Act II

SCENE I.—A gallery in the chateau.

Enter Longueville and Bertrand.

Long. Traitor! infamous, unblushing traitor! Florian has arrived, arrived in safety: every way I have been betrayed; and now to screen your perfidy from punishment, you dare insult my ear with forgeries too monstrous and too gross for patience.

Bert. Hear me, my lord! as I have life, as I have a soul, so have I spoken truly, the grave yawned asunder to forbid the blow, it was no vision of my cowardice—I saw—distinctly saw-it was Eugenia! as in her days of nature, entire and undecayed, the spectre-form stood terribly before me, it moved—it gazed—it frowned me into madness!

Long. Villain! still would you deceive me!

Bert. Ah, my lord, you would deceive yourself. I swear it was Eugenia, her shadowy arms were stretched between the lifted dagger and the prostrate youth; while her swift dark eye flashed on mine with brightness insupportable: such was her dreadful look, when, with her bleeding infant clinging to her breast, she sprang into the flames, and—

Long. Hush! the doors of an inner chamber open, and De Valmont appears conversing with Florian and Geraldine. We are interrupted; quick! change those ruffled features into smiles, quick! mark me, wretch!

De Val. (coming forward) My boy, your preservation was indeed a miracle. Ascribe not to the vague results of chance, that which belongs to Providence alone. Ah, here is my kinsman—one, whose anxious fears on your account, have held him a sleepless watcher through the night.

Long. (with affected fervency) Florian! a thousand welcomes: the return of friends at all times is a joy, but when they come through dangers to our arms, there’s transport in the meeting. Tell me—what strange tale is this I catch imperfectly from every lip? can it be possible you were assailed last night by ruffians in the wood?

Flor. Yes, my dear baron, yes! but morning has chased away night, and I am out of the wood now; therefore let us banish gloomy retrospections, and yield the present hour to bliss without alloy.

De Val. Not so: in this your friends must claim an interest dearer than your own: these men of blood shall be pursued to justice, if Alsace yet hold them.

Long. Be that my task. (to Flor.) Should you recognize their persons?

Flo. Positively no—their disguises were impenetrable.

Ger. But their voices, Florian, you heard them speak?

Flo. True, sweet Geraldine, a few broken sentences; but their accents were not framed like thine, to touch the ear but once, yet vibrate on the memory forever.

Long. Indulge my curiosity, how were you preserved?

Flo. Well, baron, since you will force me to act the hero in my own drama, thus runs my story: I was defenceless, helpless, hopeless: two sturdy knaves had mastered my struggling arms, and the dagger of a third gleamed against my throat, when suddenly a female form appeared before us; in an instant, as if by magic, the murderers relaxed their hold, shuddered, recoiled, uttered cries, and fled the spot, the female mute and motionless remained.

Bert. (aside to Longueville.) You mark.

Long. (repulsing him.) Silence!

Flo. Cowardice is ever found the mate of Cruelty: this stranger was doubtless regarded by the villains as a preternatural agent, she proved however, a mere mortal, frail and palpable as ourselves.

Bert. (listening with tremulous attention.) God! living!

Long. (not regarding Bertrand, who has drawn behind.) Whence came this woman? What was she?

Flo. Alas! the most pitiable object in nature—an unhappy maniac; she resides at the same cottage where I found shelter from the storm.

Bert. (as if electrified by a sudden thought.) Direct me, heaven!

He glides silently out of the gallery unobserved by all.

Long. Were not any other circumstances linked with this adventure?

Flo. None of consequence: but I suspect one of the ruffians was known to this wretched woman; her incoherent words implied that she recognized in him an ancient enemy; but her frail remains of intellect, were, for a time, quite unsettled by the terror of the scene; she fled from me to her chamber in dismay, and at daybreak I left the cottage without a second interview.

Long. Florian! it is necessary this woman should be interrogated further—(with much emotion) not a moment must be lost—dear count, excuse me for an hour, my anxiety admits not of delay. I will myself visit this cottage instantly. Exit.

Ger. (half aside to De Valmont) Uncle, if the baron tarries beyond the hour, we must not wait for his return, recollect it is to be at noon exactly.

Flo. (overhearing.) And what at noon, dear Geraldine?

