ClassStez^. 
 Book TT U-'/t&S'- 
 
 Copyright W^l 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
SHORT COMEDIES 
 
 FOR AMATEUR PLAYERS 
 
 AS GIVEN AT THE 
 
 MADISON SQUARE AND LYCEUM THEATRES, NEW YORK 
 
 BY AMATEURS 
 
 ADAPTED AND ARRANGED BY 
 
 MRS. BURTON HARRISON 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY KELLY 
 
 II 
 
 ^\\A 
 
 NEW YORK 
 THE DE WITT PUBLISHING HOUSE 
 
IHleIZO 
 
 v 
 
 SPECIAL NOTICE. ACTING RIGHTS RESERVED. 
 
 These plays are duly protected by copyright. Managers and 
 Actors wishing to produce them must apply to the Author 
 through the publishers. They may, however, be produced by 
 Amateurs without permission. 
 
 Copyright, 1889, 
 By R. H. Russell & Son. 
 
 The DeVinne Press. 
 
JL 
 
•v 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 The Mouse-Trap 1 
 
 Weeping Wives 15 
 
 Behind- a Curtain 47 
 
 Tea at Four o'Clock 53 
 
 Two Strings to Her Bow 83 
 
The five short comedies selected for this volume are easily icithin 
 the scope of intelligent amateurs. They have teen tested and ap- 
 proved as suitable for this purpose by various audiences assem- 
 bled in private houses, and by the larger hearing accorded on the 
 occasions noted ivith each play. In preparing for amateur use 
 these English versions of French originals, I ivas inspired by a 
 desire to furnish something in which my players might have the 
 benefit of an untrodden field, and be spared comparison with 
 professional predecessors. Few amateur aspirants bear in mind 
 that, in selecting for performance the established dramas identified 
 ivith the names of artists ivho have successfully interpreted them, 
 they are exposing themselves to a two-edged sword of criticism. 
 It is manifestly more easy for untried actors to hold the attention 
 of their audience during one act, in which a situation is worked 
 out to its climax, than to deserve continued notice during three or 
 four acts of a long play. The aid derived from quick changes 
 of character, scenery, and costume, in varying the programme, is 
 a great resource for amateurs. And for those reasons I have 
 frequently provided for one entertainment a series, consisting of 
 a monologue and several comediettas, tableaux or acted ballads 
 in succession. 
 
 In all "private" theatricals there are three things which 
 cannot be too strongly recommended : (1) The choice of a stage- 
 manager, who shall be absolute ; (2) repeated and faithful re- 
 
ii PREFACE. 
 
 hearsals, and (3) such previous preparation of the stage as shall 
 insure promptness in the changes. The proverbially long ivaits 
 of amateur performances are a blight from ivhich the spirits of 
 the audience are sloiv to recover, whatever the following attrac- 
 tion. 
 
 Most amateurs should put their faith in graceful stage group- 
 ing and effective tableaux. These cover a multitude of sins, 
 and mag best be relied on by the untried aspirant, together with 
 Hamlet' 's u forest of feathers, and two provincial roses in his 
 razed shoes, n to " get him a fellowship in a cry of players. ," I 
 have found that simple dances, sometimes introducing volunteers 
 not cast for the play, are, when possible, desirable at the end 
 of a performance. When, for instance, u Two Strings to Her 
 Bow " was first given in Sedgwick Hall, at Lenox, Massachusetts, 
 a calcium light in the gallery, thrown in various tints upon a 
 rustic dance of beautifid young girls grouped in an out-door 
 scene, made an effect as charming as anything I remember on 
 the stage. The same idea was realized at the performance of 
 the same play by amateurs at the Lyceum Theatre, New York. 
 
 It is only fair to add that none of these comedies have been 
 given without the benefit of suggestions for the play and training 
 of the players by Mr. David Belasco, to ivhom as a stage-man- 
 ager so many of the most successful amateurs in Neiv York have 
 been indebted for his faithful endeavors to develop their possibili- 
 ties, a a h. 
 
 New York, February, 1889. 
 
THE MOUSE-TRAP 
 
 A PREDICAMENT 
 * 
 
 characters 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet, Mortimer Briefbag, 
 
 Young Widow. Counsellor-at-Laio. 
 
The Mouse-Trap was first played in August, 1886, at the 
 Sea Urchins, Bar Harbor. It was repeated at matinees of 
 amateur theatricals, given for the Island Mission and other 
 charities, January 13th and 14th, 1887, at the Madison Square 
 Theatre in New York, when Miss Elsie de Wolfe played Mrs. 
 
