The Lady of Lyons; Or, Love and Pride

SCENE II

MELNOTTE’S cottage—Widow bustling about—a table spread for supper.

Widow. So, I think that looks very neat. He sent me a line, so blotted that I can scarcely read it, to say he would be here almost immediately. She must have loved him well indeed to have forgotten his birth; for though he was introduced to her in disguise, he is too honorable not to have revealed to her the artifice, which her love only could forgive. Well, I do not wonder at it; for though my son is not a prince, he ought to be one, and that’s almost as good, [Knock at the door.] Ah! here they are.

Enter MELNOTTE and PAULINE.

Widow. Oh, my boy—the pride of my heart!—welcome, welcome! I beg pardon, ma’am, but I do love him so!

Pauline. Good woman, I really—why prince, what is this?—does the old lady know you? Oh, I guess, you have done her some service. Another proof of your kind heart? is it not?

Mel. Of my kind heart, ay!

Pauline. So you know the prince?

Widow. Know him, madam?—Ah, I begin to fear it is you who know him not!

Pauline. Do you think she is mad? Can we stay here, my lord? I think there’s something very wild about her.

Mel. Madam, I—no, I cannot tell her; my knees knock together: what a coward is a man who has lost his honor! Speak to her—speak to her [to his mother]—tell her that—O Heaven, that I were dead!

Pauline. How confused he looks!—this strange place?—this woman—what can it mean?—I half suspect—Who are you, madam!—who are you! can’t you speak? are you struck dumb?

Widow. Claude, you have not deceived her?—Ah, shame upon you! I thought that, before you went to the altar, she was to have known all.

Pauline. All! what!—My blood freezes in my veins!

Widow. Poor lady!—dare I tell her, Claude? [MELNOTTE makes a sign of assent.] Know you not then, madam, that this young man is of poor though honest parents? Know you not that you are wedded to my son, Claude Melnotte?

Pauline. Your son! hold—hold! do not speak to me.—[Approaches MELNOTTE, and lays her hand on his arm.]—Is this a jest? is it? I know it is, only speak—one word—one look one smile. I cannot believe—I who loved thee so—I cannot believe that thou art such a—No, I will not wrong thee by a harsh word—Speak!

Mel. Leave us—have pity on her, on me: leave us.

Widow. Oh, Claude, that I should live to see thee bowed by shame! thee of whom I was so proud! [Exit by the staircase.

Pauline. Her son—her son!

Mel. Now, lady, hear me.

Pauline. Hear thee! Ay, speak—her son! have fiends a parent? speak, That thou mayst silence curses—speak!

Mel. No, curse me: Thy curse would blast me less than thy forgiveness.

 
     Pauline [laughing wildly].
     “This is thy palace, where the perfumed light
     Steals through the mist of alabaster lamps,
     And every air is heavy with the sighs
     Of orange-groves, and music from the sweet lutes,
     And murmurs of low fountains, that gush forth
     I’ the midst of roses!” Dost thou like the picture?
     This is my bridal home, and thou my bridegroom.
     O fool—O dupe—O wretch!—I see it all
     Thy by-word and the jeer of every tongue
     In Lyons. Hast thou in thy heart one touch
     Of human kindness? if thou hast, why, kill me,
     And save thy wife from madness. No, it cannot
     It cannot be: this is some horrid dream:
     I shall wake soon.—[Touching him.] Art flesh art man? or but
     The shadows seen in sleep? It is too real.
     What have I done to thee? how sinn’d against thee,
     That thou shouldst crush me thus?
 
