<^i> 
 
[Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1884, by 
 
 F. E. DiTMM, in the ofiBce of the Librarian of 
 
 Congress, at Washington.] 
 
 f 
 
 COSETTE; 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Monsieur Castaway. 
 Count 
 
 Jaques, Valet to the Count. 
 
 da™;- Grave Diggers. 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 Citizens, 1st, 2d, 3d. 
 
 CosETTE, The Cause. 
 
 Rosette, A Lady's Maid. 
 
 Countess, The Count's Mother. 
 
 [Count seated, readiug letter; Jacques 
 at window at back.] 
 
 Count. We awake in the morning 
 with new-gained strength, with life 
 refreshed, but ere the day has passed 
 r,he blight of some new sorrow bows 
 us beneath its burden, or some light 
 joy wafts us through the air. What's 
 here; [points at lettei'] may be a bur- 
 don or a joy. I'll ask my valet. His 
 lips will speak its brightest appella 
 tion. Jaques! 
 
 Jac. Sir! 
 
 Count. Come heie! This letter 
 hides woeful tidings, 'tis from An- 
 nette; you know how well the name 
 alone gives meaning to it. Her im- 
 patient soul, her misused life no long- 
 er lingers here. "I feel the chill of 
 death like a sweet peace stealing over 
 all my woes. Eternity is mine!" So 
 reads the letter. 'Twas written by 
 herself, and as she says, upon her 
 death bed. Here's anotiier from her 
 landlord, bearing the answer to her 
 prayer. You smile ? 
 
 Jac But only at thy good fortune. 
 
 Cb'UNT At my good fortune, say 
 you? Bah, sir! If Death must play 
 a part to bring that unto me, I'll have 
 no more of it. I know how free I am, 
 
 "Z^i6>v< ^«^^oU(^/c< 
 
 now that Annette is dead; yet, if the 
 power were mine, slie should be still 
 alive. For am not I the disease who 
 killed her? Then, how can I call my- 
 self fortunate? Wliat gain is mine? 
 If I were a thief, her stores would 
 poorly satisfy my greed ; if I were her 
 moral ruin, for recompense, I 
 could humiliate myself. Than all that 
 it is more to be deplored. 
 
 Jac. You do, yourself, little justice. 
 
 Count Justice is like the judge 
 who gives it; sparing in his decrees 
 the child who is innocent, and the wo- 
 man who is unprotected. 
 
 Jac Justice like that to rashly 
 stubborn. 
 
 Count Tush, sir! You are a scof- 
 fer, whoes sense of justice is to have no 
 ills yourself. Let us digress. I have 
 not told you all. Annette had a protege. 
 
 Jac a daughter — 
 
 Count A daughter then— let us 
 speak so — Annette had a daughter. 
 She must be provided for. What dis- 
 posal can T make for her? A convent 
 life? 
 
 Jac 'Tis true, in convents, they 
 bend the stoughtest spirit, and mould 
 the soul for higher spheres; yet, with- 
 in their walls, one learns a poor idea 
 of the world, and when its gates are 
 open, and the penitent feel at liberty 
 to enj )y life's follies and life's bless- 
 ings, it, more than two out of three 
 leads a wild race to ruin. Let me 
 provide for her? I have a sister 
 dwelling fifty leagues from here, who 
 has a liberal education, and will rear 
 her, teaching beside the knowledge 
 found in books, the knowledge found 
 without them. 
 
 Count Can I trust you ? 
 
 Jac If you judge me by my phi- 
 losophy, you can ; which is to trust no 
 no man unless he be a time-tried 
 friend, nor trust him then, unless ['in 
 being faithful, brings to him a well- 
 paid end. 
 
 Count Then, I can trust you. To- 
 
morrow, go to the village, get possess- 
 ion of the child, aii< I we will immedi- 
 ately set sail for your sister's house. 
 Leave me now, lor I prefer to be 
 alone. 
 
 Jac I will obey your every man- 
 date. Sure, Sir Count, the dtirk com- 
 mencing of your lite will liave its end 
 ing in the sunshine. ! Exit] 
 
 Count He wills me well, but 
 prophecies of luck ;iie always at the 
 tongue's tip, and amount to that, 
 [snaps finger.] Still, could not I make 
 something of my latLe^r life, if nothing 
 more than wed, and llieieby, please my 
 motlier? Yet, why slioidd I? The 
 heyday of my lilV is passed, when 
 yoiitliful passon lose tlieir novel force; 
 so mucli so, that a luetty woman is 
 but a passing novelty. No, I'll not 
 wed for I've been told by our sever- 
 est teachers, tliaL little' peace lives in 
 the lit devoid of love. [Enter Count- 
 ess.] Good mont>w, mother! [rises] 
 Pray, what makes your face so radi- 
 ant'? Sit down. 
 
 COUNTK.SS 1 h'.w come .0 have a 
 chat with you, and as n)y tt)piC;s shall 
 strike the gentler chords, 1 would have 
 your looks reseniMe mine. 
 
 He Goon, dear mother; my fea- 
 tures were not shaped lo smile, my 
 heart does that. 
 
 She 1 nave come with the (.Id, old 
 story, hoping, that being told once 
 more, t'would lead to our general hap- 
 piness. You shoidd lie wedded; should 
 have offsprings to wear your title af- 
 ter you are gone, yet have you so long 
 passed by your most noble opportuni- 
 ties; ahd carelessly, you have reached 
 the middle point in iife. Now anoth- 
 er opportunitv presents itself. Read 
 tha^. letter. 
 
 He [reiids letter j It is. indeed, 
 most brilliant, motlier. but the time 
 when I should have wed, is past. 
 Could I live it o'er ag-am,! might com- 
 ply with your reijuest. Your letter, 
 mother. In youtli, the heart is warm 
 
 and is taught its lessons easily; but 
 in after years, grows cold, and neither 
 the touch of soft hands, nor the light 
 of love-lit eyes, can mould it into 
 yoi. thful shape again. 
 
 She With a day's acquaintance, I 
 married with your father. The world 
 thought us happy. 
 
 He True, mother; but well you 
 know hovy sadly it was otherwise. 
 What is the world's opinion? The 
 feeling of happiness within ourselves, 
 is worth doubly that. If I should wed. 
 I must, at least, respect my wife; 
 which thing, at present, I am power- 
 less to do. Slill, would I, to please 
 you, mother, but I would live the last 
 half of my life in honor and purity; 
 and liltleilionor is there in him who 
 with a cold and hollow lieart, swears, 
 with his lips upon the cross, to love 
 her who kneels beside him. No, moth- 
 er, no; that time is passed; in hopor 
 let me walk the latter half! 
 
 She To persaude my son were to 
 ask the hills to change themselves to 
 plains. T)o as you will, but if you'd 
 lay, in j)ear(\ \our mother's soul to 
 rest, you'll do my bidding. Farewell! 
 
 He [following] Mother! 
 
 She Nay, do not follow me, but 
 track your thoughts, and find unto 
 what end thev lead you. [Exit.] 
 
 CoiNT If I could change my 
 thoughts to deluge my whole soul in 
 sin. I might comply with your request, 
 and, though Annette is dead, her spir- 
 it wa'ks, ami dreams of her would 
 mar the marria:;e bed. -Nay, good 
 motht-i-, ujy sin is yet too bi-oad a 
 stream to ever hope to bridge it, or 
 dieara of thy request. I'd see my ti- 
 tle t. ampled under foot, ere I would 
 send another soul upon this thorny 
 path, this dreary waste, this barren 
 world. 
 
 End of Scene First. 
 
 TMP9t)-007213 
 
ACT l.-Scene II. 
 
 Street scene. Monsieur Castaway, citi- 
 zens—Enter Castaway. 
 
 CA-STAWAy Yesterday, I saw the 
 open grave — a dark and hollow thing 
 — wherein they enclosed the light 
 which had gone out, and now, in dark- 
 ness, do I reach my wav, crying for 
 strength to undermine the earth, and 
 breathe back the extinguished flame 
 to life. If it were done, I'd see the sun 
 again] and feel its warmth. But, 
 striving as we do to check the ocean's 
 tide, and to detain it, task our feeble- 
 ness; that unk\o\vn power stares us 
 in the face, when the gates from their 
 hinges fall and the water rushes forth. 
 Death, like untij the tide, condols it- 
 self, except its coming in and going 
 out 's, — a mystery to all. Does it not 
 seem, tliat Destinv plans a path of 
 flowers for tiie fev.', laughs for tiiem. 
 dances for them, ..nd to the many be- 
 queathes his crown of thorns? A 
 heavy, pricking rmg it gave lo me. 
 How like a stone I passed my 'nfancy, 
 so pass' vein ray passions was 1, to 
 love another, was a sti'ange oeiiciation, 
 never felt; and as far s hating — 
 why, my in<.e--est ne'er reached that 
 height in any human peiug, to feel or 
 know it. And so 1 lived, till kindness 
 melted me. Then came thou. Oh 
 De ah, to sie.d away that joy, and fill 
 my contrite heart with that fier.-e p - 
 sion; whi( ■), unl 1 now, I never felt. 
 Some, ca!' it hatr. So much so does 
 itself arou.id me wind, that every 
 breath breiiihes curses. Yet, wiio 
 have I to curse? Not him who sleep,",; 
 not him wl'o lives; but thou, O Death, 
 thou ravi*,''er of men! Upon thy 
 bloodless soul let curses ; ain ; thy ally, 
 too, swift, fl"3t-ng T'me, who, in his 
 arms, be.ivs victory unto you. Come, 
 you know my hate ; 'out place your 
 hand upon my brow, and 1 will gent- 
 ly fa'l t ) sleep. You come not! Too 
 soon you'd do it, if I prayed to let me 
 
 live. Well, then, I pray to live. Now, 
 it were done, if not too well you knew 
 my flrst intention. 
 
 Enter (1st, 2nd and 3d,) Citizens. 
 
 1ST See, Monsieur is wrapped in 
 gloom. He will not drink to the new 
 innkeeper's health, 
 
 3d They say, he was much attach- 
 ea io tiie one that's newly dead. 
 
 2nd Bah! He saw them place him 
 in the ground, yet wept not. Look 
 now; his brow brews evil. 
 
 1st It has done that since he was 
 cast ashore. 
 
 2nd I'll address him. You are 
 ill. this morning, M. Castaway. 
 
 3d He heard you not. 
 
 2nd Why, M. Castaway, you're — 
 
 Cast Go way! 
 
 2ND Ah, Monsieur, are you the 
 ruler of this coast? Where is your 
 castle? On what days do you wear 
 your crown ? 
 
 Cast Co way ! My anger is so rash 
 I fear it as a prompter. 
 
 2ND Row, now, does this gamin 
 talk? Time was, when he the butt 
 of eveiy jo e; now, he gives com- 
 mands. 
 
 3d And bids us to begone as he 
 would cattle. Let us cuff him for it? 
 Come on ! [They advance showlp.] 
 
 Cast [turningj Begone, or I shall 
 show yon what one man can do, 
 whose only wish is his untimely end. 
 You come not? You stand still? Are 
 you meg ? 
 
 3d H«'s mad! 
 
 2d It's quite a joke. We'll tell it 
 o'er the town. You're riglit, good 
 Moncieur, we were but fooling with 
 you. We are peaceful men, in this, a 
 time of peace. Good citizens, come! 
 
 3d We will tell the in-nkeeper? 
 
 2d Yes, and tlie Mayor. Come on! 
 [Exit, laughing.] 
 
 Cast I was a fool to let them an- 
 ger me. Now, I will go and kneel be- 
 side the grave of the only friend I ev- 
 er knew. Sweet peace, that pictures 
 
him to me, cover tlioii my head, and 
 lee the gentle passion 1111 my heart; for 
 when I kneel, t'will swift depart, frtr 
 it is already gone out of my keeping., 
 Why should I kneel above that piece 
 of- clay V All that I loved, have left it, 
 the smile,' the twinkle in the eye, the 
 words the \\[)s once uttered ; yet,?\vill 
 I, because I loved it wlien in life, lie- 
 caufee, tJove his memoi-y still; and so 
 would I forever, would it bring the 
 marble unto life. But. no, he's dead; 
 and nought there is tiiat will relume 
 thy soul — tiie remedy's unknown - 
 and all that's left to do is, kneel aiid 
 weep. [ExiL.] 
 
 End of Scene Second. 
 
 ACT I.— Scene III. 
 
 M. Castaway, Eugene, Daniel— grave 
 diggers— Coselte. Wood scene. Grav 
 diggers, 
 
 Dan Now, is our work completed, 
 good Eugene, without the aid of priest 
 or pinyer. Tell me why tlie dead are 
 entomb d with such a solenin faceV 
 
 EUG Your question, sir, is far ! 
 yond my ■ 'mpiehension ; '''•■■, ^ • " 
 you. df u I'sa '■ -y; f ■ -■. 
 
 Dan Bui,whei-ef()i'e, have a priest? 
 
 EuG We h- -1 Mupri' '. 
 
 Dan This hn'-i''"s :"i .-v/-pUon to 
 til -t- I-:-' ■■ ■'■ 
 
 Eljg Not 'f you call our rule a 
 generiil "iie, for it r-i exceptio'i wmld 
 le !> h V" a i>: iest. f 
 
 Dan Eugene, you've lost yo^iiL^on^ 
 science. 
 
