Act I

SCENE I.—A hall in the Chateau de Valmont.

Enter Bertrand, in agitation, followed by Longueville.

Ber. Forbear, my lord! to urge me further.—Would you tempt me to insure perdition?—my soul is heavy enough with weight of crimes already.

Long. Hypocrite! You, whom I have known in childhood—a villain, even from the cradle—committing crimes as pastimes—has your hand been exercised thus long in blood, to shake with conscience, and desert me now?

Ber. I have, indeed, deserved reproaches, but not from your lips, my lord! Remember, for you it was this hand was first defiled with blood—remember, too—

Long. Yes, villain! I do remember, that my misplaced bounty once gave you back a forfeit life. Twenty years past, when, as a deserter, you were sentenced, by the regiment under my command, to death, your fate was inevitable, had not I vouchsafed a pardon. Traitor! you, too, had best remember a solemn oath at that same period passed your lips, which bound you, soul and body, to my service ever—unscrupling to perform my pleasures, whether good or ill, and still to hold my secrets fast from earthly ears, though unabsolving priests renounced you on the death-bed.

Ber. (shuddering) Ay! ay! it was an oath of horror, and if you command, it must be kept. Well, then—the young, the brave, the good, kindhearted Florian—yes—he dies!

Long. Then only may your master be esteemed to live.

Ber. But whence this hatred to an unoffending youth?—one, whose form delights all eyes, and whose virtues are the theme of every tongue?

Long. Fool! that person and those virtues of which you vaunt, are with me his worst offences—they have undone my love and marred my fortunes—the easy heart of Geraldine is captivated by the stripling’s specious outside, while his talents and achievements secure him with the uncle undivided favour.

Bert. Can nothing but his blood appease your enmity?

Long. Nothing—for now my worst suspicions stand confirmed. I have declared to De Valmont my passion for his niece, and the sullen visionary has denied my suit—nay, insolently told me “Geraldine’s affections are another’s right.”—Curses on that minion’s head!—’tis for Florian De Valmont’s heiress is reserved—and shall I suffer this vile foundling, this child of charity, to lord it over those estates, for which my impatient soul has paid a dreadful earnest! No, by heavens! never!

Bert. Fatal avarice! already have we bartered for those curst estates our everlasting peace!—for those did midnight flames surprise the sleep of innocence—for those did the sacrificed Eugenia with her shrieking babe—

Long. Wretch! dare not repeat those names! Now, mark me: this night Florian returns a triumpher from his campaign—two of my trusty blood-hounds watch the road to give me timely note of his approach. One only follower attends the youth. In the thick woods ’twixt the chateau and Huningen, an ambush safely laid, may end my rival and my fears forever. In the west avenue, at sunset, I command your presence. Mark me! I command you by your oath. Exit.

Bert. Miserable man! I am indeed a slave, soul and body—both are in the thrall! I know the fiend I serve. If I attempt to fly, his vengeful agency pursues me to the world’s limit. No—my doom is fixed—I must remain the very wretch I am for life—and after life—Oh! let me not think of that!

Enter Rosabelle behind, who taps his shoulder.

Ros. Talking to yourself, Mr. Bertrand? that’s not polite in a lady’s company.

Bert. (starting) Ah! Rosabelle—good lass!—how art, Rosabelle?

Ros. Why, Mr. Bertrand, how pale you look, and your limbs quite tremble—I fear me you are ill.

Bert. Oh, no—I am well—quite well—never better.

Ros. Then you are out of spirits.

Bert. You mistake—I am all happiness—ha! ha!—all joy!

Ros. What! because the wars are over, and chevalier Florian returns to us?—’tis a blest hearing, truly—after all the hardships and dangers he has passed to see him once again in safety—

Bert. (involuntarily) Ah! would to heaven we might!

Ros. Can there be any doubt? He reaches the chateau this night—will he not be in safety then?

Bert. Yes, yes, with this night every danger certainly will cease.

Ros. Bertrand! why do you rub your hand before your eyes?—surely you are weeping.

Bert. No, ’tis a momentary pain that—but ’twill leave me soon. At night, Rosabelle, you shall see me jovial—joyous!—we’ll dance together, wench—ay, and sing—then—ha! ha! ha!—then who so mirthful, who so mad, as Bertrand. Exit.

Ros. What new spleen has bewitched the man? he is ever in some sullen mood, with scowling brows, or else in a cross-arm’d fit of melancholy; but I never marked such wildness in his looks and words before.

Geraldine speaks without.

Ger. Rosabelle.

Ros. Here, my lady, in the hall.

Enter Geraldine.

Ger. Girl! I have cause to chide you; my toilette must be changed—you have dressed me vilely—here! remove these knots—I hate their fashion.

Ros. Yet they are the same your ladyship commended yesterday.

Ger. Then ’tis the colour of my robe offends me—these ornaments are a false match to it—either all the mirrors in the house have warped since yesterday, or never did I look so ill before.

Ros. Now, in my poor judgment, you rarely have looked better.

Ger. Out! fool; you have no judgment.

Ros. Well, fool or not, there’s one upon the road who holds faith with me, or I’m a heretic. Your charms will shine bright enough, lady, to dazzle a soldier’s eye.

