The Lady of Lyons; Or, Love and Pride

Damas. I will go after him.—France will thank me for this.

Pauline [starting from her father’s arms]. Claude!—Claude!—my husband!

M. Deschap. You have a father still!

ACT V.

Two years and a half from the date of Act IV

SCENE I

The Streets of Lyons.

Enter First, Second, and Third Officers.

First Officer. Well, here we are at Lyons, with gallant old Damas: it is his native place.

Second Officer. Yes; he has gained a step in the army since he was here last. The Lyonnese ought to be very proud of stout General Damas.

Third Officer. Promotion is quick in the French army. This mysterious Morier,—the hero of Lodi, and the favorite of the commander-in-chief,—has risen to a colonel’s rank to two years and a half. Enter DAMAS, as a General.

Damas. Good morrow, gentlemen; I hope you will amuse yourselves during our short stay at Lyons. It is a fine city: improved since I left it. Ah! it is a pleasure to grow old, when the years that bring decay to ourselves do but ripen the prosperity of our country. You have not met with Morier?

First Officer. No: we were just speaking of him.

Second Officer. Pray, general, can you tell us who this Morier really is?

Damas. Is!—why a colonel in the French army.

Third Officer. True. But what was he at first?

Damas. At first? Why a baby in long clothes, I suppose.

First Officer. Ha, ha! Ever facetious, general.

Second Officer. [to Third]. The general is sore upon this point; you will only chafe him.—Any commands, general?

Damas. None. Good day to you. [Exeunt Second and Third Officers.

Damas. Our comrades are very inquisitive. Poor Morier is the subject of a vast deal of curiosity.

First Officer. Say interest, rather, general. His constant melancholy, the loneliness of his habits,—his daring valor, his brilliant rise in the profession,—your friendship, and the favors of the commander-in-chief,—all tend to make him as much the matter of gossip as of admiration. But where is he, general? I have missed him all the morning.

Damas. Why, captain, I’ll let you into a secret. My young friend has come with me to Lyons in hopes of finding a miracle.

First Officer. A miracle!

Damas. Yes, a miracle! in other words,—a constant woman.

First Officer. Oh! an affair of love!

Damas. Exactly so. No sooner did he enter Lyons than he waved his hand to me, threw himself from his horse, and is now, I warrant, asking every one who can know anything about the matter, whether a certain lady is still true to a certain gentleman!

First Officer. Success to him! and of that success there can be no doubt. The gallant Colonel Morier, the hero of Lodi, might make his choice out of the proudest families in France.

Damas. Oh, if pride be a recommendation, the lady and her mother are most handsomely endowed. By the way, captain, if you should chance to meet with Morier, tell him he will find me at the hotel.

First Officer. I will, general. [Exit.

Damas. Now will I go to the Deschappelles, and make a report to my young Colonel. Ha! by Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, Virorum,—here comes Monsieur Beauseant!

Enter BEAUSEANT.

Good morrow, Monsieur Beauseant! How fares it with you?

Beau. [aside.] Damas! that is unfortunate;—if the Italian campaign should have filled his pockets, he may seek to baffle me in the moment of my victory. [Aloud]. Your servant, general,—for such, I think, is your new distinction! Just arrived in Lyons?

Damas. Not an hour ago. Well, how go on the Deschappelles? Have they forgiven you in that affair of young Melnotte? You had some hand in that notable device,—eh?

Beau. Why, less than you think for! The fellow imposed upon me. I have set it all right now. What has become of him? He could not have joined the army, after all. There is no such name in the books.

Damas. I know nothing about Melnotte. As you say, I never heard the name in the Grand Army.

Beau. Hem!—You are not married, general?

Damas. Do I look like a married man, sir?—No, thank Heaven! My profession is to make widows, not wives.

Beau. You must have gained much booty in Italy! Pauline will be your heiress—eh?

Damas. Booty! Not I! Heiress to what? Two trunks and a portmanteau,– four horses,—three swords, two suits of regimentals, and six pair of white leather inexpressibles! A pretty fortune for a young lady!

Beau. [aside.] Then all is safe! [Aloud]. Ha! ha! Is that really all your capital, General Damas? Why, I thought Italy had been a second Mexico to you soldiers.

Damas. All a toss-up, sir. I was not one of the lucky ones! My friend Morier, indeed, saved something handsome. But our commander-in-chief took care of him, and Morier is a thrifty, economical dog,—not like the rest of us soldiers, who spend our money as carelessly as if it were our blood.