 EUG In what'- 
 
 Dan In that, you argue ' not, we 
 are in tlie right anc- gainers by it. 
 
 Ei'G In faitli, i argue we are in 
 the wrong, and that tlie priest is loser 
 by it. Come, 'tis growing dusli ; siionl- 
 der your living, and follow me! 
 
 Dan My living! Why, what's that? 
 
 EuG Stupid! Your pick, of course; 
 it is the ooipmon implement of life, 
 andd'jgs us bread at every stroke. 
 Hurry, sir! 
 
 Dan Stop, good Eugene, where are 
 
 the mourners?' - ^ > 
 
 EuG There was but one, and she, 
 a whiniiing brat^ else there had been 
 a priest. 
 
 Dan To a^l.of which I take my 
 solemn oath! 
 
 EuG, Confond your oath! 
 
 Dan But Lhe brat, Eugene; where 
 i:; i\\<: brat? 
 
 EUG Why, ask me? Death has 
 this one, [points at grave] Deatli will 
 uroa!ct ihe otiier. \Vhea you've been 
 at the tiade as long as I, you'll ask no 
 questions; but go about your business, 
 without a thought concerning it. We 
 are only ffJio bury the dead, and 
 not expect"d to shoulder the mourn- 
 ers. Follaw me! [Exit.l 
 
 [Cosette enters from her hiding- 
 place, and tiirows herself upon the 
 grave, weeping bitt-* ly.] 
 
 C().ssh:tte They buried you with- 
 out a piifst, Annette, and as they pli- 
 d their spades, they sang their vulgar 
 songs. Poor we are; most poor, else 
 they hrul not done so. Thy soul shaH 
 1 (^ i/jiint)' d viitbout a tear, 
 '' ; ( ■', for I can Ijoth weep 
 
 a.ii| •>'y. >■■ spirits of the air, who 
 salVly ,.,;:■'' nj"^^:!j,(-s to him who 
 ru'e .■ ;■ ;, • >\'. i i i ;"'g'.t, nnd heaT 
 my Woes. O ui3sl:ery of lii'e, whitfPi 
 le;(ds ns to your act, and in an instant, 
 l>\vs lurhc 1, what have you yet in 
 s' 1- '■ ■■ !;u ; 'M i;reat r evil, sav tliou, 
 than .\ ■■,-, •-: d^ath. [Eit-r M. 
 
 r ■ • ■- -^'if spiiit^. say to Hiiv' 
 
 S,ie liv.l !'. iovcfor me, and for that 
 love, she <'i '; t •'" l)'-; I'Ce w-- 
 pu e, tilO^^;^ -' , , ' sitf Ii\- <] it. 
 
 >j. y ;,o him ' "■ ' ' \ .-f.i ; ' 
 
 C\; TAWAY Wn;'t"s the mat' 'r? 
 
 rs(),;,.:TTK fs{ n". 1; C - way! You 
 
 JIe Wdere is A'l'iette, you cry so 
 loudly a tier her? 
 
 She. (Points at griive) There! 
 
 He Then, vain is your appeal, for 
 when did Death turn traitor to his 
 trade of principles, and give his fro- 
 zen victim back to I'fe? Have vou no 
 
pride; you swell your eyes and choke 
 yourself with weeping!* Shame on you! 
 Look yonder. There's a new naade 
 grave, within whose narrow limits, 
 sleeps the only friend the world saw 
 fit to give me. I saw him placed 
 there, heard the funeral chant and all, 
 yet wept not. 
 
 She Your heart is cold, while mine 
 is warm as youth. I can no more 
 control my passions than I can the 
 sea, and though I check my tears,tliey 
 flt^w afresh; and right they should, to 
 praise, in grief, and sliow the love I 
 bore her. 
 
 He She will nevermore come back 
 to you. 
 
 She Then will I forever weep. 
 
 He Who was Annette— thy friend ? 
 
 She To the world ? yes. In deed, 
 in Jove, in all but name, a mother. 
 
 He Have you other friends'? 
 
 She Nona other. We led a life of 
 privacy. At times 1 joined the crowd 
 about the fountain, but what siie saw 
 of tlie world, was through her window. 
 Indeed, sir, she hated Hfe; prayed ';;to 
 leave it, and m her dispondent modes, 
 she would often say: "Cosette, I 
 would must desire to live for you, but 
 thy prosperity can only come when I 
 am gone." 
 
 He Whv, that was strange. What 
 hi(hlen meaning prompted her to say 
 such things? 
 
 She She held some secret, I sup- 
 pose; some woeful incident in her past 
 life, whicli made her the wretched be- 
 ing that she was. 
 
 He When the watchers were si,' 
 lent, waiting breathless for the end- 
 said slie nothing thea? 
 
 She Yes. She feebly drew my 
 head down close to her's. and v^his- 
 pered something which I did not un- 
 derstand, and seemed so pained be- 
 cause I could not. The watcliers said: 
 "Hush, she is asleep nowl" Indeed, 
 she never woke again. 
 
 He Had she no visitors? 
 
 She One. A haughty man. clad in 
 
 silk and gold ; kind in his speech— too 
 kind, I tiiought— for always, after his 
 visit, Annette was woefully dispon- 
 dent. Once, I asked, "who is this 
 man ; what brings him here. She an- 
 swered, weeping, that day was not far 
 off wlien I should know. I hate him, 
 for 'twas Ids kindness that led her 
 woeful life through many a path of 
 sorrow. I^o longer, though, thy soul 
 has found its rest. Annette! Annette! 
 (weeps, and kneels at grave.) 
 
 He C.)me. come, come; check your 
 tears ! You have no home, no friends ; 
 where will you sleep to niglit; not in 
 the street? Where will you sup; not 
 at Lhy friend's table? Come, come! 
 What will you do? 
 
 She I know not. 
 
 He Why not c;ist thy future hopes 
 with mine? I have a rude hut where 
 life, at least, may be sustained. 
 
 She You are very kind. What is 
 your name? 
 
 He At the inn, I am called Mon- 
 sieur. 
 
 She Surely, you have another 
 name? 
 
 He Along shore, I am called the 
 Castaway. 
 
 She (Recods.) I have often heard 
 of you! I tnink its said, the devil 
 has your soul, and that your hef rt is 
 hard as stone. Oil, leave me, sir; I'll 
 feel much safer with the dead. I 
 have seen your ill-shaped hut! It's 
 said, the devil lives with you. 
 
 He You have heard fools talk. I 
 know I am too seciet iu my work, and 
 too lucky with my line, to have men 
 think well of me; in truth, my life 
 should shape its acts more in accord- 
 ance with ray age; should smile again, 
 and so it vvould,had it another life with 
 which to smile. Did you know, there is 
 such a thing as hale? 'Tis true, and 
 when kindness coldly turns its back 
 it drives out all else, and reigns su- 
 preme. When I look back, I can see 
 gentle faces bending over me; and 
 feel loving arms, which, folding me 
 
closely unto a throbbing breast.saught 
 safety in a lowered boat, leaving the 
 master vessel stranded an the rocks; 
 and I can hear the crash that sent a 
 dozen souls to God, and landed me, a 
 wretched being, on this barren coast 
 of France. My recollections after 
 that, are of masters more cruel than 
 the sea, who set me tasks beyond my 
 strength, and stiflen'd all my jomts 
 with chastisement. Under this rough 
 training, I grew old, morose.stubborn; 
 so mucli so, the village children fled at 
 my approach, and superstitious men, 
 noting my strangness, talked it at the 
 inn, and on the public highways: that 
 Monsieur Castaway — the victim of 
 rough winds and hidden rocks, is the 
 devil's offspring.and that, he was born 
 
 in the sea, and thrown on the beech, 
 upon a stormy night. This, is my 
 story. I offered, in kindness, a por- 
 tion of my house; if you fear me, or 
 feel that any evil prompts me to this 
 act. tell me once more, and I will go 
 away. 
 
 She None but noble men speak 
 thus. Take my hand, and feel how 
 warm it grows.to find so good a friend. 
 
 He Come ! 
 
 She Farewelle, Annette, fare- 
 well! Wait, Monsieur, let me yet 
 kneel one moment by this grave ! (bus- 
 iness.) 
 
 He Weep no mere! We, who are 
 desolate, will join our sympathies, and 
 thereby, join our hearts. 
 CtJKTAIN. 
 
ACT II, 
 
 A Corridor in tlie Count's palace— Enter 
 Kosette luirriedly, followed by Jacques. 
 
 KosETTE Jacques, don't follow me! 
 Stop, sir! I won't be followed! 
 
 Jacques But heed me, sweet, and 
 list unto my sighs, [sighs] 
 
 Eos No long drawn sighs forme, 
 sir! Go. sigh them ro the winds. 
 
 Jac Then list unto my argumenls? 
 
 Ros Xo, no! Why, they are wo. . e 
 t'uia your sighs. 
 
 Jac In what? 
 
 Ros III lliat, they t ^'l a slory 
 which pleases me not. 
 
 I love, or do ] love? - 
 
 What is love irihout hat? 
 My love 's a double love, 
 yty brde 's apussycai. 
 Tut, tut, sir; it's silly. Beside, thou 
 art a canon ball! 
 
 Jac a w hatV 
 
 Ros An oysier. lud'.td, 'nd ■!, 
 sir, your forelock 's thinning out, and 
 by St. Yaientine's day— let's see, ihat's 
 SIX months hence — thy pate w'l) be a 
 desert. Nole this! Beneath a desert 
 paie should lurk no thought nf mat- 
 rimony. In faith, too, thy back 's bent 
 over like a b)w; and soon you'" 
 be unable to even loi)k u;)oii the sun. 
 Nuw wiiat is love without that; "lock, 
 there he comes again ![slrikes attitude] 
 
 Jac Who? Where? 
 
 Bos In mv heart. [He advaiu;es— 
 she retreats, repulsing him.] Tl ' '" on 
 thy intirmilives. 
 
 Jac You jest, my sweet. I have 
 not lost a hair in twelve months, : td 
 mv slioulders are as straight : — 
 
 Ros A rainljow. 
 
 Jac No, as my count's. 
 
 Ros Wiien he says his prayers. 
 
 Jac No, no. wl)en he eats his — 
 bah! No doubt, a shrewisii part is 
 pleasant playing; but you'll repent it, 
 
 mark me, you'll repent it! First, you 
 say I am a canon ball — that's round — 
 then, an oyster— that's flat —when, in- 
 deed, I am the dearest man in France. 
 Very well, very well; I know a maid 
 who thinks me just the plan. To her 
 will I expound my argumen' i. 
 
 Kos Come, Jacques, you know I 
 was but fooling; pray 11 your argu- 
 ments to me. [leans against liim, sighs] 
 
 Jac l' iH-niiig] No long drawn sighs 
 for me, Ma'm'selle; go, sigh them to 
 the wind. 
 
 Ros That was a jest. 
 
 Jac [ironically] Bo. so; but ah, 
 my forelock 's thin,ng out, and be- 
 neath a desert pate should lurk no 
 thought of matrimony. 
 
 Ro' Another jest. 
 
 Jac (same play) My life! Bu^ 
 unhappy peinsr, 1 cannot see the sun! 
 
 Ros A shrewish jest was that. Ah! 
 
 Jac (same play) B'ess thre for 
 that sigh! Yet, tliink on thy inno- 
 sence. Tiiou art so doc.'le, so ciiild- 
 like. [laughs aside.] 
 
 Eos How the poor man w.'3ps. 
 frside) Is that your last obj' tic i? 
 
 Jac (same play) My sweet! 
 
 Ros Then, see, I sweep it from 
 our way. A woman is never too do- 
 cile. 
 
 Jac [same play] Thou art an an- 
 gel. And since 1 am sogood a man, 
 so straight a man, I'll 
 
 Ros You'll 
 
 Jac Tell my ai'^ amen* un'^o that 
 other maid, and she " give me for my 
 pains a world— [strikes attitude] Look 
 there, she. comes, [laughs gleefully] 
 
 Ros Jacques! 
 
 Jac Goodness, what's the matter? 
 
 Ros I hate you! 
 
 Jac ,Eh! 
 
 Eos You area'wre ' ! (w ir'g) 
 
 Jac So is the rainbow ; so is the 
 Count when he Sfys his prayers, so 
 are we all. Thank you. 
 
 Ros No more of your impuden^ , 
 sir. Ere you tell your arguments un- 
 to that otiier maid, in truth, thy fore- 
 
lock will be missing. Think thou, I'll 
 let you whisi^^er your silly nothings iu 
 my e<ir, ;ihcl tlien discard me for 
 ahother? No. no! J.ook to your 
 forel()ck,sir![ lUiiiS nK stage, grimicing] 
 
 .Tag Sd, so, my J'oielock is in dah- 
 gei-; so is lay heai-t. After this, she 
 Shalle.xpoiiiid tlie arguraeiiis,]'!' rrpeat 
 tliem at'ter her, and, thereby, mock her 
 into an undeisLandi'jg. [enter < on.nl] 
 Fovelcck, indeed; it's well my fore- 
 lock 's thin. 
 
 Count What are yon doing ?^ 
 
 Jac Meditating aloud, sir. 
 
 ('or^,T A veiy Iiad hal)it, Jac. 
 ll:ive you a un'oiv'.ge for me? 
 
