gardens: the noise of song and dance is heard immediately below the
window._
CHORUS.
Sing farewell labour,
Blow pipe and beat tabor,
Fly care far away;
In light band advancing,
Let music and dancing
Proclaim holyday.
_De Valmont_ opens the door of an inner chamber, and crosses the
stage with a quick petulant step, to ring a bell in the saloon:
no answer is immediately given, and he repeats the ring with
increased fretfulness.
Enter _Gaspard_.
_De Val._ So! am I heard! old man! to what strange dwelling have I been
borne while sleeping? and who is your new master?
_Gas._ Alack! your lordship is in your own fair castle, nor other master
than yourself do I, or any of my fellows serve--a kind and noble master.
_De Val._ You tell me wonders; I thought the master in his house had
borne command among his people, but here it seems, each groom is more
absolute in his humours than the lord; how is't? do I clothe and feed a
pampered herd, but to increase my torments? when I would muse in
privacy, must I be baited still, and stunned with crowds and clamours?
knave! drive the rabble from my gate, and rid my ears of discord.
_Gas._ Well-a-day! who could have foreseen this anger? my good lord 'tis
but your tenantry rejoicing: this morning, I distributed your lordship's
bounty among them to celebrate chevalier Florian's return; and now the
honest grateful souls would fain thank their benefactor by the song that
tells him they are happy.
_De Val._ Their thanks are hateful to me; ungenerous wretches! is it not
enough that they are happy whilst I am miserable, but they must mock my
anguish by a saucy pageant of their joys, and force my shrinking senses
more keenly to remark the contrast of our fates? (_Tabors, &c.
without._) Quick! quick! begone and drive them from my gate (_stamps
imperatively_).
_Gas._ (_frighted_) I am gone, my lord! --I am gone.
_De Val._ Hold! another word--perhaps the unthinking creatures might
design this torture kindly, and I would not punish the mistakes of
ignorance. Do not dismiss them harshly--I would have them indulge their
gayety, but I cannot bear to be a witness of it. Gaspard, this house is
Melancholy's chosen home; and its devoted master's heart, like a
night-bird that abhors the animating sun, has been so long familiarized
to misery, it sickens and recoils at the approach of mirth.
_Gas._ (_pressing his hand_) My kind, unfortunate, my beloved master!
_De Val._ (_snatching it from him_) Pshaw! I loathe pity-- (_shouts_)
--hark! again! go, go, send them from the gate, but not harshly.
[Exit _Gaspard_.
_De Val._ All hearts rejoicing; mine only miserable! every peasant
yielding to delight, their lord alone devoted to despair; a subtle, slow
despair that, drop by drop, congeals the blood of life, yet will not bid
the creeping current quite forbear to flow; that has borne its victim
just to the sepulchre 's tempting edge, but holds him there to envy, not
partake its slumbers. Well, well, your own appointed hour, just
heavens!--if it be the infirmity of man to repine here, it is the
Christian's hope to rejoice hereafter.
Re-enter _Gaspard_.
_Gas._ I've sent them hence; they'll not be heard again; but since they
may not thank, they are gone to pray for you--Mass! I had nigh
forgotten--young Madam Geraldine is in the anti-room, and waits to see
your lordship.
_De Val._ Admit her! (_Exit_ Gaspard) My gentle one! my desolate, orphan
maid, if any softening drop were yet permitted in my cup of bitters,
I think the affectionate hand of Geraldine would mingle and prepare it
for my lip.
Enter _Geraldine_.
_Ger._ (_Tenderly embracing him_) Ah! my dear, dear uncle! how am I
rejoiced by a permission to visit you again; for four long days you have
secluded yourself, and indeed I have been so distressed--but I will not
speak of past anxieties now; war restores its hero to our vows; Florian
returns to us--are not you quite happy, uncle?
_De Val._ Happy? I? my good child--do not mock me.
_Ger._ Nay, could I intend--
_De Val._ Well! let it pass; you it seems, my Geraldine, are really
happy; your lips confess much, but your eyes still betray more--niece,
you love my adopted Florian.
_Ger._ Love! fy, uncle--Oh yes, yes, I do certainly love him like a
brother.
_De Val._ Something better.--Suppose I should offer this Florian to you
as a husband
_Ger._ (_looking down demurely._) I never presume to dispute my dear
uncle's commands.
_De Val._ Little equivocator! answer me strictly: do you not wish to
become his wife?
_Ger._ Indeed, I never yet have asked my heart that question.
_De Val._ But if Florian married any other woman, would you not hate the
object of his preference?
_Ger._ (_throwing herself upon his neck._) Ah! uncle, you have my
secret: no, I would not hate my fortunate rival--I would pray for her
happiness, but my heart would break while it breathed that prayer!
_De Val._ My excellent ingenuous child, indulge the virtuous emotions of
your heart without disguise--Florian and Geraldine are destined for each
other.
