NORTHWESTERN
UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY
EVANSTON
ILLINOIS
FORMIXG TUE REPERTOIRE Ol'
MISS AGNES KOBERTSON.
No. VII.
PAUVRETTE.
^ in cfi&« ^cls.
BT
AUTHOR OF
London Assurance, Old Heads and Toung Hearts, The Irish Heiress, Used Up. The
Corsican Brothers, Love and Money, The Willow Oopse, The Life of an Actress,
The Phantom, Andy Blake, The Chameleon, Victor and Hortense, Genevieve,
The Young Actress, Louis the Eleventh, The Knight of Arva, Faust and
Marguerite, Janet Pride, George D'Arville, The Poor of New York,
Belphegor, Napoleon's Old Guard, Love in a Maze, Alma Mater,
A Lover by Proxy, Don Cœsar de Bazan, The Invisible
Husband, Sixtus the Filth, The Prima Donna, Blucbelle,
The Cat Changed into a Woman, Una, The Fox
Hunt, Jessie Brown, or the Belief of Luck-
now, &c., &c., &c.
entered aceording to Act of Congress, in the year One Thonsand Eight Hundred and Fifty Eight,
by Dion Bourcicault, in the Clerk's OSIoe of the District Court of the United States for
the douthein District of New York.
NEW YORK:
SAMUEL EEENCH,
No. 122 Nassac Street, (Up Stairs.)
CAST OP THE CHARAVITEUS.
As performed at Niblo's Garden, New York, October, 1858.
Count Maurice
Bernard
Michel
Martin
Intendant
. .Mr. George Jordan
Mr. Bourcicault
Mr. A. H. Davenport
Mr. Whiting
Servants, Villagers, and Russian Soldiers.
Marie.
Louise
Duchess de Beaulieu
.... Mrs. C. Pope
Miss Ada Clifton
. Mrs. J. H. Allen
Bauvrette
Therese..
Miss Agnes Robertson
Miss Barnei
Villagers, and two Lady's Maids.
The First Act occurs in Russia, in 1812. The rest of the Plaj^in
Switzerland and the south of France, in 1830.
An Aet supplemental to an Act entitled "An Act to amend the several acts respect
ing Copyright," approved February third, eighteen hundred and thirty-one.
Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States
of America in Congress assembled. That any copyright hereafter granted under the
Mws of the United States to the author or proprietor, of any dramatic composition,
designed or suited for public representation, shall be deemed and taken to confer
upon the said anther or proprietor, his heirs or assigns, along with the sole right to
print and publish the said composition, the sole right also to act, perform, or repre.
sent the same, or cause it to be acted, performed, or represented, on any stage or
puMic place during the whole period for which the copyright is obtained ; and any
manager, actor, or other person acting, performing or representing the said compo¬
sition, without or against the consent of the said author or proprietor, his heirs or
assigns, shall be liable for damages to be sued for and recovered by action on the
case or other equivalent remedy, with costs of suit in any court of the United
States, such damages in all cases to be rated and assessed at such sum not less than
one hundred dollars for the first, and fifty dollars for every subsequent performance
as to the court having cognizance thereof shall appear to be just : Provided
nevertheless. That nothing herein enacted shall impair any right to act, perform, or
represent a dramatic composition as aforesaid, which right may have been acquired,
or shall in future be acquired by any manager, actor, or other person, previous to
the securing of the copyright for the said composition, or to restrict in any way the
right of such author to process in equity in any court of the United States for the
better and further enforcement of his rights.
Apfroted, August 18,1856.
Notice.—Any manager permitting this work to be performed in his
theatre, without the written jiermission of the Author, is liable to a
penalty of not less than one hdndred dollars for each performance—
in conformity with the new Copyright Act as above.
PAUVRETTE
ACT I.
SCENE.—A ruined Cotùtge or Hut near Wilna, in Eussia. A smoul¬
dering fire, H. H. Music, distant roU of drums. Cavalry trumpet
call.
Enter Michel cautiously ; looks around.
Michel. Nobody at home ! that is lucky. At every sound I expect
to see an infernal squad of Cossacks jump up all round me. Ha ! a
flro ! I can warm my frozen fingers.
The Duchess looks in from door.
Euch. A French uniform ! Then I may venture forth. [Advances.
Michel. I don't mind meeting a man face to face, but I don't like
being taken in the rear.
Dach. Friend !
Michel. [/S^oufs.] Cossacks! [Draws an old liayonet.\ Come on.
Duck. Do not fear. I am a woman—not an enemy. 1 seek, the
regiment of Colonel Lafere.
Michel. Here we are—I am the regiment.
Duch. You I You are only a drummer boy.
Michel. I am all that remains of the 14th Imperial Chasseurs ! Out
of 1200 bayonets, that left Moscow five weeks ago on our retreat to
France, one half of us were drowned in crossing the Dneiper, on the
ice. Hunger and cold served out billets to the rest Yesterday we
marched out of Wilna, seventeen strong ; the Colonel at our head,
carrying his infant child like a knapsack.
Duch. His child—the little Louise—she lives, then 1
Michel. She did till sundown last night, when a squadron of Cos¬
sacks fell on us like a hailstorm, and the 14th Imperial Chasseurs
was reduced to me.
Duch. The Colonel was killed ! are you sure 1
Michel. As sure as— hush !
Duch. Whatl
4
PaUVSETTE.
Michel. Cossacks! [He m eepx up and looks off.] No ;'tis a French
uniform, and I recognize the lacings of our regiment. 'Tis oiir vivan¬
dier, Marie Bernard, and her husband, our Sergeant,
' Enter Bernard carrying Louise, and Marie carrying Marguerite.
Michel. Bernard I
Eern. Michel—alive I
Michel. You are wounded.
Bern. My leg is broken—hush. Marie, my rose, lay the children
near the fire; Madame will excuse us. Michel, take this one. [Marie
•makes a bed for the infants near the ßre, r. h.] There—gently.
Poor little things, how soundly, they sleep. Place them side by side.
Only to think—now, there's the child of a Vivandiere and the child
of a Duchess sleeping together—misfortune gives us strange bed¬
fellows.
Buch. [Aside.] What does he say 1 The child of a Duchess !
Bern. Marie, come here, my brave girl, and listen.
Marie. I am here, Bernard—speak. [Marie advances, the Duchess
goes up and gazes on the children.
Bern. Marie, it is useless to conceal it—can march no more. The
great halt is sounded for me, and here I must rest.
Marie. Well, Bernard, the Cossack spears will find us both.
Bern. My brave wife ! no, no. You forget our children—our little
Marguerite and Louise, yonder, the child of our Colonel. Did we not
swear that we would convey his infant to the Convent of St. Denis 1
Buch. [Aside.] My child—my Louise ! She is here 1
[Advances rapidly to the bed on which sleep the two children.
Marie. Have I the strength to carry both children 1 We should
surely perish.
Michel. No, but I can carry one of them ; that is what Bernard
means.
Bern. The frontier is within five leagues of this spot. The lives of
these little ones depend on our strength to reach the Memel to-day.
Michel is not wounded as I am.
Michel. I am ashamed to say that I am complete in every par¬
ticular.
Bern. With his help you ought to be across the river by midnight ;
then you will both be in safetj\
Marie. But you, Bernard—do you command me to leave you here
to die miserably and alone 1
Bern. I shall die in obeying the last command of our Colonel. As
he placed his infant in your arms he held up to your lips his cross of
honor, wet with his dying blood ; you kissed it, and we swore to con¬
vey our charge to the Convent of St. Denis, in France—the asylum
for the orphans of the brave. Go, then, Marie, God will protect 3'ou
—leave me in his care—he will deal justly with an honest soldier.
Marie. Bernard, I have never disobeyed you—I am ready.
Bern. Farewell my brave and good wife; return to our village in
Switzerland, aud, when my wounds are well, I will rejoin you there.
PAOVRETTR
6
Marie. Never, Bernard, never ; somethir.s tells me that this day is
our last together on this earth—and in this place we part for ever.
[iVi??s at his feet.
Duch. [Advancing.] Ton are mistaken—I can save his life. Here
is a pass from the Russian General, protecting the bearer.
Bern. Who are youl and how came you within the lines of the
French army, yet under the protection of the enemy 1
Duch. I am the wife of your Colonel, and one of these children is
mine.
Bern. How comes the wife of a French officer in league with the
Russians 1
Duch. When the Revolution in France overthrew our family, my
brother emigrated and entered the Russian service, while I remained
in Paris. Our estates had been confiscated, but were restored to me by
your Emperor, upon condition that I should marry one of his repub¬
lican officers. So I became the wife of Colonel Lafere. At Moscow,
I saw that Napoleon's cause was lost ; so I fled to seek my brother's
protection under the Russian flag.
Bern. In short for a sum of money you sold yourself to a man
you despised. You became the mother of his child, which you looked
upon as the ofispring of shame—and when your bargain seemed to
turn out badly, you repudiated the transaction.
Michel. That's it—boiled down to a jelly.
Duch. I owe you no justification of my conduct. I came to seek
my child. My brother, the Duke de Beaulieu, is dead, and the infant
yonder is heiress to his title and estates.
Be^-n. Ah ! And it is your brother's heiress, then, you come to
seek, and not your husband's child.
Duch. Colonel Lafere bequeathed to you a tmst—I am here to re¬
lieve you of it—and in return, I will save your lives.
Bern. Madam, your demand is just, I confess it.
Marie. But my oath, Bernard—I swore to convey Louise to France.
Duch. The rights of a living mother absolve you from your pledge
to her dead husband. But why should I ask for that which I can
compel you to yield. In a few moments the Russian troops will be
here, and I can enforce my demand.
Bern. It is true ; Madame, you can do so, and we must submit.
Mcerie. Bernard, you will not part with Louise.
Bern. Do you not hear, Marie I A mother's claim, who shall re¬
sistí Besides, we are in her power. Forgive my wife, madam ; she
has cared for your little Louise since the day you deserted your hus¬
band—that is, a few weeks after you gave her birth. We have loved
her as our own. Had we known that she was noble and rich, we
should not have taken that liberty.
Duch. Here is the safe conduct which will secure your safety across
the frontier, and let this purse of gold repay your care.