 A? 
 
 mm „ 
 
 L \I 
 
 Prettipet, Mr. Edward Fales Coward, Mr. Briefbag. This co- 
 medietta requires but one interior scene, with a practicable 
 window facing audience. Both characters wear modern morn- 
 ing dress. As "patter" parts, the lines committed to Mrs. 
 Prettipet and Mr. Briefbag should be spoken rapidly and with 
 spirit. 
 
THE MOUSE-TRAP. 
 
 (The scene is the parlor of a flat ; facing audience a win- 
 dow, practicable, C. ; sofa, work-table, fireplace JR., 
 door L., two arm-chairs.) 
 
 (As the curtain rises, Mrs. Prettipet comes running 
 through door L. in great excitement. In her arms she 
 holds a basket of crewel-work and wools, which she 
 throws upon the table, then closes and tries to lock door, 
 finds key gone, pushes chair against door, sharply 
 calls off.) 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — Bridget, call Ann and Susan and the 
 janitor and the elevator-boy. Let everybody look every- 
 where. Search the entries and the dining-room, the closets 
 and the coal-scuttle. Secure that wretch you must, dead 
 or alive. Don't try to open this door, do you hear ? No 
 one shall open this door — if I have to stay here without food 
 or drink for a week. There's no knowing whether the 
 monster would n't try to follow me. If I saw him I should 
 
4 THE MOUSE-TRAP. 
 
 certainly go mad. (Sits upon sofa, panting.) Oh, I can't 
 get over it. The shock was terrible. There I sat calmly- 
 doing my crewel- work beside my bedroom fire, and when 
 I put my hand ont to reach my work-basket — horrors! 
 he sprang at me ! he touched me ! All was dark before 
 me ! And that agent swore there was not a drawback to 
 this flat ! He even grazed me with his terrible long tail ! I 
 mean the mouse ! 
 
 After this I '11 go to housekeeping in a balloon. And to- 
 day, of all days, when I am expecting a call from Mr. 
 Mortimer Briefbag, my would-be husband. That infatu- 
 ated young man saw me last summer on the boat for Mount 
 Desert, was introduced to me upon the pier, pursued me in 
 a buckboard to find out my hotel, sprained his ankle climb- 
 ing after me upon the rocks, and capsized three times in 
 one day learning to manage a canoe that he might take me 
 out. Since then he 's been proposing to me at intervals of 
 three weeks regularly. He does n't mind refusals in the least. 
 
 I wonder if Mr. Briefbag is afraid of mice. Mr. Pretti- 
 pet was. Poor Mr. Prettipet, it was his only weakness. 
 (Handkerchief to eyes.) Of course I shall never marry again. 
 If I did, it would be only to find a protector. It is hard for 
 a woman to tread the path of life alone. 
 
 (Bridget's voice, outside.) — Misthress Prettipet. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — Have they caught him ? 
 
 (Bridgets voice, outside.) — Shure it 's a jintleman. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — In the mouse-trap ? 
 
 (Bridgets voice, outside.) — He 's af ther starting up the 
 steps, and here 's his card. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet (excitedly). — Don't open the door! Don't 
 open the door, for Heaven's sake ! Poke the card under. 
 (She stoops, takes card from floor, and reads it.) As I sup- 
 posed — the faithful Briefbag ! (Adjusts her hair and dress 
 before the mirror.) Bridget. 
 
 (Bridgets voice.) — Yes, mum. 
 
THE MOUSE-TRAP. 5 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet.— Tell the gentleman that the key of the 
 drawing-room door is broken in the lock, and we 've sent 
 to fetch a locksmith. Ask him if he 'd mind climbing 
 np the fire-escape. Briefbag will do it. He 's the most 
 obliging soul alive. Besides, it 's only the third floor. ( Goes 
 to window, parts curtains, opens window, and looks down.) 
 Goodness ! there he is in the yard below, attended by the 
 janitor with a ladder. He 's going to try it. Romeo on a 
 fire-escape — ha! ha! ha! Here he comes, climbing as 
 nimbly as a cat. Oh, dear ! I wish he were a cat ! Hand 
 over hand ! How funny a man looks coming up a fire- 
 escape with a high hat and umbrella. Ah, he 's here. Take 
 care, dear Mr. Briefbag. Don't fall, I beg of you. For my 
 sake, don't dash your brains out. 
 
 Briefbag (without). — Don't speak of it. Perfectly safe, 
 I assure you. Only too happy to come to the rescue of 
 beauty in distress. (Appearing at window.) Mrs. Prettipet, 
 good-morning. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — My heart was in my mouth. 
 