_Ger._ Generous benefactor! what delightful dazzling visions your words
conjure up to my imagination; the universe will concentrate within the
fairy circle of our hearth; a waking consciousness of bliss will ever
freshly dress our day in flowers, and at nights, fancy will gild our
pillow with the dream that merrily anticipates the future.
_De Val._ Enthusiast! you contemplate the ocean in a calm, nor dream how
frightfully a tempest may reverse the picture.
_Ger._ Ambitious pride may tremble at the storm, but true love, uncle,
never can be wrecked; its constancy is strengthened, not impaired by
trials, and when adversity divorces us from common friendships, the
chosen partners of each other's hearts a second time are married, and
with dearer rites.
_De Val._ (_averting his face with a look of anguish_) Girl!
_Ger._ (_unnoticing his emotion_) Then if they have children, how
surpassing is the bliss, while their own gay prime is mellowly subsiding
into age, to trace the features and the virtues they adored in youth,
renewed before their eyes, and feel themselves the proud and grateful
authors of each other's joy--Ah! trust me, uncle! such a destiny is
beyond the reach of fortune's malice; 'tis the anti-type of heaven.
_De Val._ (_Grasping her hand suddenly, convulsed with agitation._) 'Tis
the distracting mockery of hell that cheats us with an hour's ecstatic
dream to torture us eternally: girl! girl! wouldst thou find happiness,
die! seek it in the grave, only in the grave--a watchful fiend destroys
it upon earth! Prat'st thou of love? Connubial and parental love? Ah!
dear-lov'd objects of my soul! what are ye now--ashes, ashes, darkly
scattering to the midnight winds. God! the flames yet blaze--here,
here--my brain's on fire! [_Rushes out._
_Ger._ Uncle! listen to your Geraldine! --Ah! ingrate that I am! the
vulture that gnaws his generous heart, had slumbered for a moment, and I
have waked it to renew its cruelty! my fault was unawares, yet I could
chide it like a crime; my mounting spirits fall from their giddy height
at once. Oh! uncle! noble, suffering uncle! would that my tears could
wash away the recollection of my words. [_Weeps._
_De Valmont_ suddenly returns and embraces _Geraldine_.
_De Val._ Geraldine! dear child, forgive me! my violence has terrified
your gentle nature. I would not pain you, love, for worlds; but I am not
always master of myself, and my passions will sometimes break forth
rebellious to my reason; pity and forgive the infirmities of grief.
_Ger._ Ah! Sir. (_Attempts to kneel._)
_De Val._ (_Preventing her, and kissing her forehead._) Bless you, my
good and innocent child; nay, do not speak to me, my happiness is lost
forever, but I can pray for yours. Bless you, my child! bless you ever.
[_Breaks from her, and exit.
_Ger._ My happiness! ah! if the exalted virtues of a soul like yours, my
uncle, despair of the capricious boon, how shall the undeserving
Geraldine presume to hope?
Enter _Rosabelle_.
_Ros._ Oh! my lady, such news, he's arrived, he's in the hall.
_Ger._ My Florian?
_Ros._ No, lady, not your Florian, but my L'Eclair, not quite so great a
hero as his master to be sure, but yet a real, proper, mettlesome
soldier every inch; he looks about him among the men so fierce and so
warlike; then with the women, he's so impudent, and so audacious;--oh!
he's a special fellow.
_L'Eclair_ speaks without.
_L'Ec._ Here's a set of rascals! no discipline? no subordination in the
house! eh! look to the baggage, curry down my charger! hem! ha!
Enter _L'Eclair_.
Your ladyship's devoted servant, ever in the foremost rank! never did a
nine-pounder traverse the enemy's line with more promptitude than I,
Phillippe L'Eclair, unworthy private of the fifth hussars, now fly to
cast my poor person at your ladyship's gracious feet.
_Ger._ You are very welcome from the wars, L'Eclair, Fame has spoken of
you in your absence.
_L'Ec._ Fy! my lady, you disorder me at the first charge,--a pestilence
now upon that wicked, impertinent gossip, Fame,--will not her
everlasting tongue suffer even so poor a fellow as L'Eclair, to escape?
'tis insufferable; may I presume to inquire then, what rumours have
reached your ladyship's ear?
_Ger._ To a soldier's credit, trust me.--But your master, L'Eclair,
where is he?
_L'Ec._ Ah! poor gentleman, he's in the rearguard, I left him four
leagues off, at the fortress of Huningen, unexpectedly confined by----
_Ger._ Confined! heavens! by what complaint?
_L'Ec._ Only the complaint of old age; the general commissioned my
master upon his route to deliver some instructions to the superannuated
commandant of the fortress; now the old gentleman proving somewhat dull
of apprehension, my master though dying of impatience, was constrained
to a delay of some extra hours, despatching me, his humble ambassador,
forward, to prevent alarms, and promise his arrival at the chateau
before midnight.
_Ger._ Midnight! so late?--four leagues to travel--alone--his road
through an intricate forest, and the sky already seeming to predict a
tempest.