Bern. [Accepting the purse and paper.] I humbly thank yourgen-
crositv.
Michel. [Aside.] Is Bernard going to sell the girl I
Marie. Be silent.
6
PAirVBETTB.
Bern. [Crossing io the couch, b. h.] Madam, the Duchess of Bcan-
lien, behold these two children—both of the same age, the same sex-
see, together, enfolded in each other's arms, they lie—the child of the
Duchess and the child of the peasant ; one of them is yours !
Duch. Yes, but I have not seen my infant since its birth j there¬
fore, I cannot
Bern. Although the same rags clothe their shivering forms ; al¬
though the same hunger has withered their little cheeks ; still, of
course, the noble blood of the one shall distinguish it from the other.
Take that which belongs to you! Look well; look close; does not
that sweet mystery of nature, the mother's heart, flutter like.a dove in
your bosom, and light down unerring on the creature you have madel
Your child is there, woman—take it.
Duch. I—I cannot choose.
You invoked a mother's rights. Well, exercise them. Your
child is there, before you. Why, call to it—will it not know a mo¬
ther's voice, and lift its little hands to seek your breast 1
Duch. Man, do not mock me ! Which of these is my child 1
Bern. Aye, madam, which 1 That secret is known only to me—to
my wife.
Marie. And not all the Cossacks of the Don could tear it from us.
There is your money, madam ; we cannot sell the promise we gave
your husband.
Michel. And there is your safe conduct—^it will take yon back
again. We need none of it—a soldier's passport is his bayonet
Duch. You shall not escape me. Oh ! 1 will discover this secret
still ! [Exit.
Marie. She will return, Bernard, and bring the Bussians on us,
Bern. I know it, Marie ; so do you listen well to my instructions.
The Duchess re-appears, at the window.
You, Michel, shall take diarge of Mai-guerite, our child.
Michel. Go on. What's to be niy route 1
Bern. Make straight for our village, St. Didier on the Alps, and
leave my child with the old curate of the place.
Michel. The Alps in Switzerland—that is about one thousand eight
hundred miles, somewhere out there.
Bern. You, Marie, take little Louise, our colonel's child, and
hasten to Paris; once there, you will find aid and protection.
Duch. [Aside.\ The woman will take my child. That is enough.
[Disappers.
Michel. Before wo start, I will make a tour of inspection. [Exit.
Bern. Poor innocents, still sound asleep ! No wonder the mother
could not pick out her own ; for they do look so nearly alike, that if I
lost sight of them for a month, I could not tell which was our Ka¬
trine.
Marie. Ah, Bernard ! I could tell mine at once. Besides, you re¬
member, as I carried our child on my back, the bullet that wounded
me in the neck, carried away also the tip of Marguerite's ear.
Bern. So it did. And I remember too, although the blood flowed,
padvrette.
7
(lie litlle one only launlied as I bound up the wound. Qod bless bev !
.she is a soldier's child.
.Marie. [Laughing.] When she is married, she won't ruin her hus¬
band in earrings—will she 1 [Distant drums.
Bern. Hark ! 'tis the rappel. The enemy is on us. Quick, Marie !
Come, or our escape may he cut off. [Calls.] Michel! Michel! [Exit.
Marie. 'Tis a pity to separate them. Come, my pretty Marguerite ;
my darling one, we must part ; and your place in this heart must be
• given to your foster-sister, Louise. Say farewell to her, and now to
me—to me, your mother. Bless you ! God bless you, my child !
[Exit, embracing her infant, which she carries out. Drums nearer.
Enter Michel, rapidly, e. h.
Michel. Cossacks ! Quick, Marie ! where's the child % They are
upon us ! [Looks round.] Gone ! it can't be ! No; there is the child
«till.
Bern. [Calls, outside.] Michel !
Michel. There he is.
Marie. [Ccdlsi outside.] Michel!
Michel. They are off, 1 see. Scared by the approach of the enemy,
iliey have left me to take my burthen and follow them. [Calls.] Hollo I
I'm coming. Come along, little Marguerite—come to uncle Michel.
Poor little devil! she sleeps like a top. I wish she would sleep like
that all the vvay to Switzerland. [Muskets and drums, outside.] Cos¬
sacks ! [Runs off, hearing Louise.
After a moment, re-ervter Marie, with Katrine.
Marie. Quick, Michel ! Here is Marguerite. The enemy already
has entered the wood. Where is he—gone 1 and the chijd, Louise !
He has taken the infant of the Duchess. [Hurts to the window—calls.]
Michel !
[A volley of musketry is heard. Marie staggers hack, shot—she
falls, B. n. Enter the Duchess.
Duch. You are wounded ! [Hurts to her.] Speak, woman ; you are
hurt.
Enter a Russian Officer and six Soloibrs—others appear at the
windows. Bernard appears, as a prisoner.
Stand back, sir! I am the Duchess de Beaulieu—sister of your
General. Here is my passport, and this infant is my child.
[The Duchess takes the passport from the table where blioavh has
left it and hands it to the Officer, who reads it, as the Act Drop
falls. '
end of act i.
8
pauvrette.
A Lapse of EIghtoen Tears is supposed to occur between the First and L^ond Acts
ACT II.
I
SCENE.—A Villarje on the Alps, near the Great St. Bernard. A ruitie
inn, l., leith tMe and stools. The road leading to the valley is
supposed to descend, r. 3 e. Rocky paths leading off, r. and h. 4 e.
In the distance is seen the mountain range of the Alps, covered
with snow. A bench, l. h., in front. Music.
Martí» runs, in from road, r. ü. e.
MaHin. [Calls.] Therese! Ma'am Therese I Quick!
Enter Therese, from the inn, r. h.
Here are travelers coming up the mountain.
The. Travelers! [Calls to inside of house.] Ho! Pierre! Made-
laine !
[Goes up, r.
Enter Pierre an<? madet,aine,/iroî» the inn, while theBxicn^ss, lean¬
ing on MicheIi, enters.
Michel. Oentl)', madam—so. Pray, my good friends, don't stand
staring and bobbing there, but bring a seat for the Duchess.
The. TÈe Duchess ! Äladelaine ! Martin ! Pierre I a seat for the
Duchess ! [They all four seize a seat and bring it forward.
Michel. So—that is well. Now prepare rooms, and dinner.
Martin. Yes, my lord.
Michel. Don't be a fool. I'm no lord, but simple Captain Michel
Carrey.
Martin. Captain Michel Carrey ! the hero of Algiers !
Michel. Will you go about your business 1
The. A hero and a duchess ! Oh, Martin ! what an honor ! We
must send and tell all the village of St. Didier.
[Exeunt, into inn, all but the Duchess and Michel.
Buch. So this is tlie village of St. Didier.
Michel. The same, where I arrived eighteen years ago, with the
child of poor Bernard.
Buch. Eighteen years ! ■ What changes have taken place !
Michel. I can see none in you. You are the same in beauty and in
pride.
Buch. Where is Louise Í
Enter Louise.
Louise. Here I am, mamma.
paüveettb.
O
Buch, What detained you"? Where is Maurice'?
Louise. He climbed a rock by the roadside, to obtain a view of the
scenery. Oh ! here he comes.
Lnter Maurice.
Duch. Come hither, Maurice.
Mau. My dear aunt, consider me at your feet. Do you know that
I have already hired a guide to ascend the mountain 1 They say the
view at sunrise, from the summit, is superb.
Duch. Count Maurice de Grandval, I have a view to offer you here,
[points to Louise,] much more superb—your future bride.
Mau. Of course. Oh, yes—much more.
Duch. Sit down, then, and listen to me.
Mau. I am all obedience and attention.
Duch. Eighteen years ago
Mau. Pardon me. Duchess ; as I presume from the start that wo
are in for a long session, will you permit me to light a segar 1
Duch. He is incorrigible.
Mau. Proceed. The practice smoking is vile, undignified, and de¬
testable.
Duch. Maurice—my dear Louise—the moment so anticipated by
me has arrived—the hour of your marriage. Your marriage, my
children, has been the sole object of my life—the goal of my ambi¬
tion. Maurice, do you know why I have been so anxious for this
union Î
Mau. Firstly, because Louise is the heiress of Beaulieu, and I have
run through my fortune. And secondly, from the natural desire to
bring two lovely beings together.
Duch. If I were not fonder of you than I ought to be, I should have
postponed this marriage until you had spent two years in prison for
debt.
Mau. Cruel Duchess ! I would have written you such a beautiful
penitent letter, that you would have opened your purse and your
arms simultaneously, and justified that confidence my creditors always
expressed, that you would eventually liquidate.
Duch. Was there evei such a reckless boy ! What is to be don«
with him 1
Mau. Ask my cousin Louise.
Louise. Maurice!
Michel. I think we had better return to the " eighteen years ago."
Duch. Eighteen years ago—when the republican Emperor Napoleon
ruled France—I was obliged to place the fortunes of my house undei
the protection of the Colonel Lafere.
Michel. You mean that he was your husband, madam.
Duch. And the father of Louise. Those were the only faults I evei
found in him. In other jespects I believe that he was a good kind o
person. ' She bears his name ; and to wipe out from the scutcheoi
of Beaulieu the traces of this misalliance—^—
Mau. You would cover the blot with my count's mantle and thi
name of Chevreuse—so distinguished aiuongst the Shylocks of Paris
10
paüvbettb.
Duch. More than that—I have the promise of His Majesty that
the dnchy of Beaulieu will be revived in your favor—transmitted
through me to your race.
Mau. I am overwhelmed.
Duch. We shall arrive to-night in my Ghateau of Grandval, where
already are assembled the heads of our family to witness the cere¬
mony.
Louise and Mau. To-night I
Michel. Married to-night!
Louise. Married to-night ! so sudden ! My dear mamma, I am quite
unprepared—-
Mau. So am I.
Jjouise. So solemn an occasion
Mau. Fraught with such fearful consequences—
Louise. But, sir, it is not for you to share ray feelings.
Mau. Eh 1 No—that's true—I mean— Of course I am electrified
with delight at the unexpected presence of—my last moments—that
is, I sympathise so deeply with your joy
Louise. But I'm not glad, sir, and I would not have you presume.