 Briefbag (mopping his brow). — So was mine, to tell the 
 honest truth. I 'm rather out of practice in gymnastics. 
 Besides, it 's a trifle depressing to have all the neighbors' 
 maid- servants gazing at one over the clothes-lines, and the 
 wet things flapping around one's legs. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — Come inside — it 's so dreadfully con- 
 spicuous. 
 
 Briefbag (putting one leg over sill). — Thanks. If it 's all 
 the same to you, I '11 accept your invitation by degrees. 
 (Fans himself with hat.) 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — This is so very kind of you. 
 
 Briefbag (putting other leg over sill). — Again, don't men- 
 tion it. The crisis called for action ; and, in the service of 
 the fair, Mortimer Briefbag, attorney and counsellor-at- 
 law, was never known to — ah — in point of fact — to 
 funk. 
 
6 THE MOUSE-TRAP. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet (coquettishly). — Think what would have 
 become of me, had you not climbed to my relief. 
 
 Briefbag. — Bewitching widow. Where would I not 
 aspire to climb ? Trinity Church steeple would be a mere 
 morning stroll to me, did I but find you at the top. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet (aside). — A declaration on the window- 
 sill! The man's incurable. (Aloud.) Take care of your 
 umbrella. 
 
 Briefbag (slipping into room). — It 's all right, thank you. 
 Rain or shine, I 've carried that umbrella since I was first 
 called to the New York bar. Such a little matter as climb- 
 ing up a fire-escape is n't likely to part us now. Loveliest 
 of Letitias, confide to me your sorrows. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — Such a shock ! It 's too dreadful to 
 mention. Don't speak of it. Take a chair. It 's all that 
 agent's fault. 
 
 Briefbag. — Go on, go on ; what has happened ? Speak. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — When I think of it I want to go into 
 hysterics. He — he — he — I — I — I— it — it — it — Oh, Mr. 
 Briefbag, I 'm so thankful you are here. 
 
 Briefbag. — Tears, Letitia ? Allow me to stanch them. 
 (Fumbles in pocket ; takes out law-paper, keys, pipe, etc., 
 fails to find handkerchief , looks distractedly at umbrella, 
 gives that up, seizes a tidy from a chair-back, and wipes 
 widoiv's eyes. Mrs. Prettipefs hysterics gradually 
 subside.) 
 
 (Anxiously.) — There, now, you are better; tell me all 
 about it. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet (rejecting the arm he attempts to put around 
 her tvaist). — Mr. Briefbag, I 'm astonished ! 
 
 Briefbag (aside). — I have it. Her modesty has taken 
 alarm at finding herself locked in alone with me. (Aloud.) 
 Shrinking Letitia, do not fear. Say but the word, and 
 without waiting for that confounded locksmith I '11 break 
 the door down. 
 
THE MOUSE-TRAP. 7 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet (shrieks). — Oh ! don't do that, for good- 
 ness sake j don't think of it ! (Restrains him.) 
 
 Briefbag (aside).— What the dickens can it be ? 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet (with a strong effort). — The locksmith 
 will be here very soon. In the mean time let ns make the 
 best of it. Now that you are with me, what have I to 
 fear? 
 
 Briefbag (aside). — She is evidently melting. (Aloud.) 
 Dearest Mrs. Prettipet, it is impossible for me to restrain 
 the words of love that bubble from my heart. Believe that 
 I return, ten thousand fold, the sweet sentiments you have 
 avowed for me. Believe 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet (draws back). — Again, Mr. Briefbag! 
 You forget yourself. 
 
 Briefbag. — Be not so coy. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet (haughtily). — Sir, you are presumptuous! 
 
 Briefbag (stiffly). — In that case, madam, you will permit 
 me to retire. (Picks up hat and umbrella.) 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet (wildly, aside). — Go, and leave me to the 
 mercy of that fiend ? (Aloud.) Stay, Mr. Brief bag. Can't 
 you understand that my nerves are shattered I 
 
 Briefbag (relenting, aside). — Timid little creature. 
 (Aloud.) Beautiful Letitia, at your command I submit 
 to anything. Do with me what you will. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet (aside). — Didn't I hear something 
 scratching? At any price, I'll keep him. (Aloud.) It is 
 rare, Mr. Briefbag, that in this calculating world one meets a 
 spirit so sympathetic as your own. (Aside.) There, I knew 
 it ! It is scratching. 
 
 Briefbag (aside). — Her emotion overcomes her; she 
 grows red, then pale. (Aloud.) Trust in me, loveliest 
 Letty. For your sake I would dare any danger, welcome 
 any fate, scale mountains, wade torrents, beard lions in 
 their lair. (Falls upon his knees.) 
 
 (Bridgefs voice, outside.) — Misthress Prettipet. 
 