De Val. (smiling) Florian, you are destined to be our hero in peace as well as war—my niece has planned a little fête in compliment to the conquerors of Nordlingen.

Ger. Fy, uncle, Florian was not to have known of it till the moment, you have betrayed my secret, now as a due punishment for the treason, I impose upon you to appear at our fête in person.

De Val. What a demand!—I, who never—

Ger. Nay, if it be only for a minute, positively you must come among us—nay, I will not be denied.

De Val. Well, you reign a fairy sovereign for the day, and if it be your will to play the despot, your subjects, though they murmur, must obey.

Ger. (embracing him) There’s my kindest uncle! thanks! Florian I warn you not to stir towards the terrace till I summon you, beware of disobedience, I have the power to punish.

Flor. And to reward also.

Ger. Ah! at least I have the inclination, it will be your own fault if ever my actions and my wishes dissociate, or Geraldine refuse a boon when Florian is the suitor. Exit.

Flor. (looking after her) Geraldine! too kind, too lovely Geraldine, ah! sir, is she not admirable?

De Val. She has been accounted so by many in your absence. I cannot estimate her beauty, but I know her virtue; and the last fond wish left clinging to this heart is Geraldine’s felicity. I shall endeavour to secure it, by uniting her in marriage with a worthy object.

Flor. Sir!—marriage did you say? Gracious heaven! Marriage!

De Val. What is it that surprizes you? I can assure you, Geraldine already has been addressed by lovers.

Flor. To doubt it were a blasphemy against perfection. Oh! Sir, it is not that—oh! no.

De Val. Wherefore, my dear Florian, so much emotion? Does the idea of Geraldine’s marriage afflict you?

Flor. I am not such an ingrate—her happiness is the prayer of my soul to heaven, and I would perish to insure it.

De Val. (after a pause, during which he regards the agitated Florian with tender earnestness.) Young man, I have long since determined to address you with a brief recital of circumstances necessary to your future decisions in life. Every word of that recital must draw with it a life-drop from my heart, for I shall speak to you of the past, and recollection to me is agony. The trial we once have considered as inevitable, it is fruitless to defer. Draw yourself a seat, and afford me for a few minutes your fixt attention.

Florian presents a chair to the Count, and then seats himself.

De Val. Florian, you now behold me, such as I have seemed, even from your infancy—a suffering, querulous, cheerless, hopeless, broken-hearted man—one who has buried all the energies of his nature, and only preserves a few of its charities tremblingly alive. It was not with me always thus—I once possessed a mind and a body vigorously moulded, a heart for enterprize, and an arm for achievement. Grief, not time, has palsied those endowments. Born to exalted rank, and luxuriously bread, like the new-fledged eaglet rushing from his nest at once against the sun, eager, elate, and confident, I entered upon life.

Flor. Ah! that malignant clouds should obscure so bright a dawn!

De Val. My spirit panted for a career of arms—civil war then desolated France, and, at the age of twenty, I embraced the cause of my religion and my king. Fortune, prodigal of her flatteries, twined my brow with clustering laurels, and at the close of my first campaign, my sovereign’s favor and the people’s love already hailed me by a hero’s title. Fatigued with glory—then—ah! Florian! then it was I welcom’d love!—a first, a last, an only and eternal passion! (Pauses with emotion.)

Flor. Nay, sir, desist—these recollections shake your mind too strongly.

De Val. No, no—let me proceed. I can command myself—Florian! I wooed and won an angel for my bride—my expression is not a lover’s rhapsody—at this distant period, seriously I pronounce it—Eugenia approached as closely to perfection as the Creator has permitted to his creature! Such as she was, to say I loved her were imperfect phrase! my passion was enthusiasm—was idolatry! Our marriage-bed was early blessed with increase—and as my lip greeted with a father’s kiss the infant, my heart bounded with a new transport towards its mother.—My felicity seemed perfect! Now, Florian, mark! My country a second time called me to her battles; I left my kinsman, Longueville, to guard the dear-ones of my soul at home, then sped to join our army in a distant province. I was wounded and made prisoner by the enemy. When I recovered health and liberty, I found a rumour of my death had in the interval prevailed through France. I trembled lest Eugenia should receive the tale, and flew in person to prevent her terrors. It was evening when I reached the hills of Languedoc, and looked impatiently towards my cheerful home beneath. I looked—the last sunbeam glared redly upon smoking ruins! Oh! oh! the blood now chills and curdles round my heart—the wolves of war had rushed by night upon my slumbering fold—fire and sword had desolated all. I called upon my wife and my infant. I trembled on their ashes while I called! (he sinks back exhausted in his chair.)