Ger. Ah! no, Rosabelle—you would deceive your mistress. Florian returns not as he left us; his travelled eyes have gazed on beauties of the polished court—and now he will despise the wild untutored Geraldine.

Ros. Will he? Let him beware he shows not his contempt before me. What! my own beautiful and high-born mistress; the greatest heiress in all Alsace; to be despised by a foundling, picked up in a forest, and reared upon her uncle’s charity?

Ger. Hush!—the mystery of my Florian’s birth is his misfortune, but cannot be his reproach. Our countrymen may dispute his title to command, but our enemies have confessed his power to conquer; and trust me, girl, the brave man’s laurel blooms with as fresh an honour in the poor peasant’s cap as when it circles princely brows; nay, Justice deems it of a nobler growth, for Flattery often twines the laurel round a coronet, but Truth alone bestows it on the unknown head.

Ros. I confess the Chevalier is a proper gallant for any woman. Ay, and so is the Chevalier’s man. I warrant me, that knave, L’Eclair, when he returns, will follow me about, wheedling and whining, to recollect certain promises. Well, well, let but the soldiers return with whole hearts from the war, and your ladyship and myself know how to reward fidelity. In sooth, the chateau has been but a doleful residence in their absence; the count never suffered his dwelling to be a merry one; but of late his strange humours have so increased, that the household might as well have lodged in purgatory.

Ger. Hold! I must not hear my uncle’s name pronounced with levity. An angel at his birth, mingled the divine spirit with less than human frailty; but fiends have since defaced the noble work with more than human trials. That fatal night, when the fierce Huguenots fired his castle, and buried both his wife and infant in the blazing ruin; that night of horrors has to his shocked and shrinking fancy still been ever present; there still it broods—settled, perpetual and alone! Ah! Rosabelle! the petulancies of misfortune claim our pity, not resentment. My dear uncle is a recluse, but not a misanthrope; he rejects the society of mankind, yet is he solicitous for their happiness; and while his own heart breaks in silence under a weight of undivided sorrows, does he not seek incessantly to alleviate the burthen of his complaining brethren?

Ros. I know the count has an excellent heart; but surely his temper has its flaws.

Ger. And shall we deem the sun that cheers the season less gracious in its course, because a cloud at intervals may hide or chill its beams? (A bell rings). Hark! ’tis the bell of his chamber. Perhaps he will admit me now; for four days past I have applied at the door in vain. Ah me!—these constant growing maladies sometimes make me tremble for his life. Girl! if from the turret-top at distance you espy the hastening travellers, turn, swift as thought, and call me to partake your watch! Exit.

Ros. If they arrive before sun-set, I’m sure I shall know L’Eclair a mile off by the saucy toss of his head: before that rogue went on the campaign, he certainly extorted some awkward kind of promises from me. As a woman of honour, I’m afraid it must be kept; I don’t want a husband—oh! no, positively—to be sure, winter is coming on, my chamber faces the north, and when the nights are long, and dark, and cold, when the wind blusters, and the hail patters at the casement, then a solitary woman is apt to have strange fancies, and sometimes to wish that—well, well, my promise must be kept at all events.

SONG.—Rosabelle.

Oh! come away! my soldier boy,

From war to peace incline thee;

Thy laurel, Time shall ne’er destroy.

But Love with roses twine thee.
Come, come away,
Love chides thy stay,

Oh! prithee come my soldier!

Let fife and drum preserve their place,

While softer sounds delight thee;

The fiddle shall our wedding grace,

But horns shall never fright thee.
Come, come away,
Love chides thy stay,

Oh! prithee come my soldier!

Exit.

SCENE II.—A saloon: a large window is open and discovers the gardens: the noise of song and dance is heard immediately below the window.

Chorus.

Sing farewell labour,

Blow pipe and beat tabor,

Fly care far away;

In light band advancing,

Let music and dancing

Proclaim holyday.

De Valmont opens the door of an inner chamber, and crosses the stage with a quick petulant step, to ring a bell in the saloon: no answer is immediately given, and he repeats the ring with increased fretfulness.

Enter Gaspard.

De Val. So! am I heard! old man! to what strange dwelling have I been borne while sleeping? and who is your new master?

Gas. Alack! your lordship is in your own fair castle, nor other master than yourself do I, or any of my fellows serve—a kind and noble master.

De Val. You tell me wonders; I thought the master in his house had borne command among his people, but here it seems, each groom is more absolute in his humours than the lord; how is’t? do I clothe and feed a pampered herd, but to increase my torments? when I would muse in privacy, must I be baited still, and stunned with crowds and clamours? knave! drive the rabble from my gate, and rid my ears of discord.

Gas. Well-a-day! who could have foreseen this anger? my good lord ’tis but your tenantry rejoicing: this morning, I distributed your lordship’s bounty among them to celebrate chevalier Florian’s return; and now the honest grateful souls would fain thank their benefactor by the song that tells him they are happy.

De Val. Their thanks are hateful to me; ungenerous wretches! is it not enough that they are happy whilst I am miserable, but they must mock my anguish by a saucy pageant of their joys, and force my shrinking senses more keenly to remark the contrast of our fates? (Tabors, &c. without.) Quick! quick! begone and drive them from my gate (stamps imperatively).