8 THE MOUSE-TRAP. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — Well, Bridget? 
 
 (Bridget" 1 s voice. ) — Sure and the cat 's af ther catching him. 
 I saw her wid me eyes, and the crathnr in her mouth. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet.— Saved, saved ! Thank Heaven ! (She 
 runs to door, opens it, and goes out.) 
 
 Briefbag (getting up from knees, bewildered). — What an 
 extraordinary female ! Leaving me on my knees, in the 
 middle of a burning declaration, she whisks out of a door 
 which she has previously declared to be inviolably closed, 
 for the purpose of looking at her cat with a crathur in its 
 mouth ! And why — why should she thank Heaven ? 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet (running in). — A frightful disappoint- 
 ment. That stupid Bridget ! She can't swear it is not a ball 
 of crewel puss holds in her claws. Before I 'm a moment 
 older I '11 be sure. (Sits at table, takes wool-basket, begins to 
 count balls of crewel. ) 
 
 Briefbag (aside). — Eccentric personage. (Aloud.) 
 Ahem ! 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet (counts balls). — Four — six — eight 
 
 Briefbag (aside).— She ignores me. (Aloud.) Madam, I 
 wish you a good-day. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet (nervously). — Going? Oh, no! Mr. 
 Briefbag, you can't go yet. Eight — ten — I shall soon 
 know the worst. 
 
 Briefbag. — Madam, your indifference 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — Mr. Briefbag, you men are so impet- 
 uous, so sensitive. Forgive me. From my cradle I was 
 deemed original. Don't go ! 
 
 Briefbag. — I can't bear to refuse a woman what she's 
 set her heart on. I '11 stay. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — Sit right down there on the sofa, and 
 make yourself agreeable, while I count my wools. Tell me 
 something nice and dreadful. (A side. ) Oh ! anything to 
 while away these moments of suspense. (Goes on counting.) 
 Twelve — thirteen 
 
THE MOUSE-TRAP. 9 
 
 Briefbag (sits on sofa). — Nice and dreadful! What 
 shall it be ? 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — Fourteen — sixteen — Let 's talk 
 about wild beasts. 
 
 Briefbag (aside). — Wild beasts ! I Ve always taken par- 
 ticular good care to keep them at a distance. (Aloud.) 
 A man who has lived a life of adventure, a reckless, daring 
 fellow like myself, has naturally many little episodes more 
 or less exciting. Perhaps I may recall one which was 
 almost — not quite — tragic. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — Twenty-six — twenty-eight — Oh, 
 yes ; exactly. Something not quite tragic, but almost. 
 
 Briefbag. — Be calm, dear lady ; I survived it. I could 
 wish that the incident had occurred in a foreign country, 
 but it did not. It was at Peoria, Illinois. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — Ah, yes. Peoria, Illinois. (Aside.) 
 I 'm getting to the end. 
 
 Briefbag (aside). — Behold her growing agitation. At 
 the very thought of my danger she palpitates. And now, 
 Mortimer, summon up all your eloquence. Consider her a 
 jury that you 're addressing. (Aloud.) It might, as I said 
 before, have sounded better had the scene of my narration 
 been laid in some impenetrable forest of the Torrid Zone, 
 or upon Afric's glowing sands. So I should have preferred 
 it, had the animal I was called on to encounter been al- 
 together wild. But she was n't. The affair happened, in 
 point of fact, in a menagerie. Just at the moment when 
 the public within the inclosure had their eyes focused upon 
 a man-fly, walking in an unpleasant attitude across the 
 ceiling, a terrible roaring was heard. Something had evi- 
 dently broken loose. Nobody stopped to find out what 
 it was. The crowd surged madly in the direction of the 
 doorway. I, unfortunately, was the hindmost. Turning, I 
 beheld an enormous lioness charging full upon me. Quick 
 as thought I opened my umbrella 
 
10 THE MOUSE-TRAP. 
 
 (He opens umbrella. At this moment a mouse springs 
 from Mrs. Prettipefs basket, crosses her lap, and runs 
 across the floor.) 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — The mouse ! ! 
 
 (Mrs. P. utters a piercing shriek, and faints. Brief bag 
 turns, closing and dropping umbrella.) 
 Briefbag. — Great Heavens, she is fainting ! Look up, 
 Letitia, my adored ; your Brief bag lives — safe, unharmed. 
 (He slaps her hands, lays her on sofa, dances about her excit- 
 edly.) She 's cold and lifeless still. Letitia, believe me, it 
 never really happened! No, she hears me not. . . .Darling, 
 forgive me. I thought you were a jury. Oh, if she would 
 but speak ! My fatal gift of eloquence ; this time it has 
 undone me ! Letitia, do you think a cold key down your 
 back — help, help, water — I must have water. (He runs 
 out of door.) 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet (reviving).— Where am I? Ah, I re- 
 member now. Mr. Briefbag ! Gone ! He has left me to 
 my fate. Oh, I cannot stay alone. Suppose it got upon 
 my skirts. Oh, I see it underneath the curtain. I see its 
 tail wag. Help, help, or I shall die ! 
 