Flo. Tremendous hour! so dire a shock might well have paralized a Roman firmness.

De Val. (resuming faintly.) Florian, there is a grief that never found its image yet in words. I prayed for death—nay, madness! but heaven, for its own best purposes, denied me either boon. I was ordained still to live, and still be conscious of my misery. For many weeks I wandered through the country, silent, sullen, stupified! My people watched, but dared not comfort me. Abjuring social life, I plunged into the deepest solitudes, to shun all commerce with my kind. ’Twas at the close of a sultry day, the last of August, that I entered a forest at the foot of the Cevennes, and worn with long fatigue and misery, stretched myself upon the moss for momentary rest. On the sudden, a faint and feeble moan pierced my ear; instinctively I moved the branches at my side, and at the foot of a rude stone-cross beheld a desolate infant, unnaturally left to perish in the wilderness! It was famishing—expiring. I raised it to my breast, and its little arms twined feebly round my neck Florian! thou wert heaven’s gracious instrument to reclaim a truant to his duties! Welcome! I cried to thee, young brother in adversity!—“thou art deserted by thy mortal parents, and my heavenly father has forsaken me!” From that moment I felt I had a motive left to cherish life, since my existence could be useful to a fellow-being—my wanderings finished, and I settled in Alsace. Eighteen years have followed that event; but I shall not comment on their course.

Flor. (with energy.) Yet, sir, those years must not, shall not pass forgotten. Deeds of generous charity have made them sacred, and an orphan’s blessing wafts their eulogy to heaven—he casts himself at De Valmont’s feet). Friend! protector! more than parent! the beings who had called me into life denied my claim, and you performed the duties nature had renounced. Ah! sir, I am thoughtless, volatile, my manners wild—but, from my inmost soul, I love, I reverence, I bless my benefactor!

De Val. Rise young man! your virtues have repaid my cares. Here let us dismiss the past, and advert to the future. Geraldine is my heiress; my niece and my vassals must receive the same master: both are objects of my care, and I would confide them only to a man of honor. Florian! let Geraldine become your wife—be you hereafter the protector of my people.

Flor. Merciful powers! what is it that I hear? I?—the child of accident and mystery: a wretched foundling: I?

De Val. Young man, your sentiments and your actions have proved themselves the legitimate offspring of honor, and I require no pedigree for limbs and features. Fortune forbade you to inherit a name, but she has granted you a prouder boast: you have founded one. Common men vaunt of the actions of their forefathers, but the superior spirit declares his own! Nay, no reply—I never form or break a resolution lightly. I know your heart: I am acquainted with Geraldine’s; they beat responsive to each other—your passion has my consent: your marriage shall receive my blessing. Farewell.

He exits suddenly, and prevents Florian by his action from any reply.

Flor. Heard I aright? Yes, he pronounced it—“Geraldine is thine.” Earth’s gross substantial touch is felt no more: I mount in air, and rest on sunbeams! Oh! if I dream now—royal Mab! abuse me ever with thy dear deceits; for in serious wakeful hours, truth ne’er can touch my senses with a joy so bright. O! I could sing, dance, laugh, shout; and yet methinks, had I a woman’s privilege, I’d rather weep; for tears are pleasure’s oracles as well as grief’s.

Enter L’Eclair.

L’Ec. So, Captain! you are well encountered. I have sad forebodings that our shining course of arms is threatened with eclipse. If I may use the boldness to advise, we shall strike our tents, and file off in quick march without beat of drum. Our laurels are in more danger here than in the midst of the enemy’s lines.

Flor. How now! my doughty ’squire: what may be our present jeopardy?