 Jac iiidci'd, sir.vvnieh \ warf about 
 !(j delivfi. The men who buried Au- 
 netre have Iteeii found, an<l a;e await- 
 ing your pleasure. .Shall I bring 
 them here? 
 
 Count Stay! Know tliey any- 
 thing of Co ette? 
 
 Jac 1 think thev do, sir. 
 
 C .'UNT Why was I not so informed 
 before. 
 
 Jac When tliey arrived, sir, you 
 were vvitli your mother. 
 
 Count True, tine; but br^ng them 
 here. [Exit Jaquts.] Since Annette's 
 death I have neiilier pleased mv 
 mt>tlier nor myself. tShe, on account of 
 my seeming stubborties'^, bei omes ill 
 even unto death. 1 do most desire to 
 please you, mv)ther, ai:d wcnild J, were 
 it in my power to do so; but I have 
 yet, in life, one duty to iierfoim; to 
 And Cosette, to educate and re.ir lier; 
 to mould her true and beautiiul. But 
 where is she? She seems to have van- 
 ished with Annette. Perliap.s, al- 
 ready they liave joined theif loves ' i 
 iieaven. No, no, she ;.till ]ives, she 
 shall l)e found. 
 
 En er Jacques, followed by Eugene and 
 Daaie', the latter frightened. 
 
 Count Come here. I am inform- 
 ed you are they who assisted at the 
 burial of Maduoi Atmette. 
 
 EUG (boldly) We are, sir. 
 
 Dan (faltering) Yes— sir. 
 
 Count Name tiie piierit who aided. 
 
 EuG lie was a g-ood man, sir. 
 
 Dan Oh lor', he war? a christian. 
 
 Cot:NT it is hoped alL pciests. are 
 go.id and chiislian men. His name? 
 
 Dan aside) (Jh,.lof! 
 
 r.ro "Twas. all, ah, ]\tUier some- 
 thi )g- with a wort on his nose. He 
 siioke a foreign tongue — his name — I 
 lieard it ome upon a time, I think 
 'iWa^i Joieiyii oo, and very d'fficult of 
 proiumci.ttion. 
 
 ,DA^T (ar.ide) I'll take my oath toit. 
 
 CouKT Well, well, his name 's not 
 hece.ss,ay. I Talks to J.i ques.J 
 
 EiiG 1'hat was neatiy said. 
 
 Dan I would take iny oath to it. 
 
 Euo Go to, say notiiing on your 
 oath,u'' you may ijave to prove it. 
 
 Cou^T vturning^ Who attended 
 Madam x inietle's funeral V 
 
 EuG Quite a numbej', sir. Her 
 protege, for one; then there was an 
 old man, with a blue cap; and if I'm 
 not mistaken, a young man with a red 
 cap; and, by the way, an old woman 
 with a puiple cloak. It was very well 
 attended, sii'. very well attended. 
 
 DaN How beautifully my partner 
 lies. I can take my oath to that. 
 
 Count" Who took charge of her 
 protege after the burial? 
 
 EilG Well, well, sir Count, I think 
 it was the old man with the red cap; 
 yet it might have been the old woman 
 with the purple cloak; but for ought 
 I know, being very busy at the time, 
 I wouldn't swear it wasn't the yonng 
 man with the red cap. 
 
 Dan Hear my partner talk. He'll 
 live in history, (aside) 
 
 Count Have you seen her since? 
 
 EuG Now, I think I have. One 
 week ago — it may have been more — 
 my pard and 1 were at tlie inn, and 
 the new keeper, who, by the way, is a 
 gentleman of humor, sir. asked my 
 opinion of Monsieur Castaway's Pa- 
 risian w'le. Of course, we laughed, 
 and, at my request, he continued. 
 "Yes," said he, "Monsieur has been to 
 
Paris, and has letuined with a wife." 
 Next day being along shore, and re- 
 membering the innl^eeper's jest, I 
 glanced in the direction of Monsieur's 
 hut; and sure enough, there, in the 
 door way, sat his Parisian wife. I 
 was somewhat suiprised, and more 
 so, pcihaps, as I recognized her to be 
 the protege of the Madam we had 
 buried. 
 
 Count Are j^ou positive? 
 
 EuG As I speak the truth, sir. 
 
 Dan I'll take my oath o it. 
 
 CoFNT Be careful witli thy oath. 
 Jac, who is this Monsieur Castaway? 
 
 Jac a jolly dog. Sir Count, who, 
 'tis said, lives in tiie remnants of the 
 wreck from which lie was cast ashore; 
 'vho lives with no one in particular 
 except hiraself,and another gentleman 
 with an unenviable reputation, called 
 the devil. 
 
 Count This is no time to joke. 
 
 Jac That's his reputation in the 
 village, sir. 
 
 Count Could we approach his hut 
 in the yacht? 
 
 EuG I think so, sir. 
 
 Count You may go; but remain 
 within the grounds, I m ly liave work 
 for vou. [Exit Eugene and Daniel.] 
 Now, Jac. let us be off immediately, 
 and take a peep at this strange Casta- 
 way and his Parisian wife. If she 
 prove to be Cosette, the liar and the 
 oath maker, can rob Monsieur's nest. 
 [Exit, followed by Jacques.] 
 End ot* Scene First, 
 
 ACT ll.-Scene II. 
 
 M. Castaway's home— A strange hut made 
 from the hull of a boat— Ocean scene. 
 Cosette sitting upon a bench— Castaway 
 mending nets near by. 
 
 CossETTE How long now have I 
 been your little house-keeper? 
 
 Castaway Say long enough to 
 know I could no longer live without 
 you. 
 
 She Now I want you to tell me 
 one thing, and you must tell me true. 
 What time 'o the year does the evil 
 one come to live with vou? 
 
 He Why, Cosette, " he's like my 
 evil passions, and comes and goes with 
 them. Now if I'm not at a loss, on 
 certain days in everv year, he, with his 
 spear-like t«il, jiles the pass'ons in 
 other men. This evil one 's a strange 
 device to illustrate tlie wickedness of 
 men unto themselves. Why, he may 
 be with us now. 
 
 She Then say I, thou evU one 
 avaunt! 
 
 He In truth, you've frightened 
 liim away. He will' not dwell where 
 an.':',els smile, and ever since the angel 
 came 
 
 She Re^member, I am the angel. 
 
 He I'll not forget. He's been a 
 basnful friend, (rises) He s.tys unto 
 his evil friend below: "Behold, our 
 Castaway 's a i ail or;" then "Stir 
 him up," the Othe's say. "Alas, he 
 ejects a cioss to c^ard his gates, and 
 in his house an angel dwe'ls. (cross 
 stands in center, back) I'll not forget 
 her name. I "m too much the ■"'^'Id 
 again. 
 
 She Have I made you happy? 
 
 He Happj', too happy ; fo^ 1 some- 
 times fear that fate which has led my 
 misused life ih tough many dreary 
 paths, may take you f-om me. 
 
 She No, no! Who else would cave 
 for me ? 
 
 He I don't know, and yet, I fear. 
 
 She a selfish fc.tris it not? Do 
 not im bor it, for such things make 
 the bri-iitpst miserable. 
 
 He You be i.he- philosopher and I 
 the schola . [takes a seat at lier side] 
 Let us look at tue sea — my scolding 
 mothei — and dream o? a glorion" fu- 
 ture. 
 
 She Look, what a beautiful boat! 
 
 He Saw you ne'er a boat before ? 
 
 She Yes, but not such a one. The 
 sails are as white as yonder cloud, 
 and the hull snaikl^s as '" 'twere pol- 
 
ished gold. That's not a fishing boat? 
 
 He ISTo, 'twas built for pleasure 
 ridirig.' ' it's iuaster is a count, (asidej 
 Strange it conies this way.aad so ueai 
 the beech, 
 
 : She Have you ever seen the count ? 
 "He (watching boat; < > "ten . 
 
 Sue I wish 1 could see him. Looks 
 he lii^e orhei- men? 
 
 ' 'Hk Ex(-(M't he's cloihed in gold, 
 while other men weiir tlan lel :ags. 
 
 She JiOok. the boat is tuvied to 
 ward our Shoce! 
 
 He The e a;e no moo Migs here. _ 
 
 StiE How sw'fr 't comes. Tlsere-'s 
 some one sUti'ig kl'y, whUe the others 
 work. Is not that t!>e ' ount? 
 
 He Boat ahoy! Boat ahoy! Turn, 
 tuin! No sai'euy's here! 
 
 She VVlry, Monsieur? - 
 
 He Boat ahoy! Boat ahoy! Tuin 
 your boat's head unto a safer shore! 
 They hear me. See, how 1 ''e a gill it 
 j;,lides into atM)iher path. 
 
 She (agitatPd) 1 see the count. 
 
 He Well, does he not look like 
 other men ? 
 
 She 1 hate him! 
 
 He Cosette! 
 
 She Sir Couut, as loud as 1 can ut- 
 ter it. I hate you! I hat ' you! 
 
 He For my sake, control yourself! 
 
 She Sir Count — 
 
 He No mo'e. 
 
 She Do you remember my telling 
 you Annette liad a visitor? Ofien he 
 left her in teais; often, he told her to 
 die as she had lived, and she only 
 lived in love for me. He was a count. 
 Monsieur, and yonder tie rests in that 
 gilded bo it. 
 
 He Impos3il)le. Trnpo^.s^ble. 
 
 She D'.dlnotsee him? I have 
 seen hitn befoie. 
 
 He Have you not bcnn misled by 
 his unusual re.-emblance''' 
 
 She Do all counts look alike? 
 
 He They may for ought I know, I 
 have seen but one. Oh, I feel that 
 same fear creeping over me. If your 
 words were borne to him, I am afrf'd 
 
 toi think what ill may come. - - 
 
 She Why should you fear? He. 
 who led Annette to her unnatural 
 death, with life h;ilf. finished, with a 
 secret resting heavy on her soul; and 
 heaped the clods upon her breast with- 
 out a tea , Avithout a priest, without a 
 prayer; coui'd he do but my bidding? 
 He . f ^ o,u had seen as much of 
 wickeni"e as I, you'd better -know 
 the bearLlessne::s ol men. The com- 
 mon ^people look upon: the ijobility as 
 gods» and ihey on them, -as swine, 
 whose death is— weU, for the public 
 good, whose '''-es are held at nothing. 
 From lienceforth be more carefu' 
 with yo.ir tongue, and if hates you 
 bear, couceal theB in your heart, and 
 let deceatf ul smi'es the more secrete 
 them. 
 
 She I will try. If you would teach 
 me all the thnags you know I'd deal 
 more keenly with the woild. 
 
 He As I am, I would not have 
 you; my tutors have taught me their 
 leL'sons roughly, (sits beside her) You 
 would love me more, would you not, if 
 I were more youthful ? 
 She As you are, I love you. 
 He And will forever? [embrace.] 
 She Forever. 
 
 He When the time comes we will 
 w«l. 
 She Which is— 
 
 He The joining of two souls that 
 love has wrought together with the 
 prayers and benedictions of a priest, 
 which gokieu band is only broken by 
 the loss of life, and even aiter that, 'tis 
 said, beyond tlie sea, they meet again 
 and live and love on forever. 'Tis the 
 brightest d-.tam of mortals, which 
 holds you as I do now, and makes me 
 think I hold you thus forever. 
 kjHE We will always live together? 
 He Always. 
 
 She No one can come between us ? 
 He No one but God. 
 She And he is just. 
 He I thought him once unkind, 
 but now I know he holds a flower for 
 
very life, [kisses herjand this is mine. 
 She You make me blush, Mon- 
 sieur. Fi'st, I am yonr angel, tlien 
 your flower; but come, kiss me once 
 
 • moi'eaiid let me go. See, the sun is 
 
 ■ eihanging color. It's time when fish- 
 ermen look to their lines, and little 
 wives prepare the evening meal. 
 --He (kissing her) There, ' th^re ; 
 
 : you're right, for it's an old sa^v that 
 
 • says: There is nothing so poor as poor 
 love, yet often with a crust it is not. 
 Onei more kiss and 1 will go. There, 
 'Chere! Another, should we never m( -tit 
 again. Parewel!. (Ex't) 
 
 She Farewell. I once thought 
 Monsieur WHS a son of the evH one, 
 and now, Ihat he is the 't igh" t spir- 
 it I ever knew. In truih, I never 
 knew another. He says everything 
 so gently, just I'ke our priest. (Jfc 
 ques enters unpir-eivrd.) A'.i, I must 
 learn to play ihe wife, not th'nk it. 
 (discovers ja(^ques) 'Woo are you? 
 
 Jac A gentleman of gie^.t influ- 
 ence, (aside) That vvi" frighten her 
 wits awc.y. Mv name ''< Jacques, and 
 your's is — is-- 
 
 She Cosette, sir. 
 
 Jac Surely, 1 knew it rV the i'-n 
 You are very preity. 
 
 She And did you come so far out 
 of all accustomed paths to r;^^' me 
 that, or have you lost your way? T^' 
 me what brought }on here? 
 
 Jac Your sweet face, ma'ra'selle. 
 
 She Well, yo;; have seen my fac ', 
 why do you liii:?;er he.e? 
 
 Jac To gaze upon it. 
 
 She Ga..e you c fill, you si' ly gen- 
 tlemen, then le .ve me. You se -, I 
 am alone. 
 
 Jac So mucii the better for my 
 precious forelock. 
 
 She If you are a man, you'll go 
 vour way and 1< .ive me unmolesi d. 
 
