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 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 

 "FAYETTE." 
 The Story of a Waif. 
 
 A COMEDY DRAMA, 
 IN FOUR ACTS. 
 
"FAYETTE." 
 
 The Story of a Waif. 
 
 A COMEDY DRAMA, 
 
 IN FOUR ACTS. 
 
 BY | JAN 26 1iJ85 J 
 
 ESTELLE CLAYTON', 
 
 \ 
 

 > ^ 
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1884, 
 
 By ESTELLE CLAYTON, 
 
 In the office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C. 
 
 TMP92-003850 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Bernardus, 
 Earl of Esmond, . 
 Lord Adolphus Vane, 
 Due de Loire, 
 Duchess de Loire, 
 Angelique Duprez, 
 
 Picot, 
 
 Grandmere Virot, 
 Julie, 
 
 Jacques, . 
 
 " Fayette," 
 
 A Bohemian. 
 An English Nobleman. 
 Esmond's Step-son. 
 A Patron of Art. 
 Mother of the Due. 
 Star of the "Bouffes Pari- 
 siennes." 
 
 Her Page. 
 
 An old Peasant. 
 
 . A Peasant Girl. 
 
 Gardener on Esmond's Place. 
 
 —and 
 
 A Waif. 
 
SYNOPSIS. 
 
 Act First. 
 The Waif and her Protector . . Temptation. 
 
 Act Second. 
 In Paris . " Stage-struck" . A Childish Escapade. 
 
 Act Third. 
 Five years after . . In Society . . Eetribution. 
 
 Act Fourth. 
 In Love . A Recognition . and . Reconciliation. 
 
ACT FIRST. 
 
 A wood on the Estate of the Earl of Esmond; Left, 
 a woodland stream, steep rocks on either side. Eight, 
 a fallen tree and rocks, entire scene very picturesque. 
 Small cottage back of stage almost hidden from view. 
 
 {Enter the Earl of Esmond, Adolphus his step-son, 
 Due de Loire, and Jacques the Gardener.) 
 
 Due. You have indeed a fine estate, Esmond; 
 one of the loveliest in the province, 
 
 Adol. Yes, but don't you think we have seen 
 quite enough of it for the present ? 
 
 Earl. You see, Due, that Adolphus has the ad- 
 vantage of us. I sent him down here two weeks 
 ago to superintend arrangements against my arrival. 
 
 Jac. {aside.) Lord only knows what he has been 
 about, then. He left all the arrangements to me. 
 
 5 
 
Earl. What do you call this spot, Jacques ? 
 Jac. This, milord, is called the "Rendezvous." 
 Adol. (aside.) "Rendezvous" — Rather appropri- 
 ate name, then. 
 
 (Music of violin in distance. Shouts and laughter.) 
 
 Earl. What is all this noise and festivity, Jacques? 
 
 Jac. Bernardus, milord, has just returned 
 after an absence of five years. There's a regular 
 holiday in the village. Hurrah ! (takes off cap and 
 shouts in answer to distant cheers.) Hurrah ! Hur- 
 rah ! Pardon, milord, but I couldn't help it ! 
 
 Earl. And who may this Bernardus be ? 
 
 Due. Oh ! a wonderful man; a poet, an artist, 
 a Bohemian; oh, a folio could not tell. 
 
 Adol. I imagine one word could. 
 
 Earl. And that is — ? 
 
 Adol. A vagabond. 
 
 Due. Oh, no, you mistake. He has the most 
 marvellous talents, the most marvellous influence 
 over the people. He is a character— quite a charac- 
 ter. 
 
 Earl. I do not like "characters." A "great 
 character," says the world, when it means a great 
 knave, or a great fool ! 
 
 Due. Bernardus is neither (warmly). 
 
 Adol. A friend of yours, Due ? 
 
 Duo. I should be glad to claim him as such. 
 (Turning to Esmond.) Esmond, that man might be 
 of wonderful use to the Government. 
 
 Adol. Yes, he's such a rogue. 
 
 Jac. They are coming this way. (Looking off 
 excitedly.) 
 
Adol. Then let us go, by all means. 
 
 Earl. Well, for my part, I shouldn't care to be a 
 hero, at the price of having all the old women and 
 peasants in the village at my heels. 
 
 Adol. No — I prefer the young ones myself. 
 
 [The party exeunt talking.) 
 {Enter Grandmere and JuiiiE across bridge. ) 
 
 Gran. ( Very excitedly calling) Favette ! Favette ! 
 now where can that child be ? 
 
 Jul. Fallen into the brook, or in love, that's more 
 likely, since the young lord Adolphus from the 
 chateau notices her. 
 
 Gran. [Very deaf.) Eh ? Go look for her, Julie, 
 Bernardus is coming, and he must not see her the 
 way she looked awhile ago, nice care he'd think I 
 took of her. Come, Julie, and find her. Oh ! 
 here's Bernardus now. 
 
 {Enter Bernardus and Villagers.) 
 
 Ber. Thank you, my friends. Thanks with all 
 my heart ; it's worth an absence of five years to 
 come back to such a welcome. Well, I must leave 
 you now. I'll see you again this afternoon. I'll 
 hold a convention right here on this spot at four 
 o'clock, then you can bring me all your troubles, 
 your broken heads, hearts, and wash-tubs., your dry 
 cows, your wet potatoes, your latest grievance about 
 your crops, your landlords, and your sweethearts. 
 I'll have some cure for you all. Remember, 
 four o'clock, and now good-bye for a little while — 
 good-bye. 
 
( Waiving his hand in answer to them, the Villagers 
 all retire in high good humor, laughing, shouting, etc.) 
 
 Ber. ( Turning to Grandmere) And now, Grand- 
 mere, I'm free to see my little waif. Where is she ? 
 
 Grand. Yes ! Yes ! (shaking with pleasure, but 
 not hearing). 
 
 Ber. I say, where is Favette ? 
 
 Jul. (Shouting in her ear) He wants Favette ! 
 
 Grand. Yes, yes, I'll find her. Come, Julie, and 
 help me find her. Sweet child, perhaps she's at 
 her spinning-wheel. 
 
 Jul. (Sarcastically. ) Of course ! 
 
 Ber. Does she spin much ? 
 
 Grand. She's a good child. She's a good child. 
 
 Jul. (aside.) Good for nothing, don't believe she 
 ever spun anything better than a yarn in all her life ! 
 
 Grand. We'll find her; come, Julie, and help me 
 find her. (Calling) Favette ! Favette ! 
 
 (Exeunt Grand, awe? Julie.) 
 
 (Favette discovered, crossing on rocks, she is bare- 
 foot, shoes in hand, she steps from one stone to an- 
 other, shaking her hand after the retreating figures of 
 Grand, and Julie.) 
 
 Fav. Good-bye ! Good-bye ! Grandmere, hope 
 you'll have a nice time looking for me ! 
 
 Ber. (Turning and seeing child.) Don't fall, 
 little girl, careful, now, careful ! 
 
 Fav. Fall; what, me fall ! On these rocks ? Well, 
 I think you must be a stranger around here if you 
 don't know me better than that, I'm Favette. 
 
 Ber. What ? Favette ! my little waif ! 
 
 8 
 
Fav. [Looking at him intently.) And you're — 
 Oh my, yes, it is ! Oh, Bernardus — ! 
 
 [Rushing to him dropping shoes and everything 
 into the water.) 
 
 I'm so glad to see you. 
 
 Ber. Favette ! My little Favette ! Well, noth- 
 ing but a chamois or a waif could have crossed 
 those stones without falling, now if you were heiress 
 to an empire or if the fate of some great nation de- 
 pended on you, I suppose you would have gone to 
 the bottom instead of your shoes, just through the 
 contradictory nature of things in general, and your 
 sex in particular. 
 
 Fav. Oh ! I've crossed them lots of times ! 
 
 Ber. Yes ! you have the most inherent pertinacity 
 in living of any creature ever born. 
 
 Fav. I have — the — what — ? [perplexed). 
 
 Ber. The most inherent pertinacity — 
 . Fav. I haven't, never felt better in all my life. 
 (Ber. laughs.) 
 
 Fav. 1 know I look pretty dirty, but there's noth- 
 ing the matter with me, truly. Grandmere wanted 
 me to get all fixed up before you came, wish I had 
 now, and oh [catching sight of her bare feet), what 
 will I do for my shoes ? 
 
 Ber. Oh, we'll find another pair. 
 
 Fav. [Hugging him.) I'll have everything nice, 
 now you're back, won't I! but what a long time 
 you've been away! 
 
 Ber. Oh, mignonne ! I cannot let even a waif 
 
be a tie, I have enjoyed myself, and so have you, no 
 doubt ? 
 
 Fav. Oh, yes, but Adele says its awfully "pro- 
 vincial" to enjoy. 
 
 Ber. And who may this little cynic of an Adele 
 be? 
 
 Fav. She's in my class at the convent. She puts 
 on dreadful airs. Bat I forget you must be tired 
 and hungry. 
 
 Ber. Tired ? No, but hungry ? ravenous ! 
 
 ( Gesture of mock pain. ) 
 
 Fav. Oh my ! Does it hurt you ? 
 
 Ber. I may recover, especially if you have any- 
 thing very good in your larder. 
 
 Fav. Larder ? 
 
 Ber. Yes, anything good to eat. 
 
 Fav. Well, lard isn't good to eat ! 
 
 Ber. Well, what have you for me ? 
 
 Fav. Oh ! we've got (stops) — well, we've got bread, 
 and — and — we've got cheese — and — 
 
 Ber. Kisses ? 
 
 Fav. No, but we've got a guinea hen — though I'm 
 afraid she's a little tough. She's old enough to be, 
 anyhow ' Come to the house then and — (pulling him) . 
 
 Ber. No, cherie, never waste time in-doors that 
 you can spend out of doors, you go and get the things 
 and we'll have them out here — al fresco. 
 
 Fav. Well, I'll go and get all we've got, but I'm 
 afraid we haven't any of that last thing. 
 
 Ber. Which ? 
 
 Fav. Why the fresco. 
 
 10 
 
Ber. [Laughing) All right, we'll find that out 
 here. 
 
 Fav. [Going) Very well, I'll be back in just two 
 minutes. 
 
 [Exit over bridge and off.) 
 
 Bee. [Looking after her.) Pretty as a little prin- 
 cess and without a mother or a name. Shall T ever 
 be reproached that I snatched her from eteruity ? 
 How well I remember that day, thirteen years ago. 
 Ah me ! Ah me ! how old " Tempus" does fugit. I 
 was strolling through the woods playing on my 
 violin. Suddenly I heard a laugh of delight as from 
 a very young child. I pushed aside the bushes and 
 saw what had aroused me. A. little child smiling at 
 me, with great, wondering, dark eyes, her hair like 
 gold dust on the moss, her small, fair limbs un- 
 covered save for the rough red cloak that was folded 
 about her, she saw human eyes and remembered hu- 
 man wants. "I'm hungry !" she cried, I'm hungry. 
 Well, I gave her bread then, and have continued to 
 do so ever since. Left 'there to be got rid of cer- 
 tainly, by Madame La Marquise at her last scandal, 
 or by some poor shirt-stitcher at her last sou ? Ah ! 
 here she comes, she must not see my face grave. If 
 others frown, I must smile on her, for somehow, 
 she is very dear to me. 
 
 [Enter Fav. with bread, fruit, etc.) 
 
 Fav. This is all I can find. That cat must have 
 stolen the fowl. I wish there was something bet- 
 ter — that cat is such a thief ! 
 
 {Bus. sitting under tree.) 
 11 
 
Bee. Foolish child, there could be nothing better? 
 when I add my flask of wine. ( Taking flask from 
 pocket and drinking wine. ) 
 
 (Favette gets on to branch of tree.) 
 
 Fav. (Who has been watching intently.) Oh, is that 
 what you meant by the "fresco ? " 
 
 Bee. Not exactly, though that is a very good 
 name for it, but here are some frescoed candies, bon- 
 bons — straight from Paris. Catch ! (throws pack- 
 age to Favette in tree). Well, how do you like the 
 convent and the sisters ? 
 
 Fav. I hate them (eating). 
 
 Bee. And wherefore ? 
 
 Fav. They hate me. 
 
 Bee. Then I fear you must deserve it. 
 
 Fav. I dare say I do. They are always scolding 
 me for wilfulness and pride ; they say to be plain 
 and good is better than to be handsome and way- 
 ward as I am. 
 
 Bee. Indeed ! so you are conscious of beauty and 
 pride and waywardness. A nice trio of qualities ! 
 "Know thyself," says the sage ; you certainly obey 
 him. 
 
