunk slow in earth! The creaking ropes
I heard, as gradually it disappeared!
The earth and stones I also heard, as they
Were on its surface cast! But then I thought
Of D'Ormond! Else, I should have fainted! Oh!
It was a wicked thought!

DUKE D'ORMOND.
Julia! My love?—
Julia.

JULIA.
That voice! Before I've listened to it!—
And it was silver sweet! Oft in my dreams
I have heard it! Ah! then sleep to me was welcome!
But Julia never now must slumber more!

DUKE D'ORMOND.
Demons of hell! Behold, what have you done!
(To Julia, leading her to a sofa).
Sit, sit,—my love! My blessed Julia, 'tis
D'Ormond who speaks to you! See, see—he kneels
Before you!
(To the Marchioness, who seems much affected.)
Come here! you have yet, at least,
I see, a woman-hearted feeling. Help me!—
Try to recal her wandering thoughts.

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
Indeed
I would do any thing, sir, every thing!
My heart bleeds both for you, and for this lady.
(To Courtenaye and Despard).
For you, ye wretches, it were honouring you
Too much, to waste a curse upon you.

[The Marchioness advances towards Julia, and in endeavouring to cause her to recline on some of the cushions of the sofa, which, for that purpose, she had previously piled at one end of it, as Julia's posture is changed, a miniature which is fastened round her neck, and which was concealed in her bosom, escapes from its confinement; Courtenaye, who, with Despard, is looking over the back of the sofa, appears much struck with it, and fixes his eyes intently upon it.]
COURTENAYE.
'Tis,
By all the saints, my mother! This must be
Her picture! What may be this lady's name?—

JULIA.
That voice is gone! Where am I? Round and round
My head whirls! Hark! What horrid voice is that
I hear? Speak—speak—say would ye murder me?—
Alone, unfriended, on his love relying,
Did I not come here? But I have been used
Most vilely. Into wicked hands I've fallen!—
They told me he was false, another loved!—
Meanwhile confiding, trusting in his truth,
And her own innocence, she cast herself,
Yes, his poor Julia, she cast herself
Into this populous city, and here,—here,—
Have I insulted been.

DUKE D'ORMOND.
My Julia! Julia!—
It is thine own dear D'Ormond.

JULIA.
Yes! I know it!—
I know thy voice now! I am well, quite well!—

DUKE D'ORMOND.
Oh ecstacy! Ah Julia!—my own Julia!—

JULIA.
Ah D'Ormond! What I've suffered you know not!—
My mother! my dear mother!—

DUKE D'ORMOND.
What of her?—

[Julia hides her face in her handkerchief. D'Ormond now first observes her mourning garments, and the miniature lying in her bosom.]
DUKE D'ORMOND.
Ah, spare your words! She is—I understand you—
These mourning weeds.—

COURTENAYE,
(Who all this time had been lost in amazement and curiosity).
Her name? What is her name?—

DUKE D'ORMOND.
Whose name? Why are you thus inquisitive?—

COURTENAYE.
This lady's mother's! Her's whose portrait here
This lady honours thus.

DUKE D'ORMOND.
Her name is Villeneuve.
She is the daughter of my father's sister!

COURTENAYE.
Almighty God, she is my sister!

ALL,
(Excepting Julia, whose countenance resumes all its bewilderment, and becomes expressive of relapsing insanity).
Yours!—
Your sister?—

COURTENAYE.
Yes, my name by birth is Villeneuve!
Though I have changed it for another. She
My sister is.

JULIA
(starting wildly from the sofa).
Who talked of sister? No!
No, no! 'Tis D'Ormond that I want. I have
No brother, mother, friend!—I have lost all.

DUKE D'ORMOND
(to Courtenaye).
Be on your guard! See what you've done! Do you,
Marchioness, draw him hence.

[The Marchioness beckons Courtenaye apart; they walk towards the interior of the apartment, Despard hanging on their rear.]
JULIA.
Is it then come
To this? For him I kept myself alive!—
When I have watched, daily, and hourly watched,
The dying look, and the decaying form,
Of my revered, and venerable mother;
And when I recollected that I had,
When she went, not a friend on earth, I should
Have also died had I not thought of D'Ormond.
He is to Julia the whole universe!—
And the whole universe speaks, breathes of nought
To her, but him! Sometimes, I think I see him,
But it is only in a shadowy dream,
Which, with the semblance of reality,
But mocks me! No, 'twixt him and me, there is
Fixed an impassable gulph! I feel it here.
Here—here!
[Putting her hand alternately to her head and her heart.]
(To the Duke, who makes an attempt to speak to her).
Do not look so at me! Talk not
To me! You only mock me! You are like,
But you are not the same.