Gas. (frighted) I am gone, my lord!—I am gone.

De Val. Hold! another word—perhaps the unthinking creatures might design this torture kindly, and I would not punish the mistakes of ignorance. Do not dismiss them harshly—I would have them indulge their gayety, but I cannot bear to be a witness of it. Gaspard, this house is Melancholy’s chosen home; and its devoted master’s heart, like a night-bird that abhors the animating sun, has been so long familiarized to misery, it sickens and recoils at the approach of mirth.

Gas. (pressing his hand) My kind, unfortunate, my beloved master!

De Val. (snatching it from him) Pshaw! I loathe pity—(shouts)—hark! again! go, go, send them from the gate, but not harshly.

Exit Gaspard.

De Val. All hearts rejoicing; mine only miserable! every peasant yielding to delight, their lord alone devoted to despair; a subtle, slow despair that, drop by drop, congeals the blood of life, yet will not bid the creeping current quite forbear to flow; that has borne its victim just to the sepulchre ’s tempting edge, but holds him there to envy, not partake its slumbers. Well, well, your own appointed hour, just heavens!—if it be the infirmity of man to repine here, it is the Christian’s hope to rejoice hereafter.

Re-enter Gaspard.

Gas. I’ve sent them hence; they’ll not be heard again; but since they may not thank, they are gone to pray for you—Mass! I had nigh forgotten—young Madam Geraldine is in the anti-room, and waits to see your lordship.

De Val. Admit her! (Exit Gaspard) My gentle one! my desolate, orphan maid, if any softening drop were yet permitted in my cup of bitters, I think the affectionate hand of Geraldine would mingle and prepare it for my lip.

Enter Geraldine.

Ger. (Tenderly embracing him) Ah! my dear, dear uncle! how am I rejoiced by a permission to visit you again; for four long days you have secluded yourself, and indeed I have been so distressed—but I will not speak of past anxieties now; war restores its hero to our vows; Florian returns to us—are not you quite happy, uncle?

De Val. Happy? I? my good child—do not mock me.

Ger. Nay, could I intend—

De Val. Well! let it pass; you it seems, my Geraldine, are really happy; your lips confess much, but your eyes still betray more—niece, you love my adopted Florian.

Ger. Love! fy, uncle—Oh yes, yes, I do certainly love him like a brother.

De Val. Something better.—Suppose I should offer this Florian to you as a husband

Ger. (looking down demurely.) I never presume to dispute my dear uncle’s commands.

De Val. Little equivocator! answer me strictly: do you not wish to become his wife?

Ger. Indeed, I never yet have asked my heart that question.

De Val. But if Florian married any other woman, would you not hate the object of his preference?

Ger. (throwing herself upon his neck.) Ah! uncle, you have my secret: no, I would not hate my fortunate rival—I would pray for her happiness, but my heart would break while it breathed that prayer!

De Val. My excellent ingenuous child, indulge the virtuous emotions of your heart without disguise—Florian and Geraldine are destined for each other.

Ger. Generous benefactor! what delightful dazzling visions your words conjure up to my imagination; the universe will concentrate within the fairy circle of our hearth; a waking consciousness of bliss will ever freshly dress our day in flowers, and at nights, fancy will gild our pillow with the dream that merrily anticipates the future.

De Val. Enthusiast! you contemplate the ocean in a calm, nor dream how frightfully a tempest may reverse the picture.

Ger. Ambitious pride may tremble at the storm, but true love, uncle, never can be wrecked; its constancy is strengthened, not impaired by trials, and when adversity divorces us from common friendships, the chosen partners of each other’s hearts a second time are married, and with dearer rites.

De Val. (averting his face with a look of anguish) Girl!

Ger. (unnoticing his emotion) Then if they have children, how surpassing is the bliss, while their own gay prime is mellowly subsiding into age, to trace the features and the virtues they adored in youth, renewed before their eyes, and feel themselves the proud and grateful authors of each other’s joy—Ah! trust me, uncle! such a destiny is beyond the reach of fortune’s malice; ’tis the anti-type of heaven.

De Val. (Grasping her hand suddenly, convulsed with agitation.) ’Tis the distracting mockery of hell that cheats us with an hour’s ecstatic dream to torture us eternally: girl! girl! wouldst thou find happiness, die! seek it in the grave, only in the grave—a watchful fiend destroys it upon earth! Prat’st thou of love? Connubial and parental love? Ah! dear-lov’d objects of my soul! what are ye now—ashes, ashes, darkly scattering to the midnight winds. God! the flames yet blaze—here, here—my brain’s on fire! Rushes out.

Ger. Uncle! listen to your Geraldine!—Ah! ingrate that I am! the vulture that gnaws his generous heart, had slumbered for a moment, and I have waked it to renew its cruelty! my fault was unawares, yet I could chide it like a crime; my mounting spirits fall from their giddy height at once. Oh! uncle! noble, suffering uncle! would that my tears could wash away the recollection of my words. Weeps.

De Valmont suddenly returns and embraces Geraldine.

De Val. Geraldine! dear child, forgive me! my violence has terrified your gentle nature. I would not pain you, love, for worlds; but I am not always master of myself, and my passions will sometimes break forth rebellious to my reason; pity and forgive the infirmities of grief.