 Fav. But that is not all ; there are two or three 
 children there — that Adele is one of them — and they 
 are rude, horrid things to me. Grandmere says be- 
 cause they are jealous of me ; and they laughed in 
 my face when I told them my mother was a fairy, 
 and they twit me with having no name, being as 
 they say, only a thing that is called " Favette," like 
 a cat or a dog ! (Almost crying.) 
 
 12 
 
Bee. (aside.) So soon ! If children taunt thus, we 
 cannot wonder at the great world ! Favette — the 
 words that hurt you are from jealous mouths, you 
 think. Don't you know that jealousy is and always 
 has been a slanderer and a liar ? 
 
 Fav. Yes, but is it true ? I have no name, I am 
 not as others are. 
 
 Bee. No name ! " what's in a name?" as the great 
 immortal has it ; at best it's only a handle. Now, if the 
 pitcher goes safely to the well and brings back cool, 
 pure water for thirsty mouths, what matter about 
 the handle ! 
 
 Fav. Yes, but if one is a pretty porcelain pitcher, 
 it isn't nice to have a broken handle, or none at all, 
 like me, and have to go to the well for water as if 
 one were only an ugly, old earthen jug. 
 
 Ber. So ! you think yourself pretty porcelain do 
 you ? Well, I'll warrant you will never be of so 
 much use to others as if you were a homely brown 
 jug, and to be proud of your uselessness, that is a 
 thing which has not my sympathies. 
 
 Fav. Well, there's no jug that wouldn't change 
 and be porcelain if it could. 
 
 Ber. That doesn't say much for their good sense, 
 then, if it be true. But I don't think it is true, 
 child. There is many a sturdy, honest, sensible, 
 brown jug that would rather go to the well twenty 
 times a day to get fresh water for the children's 
 thirsty throats, the poor chained dogs, the little 
 birds in their cages, than be a mere ornament. I 
 would rather be the earthenware jug, Favette, but 
 you, I suppose, would rather be porcelain and stand 
 
idle all day long in a velvet lined cabinet amongst 
 the other bric-a-brac. 
 
 Fav. I wouldn't break anything. I'd be just as 
 careful. 
 
 Bee. Ah yes. I'm afraid you'd be broken first. 
 
 Fav. And is it wrong to be proud ? 
 
 Ber. In what way ? 
 
 Fav. To be impatient at Grandmere's friends be- 
 cause they talk such bad patois, and are only igno- 
 rant old women. To be full of wrath at Grandmere, 
 because she will bake and sweep and scrub, although 
 I know it is so good of her to do it ! To long for 
 luxury and power and to feel that I would rather 
 die than serve. Proud ! Oh ! in so many, many, 
 ways, it makes me tired. 
 
 Ber. Favette, you are not a philosopher, nothing 
 feminine ever was, I suppose. It is not wrong to be 
 proud, if pride be of the right sort. It must' be a 
 pride which says, let me not envy, it were mean- 
 ness ; let me not covet, it were akin to theft ; I 
 need no accident of birth to make me great, because 
 I have stainless honor. You should be too proud 
 to let an aged woman work when youthful hands 
 can help her ; too proud to forget that her hands, 
 withered, now, with age and infirmity, helped you 
 in your utmost need of helpless infancy. 
 
 Fav. {going to Bernardus.) Oh, indeed, indeed I 
 am not ungrateful. If they would only talk like 
 that I would always listen. 
 
 {Enter Esmond, Due de Loire, Adol., and 
 
 Jacques. ) 
 
 Earl, {in passing. ) Who is that pretty child ? 
 
 14 
 
Adol. " Bernardus's waif " they call her. 
 Earl. She hasn't the air of a peasant. (Lifts his 
 hat in passing. ) 
 
 (Exeunt Esm., Adol., and Due.) 
 
 Fav. Who was he ? 
 Ber. Which one, petite ? 
 Fav. The one who bowed to me. 
 Ber. He is the Earl of Esmond. 
 Fav. The Earl ! The great English Earl who has 
 just come to the big chateau ? Oh ! 
 
 (Enter Grandmere, with hiitting, across bridge. ) 
 
 Ber. Ah ! Grandmere, we have had quite a 
 feast here. Favette and I — 
 
 Grand. Yes, it does my old eyes good to see 
 you again. 
 
 Fav. And he bowed to me ! (in a fit of abstrac- 
 tion). 
 
 Ber. Thinking of that still, child ? In what 
 does the bow of a noble differ from that of a peas- 
 ant ? It is chivalry to your sex in both, nothing 
 more. 
 
 Fav. (aside.) He said I didn't look like a peasant. 
 I knew it ! I knew it ! (Goes for dishes.) 
 
 Grand. Are you going, child ? 
 
 Fav. (Removing dishes.) Yes, I am going to take 
 these dishes to the house, and then I will go to the 
 well for water. 
 
 Grand. E— h ? 
 
 Fav. (crosses to her.) I am going to take the 
 pitcher to the well to fill. 
 
 15 
 
Grand. Am / ill ? No, dear, I'm very well, very- 
 well [knitting). 
 
 Fav. I say I am going to the well. 
 
 Grand. Oh, yes, you're always well. You haven't 
 had a day's sickness since you had the measles, and 
 that's good ten years ago. 
 
 Fav. You dear old Grandmere. I wish you 
 weren't just as deaf as a post. There's no making 
 you hear, when you don't want to. 
 
 [Exit over bridge and off. ) 
 
 Grand. You are content with the little angel, 
 Bernardus ? 
 
 Ber. As little of an angel as may be, I'm content 
 with your care of her, if that's what you mean. 
 She thrives as nothing but a waif, whom nobody 
 wants, can thrive. 
 
 Grand. E— h ? 
 
 Ber. She thrives like weeds in a garden, vanity 
 in woman, and vice in Paris ! 
 
 Grand. Paris. Oh, you don't mean to take her 
 to Paris ? [shaking her head) . 
 
 Ber. Certainly not. But she'll get there some 
 day, no doubt. 
 
 Grand. Yes, we will look out. God forbid the 
 child should ever get to Paris ! I often wonder 
 what would become of her, if I died in your absence, 
 you wander so far, and are gone so long. 
 
 Ber. Never ask what would become of anything, 
 Grandmere, it shows a curiosity highly unphilo- 
 soxdIuc. 
 
 Grand. Won't you come and look at the cottage 
 Bernardus ? It is so much improved since you had 
 
 16 
 
it repaired. You are a noble fellow. God will 
 bless you. God will bless you. 
 
 Ber. [following.) Don't speak of that, Grandmere, 
 I must have my little waif comfortable (aside) if I 
 go without tobacco in my pipe. 
 
 (Exeunt over bridge a?id off.) 
 
 (Eater Adolphus, who has been watching.) 
 
 Adol. Gone at last, thought they never would. 
 Where's ray little beauty, I wonder, ah ! here she 
 comes with a pitcher. 
 
 (Enter Favette, over bridge.) 
 
 What ray little princess playing at Cinderella ? 
 
 Fav. Grandmere is old, and the water is far 
 to fetch. 
 
 Adol-. You can do these things and look a 
 princess still, — still I would have you where slaves 
 should obey your slightest wish. 
 
 Fav. Wouldn't it be lovely ? 
 
 Adol. Well, come then. I leave this province to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Fav. Leave it ? 
 
 Adol. Yes, will you be sorry to lose me ? 
 
 Fav. Oh, indeed, I shall miss you very much. 
 
 Adol. Then you love me, darling ? 
 
 Fav. I try to do so, monsieur (innocently). 
 
 Adol. All I dare hope is to make you love me 
 some day. If you will only come to Paris with me 
 as I want you to. 
 
 Fav. I should dearly love to, but — 
 
 Adol. There is no but. 
 
 17 
 
Fav. Well, then, I'll ask Bernarclus if I can go. 
 
 Adol. Whew ! ! (aside). 
 
 Fav. What ? {innocently). 
 
 Adol. Nothing, but you mustn't let your guar- 
 dian know you. are going to Paris. 
 
 Fav. Oh, he's been so good to me, I couldn't go 
 without telling him. 
 
 Adol. If he really cared for you, would he keep 
 you here in poverty and obscurity ? No, and if you 
 told him he mightn't let you go. (Aside) There's 
 not much doubt of that. See, now, what I have 
 brought you (bus. of producing chain), let me put it 
 around your lovely throat, there, isn't that pretty ? 
 You look like a little princess ! Gome with me, 
 dearest, you "shall be queen of Paris, I swear it, 
 and all men who look once into your beautiful eyes 
 will be your slaves forever. 
 
 Fav. Queen ! I'll be the queen and Grandmere 
 shall be king. Oh, uo, Grandmere couldn't be a 
 king. Bernardns shall be king. 
 
 Adol. I should think you'd rather have me for 
 the king. 
 
 (Eider Bernardus, pauses on bridge.) 
 
 Fav. No, yo 1're very nice, but not so big and 
 brave and handsome as Bernardus. 
 
 Adol. I'll do anything, promise anything, if you 
 will only come. 
 
 Fav. Well then, if you really mean it. 
 
 Adol. Oh ! you little angel, you will come then ? 
 (catches her in his arms). 
 
 Ber. (Coming down between them.) Favette 
 
Adol. The devil ! (aside) . 
 
 Ber. Who is your friend, Favette ? (calming him- 
 self). 
 
 Fav. A prince, I think, I don't know his name, 
 what is your name ? And he has given me such 
 lovely toys, all gold and silver, and he says if I will 
 go with him he will show me Paris en fete, and give 
 me diamonds and riches, and the life of an empress, 
 and may I go, may I ? and you will come too, and 
 perhaps he'll take Grandmere. ( To Adol. J May 
 Grandmere come, she'd like to see Paris to ? 
 
 Adol. Oh certainly, the whole family, bring them 
 all along ! 
 
 Ber. Go to the house, Favette, I will talk to this 
 good friend of yours and hear a little of all these 
 wonderful things to which he invites us. 
 
 Fav. He has been so kind, and I should like to go 
 if I may. 
 
 Ber. Do as I tell you, my child. 
 
 (Exit Favette over bridge and off.) 
 
 So my Lord Adolphus Vane, this is the thief's work 
 in which spend your vacation. 
 
 Adol. Since you know my title, you know also 
 the respect due to it. 
 
 Ber. Do you know I could kill you where you 
 stand, and by Heaven, I have a mind to do it too; 
 you coward, you sneak ! Well, what plea do you offer 
 in defence of your villany. 
 
 Adol. I am not accustomed to raise pleas for my 
 conduct, still less should I do so to an inferior. 
 
 Ber. Your inferior am I ? another word like those 
 
 19 
 
and I will throw you into that water to sink or swim 
 as you may ! (Lays his hand heavily on Adol.'s 
 shoulder. ) 
 
 Adol. (freeing himself.) It would do you too much 
 honor to resent your outrage myself, I will send my 
 grooms to the task. 
 
 Ber. That would be a mistake — for your grooms, 
 
 Adol. I decline any further conversation with 
 you. 
 
 Ber. Pshaw ! you will listen as long as I choose. 
 You are to leave this place at once on any pretext 
 you will, and at your peril attempt to molest that 
 child again ! 
 
 Adol. And may I ask the penalty of refusing to 
 do anything of the kind ? 
 
 Ber. Disinheritance ! Eugene Esmond is a noble 
 gentleman, and an honest man, and rather than en- 
 courage your vices he would cut you off without a 
 shilling. 
 
 Adol. Indeed ! 
 
 Ber. He bears you no love, my young sir, you 
 outrage and offend him at every turn of your worth- 
 less life. What mercy do you think he would show 
 you if I told him of some of your pastimes, your 
 manner of spending the last night of April this very 
 year, for instance ? 
 
 Adol. The devil ! 
 
 Ber. Remember you are only his step son by an 
 unfortunate marriage, thank Heaven ! the race is 
 not to blame for such a traitor. 
 
 Adol. And pray what do you know about the 
 " race" what is my father to you ? 
 
 20 
 
Ber. (Disconcerted a moment.) What he is to all 
 the world, what his sou will never be, a gentleman ! 
 What mercy do you think he will show you, when I 
 tell him you are a traitor, a thief, and a liar ? 
 
 Adol. This is too much ! ( Goes to strike him. ) 
 
 Ber. (Catching his arm. ) I like you better for 
 that, now go. I give you until to-morrow, which- 
 ever course you pursue will equally serve my pur- 
 pose. (Freeing him. ) Go ! 
 
 Adol. (aside.) Insolent scoundrel. It will be 
 my turn next. 
 
