The Lady of Lyons; Or, Love and Pride

 
     Still left us youth and love! We’d have no friends
     That were not lovers; no ambition, save
     To excel them all in love; we’d read no books
     That were not tales of love—that we might smile
     To think how poorly eloquence of words
     Translates the poetry of hearts like ours!
     And when night came, amidst the breathless Heavens
     We’d guess what star should be our home when love
     Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light
     Stole through the mists of alabaster lamps,
     And every air was heavy with the sighs
     Of orange-groves and music from sweet lutes,
     And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth
     I’ the midst of roses!—Dost thou like the picture?
 
 
     Pauline. Oh, as the bee upon the flower, I hang
     Upon the honey of thy eloquent tongue!
     Am I not blest? And if I love too wildly,
     Who would not love thee like Pauline?
 
 
     Mel. [bitterly.] Oh, false one!
     It is the prince thou lovest, not the man
     If in the stead of luxury, pomp, and power,
     I had painted poverty, and toil, and care,
     Thou hadst found no honey on my tongue;—Pauline,
     That is not love!
 
 
     Pauline. Thou wrong’st me, cruel Prince!
     At first, in truth, I might not have been won,
     Save through the weakness of a flatter’d pride;
     But now,—oh! trust me,—couldst thou fall from power
     And sink—
 
 
     Mel. As low as that poor gardener’s son
     Who dared to lift his eyes to thee?—
 
 
     Pauline. Even then,
     Methinks thou wouldst be only made more dear
     By the sweet thought that I could prove how deep
     Is woman’s love! We are like the insects, caught
     By the poor glittering of a garish flame;
     But, oh, the wings once scorch’d, the brightest star
     Lures us no more; and by the fatal light
     We cling till death!
 
 
     Mel. Angel! [Aside.] O conscience! conscience!
     It must not be; her love hath grown a torture
     Worse than her hate. I will at once to Beauseant,
     And—ha! he comes. Sweet love, one moment leave me.
     I have business with these gentlemen—I—I
     Will forwith join you.
 

Pauline. Do not tarry long! [Exit.

Enter BEAUSEANT and GLAVIS.

Mel. Release me from my oath,—I will not marry her!

Beau Then thou art perjured.

Mel. No, I was not in my senses when I swore to thee to marry her! I was blind to all but her scorn!—deaf to all but my passion and my rage! Give me back my poverty and my honor!

Beau. It is too late,—you must marry her! and this day. I have a story already coined, and sure to pass current. This Damas suspects thee,—he will set the police to work!—thou wilt be detected—Pauline will despise and execrate thee. Thou wilt be sent to the common gaol as a swindler.

Mel. Fiend!

Beau. And in the heat of the girl’s resentment (you know of what resentment is capable) and the parents’ shame, she will be induced to marry the first that offers—even perhaps your humble servant.

Mel. You! No; that were worse—for thou hast no mercy! I will marry her.—I will keep my oath. Quick, then, with the damnable invention thou art hatching;—quick, if thou wouldst not have me strangle thee or myself.

Gla. What a tiger! Too fierce for a prince; he ought to have been the Grand Turk.

Beau. Enough—I will dispatch; be prepared.

[Exeunt BEAUSEANT and GLAVIS.

Enter DAMAS with two swords.

Damas. Now, then, sir, the ladies are no longer your excuse. I have brought you a couple of dictionaries; let us see if your highness can find out the Latin for bilbo.

Mel. Away, sir! I am in no humor for jesting. Damas. I see you understand something of the grammar; you decline the non-substantive “small-swords” with great ease; but that won’t do—you must take a lesson in parsing.

Mel. Fool! Damas. Sir, as sons take after their mother, so the man who calls me a fool insults the lady who bore me; there’s no escape for you—fight you shall, or—

Mel. Oh, enough! enough!—take your ground.

They fight; DAMAS is disarmed. MELNOTTE takes up the sword and returns it to DAMAS respectfully. A just punishment to the brave soldier who robs the state of its best property—the sole right to his valor and his life.

Damas. Sir, you fence exceedingly well; you must be a man of honor—I don’t care a jot whether you are a prince; but a man who has carte and tierce at his fingers’ ends must be a gentleman.

Mel. [aside.] Gentleman! Ay, I was a gentleman before I turned conspirator; for honest men are the gentlemen of Nature! Colonel, they tell me you rose from the ranks.

Damas. I did.

Mel. And in two years!

Damas. It is true; that’s no wonder in our army at present. Why the oldest general in the service is scarcely thirty, and we have some of two-and-twenty.

Mel. Two-and-twenty!

Damas. Yes; in the French army, now a days, promotion is not a matter of purchase. We are all heroes, because we may be all generals. We have no fear of the cypress, because we may all hope for the laurel.

Mel. A general at two-and-twenty! [turning away]—Sir, I may ask you a favor one of these days.

Damas. Sir, I shall be proud to grant it. It is astonishing how much I like a man after I’ve fought with him. [Hides the swords.