 
     Mel. Pauline, by pride
     Angels have fallen ere thy time: by pride
     That sole alloy of thy most lovely mould
     The evil spirit of a bitter love,
     And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee.
     From my first years my soul was fill’d with thee:
     I saw thee midst the flow’rs the lowly boy
     Tended, unmark’d by thee—a spirit of bloom,
     And joy, and freshness, as if Spring itself
     Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape!
     I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man
     Enter’d the breast of the wild-dreaming boy.
     And from that hour I grew—what to the last
     I shall be—thine adorer! Well, this love
     Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became
     A fountain of ambition and bright hope;
     I thought of tales that by the winter hearth
     Old gossips tell—how maidens sprung from kings
     Have stoop’d from their high sphere; how love, like death
     Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd’s crook
     Beside the sceptre. Thus I made my home
     In the soft palace of a fairy Future!
     My father died; and I, the peasant-born,
     Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise
     Out of the prison of my mean estate;
     And, with such jewels as the exploring mind
     Brings from the caves of knowledge, buy my ransom
     From those twin gaolers of the daring heart
     Low birth and iron fortune. Thy bright image
     Glass’d in my soul, took all the hues of glory,
     And lured me on to those inspiring toils
     By which man masters men! For thee I grew
     A midnight student o’er the dreams of sages.
     For thee I sought to borrow from each grace,
     And every muse, such attributes as lend
     Ideal charms to love. I thought of thee,
     And passion taught me poesy—of thee,
     And on the painter’s canvas grew the life
     Of beauty! Art became the shadow
     Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes
     Men call’d me vain—some mad—I heeded not;
     But still toil’d on—hoped on—for it was sweet,
     If not to win, to feel more worthy thee?
 
 
     Pauline. Has he a magic to exorcise hate!
 
 
     Mel. At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour
     The thoughts that burst their channels into song,
     And sent them to thee—such a tribute, lady,
     As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest.
     The name—appended by the burning heart
     That long’d to show its idol what bright things
     It had created—yea, the enthusiast’s name,
     That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn!
     That very hour—when passion, turn’d to wrath,
     Resembled hatred most—when thy disdain
     Made my whole soul a chaos—in that hour
     The tempters found me a revengeful tool
     For their revenge! Thou hadst trampled on the worm
     It turn’d and stung thee!
 
 
     Pauline. Love, sir, hath no sting.
     What was the slight of a poor powerless girl
     To the deep wrong of this most vile revenge?
     Oh, how I loved this man!—a serf!—a slave!
     Mel. Hold, lady! No, not slave! Despair is free!
     I will not tell thee of the throes—the struggles
     The anguish—the remorse: No, let it pass!
     And let me come to such most poor atonement
     Yet in my power. Pauline!
 

[Approaching her with great emotion, and about to take her hand.

 
     Pauline. No, touch me not!
     I know my fate. You are, by law, my tyrant;
     And I—O Heaven!—a peasant’s wife! I’ll work
     Toil—drudge—do what thou wilt—but touch me not;
     Let my wrongs make me sacred!
 
 
     Mel. Do not fear me.
     Thou dost not know me, madam: at the altar
     My vengeance ceased—my guilty oath expired!
     Henceforth, no image of some marble saint,
     Niched in cathedral aisles, is hallow’d more
     From the rude hand of sacrilegious wrong.
     I am thy husband—nay, thou need’st not shudder;
     Here, at thy feet, I lay a husband’s rights.
     A marriage thus unholy—unfulfill’d—
     A bond of fraud—is, by the laws of France,
     Made void and null. To-night sleep—sleep in peace.
     To-morrow, pure and virgin as this morn
     I bore thee, bathed in blushes, from the shrine,
     Thy father’s arms shall take thee to thy home.
     The law shall do thee justice, and restore
     Thy right to bless another with thy love.
     And when thou art happy, and hast half forgot
     Him who so loved—so wrong’d thee, think at least
     Heaven left some remnant of the angel still
     In that poor peasant’s nature!
     Ho! my mother! [Enter Widow.
     Conduct this lady—(she is not my wife;
     She is our guest,—our honor’d guest, my mother)—
     To the poor chamber, where the sleep of virtue,
     Never, beneath my father’s honest roof,
     Ev’n villains dared to mar! Now, lady, now,
     I think thou wilt believe me. Go, my mother!
 

Widow. She is not thy wife!

Mel. Hush, hush! for mercy’s sake! Speak not, but go.

[Widow ascends the stairs; PAULINE follows weeping—turns to look back.

Mel. [sinking down]. All angels bless and guard her!

ACT IV.—SCENE I

The cottage as before—MELNOTTE seated before a table—writing implements, etc.—(Day breaking.)

Mel. Hush, hush!—she sleeps at last!—thank Heaven, for a while she forgets even that I live! Her sobs, which have gone to my heart the whole, long, desolate night, have ceased!—all calm—all still! I will go now; I will send this letter to Pauline’s father: when he arrives, I will place in his hands my own consent to the divorce, and then, O France! my country! accept among thy protectors, thy defenders—the peasant’s Son! Our country is less proud than custom, and does not refuse the blood, the heart, the right hand of the poor man.