 (Tableau; they stand looking at each other, then 
 Adolphus exits.) 
 
 (Enter Favette over bridge.) 
 
 Fav. Well, may I go with him ? Do you like 
 him ? Do answer me, Bernardus ! 
 
 Ber. {Looking at her earnestly.) You wish so much 
 to go with this wonderful new friend ? 
 
 Fav. Yes ; to see Paris illuminated ! 
 
 Ber. So it is for the sake of Paris illuminated is 
 it ? Tell me, would you go with him to a desert, 
 to a dreary sunburnt place ? 
 
 Fav. Oh mon Dieu, no ! 
 
 Ber. Ah, capricious and true to your sex! Change, 
 that is all you want. Look here, Favette, you love 
 me well enough to do what I ask of you ? 
 
 Fav. Oh yes ! 
 
 Ber. Then Favette, you must never again speak 
 to this new friend, and not go to Paris, or any other 
 place with him. 
 
 21 
 
Fav. Not see him any more. Not go to Paris 
 [sobbing). Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! 
 
 Bee. And one thing more, he gave you presents 
 and jewels, did he not ? 
 
 Fav. Beautiful ornaments. Yes. 
 
 Bee. They must go back to him, every one. Nay, 
 child, I would not break your heart by taking away 
 your first jewels. I will get you much prettier 
 ones, but they must go back. 
 
 Fav. Was it wicked to take them ? 
 
 Bee. No, not for you, but I accept obligations 
 from no man, and neither must you. We spoke of 
 pride a while ago, the woman who is truly proud, 
 will accept the gold and gifts of no man. You 
 wouldn't let a stranger kiss your cheek ? Then 
 never take from him that for which he might ask, 
 were it only in jest, a caress as his payment. 
 
 Fav. Send them back, [throwing down chain,) I 
 hate them now ! He wanted to kiss me once, but I 
 told him I was no peasant girl. I'll go and get 
 them for you, every one ! 
 
 [Exit over bridge and off.) 
 
 Bee. The child is bent on seeing Paris. I will 
 take her there myself, a week or two will content 
 her. I must now see what amount I can muster to 
 replace the trinkets, [bus. of searching in pockets, 
 finding only a few coins,) this bauble alone [picking 
 up chain from ground ) would cost me more than 
 that ! ( Producing manuscript book) I could sell this 
 book, it is very valuable, but it is like parting with 
 a part of myself. All that is left of my other self. 
 22 
 
Well Dante, my friend, you must be transformed 
 into feminine trinkets, there is no other way. 
 
 (Enter Due De L. and Esmond.) 
 
 Due. It's Bernardus, I wish you would speak to 
 him, he's really a wonderful fellow. 
 
 Earl. I will leave you then, to converse with your 
 friend. 
 
 Ber. Oh, I claim no friendship with Monsieur le 
 Due. My business lies with you, Earl Esmond. 
 
 Earl. (Coldly.) I never have business with 
 strangers. 
 
 Ber. A stranger am I ? (Sadly.) Well the Due 
 de Loire will vouch for me, (bus.) vouch at any rate 
 that I did not come out of the galleys. Come Due, 
 assure Lord Esmond that the impertinence of my 
 being original has not yet led me to the addendum 
 of being criminal. 
 
 Due. I was about to assure milord, how invaria- 
 bly for good is the marvellous influence you ex. 
 ercise over the people. 
 
 Ber. I doubt if he would believe that, still it may 
 suffice to make him do what I wish — buy this book 
 of me. (Crosses to Esmond.) 
 
 Earl. This man's eccentricity is little short of in- 
 sanity (aside). 
 
 Ber. Look at it, monsieur. 
 
 Earl. A genuine antique, in perfect condition. 
 
 Ber. The Alterante's Dante ! 
 
 Due. Why the very book you refused to sell to 
 the Cardinal, at Nice, last year ! 
 
 Ber. I did not want the money then. 
 
 23 
 
Earl. And you do now ? 
 
 Bee. My lord, the only questions you need con- 
 cern yourself with are, what it is worth, and whether 
 you wish it There are hundreds in Europe who 
 will buy it if you do not. 
 
 Earl. What did the Cardinal offer for it. 
 
 Due. He offered — 
 
 Bek. Too much by half. After all what is an 
 antique ? Only something grown old and musty 
 with age and disuse, and with a book, like a man, the 
 lack of pedigree matters nothing, if the pages with- 
 in are written fairly. 
 
 Earl. If you will accept the Cardinal's very fair 
 price, I would like to give the book a place in my 
 library. 
 
 Ber. As you please, monsieur. (Bowing.) 
 
 Earl. That man bows like my equal, surely no 
 common vagrant. (Aside, then aloud. J If you will 
 come to the chateau my steward will give you the 
 money, it is just about luncheon time too, my peo- 
 ple will — 
 
 Ber. Pardon me, I do not require your hospital- 
 ity, I will remain here, you can send me the money. 
 
 Due. (To Esmond.) You do not understand Ber- 
 nardus. He is as proud in his way as you are in 
 yours. 
 
 Earl. The strangest man I ever met. The blouse 
 of a peasant with the manner of an aristocrat. 
 
 (Exeunt Esm. andDuc over bridge— bow to Favette. ) 
 
 {Enter Favette during preceding.) 
 
 Fav. That handsome gentleman again; were you 
 talking to him ? 
 
 24 
 
Ber. Never mind him, the jewels you were to re- 
 turn to the young prince ? 
 
 Fav. {Giving package.) Here they are, every one. 
 
 Ber. Well, now, I have a treat in store for my 
 good little girl. If I guess rightly you regret not 
 seeing Paris more than anything else ? 
 
 Fav. Yes. 
 
 Ber. Well, how would you like to go there with 
 me ? 
 
 Fav. Oh Bernardus ! to go to Paris with you ! 
 
 Beu. Does it please you ? * 
 
 Fav. [throwing her arms around his neck.) Please 
 me. Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! Let me go ! Let me dance ! 
 {Skips all around the stage with delight.) 
 
 [Enter Grandmere, Julie, Jacques, and 
 Villagers. ) 
 Grand. What's the matter with the child ? 
 Fav. Paris ! Grandmere ! Paris ! 
 Grand. E— h ? 
 Fav. I'm going to Paris. 
 Grand. Oh Bernardus, is this true ? 
 Ber. Yes, I'll take her there for a week or two, 
 and then bring her safely back to you. 
 Grand. And you are so glad to go ? 
 Fav. Well, I sujopose that Adele would call it very 
 -" provincial," but I'm so happy, I could — hug and 
 kiss everybody ! Laugh Grandmere ! Laugh every- 
 body. Oh ! I'm so happy. [Takes Grandmere and 
 dances all around the stage with her.) 
 [Music.) 
 [ Curtain. ) 
 End of Act First. 
 
ACT SECOND. 
 
 Beenaedus' lodgings in Paris — poorly furnished. 
 Easel ivith painting, l. Bebnabdus discovered 
 painting. Favette sewing a bonnet by chair. 
 Old looking-glass in front of her. Practical window 
 back. Stove icith soup-pot boiling, also kettle, etc. 
 
 Beb. There ! Almost the finishing touch to the 
 Due de Loire's picture. It looks so much like you, 
 mignoime, that I'd like to keep it myself. Well, 
 I'm going out for a breath of fresh air ; get your 
 bonnet and come along. 
 
 Fav. I haven't any bonnet. 
 
 Beb. What ? No bonnet ! 
 
 Fav. It's all ripped to pieces. I wanted to make 
 it more stylish, and now I'm afraid I shall never get 
 it together again. 
 
 Beb. Then we couldn't go to the theatre to-night. 
 By the way, where shall we go ? 
 
 27 
 
Fav. To the Opera Comique, of course ! 
 
 Ber. Not tired of your goddess yet ? 
 
 Fav. Tired of Angelique Duprez ! O — h ! 
 
 Bee. She fascinates you so ? 
 
 Fav. Doesn't she fascinate every one ? Don't the 
 people go perfectly wild when she appears on the 
 stage. [Imitating) Applause greets her from every 
 side, she bows, smiles, and trips down to the foot- 
 lights like a fairy. Then people shower her with 
 flowers and bouquets, and even diamonds I have 
 heard ! " Brava ! Brava ! Encore ! Encore ! " they 
 shout, till the house fairly trembles. 
 
 [Song can be introduced if desired.) 
 
 Bee. Well, cherie— I'm off (kisses her) ; if the Dae 
 de Loire comes, ask him to wait. I'll be back soon. 
 
 (Exit Beenaedus.) 
 
 Fav. (alone by chair. ) Now, I wonder if I do look 
 like a perfect fright in this bonnet ! Oh, dear ! it's 
 a nasty, horrid thing ! ( Throwing it on thejioor and 
 going to window.) Now look at that lovely lady just 
 getting out of her carriage — what a duck of a bonnet 
 that is ! Oh, heavens ! is it ? — no — yes — no — yes, 
 it is Madame Angelique. (Throws open window.) 
 I should so love to speak to her. (Bus.) Madame ! 
 (calls out,) look up ! (draws back). What will she 
 think of me ? Oh ! she's coming in this house — up 
 the stairs — who can she want to see ? 
 
 (Exits, in a moment returns ivith Angelique, almost 
 pulling her into the room.) 
 
 Oh, madame, have you come to see me ? 
 
 28 
 
Ang. {laughing.) You, child ? Why, who are you ? 
 
 Fav. I'm Favette — I've seen you so often at the 
 theatre that I thought — 
 
 Ang. That I had come to see you, now ? Oh ! 
 no, I came to see a man who writes songs for me, 
 and who lives on the floor above. By-by — [going). 
 
 Fav. Oh ! don't go, please. If you could only stay 
 a moment or two — so I could take a long, long look 
 at you. I have seen you often at night — but never 
 in broad daylight, and you look just as pretty, and 
 that bonnet — I never saw anything half so lovely ! 
 
 Ang. As me, or the bonnet ? 
 
 Fav. Both! 
 
 Ang. So you are an admirer of mine, are you ? 
 
 Fav. I think you are an angel ! 
 
 Ang. Here take these {offering bon-bons, holding 
 Favette and looking in her face. ) Do you know you 
 have a fortune in your face, little one ? How would 
 you like to come upon the stage ? 
 
 Fav. Oh, ma dame ! You thiuk I could ? 
 
 Ang. Of course you could. Why not ? With a 
 face like yours, you may have no more voice or 
 brains than a wooden puppet. You need act no more 
 than a stick, and they will run after you. Why nowa- 
 days you needn't even be really pretty ! 
 
 Fav. No ? 
 
 Ang. No ! the thing is, to make people think you 
 are — that answers every purpose. {Looking around. ) 
 You are poor, I suppose ? 
 
 Fav. I suppose so — 
 
 Ang. Of course you are. Well, come to me to- 
 morrow at that address {giving card), and I will see 
 what I can do for you. 
 
 29 
 
Fav. And I shall have all those beautiful dresses, 
 and all that applause, just like you ? 
 
 Ang. Tour voice shall be cultivated — you have it 
 in you, that I can see. And even if you have no 
 talent, it will matter nothing. Walk well — dress 
 superbly— do strange things — the odder the better — 
 break your contracts — go abroad ! Oh ! anything, 
 and you'll make your fortune, though you can sing 
 no more than a squeaking doll at a fair. 
 
 Fav. Oh ! But I want to be great ! 
 
 Ang. Oh, nonsense ! nonsense ! When a woman 
 passes through a crowd, and the people push and 
 and elbow each other just for a glimpse at her face, 
 or her toilet, and look back at her, and say to one 
 another, "There she is," — "Did you see her? — 
 that is she ! " has she not greatness ! Ha ! Ha ! 
 the best of greatness ! 
 
 Fav. Well, I suppose you must know, I only want 
 to be like you. 
 
 Ang. Like me [pauses — shrugs shoulders). Ah, 
 yes— it is always out of such as you that women like 
 me are made. • 
 
 Fav. Oh ! is it ? then I shall be like you ? 
 
 Ang. Well, yes — if you are bent upon it, you shall 
 be just like me ! 
 
 (Bebnaedus — who has entered. ) 
 
 Bee. And if I thought so, I would kill her where 
 
 she stands ! 
 
 Ang. Monsieur, who are you that dare — 
 
 Bee. I am master of my own house, and I tell you 
 
 to leave it. 
 
 30 
 
Ang. You dare insult me, sir ? 
 
 Ber. I was never rude to a woman before in my 
 life — but there is the door. I command you to go. 
 