L’Ec. Ah! captain, the sex—the dear seductive sex; this house is the modern Capua, and we are the Hannibals of France, toying away our severe virtues amid its voluptuousness. One damsel throws forward the prettiest ancle in anatomy, and cries, “Mr. L’Eclair, I’m your’s for a Waltz”: a second languishes upon me from large blue melting eyes, and whispers, “Mr. L’Eclair, will you take a stroll by moonlight in the grove?” while a third, in all the ripe round plumpness of uneasy health, calls the modest blood to my fingers’ ends, by requesting me “to adjust some error in the pinning of her ’kerchief.” O! captain, captain, heros are but men, men but flesh, and flesh is but weakness; therefore, let us briefly put on a Parthian valor, and strive to conquer by a flight!

Flor. Knave! prate of deserting these dear precious scenes again, and I’ll finish your career myself by a coup-de-main. No, no; change churlish dreams and braving trumpets to mellifluous flutes. I am to be married. Varlet, wish me joy.

L’Ec. Certainly, captain, I do wish you joy; when a man has once determined upon matrimony he acts wisely to collect the congratulations of his friends beforehand, for heaven only knows, whether there may be any opportunity for them afterwards. May I take the freedom to inquire the lady?

Flor. ’Tis she—L’Eclair, ’tis she, the only she, the peerless, priceless Geraldine.

L’Ec. “Peerless” I grant the lady, but as to her being “priceless,” I should think for my own poor particular, that when I bartered my liberty for a comely bedfellow, I was paying full value for my goods, besides a swinging overcharge for the fashion of the make.

Flor. Tush! man, ’tis not by form or feature I compute my prize. Geraldine’s mind, not her beauty, is the magnet of my love. The graces are the fugitive handmaids of youth, and dress their charge with flowers as fleeting as they are fair; but the virtues faithfully o’erwatch the couch of age, and when the flaunting rose has wither’d, twine the cheerful evergreen, crowning true lovers freshly to the last! Exit.

L’Ec. “True lovers!” well, now I love Love, myself, particularly when ’tis mix’d with brandy! like the loves of the landlady of Lisle, and the bandy-legg’d captain.

Song.

A landlady of France, she loved an officer, ’tis said,

And this officer he dearly loved her brandy, oh!

Sigh’d she, “I love this officer, although his nose is red,

And his legs are what his regiment call bandy, oh!”

2

But when the bandy officer was order’d to the coast;

How she tore her lovely locks that look’d so sandy, oh!

“Adieu my soul!” said she, “if you write, pray pay the post,

But before we part, let’s take a drop of brandy, oh!”

3

She fill’d him out a bumper, just before he left the town,

And another for herself, so neat and handy, oh!

So they kept their spirits up, by their pouring spirits down,

For love is, like the cholic, cured with brandy, oh!

4

“Take a bottle on’t,” said she, “for you’re going into camp;

In your tent, you know, my love, ’twill be the dandy, oh!”

“You’re right,” says he, “my life! for a tent is very damp;

And ’tis better, with my tent, to take some brandy, oh!”

SCENE II.—The Cottage.

Enter Monica and Bertrand.

Mon. In truth, sir, I have told you every circumstance I know concerning my poor lodger. But wherefore so particular in your inquiries?

Bert. Trust me, I have important motives for my curiosity. Seventeen years ago, I think you said: and in the woods near Albi?

Mon. Ay, ay, I was accurate both in time and place.

Bert. Every incident concurs. Gracious heaven! should it prove—my good woman, I suspect this unfortunate person is known to me; bring me directly to the sight of her!

Mon. Hold! sir, I must know you better first. I fear me, this poor creature has been hardly dealt with; who knows, but you may be her enemy?

Bert. No, no, her friend; her firm and faithful friend: suspence distracts me: lead me to her presence instantly!

Mon. Well, well, truly, sir! you look and speak like an honest gentleman; but tho’ I consent, I doubt whether my lodger will receive you; her mind is ill at ease for visitors. All last night I overheard her pacing up and down her chamber, moaning piteously and talking to herself; towards day-break, all became quiet, then I peeped thro’ the crevice of her door and saw that she was writing. I never knew her write before, I knocked for admittance, but she prayed me not to interrupt her for another hour.

Bert. Does she still keep her chamber?