Enter Widow.

Widow. My son, thou hast acted ill; but sin brings its own punishment. In the hour of thy remorse, it is not for a mother to reproach thee.

Mel. What is past is past. There is a future left to all men, who have the virtue to repent, and the energy to atone. Thou shalt be proud of thy son yet. Meanwhile, remember this poor lady has been grievously injured. For the sake of thy son’s conscience, respect, honor, bear with her. If she weep, console—if she chide, be silent. ‘Tis but a little while more—I shall send an express fast as horse can speed to her father. Farewell! I shall return shortly.

Widow. It is the only course left to thee—thou wert led astray, but thou art not hardened. Thy heart is right still, as ever it was when, in thy most ambitious hopes thou wert never ashamed of thy poor mother.

Mel. Ashamed of thee; No, if I yet endure, yet live, yet hope,—it is only because I would not die till I have redeemed the noble heritage I have lost—the heritage I took unstained from thee and my dead father—a proud conscience and an honest name. I shall win them back yet—heaven bless you! [Exit.

Widow. My dear Claude! How my heart bleeds for him.

[PAULINE looks down from above, and after a pause descends

Pauline. Not here!—he spares me that pain at least: so far he is considerate—yet the place seems still more desolate without him. Oh, that I could hate him—the gardener’s son!—and yet how nobly he—no—no—no I will not be so mean a thing as to forgive him!

Widow. Good morning, madam; I would have waited on you if I had known you were stirring.

Pauline. It is no matter, ma’am—your son’s wife ought to wait on herself.

Widow. My son’s wife—let not that thought vex you, madam—he tells me that you will have your divorce. And I hope I shall live to see him smile again. There are maidens in this village, young and fair, madam, who may yet console him.

Pauline. I dare say—they are very welcome—and when the divorce is got—he will marry again. I am sure I hope so. [Weeps.

Widow. He could have married the richest girl in the province, if he had pleased it; but his head was turned, poor child! he could think of nothing but you. [Weeps.

Pauline. Don’t weep, mother.

Widow. Ah, he has behaved very ill, I know, but love is so headstrong in the young. Don’t weep, madam.

Pauline. So, as you were saying—go on.

Widow. Oh, I cannot excuse him, ma’am—he was not in his right senses.

Pauline. But he always—always [sobbing] loved—loved me then?

Widow. He thought of nothing else. See here—he learnt to paint that he might take your likeness [uncovers the picture]. But that’s all over now—I trust you have cured him of his folly;—but, dear heart, you have had no breakfast!

Pauline. I can’t take anything—don’t trouble yourself.

Widow. Nay, madam, be persuaded; a little coffee will refresh you. Our milk and eggs are excellent. I will get out Claude’s coffee-cup—It is of real Sevres; he saved up all his money to buy it three years ago, because the name of Pauline was inscribed on it.

Pauline. Three years ago! Poor Claude!—Thank you; I think I will have some coffee. Oh! if he were but a poor gentleman, even a merchant: but a gardener’s son—and what a home!—Oh no,—it is too dreadful!

They seat themselves at the table, BEAUSEANT opens the lattice and looks in.

Beau. So—so—the coast is clear! I saw Claude in the lane—I shall have an excellent opportunity. [Shuts the lattice and knocks at the door.

Pauline. [starting]. Can it be my father?—he has not sent for—him yet? No, he cannot be in such a hurry to get rid of me.

Widow. It is not time for your father to arrive yet; it must be some neighbor.

Pauline. Don’t admit any one.

[Widow opens the door, BEAUSEANT pushes her aside and enters. Ha! Heavens! that hateful Beauseant! This is indeed bitter!

Beau. Good morning, madam! O widow, your son begs you will have the goodness to go to him in the village he wants to speak to you on particular business; you’ll find him at the inn, or the grocer’s shop, or the baker’s, or at some other friend’s of your family—make haste.

Pauline. Don’t leave me, mother!—don’t leave me.

Beau. [with great respect]. Be not alarmed, madam. Believe me your friend—your servant.

Pauline. Sir, I have no fear of you, even in this house! Go, madam, if your son wishes it; I will not contradict his commands whilst, at least he has still the right to be obeyed.