 Ang. As you please, monsieur [going), but you 
 will regret this insolence, believe me you shall. 
 
 (Exit) 
 
 Fav. Was that w.ong too ? 
 
 Bek. My darling ! — not wrong in you — but, great 
 heavens — why cannot they let you be ? 
 
 Fav. But you said you would rather kill me than 
 let me be like her. Why ? (Goes to stove.) 
 
 Ber. Favette, — that woman broke the heart of 
 an honest man who loved her. 
 
 Fav. Broke his heart ? Oh ! how did she do it ? 
 
 Ber. She was the wife of poor Maurice Brentot, 
 Ihe fisherman, — you know. 
 
 Fav. She the wife of poor mad Maurice in our 
 village ? 
 
 Ber. Yes — she deserted him, and came to Paris— 
 and he — he loved her so passionately that her loss 
 killed his reason, and made him what he is. Would 
 you not rather die in poverty and obscurity than do 
 that? 
 
 Fav. Yes — (stirring soup at stove,) but Paris is so 
 lovely, and such an exquisite life she must lead. 
 How happy she must be. 
 
 Ber. Oh yes — possibly she is happy — without 
 soul — without pity— without honor. Exquisite. 
 
 Fav. But she looks so pretty ! (Cooling some soup 
 in ladle.) 
 
 Ber. Pshaw ! don't you know what is false when 
 
 31 
 
you see it ? the red of her lips — the flush of her 
 cheek — the tears and the laughter you by turns think 
 so divine — they are all lies ! Favette, did you ever 
 hear Maurice Brentot's story ? 
 
 Fav. Yes — I think so — taste the soup — um ! it's 
 good ! 
 
 Ber. No, child, no ! Well, he married her and 
 was so happy in his sea-side cabin, with his wife and 
 little girl ; and one day, when the child was only a 
 few months old, he went on a short cruise, to be 
 gone only one day — and when he returned at night — 
 both wife and child were gone — gone ! the cruel 
 blow killed his reason and has made him what you 
 see. 
 
 Fav. Poor Maurice ! 
 
 Bee. Well ! which are your sympathies with now, 
 your goddess Angelique, or the poor sailor, whom 
 she wronged and forsook ? 
 
 Fav. She was wrong — cruel and wicked. But 
 then he was content with the life — she was not. He 
 had his boats and nets — and fishing — 
 
 Bee. So ! discontent is pretext enough for in- 
 gratitude {turning to easel — aside), what better than 
 the fate of poor Maurice should I get, if I sought 
 to win her love ! (Sits at easel and paints. Knock 
 at door. Favette opens it. ) 
 
 (Enter Due and Duchess de Loiee.) 
 
 Due. Ah ! Bernardus, I have brought my mother 
 to see the picture. Bernardus, my mother ; and 
 this mother, is the little girl in whose story you took 
 such an interest. (Joins Beenaedus at easel.) 
 
 32 
 
Duch. Ah, my child, do you know who I am ? 
 
 Fav. Are you a fairy ? 
 
 Duch. Fairy ! No, child. I am the Duchess de 
 Loire [laughing); not a fairy, though I may do as 
 well, perhaps. Li3t me look at you. Yes, you are 
 pretty ! In a year or two, with culture and dress, 
 you will be beautiful. 
 
 (Duchess and Favette converse apart. Bernardus 
 and Due de Loire. ) 
 
 Ber. Your off.;r is kind, Due, but what good 
 would it do to let her go on this visit to your house. 
 She would only acquire tastes that could never be 
 gratified. She is ready now to rebel at her lot. 
 
 Due. But such a child, Bernardus ; believe me it 
 will be impossible to teach her contentment in 
 poverty. 
 
 Duch. [to Favette.) How would you like to come 
 and live with me ? 
 
 Fav. To live with you ? Oh ! But I cannot, I— 
 I dare not — he was so angry with me about the 
 Prince and about Angelique. No, I cannot go. 
 
 Ber. {coming down.) Thank you, my waif. You 
 have been faithful under trial — which Peter, 
 whom people call "Saint," was not. May I ask, 
 madame, to what you are tempting her ? 
 
 ( To Duchess. ) 
 
 Duch. My son is interested in the child — she is 
 beautiful — she is unfortunate. 
 
 Ber. (turning to Duchess.) Unfortunate ! Favette, 
 go to your room. (Favette exits. ) Unfortunate ! 
 How, madame ? 
 
Duch. Yes, she occupies a terrible position. 
 
 Ber. And why, madame ? 
 
 Duch. The position of any child, just growing to 
 womanhood, must be so, with no friend but a man 
 who is not her father, and who does not propose to 
 become her husband {gazing at Bernardus steadily 
 through glasses). 
 
 Ber. I— I thank you, madame, for showing me a 
 danger I had entirely overlooked. What is it you 
 would offer her ? 
 
 Duch. I offer her my countenance. If she should 
 come beneath my roof a few weeks I could then de- 
 termine what could be made of her. 
 
 Ber. Made of her ! You mean that you would 
 amuse yourself with her for a while. Unfit her for 
 the life which is simplest and best for her — for her 
 to be a patronized thing on whom great people can 
 vent their ennui and spleen — I perceive nothing, 
 in such benefits, madame, deserving of her grati- 
 tude, or my acceptance. 
 
 Duch. Whether it be ignorance or ingratitude on 
 your part, your insolence is sufficient to frustrate all 
 my efforts for the young girl's welfare. ( To Due. ) 
 My son, I predicted the outrage I should receive 
 from this — gentleman — in gratifying your wishes 
 against my own judgment. 
 
 Ber. " Outrage " ! By heaven, madame ! would 
 you admit the title of any stranger to claim one of 
 your lap dogs ? Favette has as much interest for 
 me, as your greyhounds have for you. 
 
 Duch. My son, oblige me by taking me to my 
 carriage. 
 
 {Exeunt Duchess and Due.) 
 
Beb. What has any living thing to do with Fa- 
 vette, save myself ! Because I cannot keep her in 
 luxury, can I lay no claim to the life I saved ? Be- 
 cause I found her nameless and penniless, is that 
 any reason why the first stranger who fancies her 
 has stronger claim to her existence than I ? 
 
 {Enter Due.) 
 
 Due. You do not understand my mother, Ber- 
 nardus. Forgive me, if I speak quite plainly — but 
 tell me, what is it you intend to do with this child ? 
 
 Ber. I deny the right of any man to ask that 
 question. 
 
 Due. Listen, Bernardus, you will scarcely be en- 
 abled to continue much longer your present relation- 
 ship with her. 
 
 Ber. And why ? 
 
 Duo. Reflect — you have no parentage to her — can 
 you be the sole protector of her life, without sub- 
 jecting her to injurious suspicions ? Will the world 
 give you credit for your disinterestedness ? 
 
 Ber. Pshaw ! Have I ever lived for the world ? 
 That scarecrow and bugbear of millions of fools ! 
 We forget it — it can afford to forget us — a Bohemian 
 and a foundling. 
 
 Due. You can forget it, but she cannot — for the 
 world will not forget her— if she is not your 
 daughter, not your wife. 
 
 Ber. You find strange eloquence — are you her 
 lover too ? {rising. ) 
 
 Due. You know me better than that. No, Ber- 
 nardus, I have no title to dictate to you; but for 
 
her sake — reflect before you stand between her and 
 my mother's protection. 
 
 Bee. De Loire, you are a noble fellow but — but — 
 Duo. I will be at home an hour from now. What- 
 ever your decision, let me know, and believe me 
 my friendship is always yours. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Ber. Marry her, and have the fate of Mad Mau- 
 rice ! Take from gratitude what would not be given 
 through love ! My God ! for the first time in my 
 life, I wish I had not thrown away my birthright. 
 ( Bows head on easel. ) 
 
 Fav. (Outside.) Bernardus, may I come in ? Ber- 
 nardus ! (Enters.) Have you sent away my fairy ? 
 Was she a fairy ? she looked so exactly like one, and 
 nothing but a fairy could have promised all she did. 
 
 Ber. What a child you are ! Fairy, no, do you 
 suppose fairies are real things ? 
 
 Fav. Grandmere does. But tell me, why did you 
 send her away ? May I go and see her ? she must 
 be very great, and oh ! those diamonds on her 
 fingers. 
 
 Ber. Favette ! You will drive me mad — not 
 another word of her. 
 
 Fav. Forgive me, Bernardus — I did not mean to 
 make you angry (kneeling beside him). Bernardus, 
 can you forgive me ? 
 
 Ber. My darling ! I could forgive you anything. 
 Ah, Favette, I know not what fate may be in store 
 for you, I have tried to teach you right, tried to 
 keep you pure and upright, but if with years, you 
 should become the guiltiest woman that ever broke 
 
the heart of man I should have pardon for you. My 
 child, can you not even dream what love is ? 
 
 Fav. Oh, indeed, I do love you very, very much. 
 {Putting her arms around him.) 
 
 Ber. Tell me, Favette, and think well before you 
 reply. Could my love content you, if you wandered 
 with me always, were never separated from me. 
 Could you be happy, child, with me, sharing my 
 life and my love — would you sigh, then, for the 
 gifts of the rich, or the triumphs of the stage ? 
 
 Fav. I don't know— I am always happy with you— 
 only — it is to be great too, that I want. It is not 
 because I am ungrateful, not because I do not love 
 you and Grandmere with my whole soul — but I 
 know, if you take me back to the cottage and leave 
 me there week after week — month after month — 
 through the long dreary winter —I should just, die ! 
 don't, please, please don't take me back ! {kneeling 
 sobbing). 
 
 Ber. [standing.) So it is all over ! (Kisses Fa- 
 vette, places her on so/a.) Her heart is set upon 
 some far different life than any I can offer her. I 
 cannot keep her in peace, and I dare not keep her 
 in misery. I must let the bright bird which I 
 cherish go from me to the light and sunshine she 
 desires. It is bitter — bitter, but she shall be hap- 
 py — I will go to the Due de Loire and accept their 
 offer. Favette, my child, do not weep, you will kill 
 me. Favette, I am going to arrange a plan which 
 I think will make you happy, I am going to let you 
 (sob). Oh ! I cannot talk to you now— my child, 
 my love ! (Catches her in his arms, and puts her 
 
 aside.) Farewell ! 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
Fav. What could he mean ? He grows so strange — 
 and he is so cruel — cruel — although he pretends to 
 love me. He sent away my prince, he will not let 
 me go to Angelique or on the stage; and now my 
 fairy, my lovely old fairy, he won't even let me go 
 to her ! Oh dear ! oh dear ! oh dear ! (slams and 
 bolts door.) 
 
 (Exits crying.) 
 
 (Enter Page whistling, looks around, and finding 
 himself alone. ) 
 
 "What nobody here ! Well, Madame Angelique 
 told me to wait, I must obey orders. ( Whistles pre- 
 lude, then sings.) 
 
 Page's Song. 
 
 I'm the Serio-Comique 
 
 Of the Theatre Olympique, 
 And I used to sing and dance upon the stage; 
 
 But my antics were so queer, 
 
 So very, very queer, 
 The manager discharged me in a rage. 
 
 (Grotesque dance.) 
 
 Then Madame Angelique, 
 
 Star of the Olympique, 
 Thinking me so very clever, for my age; 
 
 Said, if I would be good, 
 
 Oh, so very, very good, 
 She'd take me for her own little Page. 
 
 (Dance.) 
 
 38 
 
Now I only sing and dance, 
 
 Her pleasure to enhance, 
 And I hardly ev — [breaks off) 
 I mean I very seldom go upon the stage; 
 
 But for fun upon the sly 
 
 I let no chance go by — 
 For I'm up to all the dodges of the age. 
 
 (Sees Favette, who enters, and calls :) 
 
 Hist ! mademoiselle ! Are you Mile. Favette ? 
 
 Fav. Who are you ? 
 
 Page. I was formerly an artist. Now a simple 
 menial. 
 
 Fav. What do you want ? 
 
 Page. My mistress, Madame Angelique, sent me 
 to say that she wishes to see you again (giving card). 
 
 Fav. Wishes to see me ! Where is she ? 
 
 Page. Tn her carriage at the corner, mademoiselle. 
 
 Fav. Oh I cannot — I dare not, he has forbidden 
 me. 
 
 Page (coaxingly.) It is only to speak to you. 
 She is waiting. 
 
 Fav. There can't be much harm in that — and he 
 has been cruel to me. Yes — I will go (throwing 
 hood over her head). Just to speak to her, you 
 
 know. Come, let us go. 
 