DUKE D'ORMOND,
(Still supporting Julia, but turning aside to that part of the room where the Marchioness is).
Do one of you
Come here, and take my place! I cannot bear it!—
Each word she utters stabs my very vitals!
E'en worse than she herself soon shall I be!

[The Marchioness advances to support Julia, with a look of the deepest concern and sympathy.]
JULIA,
(As she approaches, and as the Duke is about to disengage himself from her).
Off—off—no one shall touch me but himself.
(To the Duke).
You should be D'Ormond! But you are not he!
My once beloved D'Ormond! There's a likeness!—
And for that likeness' sake, no one of you
Shall touch me but himself. I love you e'en
For that resemblance! But the real D'Ormond
And Julia must be wedded in the grave!—
Fearful thoughts have I!—fearful visions!

DUKE D'ORMOND.
Hell,
Canst thou have agonies surpassing this!—
Julia, my Julia, my own Julia!—
Oh, God of mercy, straining to my heart,
Here am I, all that that heart most adores!
But I have made a sacrifice of her!—
And now, although our forms be intertwined,
An insurmountable impediment
Is raised between us!—We no longer live
In the same world!—

JULIA
(catching his last words).
Oh, but we do! There is
No world for me to live in where he is not!—
In every beating of my heart he lives!—
But soft—bad thoughts will peradventure rise
When one, like me, is ill.
[Disengaging her hand.]
About a knife,
I think, I somewhat recollect! There was
A mad girl, who lived near my mother's house,
Who had a knife, a wicked knife!—
[Putting her hand in her pocket.]
You look
Kind, and as if you fain would serve me. Keep,
I pray you, this! Keep it for my poor sake!
[Giving him a knife.]
They say a knife is an unlucky gift!—
But ah, what gift of mine would not be so?—
Now pray keep that, and think of me! This picture,
I cannot part with that! or I would give
That to you also! No, no, that must be
Buried with me! Here! For my sake, keep these!
[Producing a few trinkets, and a worked handkerchief, and giving the former to the Duke.]
That handkerchief was formerly designed
For D'Ormond, as a fond memorial! See,
How carefully I have embroidered it!—
Here, with my hair, are his initials marked.

[Bursts into a flood of tears.]
MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
These tears! Grant heaven they might relieve her! What
Wretches, good God, are we! Trifling away
In inconsiderate and unmeaning passions,
(To say the best of them, we cannot give
To them a higher epithet) our time,
While this divine, self-sacrificing creature,
Little by little, and uncomforted,
Was dying our unconscious victim. When
I think of it, I hate myself to loathing.

DESPARD
(to Courtenaye).
Well acted, on my honour! If she turn
Preacher, who says that miracles have ceased?

COURTENAYE
(to Despard).
Hold that blaspheming tongue of thine! This is
An hour for cursing rather than such mummery!

[Julia, who has continued weeping all this time, now casts a look of ineffable sweetness for a moment towards D'Ormond.]
DUKE D'ORMOND.
Beloved creature! Look thou ever thus!
This is thy D'Ormond! Come, sit down again!—
Try to be tranquil! All will yet be well.
(Turning to the Marchioness).
This lady will to you be as a sister!—
Maria, will you not?—

MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
Oh, that I were
Worthy of that!—I am for life her convert!—
A name for me more suited than the other!

COURTENAYE.
What canting have we here? We may as well
Go hang ourselves.

DESPARD.
Aye, hang, drown, poison, shoot;—
Or any thing methinks! What think you now
Of your manœuvring?

COURTENAYE.
Think? I am too mad
To think! I'm quite sick of the part I take!—
That's all I know!

JULIA.
This, this is the true D'Ormond!—
Now is our bridal hour come. I engaged
I would be true to you! See, see, from earth
He rises! To the skies he beckons me.—
Ah, this is he indeed! He is but gone
Before me; and invites me to his arms!—
My love is not a love of mortal mould!—
He is a blessed, ethereal spirit! Now!—
This is the hour! I hear his voice! I come!
D'Ormond I come! Of everlasting union
Thus I invoke the sacramental pledge!