 Jac For worlds I would not harm 
 you. 
 
 She Then, what would you do ? 
 
 Jac I'd haue you lecive this place 
 and the devil's prime minister. 
 
 She Sir! You do not know what 
 you say. Monsieur is kind and good ; 
 and shall I leave him for a slanderer? 
 
 She But the devil has his soul. 
 
 He Who so informed you, Master 
 Jacques,, your grandmother? His 
 heart, his soul, his mind are as God 
 made them. Shame on you; how hard 
 your heart must be, how near the 
 devil's keeping, wlien you persuade 
 to turn my love to hale, ;'nd ti aban- 
 don him who protect^ a me. If you've 
 a hnart at all, you'll leave me, sir, and 
 pray to be forgiven ihat which brought 
 you herp. 
 
 Jac [aside] Just like Eosetl ■, a'- 
 wavs apt in argument. Ma'm'se'le, 
 tnis is no place for you. 
 
 She Better say this is no phice for 
 you. What is your object thatlshonM 
 go from here? 
 
 Jac My bird, that's a secret. 
 
 She You could better say a false- 
 liood. Go, go, you have no right or 
 business here, (aside) Oh, that Mon- 
 sieur wonld return. 
 
 Jac Come! (takes her hand) What 
 I do I must do, and do it for your 
 good. No evil prompts me to the final 
 step; you must come with me- 
 
 She Must? 
 
 Jac The Count has ordered it; b's 
 word is l;iw. 
 
 She No, no! (sti'uggling) 
 
 Jac Come, tome! 
 
 She I spurn the Count's command. 
 I laugh at his word which you call 
 law. I hate the count. And i*' I go to 
 him I go by force. 
 
 Jac So be ic. Eugene! Daniel! 
 Eugene and Daniel enter from behind, 
 seize her, and in so doina Eugene's hat 
 fall from his head. Cosette struggles. 
 
 Cosette Help! Monsieur, help! 
 
 EuGr She has a healthy pair o' 
 lungs. 
 
 D^N rjl take my oath to it; 
 
 Jac Hurry men! 
 
 Cos HeJp me Castaway! Save me! 
 Exit Eugene and Daniel with Cosette, 
 who continues struggling and crying for 
 
help Castaway enters, bearing a bas- 
 ket on his arm. , -, . 
 
 Castaway Who was it called for 
 help? (puts basket down, looks in hut) 
 Cosette.where are you? (runs to front 
 of stage, finds Eugene's hat) Oh God ! 
 ■She's gone! She's eone! I'll rescue 
 her. [sees boat] There! There! Cos- 
 ette, Cosette, thou art beyond my 
 help. Cosette! Cosette! Now I be- 
 come my old self again- -a lump of 
 hate— The world 's against me, yet 
 Willi battle with it. Cosette is gone; 
 30 is my angel, and for the first time 
 in my life, I feel the devil has my 
 
 soul, yet will I bring her back to crush 
 you, evil spirit, if all my life time 
 's spent in doing it. This work is 
 thine. Sir Count. Mark me, this act 
 will bow thy head in sorrow, for my 
 hate is such it stoop? to everything 
 both good and bad, and though victor- 
 ious now, my victory will come. Yet 
 how vain are all threats; Cosette is 
 gone! My God, she's gone— she's 
 gone! 
 
 Castaway staggers toward, and throws 
 his arms over the cross — Boat passes con- 
 taining Count, Jacques and Cosette. 
 PICTURE. CUKTAIN. 
 
ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Three years intervene between Act 11 
 and Act 111. Street scene in Paris, near 
 the Count's palace— Enter Jacques. 
 
 Jacques Now am I a aianied 
 man. therefore, all happiness has left 
 me. Two years ago, Rosette and I 
 were two, then, on a sudden, we be- 
 came one. AVhat a falseliood that is. 
 to be sure, and the priest had little 
 right to so prviclaim' it. Indeed, be- 
 . fore our wedding day we were one — 
 one in love, one in philosophy — -but 
 now on tiiemes o! bliss— domestic or 
 ()tlierwise — she's half a dozen and I; 
 God pity me! Wliere before our time 
 was occupied with coos of love, snarls 
 and growls fill up the space. Does 
 siielovemeV Oh, certainly— before 
 she held mv forelock tlius. [his liead 
 is bald.] Poor 1, my forelocks gone, 
 [enter Rosette] Women, women, if I 
 had you all assemt)led hei e, I'd pray 
 for a thunder storm and one great 
 rtash of light to destroy thy 
 
 RosKTTE Jacques! 
 
 Jac Eh! 
 
 Ros What were you saying nowV 
 
 Jac Did I speak? Zounds, madam, 
 did I speak? 
 
 Ros Did you, sir? (laughs) Here 
 you were with your arms extended 
 iike a street-vender, yelling at the top 
 of thy voice for .1 tliunder storm and 
 a g-r-e-a-t tlash of liglitning, and for 
 what, sir? 
 
 Jac Do you know what I was 
 thinking of? 
 
 Ros Not I. 
 
 Jac I would we were two again. 
 
 Ros Inhuman, do you! Oh, maid. 
 
 who never yet has wed, take care, 
 men are — are fools. 
 
 Jac Young man, beware, she 
 speaks most truly, for fools they are 
 who wed. 
 
 Ros Jacques, do you love me? 
 
 Jac No! 
 
 Ros Did you ever love me? 
 
 Jac No ! ' 
 
 Ros Then why did we wed ? 
 
 Jac At last, we haVe struck the 
 nail on its head. Do you love me? 
 
 Ros No! 
 
 Jac Did you ever love me? 
 
 Ros No! 
 
 Jac Then 'vhy in the— why did 
 we wed ? Did you propose to me or did 
 I propose to you ? 
 
 Ros I know not. 
 
 Jac Then I am to draw a conclu- 
 sion. Was it a boxed affair, a mutual 
 affair, a muddled affair; no, it was a 
 foolish affair— fairly, a transaction of 
 fools. 
 
 Ros I agree :;o only one, sir; and 
 call myself the victim. 
 
 Jac Hear me, madam ; I said two 
 fwols. However, my purpose 's fixed. 
 I intend to breathe this air of heaven 
 no longer. 
 
 Ros Why, what would you.do? 
 
 Jac Hang myself. 
 
 Ros (laughs) Oh, Jacques, for my 
 sake, don't! One's neck looks so out 
 of place, having been caressed by 
 hemp; and, then, tlie process is very 
 painful, 
 
 Jac Process, indeed; little j-ou 
 know about that. Anyway, my neck 
 is not your neck, neither my master's 
 necl^ nor any other man's, it's my own 
 and I shall do as I please with it. 
 
 Ros True, Jacques, but I should 
 feel so out of place at thy funeral. 
 Now, your features may be distorted, 
 and your tongue may take a queer no- 
 tion of hanging out of your head. If, 
 Jacques, you desire to breathe some 
 other air. be more gentle in the man- 
 ner of your taking off. Exhume thy 
 
heart, examine it, and see what's made 
 of. 
 
 Jac Leave me, madam! 
 
 Ros Yet, be poiiLe enough to sav 
 farewell before you hang yourself. 
 
 Jac Madam, you have lost your 
 reason ; leave me. 
 
 Ros Now, .Jacques, wlien you hang 
 yourself, ventuiv not iu\i.r the forest 
 trees, Init resign your fate vo a rose 
 bush. I assure you, 'twill do your 
 neek less damage, and when v(m have 
 frightened tlie Dush out of its blos- 
 soms, come to rae, I have an excellent 
 remedy for sli8:ht bruises. Farewell, 
 a longfarewell. We will meet again. 
 1 runs off stage laughing.] 
 
 Jac Slight bruises. Uniph! Hang 
 myself on a rose bush. Rose bush, in- 
 deed, I'd like to see tlie rose l>ush tliat 
 could iiang me I'll <dub myself into a 
 —no I won't. To be sure, how fright- 
 ened slie was; slie won't sleep a wink 
 the next fortnigiit— not a wink. Rem 
 edy for slight bruises, neck out of 
 place, tongue hanging out of mv head, 
 featui'es <iistorted; [enter tlie Casta- 
 way] only let me cilc.h me hanging 
 myself! 1 prefer breallung. 
 
 Castaway (aside) I know that 
 face; I liHve seen it before. Wliere? 
 1 tlnnk Ids name, 's Jacqties. I'll 
 address him. 
 
 Jac (wlio lias, and continues ges- 
 ticulating) Hang mys^'lf on a I'ose— 
 
 MoN [advancing! Jacques. 
 
 Jac Bless me; who are you? 
 
 MON D) you not remerader of 
 hearing long ago of a poor tishenman 
 whose soul, 'twas said, th(^ devil call- 
 ed his own. 
 
 Jac Truly your name is Monsieur 
 Castaway. Xow, wiien I come to 
 take a good sqinire look, your fea- 
 tures grow familiar. You're a jolly 
 dOL', a rcugish dog, an exemi)lary dog 
 — a dog to live i)v. Married ? 
 
 MoN I y 
 
 Jac You. 
 
 MoN No. 
 
 Jac Ever loved? 
 
 MoN As I never shall again. But 
 she, like all my hopes— vanished, van- 
 ished ! 
 
 Jac Bad habit, sir; bad habit! 
 Keep away from it, run from it, hop- 
 skip and jump from it! Who was 't 
 you loved? 
 
 MoN Cosette! Cosette! 
 
 Jac Why you're not the jolly dog 
 I look you for Sir, you're weeping. 
 Cosette is a pretty girl. 
 
 MoN. You know her? 
 
 Jac I? [laughs] Now, is it possi- 
 ble, sir, for the devil's son to be igno- 
 rant of the acts which pleases him 
 most; if so, then I know more than 
 the devil? Hist! I'll tell you some- 
 tlnng. I am that gentleman who 
 stole her from your liut. Tlie man- 
 ner of it was quite a joke. 
 
 MON It was quite a joke. 
 
 Jac Yes. You see; but you won't 
 believe it, when I visited — like a gen- 
 tleman — vour tumbled-down, rat-in. 
 fested sliamble, and — as a gentleman 
 — persauded her to abandon you, she 
 would not; no, she argued with me, 
 pleaded with me; said she despis- 
 ed the Count, and if she went to him, 
 she'd go by force. So she did. After- 
 ward, she was ungovernal)le. Slie 
 sobbed for her Monsieur Castaway ; 
 yes, [playfully] you rogue, she bawled 
 for you; but when the Count's moth- 
 er died, Cosette saw the glitter of her 
 fortune, and now she has forgotten 
 you, totally forgotten you, sir. Is not 
 that a proof of the length of a woman's 
 affections? 
 
 MoN She lives with the Count? 
 
 Jac Yes. This is a secret also. 
 To-morrow, her wedding will be cele- 
 brated. 
 
 MoN Her wedding! With the 
 Count? 
 
 Jac With the dev)l, sir. No, sir! 
 AVith the Marques. Blood 's blood, sir; 
 but as ray master says, ''Those who 
 boast the purest quality do not always 
 
boast the purest motives." For my 
 part, I don't like him. 
 
 MoN [aside] I hate him. Is yon- 
 der house, the Count's. 
 
 Jac It is not the Bishops. The 
 window covered with vines looks 
 from Cosette's apartments. She has 
 everything heart could wish, and seems 
 happy ; seems, sir, Farewell. I go to 
 hang myself. By tlie way, the 
 next time you see the devil give him 
 my regards You're a jolly dog. Ta,ta. 
 (Exit)' 
 
 MON Joll> ! I am so very jollv, I 
 could have killed you. Three weary 
 years iutve I given to find thee. Cos- 
 ette; hut not to find tiiee happy and 
 contented; and still 'twas my prayer. 
 To-raorrovv is tiiy wedding day. He 
 said to-morrow, not I. To-morrow 
 never comes, nor shall. How is it 
 possible for Cosette, who has none, to 
 wed a title. No, that kna,ve was jest- 
 ing; for he knew my purpose well. T 
 will rescue her! To scale y(^nd^>r wall 
 and look upon lie-r face again, I am 
 inient upon. Cosette, ^ love you, and 
 for that love, which is not mine, I'll 
 throw this wretched life away, (exit.) 
 End of Scene Fii-st. 
 
 ACT Ill.-Scene II. 
 
 Scene— Room in Cosetr,t-'s apartniciirs. 
 Door at back lending to a balcony. Eiiier 
 tlie Count and Cosette. 
 
 Count Tomorrow, you will wear 
 your bndal wreath, and e'en it comes 
 to steal aAvay my joy; for, ind; :^d a 
 joy y )u have been co me, I'd speak 
 with you upon some matters wh'ch 
 concern your early life. Pray sit 
 down. H;ive I your attention '? 
 
 COSSETTE [iiidifferentlyl C ) on. 
 
 He I have known you ever s'^i -> 
 you came into the world, and h lew 
 you but to love you, and as to-morrow 
 IS your wedding day, it is but jusHce 
 you know w!iv. 
 
 She I am listening. 
 