Ger. Ah! Sir. (Attempts to kneel.)

De Val. (Preventing her, and kissing her forehead.) Bless you, my good and innocent child; nay, do not speak to me, my happiness is lost forever, but I can pray for yours. Bless you, my child! bless you ever. Breaks from her, and exit.

Ger. My happiness! ah! if the exalted virtues of a soul like yours, my uncle, despair of the capricious boon, how shall the undeserving Geraldine presume to hope?

Enter Rosabelle.

Ros. Oh! my lady, such news, he’s arrived, he’s in the hall.

Ger. My Florian?

Ros. No, lady, not your Florian, but my L’Eclair, not quite so great a hero as his master to be sure, but yet a real, proper, mettlesome soldier every inch; he looks about him among the men so fierce and so warlike; then with the women, he’s so impudent, and so audacious;—oh! he’s a special fellow.

L’Eclair speaks without.

L’Ec. Here’s a set of rascals! no discipline? no subordination in the house! eh! look to the baggage, curry down my charger! hem! ha!

Enter L’Eclair.

Your ladyship’s devoted servant, ever in the foremost rank! never did a nine-pounder traverse the enemy’s line with more promptitude than I, Phillippe L’Eclair, unworthy private of the fifth hussars, now fly to cast my poor person at your ladyship’s gracious feet.

Ger. You are very welcome from the wars, L’Eclair, Fame has spoken of you in your absence.

L’Ec. Fy! my lady, you disorder me at the first charge,—a pestilence now upon that wicked, impertinent gossip, Fame,—will not her everlasting tongue suffer even so poor a fellow as L’Eclair, to escape? ’tis insufferable; may I presume to inquire then, what rumours have reached your ladyship’s ear?

Ger. To a soldier’s credit, trust me.—But your master, L’Eclair, where is he?

L’Ec. Ah! poor gentleman, he’s in the rearguard, I left him four leagues off, at the fortress of Huningen, unexpectedly confined by——

Ger. Confined! heavens! by what complaint?

L’Ec. Only the complaint of old age; the general commissioned my master upon his route to deliver some instructions to the superannuated commandant of the fortress; now the old gentleman proving somewhat dull of apprehension, my master though dying of impatience, was constrained to a delay of some extra hours, despatching me, his humble ambassador, forward, to prevent alarms, and promise his arrival at the chateau before midnight.

Ger. Midnight! so late?—four leagues to travel—alone—his road through an intricate forest, and the sky already seeming to predict a tempest.

L’Ec. Why, as your ladyship remarks, the clouds seem making a sort of forced march over our heads; but a storm is the mere trifling of nature in a soldier’s estimation; my master and his humble servant have faced a cannon-ball too frequently, to be disconcerted by a hail-stone.

Ger. Then you have often been employed upon dangerous service, L’Eclair?

L’Ec. Hay, I protest, your ladyship must excuse me there; a man has so much the appearance of boasting, when he becomes the reporter of his own achievements; I beg leave to refer your ladyship to the gazettes, though I confess the gazettes do but afford a soup-maigre, whip-syllabub sort of narrative, accurate enough, perhaps in the main, but plaguily incommunicative of particulars: for instance, in the recent affair at Nordlingen, I can defy you to find any mention in the gazette, that the chevalier Florian charged through a whole regiment of the enemy’s grenadiers, drawn up in a hollow square, that Phillipe L’Eclair, singly followed the chevalier, and rode over all those his master had not time to decapitate, how a masked battery suddenly opened with twelve pieces of heavy ordnance, firing red-hot balls; how the chevalier’s horse reared; how L’Eclair’s neighed; but how both officer and private, neither a whit discouraged at this dilemma, galloped their chargers gracefully up to the flaming mouth of the danger; cleared a chevaux de frise of fifteen feet at a flying leap; then dismounting; carried the battery by a coup de main; spiked the guns; muzzled the gunners with their own linstocks; and, finally compelled the principal engineer to turn cook, and grill a calf’s head at his own furnace, for the dinner of his conquerors! Now this affair which had no small influence in determining the fortune of the day, with many parallel traits, our gazetteers have unaccountably neglected to publish. My memory, perhaps, might remedy their deficiencies to any curious ear, but alas! an insurmountable modesty renders the task so painful, that I cast myself upon your ladyship’s compassion, and beseech you to forbear from further inquiry.

Ger. Ha! ha! your sensitive delicacy shall be respected L’Eclair; Rosabelle, be it your care to make the defender of his country welcome—at midnight then.—Oh! hasten on your flight, dark-wing’d hours! through your close shadows once disclose my Florian, then if ye list, be motionless, and still retard the day. Exit.

L’Ec. There, you hear young woman!—you are to make the defender of his country welcome.

Ros. I’ll do my best towards your pleasure,—what service can I lend you first.

L’Ec. Dress my wounds.

Ros. Wounds! gramercy! I never should have guessed you had any.

L’Ec. Deep, dangerous, desperate,—here! (affectedly pressing his heart) here, Rosabelle! here’s the malady; ’tis an old hurt, I took it ’ere I went on my campaign; time and absence had clapped an awkward sort of plaster on’t; but now—oh! those eyes!—the wound breaks out afresh;—must I expire?—Rosabelle! prithee, be my surgeon.