[Sinks down on her knees. The Duke and the Marchioness each rush forward towards her, she faints; and while the curtain slowly falls, they bear her, in a state of insensibility, out of the apartment.]

SCENE THE THIRD.

Courtenaye and Despard.
COURTENAYE.
WAS not this nobly done? A man to turn
Pander to his own sister?

DESPARD.
I am all
Amazement! Solve this riddle to me. Is
Courtenaye your name or not? Say, have you been
Making fools of us for the last four years,
Or are you making now? Though, to speak truth,
You seem predestined of yourself to make
The greatest fool.

COURTENAYE.
Listen, Despard, to me;
And cease thy stupid wonder! Villeneuve is
My real name! I am brother to this lady;
Son to the sister, and the only sister,
(Brother or sister none had he besides)
Of the Duke D'Ormond's father: though of this
The Duke had no suspicion. Little wealth
To me my father at his death bequeathed.
He was a hugenot: under pretence
Of heresy, of his fair patrimony
By far the greater part was confiscate
To the omnivorous rapaciousness
Of superstitious hypocrites and bigots.
But as my mother's brother, the Duke's father,
Lived single till advanced in years, and since
There were no heirs in the male line, I was
Believed to be, till I was ten years old,
My uncle's heir. Thus learned I to abhor
Whoever might fill up the vacant niche,
With its appurtenances, doomed one day,
As I was flattered to expect, and hoped,
On myself to devolve.—The Duke and I
Both were at the same school; though younger, he
But two years came to, ere I quitted, it:—
And subsequently college comrades were we.
Thus by the relative circumstance, at first,
Of both our houses, the Duke's wealthy, while
My own, its equal in pretensions, was
Impoverish'd, then by D'Ormond's birth, and lastly
By his pre-eminence, were frustrated,
Nay, strangled in the cradle which had nurs'd them,
My high ambition, and aspiring hopes!—
I came to Paris, pedant rules abjured,
And buckled to my thigh th' adventurous sword,
Hoping by force to win those smiles of fortune,
Which to my blood, and talents were denied.—
But strong solicitings of appetite
Here made myself my own antagonist,
As much as in the earlier scenes of life
My kinsman so had been. Why weary you
With a long tale?—Desire exceeded means;
And love of pleasure, pleasure's subsidies.
My father died, the little that from him
I gathered, in usurious practices
Had long time been forestalled. Bankrupt was I
In hope as well as fortune. I applied
To a friend, my father when a bachelor
Had had, who since that time had fixed himself
On the vast transatlantic continent.—
My friends then living, nothing of him knew.
He too unwedded was. He had acquired
Vast wealth, yet had no one with whom to share it.
He flattered my appeal, invited me
To seek a home with him. I quitted France—
My friends no longer tidings of me hearing
Conjectured I was dead; and to confirm
This thought, I framed a tale, committing it
To such a channel as I knew would bring it
To them, establishing beyond all doubt,
This fact already rumoured and believed.
My father's youthful comrade welcom'd me
With hospitality: after a ten years' tarriance
under his roof, he died, left me his wealth,
With the sole stipulation that henceforth
I, in addition to my own, should bear,
With its appurtenant blazonries, his name.
The effect of ten years' tarriance in a clime,
With manners foreign, had been such, that I
Conceived no fears, should I return to France,
Than any in my visnomy or person,
A comrade of past times should recognise.
I came to Paris. Never once did I
Ask tidings of my mother or my sister.
As for the latter, fifteen years was she
Younger than I; and as she still had leaned—
From a more strict accordancy of tastes
In part, with more accordancy of years,—
To closer intercourse with my uncle's son
Than with myself, she of the hate partook
I bore to him. With wealth to cope with it,
My earlier love returned of costly pastimes.
Added to this, I had acquired, since first
I left my native land,—so filling up
My oft recurring intervals of leisure—
A taste for hazardous stakes at games of chance.
When the Duke hither came, once more was I
A ruined man! I hated him as much
As ever:—felt no fear that he in me
Would recognise a kinsman and a rival!—
Leagued with the Marchioness de Mielcour,
Believing that his coffers groaned with wealth,—
You know the rest—I formed a scheme, through her,
Or so to make a bankrupt of his mind,—
Knowing his strict tenaciousness of conscience—
And knowing too how wayward are his passions—
Through her I formed a scheme—by making her
The means of his launching his eager bark
From the sure pilotage of virtuous love—
To engulph him in destruction, first of soul,
And then of body! Or if this should fail,
At least by having made him with himself
At war, knowing how prone his nature is
To crave excitement, thence to draw him on
Into th' inextricable toils and snares
Which wait all novices in games of chance;
From whence I trusted that my elder skill
Might disencumber his inheritance
Of its redundant superfluity.
You see how far my projects have matured!
E'en as all mine have done! to pieces dashed,
Just as they seemed for consummation fit!
And now am I at my wit's end, to know
How from this labyrinth to make escape.