 He I was the piimpered heir of the 
 proud title 1 now possess. My moth- 
 er, who died shortly after I found you, 
 gave me my way in everything. Each 
 whim that brought no infamy upon 
 our n:ime was granted; each passion 
 lea pid I ourished. My mother had a 
 maid, who served her — a sweet,blythe 
 maid, fresh from the country, with 
 golden hair, like thine, and deep blue 
 eyes, like tiiine. I taught myself to 
 love her, 'out dared not reveal my 
 passion unlo her modest self, until my 
 reckless youth became a reckless man; 
 then had it grown ti) such a 
 height, I thought 'twere vvortli my ti- 
 !le, fortune, all. to even hold and 
 smooth her hand. She loved me; by 
 strategy I found it out. wooed, won 
 her and in secrecy we were wed. So 
 much so were my thoughts wrapped 
 in her beauty and lu-rself, I had forgot 
 lier lowly station and mine, a noble 
 birth. 
 
 She Why do you pause '■• Goon, 
 
 He I thought of that after we 
 were wed, when I had gone too far to 
 ever hope i(^tiiriiing. I brougiit her to 
 our house, and kept my marriage se- 
 crei froin my mother, wlio as her 
 maid she still served her. Soon after, 
 my mother contracted a marriage be- 
 r.ween myself and one eq.ial in birth 
 and fortune. I protested against it, 
 and so, 'twas broken oft; yet did it 
 teach my wife to whom my seeming 
 stul)borness was related, to the world, 
 she could never be my wife. I thought 
 so, too, Hud in her presence cursed 
 myself because I had not been of com- 
 mon liirth. 
 
 She I am waiting for the happy 
 entl. 
 
 He Happy end. I also waited 
 anxious for its coming. My wife, at 
 lengtlj. discouraged and heart-broken 
 left our house one winter night, with 
 this farewell: "God pity us both!" I 
 searched for her until a year had 
 
passed, nor was my efforts satisfied 
 until three years were added to the 
 first, then I found her in a lowly cot- 
 tage with a child upon her knee. 
 
 She What was her name? 
 
 He Be patient 't4i I reach the end. 
 She saw in me the sole destroyer ()f 
 her happiness, and I in her, tlie victim 
 of my wayward passions. Yet 1 loved 
 her and would gladly have taken her 
 to our house, but that I dared 
 not present her to my mother. I fill- 
 ed her pnrse with gold, but she \vould 
 only let enough remain to satisfy a 
 humble life. So she lived, so she died. 
 
 She What was her name? 
 
 He Can you not guess? 
 
 She Annette! 
 
 He Thy motlier. [both arisel 
 
 She And thou 
 
 He Call me father. Let me hear 
 you speak the name? Oh God, you 
 hesitate? 
 
 She When I think of her whom i 
 was never allowed to call, mother, 
 and picture to myself that dnsert- 
 t^d grave on the wayside, and all the 
 woes and sorrows that led lier to it, 
 indeed, I do hesitate. 
 
 He It was l>er will you sliould 
 look upon her as vour friend. Is my 
 punishment to be forever— forever! 
 Count seats himself by and bows his head 
 upon table; Cosette kneels and takes his 
 hand. 
 
 She Father! 
 
 He I knew mv little girl could not 
 be so unkind to me. (embraces her) 
 
 She I'll tell this story to Andrew. 
 
 He That's very right. 
 
 i;,'nE He will ^consider it disgrace ; 
 but better now than after we are wed. 
 
 He No doubt. 
 
 She You would not place that 
 grave between us? No secret there 
 should be 'tween man and wife. He'd 
 read it in my looks, my very actions 
 would disclose it to him. Come what 
 may. he shall know all. 
 
 He Do what is just. I would not 
 pomt the way my little girl should go, 
 for mine was wrong, (both arise) 
 
 She I'll hasten to him now, aud 
 after Having told the story, if 'tis his 
 will, to-morrow is our wedding day. 
 
 He May his love for you,little one. 
 cover my multitude of sms. (Exit Co- 
 sette.) To-morrow will not be her 
 weadmg day. Nobility lias a cold way 
 in forgiving such offences. Nobility, 
 ludeed. liah! It is a name only. (En- 
 ter Jacques out ot breaih) What now? 
 
 Jac Sir Count, I have seen the 
 Castaway. He addressed me. 
 
 Count Well, what of that? Did 
 he speak of Costjtte 'i 
 
 Jau Indeed, sir, he spoke uf no one 
 else. 
 
 Count Did you inform liim of her 
 whereatiouts? 
 
 Jac Yes sir, and he seemed put 
 out. Aud wiien I Cold him Lo-iuorrow 
 was her Wedding day, he became very 
 white in the face, i left him with a 
 wicked smile upon his lips which 
 spoke a uozeu wicked things to me. 
 
 Count You have an active imagi- 
 nation, Jac. Is not the Castaway an 
 ugly man? 
 
 Jac To the contrary, he is very 
 handsome. 
 
 Cjunt Uneducated ? 
 
 Jac If he is you would not detect 
 it 111 liis conversation. 
 
 Count Low bred? 
 
 Jac Not exactly. His friend, the 
 old inn-keeper, informed me once, his 
 father was an English gentleman, a 
 well-to-do gentleman, who lost his for- 
 tune in the wreck that lost his life. He 
 showed me documents to that effect. 
 
 Count Y.ni may go. 
 
 Jac Shall I watch him ? 
 
 CONUT No. 
 
 Jac (aside) In such a case as this 
 I'll do quite as I please, (exit) 
 
 Count I have heard so much 
 about this Castaway. My little girl 
 paints him a spirt of love aud kind- 
 
ness, wl}ile others say he is modeled 
 after the evil one. I would like to see 
 a mail who has two faces and two 
 hearts. And I will.if for no other rea- 
 son than to reward him for his kind- 
 ness, when my child knelt beside a 
 lonely grave, and felt slie had no 
 friend in all the world ; no, not one. 
 Ah, here they come; this is no place 
 for me. [exit] (enter Arnold, Cosette.) 
 
 CosETTE There, there, you know 
 It all— word for word as it was told 
 to me — and'now 'tis your's to say to- 
 morrow is or not our wedding day. 
 
 Arnold Let me think a moment. 
 
 She Take your own time; consid- 
 er every point. I would not have a 
 flaw in a:l ydvir thoughts to liuunt us 
 after we are wed. 
 
 He 1 have considered everytliing. 
 Thia is my answer, [kisses her] To- 
 morrow niglit will find us man and 
 wife. 
 
 She Have you considered vvellV 
 Half the blood which courses through 
 my veins is common blood. My moth- 
 er, wiio to all tlie world, I'll call, 
 mother! [turns from her: was buried 
 (»n tlie wuysi'.le without a priest, witli- 
 out a prayt-r, and slie, whom you in- 
 tend to wed. lived with a Castaway, 
 in his rude liiit, and threw these arms 
 about his neck, and pressed these lips, 
 whif,li you have pressed, to his. Have 
 you coiisidereil ail, wisely and honest- 
 ly ? If so, swear! 
 
 He 1 have said to-morrow. I vvfill 
 take no oath. 
 
 She Is that enough, merely saying 
 tomorrow we will wed v I tear when 
 your passion is disrobed of its youth- 
 fulness, you will turn from me as you 
 now do, and liate me. To please a 
 doubtiiii!: mind, i^raiit my request. I'll 
 get till' cross, and ail y< u'il have to do, 
 is hokl it up like this, and swear be- 
 fore G<h1 and your Inide, the things 
 wliicli 1 h.ive told you will never, nev- 
 er haunt us after we are wed. 
 
 He I will do that tomorrow at the 
 
 altar. 
 
 She No, no! Here! Now! 
 
 He 1 said tomorrow. Good night, 
 little one. We may not keep our tem- 
 pers, if I linger here. Good night. 
 
 She Are you going? Have you 
 nothing more to say? Good night! 
 (exit Arnold) I have offended him, 
 yet if he loved me more, nothing I 
 could say upon our weddingeve would 
 do t:i,it.M"asta,'.va,y apt)ears at window) 
 I wonder if L love him? Surely not 
 witii the love 1 gave the Castaway. 
 It's strange I tliinkofhim. I v/onder 
 where he is to-night? [Cast, advances] 
 Castaway Here am I! 
 
 i. HE Who are you? 
 
 He Know you not? 
 
 She Yes. You came in by the 
 window? (coldly) 
 
 He Yes. 
 
 She 1''ou wronged me in doing so. 
 Shall lean for help? 
 
 He Why should you? Have I ev- 
 er harmed you ? Is confidence so eas- 
 ily lost? 
 
 She What brought you here? 
 
 He What brings the sun to shine 
 its glories on the sea? What brings the 
 winds in summertime ladened vvitli 
 the richest perfumes? What brings 
 the touch of icy lingers to steal away 
 and freeze to marble all that is mortal, 
 all that is beautiful? As mucii a mys- 
 tery as these things are to me so much 
 a one that brought me unto you. It may 
 be love; it may be hate, for that tierce 
 passion has made me what I am — a 
 Castaway. 
 
 She (relenting) Say not so. Y^ou 
 were kind to me. 
 
 He So will ice melt in summer- 
 time. 
 
 She Y^'ou have my blessing! [Enter 
 Arr-.old at side] 
 
 He Y^ou are very kind. 
 
 She You must not linger here. It 
 were an evil should we be discovered. 
 
 Arnold (aside) How I would like 
 to frighten them. No, my satisfaction 
 
will be more complete when she has 
 dawned her bridal dress. 
 
 He Farewell! (kisses her hand) 
 We will never meet again ! 
 
 She Farewell! I pray you maybe 
 happy. 
 
 He Farewell! Forever! [exit at 
 window.] 
 
 She What a noble soul is his, and 
 
 how 1 have wrecked it. He still loves 
 me and I — no, no! That last day in 
 the hut seems very sweet now. So 
 sweet, indeed, I would it had been al- 
 ways. I will pray to-night. I will 
 pray now ! 
 
 Cosette kneels in prayer— Castaway re- 
 appears at wiudow. 
 
 PICTUKE. CURTAIN. 
 
ACT IV, 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Reception Room in the Count's palace- 
 Enter the Castaway. 
 
 Castaway He bade me wait his 
 (■(unintc iiere, saying, lie wojIcI speak 
 Willi uie on business of importance. 
 What evil genius brought me to Paris, 
 to find Cosette a thousand miles away ; 
 ah, more tiian that, the unjourneyed 
 distance is 'tween she and 1. My 
 dreams told me I should tiiid her bat- 
 tling with poverty, but never led me 
 to a wedding scene in palace hall. In- 
 deed, the same strange fate, which has 
 led my misused life along many a 
 path of disappointment, has brought 
 me here to kneel and grin at ray de- 
 parting hopes. How well I'll [ilay the 
 apostate in all the miseries and mys- 
 teries yet to fall around this unfortu- 
 nate of the sea's kindness. He comes! 
 I will bow most humbly. Does not 
 the tiger so before he leaps upon his 
 prey? (enter Count.) 
 
 Count Do I address M. Castaway V 
 
 [Bows.] 
 
 Count Sit down. 
 
 MoN Your station courts reclining, 
 mine is to stand. 
 
 Count Well, well! I'm glad I 
 know you. 
 
 M05 U is an honor to have you 
 say so; your station is so high and 
 mine's so low. 
 
 Count Bah! Wlille we c inverse, 
 our standing shall be equal. I have 
 heard so much about you; in tiuth, 
 enough to till a book of ficlion. 
 Strang'' sioiies, some as bright as the 
 pictine ','n>. til- paints of her young 
 proteL-ii'i, a';(J, pardon me; some so 
 
 dark they tainted the lips relating 
 them — the incidents in your strange 
 life magnified by gossip tongues into 
 deeds appalling. 
 
 MoN But, once upon a time, gos- 
 sip-tongues told a solemn truth. 
 
 Count You were kind to Cosette? 
 
 MoN As the boistrous sea to the 
 shells which float upon his bosom 
 when the winds are checked. 
 
 Count You protected her! 
 
 MoN Prompted by hates at that 
 time I was powerless to control. 
 
 Count Yet you protected her! 
 
 MoN What if I did? ,It was not 
 my good nature to do it, and why I 
 did's a mystery to this hour. The 
 woe of other men brought none of it 
 to me, because I'd seen so much of it; 
 felt its loathsome bite so often— stood 
 face to face with it. True, I aided 
 her, and brightened by her innocence, 
 my very nature changed, 'till I be- 
 came so youthful, I was wont to think 
 the past a dream, and T had just been 
 born. When she was ta'en away. 
 
 Count Well, what then ? 
 
 MoN I became my old self again. 
 With a heart so cold, so hard, it beat 
 itself against my breast, making at- 
 tempts most fruitless to soften into 
 milder stuff again. Since then con- 
 sumed with hates and wicked pas- 
 sions, I have passed my life. 
 
 Count My poor fellow, you are 
 deserving of pity. 
 
 MoN No, no! They who suffer 
 wrongs and madly rush unto that 
 mystery beyond, fall heir to that;not I. 
 
 Count Then sympathy 's for you. 
 
 MoN Perhaps. Indeed, sir, I'll 
 need a world of it to fit my soul for 
 happiness beyond. 
 
 Cjunt My good fellow, I'm glad 1 
 know you, and for that happiness re- 
 ceive this reward for protecting my 
 child, (presents him with purse.) 
 
 MoN I befriended no child of 
 your's. 
 
 Count Then Cosette is not your 
 friend. 
 