Ros. I have not the skill to prescribe, but I could administer a remedy by directions; what salve will you try first.

L’Ec. Lip-salve, you gipsy! (Kisses her furiously.)

Ros. Now, shame upon your manners, master soldier, was this a trick taught you by the wars?

L’Ec. Yes, faith! saluting is one of the first lessons in a soldier’s trade, so my dear, tempting, provoking. (Catches her round.)

Ros. Hay, keep your hands off, you have taught me enough of the manual exercise already; but say now, were you indeed so great a hero in the battle as you told my lady?

L’Ec. Pshaw! I didn’t tell her half, my modesty forbade, but for thee, my pretty Rosabelle—

Ros. Ay, with me, I’m certain your modesty will be no obstacle.

L’Ec. None, for while I gaze upon the face of an angel, the devil himself can’t put me out of countenance.

DUETTO.—Rosabelle and L’Eclair.

Ros. Tell, soldier, tell! and mark you tell me truly,

How oft in battle have you slain a foe?

L’Ec. Go, count the leaves when winds are heard unruly,

In autumn that from mighty forests blow.

Ros. Did e’er a captain, worth a costly ransom,

Own you his conqueror in the deadly broil?

L’Ec. I’ve twigg’d field-marshals, pickings snug and handsome,

Twelve waggons now are loaded with my spoil.

Both. Oh! loudly, proudly, sound the soldier’s fame!

Oh! flashy, dashy, flaunt the soldier’s dame!

Ros. Tell, soldier, tell! and mark, you tell me truly,

Did foreign maids ne’er win your roving vow?

L’Ec. O! blood and fire!—I swear I can’t speak coolly,

By Mars! to you, and only you, I bow.

Ros. Say, shall love’s chain of blossoms hold for ever?

Nor time, nor absence, bid its bloom depart?

L’Ec. Not sword, or gun, such magic links can sever,

Or rend from Rosabelle her hero’s heart.

Both. O! loudly, proudly, &c.

SCENE III.—A front wood, stage very dark, thunder and lightning.

Enter Longueville and Bertrand, the latter disguised and masqued.

Long. Come, sir, to your post! what! a coward even to the last? you tremble.

Bert. I do indeed, the storm is terrible, it seems as if heaven’s own voice were clamoring to forbid the deed.

Thunder.

Long. This tumult of the night assists our enterprise; its thunders will drown your victim’s dying groan. Where have you placed the bravoes?

Bert. Hard by—just where the horse-road sinks into a hollow dell, and over-spreading branches almost choke the pass, there we may rush upon the wretched youth securely, and there our poniards—

Long. Hush!—a footstep!—who passes there?

Enter 1st Bravo.

1st. Br. Sanguine!

Long. Wherefore are you here, and parted from your fellow?

1st. Br. I left him lurking in the hollow, while I sought you out to ask advice. Just now, a horse without a rider, burst furiously through the thicket where we lay; the lightning flashed brightly at the time, and I plainly marked the steed to be the very same young Florian rode, when we dogged him from the last inn, at sunset.

Bert. (involuntarily) merciful God! then thou hast preserved him.

Long. Villain! you may find your transports premature; perchance he has dismounted to seek on foot some shelter from the increasing fury of the storm; but ’tis impossible he should escape; one only path conducts to the chateau. Quick! bestow yourselves on either side, and your victim’s fate is certain. I must return to avoid suspicion.

Bert. (catching his arm.) Yet, my lord, once more reflect.

Long. (throwing him off.) Recollect your oath.

Bert. (desperately.) Yes, yes, it must be written on my memory in characters of blood.

Exeunt separately.

SCENE IV.—Another part of the forest more entangled and intricate, the tempest becomes violent, and the stage appears alternately illumined by the lightning, and enveloped in utter darkness. Florian is seen advancing cautiously through the thickets from a distance.

Flor. A plague upon all dark nights, foul ways, and runaway horses! a mettlesome madcap, to start at the lightning and plunge with me head over heels in the brushwood; in scrambling out of that thicket, I certainly turned wrong, and have missed my road—how to regain it? ’sdeath! I could as soon compose an almanac as and a clue to this puzzle. Well, I was found in a wood when a baby, and have just lived to years of discretion to be lost in a wood again! Fortune! Fortune! thou spiteful gipsy! was this an honest trick to pass upon a faithful servant, who has worn thy livery from his cradle, and taken off thy hands a thousand knocks and buffetings without a murmur? Just at this moment too, when hope and fancy were dancing merrily, and had made the prettiest ball-room of my heart—just too when the image of my Geraldine—(rain, storm increases) but a truce with meditation, this pelting shower rather advises action—(turns to an opening)—No; that can’t be the path; which ever way I turn I may only get farther entangled; then there are pit-falls, wolves, bears—yes! I’ve the prospect of a delectable night before me; what if I exercise my lungs and call for help? oh! there’s scarcely a chance of being heard; well, ’tis my forlorn hope and shall e’en have a trial. Holloa! Holloa! Holloa! a whistle answers from the right Huzza! somebody whistles from the right! kind lady Fortune! never will I call thee names again. another whistle from the opposite side. Ha! answered from the left too!—Lucky fellow!—where are you my dear boys—where are you?