DESPARD.
You are indeed, man, in your own snares caught!
Help you—who can! Not I!—I wash my hands
Of the whole stratagem.

COURTENAYE.
Curses on such
Cold-blooded villany! But, hark you, Despard,
If I must be exposed, as semblably
I shall be, you (as you have not refused
To share in the contingent benefits
To this scheme tacked) shall not, I promise you,
In case of its miscarriage, be exempt
From being partner in its obloquy.

[A scream is heard from the apartment within: the door bursts open, and Julia, her hair loose, and in a night dress, rushes in to Courtenaye and Despard, followed by the Duke D'Ormond, Physician, and the Marchioness de Mielcour.]
JULIA.
Is't so? They say he lives! did I not see him?—
Did he not beckon to me from the skies?—
Immortal was he, radiant, unearthly!—
And now they tell me that 'twas all a dream!—
(Going up to Courtenaye).
Did not you mention make to me erewhile
About a sister?—I no brother have!
Oh, could I but believe in any thing!—
But all seems shadowy; all forms indistinct,
And changing every moment! Even now
Your face puts on a thousand different aspects.
Let me at something grasp! I'm falling—falling—
The very firm-set earth seems to give way
Under my feet!

PHYSICIAN.
This must not be allowed!—
This lady must be quiet, or there is
No chance the anodyne we have administered
Will prove effectual. If this lady be
Not tranquillized, and speedily, I fear
Greatly the end of this.

JULIA.
Fear, said you? What
Fear you? You all have driven me to this!—
And now pretend astonishment, nay, pity.—
It is too late for that! Who pitied me
Alone and unprotected? I have been
The very mark for insult to exhaust
On me all possible atrocities.—
And now you pity me! I smile at this.
Let me be quiet. Quietness I ask!—
There is but one place where I can indulge
That wish—the grave! Oh, look thou down, look down,
On thy abused, and broken-hearted daughter,
My sainted mother!—But I cannot pray!—
No, no, a cold hand presses on my heart,
As if its very beatings it would stifle!—
I know by your looks that you think me mad!
No, no! I am not mad! I yet distinguish
'Twixt foes and friends; as proof of it, here—here
Will I take up my everlasting rest!—

[She rushes into the arms of the Duke D'Ormond; while he endeavours to press her to his bosom, her knees faulter, she slips through his arms, and dies at his feet.]

SCENE THE LAST.

Inside of a Monastery: the coffin of Julia covered with a velvet pall, and tapers burning around it.
The Marchioness de Mielcour, habited in deep mourning, bending over the coffin.
MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR,
(After a pause.)
YOU I renounce henceforth for ever, Love,
Pleasure, ambition! See here—what a wreck
Your sophistries have wrought, ye that would plead
For the unchecked indulgence of your passions,
Under pretence that they instinctive are,
And thence legitimate, in human breasts:—
Only since natural, legitimate!—
Myself do I abhor! 'Tis true, I cannot
A whining, canting, penitent become.
The penance of coarse garments, homely fare,
Fasting, and maceration, tedious vigils
Consumed in prayer, and solitary gloom;
Nay, that of the most rigid order which
Of discipline monastic has e'er yet
Been instituted, e'en though solitude,
And everlasting silence, it involved,
Would be to me no penance! Mine shall be
Of deeper dye! I will consent to live
To be an object for “the hand of scorn
To point her slowly moving finger at.”
Mine being yet rank, opulence, and power,
In others I may yet alleviate woe.
My future life shall now be dedicate
To this resolve, renouncing utterly
The sources e'en of virtuous sympathy,
If chance I might enjoy them; though I fear
Rather must I now lie in wait for them,
Than hope that they will come spontaneously:
And though I be fallen, yet not fallen so low
As to accept of that beneath a mask,
Which is of worth but as 'tis genuine.
(Kneeling before the coffin of Julia).
Dear saint, thou art no more! awful indeed
Hath been the sacrifice, which hath produced
This revolution in my character.
Yet deign thou, from the mansions of the blest,
Not only to attend to, but record,
The vow, (and pledge be for its strict performance)
Which now I make, to consecrate to thee,
And to thy memory, every future hour:
On earth to represent thee! Not, oh no!
In uncontaminated purity,
In native innocence, and fervent zeal
Of adoration! That can never be!
But still as a self-sacrificing spirit,
To copy thee in thy beneficence,
In thy devotedness of character!
Although no masses, no meet obsequies,
Were celebrated for thy soul's repose,
Yet, from thy ashes, in my heart shall spring
A sacrificial flame of charity,
To which (thus prostrating myself before
The narrow mansion which containeth all
That now remains of thee) I make a vow
Most solemnly to consecrate each deed,
And future thought. She is no more! No more
The vain, ambitious, proud Maria lives!—
Even as thou art, Julia, is she dead!—
And her transformed self but consents to dwell
On this earth as a delegate to thee!—
Till after years spent in the deep abasement
Of never shunned, and ever cleaving shame,
She may be fit to commune with thy spirit
In scenes where tears are wiped from every eye.