Mon. She has not quitted it this morning—hark! I think I hear her stir, (goes to the stair-foot and looks up) ay! her door now stands open, place yourself just here, and you may view her plainly without being seen yourself; her face is turned towards us, but her eyes are fixed upon a writing in her hands.

Bertrand looks for a moment to satisfy his doubts, then rushes forward and casts himself upon his knee transportedly.

Bert. She lives! Eternal mercy! thanks! thanks!

Mon. Holy St. Dennis! the sight of her has strangely moved you: collect yourself, I pray, she comes towards us.

Bert. Oh! let me cast myself before her feet!

Mon. (restraining him) Hold, sir! whatever be your business, I beseech you to refrain a little, I must prepare her for your appearance, her spirits cannot brook surprise, back! back!

Bertrand withdraws, and Eugenia descends the stair with a folded paper in her hand—she appears to struggle with emotion, and running towards Monica, casts her arms passionately around her.

Eug. My kind mother! this is perhaps our last embrace; we must part.

Mon. Part! my child! what mean you?

Eug. Ah! it is my fate, my cruel unrelenting fate that drives me from you, from the last shelter and the only friend I yet retain on earth.

Mon. Explain yourself; I cannot comprehend.

Eug. Mother! I have an enemy, a dreadful one. Seventeen years have veil’d me from his hate in vain: those years have wasted the victim’s form, but the persecutor’s heart remains unchanged: my retreat is discovered: the wretches who were here last night too surely recognized me; soon they may return, and force me; oh! thought of horror. No, no, here I dare not stay.

Mon. My poor innocent! whither would you go?

Eug. To the woods and caves from which you rescued me. Mother, the wilderness must be my home again. I fly to wolves and vultures to escape from man! Receive this paper, ’tis the written memoir of my wretched life; read it when I am gone: my head burned and my hand trembled while I traced those characters: yet ’tis a faithful history. Mother! I dare not thank your charity, but heaven will remember it hereafter: bestow upon me one embrace, and then let me depart in silence.

Monica gives a sign to Bertrand to advance.

Mon. Yet hold some moments; a stranger has been inquiring here this morning who describes himself your friend.

Eug. Ah! no, no: the tomb long since has covered all my friends; ’tis some wily agent of my foe! Ah! forbid him mother; let him not approach me.

Mon. ’Tis too late; he is already in the house.

Eug. Where?

Monica points, and Eugenia’s eyes following her direction, rest upon the prostrate figure of Bertrand, who has placed himself in a posture of supplication, and concealed his face with his hands.

Eug. (gazing intensely with apprehension.) Speak! you kneel and still are silent. Ah! what would you require of me?

Bert. (uncovering his face without raising his eyes) Pardon! pardon!

Eug. (shrieking and flying) Ah! Bertrand.

Bert. (catching her mantle) Stay! angel of mercy, stay and hear me. He that was your scourge now yields himself your slave: a wretched penitent despairing man lies humbled in the dust before you, and implores for pardon.

Eug. (pauses—presses her crucifix to her lips, and then replies with fervor.) Yes! charity and peace to all! Nay, heaven forgive thee, sinful man, I never will accuse thee at its bar.

Bert. Angel! my actions better than my prayers may plead with heaven for mercy: the cruel wrongs that I have offered, yet in part may be atoned—lady, I come to serve and save you.

Eug. Ah! to what fresh terrors am I yet devoted?

Bert. Might we converse without a witness? in your ear only dare I breathe my purpose.

Mon. Nay, I will not be an eaves-dropper: my child you do not fear this person now? I’ll leave you with him—nay, ’tis best—perchance he comes indeed with service. My blessings go with you, stranger, if you mean her fairly, but if you wrong or play her false, a widow’s curse fall heavy on your death-bed.

Exit up the staircase.

A pause of mutual agitation.

Eug. Speak! man of terrors—say what has the persecuted and undone Eugenia yet to dread?

Bert. The baron Longueville—

Eug. That fiend!

Bert. He now is in the neighbourhood; as yet he dreams not that you live: but accident this very hour might betray you to his knowledge. Lady! I possess the means. O blessed chance! to shield you from his malice.