Florian runs toward the right—a very vivid flash of lightning at that instant gleams upon the path before him, and displays the figure of a masqued bravo, Sanguine, with an unsheathed poniard advancing between the trees, Florian recoils.

Flor. Ha! a man armed and masqued!—perhaps some ruffian!—’sdeath! I am defenceless, my pistols were left in the saddle!

Sanguine. (advancing) Who called?

Flor. If I return no answer in the darkness I may retreat unseen.

He creeps silently to the left as the bravo advances.

San. Speak! where are you?

2d bravo emerges from the gloom and directly crosses the path by which Florian is about to escape.

Len. Here!

Thunder.

Florian at the second voice discovers himself to be exactly between the ruffians, and stops.

Flor. God!

He recedes a single step, and strikes his hand against a tree immediately behind him, the trunk of which is hollowed by time, and open towards the audience.

Ha! a tree!

By his touch he discovers the aperture, and glides into the hollow, at the very instant the two bravoes stepping forward quickly from either side of the tree, encounter each other’s extended hands in front.

San. (raising his poniard) Die!

Len. Hold! ’tis I—your comrade!

San. Why did you not answer before, I took you for—hark?

Bertrand comes through the trees from the top of the stage.

Bert. Hist! Sanguine?—Lenoire?

San. Here!—both of us.

Bert. (coming forward) Why did you whistle?

San. In answer to your call—you hallooed to us.

Bert. When?

San. But now—a minute back.

Bert. I never spoke.

San. I’ll swear I heard a voice—no doubt then but ’twas he that—

Bert. From what quarter did the cry proceed?

San. I thought it sounded hereabouts, but the storm kept such a confounded patter at the time—

Bert. Well—let us take the left-hand path; and if we hear the call repeated—

San. Ay!—our daggers meet all questions with a keen reply.

Exeunt to the left.

Flor. (extricating himself cautiously from the tree.) Eternal Providence, what have I heard! Murderers then are upon the watch for me! no, no—not for me. I cannot be the destined victim. I never yet offended a human being, and fiends themselves would not destroy without a cause for hatred. Heaven guard the threatened one, whoe’er he be! Well, Prudence at least admonishes me to avoid the left-hand path; faith any turn but that must prove the right for me. Ha! unless my eyes are cheated by a Will-o’-th’-Wisp, a friendly light now peeps out through yonder coppice. (looking out) Perhaps some woodman’s hut, with a fresh faggot just crackling on the hearth. Oh, for a seat in such a chimney corner. (Whistle again at a distance) I hear you, gentlemen, a pleasant ramble to you. Adieu, Messieurs! space be between us! yours is a left-handed destiny; I’ll seek mine to the right. Exit.

SCENE V.—The outside of a cottage in the wood; a light burning in a casement.

Enter Monica, supporting herself on a crutch, and carrying a basket of flax.

Mon. Praise to the virgin! my old limbs have reached their resting place at last: what a tempest! my new cardinal is quite drenched. Well, I’ve kept the flax dry, however, that’s some comfort, (strikes against the door.) Ho, there, within—open quickly.

The door opens, and a female wildly dressed, appears; she catches Monica’s hand with affection, and kisses it.

Mon. Ah, my poor Silence! thou hast watched and fretted for me preciously, I’ll warrant: but the road from Brisac is long, and this rough night half crippled me.

The female feels her damp garments, and seems with quick tenderness to invite her into the house.

Well, well, never fright thyself, if I shiver now, a cup of warm Rhenish will soon make me glow again: ’faith I am weary though; wilt lend an arm to an old woman?

The female embraces and supports her.

Ah, there’s my kind Silence.

Exeunt into the cottage.

Enter Florian running and out of breath, from the left hand.

Flor. I’m right, by all the household gods! ’Twas no goblin of the fen that twinkled to deceive, but a real substantial weatherproof tenement shining with invitation to benighted travellers. Oh, blessings on its hospitable threshold; my heart luxuriates already by anticipation, and pants for a fireside, a supper, and a bed. Hold though—just now I was on the point of shaking hands with a cutthroat; who knows but here I may introduce myself upon visiting terms with his family? ’faith I’ll reconnoitre the position before I establish my quarters. This casement is commodiously low. (Steps to the casement on tiptoe.) I protest, a vastly neat, creditable sort of mansion! Yes—it will do! on one side blazes an excellent fire; in the middle stands a table ready covered; that’s for supper: then just opposite is a door left ajar; ay, that must lead to a bed. Ha! now the door opens; who comes forward? by all my hopes a woman! Enough; here will I pitch my tent. Whenever doubts and fears perplex a man, the form of woman strikes upon his troubled spirit like the rainbow stealing out of clouds—the type of beauty and the sign of hope! (he knocks) Now Venus send her with a kindly smile!—she comes—she comes.

The female opens the door, but on seeing Florian recoils with trepidation—he catches her hand, and forcibly detains her.