 (She springs up on chair, gathering her skirts tight about 
 her. Enter Briefbag, holding a large plated water- 
 pitcher in his hand.) 
 Briefbag. — Great Heavens ! She 's gone mad ! 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — Save me, save me, Mr. Briefbag ! 
 Briefbag (putting chair between them). — Madam, you may 
 rely on me. 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — You are a brave man — a hero ! 
 Briefbag. — I — Well, yes, certainly — (He regains pos- 
 session of his umbrella.) 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — You who have faced a lioness un- 
 daunted. 
 
 Briefbag. — Yes, of course I have. ( Aside.) I 'm glad 
 she did n't hear me say I made that story up. 
 
THE MOUSE-TRAP. I i 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — Then prepare yourself. 
 
 Briefbag. — I — I 'm prepared. (Aside.) Devil take it, 
 the woman 's lost her wits. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — For my sake (a la Fanny Davenport, 
 in Fedora), kill him ! kill him ! 
 
 Briefbag (aside). — Great Scott ! Mad as a March hare ! 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet (hysterically). — It ivas my crewel puss 
 had in her claws. 
 
 Briefbag. — Who had in her claws ? (Aside.) Poor soul, 
 this is terrible. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — There he is again — I saw him. Mr. 
 Briefbag, if you love me 
 
 Briefbag. — What — where — who ? 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — Under your chair. 
 
 (Briefbag jumps to one side, then stoops, making lunges 
 under chair with umbrella.) 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — Until I see him dead before me, I can 
 never leave this chair. There ! I see his tail. 
 
 Briefbag. — In Heaven's name, whose tail? 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet (distractedly). — How often must I tell 
 you ? That horrid, horrid mouse ! ! ! 
 
 Briefbag (jumping on other chair). — A mouse ! No ! 
 Where — where — where ? 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — What ! you afraid of him ? 
 
 Briefbag. — My dear madam, believe me, I would cheer- 
 fully live with crocodiles, eat all my meals in a den of 
 tigers, sleep with a rhinoceros for my bed -fellow, if it would 
 afford you the slightest satisfaction. But if upon earth 
 there lives an animal that completely chills the marrow 
 of my bones, it is a mouse. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet.— This is dreadful ! What shall we do ? 
 
 Briefbag. — Could n't we call the maids ? 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — They 're all in the kitchen, at the 
 other side of the flat. Could n't you summon up courage 
 to get down to fetch a broomstick ? 
 
12 THE MOUSE-TRAP. 
 
 Briefbag. — Madam, if you were to offer me a seat upon 
 the Bench of the Supreme Court at this minute, I should be 
 utterly unable to stir hand or foot to take it. I am com- 
 pletely paralyzed. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet.— There; he's run under the fender. 
 Now's your chance. 
 
 Briefbag. — Are you quite certain ? 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — No, no; he is running up the curtain. 
 
 Briefbag (taking drink out of water-pitcher). — Make up 
 your mind, please ; it 's very wearing. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet.— Mr. Briefbag, you have asked my 
 hand in marriage. If you rid me of this, our common 
 enemy, 't is yours. 
 
 Briefbag. — I have no words in which to frame my grati- 
 tude; my feelings overpower me. To wed you has long 
 been the dearest wish of my heart ; but I know myself, and 
 if I came into but momentary contact with that creature, I 
 should die upon the spot. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — Then, oh! what shall we do? Per- 
 haps you could poke the door open with your umbrella. 
 
 Briefbag. — A capital idea. (He leans over, puts down 
 pitcher, and pushes door open.) 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — Bravo! Now, let us throw things. 
 (She throws her basket, wools, etc., which hit B. ; he dodges 
 in vain.) 
 
 Briefbag (puts up umbrella to shield himself).— A flat 
 failure! Now's my turn. (Opens and shuts umbrella.) 
 That 's no go. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — Let 's make all the noise we can, both 
 together. (Duet of roars, groans, and hisses.) 
 
 Briefbag. — That mouse is positively Spartan. Stop; 
 I 've an idea. I once had some success in my imitations of 
 a cat. (Makes a terrible caterwauling. " The mouse darts from 
 under curtain and out at door.) 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet (jumps down, claps hands). — There he 
 
THE MOUSE-TRAP. 
 