Beau. Well, it is no matter! I do not want fortune with Pauline. And you must know, General Damas, that your fair cousin has at length consented to reward my long and ardent attachment.

Damas. You!—the devil! Why, she is already married! There is no divorce!

Beau. True; but this very day she is formally to authorize the necessary proceedings, this very day she is to sign the contract that is to make her mine within one week from the day on which her present illegal marriage is annulled.

Damas. You tell me wonders!—Wonders! No; I believe anything of women!

Beau. I must wish you good morning. [As he is going, enter DESCHAPPELLES.

M. Deschap. Oh, Beauseant! well met. Let us come to the notary at once.

Damas [to Deschap.]. Why, cousin!

M. Deschap. Damas, welcome to Lyons. Pray call on us; my wife will be delighted to see you.

Damas. Your wife be-blessed for her condescension! But [taking him aside] what do I hear? Is it possible that your daughter has consented to a divorce?—that she will marry Monsieur Beauseant?

M. Deschap. Certainly. What have you to say against it? A gentleman of birth, fortune, character. We are not so proud as we were; even my wife has had enough of nobility and princes!

Damas. But Pauline loved that young man so tenderly!

M. Deschap. [taking snuff]. That was two years and a half ago.

Damas. Very true. Poor Melnotte!

M. Deschap. But do not talk of that impostor; I hope he is dead or has left the country. Nay, even were he in Lyons at this moment, he ought to rejoice that, in an honorable and suitable alliance, my daughter may forget her sufferings and his crime.

Damas.—Nay, if it be all settled, I have no more to say. Monsieur Beauseant informs me that the contract is to be signed this very day.

M. Deschap, It is; at one o’clock precisely. Will you be one of the witnesses?

Damas. I?—No; that is to say—yes, certainly!—at one o’clock I will wait on you.

M. Deschap. Till then, adieu—come Beauseant.

[Exeunt BEAUSEANT and DESCHAPELLES

     Damas. The man who sets his heart upon a woman     Is a chameleon, and doth feed on air;     From air he takes his colors—holds his life,—     Changes with every wind,—grows lean or fat,     Rosy with hope, or green with jealousy,     Or pallid with despair—just as the gale     Varies from North to South—from heat to cold!     Oh, woman! woman! thou shouldst have few sins     Of thine own to answer for! Thou art the author     Of such a book of follies in a man,     That it would need the tears of all the angels     To blot the record out!

[Enter MELNOTTE, pale and agitated.

I need not tell thee! Thou hast heard—

Mel. The worst! I have!

Damas. Be cheer’d; others are fair as she is!

     Mel. Others! The world is crumbled at my feet!     She was my world; fill’d up the whole of being—     Smiled in the sunshine—walk’d the glorious earth—     Sate in my heart—was the sweet life of life.     The Past was hers; I dreamt not of a Future     That did not wear her shape! Mem’ry and Hope     Alike are gone. Pauline is faithless! Henceforth     The universal space is desolate!

Damas. Hope yet.

     Mel. Hope, yes!—one hope is left me still—     A soldier’s grave! Glory has died with love.     I look into my heart, and, where I saw     Pauline, see Death!     [After a pause].—But am I not deceived?     I went but by the rumor of the town;     Rumor is false,—I was too hasty! Damas,     Whom hast thou seen?

Damas. Thy rival and her father. Arm thyself for the truth.—He heeds not.

Mel. She.

     Will never know how deeply she was loved!     The charitable night, that wont to bring     Comfort to-day, in bright and eloquent dreams,     Is henceforth leagued with misery! Sleep, farewell,     Or else become eternal! Oh, the waking     From false oblivion, and to see the sun,     And know she is another’s!

Damas. Be a man!