 (Exit ) 
 
 Page (Itughing.) This is madame's little game, 
 it's a trick, an abduction I call it : She won't get 
 back as easily as she thinks ! 
 
 (Exit Picot, whistling.) 
 
 (Quick Curtain.) End of Scene First. 
 
SCENE SECOND. 
 
 Boudoir in the House of Angelique, very elegant. 
 
 (Angelique and Lord Adolphus discovered laughing 
 heartily. ) 
 
 Adol. [behind sofa.) Where is she ? 
 
 Ang. (on sofa.) Hush, Dolly, don't make such a 
 noise, she's in that room dressing (pointing). 
 
 Adol. Let ine go and see her (going). 
 
 Ang. You just stay where you are. 
 
 Adol. Why? 
 
 Ang. It would spoil everything if she saw you 
 now. 
 
 Adol. I suppose you must have your own way. 
 Well, you think she loves me ? (Seating himself 
 beside Angelique. ) 
 
 Ang. Not the least bit in the world. 
 
 Adol. (making wry face.) No ? 
 
 Ang. No, and if she knew you were here, nothing 
 could persuade her to remain. I've had trouble 
 enough with her. 
 
 Adol. You're clever, Angelique, you've managed 
 this affair beautifully. You did not meet that boor 
 of a Bernardus, I hope ? 
 
 Ang. Yes. 
 
 Adol. You did ! What did he say to you ? 
 
 Ang. He ordered me from the house (airily, im- 
 itating, rising), Madame, this is my house, there is 
 the door — go ! 
 
 Adol. And you ? 
 
 40 
 
Ang. Oh yes — I went— I didn't stop to argne the 
 point with him. Do you know, I hate that man — 
 such an air ! and oh ! such a look ! Now, if looks 
 could kill, I should have been annihilated. 
 
 Adol. But fortunately they cannot. Well, tell 
 me all about it. 
 
 Ang. Well, it was too funny. She was looking 
 out of the window — I pretended not to see her. 
 When she saw me, I thought the little fool would 
 go wild. I quietly went in the house — she met me 
 on the stairs — and, almost pulling me into the room, 
 asked me if I had come to see her — I pretended not 
 to know who she was — ha ! ha ! and guess what I 
 said? 
 
 Adol. Something clever, of course. 
 
 Ang. I said I had come to see a man on the next 
 floor, and who wrote songs for me {laughing). 
 
 Adol. You are clever. Who but you would have 
 thought of such an ingenious ruse ? {Both laugh- 
 ing. Knock, at door.) 
 
 Ang. Hush, here she is — 
 
 ( Enter Favette, dances gayly into room singing. ) 
 
 Fav. There, I'm all ready— Don't I look pretty ? 
 (Stops short and points to Adolphus) O — h ! 
 Adol. My little truant ! I see you at last ! 
 Fav. I must not speak to you. 
 
 {Exit Angelique. ) 
 
 Adol. Don't be cruel — 
 
 Fav. Bernardus told me I must never notice you 
 again. 
 
 Adol. You will break my heart. See how you 
 have treated me. 
 
 41 
 
Fav. Well, I know — but I couldn't help it. 
 
 Adol. Oh, my little angel. I have missed you so 
 much (tries to embrace her). 
 
 Fav. Don't ! Stop ! 
 
 Adol. Well, I won't; I am never going to let yon 
 go from me again. 
 
 Fav. What do you mean ? 
 
 Adol. I mean that I love you — and that you are- 
 mine. 
 
 Fav. Let me go, or I'll call Madame Angelique, 
 
 Adol. Don't you love me ? (Kisses her.) 
 
 Fav. Just for that — I hate you. (Breaks away. 
 Tries door — it is locked.) Madame ! Madame An- 
 gelique ! Oh, madame. (Scuffle outside.) Help! 
 help ! 
 
 Ber. (oidside.) Hands off, man — I tell you I will 
 enter. 
 
 (Enter Bernardus, followed by Angelique, Servants, 
 
 and Guests.) 
 
 Ber. Favette, my child ! I have found you at 
 last. 
 
 Ang. (standing between Favette and Bernardus.) 
 Monsieur, how do you dare intrude into my house. 
 
 Ber I came for that child. 
 
 Ang. She shall not go with you. Be still, child. 
 Now, sir ; oblige m e by leaving this house, of which 
 I am the mistress. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Ber. Decidedly, madame, when she accompanies 
 me. 
 
 Fav. (to Angelique, who is holding her.) You hurt 
 
Ang. Monsieur, there is the door— I command 
 you to go ! 
 
 Fav. Why do you laugh ? 
 
 Ang. I have turned the tables on him, that is all ! 
 He ordered me from his house — he shall now be turned 
 from mine. 
 
 Fav. Oh ! Now I see how wicked you are ! you 
 laugh because you have made me disobey him. It 
 is Satan who laughs just so, when people are wicked. 
 ( To Bernabdus. ) I never meant to grieve you, I 
 only meant to grow great and be a pleasure and a 
 glory to you instead of a burden — as she said I 
 was— and I loved her so — that woman — I thought 
 she was an angel ! 
 
 Ang. Love me still. You will regret it, if you 
 leave me. Will you go back to poverty with that 
 man, when I tell you that I will give everything 
 you desire. Come now, choose between us. 
 
 Fav. I prefer him a thousand times {rushes to 
 
 Bee. My child ! [to Favette. Turning to Ange- 
 lique.) One cannot kill such things as you — you 
 murder body and soul— yet we must let you go free, 
 because you are " woman" — because you can crouch 
 and shelter beneath the shield of the sex you out- 
 rage ! Were I to set my heel upon your throat, I 
 should do no more guilt than if I strangled the life 
 from an adder. The tigress and the leopardess are 
 tender beside you. Brutes though they be they do 
 not drive the young of their own kind down to 
 slaughter and destruction ! 
 
 Ang. Separate them ! Turn that man from my 
 house, I say ! Do you hear ? 
 
Ber. And I say, let them try it if they dare ! 
 Bah ! Cowards that you are. These are the only 
 friends a woman like you can have. In prosperity 
 they are with you, but in adversity, not a single 
 hand is raised in your defence ! 
 
 Adol. Insolent scoundrel — take that (draws pis- 
 tol : Favette knocks it from his hand to floor, then 
 picks it up and aims it at Adolphus) . 
 
 Fav. It is you who are the insolent scoundrel and 
 if you move one step you will " take that" yourself. 
 So there now ! 
 
 ( Tableau — Bernardus and Favette going. Adol- 
 phus held back by Guests.) 
 
 ( Curtain. ) 
 
 End of Act Second. 
 
 A lapse of five years takes place between this act a?id 
 the one following. 
 
ACT THIRD. 
 
 Drawing-room in Eakl of Esmond's house. Large 
 windows opening back. Julie and Jacques dis- 
 covered. 
 
 Jac. [giving flowers.) These flowers are to dec- 
 orate this room, and these are for Mile, de Loire. 
 Lord Esmond picked them for her with his own 
 hands. 
 
 Jul. He don't do that for all the ladies visiting 
 here. 
 
 Jac. I should think not. And Julie, here is a 
 little rose for yourself. 
 
 Jul. Ah ! thanks, awfully (pins it in her dress). 
 
 Jac. I picked that for you. 
 
 Jul. So I supposed. Now I'll take these to 
 Mam'selle de Loire. 
 
 Jac. Not yet — don't go — stay a little while with 
 
Jul. What for ? 
 
 Jac. To — to talk a little {long pause). 
 
 Jul. Well — I thought you wanted to talk — I'm 
 listening ! 
 
 Jac. That's a pretty rose [shyly). 
 
 Jul. I'm off, if that's all you want to say. 
 
 Jac. No — I — want to smell it. 
 
 Jul. You just gave it to me — you know how it 
 smells . 
 
 Jac. I don't— I forget. 
 
 Jul. Oh — I'll pay him for that fib. Well, if you 
 really want to smell it, here it is (as if about to give 
 it to him). 
 
 Jac. Oh, keep it there. 
 
 Jul. Well then, I will (takes pin from apron and 
 sticks it through rose). You don't have to put your 
 arm around my waist. 
 
 Jac. Yes, it smells better so. Oh — ! (jumping 
 away). 
 
 Jul. (innocently.) What's the matter ? 
 
 Jac. Oh ! my nose — my nose ! 
 
 Jul. What's the matter with your nose ? 
 
 Jac. The rose — the rose ! 
 
 Jul. (laughing.) " No rose without a thorn," you 
 know. What did you expect a kissing me " under 
 the rose"? 
 
 Jac. Oh ! you wicked little Satan. If somebody 
 wasn't coming I'd pay you well for this— never 
 mind, it'll keep ! 
 
 (Exit Jacques.) 
 
 Jul. (calling after him.) All right, keep it as 
 long as you like. 
 
Enter Bernardus. 
 
 Jul. Oh ! Bernardus [curtseys). Pardon me, 
 monsieur. 
 
 Ber. Why, Julie, should I " pardon" you ? 
 
 Jul. For calling you Bernardus. 
 
 Ber. Well, I haven't changed my name that I 
 know of. 
 
 Jul. Ah ! but it is different now. You are a great 
 artist, and visit the Earl of Esmond. 
 
 Ber. Merely on business. Don't be absurd, Julie, 
 and how is Jacques ? 
 
 Jul. He is still on the place as gardener — that 
 was him just going out. 
 
 Ber. Why, what had you done to him ? 
 
 Jul. Oh nothing, he discovered this rose had a 
 thorn, that's all. 
 
 Ber. Yes, I rather suspected that you were the 
 thorn in his side. 
 
 Jul. It wasn't his side, monsieur, it was his 
 nose— but I must take these flowers to the Duchess 
 and Mile, de Loire. ♦ 
 
 Ber. Mile, de Loire ! Is she here ? 
 
 Jul. Yes, she and her mother are guests of the 
 Earl of Esmond. 
 
 Ber. (aside. ) So Favette is here — in this house. 
 How I should like to see her ! 
 
 Jul. They do say — 
 
 Ber. Say what ? 
 
 Jul. Well, they say that — have you ever seen 
 Mile, de Loire ? 
 
 Ber. Yes, I have seen her — why ? 
 
 Jul. Oh — Mon Dieu, she is so beautiful. 
 
 47 
 
Ber. Yes — yes — but can't you tell me what they 
 say? 
 
 Jul. Well, it may be nonsense, but they do say 
 that she and Milord Esmond will soon be married. 
 
 Ber. Married ! To him ! 
 
 Jul. Yes — why not ! It is true he is a little 
 older than she is, but he is still young — and she — 
 oh, she is beautiful. And of the bluest of blue blood — 
 oh, what a splendid couple they make. You should 
 see them when they ride together. 
 
 Ber. And his step-son, the young Lord Adolphus 
 Vane — is he here ? Does he know of his father's 
 intention to marry ? 
 
 Jul. Just arrived to-day, and /think that's just 
 what brought him home — he's afraid his father will 
 marry, and then he'd no longer be heir to the 
 estate. 
 
 Ber. The villain ! 
 
 Jul. Monsieur — will you be angry if I ask you 
 something ? 
 
 Ber. I am not likely to be — try. 
 
 Jul. Well— did you ever see in Mile, de Loire a 
 look of that poor little Favette, whom you told us 
 died in Paris — 
 
 Ber. There is a sort of resemblance — yes. 
 
 Jul. I knew it — of course there is an enormous 
 difference. Jacques laughed at me when I spoke 
 of the likeness. 
 
 Ber. Jacques is the wiser of the two. A great 
 lady would not be pleased to be likened to a found- 
 ling. Let no one else hear you speak of it, Julie. 
 
 Jul. No, monsieur. Ah ! here is the Earl, I must 
 
 48 
 
go deliver his flowers to 'Mile, de Loire {courtesies 
 and exits) . 
 
 [Enter Esmond.) 
 
 Earl. Ah, Bernardus. 
 
 Ber. You sent for me ? 
 
 Earl. Yes, hearing of your wonderful success at 
 the Academy — I wanted you to paint a picture for 
 me. 
 
 Ber. Of yourself ? 
 
 Earl. No, of a lady : Mile, de Loire. 
 
 Ber. Impossible — I cannot. 
 
 Earl. Cannot ? 
 
 Ber. I mean- -I could never do her justice. 
 
 Earl. You know her then ? 
 
 Ber. I have seen her. 
 
 [Enter Julie. ) 
 
 Jul. Pardon me, monsieur, but Mile, de Loire's 
 compliments and she will be down directly. 
 
 Earl. Very well. 
 
 Jul. The message was for Monsieur Bernardus, 
 my lord. 
 