 ^3 
 
 goes. Victory, victory; our enemy has fled. (Slams the 
 door.) 
 
 Briefbag (getting down, stiff in joints). — Was n't it Buff on 
 who undertook to say that animal instinct can never be 
 deceived ? And that creature mistook me for a cat ? Dis- 
 gusting ! 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — Under the present circumstances, I 
 should prefer one cat to six men, even if they were all heroes 
 like yourself, Mr. Brief bag. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Briefbag. — That 's just like a woman. Use a man, play 
 on his finest feelings, then cast him off. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — You cast me off. Did n't you just 
 refuse my heart and hand ? 
 
 Briefbag. — That, madam, was my misfortune, not my 
 fault. But, rather than remain to afford food for unfeeling 
 merriment, I will take my leave. (Takes up hat and um- 
 brella ; goes toward door. Quick movement from Mrs. P.) 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet (rapidly). — Oh, don't open that door ! I 
 won't hear of it. 
 
 Briefbag (walking to window, looks out). — Well, although 
 the method offers certain objections, and he 's taken away 
 the ladder, I suppose I can go as I came. True, I must tell 
 you that on looking down from a great height I am subject 
 to fits of vertigo. If I dash my brains out, do not be sur- 
 prised. Good-morning ! 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet (holding to his coat). — Don't go through 
 the window. I '11 not hear of it. 
 
 Briefbag. — A compound fracture and a lingering ill- 
 ness. There 's a good hospital around the corner, and the 
 ambulance mag come within an hour. Good-day ! 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet (beseechingly) .—My. Briefbag! 
 
 Briefbag. — Internal injuries; perhaps a hemorrhage. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — Mortimer, for my sake, stay ! 
 
 Briefbag (aside). — She calls me Mortimer! 'T is the 
 music of the spheres ! (A loud.) I relent. I '11 not go down 
 
M 
 
 THE MOUSE-TRAP. 
 
 the fire-escape. I decline to dash my brains out. I renounce 
 the compound fracture. I scorn the hemorrhage. 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet (holds out hand). — And you'll take this 
 in their stead ? 
 
 Briefbag. — Beauteous and beloved Letitia. Mine at 
 last! 
 
 (Bridget's voice outside.) — Sure, and it 's puss that ! s got 
 him this time, sure enough. You can say her for yerself, 
 sittin' quite comfortable and atin' him atop the cool-scuttle. 
 
 Briefbag. — So perish all our foes. And now, my dear 
 Mrs. Briefbag that is to be, when shall we go to house- 
 keeping 1 
 
 Mrs. Prettipet. — When you shall have bought your- 
 self a mouse -trap I 
 
"WEEPING WIVES" 
 
 A COMEDIETTA 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF MM. SIRAUDIN 
 
 AND LAMBERT THIBOUST 
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 M Chambly 5 ^*° ^ as con fided to his ivife the key of 
 
 \ his secretary. 
 
 His wife, who wishes to restrain her 
 husband's love of play. 
 
 Delphine, . . 
 
 Albert de Rieux, . Upon his honeymoon journey . 
 
 Clotilde, . . 
 
 Jean, A servant at the Hotel. 
 
 ^ His bride, who is studying the idiosyn- 
 I crasies of mankind. 
 
Weeping Wives was prepared at the request of Mr. George 
 Riddle, for his readings, and has been repeatedly acted by ama- 
 teurs. It is best known through the interpretation of Mrs. 
 Oliver Sumner Teall as Delphine, Miss Alice Lawrence as Clo- 
 tilde, Mr. Edward Fales Coward as Chambly, Mr. Evert Wendell 
 as Albert de Rieux, and Mr. William Francis Johnson as Jean. 
 With this cast it was included in the programme of the opening 
 night of the Tuxedo Club Theatre, October 25th, 1886; and 
 
 /&?. 
 
 was seen at the residence of Mrs. Arthur Murray Dodge, for the 
 benefit of a Day Nursery, March 19th, 1885. It was also given 
 by the same players at Orange, N. J., and elsewhere. At the 
 matinees for the Island Mission, etc., at the Madison Square 
 Theatre, the part of Albert de Rieux was kindly assumed by Mr. 
 Walden Ramsay of the Madison Square Theatre. This comedy 
 demands one scene, the interior of a hotel sitting-room at 
 Baden, with exits R., L., and C. ; and the characters wear 
 modern morning dress. 
 
WEEPING WIVES. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene : Baden, at the height of the fashionable season. 
 The Hotel Parlor. Chambly alone. 
 