Eug. And wilt thou; O! wilt thou, Bertrand, at last extend a pitying arm to raise the wretch, thy former hate had stricken to the ground? I have been despoiled of fortune, fame, and health: my brain has been distracted by thy cruelty: yet now preserve me from this worst extreme of fate: let me not die the slave of Longueville, all my injuries, all my sufferings are forgotten, and this one gracious act shall win thy pardon for a thousand sins.

Bert. Lady! my o’er weighed conscience heaves impatiently to cast its load. (sinks on his knee) Lo! at your injured feet I kneel, and solemnly pronounce a vow, the tyrant Longueville shall mar your peace no more.

The cottage-door silently opens, and Sanguine looks in—he makes a sign to Longueville who follows, and they glide to the further end of the cottage unperceived; where they remain in anxious observation of the characters in front.

Eug. Rise! your penitence wears nature’s stamp, and I believe it honest.

Bert. Oh! lady, your words redeem me from despair: but say, to ease a heart that aches with wonder: say, by what prodigy you ’scaped the flames of that tremendous night, when all believed you perished?

Eug. (shuddering.) Ah! what hast thou said? my dream of confidence dissolves, and now I turn from thee again with horror! Again I view thy murderous poniard reared to strike! Again my wounded infant shrieks upon my bosom, and the fiery gulf yawns redly at my feet! begone? begone! for now I hate thee!

Bert. Ah, not to me—to Longueville ascribe the horrors of that night. (Aside) What shall I say? I dare not own to her that De Valmont lives. Hear me, lady; scarce was your lord’s untimely fall reported, when the cruel Longueville in secret plotted to remove his infant heir, the only bar that held him from a rich succession; by hellish means he won me to his cause: his hand it was that oped the castle gates at midnight to the foe, and when the fierce Huguenots rushed shouting through the halls, still his hand it was that fired the chamber where you slept in peace: to save your child you rushed distracted to the rampart’s edge; just as I followed to complete my prey, a falling turret crossed my path, and presently the general fabric sank in ruin.

Eug. A wayward destiny that night was mine; at once both saved and lost! a hidden passage dug beneath the rampart, twining through many a cavern’d maze, at distance opened to the woods. I reached the secret entrance of that pass, just as the turret fell and screened me from pursuit. Concealing darkness wrapt my flying steps: the roar of death sank far behind, and ere the dawn, in safety with my child, I gained the forest.

Bert. Your child! eternal powers! the infant then escaped my blow.

Eug. Thy dagger’s point twice scarred his innocent hand, but failed to reach the life. (Bertrand gesticulates his transport) A sanguine cross indelibly remained; but nature and his mother’s tears assuaged the pain. Charitable foresters, ignorant of our rank, relieved our wants and changed our robes for rustic weeds; thus disguised, my infant in my arms, on foot I travelled far and long, seeking ever by the loneliest paths, to reach my sovereign’s court, and at the throne of power implore for justice.

Bert. O! does the infant yet survive? Speak, lady! bless me with those words—he lives.

Eug. No, Bertrand, no; fortune but mocked me with a moment’s hope to curse me deeper still through ages of despair. In vain I snatched my darling boy from poniard and from flame: when way-lost in the wilderness, but for a moment did I quit my treasure, the mazes of the wood ensnared my step: the fever of my body rushed upon my brain: I wandered, never to return; while my forsaken infant—he perished, Bertrand. Ah! my brain begins to burn afresh! mark me, he perished terribly: inquire not further.

Bert. (deeply affected.) Thou suffering excellence! be witness heaven! the monster that I was, no longer has a life; thy tears have drowned it quite, and now it strangely melts in pity and remorse. Come, lady, let me bestow thee in a safe retreat: the hoarded wages of my sinful youth, I’ll use as offerings to redeem thy peace: far hence in foreign lands a certain refuge waits our flight, and there secure from Longueville—

The Baron suddenly stands before them in the centre: Eugenia shrieks and Bertrand stands aghast and trembles.

Bert. Undone forever?

Long. (furiously to Sanguine) Guard well the door—let not a creature enter or depart.

Sanguine advances by his direction. Eugenia flies by the stairs to the upper chamber. Longueville, after a short pause of indecisive passion, draws a poniard and seizes upon Bertrand.