 Earl. For Mons. Bernardus. Are you not mis- 
 taken ? 
 
 Jul. No, my lord; when I told mademoiselle, 
 Monsieur Bernardus was here, she bade me come 
 at once and say she would like to see him. 
 
 {Exit Julie. ) 
 
 Earl. {Looking fixedly at Bernarlus. ) Then you 
 do know Mile, de Loire ? Since she wishes to see 
 you, we will talk of our affair later. Au revoir, 
 
 49 
 
monsieur (going). So they have met before, and 
 he wished to conceal it, why ! 
 
 (Exits slowly as Favette enters.) 
 (They bow in passing — Favette goes to Bernardus.) 
 
 Fav. Oh ! I am so glad to see you ! 
 
 Ber. You said you wished to see me ? 
 
 Fav. You never come near me, unless I do. 
 
 Ber. Why don't I ? You know too well that if 
 you ever thought of me. 
 
 Fav. But I do think of you often . Can you deem 
 me so dead to all feeling — you who were all the 
 world to me once. 
 
 Ber. There is no need to remember that. Others 
 have done much greater things for you since. You 
 are now the legally adopted daughter of the Duchess 
 de Loire. You have all your longed for advantages 
 of wealth and station. You have not needed me. 
 Have you not been happy all this time ? 
 
 Fav. It has been like Paradise ! The Duchess 
 has been so good to me — everybody has been so 
 good, I have but to wish a thing and it is done. 
 
 Ber. How changed you are ! 
 
 Fav. Changed indeed in mind and manner, but 
 not in heart, and that is why I now turn to my 
 earliest and best friend for counsel and advice. 
 When Julie told me you were here, I felt that I 
 must see you. 
 
 Ber. How can I advise you ? 
 
 Fav. Well, I will tell you; the Earl of Esmond has 
 asked my hand in marriage. Mamma is bent on 
 the match. 
 
 50 
 
Ber. And you— do you love him ? 
 
 Fav. Why, of course — you know how I always 
 admired him, even when I was a child — here in this 
 very village. Does it not seem strange how things 
 have turned out ? You remember how I was always 
 thinking and talking of him ; it was my childish 
 dream to meet him as an equal in the great world, 
 and now — now that my dream is realized it seems 
 as if I could not marry him with this awful shadow 
 of falsehood between us — for it is nothing else. 
 Mamma has forbidden me to tell him of myself — 
 jou know how particular she was that nothing 
 should be knowu about my childhood — she has led 
 every one to believe that I am of noble birth — some 
 relative of her own before she adopted me. Oh, 
 JBernardus ! what shall I do ! How can I go to the 
 man who loves me a living lie ! 
 
 Ber. Don't — don't for Heaven's sake ask my ad- 
 vice on this subject. 
 
 Fav. Why ? 
 
 Ber. Can you ask why ! Don't you know — will 
 you ever know how I — [breaks off). Favette, your 
 own heart must be your only counsellor ; only re- 
 member this — if any sorrow should ever touch you, 
 come to me ; then, though you forget me in your 
 joys, and remember enough of your happy innocent 
 childhood, to know there is one who will cherish 
 and protect you against all the world. I must leave 
 you now — your own heart will teach you what is 
 right, and you will follow it I am sure. 
 
 Fav. But when shall I see you again ? 
 
 Ber. Possibly, never, Favette, unless you have 
 
 51 
 
serious need of me. Our paths in life lie far apart. 
 Remember I do not belong to your great world. 
 
 Fav. But they would receive you with open arms. 
 I hear your name continually. 
 
 Bee. It is a world whose follies I despise and 
 whose portals I shall never enter. And now my 
 child I must say Adieu; should you ever need me I 
 will come to you, but that is not likely now. Good- 
 bye, dear; one last kiss upon your brow, it will not 
 leave it less pure for him, good-bye (kisses her brow 
 
 tenderly). 
 
 (Exit Bernardus.) 
 
 Fav. [bus,) Why, I believe I am crying. 
 
 (Enter Esmond.) 
 
 Earl. Bernardus gone ? 
 
 Fav. Yes. 
 
 Earl. Of what are you thinking ? 
 
 Fav. Of him. 
 
 Earl. Candid at all events ; (aloud) a strange 
 character this man. 
 
 Fav. A noble one. 
 
 Earl. I would like to know what first made him 
 the Bohemian and eccentric that he is. Those men 
 who censure the world and laugh at the whole of 
 mankind, have generally been shown a jail by the 
 one, and the door by the other. 
 
 Fav. Lord Esmond, look in the face of that man 
 you condemn, and say, you who pride yourself on 
 your knuwledge of men, whether any single thing of 
 crime or dishonor could go with the features you 
 see — the dauntless regard that meets your own. 
 
Earl. This person is fortunate in your interest 
 for him. 
 
 Fav. {controlling herself.) There, don't let us 
 ■quarrel ; I have something important to say to 
 you — can you hear it now ? 
 
 Earl. Certainly. Why, my darling, how serious 
 jou are. 
 
 Fav. Wait, before you touch me, wait until you 
 hear all I have to tell you — you love me and trust 
 me, do you not ? 
 
 Earl. Trust you— why I believe in your honor 
 and truth with all my soul; if I did not, [ could not 
 love you as I do. 
 
 Fav. No ? 
 
 Earl. I love you because I trust you. With me 
 ihere could be no love without perfect confidence. 
 
 ( Enter Adolphus on arm of Servant. ) 
 
 Earl. Ah, here is my step-son, Adolphus ; you 
 have not met him yet, he has just returned this 
 morning, and with a badly sprained ankle. (Help- 
 ing Adolphus.) Mademoiselle, allow me to present 
 my step-son, Lord Adolphus Vane. Adolphus, this 
 is Mile, de Loire, my affianced wife. {They bow to 
 ■each other.) 
 
 Fav. {aside. ) My prince ! 
 
 Adol. (aside.) She Mile, de Loire ! The devil ! 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 .Serv. Dinner is served, my lord. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 53 
 
(Enter Duchess de Loire and Due.) 
 
 Duch. Ah ! then I am just in time. 
 
 Earl. Yes. Your grace, allow me to present my 
 prodigal son. Returned to be nursed for his> 
 sprained ankle. Adolphus, this is the Duchess de 
 Loire. 
 
 Adol. {trying to rise, ) Excuse my rising, madam. 
 
 Due. (Coming down and shaking hands with Adol- 
 phus. ) Sorry to hear of your accident, Adolphus. 
 
 Adol. Ah, thanks — yes, its devilish annoying. 
 (Aside to him.) So this is the beautiful Mile, de 
 Loire— your mother's daughter by adoption. 
 
 Due. Yes, is she not lovely ! (Then aside.) Is it 
 possible he recognizes her ? 
 
 Adol. Her face is strangely familiar to me. 
 
 Due. Ah, no doubt, one's face is public property 
 nowadays; those who escape the wax works are 
 not let off so easily by the photographers. 
 
 Earl. Now, ladies, if you are ready for dinner 
 we will go ii). 
 
 Duch. Quite ready, my lord. 
 
 Earl. Will you take my arm, Duchess ? De 
 Loire, you take in your sister. 
 
 Eav. Will Lord Adolphus not join us ? 
 
 Adol. No, thank you, Mile, de Loire, I dined 
 some time ago. I'll sit here and think until you ail 
 return. 
 
 Earl. That will be a novelty for you. 
 
 Due. (aside.) He never thinks of anything ex- 
 cept pleasure or mischief — which is it now, I wonder L 
 
 (Exit Duchess and Esmond. Favette and 
 Due follow.) 
 
Adol. (alone. ) So this is the girl the de Loires 
 have picked up and palmed off on society as a 
 "relative." Adopted a "distant connection" — 
 "daughter of an old friend"— so the story goes; 
 and my father intends to marry her! a bastard pick- 
 ed up by the road-side ! I wonder what he will say 
 to that when I tell him. Yet, if he loves her, will 
 that be sufficient to break off the marriage ? No, 
 let me think— Ah ! I have it ! If it wasn't for the 
 cursed foot I'd go over and see Angelique, she 
 would help me. Yes — but why not send for her ? 
 It would be a bold stroke; they are all at dinner, 
 and by the time they return — yes, yes (excitedly sit- 
 ting down to table and writing.) I'll do it. Ange- 
 lique will enjoy it. I'll have her here to confront 
 this girl. It will be a " coup d'etat" worthy of us 
 both, but how to send the note over (sees Jacques 
 passing window). Here Jacques (no answer), Jac- 
 ques, I say; here, you scoundrel, come in; what are 
 you doing out there ? 
 
 (Enter Jacques sheepishly.) 
 
 Adol. Well ! 
 
 Jac. I was only peeping in the window, ray lord, 
 to see if I could see Julie, your lordship. 
 
 Adol. Julie ? 
 
 Jac. Yes, my lord, we had a bit of a quarrel. 
 
 Adol. There, cut that— I won't report your prowl- 
 ing about the house where you've no business to be, 
 if you will deliver a message for me quickly, safely, 
 and just as I tell you. 
 
 Jac. Thank you, my lord, indeed I wil!. 
 
 55 
 
Adol. Well, I want you to take that note to 
 Madame Duprez's. 
 
 Jac. You surely don't mean Angelique Duprez, 
 the dancer ? 
 
 Adol. The same — you know her house ? 
 
 Jac. The little villa just opposite— but, my lord— 
 
 Adol. There, cut that— deliver that note. If she 
 is in, Madame Angelique will probably return with 
 you. Show her into this room where I shall be 
 waiting for her 
 
 Jac. Oh, my lord. 
 
 Adol. That will do. 
 
 Jac. Y — s, my lord (hesitating). 
 
 Adol. Then go. 
 
 Jac. Yes, my lord. (Aside going) There'll be the 
 very devil to pay if his father sees the (lifting his 
 leg in pantomime of ballet dance). 
 
 Adol. (turning just in time to see him.) Jacques! 
 
 Jac. Yes, my lord — I'm off ! 
 
 (Exit Jac. ) 
 
 Adol My father thinks he'll marry, does he ? 
 Nice idea, by jove ! What would become of me and 
 my debts then, I wonder ? 'Oh, no, we'll settle all 
 that. Angelique is clever — she will help me ruin 
 this dainty upstart when I tell her this Mile, de 
 Loire is the child Bernardus carried off from her in 
 such a high-handed manner. She's only been wait- 
 ing to get even with him. 
 
 (Enter Angelique hurriedly.) 
 
 Ang. You sent for me V 
 
 Adol. Yes; you see I could not come to you; I 
 
sprained my ankle this morning getting out of the 
 train. I have serious business on hand, Angelique. 
 
 Ang. It must be so indeed, for you to send for 
 me in this manner; I had guests at the house, but 
 your note was so imperative, I dared not disregard 
 it. (Goes to window.) 
 
 Adol. What's the matter ? 
 
 Ang. It looks like a storm. 
 
 Adol. Nonsense, sit down. You know the 
 daughter of the Duchess de Loire ? 
 
 Ang. By sight. 
 
 Adol. My good Angelique — you can only know 
 Duchesses by sight. You seem to hate her by that 
 look ! 
 
 Ang. I do. 
 
 Adol. Why? 
 
 Ang. Oh ! I hate them all. Why ? Pooh ! how 
 can I tell ? I hate them as cats hate dogs. The 
 dog goes grandly past as if there were no cats in 
 existence. Well, the cat spits and scratches just to 
 show it is not safe to ignore her. 
 
 Adol. You are very candid. 
 
 Ang. I always am, besides I do not mind being a 
 cat at all — it is generally well with the cats. They 
 get the cream and the butter, the warm fire and the 
 soft cushions, while your dog, if it is legalized, is 
 taxed and muzzled, and even if it have a place in 
 the laws, it has seldom a bone in its platter. As for 
 grand dames. Pshaw ! they are only copies of us; 
 they imitate our costumes, our manners, our slang 
 even; and now and then they give us a look — the 
 dogs look at the cat, mind you— and then, one could 
 
kill them. As for this " de Loire" girl, I have 
 hated her ever since she was iirst pointed out to 
 me, she looks so happy, so arrogantly well content. 
 
 Adol. You have studied this young patrician 
 well, it would seem. Whom does she resemble ? 
 
 Ang. I don't know. 
 
 Adol. Think twice.. (Angelique shakes her head. ) 
 No ! Think of a stray bird that once escaped you 
 and me. 
 
 Ang. What, that child, Favette ? 
 
 Adol. Yes, that child, Favette. 
 
 Ang. Impossible ! this woman is an aristocrat by 
 birth. 
 
