University of Virginia Library

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.]