Long. Wretch!

Bert. Strike! yes, deep in this guilty bosom, strike at once, and rid me of despair.

Long. Thou double traitor! thy perjuries now meet their just reward. Tremble at impending death.

Bert. No; I have not feared to live in vice, and will not shrink at least to die for virtue.

Long. (throwing him off.) No; I will not take the wretched forfeit: thou’rt spared from hate, not pity; I gave thee back thy life, but I will study punishments, to make the boon a curse unutterable.

Bert. Tyrant, I defy thy vengeance to increase my torments; the innocent, I pledged myself to save, already stands devoted to destruction, and the measure of my anguish and despair is full.

Long. (to Sanguine) Sanguine, ascend the stair, and force that wretched woman to my presence.

Bert. Hold, hold, my lord! recal those threatning words. O God! what damning crime is in your thoughts? pause—yet for a moment, pause, ere you barter to the fiend your soul for ages. Omnipotence hath interposed with miracles and still preserved you from the guilt you sought, your conscience yet is undefiled with blood.

Long. Away! my purpose is resolved.

Bert. Will you then reject the mercy Heaven extends? (kneels and catching his cloak.) Hear me, my lord; nay, for your own eternal being, hear me; as you now deal with this afflicted innocent, even so, hereafter, shall the God of judgment deal with you.

Long. I brave the peril, (call aloud) hasten, Sanguine, produce my victim.

Bert. (Desperately.) Cover me mountains! hide me from the sun! (He casts himself upon the ground.)

Sanguine returns precipitately from above.

Sang. My lord, one fatal moment has undone your scheme, the female has escaped.

Long. Villain! escaped.

Bert. (raising himself in frantic joy.) Ha!

Sang. I found the casement of the upper chamber open, some twisted linen fastened to the bar, nearly reached to the ground without, and proved the method of her flight; a beldame who must have aided her escape, remains alone above, (turning towards the window,) ha! I catch a female figure darting through the trees at a distance; she runs with lightning speed,—now—she turns towards the castle.

Long. Distraction! if she gains the castle, I am lost forever; pursue! pursue!

Longueville and Sanguine rush out.

Bert. (Vehemently.) Guardians of innocence, direct her steps! He follows them.

SCENE III.—A Gallery in the Chateau.

Enter Rosabelle followed by Gaspard.

Gasp. Ha! young mistress Rosabelle, whither so fast I pray? ’faith, damsel, you are fleet of foot.

Ros. Yet my steps are heavier than my heart, for that’s all feather, ready for any flight in fancy’s hemisphere; give thought but breath, and ’twere blown in a second to the moon or the antipodes, wilt along with me, Gaspard?

Gasp. What, to the moon or the antipodes? Alack! damsel, I should prove but a sorry travelling companion upon either road; no, no, youth is for night; but age for falls.

Ros. Wilt turn a waltz anon, and be my partner in the dance?

Gasp. Hey! madcap, have we dances toward?

Ros. Ay! upon the terrace presently, all the world will assemble there; the lady Geraldine and myself for beauty; and then for rank, we shall have the count himself, and the baron, and the chevalier, and—

Gasp. Out upon you, magpie; would you delude the old man with fables? his lordship, the count, among revellers! truly a pleasant jest; I have been his watchful servant these twenty years, and never knew him to abide the sight or sound of pleasures.

Ros. Then I can acquaint you, he proposes on this day to regale both his eyes and his ears with a novelty; I heard him promise lady Geraldine to join the pastimes on the terrace.

Gasp. Oh! the blest tidings: damsel, thy tongue has made a boy of me again.

Ros. Now charity forefend, for so should I bring thee to thy second childhood.

Gasp. Ah! would you fleer me! his lordship among revellers! oh! the blest prodigy! well, well, I give no promise, mark; but should a certain damsel lack a partner, adod. I know not—sixty-live shows with an ill-grace in a rigadoon, but for a minuet: well, well, St. Vitus strengthen me, and I accept thy challenge. Exit.

Ros. Go thy ways, thou antique gallantry; thy pledge shall never be endangered by my claim; I’m for a brisker partner in every dance through life, I promise thee.