 Adol. By adoption only. 
 
 Ang. That beggar child, picked up in the high- 
 way by a Bohemian, turned grand lady ? Ridicu- 
 lous ! A little wretch who should have gone to the 
 foundling asylum, been made a seamstress, a fruit- 
 seller, or a ballet girl, at best — it is ridiculous — in- 
 credible — intolerable ! 
 
 Adol. But I tell you it is true. 
 
 Ang. You told me once that she was dead. 
 
 Adol. It was the popular belief around the vil- 
 lage. 
 
 Ang. Then you believe that when she fled from 
 us and disappeared from her garret she went in all 
 honor to those de Loires. 
 
 Adol. I do not believe — I know. 
 
 Ang. How I hate her ! 
 
 Adol. Well, if you have anything against her I 
 will tell you how you can repay it. 
 
 Ang. How ? She has her wealth and honors by 
 
law you say. How can one touch her — how despoil 
 her — how drag her down ? 
 
 Adol. You can fling her story to the hounds of 
 slander. 
 
 Ang. If we leave her her riches — we leave her a 
 herd of lovers — a crowd of friends. Does the world 
 ever forsake what can feast it ? 
 
 Adol. That is true — but listen — she loves at last 
 and is about to marry. One breath of disgrace cast 
 on her, and the man she loves will let her die rather 
 than trust her with his honor. 
 
 Ang. Ah ! And this man is — 
 
 Adol. My step-father. 
 
 Ang. [laughing softly.) Oh! I see now. How 
 strange things are sometimes. Yet, if he loves her, 
 will he care ? Men are such fools. 
 
 Adol. For the story of her birth, no, perhaps 
 not. But for her disgrace— he will leave her for- 
 ever. 
 
 Ang. Her disgrace ? What is it ? 
 
 Adol. You can arrange that, Angelique. You 
 understand ? 
 
 Ang. I can ? Only tell me how {giving hand). 
 
 Adol. Forgive me, Angelique — but can we not 
 say — that — she was once — beneath your roof ? 
 
 Ang. I see ! [laughing). Yes, it will serve— it will 
 serve [exultingly). She lies in the hollow of our 
 hands, to do with as we please ! [Sits at table lost in 
 thought. ) 
 
 Adol. Well, Angelique ? 
 
 Ang. I was only thinking. 
 
 Adol. What? 
 
 59 
 
Ang. She is very great, and your father loves her, 
 you say ?' 
 
 Adol. Yes— well ? 
 
 Ang. Suppose we were mistaken, after all ? 
 
 Adol. But I am not mistaken. Listen, and I 
 will tell you all I know of her. About four years 
 ago I met an old woman, miserably poor and ill,' 
 formerally an opera singer— but her voice had given 
 way years before. You know I never valued money, 
 so I helped her occasionally (look from Angelique). 
 Yes, it amused me. Well, she became very ill — 
 was dying in fact — and sent for me to thank me or 
 some nonsense like that; when I arrived, she was 
 talking to a man and asked me to remain outside — 
 I did so. 
 
 Ang. Exemplary obedience on your part. 
 
 Adol. Yes, was it not ? Well, the man sitting 
 by her bedside was Bernardus. 
 
 Ang. What ! Our friend, the Bohemian ? 
 
 Adol. The same. That aroused my curiosity of 
 course, under the circumstances, I could not neg- 
 lect to — overhear what they had to say. 
 
 Ang. This is very interesting — but how does it 
 concern us. 
 
 Adol. You will see. The old chorus singer was 
 telling him of a child that had been left in her care. 
 
 Ang. A child ! go on. 
 
 Adol. Oh, you are interested at last. This woman 
 said that the mother of the child was going to Paris 
 and had left the child in her care; but sending noth- 
 ing for its support, and the woman being unable 
 to keep it, she left it in the bushes by the road- side. 
 
Ang. And — what became of the child ? 
 
 Adol. Well, it seems that this was the very child 
 Bernardus had found. 
 
 Ang. And the woman's name (excitedly). What 
 was her name ? 
 
 Adol. Didn't I tell you ? Why, Gerante — 
 
 Ang. What ! Rose Gerante [rising). 
 
 Adol. Yes. Rose Gerante. 
 
 Ang. Great God ! Is this my vengeance ! Oh, 
 no, no. You do not mean it ! It is a lie. The 
 child that was left with Rose Gerante is not this 
 child — it is a wretched, senseless, baseless lie ! 
 
 Adol. It is no lie ! I tell you Rose Gerante swore 
 to Bernardus that the child which was left in her 
 care, was the same child he had found. She did 
 everything to prove it. She described the spot 
 where she had left it. Bernardus agreed it was the 
 same spot in which he had found the child. She 
 described the garment it wore. A coarse red wool- 
 en shawl. Bernardus said he had it yet. 
 
 Ang. Ah ! Then it is true ! She, she, that girl 
 who loathes me, is the child I bore, and held to 
 sleep in my bosom; that child who thought me an 
 angel, and whom I would have led down to destruc- 
 tion, was mine — mine — and I the temptress of my 
 own daughter's soul. 
 
 Adol. Great Heaven ! Angelique, what are you 
 saying ? How do you know ? 
 
 Ang. Because / am the wretched woman who de- 
 serted her husband and her home — who left her 
 innocent child — because Rose Gerante is the woman 
 with whom I left Ik r. 
 
 61 
 
Adol. This will be a fuller and more complete 
 revenge than even I dreamed of (aside). 
 
 Ang. And to think if you had not told me this, I 
 would have crowued all my sins by her ruin now. 
 
 Adol. What do you mean ? 
 
 Ang. We must leave her be — leave her to her 
 honors and glories — we cannot touch her now — we 
 cannot. 
 
 Adol. An afterthought of remorse from you ? 
 
 Ang. Remorse ! all the water in the ocean can 
 never, never, wash mine away. Poor, poor 
 Maurice — that sea cabin so dark and narrow, I can 
 smell its sea salt yet. I can hear the eternal beat- 
 ing of the waves upon the rocks. Ah ! Heaven ! 
 I grew so weary of them all. And my child, so 
 proud and pure — she is mine — yet scorns me — it is 
 terrible that — but just. She must never know what 
 I (in sudden fear), what we know. Adolphus, you 
 will keep this secret. 
 
 Adol. Indeed, Angelique, I. fear I cannot ! 
 
 Ang. Oh ! you could not be so cruel as to refuse 
 me. Oh ! Adolphus ! don't turn away — we owe her 
 that, you and I — how we strove to net her and chain 
 her and drag her down to our depths, and she was 
 my child all the while. You will keep this secret, 
 Adolphus; I have many of yours in my keeping. 
 
 Adol. (turning to her coolly.) Angelique Duprez, 
 if you have your daughter's honor to keep, remem- 
 ber I have my father's honor to save. 
 
 Ang. But think — think Adolphus — my own — own 
 child — my own flesh and blood, and I her mother 
 to drag her down. Oh ! on my knees I beg and 
 
 62 
 
implore you not to do this vile wicked deed. Ob 
 have mercy — have mercy — promise me {sobbing). 
 
 Adol. I tell you, madame, this scene is useless — 
 my mind is distinctly made up. 
 
 Ang. AU « (shrieking). Monster! Devil that you 
 are, how could I hope for one thought of mercy 
 from you. Ah ! My God ! my heart ( gasping for 
 breath). I believe I am dying. 
 
 Adol. ( going to her. ) Angelique ! Angelique, 
 speak to me, wake up ! wake up ! (places her on 
 sofa). 
 
 Ang. Dying — dying — with all my sins, my wicked 
 life upon my head. Oh my husband — poor, poor 
 Maurice ! my child — child of such a mother ! Oh 
 Heaven forgive — forgive — Ah! (puts handkerchief 
 to her lips, it is stained with blood, falls back and dies). 
 
 Adol. Angelique. Ah, she's dead— dead. 
 
 (Enter Favette, Esmond, Due and Duchess de 
 
 LOIEE.) 
 
 Earl. What is the matter, Adolphus ? 
 
 FAv. What has happened, oh the poor lady has 
 fainted. 
 
 Duch. Why who is she ? (looking at Angelique 
 through glasses). 
 
 Eabl. (Looking at Angelique and recognizing her.) 
 Send for Dr. Ducarte at once (to Servant). What ! 
 Angelique Duprez ! That woman in my house. 
 What does this mean ! 
 
 Adol. What more natural ! She came to see her 
 daughter — unfortunately she is dead (bus.). 
 
 Omnes. Dead ! 
 
Adol. Yes, dead, and cannot tell the story she 
 came to tell — but I will tell it for her— she is the 
 mother of that woman [pointing to Favette). 
 
 Fav. My mother ? 
 
 Adol. Yes. This woman who is trying to pass 
 herself off as a great lady, is her daughter. 
 
 Eakl. Do jou dare insult the lady who is to be- 
 come my wife. 
 
 Adol. The truth cannot be an insult, although it 
 may not always be pleasant to hear ! 
 
 Fav. Oh, mother — what is he saying ? 
 
 Adol. I can prove every word I have spoken. 
 
 Fav. He hates me — it is some wretched plot 
 against me. 
 
 Adol. And why do I hate you ? Tell the man 
 you are about to marry of your past. 
 
 Fav. My past ! 
 
 Eabl. What do you mean ? 
 
 Adol. Ask her if she did not accept my attentions 
 when she was a foundling in this very village, if 
 she did not go to the house of Augelique Duprez to 
 meet me — if I did not give her diamonds and 
 jewels. It after all this she did not deceive me as 
 she did her other lover, that man Bernardus. 
 
 Fav. Oh mother ! [burying face on Duchess' 
 shoulders). 
 
 Adol. Let her answer if this is not so — and if she 
 will not — look in her face for your answer. 
 
 (FAVETTE/m/?te. ) 
 
 ( Tableau. ) 
 [ Curtain. ) 
 
 End of Act Third. 
 
 64 
 
ACT FOURTH. 
 
 Drawing-room in the house of the Duchess de Loire. 
 Favette discovered sitting by fire in white robe; 
 from time to time looking at clock on mantel-piece. 
 
 [Enter Servant with card.) 
 
 Fav. [taking card. ) At last ! Tell the gentleman 
 to enter. 
 
 [Exit Servant. ) 
 
 [Enter Bernardus. ) 
 
 Fav. O Bernardus, you have come— ■-you have 
 come to me at last ! 
 
 Ber. [going to her tenderly.) Favette, my darling 
 child ! 
 
 Fav. You received my letter of course ? Then 
 you know how vilely I have been accused. I do 
 not mind so much, being the child of that woman. 
 She is dead — let the dead rest in peace. It is to be 
 accused, so denounced. 
 
 Ber. "You forget your father, Favette; he at least 
 was honest and upright — he was a poor unlearned 
 
seaman it is true, but he had honor in his simple 
 martyred life that no wife's sin could touch. 
 
 Fav. Ah, it is not my parentage that I mind so 
 much. I had long felt that all these honors and 
 glories did not belong to me of right but only 
 through the generosity of others, and I had sworn 
 to myself that nothing on my part should be longer 
 hidden from the Earl of Esmond ; I was about to 
 tell him all I knew of myself, that I was not of noble 
 blood as he and every one else were led to suppose, 
 but a waif and a stray, picked up by the road-side, 
 and sheltered through charity alone— but his son 
 came and told his father such things as I cannot 
 repeat. I was like a creature in a dream, but now 
 I am awake — awake to feel my misery and my shame. 
 
 Ber. But of course the Earl of Esmond refuses 
 to believe this shameful story. He loves you still ? 
 
 Fav. Is he like you, that misery and wickedness 
 should only be titles to his pity and his pardon ? 
 Oh no, when his son brought his vile accusations 
 against me, I knew that I was dead to him, worse 
 than dead forever. I told him the truth of you and 
 of myself; I told him everything my life had known, 
 I begged, I prayed, I knelt to him — not for his love, 
 but only for his belief. 
 
 Ber. And he refused to believe you ? 
 
 Fav. He said I had deceived him and he could 
 never trust me again. "Not for your birth," he 
 cried to me, " not for your mother's life, would you 
 be less pure, less honored in my sight, it is your 
 life — your lie— that pirts us. You tell me the truth 
 now — you say it may be so — but it is told too late ! " 
 
 66 
 
Ber. Poor child ! 
 
 Fav. Don't pity me — I do not mourn his love, it 
 is only the shame of it all that makes me weep. 
 Oh ! the difference between his love and yours — 
 you who have never once reproached me — never 
 once deserted me. 
 
 [Enter Julie with card.) 
 