     Mel. I am a man!—it is the sting of woe     Like mine that tells us we are men!     Damas. The false one     Did not deserve thee.     Mel. Hush!—No word against her!     Why should she keep, through years and silent absence,     The holy tablets of her virgin faith     True to a traitor’s name! Oh, blame her not;     It were a sharper grief to think her worthless     Than to be what I am! To-day,—to-day!     They, said “To-day!” This day, so wildly welcomed—     This clay, my soul had singled out of time     And mark’d for bliss! This day! oh, could I see her,     See her once more unknown; but hear her voice.     So that one echo of its music might     Make ruin less appalling in its silence.     Damas. Easily done! Come with me to her house;     Your dress—your cloak—moustache—the bronzed hues     Of time and toil—the name you bear—belief     In your absence, all will ward away suspicion.     Keep in the shade. Ay, I would have you come     There may be hope? Pauline is yet so young,     They may have forced her to these second bridals     Out of mistaken love.     Mel. No, bid me hope not!     Bid me not hope! I could not bear again     To fall from such a heaven! One gleam of sunshine,     And the ice breaks and I am lost! Oh, Damas,     There’s no such thing as courage in a man;     The veriest slave that ever crawl’d from danger     Might spurn me now. When first I lost her, Damas,     I bore it, did I not? I still had hope,     And now I—I— [Bursts into an agony of grief.     Damas. What, comrade! all the women     That ever smiled destruction on brave hearts     Were not worth tears like these!     Mel. ‘Tis past—forget it.     I am prepared; life has no further ills!     The cloud has broken in that stormy rain,     And on the waste I stand, alone with Heaven.     Damas. His very face is changed; a breaking heart     Does its work soon!—Come, Melnotte, rouse thyself:     One effort more. Again thou’lt see her.     Mel. See her!     There is a passion in that simple sentence     That shivers all the pride and power of reason     Into a chaos!

Damas. Time wanes; come, ere yet It be too late.

Mel. Terrible words—“Too late!” Lead on. One last look more, and then—

Damas. Forget her!

Mel. Forget her! yes—For death remembers not. [Exeunt.

SCENE II

A room in the house of MONSIEUR DESCHAPPELLES; PAULINE seated in great dejection.

     Pauline. It is so, then. I must be false to Love,     Or sacrifice a father! Oh, my Claude,     My lover, and my husband! Have I lived     To pray that thou mayest find some fairer boon     Than the deep faith of this devoted heart—     Nourish’d till now—now broken?

Enter MONSIEUR DESCHAPPELLES.

     M. Deschap. My dear child,     How shall I thank—how bless thee? Thou hast saved,     I will not say my fortune—I could bear     Reverse, and shrink not—but that prouder wealth     Which merchants value most—my name, my credit—     The hard—won honors of a toilsome life:—     These thou hast saved, my child!     Pauline. Is there no hope?     No hope but this?     M. Deschap. None. If, without the sum     Which Beauseant offers for thy hand, this day     Sinks to the west—to-morrow brings our ruin!     And hundreds, mingled in that ruin, curse     The bankrupt merchant! and the insolvent herd     We feasted and made merry cry in scorn,     “How pride has fallen!—Lo, the bankrupt merchant!”      My daughter, thou hast saved us!

Pauline. And am lost!

M. Deschap. Come, let me hope that Beauseant’s love—

     Pauline. His love!     Talk not of love. Love has no thought of self!     Love buys not with the ruthless usurer’s gold     The loathsome prostitution of a hand     Without a heart? Love sacrifices all things     To bless the thing it loves! He knows not love.     Father, his love is hate—his hope revenge!     My tears, my anguish, my remorse for falsehood—     These are the joys that he wrings from our despair!     M. Deschap. If thou deem’st thus, reject him! Shame and ruin     Were better than thy misery;—think no more on’t.     My sand is wellnigh run—what boots it when     The glass is broken? We’ll annul the contract:     And if to-morrow in the prisoner’s cell     These aged limbs are laid, why still, my child,     I’ll think thou art spared; and wait the Liberal Hour     That lays the beggar by the side of kings!     Pauline, No—no—forgive me! You, my honor’d father,—     You, who so loved, so cherish’d me, whose lips     Never knew one harsh word! I’m not ungrateful;     I am but human!—hush! Now, call the bridegroom—     You see I am prepared—no tears—all calm;     But, father, talk no more of love     M. Deschap. My child,     Tis but one struggle; he is young, rich, noble;     Thy state will rank first ‘mid the dames of Lyons;     And when this heart can shelter thee no more,     Thy youth will not be guardianless.     Pauline. I have set     My foot upon the ploughshare—I will pass     The fiery ordeal. [Aside.] Merciful Heaven, support me;     And on the absent wanderer shed the light     Of happier stars—lost evermore to me!

Enter MADAME DESCHAPPELLES, BEAUSEANT, GLAVIS, and Notary.