Enter MADAME DESCHAPPELLES and BEAUSEANT.

Mme. Deschap. Oh, prince,—prince!—What do I hear? You must fly—you must quit us!

Mel. I!

Beau. Yes, prince: read this letter, just received from my friend at Paris, one of the Directory; they suspect you of designs against the Republic: they are very suspicious of princes, and your family take part with the Austrians. Knowing that I introduced your highness at Lyons, my friend writes to me to say that you must quit the town immediately, or you will be arrested,—thrown into prison, perhaps guillotined! Fly!—I will order horses to your carriage instantly. Fly to Marsailles; there you can take ship to Leghorn.

Mme. Deschap. And what’s to become of Pauline? Am I not to be mother to a princess, after all?

Enter PAULINE and MONSIEUR DESCHAPPELLES.

Pauline [throwing herself into MELNOTTE’s arms.] You must leave us!—Leave Pauline!

Beau. Not a moment is to be wasted.

M. Deschap. I will go to the magistrates and inquire—

Beau. Then he is lost; the magistrates, hearing he is suspected, will order his arrest.

Mme. Deschap. And I shall not be a princess-dowager!

Beau. Why not? There is only one thing to be done:—send for the priest—let the marriage take place at once, and the prince carry home a bride?

Mel. Impossible!—[Aside.] Villain.

Mme. Deschap. What, lose my child?

Beau. And gain a princess!

Mme Deschap. Oh, Monsieur Beauseant, you are so very kind, it must be so,—we ought not to be selfish, my daughter’s happiness at stake. She will go away, too, in a carriage and six!

Pauline. Thou art here still,—I cannot part from my heart will break.

Mel. But thou wilt not consent to this hasty union?—thou wilt not wed an outcast—a fugitive?

Pauline. Ah! if thou art in danger, who should share it but Pauline?

Mel. [aside]. Distraction!—If the earth could swallow me!

M. Deschap. Gently! gently! The settlements—the contracts—my daughter’s dowry!

Mel. The dowry!—I am not base enough for that; no, not one farthing!

Beau. [to MADAM]. Noble fellow!—Really your good husband is too mercantile in these matters. Monsieur Deschappelles, you hear his highness: we can arrange the settlements by proxy; ‘tis the way with people of quality.

M. Deschap. But—

Mme. Deschap. Hold your tongue!—Don’t expose yourself!

Beau. I will bring the priest in a trice. Go in all of you and prepare; the carriage shall be at the door before the ceremony is over.

Mme. Deschap. Be sure there are six horses, Beauseant! You are very good to have forgiven us for refusing you; but you see—a prince!

Beau. And such a prince! Madam, I cannot blush at the success of so illustrious a rival.—[Aside.] Now will I follow them to the village, enjoy my triumph, and to-morrow, in the hour of thy shame and grief, I think, proud girl, thou wilt prefer even these arms to those of the gardener’s son. [Exit.

Mme. Deschap. Come, Monsieur Deschappelles, give your arm to her highness that is to be.

M. Deschap. I don’t like doing business in such a hurry; ‘tis not the way with the house of Deschappelles & Co.

Mme. Deschap. There, now, you fancy you are in the counting-house, don’t you?

[Pushes him to PAULINE.

Mel. Stay, stay, Pauline—one word. Have you no scruple, no fear? Speak—it is not yet too late.

Pauline. When I loved thee, thy fate became mine. Triumph or danger— joy or sorrow—I am by thy side.

Damas. Well, well, prince, thou art a lucky man to be so loved. She is a good little girl in spite of her foibles make her as happy as if she were not to be a princess [slapping him on the shoulder]. Come, sir, I wish you joy—young tender—lovely;—zounds, I envy you!

Mel. [who has stood apart in gloomy abstraction]. Do you?⁵

 
     “Do you? Wise judges are we of each other.
     ‘Woo, wed, and bear her home! So runs the bond
     To which I sold myself,—and then—what then?
     Away?—I will not look beyond the hour.
     Like children in the dark, I dare not face
     The shades that gather sound me in the distance.
     You envy me—I thank you—you may read
     My joy upon my brow—I thank you, sir!
     If hearts had audible language, you would hear
     What mine would answer when you talk of ENVY!”
 

ACT III.—SCENE I

The exterior of the Golden Leon—time, twilight. The moon rises during the scene.

Enter Landlord and his Daughter from the Inn.

Land. Ha—ha—ha! Well, I never shall get over it. Our Claude is a prince with a vengeance now. His carriage breaks down at my inn—ha—ha!

Janet. And what airs the young lady gives herself! “Is this the best room you have, young woman?” with such a toss of the head.

Land. Well, get in, Janet: get in and see to the supper: the servants must sup before they go back. [Exeunt.

Enter BEAUSEANT and GLAVIS.

Beau. You see our princess is lodged at last—one stage more, and she’ll be at her journey’s end—the beautiful palace at the foot of the Alps!—ha—ha!