Mau. Of course not. You hear. Duchess, the dear girl objects in
the strongest manner
Louise. No I don't, sir I
Mau. Oh ! I thought you did. My own impatience, naturally led
me to suppose—you would feel the same,—and would like a little time
to compose your mind, and—a—take leave of your friends. No, that
is,—just as you like—of course it is indifferent tome.
Louise and Duch. Indifferent !
Mau. I mean—I'm ready to
Michel. Count Maurice fears that any undue impatience on his part
might be mistaken for a desire to possess the fortune of Louise rather
than her love.
Mau. Thai's it. My creditors have knocked all the poetry out of
my marriage by always talking of it as a receipt in full for my debts.
Louise. Oh, how delightful, if they would take all we have and
leave us nothing but love in a cottage I
Mau. [Coolly.Yes, that would be perfectly charming.
Enter Therese.
The. The rooms "bf the ladies are ready.
Duch. Come, Louise. [Exeunt Duchess and Louise.
Mau. Michel, my dear, honest friend, what'am I to <io I Advise
me how to act.
Michel. What is the matter!
Mau. That dear girl loves me to distraction—so my aunt informs
me—I have tried to reciprocate her feelings, but I cannot feel other¬
wise than as a brother towards her. I wish I could, for I want her
fortune. The Duchess has set her heart upon this marriage, and I
love my aunt with all herfaults, too much to wound her in her dearest
and cherished hopes. What can I do ?
MicheL Maurice, it is impossible that you can help loving Louise.
fauvbette.
11
Mau. That's the worst of it. I know I onght to love her, but that
is the fault of my character ; when I know I ought to do a thing the
sense of duty sets me against doing it at once ; and after marriage—•
when she will become entitled to my affection and can make a kind
of legal demand upon it—I foresee an utter paralysis of my whole
system. What am I to dol Advise me.
Mii-hel. As a gentleman consult your own honor.
Mau. In this case I would rather consult my feelings as a man. To
protect my honor as a gentleman I ought to pay my debts ; but my
honest part tells me, that to pay them with the fortune of Louise,
handed over to me in consideration of my oath to love her, is very
like obtaining money under false pretences. Now I want you to
reason that nonsense out of me.
Michel. Maurice, give me your hand. I am a republican, but
hearts like yours that pass through the Are of society and retain their
simplicity and goodness—egad ! they almost reconcile me to nobility.
Enter Louise.
Louise. Maurice, mamma inquires for you.
Mau. I fly. Louise, you love me, do you not 1
Louise. Of course I do, sir.
Mau. I knew it. [Exit.
Louise. He is gone. Dear Michel !
Michel. Mademoiselle !
Louise. I want you to advise me.
Michel. [Aside.] Has she discovered the secret of Maurice?
Louise. My cousin loves me. Mamma has set her heart upon this
marriage, and I, since childhood, have been taught to look upon
Maurice as my future husband ; but now the time has come I recoil
from this union—I do not know why.
Michel. [Aside.] A mutual aversion! Oh! if I can only prevent
this marriage !
Louise. Make haste ! Tell me what to do ?
Michel. Why do you not avow your feelings to Maurice ?
Louise. Because he loves me to distraction—so my mother tells
me—besides he is in debt and my fortune alone can save him. Oh !
I cannot refuse him, can I ? Advise me.
Michel. Mademoiselle
Michel. You ask me to advise you, judge if I cSin do so honestly.
For the last two years I have loved you—I knew that my feeling was
an outrage, a, piece ofl folly, but I could not help it When flrst I
saw you, your face, your look, your voice reminded me of one
who was kind and good to me when I was a poor friendless boy—I
mean Marie Bernard, the kindest and best of women-—the vivandiero
of our regiment
Louise. My nurse!
Michel. Memory, association, your beauty, your honesty of heart,
ail opened Are on me, front, flank, and rear. Mademoiselle, I am
only a miserable, low-born orphan ; my only relation was the police¬
man who picked me up on a doorstep and educated me in a poor-house ;
12
i'aüvrfttk.
yet I, the wretched, nsily, cub of a beggar have dared to love you—the
heiress of a ducliy ! I'm fit for a lunatic asylum.
Louise. Micliel !
Michel. Farewell ! I'll go there at once, or to Algiers and get knocketl
on tlie head. Don't let what I have said annoy you ; I am better now
it is out and my heart is clear. Tell Maurice and the Duchess, and
l)lease add tliat I liad not the courage to see them before I left.
Louise. Michel, you are not going !
Michel. Yes; under the circumstances it would not be right to stop.
Besides, I could by a single word break off this marriage, and if I
stopped I must speak out. So I must go. Farewell. [Exit.
Louise. Michel—stop—Michel.
Enter the Duchess,/oHoteeci ly Martik and Therese.
Euch. Was there ever such a boy 1
Louise. What is the matter, mamma.
Euch. Maurice is preparing to ascend the mountain. He will never
be back in time—we must reach Grandval by four o'clock.
[Pauvrette stngs outside as she descends the mountain.
Martin. Ah, here comes Pauvrette. ■
Louise. Pauvrette, what a pretty name ! Who is she 1
Martin. She is a poor orphan girl who gathers the stray sheep of
our farmers, when they get lost in the mountains. When the early
snows fall the cattle tracks are filled up and the poor things used to
be cut off from the plains, and died of cold and want.
The. But now they know the voice of Pauvrette, and they come to
her hut in the mountains, near which is a great cave where every fall
our peasants carry fodder to support the sheep through the winter,
and food for the poor Pauvrette.
Euch. Food I is the child shut up there for ail that time 1
Martin. Yes, madam. [Jfuste.
Enter Pauvrette. Louise runs to her and leads her forward.
Euch. Poor child, she looks as wild as a hawk.
Martin. What brings you down to the village. Pauvrette 1
Pauv. The signs have come. I heard the black wind last night,
and the echoes brought me sounds of the avalanche. The swallows
are leaving ; the winter will be early this year.
Martin. All is ready for you Pauvrette. Your provision of black
bread and the foider for your sheep ; the villagers will take it up to¬
morrow.
Pauv. To-morrow may be too late—to-dayl
Martin. To-day I [Calls.] Ho! Pierre! Madeleine !
Enter the Servants. Therese goes into house, and brings Pauv¬
rette food.
Hasten down to the village, tell the farmers that Pauvrette is hero
and wants her provisions for the winter, and tell the curate also, you
know he always says a prayer in her cottage, before leaving the child
who must pass three months under the .snow.
[ A'xif Madelainr and Pierre.
paüvhette.
13
Louise. Three months under the snow ! What does he mean 1
Therese. It is true, ladies. Tliree months alone in the mountains !
Pauv. Yes—the snow falls little by little until it Alls up the hollow
and the precipice, then it covers-up the roads and paths, then it rises
and rises, day by day, all round—all round—until it blocks iny cabin
door. Then comes the avalanche !
Puch, and Louise. The avalanche !
Pauv. The wind brings it down, and first it comes in great blocks
of ice and hardened snow ; trees, torn away, and big stones and
rocks, that fall with a noise like thunder. Then comes a roar from
the earth. That is the avalanche—a mountain of snow rushes down and
covers all ; oh I then my cabin and the stable, all are well buried—
twenty, fifty, it may be a thousand feet above our heads—I don't
know. Agd above all, they say, is a sheet of white, like a sea of
snow. There I am for three months.
Louise. Oh mamma ! how terrible !
Duck. Poor child ! here, accept this purse.
Pauv. Money ! What am I to do with it up there 1 I have no
mother, no father to give it to.
Puch. But you are poor.
Pauv. Poor! No. The poor are in the village. I want nothing.
Here, Ma'am Therese, give that to the curate, that he may pray for my
father, if he lives, and my mother, who is dead. [NAe sits, l. u., and
eats and drinks.
Puch. Unfortunate girl—but I suppose such persons must exist.
[Music. Exeunt Puchess and Therese into house, b. b.
Louise. So, your name is Pauvrette.
Pauv. Yes.
Louise. Were you bom here"!
Pauv. No. A soldier brought me here in his knapsack eighteen
years ago. He left me with he curate, and went away ; he forgot to
leave my name, so they called me Pauvrette.
Louise. Would you not like to leave this dreadful life and live hap¬
pily, free from peril, amidst friends who would love you I
Pauv. Friends!
Louise. There is something about you which speaks a loving heart.
You shall live with us. Yes, at once you shall quit your mountain
home. You are my own age—come with us. You shall be my maid
—no, my companion. Will you I
Pauv. I can't. I have let myself to the farmers of the valley ; I
have eaten their soft bread through the summer—I must take the
hard crust during the winter. Besides, I cannot leave this place.
Louise. Why not I
Pauv. They say that my father may be alive still, and some day
he may return.
Louise. My heart clings to you. Pauvrette. Perhaps you may
change your mind ; and should you ever need a friend or a shelter,
you will promise to seek me.
PatMJ. I will. Where do you live!
Louise. Here is my address. [ Writes in her pocket hook with a
pencil.] And if you need assistance, you will write to me.
14 Pauvrette.
Paw. I—write !
Louise. That is true—I suppose you have never learned to write !
Pauv. How sliould I ?
iMuise, There ! [lears a leaf^ there is my name and address.
Pauv. [Rising and putting the paper in her breast.] I will wear
it with a siring round my neck.
Louise. Pauvrette, let me look in your eyes—yon are like some¬
body that I know and that I love. I cannot think who it is. Ah !
yes, I have it. [Runs to the house, calls] mamma ! mamma !
Enter the Duchess.
Come here; look at Pauvrette—look well—can't 3-ou see a likeness
to somebody 1
Euch. Indeed, I cannot. ^
Louise. To you, mamma! to yourself! her eyes especially—when
you aré kind and good to me. It is the very same look.
Euch. Really, Louise, you are very complimentary.
Music. Enter Villagers, Martiit, Madelaike, Pierre, the Curate
of Village, Village Girls, aJl carrying the different provisions
0/Pauvrette/or the winter.
Martin. Come, Pauvrette, our people are ready, and see, the curate
will as usual accompany you.
Jjouise. Must she go 1
Pauv. Adieu, Mademoiselle.