 Jul. Pardon me, your ladyship, the gentleman is 
 waiting in the reception room. 
 
 Fav. [reading card .) The Earl of Esmond [rising) . 
 Julie, tell the gentleman Mademoiselle de Loire is 
 not at home to the Earl of Esmond. 
 
 Jul. [going) Yes, madame. 
 
 Ber. Favette, admit him. At least hear what 
 justification he doubtless comes to offer. 
 
 Fav. (hesitating a moment.) Julie ! 
 
 Jul. [returning.) Yes, mademoiselle. 
 
 Fav. You may admit the Earl of Esmond. 
 
 Jul. Yes, mademoiselle. 
 
 (Exit Julie.) 
 
 Ber. I will retire, Favette. 
 
 Fav. No, unless you remain I will not see him. 
 
 Ber. As you please. 
 
 (Enter Earl of Esmond. Coming down full of ex- 
 pectancy, his face changes on seeing Bernardus.) 
 
 Earl. Oh ! she is with you. 
 Fav. (rising.) Sir ! 
 
 Earl, (to Bernardus.) Tell me what you have 
 beeu to her — I demand it as my right to know— are 
 
 67 
 
you her father, or her lover ? Answer me — or by- 
 Heaven — 
 
 Fav. Stop ! I will tell you what he has been to 
 me — I was a little lost child, nameless, homeless, 
 desolate utterly— dying of hunger— save for the 
 bread he gave me. He was my providence — and I 
 forsook him because ambition bribed me, I repaid 
 his charity by ingratitude and discontent — that is 
 my only crime and it is crime enough — blame me 
 if you will but give him justice — give him honor ! 
 
 Earl. It must be pleasing indeed to the vanity of 
 Monsieur Bernardus to have so fair a champion. 
 Still I think a gentleman would be able to defend 
 himself. 
 
 Ber. Esmond ! 
 
 Fav. And who has a better right to defend him 
 than I who know his greatness and worth so well — 
 I who owe him so much ! 
 
 Earl. If mademoiselle had displayed this charm- 
 ing candor before, would it not have been better ? 
 
 Fav. Lord Esmond, I have now nothing more to 
 say to you, All is quite at an end between us. In 
 future you have no occasion even to address me. 
 When you are gone I will return. Monsieur Ber- 
 nardus will please excuse me {going). 
 
 Earl, {following.) Stop ! I cannot let you go in 
 this way. Do you love me, then, no longer ? 
 
 Fav. Love you ? No. You doubted me when I 
 told you the truth of him and of myself : and my 
 love for you — if, indeed, it ever was love — is dead. 
 Monsieur, allow me to pass. 
 
 [Exit Favette.) 
 
Earl, {turning fiercely to Bernardus.) And you, 
 you are the villain who has robbed me of her ! 
 
 Ber. Esmond, for God's sake listen to reason : 
 she loves me only as a child loves her father. I 
 have reason enough to know that, and I shall never 
 be anything else to her. She would not marry me, 
 if I asked her; and Heaven knows I have no inten- 
 tion of asking her. 
 
 Eari,. You swear it ? 
 
 Ber. I tell you most truly. 
 
 Earl. Then swear it — swear you will never ask 
 her. 
 
 Ber. {pause. ) No — that I cannot do. 
 
 Earl. Then, sir, you are a liar, and have tried 
 to deceive me ! 
 
 Ber For God's sake, Esmond, don't provoke me 
 by insult ! 
 
 Earl. If I insult you — you can have your satis- 
 faction when and where you please, sir. Are you 
 too obtuse to understand that ? 
 
 Ber. Don't Esmond, don't ! Even you can go 
 too far — you will make me forget — 
 
 Earl. What — your caution ? 
 
 Ber. No — but that there are reasons why I can- 
 not raise my hand against you — even if I would. 
 
 {Enter Due de Loire.) 
 
 Earl. Then perhaps you can defend yourself. 
 You are an infamous cowardly liar. {Strikes Ber- 
 nardus in face with his glove.) 
 
 Ber. {Turning and grasping him at the throat.) 
 This is too much ! 
 
 G9 
 
(As they are about to grapple, Due de Loike comes 
 down between them and separates them.) 
 
 Due. Stop, gentlemen ! Stop ! Unless you would 
 be branded with the mark of Cain — (turning to Ber- 
 nardus). Remember you are brothers ! 
 
 Earl. Brothers ? 
 
 Ber. De Loire, you have broken your oath ! 
 
 Due. I could not help it. I saw you were about 
 to quarrel, and I knew the time had come when I 
 could hold my peace no longer. If you two fought, 
 it would not be a duel, it would be murder— for Ber- 
 nardus would let you shoot him down like a dog, 
 rather than raise his hand against you ! 
 
 Earl. He said as much — for God's sake what 
 does it mean ? 
 
 Ber. Not another word de Loire. I command 
 you— 
 
 Earl. He has said too much or too little to stop 
 now. I demand an explanation as my right. I 
 shall allow no flimsy pretext to deter me from a just 
 and proper satisfaction. 
 
 Due. He is right. I must go on. 
 
 Ber. So be it. 
 
 Due. You have heard, Esmond, the sad story of 
 your father's first marriage — they called him the 
 "Mad Earl" — and people thought his madness 
 crowned, when he married the beautiful fisher girl, 
 who won his passing fancy. She was a beautiful 
 creature, and refused they say to be ought except 
 his wife. Well, she was his mother— it was the old. 
 old story, a few short months of happiness, then 
 satiety, weariness, neglect, until broken-hearted 
 and crushed — she died. 
 
 70 
 
Bee. (aside, visibly affected.) My mother ! 
 
 Due. After her death, your father married a lady 
 of his own rank ; and when you, his second son, 
 were born he took the most violent hatred to his 
 elder son Victor, who inherited the title and fortune. 
 He was treated with the most infamous cruelty and 
 neglect — he was even accused of taking jewels. At 
 last, when he was about fifteen years of age he left 
 his father's house and gave up his birthright, be- 
 cause he would not stay and be taunted with ironies 
 against his dead mother. 
 
 Earl. But poor Victor was drowned — his clothes 
 were found by the sea-side. It was the sorrow of 
 my boyhood that he died— you know that de Loire. 
 
 Due. Yes, we all thought him dead, but he died, 
 only to the world — our world ; he lived to the people 
 in Bernardus ! 
 
 Earl. But how do you know ? 
 
 Due. One night, years ago, during an insurrec- 
 tion of the people, my house in Paris was besieged, 
 it was already on fire — and I alone in the house, 
 with only a handful of servants, would have been 
 burnt alive had it not been for Bernardus. He 
 quelled the multitude, you know his influence over 
 them. "You intend to enter here," he cried to 
 them. " Well, it is the house of my friend; and you 
 shall only do so over my dead body." And then 
 the mob turned and put out the flames they had 
 ignited— Bernardus helping them. It was many 
 days before I could find him again. When I did 
 so— I found that the beard he habitually wore, was 
 burned entirely off— and I recognized in Bernardus 
 
 71 
 
my old schoolmate Lord Victor Esmond — your 
 brother ! 
 
 Earl. Oh ! Victor ! my brother ! Can you ever 
 forgive me ? 
 
 Ber. [embracing.) With all my heart — but I never 
 meant you to know, 
 
 Eakl. But why — why have you been lost to me 
 so long ? 
 
 Ber. Because I loved my freedom — my mother 
 you know was sea-born — and stifled under your 
 pomp. 
 
 Earl. And our father's cruelty. But why did 
 you go away ? 
 
 Ber. I was too proud to clear myself of that foul 
 felonious charge — too full of scorn for those who 
 could so accuse me, I remembered only that I came 
 of a free race and bold blood — that I would never 
 live beneath a roof where my honor had been out- 
 raged — never bear the title of a father who had in- 
 sulted my mother. 
 
 Earl. And I have dared to judge you — dared to 
 condemn you, as a wanderer and a Bohemian, when 
 all these years I have but thieved from you ! 
 
 Ber. Hush ! No one must know this. 
 
 Earl. No one know it ? Are you mad ! I have 
 usurped your title and fortune, do you think I will 
 fail to restore them now ? 
 
 Ber. Dignities and titles have fitted you well — 
 I never could have borne them. Besides, I would 
 never touch the fortune or wear the title of a father 
 who so wronged and so injured me. Some one is 
 coming— not one word of this I beg. 
 
 72 
 
Due. But Bernardus — 
 
 {Enter Favette.) 
 
 Ber. Hush ! 
 
 Earl. (Goes to Favette.) 
 
 Fav. You here still, monsieur ? (coldly. ) 
 
 Earl. I wish to beg your pardon, mademoiselle. 
 Oh ! can you ever forgive the rash words I have 
 spoken ? 
 
 Fav. Yes, I can forgive and I shall endeavor soon 
 to forget that you believed of me what your son 
 told you. 
 
 Earl. I believe in you — I trust you — I love you. 
 This gentleman has fully justified you in my sight. 
 
 Fav. You only believed when others proved my 
 innocence — how different. Oh ! how different has 
 been his love for me. 
 
 Earl. You love him ? 
 
 Fav. I do. 
 
 Earl. You do ? 
 
 Fav. With all my heart — with all my soul — with 
 all my strength ! 
 
 Ber. (rushing to her and catching her in his arms.) 
 Favette ! my own ! my own at last ! 
 
 Earl. And lost to me forever (to Due, bus.) 
 
 (Exeunt Due and Esmond.) 
 
 Ber. What am I doing ? this is folly, madness. 
 Favette — do not misunderstand me. I love you as 
 few men ever love women. I love you so much, that 
 it is for your happiness, not my own, that I care — 
 I love you too much to accept the happiness you 
 now offer me. 
 
 73 
 
Fav. Not accept my love ? 
 
 Ber. No — it is gratitude, which you would call 
 love on a generous impulse. You exaggerate the 
 little I have done for your childhood. Pshaw ! 
 What was it ? Floating a waif, one could find more 
 useless ways of spending money than that. When 
 you were a child, Favette, I was more than repaid 
 just to hear your merry laugh— we used to laugh 
 often in those happy days — did we not ? 
 
 Fav. Ah, yes ! 
 
 Ber. And now that your life has turned out to be 
 worth having — 
 
 Fav. But it won't be worth having — without you. 
 
 Ber. Oh, darling, don't you see it is impossible. 
 You have wealth and station — 1 am only a wanderer 
 and a Bohemian — 
 
 Fav. You love me, you say ? 
 
 Ber. Heaven alone knows how dearly. 
 
 Fav. Then, Bernardus, look at me. This is no 
 time for false pride or mock modesty. If you will 
 not share my wealth with me, let me share your 
 position, whatever it may be, with you — let me 
 wander with you always — let me be — your wife. 
 
 Ber Fivette ! my darling. It will be life, happi- 
 ness, heaven ! 
 
 [Enter Duchess, sees; Favette in arms of Bernardus. ) 
 
 Duch. Favette ! my child — what do you mean by 
 this extraordinary conduct ? 
 
 Fav. [tenderly.) Don't be angry, mamma. It 
 means that I am awakened to my own heart at last. 
 I wish to give up all this pomp and luxury which 
 
•does not belong to me of right, and return to my 
 ■earliest and best friend. 
 
 Duch. Return to him ? You surely don't mean 
 to marry him ? 
 
 Fav. Yes, mamma, that is what I mean [looking 
 at Bernardus), if he will have me. 
 
 Duch. Marry Bernardus, why I never henrd of 
 such a thing. 
 
 [Enter Earl of Esmond and Due.) 
 
 Duch. Why he's old enougli to be your father. 
 
 Fav. Oh no, just turned forty, and younger at 
 heart than many boys at twenty. Not a gray hair 
 in his head, I'll warrant; see how he has lived. As 
 Shelley says: " Sceptreless — free — uncircumscrib- 
 ed." 
 
 Duch. Pardon me, but to quote again, he also 
 says, ' ■ Unclassed — tribeless — nationless. " 
 
 Ber. She had you there ! 
 
 Earl. No, that part does not apply. This gentle- 
 man is my eldest brother, Victor Bertram, the true 
 Earl of Esmond. 
 
 Duch. There ! I kaew he was of noble birth ! I 
 knew it by his voice and the way he snubbed 
 me ! there's no deceiving me. Favette, my dear, 
 this is very different from marrying a Bohemian. 
 
 Fav. Nameless — tribe! ess — nationless. 
 
 Due. "Exempt from awe, worship degree," 
 The king — over himself " — 
 
 Fav. And over me. 
 
 [Curtain.) 
 
 END. 
 
 75