Flor. My dear madam! no alarm, for Heaven’s sake. You have thieves in your neighbourhood, but, upon my soul, I don’t belong to their fraternity. No, madam, I’m an unlucky fellow, but with the best morals in the world: the fact is, I have lost myself in the forest; the storm rages—and as I am no knight-errant to court unnecessary hardships, respectfully I entreat the hospitality of this roof for the remainder of the night.

The female surveys his figure with suspicion and timidity.

Flor. I fear ’tis my misfortune to be disbelieved; nay then, let my dress declare my character! (he releases her hand to throw open his riding-cloak, and discovers the regimental under it.) Behold! I am a soldier.

The female shrieks violently; for an instant she covers her eyes with both hands shudderingly, and then with the look and action of sudden insanity, darts away into the thicket of the wood.

Flor. (calling after her.) Madam! my dear madam! only hear me, madam! she’s gone! absolutely vanished! I wish I had a looking-glass; certainly I must have changed my face when I lost my road—no scare-crow could have terrified the poor woman more. What’s to be done? If I follow her, I shall but increase her terrors and my own difficulties. Shall I enter the cottage and wait her return? the door stands most invitingly open, and to a wet and weary wanderer, that fire sparkles so provokingly—’faith, I can’t resist the temptation—Adventure seems the goddess of the night, and I’ll e’en worship the divinity at a blazing shrine! Exit into the house.

SCENE VI.—The interior of the cottage—the entrance, door, and casements are on one side—opposite is the fireplace—and a staircase in the back scene conducts to an upper chamber—a table with a lamp burning, and a frugal supper stands in the middle of the stage.—Florian is discovered when the scene draws, kneeling at the hearth and chaffing his hands before the fire.

Flor. Eternal praise to the architect who first invented chimney-corners? the man who built the pyramids was a dunce by comparison. rises and looks round him. All solitary and silent: faith, my situation here is somewhat whimsical. Well, I am left in undisturbed possession, and that’s a title in law, if not in equity. he takes off his cloak and hangs it on a chair Yes, this shall be my barrack for the night. What an unsocial spirit must the fair mistress of this cottage possess. Egad, she seemed to think it necessary, like the man and woman in the weather-house, that one sex should turn forth into the storm, so soon as the other sought a shelter from its peltings: a plague on such punctilio.

Monica enters down the staircase from her chamber.

Mon. speaking as she descends. There, my garments are changed, and we may now enjoy our supper.

Flor. Ha! another woman! but old, by the mother of the Graces!

Mon. A stranger!

Flor. Not an impertinent one, I trust. One, who in the darkness of the storm has missed his road, despairs of regaining it till morning, and craves of your benevolence a shelter for the night. You shall be soon convinced I am no dangerous guest.

Mon. with a voluble civility. Nay, young gentleman, never trouble yourself to inform me of your rank; you have told me your necessity, and that’s a sufficient claim to every comfort my little cabin can afford; pray, sir, take a seat: I am much honoured by your presence: we have a little supper toward; you must partake it, sir: here! my good Silence! come hither. Ah! I do not see— looking anxiously round the cottage.

Flor. I am afraid, my good madam, you miss one of your family.

Mon. I do, indeed, sir; and—

Flo. It was my misfortune to drive a female out of your house at the moment I entered it.

Mon. Sir!

Flor. But not intentionally, I protest. The fact is, though I have always esteemed myself as a well-manufactured person, yet something in my appearance so terrified the lady that—

Mon. Ah, I comprehend; you wear the habit of a soldier, sir, and my poor Silence never can abide to look upon that dress.

Flor. Indeed! that’s rather a singular antipathy for a female. May I inquire—is she a daughter of yours?

Mon. Not by blood, sir; but she is the child of misfortune, and as such may claim a parent in every heart that has itself experienced sorrow; but come, sir, take a seat, I beseech you; my alarm ceases now I know the cause of her absence. She is accustomed to wander in the woods by night when any thing disturbs her mind. She’ll return to me anon calm and passive as before: I have known it with her often thus. You look fatigued, sir; let me recommend this flask of Rhenish: pray drink, sir; it will do you good; it always does me good.

Flor. Madam, since you are so pressing, my best services to you—a very companionable sort of old gentlewoman this (aside); I protest, madam, I feel myself interested for this unfortunate under your protection; there was a wild and melancholy sweetness in her eye that touched me at our first exchange of looks with awe and pity; is her history a secret?

Mon. Oh, no—not a secret, but quite a mystery, you know nearly as much of it as I do; but since we are on the subject—another draught of wine, sir!

Flor. Madam, you will pledge me. And now for the mystery.

Mon. Well, sir, about sixteen years ago when I lived in Languedoc, for you must know I am but newly settled here, a stranger in Alsace, ay! about sixteen or seventeen years ago, there came a rumour to our village, of a wild woman, that had been caught by some peasants in the woods near Albi, following quite a savage and unchristian life; gathering fruits and berries for her food by day, and sleeping in the mossy hollows of a rock at night. She was brought round the country as a show. All the world in our parts went to look upon the prodigy, and you may be sure I made one among the crowd. Well, sir, this wild woman was the very creature you beheld but now. At that time she was in truth a piteous object; her form was meagre and wasted, and her wretched garment hung over it in filthy tatters; her fine hair fell in matted heaps, and the sun and the wind together had changed her skin like an Indian’s. Yet even in the midst of all this misery, there was a something so noble and so gentle in her air, that the moment I looked upon her, my curiosity was lost at once in pity and respect. The people by whom she was surrounded, were stunning her with coarse and vulgar questions, but never an answer did she deign to give, though some wheedled and some threatened; still ’twas to all alike: so most persons concluded she was dumb.