Euch. But this child might fall sick in her prison of snow.
, Louise. And she might die.
Pauv. And who would carel The animals, perhaps, who might
miss my voice—none care for me. My mother is dead.
Martin. Come, Pauvrette.
Louise. Stay—take this ring—I bought it for my husbaiid that is
to be. Take it in remembrance of me. Adieu, Pauvrette.
Pauv. [Erawing out the paper.] I don't know how to read ; what
"is your name 1
Louise. Louise.
Pauv. Adieu, Louise.
Louise. Adieu.
[Pauvrette, the Curate, and all ike peasants hut Therese and
Martik go off, L. u. b. Duchess and Louise go into house.
Martin. Poor little Pauvrette ; I never see her go for the winter,
but I feel as if I could cry.
The. Were she to fall sick, all all alone—oh, Martin ; if it were our
child, how should we feel I
Martin. But she is not our child, so don't talk of it. But I must
prepare for our excursion. The young lord is for going up the
■ mountain, and I have promised to guide him.
[d/ustc. Enter Bernard ; his dress is ragged and old, worn out
with travel.
Bern. My home ! My native village !
pauvrette.
15
Martin. Who is there 1
The. A poor man—he seems like an old soldier.
Bern. My friends, I
Martin. He falls from fatigue. [Runs to him...
The. Sit down, father, yon are weary.
Bern. And hungry. ,
The. Hungry 1 Stop, [ß«»« into the house.
Martin. Don't be afraid ¡ yqu shall refresh yourself here, and then
go forward.
Ihe. [Entering with hread and wine.^ Here. Now, eat—drink.
Bern. I can accept your help, for here I am in my native place.
Martin. You 1 •
Bern, I know every stone of this valley. Stay—^yonder is the Inn
of old Latour.
Mourtin. It was, twenty years ago, but now it is mine.
Bern. There is the forge of honest Gaspard ; and beyond is a
cottage that once belonged to the prettiest girl in St. Didier.
The. Marie, who followed young Bernard to the wars, and became
a vivandiere.
Ma/rtin. The place is in ruins ; for eighteen yeare it has been aban¬
doned.
Bern. Abandoned ! Marie Bernard never returned then 1
Martin. Never.
Bern. She is dead, then—dead.
Martin. Who can he be, Therese I
Bern. After eighteen years' slavery in the mines of Siberia, I es¬
caped ; fifty times I tried in vain, and each time submitted to the
punishment. But one thought possessed me : that Marie was Iiere.
I dragged m)* feeble limbs across Russia, tortnted by hunger and
thirst. I fell a hundred times by the wayside, but each time I rose
again. I crawl'd on, and at the cabin door, with one hand I hid my
cross of honor, while I stretched out the other for charity.
The. 'Tis he I 'Tis Bernard himself I
Bern. And now I come—she is no more.
The. But your child, Bernard, your child lives.
Bern. My child t
Martin. A good and fair girl, Bernard.
Bern. My little child—she did not perish, then ! Where, where
is she I
Martin. Had you been here a moment ago you would have seen
her, but now
Bern. But now [The music thai accompanies Pauvrette is
heard in the distance.
Martin. Do you hear I
Bern. What is that 1
Martin. The villagers who accompany Pauvrette, bearing pro¬
visions for the winter.
Bern. Pauvrette I
The. Yes, your child.
Bern. They call her Pauvrette. Poor little one ! And where do
they conduct her I
IG
PAÜVBBTTB.
Martin. Do you forget the usage of our country 1 To the orphan
child of each village ts given the care of the sheep in the mountains.
She guards them during the winter. Well, Pauvrette came down to¬
day for her supplies. She remains above there—separated from
us—three months.
Bern. My child alone—withheld from me-r-but it shall not be ; she
shall remain with me ; I will follow her at once.
Unter Maiteiob.
Man. Come, my friend, you are to guide me to the summit of the
mountain.
Martin. I am ready. We have scarcely the time.
Bern. A guide ! Sir, you are ascending the mountain. May I fol¬
low you 1
Man. Follow us, my good man !
Bern. Your guide will show you the path I need. Don't refuse me,
sir.
Man. As you please. But I fear, wayworn as you seem to he, you
will scarcely be able to keep up with us.
Bern. I will keep you in sight. I have traveled a thousand miles
to see my wife—I can go one more to find my child.
Man. Away then ! [ They ascend the mountain path.
BSD OP ACT II.
pauvrette.
17
ACT III.
SCENE.—The Summit of the Alps. Roclcs and precipices occupy the
stage. A rude hut on one side, in front. A bridge formed by a
felled tree crosses the chasm, at the bade. The snow-clad peaks
stretch away in the distance. Night.
The Villagers are seen on the r., ascending the mountain—others in
the cottage.
Pauv. [In the hut.] Thanks, my friends, thanks ; hut do not delay
here longer—the day is falling ; and as you return, do not take tho
road hy which we came—it is no longer safe.
All. Farewell, Pauvrette, farewell.
[They go off, ascend the rocks, and cross the bridge—the Curate
last; Pauvrette kneels before him, as he blesses her ; he crosses
and disappears—she descends- to her cottage—returns, with her
alpenstock, and, with a handkerchif tied to its end, she makes sig¬
nals of adieu ; she returns to the hut
Pauv. They are gone, and, once more I am alone. [The urind is
heard.] I don't know why, but I never felt my solitude so deeply as I
do now. Perhaps it is the thought of that lady who gave me this ring, and
who would have taken me with her. Her name is Louise. [ Wind.]
How the wind howls ! We shall have a storm to-night. [Goes out on
the rocks.] Yes, the clouds are angry with the mountains. Heaven
grant that the good people may regain the village before it comes on I
[Thunder.] Hark! that was an avalanche—the first this year. The
night falls in ; already it is dark in the valley I can see helow me
the village ; the windows lighted one hy one, as the villagers gather
round their fires, mothers, fathers, children; hut I—am alone ! [The
echoes repeat the word, "Alone I"] No human voice to answer mine,
hut the echoes of the mountain. [The echoes repeat, " the echoes of
the mountain.]
SONG.—'"Good Night." In which the echoes repeal and form a har¬
mony with Pauvbette's voice.
[She carries a lamp from her eottage", and places it befors the image
of the Virgin, in a niche of rock, u n. The music then changes
to a prayer ; she kneels—rises, and returns to the hut. Storm.
Thunder and wind.
Now let me prepare for the night.
Mau. [In the distance.] Hollo—ho !
Pauv. Was not that a cry 1
18
pa0teettb.
Mau. Hollo—ho !
Pauv. Yes, surely some traveler must be In the mountain,
[Storm—wind. She throws her scarf round her, and hastily ascends
the rock. Utters a long wailing cry—listens.
Mau. Help ! help !
Pauv. The voice comes from the Wolfs Pass.
[Descends to her hut. Maurice cries for help. Takes her alpenstock
and a coil of rope, and re-ascends the rock. The wind increases—
the snow begins to fodl She crosses the bridge and disappears
off, l. Bernard appears below, on the rocks, L.—he climbs up the
path.
Bern. Courage ! I have lost my guides, but jnst now I thought I
heard their cries. How shall I cross these goat-tracks, slippery with
ice, encumbered with snow—death beneath me in the precipice, death
above me in the avalanche 1 There is surely a cabin yonder, on that
ledge of rock—perhaps 'tis hers ; but this yawning chasm separates
me from its shelter. Oh ! this bridge above may lead me there.
How can I gain it 1 [Disappears off, l.
Pauvrette appears on the. bridge, leading Maurice.
Pauv. Come gently. Beware; the snow falls, and makes the path
icy—to slip is to die. [They cross the bridge.] Yonder is my hut—
once there we shall be safe. [They descend, and enter the hut.
Mau. Thanks, my guardian angel. My curiosity had well nigh
cost me dearly.
Pauv. Your curiosity 1
Mau. My guide warned me that the storm was approaching, and
refused to proceed. I knew it was wrong to persist, and, as u.sual,
that is why I did it.
Pauv. Why did you quit the road to venture on the goat-track Î
Mau. While admiring the storm, I heard above my head what
seemed to be a chorus oí angels, in the air, all around me. I was
upon enchanted ground ; I felt that somewhei e near there was a fairy
castle, with a lovely virgin, spell-bound, and waiting for me to rescue
her. I rushed toward the sound ; my foot slipped, and I found my¬
self dangling over the precipice, reduced to howl most unromantically
for hel|). So the lovely virgin rescued me, instead of my rescuing
the lovely Virgin.
Pauv. It was my voice you heard; 1 was singing to the echoes.
Mau. And this is the fairy castle!
Pauv. AVere you alone I
Mau. Yes, quite. As I hung over that precipice, I never felt the
sense of loneliness more acutely.
Pauv. As I stretched out my hand to help you, I thought I heard
another cry of distr ess, that came from below us.
Mau. All I I had for gotten the old soldier.
Pauv. An old sohlier ! Had you a companion!
pauvrette.
19
Mau. He followed ns from the village, but he soon was left behind.
No doubt I shali find him in iny way back. [ Throws open the door
of the Äuf.] I can regaitr the village by this road, can I not ?
Pauv. Yes, and begone quickly ; do not lose a moment.
Mau. [Returning.] Before I go, you must allow me to express
Pauv. Nothing; go.
Mau. You saved my life
Pauv. It is still in danger.
Mau. May I not.
Pauv. No. The night is coming on. The storm has lulled ; but I
know its way—;the next blast will be terrible. Begone ; with sun¬
down you may be safe in the village.
Mau. But
Pauv. Qo, every moment may bring death with it ; go.
Mau. Well, then, adieu ; my unknown preserver, adieu.
[.ds he goes out, a crash is heard, accompanied by a gust of wind.
Pauv. Ah ! come back I come back, quick !
[Drags him hack and shuts to the door.
Mau. How dark it is. The earth trembles. What fearful sound is
that 1
Pauv. 'Tis the avalanche.
Mau. The avalanche !
Pauv. There, near us—above our heads. Do you not hear it 1 It
comes ! it comes !
[Large blocks of hardened snow and masses of rock fall, rolling into
the abyss. Pauvrette/oils on her knees.
Mau. The hut rocks to and fro.