MoN [aside] His child! Now a 
 million seas divide us! 
 Count Here, take your reward. 
 MoN Keep it! I'm rich! 
 CoNUT In what? 
 MoN (aside) In hate! In pride, 
 i never in my life received an aim, nor 
 siiall I no,v. Give it to the maid who 
 cannot earn ln)- lnv.ul mdess she sac- 
 rifice her innocence, or to the child who 
 kneels by a deserted grave and be- 
 mnnns wh;it is lost. No, no; not to 
 me! I li.ivf sii-.-iigLh. I have no need 
 oi: it. Gia.i n('V( 1 make aflame itefore 
 my eyes, nui made me slave to it as 
 most men are. If you would aid me, 
 sir, allow me pi-accfully to go away 
 fvir whiie I remain, ihi re is a choak- 
 iug here, [touclies tliroal] and many 
 passions battling for the masfery. 
 
 Count Tell me \vhat brought you 
 to Paris and 1 will li4 yon go. 
 
 MoN Falsly. [aside] I came to see 
 the world ; the purple garments of 
 rank, and the, awful distress of pover- 
 ty. 
 
 Count No other cause brought 
 >ou so f;ir from homeV 
 
 ]MON None other that I know of, 
 unless, it was my Iiatred for the sea, 
 wiiich let me live ;-;!id perished otliers 
 in liis wrath. 
 
 CoUiST How much you do hate 
 life? 
 
 ]MON Reasons I have to make 
 me curse the day ihat gave me birth. 
 Why, wiiat have I, e(;!!SumKl with 
 hate and ho[)eless passions, to love 
 tlie Vv'orld wliicli wills me u(jthing but 
 renjorseV 
 
 ' Count The hope of something 
 better. 
 
 MoN 'Whicii liad better not be 
 hoped. You can not remedy an ill 
 that'-^ f:it ':! This heart is dead. You 
 can ii"f nial;;' marble breathe. You 
 mean well, sir; but you do not know, 
 nor can not tell what liopes lie bur- 
 ied here. Farewell! 1 go to my last 
 i-emorse. Farewell! 
 Castaway runs to center exit aiid cmiies 
 
 face to face with Cosette who enters pre- 
 tending not to recognize him. 
 
 IMoN We meet again ! I would it 
 were not so. 
 
 CossETTE I have donned my bri- 
 dal garments. List how soft the mu- 
 sic! Pardon, I did net know you had 
 company. I will return. 
 
 Count Stay, here is an old friend, 
 who will wish you joy upon this 
 meri\v day. 
 
 MoN A world of joy ! (aside) 
 
 Count Do you not know him ? 
 
 Cos I? 
 
 Count Does not this meeting 
 bring you joy'? 
 
 Cos [aside] Joy? Too much of 
 it, and yet, upon anothtr day I should 
 not be so happy, [bows, confused] 
 [Enter Arnold at back.] 
 
 C!ouNT Why do you not thank him 
 for his kindness? What crime has he 
 committed to merit this? 
 
 Cos I rather would not answer — 
 
 Arnold (comiisg forward) What 
 I will, and disclose a crime my title 
 can not overlook! 
 
 Cos Let him go his way in peace! 
 
 Arn So he shall, and so shall I 
 when I have finished. Last night, Sir 
 Count, I had but left my promised 
 bride, ami rather coldly fur a wedding 
 eve. and thinking 'twas unwise, re- 
 turned and found 
 
 Count Your bride in tears. 
 
 Arn Read the distortion of that 
 wicked face; note the pale guilt on 
 that woman's brow, and be taught by 
 it what I found. 
 
 Count What's this! 
 
 Akn x\ few question will place us 
 right, by placing them in guilt. 
 Fellow, your name? 
 • MoN My name 's my own ; it's all 
 I have, and I shall keep it to myself. 
 
 Count Respect will aid you more 
 in your misdeeds than your contempt. 
 His name is M. Castaway. 
 
 Arn Castaway! The name adds 
 a chai»ter to my story. How strange- 
 
ly it parts two souls so near uniting. 
 Last uigbt, fellow, where were you? 
 
 Cos (aside) I see! 
 
 MoN in my bed. sir! 
 
 Arn "Which is the basest lie your 
 lips e'er uttered. 
 
 MON Sir! (rushes toward him, Cos. 
 comes between) 
 
 Arn Last iiight, when all good 
 laen should have been in slumber, you 
 were in that lady's apartraen !t 
 
 MoN Had you not already said it, 
 I'd close your mouth fotever! 
 
 Count How's this? 
 
 Cos He speaks the truth. 
 
 Count i can't believe it— I won't 
 iielieve it! [to his child] Don't look at 
 me; your eyes are trutliful eyes! (to 
 Monsieur) How's this? 
 
 MoN It is a folly to deny the truth, 
 but l»y all that's lioly, [ entered her 
 (ippH window as a thief, miknown to 
 i'.er.nnasked. She bade me go away, and 
 when I felt the wrong I'd done her, I 
 prayed her call for help and liave 
 me thrown into prison; but she, re- 
 membering the aid I once gfve her, 
 allowed me to go away in peace; with 
 tills he charges us. 
 
 Arn These are but flimsy lies, 
 r'.rawn out and modeled for the occa- 
 sion. 
 
 Cos They are truths, sir; his is an 
 lionest soul. 
 
 Arn Base woman! Dare you 
 liide his crime— your shame! You, 
 whom I vvould have made my wife; 
 you, wlio should liave been a goddess, 
 a paragon of virtue; you •— 
 
 Count I forbid! 
 
 MoN (aside) Coward! 
 
 Arn Pardon. I did forget my dig 
 nity and youi' presence. This, sir, can 
 not be mo wedding *day. Xo maid 
 can weai- my titiea;:d my name, who 
 mars lier innocence with so foul a thing 
 as that, (points at Mon) I will go my 
 way a wiser man, and never woo a 
 mystery again. [To Cos] Farewell — 
 iorever. (To Mnn) I'urse you! (exit) 
 
 Cos Arnold! Arnold! He will not 
 
 speak to me. He has gone. What 
 did he say ? No maid could wear his 
 title or his name who— Oh, God ! Did 
 he say that. Father, tell me you do 
 not believe it? You turn from me. 
 [enter Rosette] Rosette, give me your 
 hand; not yet, you do not know. Mon- 
 sieur, what is this about? Speak to 
 me? (exit Monsieur slowly, walking 
 backward, she following to the exit) 
 And thou! Father, speak to me. No. 
 God pity me! Now the shadow of a 
 gloomy iiiglit hovers round about me, 
 and such a vacant feeling here — 
 (touching her head) so black, so aw- 
 ful. [Falls.] 
 
 End of Scene First. 
 
 ACT IV.-Scene II. 
 
 (Enter lacques dressed for the wed- 
 ding—tipsy.) 
 
 Jacques I am fresh from the tai- 
 lor. Now won't this open the eyes of 
 the guests? I'm a beauty. How in- 
 signiticent my better half will look be- 
 side this manly form. Higho, my bet- 
 ter half comes this way. She's always 
 coming. (Enter Rosette out of breath) 
 Wliat's the matter? You look as if— 
 if you had seen the Devil. Stop your 
 gasping and sputtering and say some- 
 thing. 
 
 Ros Woeful things have happened. 
 
 Jac Woeful things are always 
 happening; especially to women. 
 
 Ros Have you not heard? 
 
 Jac Heard! Heard what? Can't 
 you see I am made up for the occasion. 
 
 Ros My poor Cosette! My wrong- 
 ed Cosette! 
 
 Jac Your poor devil and fiddle- 
 sticks! Will you tell me what's the 
 matter? 
 
 Ros We're undone. 
 
 Jac Madam, you would undo a 
 saint. 
 
 Ros There'll be no wedding, no 
 bride; we are woefully undone. 
 
 Jac Eh! 
 
Ros No, nothing! The Marqnis 
 left hi a rage, aad-my poor lady is dis- 
 tracted, i; ■ ■ ' 
 
 Jac The Marquis IS' a fool. Where 
 is he now? 
 
 Ros He left tlie house some time 
 ago followed by the Ca.st;uvay. 
 
 Jac Iligho! It is evident tlie ad- 
 vice (if the n'is( is :i.,t sufficient. What 
 iiave you in y(uir hand? 
 
 Ros. A i'Tter. .,, . 
 
 Jac Ilaii.l it over to your lord and 
 niHsier. (Lak^s ii nut of her hand') ' 
 
 Ros Retuin tliat letter, sir? - 
 
 Jac [reatls address] Certainly, 
 (returns it) Madam< vanisli! Deliv- 
 er tt as ciiniuianded. A^anish, I say. 
 
 Ros You are eiUier poUte or tipsy. 
 
 Jac i Vanish ! [exit Rosette grima- 
 cing, Jac; whistles] What the devil 
 can Cosette mean, and what can she 
 iiave in couiinon with Monsieur Cast- 
 away, slie shouhl write him a letter? 
 
 Tlie Count shall kn( 
 
 )w of tliis, for 
 
 \ lieri-'s s one'thing wr< 
 
 ■i>ng; yes, and I'll 
 
 n!a,sli til'' heail of the 
 
 tailor who per- 
 
 sa,U(h'(I me into lliese 
 
 garuients. [exit] 
 
 (EntiT ilie (\istaway, 
 
 leading a letter) 
 
 Castaway '-Mi-ei 
 
 : me to-night at 
 
 . Tliouartthf 
 
 ' cause, and no 
 
 (;aus(- is t!hue to disol 
 
 )ey my wish. We 
 
 must meet secretly, Cosette." JS'o, 
 no, no, no. we must not. Why, Co- 
 sette, 'vhat would you do? Has my 
 love, vvliich led me through your win- 
 (h)W last night, tem[)ted you to some 
 awful end? No, no; it is not so! I 
 iiave received no letter. I have lost 
 my mind. Oh. why did I come to 
 Paris? To hnd Cosette,to comfort her? 
 Xo, to l)ind her down with clanking 
 chains to hell's remorse. She shall not 
 meet me to-night. Sliall not? "Yon 
 are tlie cause," and no cause is mine 
 to disohey. Ch God, that yon had 
 killed me ere I saw this cruel Paris! 
 (exit) End of Scene Second. 
 
 ACT III— Scene IV 
 
 streets scene in Paris— Enter Engene 
 and Daniel, considerably used up by a 
 weary journey without the requisite pro- 
 vender. , i • 
 
 Dan Where will we sleep to-night? 
 
 EtJG In couches of silk and. velvet 
 if they can be found in the Street. 
 
 Dan Where will we breakfast? 
 
 Euo 111' a royal cafe, ifonecanbe 
 found in Paris where the pay is, 
 "Thankee, Monsieur." 
 
 Dan It isn't likely we shall find 
 either. ' ■' 
 
 EuG Nor possible. 
 •' Dan We must eat or starve. 
 
 EtJG You're a baby. 
 
 Dan Oh, that I was ; then same otie 
 would take compassion on me. I am 
 so hungry. 
 
 EuG "I am so hungry." Fool! 
 I'll tell you one thing. Stop your bel- 
 lowing! Since we are compelled to 
 these circumstances on account of 
 tampering with the fees of the priest, 
 we will turn robbers. It's said the 
 robber diets on milk and honey. 
 
 Dan Oh, honey, honey. 
 
 EuG And is often buried with his 
 head in his arms. 
 
 Dan O lor', I'll not be a robber. 
 
 EuG Better be buried with your 
 head in your arms than with an empty 
 stomach. 
 
 Dan On stars. Y'"e stars. My 
 stars ; give me a crust to be honest 
 with — a pie, a dumpling — You stars. 
 
 EuG Clown! Y^ou've got to be a 
 robber. 
 
 Dan I'll be anything. I am so 
 hungry. 
 
 EuG Then straighten up, sir, 
 Lool^ bold. 
 
 Dan There ain't enough in me to 
 look bold, sir. I cant hold myself up. 
 
 EuG Hist, some one comes. 
 
 Dan a mutton chop? 
 
 EiTG Can't you think higher than 
 your stomach? Come, let us hide in 
 this door way. Robbers are never seen. 
 
Dan I wish I was in heaven. I'm 
 sod— n hungry, (hide in doorway.) 
 
 EuG H^'s onrgame. 
 
 Dan I would he were our loaf of 
 bread. > [Enter the Castaway.] 
 
 Castaway The hour is late, and 
 the street deserted. She has thought 
 twice, no douht, and decided not to 
 come. Oil, that she lias; for should 
 tills meeting be discovered, disgrace 
 'and shame will jeer her with their 
 many tongues, breathe new life into 
 tne first suspicion, and in the minds 
 iwhicli iove her most all doubts re- 
 move. I have exerted all my power 
 to avert her ruin ; smotherd every 
 passion.- and my love for her, which 
 is the cause of my existence; I banish 
 tnat.aiid with the hand which takes its 
 life, her loss regain, (bell strikes one) 
 Tlu^ time is passed. She will not 
 come. Saved! Saved! (exitj 
 
 EuG Did yoii hear lilni speak? 
 
 Dan Yes. 
 
 EuG It's the devil's son. 
 Dan Do you imagine he wcnild have 
 a few crumbs about his person? 
 
 EuG Hold your tongue. 
 
 CosETTE [behind the scenes] Cast- 
 away! Monsieur! 
 
 Cosette runs on the stage from one side, 
 Castaway from the other; they meet near 
 the door way where the vuuateur robbers 
 are secreted, who overhear the following: 
 
 He Cosette ! 
 
 She I am so frightened. 
 