[As she is slowly rising, the Duke D'Ormond enters. Both he and the Marchioness stand for some time, without looking at each other, intently gazing on the coffin.]
MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
Words were superfluous here! were sacrilege!
Till to the earth that coffin be consigned
To endure your presence I consent: that done,
Our separation must be everlasting.

DUKE D'ORMOND.
To-morrow, I, in company with Colville,
Quit, for America, my native land;
Having long had the purpose to go thither,
He, with a portion of his patrimony,
Made change for grant of lands from government,
In the most inaccessible retreats
Which France holds in that mighty continent.
And, all preliminaries now arranged,
His scheme is ripe for final execution.
My days I mean to end with Colville there,
Distant from former scenes, in solitude,
Unsolaced, unconversing solitude:—
Or at least inasmuch so, as respects
The gay, the frivolous, the fortunate;
The multitude of the common file of men;
Those human beings whose hearts have not been
Seered by th' hot iron of calamity,
Guilt, and remorse! Let us, Maria, take
Our last farewell, kneeling once more before
The narrow mansion where poor Julia lies.

[They kneel before the coffin. As the Duke D'Ormond and the Marchioness de Mielcour, after a solemn pause, severally retire in different

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directions to remote parts of the apartment, Count Colville and Le Charier enter, unseen by, and not seeing them.]
COUNT COLVILLE,
(approaching the coffin).
And this is all that I could do for thee,
Thou ill-requited victim! This the sad,
The latest sacrifice to social ties,
That I shall pay ere I for ever quit
My native land! In all this pomp of death,
I seem to see again the obsequies
Of my beloved wife! Little thought I,
When I, but yesternight, in my own house
Conversed with her, and at the hour of noon
Promised a second interview to-day,
That such would be our meeting! Yet I have
Cause to congratulate myself that I
Knew by her means, that she in Paris was.
Thus, when I found her not, where she had fixed
To meet me, to Duke D'Ormond's house I went.
He was not there. By diligent inquiry
I traced him to the Marchioness de Mielcour's,
Just as the dire catastrophe had chanced.
So little here was Julia known; so deep,
And violent was Duke D'Ormond's agony,
And that which pierced the Marchioness, perchance,
Had it not been for me, she might have lost
Those honours, and commemorative rites
Due to her rank, and exemplary virtue,
Though they were both by poverty eclipsed.—
I interceded with this sisterhood,
To let her corse be hither borne, and now
I here repair, (while, with thy presence, thou
Dost countenance, and dost assist, to add
Meet reverence to it) when a solemn dirge
Is to be chanted o'er her mortal relics.

[As Count Colville concludes, a solemn chaunting is heard from a distance. The organ strikes up; a procession of Nuns enters, preceded by the Abbess, and the Duke D'Ormond and the Marchioness de Mielcour fall into its rear.]
COUNT COLVILLE.
But see, the sisterhood advances! Hark:
The organ's solemn peal! Take we our part
In this last act of holy reconcilement
To an untimely death: an act, as we
Would fain believe, both to the dead and living
Mutually fraught and interchangeably
With sweet forgiveness, and religious love!


The Dirge is here performed.

[The coffin is slowly borne out of the chapel, followed by the Duke D'Ormond, Count Colville, Le Charier, the Marchioness de Mielcour, and the procession of Nuns, and the curtain falls as the symphony is played which closes this dirge.]