Pauv. Merciful Mother of Heaven, protect his life ! for he is not
like me, he has those who love him on earth !
[The avalanche begins to fall—the bridge is broken and hurled into
the ahyss—the paths have been filled with snow—and now an im¬
mense sheet rushing down from the r. entirely buries the whole
scene to the height of twelve or fifteen feet swcdlowing up the cabin
and leaving above a clear level sea of snow—the storm passes
away—silence and peace return—the figure of the Virgin is un¬
harmed—the light before it still burns.
Mau. It is past !
Pauv. [Rising.] We are saved !
Mau. For a moment, I gave up all hope ; now I can return to the
village, can I not 1
Pauv. Return.
Mau. Certainly.
Pauv. [ Throwing open the door at back. ] Look !
Mau. Heavens ! a wall of snow ; we are in a prison—a tomb ! for
how many hours will this last l
Pauv. Hours ! I never counted the hours.
Mau. I may be buried here for days, then I
I'auv. No ; for months !
20
PAOVKBTTE.
Mau. For months ! It is impossible, I must find some means, at
least, of communicating with my family in tlie village.
Pauv. How will you do it 1 The Power that has let fall the aval¬
anche can alone clear it away. You must wait for three months.
Mau. Wait! for what"! what is to be done 1 To wait is certain
death !
Pauv. [Striking a light.] I have lived here for five years.
Mau. Five years I and in each year you have spent three months in
this prison 1
Pauv. Not always ; sometimes it lasts four.
Mau. Here—in this hovel—for four months—and alone !
Pauv. What do you call alone I Am I nobody 1
[She places the lighted candle on the table.
Mau. You I that's true—not quite alone. [Paovrettb begins ti
knit.] My companion will be a young and pretty girl, for you an
pretty.
Pauv. Am III don't know.
Mau. Ah, no one ever told you so 1
Pauv. No one.
Mau. You ! you are not annoyed to be thus shut up, so long, alone
with me t
Pauv. Annoyed I no. I should be happy if I thought you could
bear your captivity without regret.
Mau. I mean, you are not afraid I
Pauv. Afraid! what of!
Mau. That is true ; you are right. [Aside.] Poor child ! she is
as pure as the snow above us.
Pauv. But you must be hungry ; I will prepare our supper, it is
the hour, [£tses and lays the small table with bread and cheese.
[Pzit off, K.
Mau. [Draws out his watch.] Six o'clock and the post horses
were ordered at three. At this moment the heads of our family are
assembling in the chateau of the Duchess, to witness my marriage.
While she, my poor aunt and Louise, what must be their grief ! They
will surely believe that I have perished in this storm. Yet it is im¬
possible to apprise them of my safety. It can't be helped ! here I
must remain for three months, perhaps for fou"-, a sort of subter¬
ranean Robinson Crusoe.
Re-enter Pauvrette with a pitcher of milk.
And there's my man Friday. No, a pretty girl is a better companion
in solitude than a savage. I think in my edition, I have improved
on the original.
Pouv. There is milk, cheese and bread—eat.
Mau. Well, the fare is not intoxicating, is it !
Pauv. Do you people in the place below, where you live, do you
eat anything else, besides these !
Mau. Well, yes, sometimes we do.
Pauv. Ah, then you will think with sorrow of the life you have
left.
fautbktte.
21
Mau. No ; I shall only regret
Pauv. Whatl
Mau. My family.
Pauv. Ah, you have one, have youl
Mau. Have not you 1
Pauv. I have a cross in the village churchyard, on which is my
mother's name ; but she does not lie there. They say that perhaps
my falherlives, and may some day return.
Mau. Have you never seen your parents'!
Pauv. Never. Yes, in my sleeep I see them, and sometimes they
speak to me. and smile upon me !
Mau. Poor child !
Pauv. Speak to me of those who love you.
Mau. First, then, there is my dear old aunt, who, though proud
and severe to all the world, loves mo with all her heart, and perhaps
now is weeping for my loss. And then^—
Pauv. Then.
Mau. There is a—another
Pauv. Another—your sister 1
Mau. Yes, my sister, who loves me—still more.
Pauv. How good it must be to be loved ; ain't it 1 I once had a
dog that loved me, but he died. I say, my name's Pauvrette ; what's
yours 1
Mau. Maurice.
Pauv. Maurice, shan't we often speak of those who love you 1
Mau. Yes, often. Have you no books here 1
Pauv. I can't read ; but still I have one, I found it in tho bosom
of a dead man who had perished in the snow—^here it is.
Mau. [Opens it.] The testament ! and you don't know what book
this is '!
Pauv. No !
Mau. I will teach you how to read in it.
Pauv. To read ! oh, will you t give me your hand. [She takes it.]
Maurice do you think you could ever love me 1
Mau. Love you. Pauvrette'!
Pauv. Yes ; think that I am your sister, will yon 1 or your aunt,
which do you love best!
Mau. Which ! well, perhaps my aunt.
Pauv. Then love me like your aunt—not so much, but like that ;
could you !
Mau. Dear child ! yes, I will try to do so.
Pauv. Oh, I shall be so happy ! well, now, we must prepare for
the night.
Mau. For—the night !
Pauv. Of course ! [Taking a truss of straw from n. h., throws it
dawn L.] There, that's my bed ; and now I'll make yours. [She takes
ancthor truss and throws it down u., at hack.] There, now, with a
pair of goatskins we shall sleep soundly till morning.
[SZie throws down the goatskins.
Mau. Ah, I am to—sleep yonder !
FADVltETÏE.
PauD. I'll take that, and you have this, if you would like it
better—would youl
Mau. No, no, this will do.
Fauv. Well, good-nisht, Maurice.
Mau. Good-night, Pauvrette.
Fauv. [Kneeling heside her couch, sings a prayer, and lies dow<
and goes to sleep.] Oh, kind heaven, send that in tny sleep I ma
see my dear father, and my mother-^ear mother my moth
[Sleeps.
Mau. She sleeps ! and alone there beside me, shut out from all tl
world—alone—so young, so innocent and so pure ; how beautiful i
her sleep.
Fauv. [Sleeping.] My father—my father !
Mau. Her father I Poor orphan child sleep on in peace, under thi
protection of Him whose word came to you, and yet you know it not.
[Bernard and Martin appear on the crag, l. h., near the broken
bridge.
Martin. Her hut is yonder, deep under the snow.
Bern. My child I my child !
Fauv. [Asleep.] My father ! dear /ather !
Ma.u For three months alone with her !
Bern. Three months alone, and under the pitiless snow ! My child,
may the blessing of heaven watch and guard thee !
bnd of act hl
fauvbettb.
23
ACT IV
SCENE.—The Chateau of Grandvdl. The stage is occupied by a pavilion,
through the arches of which may be seen the gardens and the chateau.
Sunset. LodisB is sealed at a toildte, l. h. ; a cheval-glass, and chairs,
on which are displayed the appurtenances of a bridal-dress—the Ddchess
near her. Three liveried servants, b. h.—two lady's maids, 0. and h
Musk. Enter the Intendant of the Duchess.
Mend. Madame, the tenantry and villagers of Grandval are waiting
your pleasure.
Duch. Let them approach.
Musk. Enter, at the back, a crowd of peasantry.
Good people, to-night is a fete at the chateau ; for the Count Maurice
du Grandval will wed my daughter, Louise de Beaulieu.
Peasants. Vive Count Maurice ! Vive Ma'm'selle Louise ! Hurrah 1
Duch. Let the village be illuminated. There will be music, dances,
and a banquet for you, in the park ; for this year, each farmer in the
estate is rent free.
Mm. Hurrah ! Long live the'Duchess I
Duch. To each girl, will be given a thousand francs dowry.
Women. Long live the Duchess!
Duch. Away with you I
AU. Hurrah !
[Music. They all go off, joyfully, shouting, and waving their hats.
Duch. At last, my hopes are realized. Louise, come here. In the
approaching ceremony, I hope you will deport yourself like a Beau-
lieu. Becoliect that hundreds of eyes—the noblest in France—will
be upon you.
Louise. I would rather have only two eyes on me, and those to be
in the head of a man I loved.
Duch, Louise! are you a peasant-girl? What sentiments are
these 1 Do you not love Maurice ?
Louise. How can I? He never comes near me ; and although we
live in the same chateau, I have not seen him twice since be returned
home, two months ago.
Duch. Would you have him hanging round you like a rustic,
snatching kisses in a corner 1
Louise. I shouldn't mind.
Duch. The vuigarity of your nature shocks me. Maurice is too
good for you. Kind, handsome, rich, and noble. He is an angel.
Louise. That is why his visits are so few and far between.
Duch. The vulgar blood of your republican father betrays Itself
Enter Michel.
Mkhd. Pardon, me, Duchess. I have ridden across from my regi¬
ment, to hand you this dispatch.
24
paüvbettb.
Such. [Taking the dispatch.} It is from his majesty. [OiJWisaiKireads tt
Louise. [Aside.} Poor Michel ! how pale he looks.
Michel. I—I beg to congratulate Ma'm'eelle de Beaulieu on the
occasion of her marriage.
Louise. Why have we not seen you since the return of Maurice Î
Michd. I came to share your sorrow when we all thought Maurice
was dead ; but now you will find plenty who will share your joy.
Louise. [Aside.} He loves me still.
Duch. Listen, Louise. [Heads.] " My dear Duchess :—I enclose a
blank commission of Colonel of the Boyal Guards ; Mademoiselle
Louise will fill it up with the name of her husband, and present it to
him as his wedding gift." Signed, " Charles."
Louise. The dear old king! .
Michd. That commission I have sought through forty fields of
battle ; I would have given my right hand for that piece of paper ;
yet I shall remain a captain, and this boy is made colonel over me.
Duch. You forget he is a Count.
Michd. That's true ; and I am only a soldier. But God bless him
all the same ; for he is a noble fellow, although, as you say, he is a
Count.
Duch. Leave na, Louise. [ Goes up.
Louise. Yes, madam. [Going, returns, and runs to Michei.—takes his
hand.} You forgive me, do you not? and you will continue to love
me ? Oh, do ! nobody loves me, except you.