 He At yourself V (coldly^ 
 
 She No, at the darkness. 
 
 He Tlien you should not have en- 
 countered it. Why did you ? 
 
 She Why did I ? To plend for your 
 protection. 
 
 He My protecticn. Why, what do 
 you mean V 
 
 She I wonder you seem surprised. 
 Listen, tlien. In the very budding of 
 ray hapuiness; wdien earth seemed a 
 paradise to live and love in; when 
 myth and reality were on the point of 
 j(jining bands, you came like a cold 
 
 wind and blig-hted all. What's left 
 for me^ In my father's house, I am an 
 abandoned woman; must note his si- 
 lent grief, the jests and jeers of those 
 beneath me; knowing all the time I 
 am innocent. Can you not forsee the 
 pain I shall incur.and knowing it, dare 
 you refuse what brought me here? 
 
 He I dare do anything that's right. 
 
 She Then there is yet one thing 
 for me: to wander through these 
 streets, until misery o'erpowers mj 
 fear of death.and then— 
 
 He You would not kill yourself? 
 
 She Would not? I would do noth- 
 ing else. What else could I do? 
 
 He Gladly would I grant your re- 
 quest ; so very gladly would I, but 
 that I love you.and love you too much 
 to take advantage of your present in- 
 sanity. It is far better to kill thyself 
 than kill thy name. 
 
 She Those words are not mine. 
 
 He No, ncr the thought. Let me 
 be plain in my speech. I have wrong- 
 ed you, and for that wrong which is 
 not yours, you imagine vou are what, 
 you are not. When your flight is dis- 
 covered, and I am nowhere to be 
 found; what will the world say? 
 What can it say ? . It will breathe 
 new life into what is already known, 
 and blight what's dearest— thy inno- 
 cence and purety. Go back to your 
 father's house, and I'll regain thy loss. 
 I'll doit! 
 
 She Will you plead with him? 
 
 He No, I am condemned a falsifi- 
 er. But 1 will go to your father, and 
 I shall say to him: "Sir, I give for my 
 oath, my life; it isn't much, but it's 
 all I have." How stubborn his heart 
 must be if he then refuses to hear the 
 story of thy innocence. Return to his 
 house, for bright prospects await you 
 there, and let this wretched being, 
 whose futui-e is a blank, return you to 
 your loves and hopes. 
 
 She It's too late to do that now. 
 
 He It is never too late to justify 
 vourself. 
 
She It's impossible. 
 I He And madness to say so. Re- 
 member thy love for Arnold. 
 |She I love liim not. 
 "He Yesterday would have been 
 your wedding day. 
 
 She And was the burial day of all 
 my hopes 
 
 He True, but if you'd watch them 
 tenderly, you might nurse them back 
 to life 
 
 She 1 might ■' It's well vou say so. 
 You do not see as 1 do. I ask you 
 again to protect me. Look ; I kneel to 
 to you, I entreat you ! 
 
 He No! Go back to your father! 
 
 She I can not; I will not. Ere 
 this a letter informs him of ray flight. 
 Ah, Monsieur, I see how woe- 
 
 fully I have wronged myself. I would 
 I could return— I would I could. 
 
 He Come. I have played the part 
 of honor so far as I could ; to the 
 world, I can do so no longer. If it had 
 not been for that cursed letter— 
 
 She I might have gone back. 
 
 He True. Come, what is will be. 
 "What I do now is not what my honor 
 prompts me; but because you are 
 homeless and your tears argue against 
 it- Remember thou art pure and in- 
 nocent, and shall remain so as long as 
 I have life to protect you. Come, we'll 
 reach our way through the darkness 
 until we come to the light— even if 'tis 
 the light beyond the sea. (He leads 
 her to exit — Eug. and Dan follow. 
 CURTAIN. 
 
ACT V, 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Scene in the Couul's Palace— Count 
 seated at table, Jacques standing at back 
 looking out of window. 
 
 Count How many days have 
 passed since Cusette left our house"? 
 
 Jac Enough to make a quarter 
 year, sir. 
 
 Count You reckon well. What 
 day is thisV 
 
 Jac Indeed, it's Tuesday ; the day 
 three months passed tliat should Iiave 
 wedded her t ) Arnold, but, by far, a 
 brighter one. 
 
 Count What reason can you give 
 for Arnold's change of mind concern - 
 ing my child? He tells me now 
 could she be found he'd wed witii her. 
 It's very strange. 
 
 Jac It is, indeed, sir; but not so 
 when I tell you he 's a bankrupt. 
 
 Count You tell me what I would 
 tell to you. When became he so anx- 
 ious for her welfare, so stubborn in 
 his search ? 
 
 Jac From the day he lost his for- 
 tune in a game of cards. 
 
 Count You have ears to hear! 
 Should she be found in the midst of 
 shame and poverty slie should not 
 wed with him. Jac, I have forgiven 
 her and lay all blame upon ourselves. 
 It was our scorn that drove her to the 
 act, whicli said to her pure, and hon- 
 est, "We know you now, Ma'm'selle; 
 we have found you out; lower your 
 head; down on your knees; you area 
 wanton! Thus maddened with grief 
 and wounded pride, she became the 
 child again and threw her arms about 
 her Castaway, for she loves him more. 
 
 evil spirit that lie is, than ever she 
 loved Arnold. 
 
 Jac Perhaps. 
 
 Count Perhaps? Shsdoes! (enter 
 serv.int witli letter, exit — Count, after 
 reading letter.) At last! My hat. 
 Jac; my cane! Jac, wait a moment; 
 you have been very faithful, you sliall 
 rejoice with me. This slip of paper 
 
 says: "Hasten to ; Cosette is 
 
 found! Aenold." She is found I 
 My Cosette — mv little girl. Jac, mv 
 hat! 
 
 Jac There, sir. (gives hiiu his hat 
 and cane.) 
 
 Count My cane? 
 
 Jac You liave it, sir. Shall I ac- 
 company you'll 
 
 . Count No. 1 shall go unattended. 
 I may bring her back with me, Jac; 
 indeed I may, Jac — indeed, 1 may. 
 
 Jac Indeed, I liope so, sir. (exit 
 Count.) ZduikIs, I wouldn't be M. 
 Castaway's head for lialf of Paris. 
 O woman, woman; thou art a delu- 
 sion; and man, what is man? [whist 
 les, rings l)ell] I'm in a capital hu- 
 mor to deliver a lecture, upon tlie 
 whys and wherefores of women, and 
 what's more, I vvill. I'll represent my 
 audience with the classic features ot 
 my better half, [enter servant] Fel- 
 low, inform my wife, her lord and 
 master wishes to see iier immediately. 
 [exit] That will frighten her bpeath 
 away, and the less breath she has on 
 such occasions, the better fur me. 
 When she has no breath, I am master 
 of the situation, when she has breath 
 — ye saints hover round about me! 
 (Enter Rosette slowly) Be seated. 
 Madam, [aside] She has her breath. 
 [Jac. gets behind table and strikes an 
 oratorical attitude.] 
 
 Ros Sir! 
 
 Jac Madam, please be seated. 
 
 Ros [seats herself] Thank you. I 
 was about to compliment the polish 
 on your ettiquet; which, as I take it, 
 means— 
 
Jac The fewer suggestions you 
 hnve to offer, the better I will deliver 
 what I liave to say to you. Madam, 
 you are a woman. 
 
 lios True. Jac. or I should be a 
 man. (laughs) 
 
 Jac" Therefore, taking into consid- 
 eration the wliys and — Madam, your's 
 is an impromptu encore— swallow it! 
 (He watches her (ilosely until she ceas- 
 es laughing) Taking into considera- 
 tion the wliys and wherefores, wome.n 
 are delusions. 
 
 Ros I do not grasp it. 
 
 Jac What? 
 
 Ros Tlie argument. 
 
 Jac No? Why. hang me, a wo- 
 man never grasps anytliing, unless it 
 be her husband's forelock or iiis pock- 
 etbook, whereas a man — 
 
 Ros Does exactly the same thing 
 with a woman's happiness. 
 
 Jac Rosette, you're a goose I 
 
 Ros Jacques, you're a gander! 
 
 Jac Bah! 
 
 Ros How many years have we 
 been wed — let me see? Near unto 
 two, and all that time we have lived 
 like a sweet little pussy cat and a big 
 cross dog-; and how you have barked! 
 
 Jac And how you have scratched! 
 
 Ros Heaven forbid I should claw 
 you, sir; as you are, you're ugly 
 enough. 
 
 Jac Thank you! [aside] The de- 
 bate is progressing admirably— for 
 woman. 
 
 Ros Why did you send for me? 
 
 Jac Because-because ; why, be-be- 
 
 Rbs Cause you wished to — 
 
 JAC Explain the whys and where- 
 fores of— 
 
 B,os Bears dressed like men. 
 
 Jac Two for woman, (aside) 
 
 Ros Jac, have we been happy a 
 moment since our wedding day ? 
 
 Jac Yes. When you were gossiping 
 with the cook, and I playing in good 
 luck at the club, (aside) One for man! 
 
 Ros We derive no happiness from 
 
 each others company? 
 
 Jac Except when we're out of it. 
 [aside] Twoforraan. 
 
 Ros Then that time has oni;- 
 when you go one way and "f, an(»Uiei. 
 
 Jac Eh! 
 
 lios Separation will make us happv . 
 
 Jac Eh! 
 
 Ros . If two birds dislike eaitli oth- 
 er, u it probaljle they will build iheii 
 nests in the same tree? No. Our 
 prefers tiie tree and the otlier a housi ■ 
 top. Do vou understand? 
 
 Jac You would be a Cosette. 
 
 Ros No. Cosette, like myself.niav 
 Min.ugh otheis. have been driven [.<■• 
 the destruction of her iiappiness, imu 
 uidike lier, I bring sorrow only upm: 
 myself. I am not iieartless. 
 
 Jac No, of course not; it's I wii,* 
 am heartless. 
 
 Ros NTot always, but you'rt- s" 
 very quarrelsome. 
 
 Jac I once heird my mother teii 
 tlie butcher mv disposition was flavei- 
 ed witli sunshine. 
 
 Ros But slie couldn't have meaiil 
 it, Jacques. 
 
 Jac (angry^ Then my motlier i> 
 a— is-isshe? That's more titan I caii 
 bear. Madam! 
 
 Ros You are bitterness, itself. I'll 
 bid you adieu, sir, and remember, fn 
 the last time. Do you hear; for the 
 last time. I'm going. Don't you see, 
 Jac, I'm going. 
 
 Kosette moves slowly to exit; Jac watch- 
 es her a moment, then ruiisiiifrqnt of hi r. 
 
 Jac Rosette, let us begin over 
 again. 
 
 Ros All over again ? 
 
 He leads her to a chair and seats him- 
 self beside her. 
 
 Jac Yes. Sit down. We will be- 
 gin over again, (aside) I see plainly 
 man must knuckle down to woman. 
 Rosette will you be my wife? 
 
 Ros I am your wife. 
 
 Jac (impatiently) But we are be- 
 ginning over again. 
 
Ros (same play) Yes, yes, how 
 can I help myself! 
 
 Jac To-morrow we will go to the 
 good priest and be married. 
 
 Ros But we are married. 
 
 Jac [angryjHow many times must 
 I tell you we are beginning over agaiu ? 
 
 Ros (same playj Only once more. 
 
 Jac [softly] Then, beginning ov- 
 er again, I'll kiss you. There, there. 
 Now, from this time on. we will live 
 as two black crows — 
 
 Ros Doves. 
 
 Jac Black doves, and with the 
 mellow accents of a distant ostrich, 
 yell— 
 
 Ros Cot>. 
 
 Jac Coo. coo, coo all day long. 
 There will be no clouds to threaten, 
 no sunshine — 
 
 Ros A little sunshine ; just a little. 
 
 Jac There will be more or less 
 suusnine; more or less darkness — 
 
 Ros No darkness at all. 
 
 Jac Why, no, of course not. Man 
 thou are a booby, and woman— 
 
 Ros What of her? 
 
 Jac [kisses her] Thou art a jewel! 
 End of Sbene First. 
 
 ACT V.-Scene II. 
 
 street scene, Enter Arnold followed by 
 Eugene and Daniel. 
 
 Arnold We will wait here, my 
 good men, until the Count arrives. He 
 is coming now. (enter Count) Sir 
 Count. 
 
 Count Have you found Cosette. 
 
 EuG We have, sir. 
 
 Count Joy ! Where is she ? 
 
 Arn These men can tell you all 
 that you would know. 
 
 Count My good men ? 
 
 EuG I do not know the name the 
 street goes by. but the place is quite 
 familiar to me. Shall I explain ? 
 
 Count Briefly and honestly. 
 
 Arn [aside to Eugene] More 
 
 brief than honest. 
 
 EuG Oue nigiit, my pard and I, 
 having come fresli to Paris, tired and 
 hungry, 
 
 Dan [aside] To which J take my 
 solemn oath. 
 