Gla. Faith, I pity the poor Pauline—especially if she’s going to sup at the Golden Lion [makes a wry face]. I shall never forget that cursed ragout.

Enter MELNOTTE from the Inn.

Beau. Your servant, my prince; you reigned most worthily, I condole with you on your abdication. I am afraid that your highness’s retinue are not very faithful servants. I think they will quit you in the moment of your fall ‘tis the fate of greatness. But you are welcome to your fine clothes—also the diamond snuff-box, which Louis XIV. gave to your great-great-grandmother.

Gla. And the ring, with which your grandfather the Dodge of Venice married the Adriatic.

Mel. I have kept my oath, gentlemen—say, have I kept my oath?

Beau. Most religiously.

Mel. Then you have done with me and mine—away with you!

Beau. How, knave?

Mel. Look you, our bond is over. Proud conquerors that we are, we have won the victory over a simple girl compromised her honor—embittered her life—blasted, in their very blossoms, all the flowers of her youth. This is your triumph,—it is my shame! [Turns to BEAUSEANT.] Enjoy thy triumph, but not in my sight. I was her betrayer—I am her protector! Cross but her path—one word of scorn, one look of insult—nay, but one quiver of that mocking lip, and I will teach thee that bitter word thou hast graven eternally in this heart—Repentance.

Beau. His highness is most grandiloquent.

Mel. Highness me no more! Beware! Remorse has made me a new being. Away with you! There is danger in me. Away!

Gla. [aside]. He’s an awkward fellow to deal with: come away, Beauseant.

Beau. I know the respect clue to rank. Adieu, my prince. Any commands at Lyons? Yet hold—I promised you 200 Louis on your wedding-day; here they are.

Mel. [dashing the purse to the ground]. I gave you revenge, I did not sell it. Take up your silver, Judas; take it. Ay, it is fit you should learn to stoop.

Beau. You will beg my pardon for this some clay. [Aside to GLAVIS.] Come to my chateau—I shall return hither to morrow, to learn how Pauline likes her new dignity.

Mel. Are you not gone yet?

Beau. Your highness’s most obedient, most faithful

Gla. And most humble servants. Ha! ha! [Exeunt BEAUSEANT and GLAVIS.

Mel. Thank heaven I had no weapon, or I should have slain them. Wretch! what can I say? Where turn? On all sides mockery—the very boors within—[Laughter from the Inn].—‘Sdeath, if even in this short absence the exposure should have chanced. I will call her. We will go hence. I have already sent one I can trust to my mother’s house. There, at least, none can insult her agony—gloat upon her shame! There alone must she learn what a villain she has sworn to love. [As he turns to the door enter PAULINE from the Inn.

Pauline. Ah! my lord, what a place! I never saw such rude people. They stare and wink so. I think the very sight of a prince, though he travels incognito, turns their honest heads. What a pity the carriage should break down in such a spot! You are not well—the drops stand on your brow—your hand is feverish.

Mel. Nay, it is but a passing spasm;—the air

Pauline. Is not the soft air of your native south—How pale he is!—indeed thou art not well. Where are our people? I will call them.

Mel. Hold! I—I am well.

 
     Pauline. Thou art!—Ah! now I know it.
     Thou fanciest, my kind lord—I know thou dost—
     Thou fanciest these rude walls, these rustic gossips,
     Brick’d floors, sour wine, coarse viands, vex Pauline;
     And so they might, but thou art by my side,
     And I forget all else.
 

Enter Landlord, the Servants peeping and laughing over his shoulder.

Land. My lord—your highness—Will your most noble excellency choose—

 
     Mel. Begone, sir! [Exit Landlord laughing.
 
 
     Pauline. How could they have learn’d thy rank?
     One’s servants are so vain!—nay, let it not
     Chafe thee, sweet prince!—a few short days and we
     Shall see thy palace by its lake of silver,
     And—nay, nay, spendthrift, is thy wealth of smiles,
     Already drain’d, or dost thou play the miser?
 
 
     Mel. Thine eyes would call up smiles in deserts, fair one.
     Let us escape these rustics: close at hand
     There is a cot, where I have bid prepare
     Our evening lodgment—a rude, homely roof,
     But honest, where our welcome will not be
     Made torture by the vulgar eyes and tongues
     That are as death to Love! A heavenly night!
     The wooing air and the soft moon invite us.
     Wilt walk? I pray thee, now,—I know the path,
     Ay, every inch of it!
 
 
     Pauline. What, thou! Methought
     Thou wert a stranger in these parts? Ah, truant,
     Some village beauty lured thee;—thou art now
     Grown constant?
 

Mel. Trust me.

Pauline. Princes are so changeful!

Mel. Come, dearest, come.

Pauline. Shall I not call our people To light us?

Mel. Heaven will lend its stars for torches! It is not far.

Pauline. The night breeze chills me.

Mel. Nay, Let me thus mantle thee;—it is not cold.

Pauline. Never beneath thy smile!

Mel. [aside.] O Heaven! forgive me! [Exeunt