Michd. Oh ! why did fortune put you out of my reach ! If you had
only been a housemaid 1 But I hare no luck.
Duch. Louise !
Louise. I'm going. [Aside, as she goes.} Poor fellow I If we had
been alone, I believe I should have given him a kiss. [Dxit.
Duch. [Advancing.} Michel, the conduct of Maurice fills me with
apprehension and doubt. During all the winter, we mourned him as
dead. His guide told us that he had surely perished in the moun¬
tains, and his absence confirmed our fears. Two months ago, he sud¬
denly appeared at the chateau, and related how his life had been
saved by a shepherd or chamois-hunter, in whose hut he had lived
through the winter.
Michd. Did you believe his story 1
Duch. I confess I doubted it ; for, when pressed for the history of
his imprisonment, he faltered, grew pale, and contradicted himself.
Michd. There is some mystery in it, which he desired to conceal.
Dudi. Since bis return, be has been no longer the same being that
be was. Now he is pale, abstracted, and seems to devour some pas¬
sion in secret. His story of the avalanche was a falsehood, invented
to excuse his flight with some paramour, of whose love he is justly
ashamed.
MicheL But he will discard such a connection when he marries.
Duch. No ; for I fear the creature is concealed somewhere in the
neighborhood. Maurice, under pretence of hunting, absents himself
days together, from the chateau ; and my servants, whom I set to
watch, have traced him to a cottage in the forest, where he spends
the whole day.
pauvrette.
25
Michel. Madam, I can di^pel yonr suspicions. In that cottage lies a
poor old soldier, who nearly perished in the same avalanche from
which Maurice escaped. It is by the bedside of Bernard that Maurice
spends bis hours, nursing him through a fever—tending him as if my
old comrade had been his father.
Duck. What interest can he have in this wretched invalid t It is a
strange taste to leave the boudoir of a beauty lor the bedside of a
beggar.
Michd. Hush ! they are here. Yes, 'tis Bernard himself.
Enter Bebnabd, leaning on Maurice.
Mau. Duchess, here is an old friend of yours.
Bern. Madam, it is long since we met. Time and fortune have been
kind to you.
Dnch. You are the soldier who had charge of my Louise.
Bern. After eighteen years of suffering, 1 returned to my native
village ; but heaven willed that I should not find my child—my little
Pauvrette.
Bxtch. Pauvrette, the shepherd-girl I saw in St. Didier !
Bern. That same day, even at the moment when my arms were
stretched out to embrace her, the avalanche swept betweén us. I
could bear up no longer. Grief, long suffering, and exposure to the
snows, laid me on a bed of sickness, where I hsä died but for my old
comrade, Michel.
Michel. But for Maurice, yon mean. ^
Bern. Maurice, my preserver ! why do you turn away from me when
I try to thank you ? My gratitude seems to wound you.
Mau. [Aside.] Gratitude to me from the father of Pauvrette 1 Each
word be utters stabs me to the heart.
Michd. Bernard, you have scarcely recovereikfrom your fever ; you
are too weak to travel.
Mau. And yet he insists on leaving Grahdval to-day.
Bern. I must seek my child. A month has passed since the snows
have melted on mountains, but on searching for her cabin, the villa¬
gers found it empty and deserted. Perhaps she has perished.
Buch. But have no traces been found ?
Bern. None, madam. They have sought in every chasm, in every
cave of the mountains, but she has disappeared. To-day I expect a
letter from the curate of St. Didier, with the last news they have ga¬
thered. If they have failed to find her, I will search the world
through for my little Marguerite.
ErUer Louise.
Louise. I heard Maurice's voice.
Mau. Bernard, here is my—my future bride. The hours I spent
beside yonr couch were stolen from her feet. Plead for me.
Duck. Louise, this is the old soldier, who, eighteen yeaxs ago, in
the retreat from Russia, saved your life.
Louise. Bernard!
26
paüvrettb.
JBtrn. [.S/ar/í, ti-emhlíng 1 What Toice was that î
Louise. 'Twas miae 1
Hem. Marie 1 Ma-rie ! No ! it is >
Duch. This my daughter, sir—Mademoiselle de Deaulieu.
Lern. Your daughter! Pardou me, ma'm'selle, excuse—my fora'
bas left my braiu weak, and ycur voice sounded like one that cm
dear to me, but has been bushed, long, long ago ; and your face, too,
has a look of hers—of—of my—poor- -poor Marie !
Mehd. [Aside.'l So it has ; it was that same look that knocked the
legs from under my heart, and so left me a cripple ever since.
Bern. Let me express, at least to you, the gratitude I feel to mf
preserver.
Mau. [Aetde-I His preserver ! and tomo hs owes the loss of fais child
Bmh. Enough ! Monsieur Bernard, you will not leave Grandva«
until after the ceremony, which will take place this evening—and at
which we desire your presence.
Mau. [A«ide.'\ He, the father of Pauvrette, at my wedding.
Duch. To-morrow we will aid you in your search—your arm, Map
rice. Michel, lead M. Bernard to the chateau. .
{Music. Exeunt all but Lotnse.
Loum. How strangely the presence of that old sold soldier atfect^
me. He seems like some one 1 have known and loved dearly, and yet
I cannot remember him.
, Enter Servant with a dip of paper.,
Seroani. There is a poor person at the park gate, Ma'm'selle, who
desired me to give you this.
. Louise. [Reading!] " Louise de Beaulieu, Chateau de GrandvaL'*
Why this is my own writing ! Ah, I remember-,—the poor girl I met
on the mountains. ■
Servant. She seems a beggar ; shall I send her away 1
Louise. No, no ! admit her at once. [Exit Servant.] 'Tis Pauvrette
—the poor little thing has come—on. my wedding day too, to see me.
The Servant returns, bringing Pauvrette, who is pale, wayveorn, anct
vnth wretched clothes. He points to Louise and then goes out.
There is another towards whom I feel as I did just now towards that
old soldier. her.] Pauvrette !
Pauv. Louise ! [Leaning against the piUar, hold» out her hand to
Louise, who advances and brings her forward.] Louise ! do you not
forget me 1
Louise. Forget you—why—why should I ?
Pauv. I thought that, perhaps, the rich and the great always forgot
the poor.
Louise. No, my poor Pauvrette. Come and sit down ; and so yon
have kept your word 1
Pauv. Yes, you said, " Perhaps misfortnnes may come, and if you
ever want a friend or shelter come to me." Well, misfortunes did
come, and here I am.
Louise. You are pale, your eyes are red, and your cheek is hollow.
Pauv. Yes, I have wept a good deal
27
Louise. Why did you not come to me sooner. I would have dried
your tears.
Pauv. I feared to trouble you, and besides, I—I—was waiting,
hoping, that one—who had—left me, would come back, until I wan¬
dered after him by the road he took, sleeping only to dream of him,
waking only to swallow my tears, and follow on—on.
Louise. And how long have you wandered thusi
Pauv. I don't know.
Louise. Here you shall rest—give rae your hand Pauvrette—where
is my ring 1
Pauv. Your ring! I—1 have it not ; it came from you—it was the
only thing I had that I loved and prized—so I gave it to him.
Louise. To him ! to your betrothed ?
Pauv. No—n—no ! I have no—betrothed—
Louise. To your brother ?
Pauv. To one, who I know has gone from me foreverl and now, if I
come to you, it is because I have lost all hope of seeing him again.
If you would help me, oh ! you must be very generous—^you must
hold out your hand without asking me why I suffer, and you mast
pity my tears Without asking me why I weep.
Louise. Keep your secret! you are unhappy, that is all that I wish
to know.
Pauv. Oh, you are good, and you must believe me when I tell yoti,
and God is my only witness, that if wrong has been done, I—I am
not guilty ; no, I am not unworthy of your love.
Louise. Kiss me. Pauvrette, henceforth we shaH be sisters. Stay !
you must not be seen in these poor clothes ; they are in rags.
Pauv. Are they?
Louise. One of my dresses will just flt you. [CaBs.] Fanchette 1
Pauv. What would you do ?
Louise. Yon shall see. [Cal/«.] Fanchette! Nanine !
Enter two Lady''s Maids.
Take this lady to my room, and replace this disguise she wears, with
one of my dresses.
Pauv. Louise !
Louise. Hush ! do as I tell you. To-night is my wedding, and I rule
everybody on this occasion. ^
Pauv I will be your servant.
Louise. No, my sister! when I Was an infknt I had a little foster
sister ; you shall take her place in my heart.
Pauv. Oh, heaven has guided me to your feet.
[Music. Exit Pauvrettb.
Louise. What a dear little thing—a violet fresh from the woods is
not more sweet, shè shall attend me to-night at my wedding.
Enter Michel.
Michel. Mademoiselle, I am going, good-bye. The preparations
for your wedding are too much for my courage.
—Louise. Good-liye, Michel; don't think unkindly of me, because you
can't marry me.
28
pauvrette.
Michel. TJnkinflly! oli Mademoi—ob! Lou—ob—selle—iae!
Louise. I am tbe victim of circumstances ! üb ! that Maurice did
not love me as mamma s-ays be do:s. But be does love me, Michel !
JUichd. [Aside.] Shall I tell her all ? I will. —y~-
Louise. 1 have doubted it lately—you can confirm my doubts. Be
candid.
Michel. Louise ! Louise ! I—I—be—he—be, yes, be loves you ! be
will love you—be can't help it! [Aside.] I was very near doing the
first cowardly action of my life. Tbe enemy is too strong for me, I
will retreat. [Aloud.] Good-bye, Louise, may you be happy.
[Kmes her hands.
Enter Maurice.
Maur. Michel !
Louise. Ahl [Goes up into garden.
Michd. I was saying good-bye.
Maur. No ; you must remain. This marriage is impossible. Hea¬
ven seems to interpose to prevent it ; let me confess to you ; my
heart—my honor is pledged to another ; to one whose absence is one
long, enduring reproach, increasing in agony day by day. This mar¬
riage will be a double treachery and a double perjury.
Michel. And the Duchess, who has set her heart upon its accom¬
plishment ; the Duchess who has paid your debts, who has already
conveyed to you this very estate. Are you not bound by the very
benefits you have accepted. ,
Maur. I would sooner beg from door to door, than remain the poor
thing I feel myself. Michel, I have deceived, ruined the child of
Bernard.