 Chambly (meditating). — The double zero ! Again my ill- 
 luck follows me. Ah, I can't understand it. It is enough 
 to weaken the brain of any man 
 
 Jean (appearing suddenly). — Monsieur called for me *? 
 
 Chambly. — No ; leave me alone ! 
 
 Jean. — Monsieur seems a little put out about something. 
 
 Chambly.— Put out ! I should think I am. That in- 
 fernal double zero ! There — get along with you, fellow. 
 
 Jean (icith an air of incredulity). — It can't be that mon- 
 sieur has been playing % 
 
 Chambly. — Hold your tongue, and begone ! 
 
 Jean (sympathetically).— ! am really surprised! Mon- 
 sieur, then, has been playing. 
 
1 8 WEEPING WIVES. 
 
 Chambly. — If you breathe a word about my — my un- 
 fortunate double zero, to anybody living, you rascal, I '11 — 
 I '11 kidnap you. I '11 drag you to Carlsruhe, and without 
 an attempt at a pretext I '11 throw you neck and heels into 
 the Rhine. Go ! 
 
 Jean. — It is n't necessary for monsieur to be so posi- 
 tive — I 'm off, monsieur, this minute. (Exit Jean.) 
 
 Chambly. — And here I am, with forty-five thousand 
 louis of rent upon my books, and not twenty francs in my 
 pocket. So much for the misguided enthusiasm of a man 
 in his honeymoon. So much for having said to Madame 
 Chambly in my first moment of marital expansion, 
 " Take the key of my secretary, my beloved. From 
 this moment you are the keeper of our fortunes — the dis- 
 poser of my purse." Strange to say, she accepted. (Enter 
 Delphine.) At that time it made little difference. We 
 were not at Baden, and this passion for play had not taken 
 hold of me. 
 
 Delphine. — " This passion for play ? " Monsieur Cham- 
 bly, what is this I hear ? Did we not agree that naughty 
 word should never be mentioned in my presence while at 
 Baden? 
 
 Chambly. — I beg pardon, my dear. I was reflecting 
 upon some of the peculiarities of the town. By the way, 
 Baden is a very expensive place, is n't it ? You could n't 
 let me have five hundred francs toward current expenses 
 this morning, could you, my love ? 
 
 Delphine. — Wouldn't that be a little dangerous — con- 
 sidering the peculiarities of the town, my love I 
 
 Chambly (aside). — She 's too clever by half, con- 
 found it ! 
 
 Delphine (sits, showing key of secretary). — No, Monsieur 
 Chambly ; when I became keeper of this little key, I dedi- 
 cated myself to the task. I set aside for your petty expendi- 
 tures the sum of one thousand francs a month. This, you 
 
KEEPING WIVES. 
 
 *9 
 
 will agree, is paid to you with the most scrupulous exact- 
 ness. And you have the audacity to demand of me some- 
 thing additional for a mere whim — the gratification of an 
 idle hour. Pray, what have you done to merit it ? 
 
 Chambly (pleading). — If you could only understand how 
 the price of everything has gone up in Baden. 
 
 Delphine. — Nonsense ! 
 
 Chambly (pleadingly). — Petty expenditures particularly, 
 more than great ones. A thousand francs a month don't 
 begin to cover my expenses. And then, this is leap-year ; 
 that upsets all my accounts, you know. 
 
 Delphine.— No ; I am far too indulgent with you. Re- 
 member that horse I bought for you just before we left 
 Paris — such a beauty ! 
 
 Chambly. — I remember, also, that every day while we 
 were in Paris you had him harnessed to your coupe, and 
 drove him in the Bois. Naturally, I was prevented from 
 riding him — unless, indeed, I had equipped myself like 
 the Postillion de Longjumeau, with big boots and a little 
 whip, and had got astride of him before your carriage. No 
 doubt I should have been admired ; but the novelty might 
 have provoked criticism upon a civil engineer. So I pre- 
 ferred to be less striking, and to hire a horse from the riding 
 school. 
 
 Delphine. — Yes ; you confess it. Your money is wasted 
 in hippodromes, in theatres, in fencing. You know you are 
 a pillar of the fencing club. 
 
 Chambly.— One moment, Madame Chambly. Do you 
 remember what you said to me the year before our mar- 
 riage ? 
 
 Delphine (laughing). — That 's too much to ask me, con- 
 sidering all I have said since. 
 
 Chambly. — At that time I had just made your acquaint- 
 ance. You were in mourning for my respected predecessor. 
 The tears were hardly dry in your charming eyes. I urged 
 
20 WEEPING WIVES. 
 
 my suit with ardor. It was at Auteuil, and your old dragon 
 of an aunt was dozing over her after-dinner coffee. You 
 heard my declaration, and laughed in my face. 
 