Widow. I don’t understand this; however, I sha’n’t be long gone. [Exit.

Pauline. Sir, I divine the object of your visit—you wish to exult in the humiliation of one who humbled you. Be it so; I am prepared to endure all—even your presence!

Beau. You mistake me, madam—Pauline, you mistake me! I come to lay my fortune at your feet. You must already be disenchanted with this impostor; these walls are not worthy to be hallowed by your beauty! Shall that form be clasped in the arms of a base-born peasant? Beloved, beautiful Pauline! fly with me—my carriage waits without—I will bear you to a home more meet for your reception. Wealth, luxury, station—all shall yet be yours. I forget your past disdain—I remember only your beauty and my unconquerable love!

Pauline. Sir! leave this house—it is humble: but a husband’s roof, however lowly, is, in the eyes of God and man, the temple of a wife’s honor! Know that I would rather starve—yes—with him who has betrayed me, than accept your lawful hand, even were you the prince whose name he bore.—Go.

Beau. What! is not your pride humbled yet?

Pauline. Sir, what was pride in prosperity in affliction becomes virtue.

Beau. Look round: these rugged floors—these homely walls—this wretched struggle of poverty for comfort—think of this! and contrast with such a picture the refinement, the luxury, the pomp, that the wealthiest gentleman of Lyons offers to the loveliest lady. Ah, hear me!

Pauline. Oh! my father!—why did I leave you?—why am I thus friendless? Sir, you see before you a betrayed, injured, miserable woman!—respect her anguish.

[MELNOTTE opens the door silently, and pauses at the threshold.

Beau. No! let me rather thus console it; let me snatch from those lips one breath of that fragrance which never should be wasted on the low churl thy husband.

Pauline. Help! Claude!—Claude!—Have I no protector?’

Beau. Be silent! [showing a pistol.] See, I do not come unprepared even for violence. I will brave all things—thy husband and all his race— for thy sake. Thus, then, I clasp thee!

Mel. [dashing him to the other end of the stage]. Pauline—look up, Pauline! thou art safe.

Beau. [levelling his pistol]. Dare you thus insult a man of my birth, ruffian?

Pauline. Oh, spare him—spare my husband!—Beauseant—Claude—no—no [faints].

Mel. Miserable trickster! shame upon you! brave devices to terrify a woman! Coward!—you tremble—you have outraged the laws—you know that your weapon is harmless—you have the courage of the mountebank, not the bravo!—Pauline, there is no danger.

Beau. I wish thou wert a gentleman—as it is, thou art beneath me.– Good day, and a happy honeymoon.—[Aside.] I will not die till I am avenged. [Exit.

 
     Mel. I hold her in these arms—the last embrace
     Never, ah never more, shall this dear head
     Be pillow’d on the heart that should have shelter’d
     And has betray’d!—Soft—soft! one kiss—poor wretch!
     No scorn on that pale lip forbids me now!
     One kiss—so ends all record of my crime!
     It is the seal upon the tomb of hope,
     By which, like some lost, sorrowing angel, sits
     Sad memory evermore; she breathes—she moves
     She wakes to scorn, to hate, but not to shudder
     Beneath the touch of my abhorred love.
     Places her on a seat. There—we are strangers now!
 
 
     Pauline. All gone—all calm
     Is every thing a dream? thou art safe, unhurt
     I do not love thee;—but—but I am woman,
     And—and—no blood is spilt?
 

Mel. No, lady, no; My guilt hath not deserved so rich a blessing As even danger in thy cause.

Enter WIDOW.

Widow. My son, I have been everywhere in search of you; why did you send for me?

Mel. I did not send for you.

Widow. No! but I must tell you your express has returned.

Mel. So soon! impossible!

Widow. Yes, he met the lady’s father and mother on the road; they were going into the country on a visit. Your messenger says that Monsieur Deschappelles turned almost white with anger when he read your letter. They will be here almost immediately. Oh, Claude, Claude! what will they do to you? How I tremble! Ah, madam! do not let them injure him—if you knew how he doated on you.

Pauline. Injure him! no, ma’am, be not afraid;—my father! how shall I meet him? how go back to Lyons? the scoff of the whole city! Cruel, cruel, Claude [in great agitation]. Sir, you have acted most treacherously.