Michel. Pauvrette !
Maur. Hush ! yes, Pauvrette, my preserver from the avalanche.
Tbe poor, guileless child, entrusted to me by heaven. Her innocence
left her unprotected.
Michd. Now I understand your conduct to Bernard.
Maur. How will he feel when he finds his child, and learns my in¬
famy ! Michel, I would rather blow my braius out than meet him
then. What can I do ?
Michd. Go to tbe devil 1. bow can I advise you. Here now, let nre
confess since we are at it. I love your wife, have loved her all along.
Now you ask me to advise you to give her up, to Ibrow her into my
arms ; you want me to act like a contemptible rascal, who—who—
for bis own ends would—well you know what I mean.
Loui.sr. [Advancing.] Michel, what's tbe matter ?
Michel. [S/ou'fy,] She wants—to know what is tbe mafterl
Miur. [Aside to Micuei..] Tell her, Michel, tell her, I cannot find
tbe words. [Exit.
Michd. [Aside.] He can't find tbe words, and be leaves me to—
Louise. How pale Maurice looks ; what has happened ?
Michd. Ma'm'selle. [Aside ] My heart beats with joy, and—and
fear. [Aloud.] Ma'm'selle, I have been commissioned—to inform you
[Aside.] How shall I convey the idea. Tbe fact is, tbe story requires
seme delicacy of handling to— [Aloud.] Ma'm'selle, I—I cannot find
words either. \ Erif
padvrette.
2&
Louise. Are they mad Î vrhat can they mean Î
Re-enler Pauteette, dressed.
Pane. Louise !
Louise. PauTrette! can it be possible—oh, what a change—how
pretty she looks. Had you come a moment sooner you would have
seen my husband that is to be.
Pam. May you be happy as you deserve.
Louise. Sit down there! see here are all my bridal ornaments ; this
is my crown—let me see how it looks. [Places it on the head of Pau¬
vrette.] Oh, what a sweet bride you would make. This necklace
was a bridal present from Louis XIV. to some one of the Beaulieus.
Is it not beautiful 1
Pauv. How do you call these drops of water î
Louise. Diamonds ! Look, bow they shine in these earrings. But
I can only wear one of them ; for—do you see ?—I have lost a little
bit of ray ear ; it happened before I can remember. But you see, I
wear my hair over it, so Maurice has never noticed
Pauv. Maurice 1
Louise. Yes, that is my husband's name.
Pauv. Ah I his name too is Maurice 1
Louise. Yes ; is it not a pretty namel Here is his portrait, set in
pearls ; let me clasp it upon your arm—so.
Pauv. Your hustúind! let me see him whom your heart has chosen.
[Looks at the bracelet and rises—utters an exclamation and falls back in the
chair.] Ah !
Louise. Pauvrette !
Pauv. This—portrait—
Louise. 'Tis he !
Pauv. Your husband—Maurice 1
Louise. I am not surprised at your admiration. Look! [Raising
Pauvrette's arm.] He is handsome—is he notl How noble and
truthful are those eyes !
Pauv. Noble and truthful !
Louise. Incapable of deceit or treachery.
Pauv. You would believe his words—his vows—would youl
Louise. Believe him ! Maurice is the soul of honor.
Pauv. [Aside.] She loves him—and for her he deserted me.
Louise But see the day is falling—in a few moments it will be dark,
and I must prepare for the ceremony. Pauvrette, take the bridal
crown from your brow and place it upon mine.
Pauvrette trembUng, takes off the crown.
Pauv. [Aside.] Even as he took his love from me, to give to her—
so I pass this bridal crown. [Raises it towards the head of Louise, but
lets It fall.] No, no, I cannot !
Louise. [Rising.] Pauvrette !
Pauv. Let me go—let me leave this place !
[She takes off the necklace and braedet.
Louise. Why, what for 1
Pauv. Why, because—[Stops, and then aside.] No, she loves him—
she has had pity on me—has dried my tears, why should I make her's
¿o
pauvrette.
flow. [Moud ] I must leave you because I cannot bear the sight
of your happiness—because if 1 remained I must deceive you, or
speak out and break your heart—I will do neither—so I go.
Enter Bekxakd.
Louise. Oh, sir, do not let her go.
[Bernard takes Pauvrette's hand and brings her back.
Bern. Mademoiselle !
Pauv. No, let me go, I pray yon.
Louise. Poor girl ! she would leave me because she is unhappy.
Make her remain here. Do not release her until 1 can fetch mamma.
Will you promise me ?
Bern. She shall not stir.
Louise. I rely on your word. [Exit.
Pauv. She is gone, now I can escape.
Bern. Stay mademoiselle, my word is passed for your safe keeping.
Pauv. If you are the friend of Louise, you will aid me to leave
this place, where my presence will bring ruin and misery upon her—
and sorrow to Maurice.
Bern. Sorrow to Maurice t
Pauv. Now will you let me go !
Enter a Servant with a letter. Pauvrette goes vp.
Servant. Here is a letter sir, for you, from the village of St. Didier.
Pauv. [Returning.] St. Didier !
Ban. St. Didier ! give it to me. [Exit, Servant.] This letter con¬
tains all my hope, all my life. [Tears it open.] And yet not to know
how to read ! Where is Maurice, or Michel f stay, perhaps this lady
—mademoiselle, do you know bow to read 1
Pauv. Do 11 Yes—now, alas ! I do.
Bern. Then read ; read quickly. It comes from the curate of St.
Didier—does it not 1
Pauv. Yes, the curate of St. Didier.
Bern. Well, read, read.
Pauv. [Äeads.] "Sir—We have at last discovered a trace of the
girl in whose fate you take so deep an interest."
Bern. She lives ! she lives, then ! Go on.
Pauv. [Reads.] " Ruined and abandoned by her seducer, she left her
hut in the mountains " [Aside.] But this—it is of me he speaks.
Bern. Abandoned !
Pauv. [Reads.] " She has departed, no one knows where ; not daring
to show her face amor.gst us in the village."
Bern. May God have mercy upon her and forgive her ! She was
alone in the world—no father to guard her from evil, no mother to
shield her from sorrow !
Pauv. But you—who are you to whom they write these things—why
do you weep for her loss ?
Bern. Why, because this poor girl—ruined, dishonored, lost—she
was my child.
Pauv. Your—your child ! 'Stands transfixed.
paüvkette.
;îl
ßtm She was (he only tie that bound me to life ; let heaven call
me to my last home now—I am ready.
Pauv- [Aside.] My father! my father! and I dare not tell h!rn I am
bis child.
Hem. I shall never see her—never see my little one—it would add
to her sorrow and to her shame ; I would be a living reproach beside
her; she would fly from me. No! let me crawl aside and die, so that
she may never know the tears I shed—never know that the old sol¬
dier died of a broken heart ! [Exit. r. h.
Pauv. [With a low cry of anguish,.] Oh, Maurice! Maurice! [Palls
into the chair by the toUeite, l. H. Mgld has gradually fallen upon the scene.
Enter Maurice, i« h.
Mau. I can maintain this falsehood no longer. To appeal to the
Duchess would bo useless, and Michel refuses to speak to Louise.
I will do it. Ah! she is there. [Aloud.] Louise!
Pauv. [Starting.] That voice !
Mau. Dear Louise !
Pauv. Ah ! [Palls, with her face upon the table.
Mau. Listen to me, for I have to claim your pity and your [laidoii.
Louise, I have merited your reproaches, but I will nol de.serv e. jipiir
contempt. The love which to-night I must swear to you, is plidgi il
to another—to one whom I have robbed and abandoned like a cuwiuil.
Louise, be generous; save this poor girl, and bid me go and dit up
her face and wipe from her brow the blush of shame I lelt there.
Pauv. [Aside.] Maurice!
Mau. She has no friends; no family to soothe her grief; no riches
to hide her error ; no home but my love ; no hope but my promi.ppe.
Louise, you will give me back my word, and release me from this
marriage. Speak to me, Louise ; you weep—Louise !
Enter Louise, b. h., followed by Servants, bearing lights, the Ddcuess
and Bernard.
• Louise. Maurice !
[Maurice «íorís back, looks at Louise, and Men at <Ae_/îyure of Pauvrette.
Mau. You—you there ! To whom, then, have I spoken ?
Louise. That—ah ? do you not know 1—that is Pauvrette.
Mau. Pauvrette !
Bern. Pauvrette ! [Pauvrette turns, and falls at the fed of Bernard.
END OP ACT IV.
82
pxdvrettb.
ACT V.
SCENE.—The same as in Act IV,
Tlie Duchess discovered, r. h. Maurice i.. h. Music in the distance.
Enter the Intendant
Iniend. Madam, the guests continue to arrivent the chateau. Tour
grace's ab.eence creates surprise.
Dach. Is the cliapel ready for the ceremony %
Intend. All is prepared, madam. The priests are robing themselves
in the oratory.
Duch. I will be there. [Exit Intendant.] Yon hear, Maurice. Must
I appear amongst our family, and publish this scandal ? mu.st I an¬
nounce that Count Maurice de Grandval refuses to wed Louise de
Beaulieu, because he has not quite concluded his amour with a beg¬
gar girl ?
Mail. No ! say that you have found that Maurice de Grandval was
a villain, to whose honor and to whose heart you would not confide
the happiness of your child !
Euch. Your paramour has had the insolence to follow you to this
house—to intrude herseif upon your bride. Louise is as yet igno¬
rant of this degradation : must I sully her innocent mind with a rela¬
tion of such iufamies?
Man. Whatever the infamy, it is mine alone. Let me sufifer the
degradation and the blame. Pauvrette is innocent.
Euch. My nephew, it is enough. [Äises.] I will retire from this es¬
tate, which is now yours. I will take my daughter away to some ob¬
scurity, where this scandal will not blight her name.
Mau. Duchess
Euch. Hear me, Maurice ; I am too proud to allow my daughter to
become the rival of this girl, and to struggle with her for your love.