_L'Ec._ Why, as your ladyship remarks, the clouds seem making a sort of
forced march over our heads; but a storm is the mere trifling of nature
in a soldier's estimation; my master and his humble servant have faced a
cannon-ball too frequently, to be disconcerted by a hail-stone.
_Ger._ Then you have often been employed upon dangerous service,
L'Eclair?
_L'Ec._ Hay, I protest, your ladyship must excuse me there; a man has so
much the appearance of boasting, when he becomes the reporter of his own
achievements; I beg leave to refer your ladyship to the gazettes, though
I confess the gazettes do but afford a soup-maigre, whip-syllabub sort
of narrative, accurate enough, perhaps in the main, but plaguily
incommunicative of particulars: for instance, in the recent affair at
Nordlingen, I can defy you to find any mention in the gazette, that the
chevalier Florian charged through a whole regiment of the enemy's
grenadiers, drawn up in a hollow square, that Phillipe L'Eclair, singly
followed the chevalier, and rode over all those his master had not time
to decapitate, how a masked battery suddenly opened with twelve pieces
of heavy ordnance, firing red-hot balls; how the chevalier's horse
reared; how L'Eclair's neighed; but how both officer and private,
neither a whit discouraged at this dilemma, galloped their chargers
gracefully up to the flaming mouth of the danger; cleared a chevaux de
frise of fifteen feet at a flying leap; then dismounting; carried the
battery by a coup de main; spiked the guns; muzzled the gunners with
their own linstocks; and, finally compelled the principal engineer to
turn cook, and grill a calf's head at his own furnace, for the dinner of
his conquerors! Now this affair which had no small influence in
determining the fortune of the day, with many parallel traits, our
gazetteers have unaccountably neglected to publish. My memory, perhaps,
might remedy their deficiencies to any curious ear, but alas! an
insurmountable modesty renders the task so painful, that I cast myself
upon your ladyship's compassion, and beseech you to forbear from further
inquiry.
_Ger._ Ha! ha! your sensitive delicacy shall be respected L'Eclair;
Rosabelle, be it your care to make the defender of his country
welcome--at midnight then.--Oh! hasten on your flight, dark-wing'd
hours! through your close shadows once disclose my Florian, then if ye
list, be motionless, and still retard the day. [_Exit._
_L'Ec._ There, you hear young woman!--you are to make the defender of
his country welcome.
_Ros._ I'll do my best towards your pleasure,--what service can I lend
you first.
_L'Ec._ Dress my wounds.
_Ros._ Wounds! gramercy! I never should have guessed you had any.
_L'Ec._ Deep, dangerous, desperate,--here! (_affectedly pressing his
heart_) here, Rosabelle! here's the malady; 'tis an old hurt, I took it
'ere I went on my campaign; time and absence had clapped an awkward sort
of plaster on't; but now--oh! those eyes!--the wound breaks out
afresh;--must I expire?--Rosabelle! prithee, be my surgeon.
_Ros._ I have not the skill to prescribe, but I could administer a
remedy by directions; what salve will you try first.
_L'Ec._ Lip-salve, you gipsy! (_Kisses her furiously._)
_Ros._ Now, shame upon your manners, master soldier, was this a trick
taught you by the wars?
_L'Ec._ Yes, faith! saluting is one of the first lessons in a soldier's
trade, so my dear, tempting, provoking. (_Catches her round._)
_Ros._ Hay, keep your hands off, you have taught me enough of the manual
exercise already; but say now, were you indeed so great a hero in the
battle as you told my lady?
_L'Ec._ Pshaw! I did'nt tell her half, my modesty forbade, but for thee,
my pretty Rosabelle--
_Ros._ Ay, with me, I'm certain your modesty will be no obstacle.
_L'Ec._ None, for while I gaze upon the face of an angel, the devil
himself can't put me out of countenance.
DUETTO.--_Rosabelle and L'Eclair._
_Ros._ Tell, soldier, tell! and mark you tell me truly,
How oft in battle have you slain a foe?
_L'Ec._ Go, count the leaves when winds are heard unruly,
In autumn that from mighty forests blow.
_Ros._ Did e'er a captain, worth a costly ransom,
Own you his conqueror in the deadly broil?
_L'Ec._ I've twigg'd field-marshals, pickings snug and handsome,
Twelve waggons now are loaded with my spoil.
_Both._ Oh! loudly, proudly, sound the soldier's fame!
Oh! flashy, dashy, flaunt the soldier's dame!
_Ros._ Tell, soldier, tell! and mark, you tell me truly,
Did foreign maids ne'er win your roving vow?
_L'Ec._ O! blood and fire! --I swear I can't speak coolly,
By Mars! to you, and only you, I bow.
_Ros._ Say, shall love's chain of blossoms hold for ever?
Nor time, nor absence, bid its bloom depart?
_L'Ec._ Not sword, or gun, such magic links can sever,
Or rend from Rosabelle her hero's heart.
_Both._ O! loudly, proudly, &c.