AIR.—Rosabelle.

On the banks of the Rhine, at the sun-setting hour,

Oh! meet me, and greet me, my true love, I pray!

Or feasting, or sleeping, in hall, or in bower,

To the Rhine-bank, oh! true love, rise up and away!

On that bank, an old willow dejectedly grieves

And drops from each leaf, for love’s falsehoods, a tear;

Go! rivals, and gather the willow’s pale leaves,

For falsehood ne’er cross’d between me and my dear.

Exit.

SCENE IV.—The Castle Gardens decorated for a Fête, and crowded with Dancers and Musicians: a lofty Terrace crosses the extremity of the Stage, from which Village-Girls advance, scattering flowers before Geraldine, who is led by Florian to an open Temple between the Side-scenes, containing three Seats.

Ger. (Pointing to the centre seat) There is our hero’s seat of triumph: nay, my commands are absolute, and you have no appeal, I reserve this for my uncle, he will join us presently.

They seat themselves—a ballet immediately commences—boys, habited as warriors, pay homage before Florian, and hang military trophies round his seat. Girls enter, as wood-nymphs, &c. who surprise and disarm the warriors, then remove the trophies, and replace them with garlands. The warriors and nymphs join in a general dance—Suddenly a piercing shriek is heard: the action of the scene abruptly stops, and Eugenia, entering from the top of the stage, rushes distractedly between the groups of dancers, and casts herself at the feet of Geraldine.

Eug. Save me! save me!

Ger. Ah! what wretched supplicant is this?

Flor. By heavens! the very woman who yesternight preserved my life.

Longueville enters in pursuit.

Long. (Advancing rapidly, with instant self-command) Dear friends! Heaven has this hour appointed me the agent of its grace. I have discovered in this wretched woman, the long-lost wife of an ancient friend, at Baden; lend your assistance to secure her person ’till I can apprise the husband of this unexpected meeting.

Eug. No, no, I have no husband—they have murdered him; he would betray—destroy me. (catching Geraldine’s robe) Oh! you, whose looks are heavenly-soft, to you I plead: protect me from this fiend.

Ger. How earnestly she grasps my hand, indeed—indeed her agony seems genuine.

Long. You are deceived, she utters nought but madness, her mind has been for years incurably diseased; come, away! away!

He seizes violently upon Eugenia to force her with him, she clings to Geraldine in anguish.

Eug. Forsake me not! I have no protector to invoke but you.

Ger. Forbear, my lord, I cannot find that wildness you proclaim; forbear, and recollect the rights of hospitality never yet were violated at my uncle’s gate. Lady, dismiss your fears, here sorrow ever meets a ready shelter, for here resides the Count De Valmont.

Eug. Who?

Ger. The excellent, the suffering Count De Valmont.

Eug. (starting up with recurring insanity.) Ha! ha! ha! come to the altar,—my love waits for me, weave me a bridal crown!

Long. (triumphantly.) Behold! can you doubt me now?

Ger. Too painfully I am convinced; miserable being! Ah! remove her hence, before my uncle joins us; so terrible an object would inexpressibly afflict him.

Flor. Yes, yes; remove her hence! but O! I charge you treat her with the tenderest care.

Long. (eagerly to his people.) Advance! bear her to my pavilion! mark! to my pavilion on the river-bank!

The men seize upon Eugenia—the Count appears at the same moment advancing from the extremity of the Terrace.

De Val. My friends! I come to join your pleasures.

Eug. (struggling violently.) Hark! he calls me to his arms—unhand me! nay, then oh! cruel, cruel, cruel.

Overcome by her exertions, she sinks into a swoon and falls in the arms of the two men. Longueville rapidly draw her veil across to conceal her features from the Count as he advances.

Long. Away with her this instant!

He turns quickly toward the Terrace and catches De Valmont’s arm as he descends to prevent his approach—then turns imperatively to the men.

Long. Quick! Quick! away!

De Valmont pauses in surprize: Longueville maintains his restraining attitude. Florian and Geraldine join to arrest his steps: the bravos withdraw the insensible and unresisting Eugenia upon the opposite side: The various characters dispose themselves into a picture, and the curtain falls upon the Scene.

End of act II.