I hoped that your better feelings would have rescued us from such an
alternative, but it seems that we must yield—be it so—my aifection
for you, my dear nephew, remains, and wiii remain always the same,
deep, constant, unbroken, although mingled .with sorrow; but let
that pass. Your debts have been paid ; and at my death, which my
broken hopes will hasten, I divide my fortune equally between you
and Louise.
Mau. I cannot accept.
Euch. Do not fear ; we shall never intrude upon your life. We
part to-night and forever ; henceforth, not a word, or a look of re¬
proach, shall meet you from either of us.
paütkette.
33
Mau. Oh ! do not break my heart—my more than mother !
Enter Michel.
Michd. They are going, Maurice. Bernard and PauTrette are
leaving the chateau. They will not listen to me.
Mau. What did Bernard say 1
Michd. The old man drew his child to his breast, and said Michel,
why does Count Maurice send after me 1 I owe him nothing—I owed
him my life ; but he has blisrhted the life of my child. He is paid !"
Mau. And Pauvrette—did she not speak 1
Michd. Yes.
Much. Reproaches, of course.
Michd. Yes, madam ; she uttered the bitterest reproach I ever
heard. She said : " Take my last kiss to Maurice. I shall love him
ever ; and if be would atone for the past, let him keep to Louise the
vows he made to me !"
Mau. Pauvrette ! Pauvrette ! [Buries his face m his hands.
Michel. You blush, madauL [He takes off his hat.'\ You feel it, do
youl
Duch. Why do you take off your hat, sir Î
Michel. I always do on being introduced to a stranger ; and I never
saw your heart beforel
Buck. Follow them, Michel ; take this sum of money : they are
poor : it will preserve them from want. [Offers a pockd-book.
Michd. [Reeding tí.] No, Duchess ; Maurice has injured them, but
that is no reason why we should insult their sorrow. I slipped into
the havresac of Bernard a purse containing my savings ; he can ac¬
cept from an old comrade what from you he would reject.
Enter Louise.
Louise. What is all this mystery about Î I have been seeking
Pauvrette everywhere.
Michd. Pauvrette has gone home. Louise, never to return! She
did not think that — everything considered—she was a fit companion
for you.
Louise. How strangely you all look ; you are concealing some se¬
cret from me; Maurice, you will tell me, will you not? You will
bring Pauvrette back. What is her fault to me 1
Mau. Louise, do not ask me ; I cannot.
Louise. [Taking hishand.\ Why do you all turn against this poor
gill. Maurice let me plead for her—give her to me ! I ask her of
you as a wedding gift—you will not deny—[Looks at his hand]—Ah !
[Aside.] this ring? my gift to Pauvrette upon the hand of Maurice !
Mau. Louise! you are pale! you .tremble !
[Advances to embrace her. She shrinks from him.
Louise. No ! leave me ! I am well ! [Aside.] And she said that
she had given it to her lover, who had left her, de.serted her ! And
that lover—'twas Maurice !
34
padvbettb.
Re-enter the Intendant.
Intend. Madam, the young girl and her companion, before leaving
the chateau, desire to see you.
Duch. Bernard and Pauvrette ! f Goes vp.
Miehd. He has found my purse. I am in for it.
Louise. Pauvrette with Bernard 1 Why are they togethwl Ah!
now I shall hear the truth. [ExU l. u. door.
Enter Bernard tmd Padtkettb.
Euch. Sir, we grieve for your misfortune, and you may rely at all
times upon our aid.
Pauv. [Aside.] My father, remember your promise.
Bern. My child, 1 will not forget that our injuries piace us superior
to all here. We come to utter no reproaches, no complaints. Ma¬
dam, I know the distance that exists between your rank and mine,
and it is not the misery of my child that can efface It.
Buch. With what motive, then, do you come 1
Bern. You gave your servants the order to drive my child from
your door ; you had the right to do so ; but you had not the right
to brand her with your charity—for she neither gave nor sold her¬
self.
Michel. [Aside.] I knew it.
Buck. That money, sir, did not come from me.
Bern. We cannot accept it. Count de Grandval, under whatever
subterfuge it is offered, and from whatever hand it comes, we re¬
ject it
Pauv. Maurice I this money, you know it was unkind, cruel, to offer
it. [Turning to the Doghess.] You would cast me forth, madam, as
a wretch ; oh, forgive me, if I have caused you grief. Indeed, I did
not mean that anybody should share my misery, do not despise me.
Oh, my heart is on its knees at your feet—give me a look of pity—
oh ! Maurice, tell her that I was not guilty, either of my own ruin,
onr of the sorrow I brought to this house. Tell her that when you
first met me, a poor ignorant child of the mountains, living alone,
far from your world, I was not dazzled by your rank or your fortune.
Is this true ?
Mau. It is as true as the love I bear you still !
Pauv. You see, madam, that IHid not know what fortune was ; and
when I gave him one half of my roof to shield him from the ava¬
lanche, when I shared with him my provision of black bread, and held
my cup of milk to his lips, at that time, madam, it was I who was
rich, and he who was poor.
Buch. Oh, Maurice, bow noble a heart have you laid waste I
Michel. [Taking off his hat.] Heart again!
Pauv. No! do not blame him, madam. In the misery that falls
upon me, I see only the will of Heaven. I submit to it without a
murmur ; but I do not choose to take from hence the contempt of
anybody. Adieu. Maurice. I see you for the last time.
Mnu. Pauvrette!
pauvrette.
35
Pauv. For the last time. Teach Louise not to despise me ; and
may God bestow upon her the happiness He has taken from me.
Duchess. Farewell, Pauvrette, [offers her hand to PauvreUe, who, with
a light cry of gratitude, fails at her feet and kisses íAem,] farewell, poor
child, may these tears that fall upon your brow attest that I believe
you innocent.
Pauv. [üístnjt.] Father—father—take me awaj now—my heart is
breaking.
Enter Louise.
Louise. Stay I
All. Louise !
Louise. I have overheard this secret, and I have learned the con¬
temptible part you would all assign me.
Duch. Louise !
Louise. My mother, do yon think me so base, so vile, as to buy the
hand of Maurice with your fortune, and to build up my happiness
with the ruins of Pauvrette's broken heart 1
Michel. Bravo !
Dueh. What is this?
Mishel. It is the blood of the Republican ofiScer, your husband,
forcing its way through your armorial bearings.
2>u£A. Do you refuse to attend Maurice to the altar?
Louise. I would as soon attend the pillory, and lose my right ear, as
I have already lost my left.
Mau. Louise! [Embraces her with delight and gratitude.
Eern. [Stdrting.\ What does she say?
Michel. Louise I [Advancing.
Duch. It is nothing—merely the result of some accident, I presume,
which occurred druing her infancy.
Bern. Merciful Providence ! Do my senses wrong me ? do they-
wander still ?
Mau. What do you mean 1
Bern. I mean that on our retreat from Moscow, a bullet which
struck my wife Marie in the neck, also wounded my child—my little
one—-and would leave a mark such as that. ^
Duch. Your child !—impossible ! I took Louise from the arms of
your dying wife.
Michel When 1 returned to the hut, I found an infant alone there.
It was wrapped in the remnant of our regimental colors. That infant I
carried to Switzerland, deposited in care of the curate of St. Didier,
and that child was Pauvrette !
Bern. Pauvrette I—come to me !—Come ! [leading Pauvrette to the Da
chess.} Madam, eighteen years ago, you deserted your husband and your
infant child ; when you returned to find it, you came not as the mother,
to embrace her offspring, but as the Dachas, to find an heir. You could
not recognise your own flesh and blood. Heaven, in its wisdom, has
decreed that you should remain in ignorance all your life, until now
—now ; when, for the first time, your heart awoke, abjured its pride,
and tears of holy sympathy and pride fell from your eyes. Look upon
this creature, whose life has been one long suffering, from poverty,
misery, and want. She is the heiress of Beaulleu ! Look upon this
86
tauvrette.
(çirl, whom yoo were drivinftlike an outcast from your door, branded
degraded, and broken-hearted ! She is your own.child !
Ditch. [Fdling at the feet of Pautrette.] My child !
Bern. Stay, madam ! Pauvrette, you see that woman ?
Pauv. My mother Î
Bern. No ! she was only your father's wife—who gave you birth—
that's all ! He loved her. Pauvrette, as you love Maurice! She de¬
serted him! she broke his noble heart !—and all that you havesutfer-
ed—all—is her doing !
Pauv. [ Going to the Dochess, and lifting her face.] Mother ! do you
know me now? [The Duchess embraces her.
Mau. Pauvrette is mine—mine after all ! Louise, congratulate
me !—I shan't marry you after all—that is—no, I mean—congratulate
yourself! What a scoundrel you narrowly escaped in me! Pau¬
vrette ! . [Embraces her.
Bern. [Embracing Louise.] And my heart did not deceive me, when
your eyes first met mine, and the brave spirit of Marie looked out of
them into my heart. Marguerite, are you ashamed to have a poor old
soldier for a father ?
Jlichel. I'll go back to my barracks—perhaps Pm in the way of this
little family party.
Louise. Stay, Michel ; you said that you would give your right hand
for this commission of Colonel, which the king has given me for my
husband ?
Michd. I would!
Louise. You would 7—^I'll take it—give it to me ! The poor daugh¬
ter of Bernard will bring you as her dowry the rank and pay of Colo¬
nel in the Guards.
Michel. Marguerite ! [Etribracing her.] my wife, my Bernard, do
you hear 1—she takes me !
Bern. And she could not take a nobler or most honest man !
Michel. 1 can't control my joy. Long live the Emperor !—oh !—
Lord ! I forgot !—no—long live the king !
Shouts outside. Music. Enter the Intexdaîît.
Intend. Madam, the guests are in the hall ; the chapel is lighted.
Mau. A double marriage will take place, there ; and instead of one
daughter. Duchess, you will now have two.
Intend. The peasantry have prepared a fete, but the emblems and
names have been changed by order of Ma'm'selle Louise.
Dueh. Come Louise.
Mau. No—not Louise !—let me never forget that name by which I
first knew her, and by which my heart will always call her. Come,
my wife—come Pauvrette !
Shouts outside. Enter a crowd of peasants. The gardens become sudderdg
illuminated, and a device with the name of Pauvrette forms
a triumphal arch in the midst.
the erd.
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