Mme. Deschap. Why, Pauline, you are quite in deshabille—you ought to be more alive to the importance of this joyful occasion. We had once looked higher, it is true; but you see, after all, Monsieur Beauseant’s father was a Marquis, and that’s a great comfort. Pedigree and jointure!—you have them both in Monsieur Beauseant. A young lady decorously brought up should only have two considerations in her choice of a husband; first, is his birth honorable? secondly, will his death be advantageous? All other trifling details should be left to parental anxiety.

Beau. [approaching and waving aside Madame]. Ah, Pauline! let me hope that you are reconciled to an event which confers such rapture upon me.

Pauline. I am reconciled to my doom.

Beau. Doom is a harsh word, sweet lady.

Pauline [aside.] This man must have some mercy—his heart cannot be marble. [Aloud.] Oh, sir, be just—be generous! Seize a noble triumph—a great revenge! Save the father, and spare the child.

Beau. [aside.] joy—joy alike to my hatred and my passion! The haughty Pauline is at last my suppliant. [Aloud.] You ask from me what I have not the sublime virtue to grant—a virtue reserved only for the gardener’s son! I cannot forego my hopes in the moment of their fulfilment! I adhere to the contract—your father’s ruin or your hand.

Pauline. Then all is over. Sir, I have decided.

[The clock strikes one.

Enter DAMAS and MELNOTTE.

Damas. Your servant, cousin Deschappelles. Let me introduce Colonel Morier.

Mme. Deschap. [curtsying very low]. What, the celebrated hero? This is, indeed, an honor! [MELNOTTE bows, and remains in the background.

Damas [to Pauline]. My little cousin, I congratulate you. What, no smile—no blush? You are going to be divorced from poor Melnotte, and marry this rich gentleman. You ought to be excessively happy!

Pauline. Happy!

Damas. Why, how pale you are, child!—Poor Pauline! Hist—confide in me! Do they force you to this?

Pauline. No!

Damas. You act with your own free consent?

Pauline. My own consent—yes.

Damas. Then you are the most—I will not say what you are.

Pauline. You think ill of me—be it so—yet if you knew all—

Damas. There is some mystery—speak out, Pauline.

Pauline [suddenly]. Oh, perhaps you can save me! you are our relation—our friend. My father is on the verge of bankruptcy—this day he requires a large sum to meet demands that cannot be denied; that sum Beauseant will advance—this hand the condition of the barter. Save me if you have the means—save me! You will be repaid above!

Damas. aside. I recant—Women are not so bad after all! [Aloud.] Humph, child! I cannot help you—I am too poor.

Pauline. The last plank to which I clung is shivered.

Damas. Hold—you see my friend Morier: Melnotte is his most intimate friend—fought in the same fields—slept in the same tent. Have you any message to send to Melnotte? any word to soften this blow?

Pauline. He knows Melnotte—he will see him—he will bear to him my last farewell—[approaches MELNOTTE] He has a stern air—he turns away from me—he despises me!—Sir one word I beseech you.

Mel. Her voice again! How the old time comes o’er me!

Damas [to Madame.] Don’t interrupt them.—He is going to tell her what a rascal young Melnotte is; he knows him well, I promise you.

Mme. Deschap. So considerate in you, cousin Damas!

[DAMAS approaches DESCHAPPELLES; converses apart with hint in dumb show—DESCHAPPELLES shows him a paper, which he inspects and takes.

     Pauline. Thrice have I sought to speak; my courage fails me.—     Sir, is it true that you have known—nay, are     The friend of—Melnotte.     Mel. Lady, yes!—     Myself And misery know the man!     Pauline. And you will see him,     And you will bear to him—ay—word for word,     All that this heart, which breaks in parting from him,     Would send, ere still for ever?     Mel. He hath told me     You have the right to choose from out the world     A worthier bridegroom;—he forgoes all claim,     Even to murmur at his doom. Speak on!     Pauline. Tell him, for years I never nursed a thought     That was not his;—that on his wandering way,     Daily and nightly, pour’d a mourner’s prayers.     Tell him ev’n now that I would rather share     His lowliest lot,—walk by his side, an outcast—     Work for him, beg with him,—live upon the light     Of one kind smile from him,—than wear the crown     The Bourbon lost!     Mel. [aside.] Am I already mad?     And does delirium utter such sweet words     Into a dreamer’s ear? [Aloud]. You love him thus,     And yet desert him?     Pauline. Say, that, if his eye—     Could read this heart,—its struggles, its temptations,—     His love itself would pardon that desertion!     Look on that poor old man,—he is my father;     He stands upon the verge of an abyss!—     He calls his child to save him! Shall I shrink     From him who gave me birth?—withhold my hand,     And see a parent perish? Tell him this,     And say—that we shall meet again in Heaven!     Mel. Lady—I—I—what is this riddle?—what     The nature of this sacrifice?     Pauline [pointing to DAMAS]. Go, ask him!     Beau. [from the table]. The papers are prepared—we only need     Your hand and seal.     Mel. Stay, lady—one word more.     Were but your duty with your faith united,     Would you still share the low-born peasant’s lot?     Pauline. Would I? Ah, better death with him I love     Than all the pomp—which is but as the flowers     That crown the victim!—[Turning away.] I am ready.