Flor. And a very natural conclusion it was, when a female remained silent, who had so excellent an opportunity of exercising her tongue.

Mon. Well, Sir, presently my turn came to approach her, when somehow my heart swelled quite painfully, to see the gracious image of our Maker degraded, and one’s own fellow creature treated like the brutes of the field, so, that when I touched her, my tears started unawares and fell upon her trembling hand. Would you believe it, sir? the poor desolate statue felt the trickling drops, and reason was rekindled by the warmth of pity. Suddenly her eyes, so lately dull and vacant, flashed with recovered brightness. She cast herself at my feet—clasped my knees—and cried out, in tones that might have moved a heart of rock—“Angel of compassion! save me from disgrace?” All present started as if a miracle were worked. “Will you preserve me?” cried the suppliant. I was a widowed and a childless woman; in an instant I raised the forlorn one to my arms, as a companion, as an adopted daughter. Her keepers were ignorant men, but not cruel; their hearts were softened by the scene, and they yielded their claims to my entreaties. I led the unfortune to my dwelling; from that moment, she has shared my mat and partaken of my morsel. I love her with the affection of a real parent, and were I now to lose her, I think my heart would break upon the grave that robbed it of its darling.

Flor. By heavens, I reverence your feelings! in truth ’tis a melancholy story.

Mon. Yes, sir; and melancholy stories make people dry, so let me recommend another cup of wine.

Flor. Madam, I can’t refuse the challenge—(aside) the old lady certainly designs to send me under the table. But pray, madam, have you never discovered the cause of that distress, from which you first relieved this suffering woman?

Mon. Never. On the subject of her early adventures she remains inflexibly silent. I have often tried to win the secret from her, but though she is mild and rational enough upon all other themes, yet, let but a hint remind her of her former wretchedness, her wits directly start into disorder, and for whole hours, nay, sometimes days together, she remains a lunatic. I do not even know her name, but call her Silence, because her voice is heard so very rarely. I think her dejection has increased since we quitted Languedoc, for about two months since, a kinsman of mine died, and bequeathed me this cottage with some land here in Alsace; ’tis a lone house, and the thick woods about I fear remind my poor Silence too much of her former way of life, sometimes she wanders in them half the night.

Flo. Are you not fearful of her safety? these woods are full of danger; within this half hour, I myself have encountered three ruffians lurking for their prey.

Mon. Ruffians! young gentleman. Blessed Mary save us!—’tis true, I am a stranger in these parts, but never did I hear of such neighbours. Well, well, I fear not for my child, she has no wealth to tempt a plunderer. Poverty is the mother of ills, but her offspring generally respect each other. Come, sir, finish the flask; and now let me prepare your chamber for the night. (rises.)

Flor. Kind hostess! I am bounden to you ever. (rises and fills his glass) Here’s woman! beauteous, generous woman! admired when we are happy, but in our adversity adored! (drinks.)

Mon. (curtseying) Sweet sir, down to the very ground I return your gallantry.

Flor. Hist!—don’t I hear footsteps in the wood?

Mon. (listening) Ah, yes, perhaps my child returns to us.

The casement is thrust open, and Bertrand with the two bravoes look into the cottage.

Mon. Ah! men in masks!

Bert.’Tis he! (they disappear from the casement.)

Flor. Swift! help me swift to bar the door!

Mon. Ah! ’tis forced already! (noise at door.)

The door is burst, the two bravoes instantly spring upon Florian and grapple with him. Bertrand seizes the woman.

Mon. Murder! murder!

Bert. Silence, or you die!

Florian struggles towards the centre of the stage in front, and is there forced down upon one knee.

Flo. Is it plunder that you seek? what is your purpose with me? speak!

San. Learn it by this! (raises his dagger.)

Bert. Hold! not here, drag him into the wood, despatch him there!

Flo. Inhuman villains! by your soul’s best hope—I charge you—I implore you—

Bert. (stamping furiously, and casting Monica from him) Toward the wood!—Follow me!

Bertrand turns to the door, and the bravoes struggle to force Florian after him, at that instant, the unknown female enters from the wood, and pauses in the door-way exactly opposite to Bertrand, his advanced arm falls back nerveless by his side, his limbs shake with strong convulsion, and he reels backwards.

Bert. Support me, ah! save me, or I die!

The bravoes release Florian to fly towards Bertrand, who sinks in their arms. The female, with a light and rapid step crosses in front of the group to the middle of the stage where Florian remains kneeling, she spreads her wild drapery before the victim, and places herself between him and the ruffians in the attitude of protection.

Bert. (pursuing her with his eye deliriously) Look! look! she rises from the grave! she blasts me with her frown! away! away! heaven itself forbids the deed!

The ruffians rush forth into the wood again. Florian and Monica catch the hands of the unknown to their lips in transport, and the curtain falls suddenly upon the scene.

End of act I.