 EUG We wandered from place to 
 place, and, at length, found shelter in 
 a doorway. It was very dark and I 
 was fast falling asleep, when 1 was 
 suddenly aroused by ihe sound of 
 voices. Peering out. I saw a man and 
 a woman. I listened attentively, for 
 one voice sounded familiar. It belong- 
 ed to Monsieur Castawav. 
 Count What of the woman ? 
 EuG Her voice was slrange to ine. 
 Count What did she say ? 
 EuG God soften his" hardened 
 hearti She got down on her kiiees, 
 wept bitterly, and begged an hour f..i 
 his protection. 
 Dan I'll seal my oath to it. 
 EuG Ball, on it! Eat it, sir. 
 Count And what did he say? 
 EUG I could tell you his ansvvei- if 
 I had not heard it, for I lived a .shui i 
 lime in the town where lie was cast 
 ashore. I am a ship builder. He was 
 the evil genius of the port. "Nn." 
 said he, "Go back to your father's 
 house," He was thinking of his gold, 
 not of her. 
 
 Count Then he would not protect 
 her? 
 
 EuG Not he. He argured witii 
 her; said she had bright prospect?* 
 awaiting her at home, and that she 
 should go back to them, and that she 
 had no business to force herself upon 
 him whose future was a blank. It's 
 quite comical, sir; quite so; when you 
 remember he was thinking of his 
 gold, not her. 
 Count Still she plead with him ? 
 EuG Indeed, sir; got down on her 
 knees, begged, entreated and then 
 threatened him. "Can't you see," 
 she said, "My father will not speak to 
 me ; I am an outcast in his house. My 
 
position is maddening!" 
 
 Count And lie answered? 
 
 EuG She should go back to her 
 father's house and that he would make 
 her story right. He went so far as to 
 say, should her father refuse to 
 replace her, he would give his life for 
 his oath. Nice talk for one of his cast. 
 
 Count What did she say to tliat? 
 
 EuG Slie repented. Said she was 
 sorry that she had come to him. wept 
 a little, became desperate, and cried : 
 ■'What was, will be, and to return was 
 impossible." 
 
 Count And he said? 
 
 EuG Thinking of his gold, not of 
 her, it was never too late to redeem 
 yourself when unjustly accused. Then 
 she said something concerning a letter. 
 I have a sensitive nature, sir, and my 
 flesh still creeps when I tliink Iiow he 
 cursed that letter. Yes, sir; he bel- 
 lowed until he had frightened the 
 poor lady out of her wits, then melt- 
 ing under his forced tears, he said: 
 "Come! I can not protect your honon, 
 to the world, that is lost forever." 
 And. again: "Remember thou art 
 pure and innocent, and shall so remain 
 as long as I have life to protect you." 
 
 Dan He sealed his oath to it ; I'll 
 take my solemn oath he did. 
 
 EuG But who would belie^ie it, sir, 
 when he was thinking of his gmd ? 
 
 Count [aside] My thoughts are 
 true as is our Castaway. My good 
 men lead on, we are anxious to follow. 
 
 Arn What do you now think of 
 the Castaway ? 
 
 Count We judged him harshly. 
 
 Arn You think so? 
 
 Count This man's story proves it. 
 Lead on ! (Exit all except Arnold.) 
 
 Arnold I swear I think he's fool 
 enough to wed his daughter to the 
 Castaway. Now that my fortune's 
 gone, she is for me. [exit] 
 
 End of Scene Second. 
 
 ACT V— Scene 
 
 Scene— A room in a tenement house, on 
 one side a large, square window, lookinsi 
 down upon the street below. On the oth- 
 er side, an old fashioned, small fireplace. 
 Near this is a cupboard containing a scan- 
 ty supply of dishes. The scene beside 
 contains a small low table, a bed and an 
 armchair. The Castaway is building a 
 hre— Cosette, who has been ill. is lying 
 upon the bed. 
 
 Castaway This is a stubborn fire 
 not to burn aftei- so much blowing. 
 Look, how it smokes; the only manner 
 it has to show its contempt. Cosette, 
 are you cold ? 
 
 Cosette I'm very comfortable. 
 
 He. (blows) There, stubborness, 
 It's time you glow a little. The fire 's 
 made. 
 
 She Will you come here, Monsieur; 
 I wish to speak with you? 
 
 He [Kneeling at her bedside]Why, 
 what would you say? 
 
 Spie Take my h?nd. Tell me hovV 
 warm it is? 
 
 He Warm enough to keep the cold 
 away . , 
 
 She My cheeks.pray how aite they ? 
 
 He Like roses tinged with pink 
 and carmine. 
 
 She You flatter. Take my other 
 hand. See, I ilrst place it here, [on 
 her cheek.] I find it very cold. Now, 
 Monsieur, tell we truly ? 
 
 He [takes her hand] Warm as sun- 
 shine. 
 
 She Am I not helpless ? 
 
 He Not while I am near you. 
 
 She How many days will pass, 
 think you, ere I join Annette? 
 
 He I can not look so far in the 
 future. 
 
 She What future? 
 
 He Thine. 
 
 She Mine? 
 
He Indeed. Come, coijfie ; to-tn®r- 
 row, you will glow with health. You 
 must not tlunk o' the world bej'und, 
 remember the world about you. There, 
 there ; (covers her hands) warm your 
 hands. It is the stubborn fire and 
 the clouded sun that makes them cold. 
 And while your doing so, I'll prepare 
 dinner, (he places the table near the 
 bed) I'll set tlie table here. This is 
 your plate, this is mine. 
 He examines the dishes, and takes th<' 
 cracked one tor himself. 
 
 She You are very kind. 
 
 He Xot to Cosette. [he goes to the 
 cupboard] Here are the cups, (he 
 can only find one.) We can drink out 
 of the same cup, Cosette; can we not? 
 I broke mine last niglit. Why, by all 
 that's impossible, the cupboard 's emp- 
 ty! We can not eat plates. Well, 
 well; be patient witli your housekeep- 
 er. I'll go lielow and buy liie dinner, 
 (he puts on hat and picks up a basket) 
 
 She Not for me; I .im not hungry. 
 
 He Y^ou must be. I shall not i)e 
 gone long. Goodl>ye! 
 
 Cosette 
 During the followiaq; speech, tjoestothr 
 window and looks <)ut,sees the (Castaway, 
 and returning, seats herself in tlie arm 
 chair. 
 
 Goodbye! I guess I'll look out o, the 
 window. 1 am so tired. One more 
 step. There, I knew I could. How 
 busy is the world, and here am I like 
 some gentle breath, which flutters 
 round and round, and at length glid- 
 ing away, floats on — on to eternity. 
 What hopes I had are more feeble than 
 my breath — they iiave gone l)efore me, 
 and but for that dear life, which has 
 ever been a slave to mine, it is not 
 worth a prayer to lengtlien it. (sees 
 Monsieur below) I love you Casta- 
 way ; for all the good, I love you ; for 
 all the wrong, I pity you, for 'twas an 
 honest mind that planned them all. 
 How noble! How beautiful! I re- 
 member when I was his little house- 
 
 keeper, lie used to say to me: "Cosette, 
 we will vved." And when I asked liim 
 what that was, he would answer: 
 
 "The JDinnigof two souLs that k)ve has 
 wrought togi'ther vitli the |>rayers and 
 bent-dictions of t,h^> piie^i, which golden 
 band is only broken by the Idss of lile.and 
 even after that, 'tis said, beyond the -sea, 
 tliey meet again and live and love on for- 
 ever." 
 And holding me thus — 
 
 "Tisthf brightest dream nt mortals, 
 which holds you as 1 do now, and makes 
 me think 1 hold you thus forever." 
 Tiiose words couie back to brighten 
 me. He is unselfish. For my well- 
 fare he sacrifices all, and what is mine 
 to repay? He said my luinds v.'ere 
 warm, my cheeks had color, and that 
 I had :i future. What then? That 
 future belongs to Monsieur. Wlien 
 these hands are strong, tiiey must toil 
 for him; and when tliis heart is joyful 
 it must smile for him. He is coming. 
 We will dine now — he and I. 
 Enter the Castaway with the basket on 
 his arm, and without his coat. 
 
 He Here's the dinner. Why. Co- 
 sette, you're looking biiglit an(l hap- 
 py. Come, we'll dii;p witli a relish! 
 Il^^re's br<::(l,tii()re bread, 
 Herp's !lie dest^rt, wliich 
 .nd here is the wine. 
 ready! 
 icorae U 
 
 You and I. 
 
 bread again. 
 is fancy " 
 Come, di5 
 
 She 
 come to 
 
 He WTdeed. 
 table and- all. 
 
 you, vou must 
 
 1 must. Here we are. 
 Help vourself to the 
 I and 
 SMvinj^ 
 
 breMd— and the wine. "Bre; 
 wine and kisses!" A common, 
 at the inn. 
 
 She Where is your coat.Monsieur ? 
 
 He M^-aiycoat? 
 
 She Yes, your co;it. 
 
 He I left it in the othei 
 is very warm. 
 
 She Yet I think ifs vei-y cold. 
 me have your coat? 
 
 He My coat? 
 
 She Your coat! 
 
 He You see it's-it's take seme 
 
 room. It 
 Lei 
 
wine. 
 
 She I want your coat. 
 
 He Can I help you to the desert? 
 
 She From me you can not hide the 
 truth. I see a sleeve in the bread, a 
 sleeve in the desert, a coat without 
 sleeves in the wine; a coat complete 
 in the dinner. 
 
 He You have wonderful eyes! 
 
 She I am a burden to you. 
 
 He a burden to me? Ho. Life 
 without you would be death. What is 
 a coat, if 'tis for Cosette's comfort, to 
 whom he would gladly give his life? 
 What if the days are cold, clothed in 
 your smiles 1 shall not know it? I 
 love you! Pardon, pardon, I forget 
 myself. 
 
 She There is no cause to ask for 
 pardon now. Kneel beside me here, 1 
 wish to ask a question ? Have I a fu- 
 ture? 
 
 He As I have. 
 
 She Then it is thine. 
 
 He Mine? 
 
 She I love you. 
 
 He Cosette! 
 
 She (embrace) Like the song of 
 the old times, "Which holds you as I 
 do now, and makes me think I hold 
 you thus forever." 
 
 He The sweetest words I ever 
 heard you speak, and in other lands 
 may that prophecy be realized ! 
 
 EuG (outside) That is tlie door. 
 
 Count Knock ! 
 
 Arn Break it open ! 
 
 Count Knock! 
 
 Castaway Your father! (knock 
 at the door) 
 
 Cosette Open the door! 
 
 MoN I will open the door, (opens 
 door; enter Count, Arnold, Eugene 
 and Daniel.) 
 
 Arn So, Monsieur, 've have found 
 you at last. My good men, seize him ! 
 
 Count My good men, remain 
 where you are. (he comes forward and 
 takes Cosette's hand.) How pale you 
 are. You have been ill, my little girl ? 
 
 Cos Very ill. 
 
 Count When tliou art home again- 
 
 Cos Would you take me back? 
 
 Count Whv' should I not? 
 
 Cos Because 1 left you. 
 
 Count Being found, that is for- 
 given. 
 
 Cos You believe me? 
 
 Count Why should I not ? 
 
 Cos You know I am innocent? 
 
 Count My child ! 
 
 Cos If there's a God, though way- 
 ward she has been, thy child is puri- 
 ty ; bless that noble soul, [points at 
 Monsieur] 
 
 Count God bless you, sir; you are 
 a man. [takes his hand.] 
 
 Arn In saying so you little repre- 
 sent your title, sir! 
 
 Count Your temi)er sours like 
 new milk in the sun. Chis is ray 
 child; tliis is my friend, if you love us 
 not; let us part company. 
 
 Arn So. so! Cosetti% you were to 
 be my wife. 
 
 Cos No maid can wear my title 
 or my name, said you notso?For that 
 we parted. 
 
 Arn Is it best we part? 
 
 Cos And part forever. 
 
 Arn Then so it shall be. [turning 
 to Monsieur] You are the cause; 1 
 hope a miserable life's in store for you ! 
 
 MoN I am too full of joy to wish 
 the meanest thing that crawls an evil 
 life. May yours be briglit with hau- 
 py faces and new bom liopes, 
 
 Arn I shall nut remain heie to be 
 insulted. I curse you all! (exit) 
 
 MoN [In the direction of exit] 
 Ci rses are like the loud barking of 
 a cur; tliey sound disasters without 
 effecting them. Sir. the time has come 
 when I give you back your cliild. Ere 
 you came we liad a dream ; 'twas of a 
 foreign land, where freedom is the gem 
 that all men wear. That dream has 
 vanished, and in its stead comes one 
 as bright. (Count kneels beside Cos. 
 and takes her hand.) Your hands are 
 
joined, what's more, is naught; and 
 yet it's hard to say farewell. 
 
 Cos Kneel here beside me. Take 
 my hand. Father, this is M. Casta- 
 way. Look at him? His parents were 
 honest; honest they must have been 
 to have had such a son. What is a title 
 compared with one's peace of mind ? 
 Your head is downcast, father. What 
 altar is higher than the one upon 
 which we place our affections ? This 
 IS my my protector. Do you wonder 
 that 1 love him? Live thou in our 
 happiness ? 
 
 Count Our nobility have steeped 
 their hands in blood to separate two 
 loving hearts like thine, and while the 
 clouds are passing, I see beyond our 
 hollow titles and our ancient names 
 an altar upon which this paradox is 
 
 served : He boasts a titled name, who 
 wears the title of a man. God bless 
 you, sir. 
 
 MON We'll have one thought; our 
 general good and common happiness, 
 which 
 
 Cos Holds you both as I do now, 
 and makes me think I hold you thus 
 forever. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 THE END 
 
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