[MELNOTTE rushes to DAMAS.

Damas. There—This is the schedule—this the total.

     Beau. [to DESCHAPPELLES, showing notes]. These     Are yours the instant she has sign’d; you are     Still the great House of Lyons!

[The Notary is about to hand the contract to PAULINE, when MELNOTTE seizes it and tears it.

Beau. Are you mad?

M. Deschap. How, Sir! What means this insult?

     Mel. Peace, old man!     I have a prior claim. Before the face     Of man and Heaven I urge it; I outbid     Yon sordid huckster for your priceless jewel. [Giving a pocket-book.     There is the sum twice told! Blush not to take it:     There’s not a coin that is not bought and hallow’d     In the cause of nations with a soldier’s blood!

Beau. Torments and death!

Pauline. That voice! Thou art—

Mel. Thy husband!

[PAULINE rushes into his arms.

     Look up! Look up, Pauline!—for I can bear     Thine eyes! The stain is blotted from my name.     I have redeem’d mine honor. I can call     On France to sanction thy divine forgiveness!     Oh, joy!—Oh, rapture! By the midnight watchfires     Thus have I seen thee! thus foretold this hour!     And ‘midst the roar of battle, thus have heard     The beating of thy heart against my own!     Beau. Fool’d, duped, and triumph’d over in the hour     Of mine own victory! Curses on ye both!     May thorns be planted in the marriage-bed!     And love grow sour’d and blacken’d into hate     Such as the hate that gnaws me!     Damas. Curse away     And let me tell thee, Beauseant, a wise proverb     The Arabs have,—“Curses are like young chickens,     [Solemnly.]  And still come home to roost!”     Beau. Their happiness     Maddens my soul! I am powerless and revengeless! [To MADAME.     I wish you joy! Ha! ha! the gardener’s son! [Exit.     Damas [to GLAVIS]. Your friend intends to hang himself! Methinks     You ought to be his travelling companion!

Gla. Sir, you are exceedingly obliging! [Exit.

     Pauline. Oh     My father, you are saved,—and by my husband!     Ah, blessed hour!

Mel. Yet you weep still, Pauline.

Pauline. But on thy breast!—these tears are sweet and holy!

     M. Deschap. You have won love and honor nobly, sir!     Take her;—be happy both!     Mme. Deschap. I’m all astonish’d!     Who, then, is Colonel Morier?

Damas. You behold him!

     Mel. Morier no more after this happy day!     I would not bear again my father’s name     Till I could deem it spotless! The hour’s come!     Heaven smiled on conscience! As the soldier rose     From rank to rank, how sacred was the fame     That cancell’d crime, and raised him nearer thee!     Mme. Deschap. A Colonel and a hero! Well, that’s something!     He’s wondrously improved! I wish you joy, sir!     Mel. Ah! the same love that tempts us into sin,     If it be true love, works out its redemption;     And he who seeks repentance for the Past     Should woo the Angel Virtue in the Future.

1

Your Excellency’s most humble servant.

2

I am glad to see you in good health.

3

Fine weather. What news is there?

4

The reader will observe that Melnotte evades the request of Pauline. He proceeds to describe a home, which he does not say he possesses, but to which he would lead her, “could Love fulfil its prayers.” This caution is intended as a reply to a sagacious critic who censures the description, because it is not an exact and prosaic inventory of the characteristics of the Lake of Como!—When Melnotte, for instance, talks of birds “that syllable the name of Pauline” (by the way, a literal translation from an Italian poet), he is not thinking of ornithology, but probably of the Arabian Nights.  He is venting the extravagant, but natural, enthusiasm of the poet and the lover.

5

On the stage the following lines are added:—