 Delphine.— That was very wrong of me, — to laugh, I 
 mean, — considering my recent bereavement! (Laughs.) 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Chambly. — To me there was nothing funny about it. 
 " Why can you not love me!" I asked mournfully. " Be- 
 cause I have vowed never to marry again," you answered. 
 " But there must be some other reason," I urged. li Well, 
 then, my dear M. Chambly, you are — if you will have it — 
 you are — " " Go on ; put me out of my misery, madame." 
 " You are too fat! " The fact is I was immense — nothing 
 poetical about me. " I will grow thin or die ! " I exclaimed. 
 From that moment I went in for athletics. I lifted heavy 
 weights ; I struggled daily with hundreds of pounds of solid 
 metal, saying to myself the while, "It is for her. Great 
 Heaven, — for her I love ! " I flew to Griset ; I took up 
 fencing ; five hours a day of thrust, of tierce, of riposte, of 
 flanconnade — the fire of love directing me, every energy 
 bent upon the overthrow of my adversary; ten — twelve 
 foils were broken in my resistless fury of attack. I suffered 
 dreadfully from lumbago j but I became poetical — I grew 
 thin. 
 
 Delphine (laughing). — And this was all for me? (Rises 
 and crosses, B. to table, leaves parasol there.) 
 
 Chambly. — And you never even noticed it? (Changes 
 tone.) See here, Delphine, you have n't so much as a miser- 
 able little rag of a thousand-franc note in your pocket- 
 book "1 I want an advance on next month. I am obliged 
 to have a little money in hand. Have you forgotten that 
 to-morrow is the birthday of the Grand Duke ? 
 
 Delphine (turns toward mirror). — Do you propose mak- 
 ing a present to the Grand Duke ? 
 
 Chambly. — H-h-ardly, since he has not the privilege of 
 my acquaintance. 
 
WEEPING WIVES. 2 \ 
 
 Delphine (leans on chair, menacing him icith her fore- 
 finger). — You want money to play with! ! Deny it, if you 
 can. An d you — shall — not — have — a — sin gle sou, mon- 
 sieur ; mark that ! ! ! (She goes up, to mirror.) 
 
 Chambly (aside) . — And I have hut three miserable florins 
 in my pocket ! Jove, but a man is verdant in his honey- 
 moon ! 
 
 Delphine (over her shoulder). — Try to overcome this 
 absurd passion. Go and take a walk ; visit the environs 
 of the town ; admire the beauties of nature, the landscape. 
 
 Chambly (aside). — Landscape! The only landscape I 
 care for is a green table. Bah ! with three florins in hand, 
 a man may break the bank ! 
 
 (Enter Jean, running.) 
 
 Jean. — Monsieur called for me ? 
 
 Chambly.— No. 
 
 Jean. — Beg pardon, monsieur and madame ; but do mon- 
 sieur and madame dine at the hotel to-day ? 
 
 Delphine (over her right shoulder). — I don't know. Stay, 
 was it not you who carried up our trunks yesterday ? 
 
 Jean (bows). — Yes, madame. 
 
 Delphine.— I forgot to pay you. Monsieur Chambly, 
 will you give this boy three florins for his trouble ? 
 
 Chambly (thunderstruck) .— Three florins! 
 
 Delphine (laughs). — You can't accommodate me with so 
 small a sum ? 
 
 Chambly. — Of course ! (To Jean.) Here it is. 
 
 Delphine (sharply). — Then why should you have hesi- 
 tated ! 
 
 Chambly. — One is never quick enough for you, my dear. 
 
 Delphine (pettishly, walking away to mantel-piece). — Don't 
 talk to me. 
 
 Chambly. — Pray, my dear 
 
 Delphine.— Bah! 
 
 Jean (aside) . — She was a widow when he married her, 
 I '11 take my oath to it, or she 'd never be so uppish ! 
 
22 WEEPING WIVES. 
 
 Chambly (aside to Jean). — Halloa, you fellow ! Give me 
 back my three florins. 
 
 Jean. — But, monsieur 
 
 Chambly (mysteriously) . — Hush ! It is counterfeit money ! 
 If it is found upon you, you are lost. 
 
 Jean (terrified). — Here it is, monsieur. 
 
 Chambly (aside). — Now, if the double zero stands my 
 friend. 
 
 Delphine (arranging her bonnet, at mirror). — Monsieur 
 Chambly, are you coming ? 
 
 Chambly. — Ready, my dear. At your service always ! 
 
 ( They go out.) 
 
 Jean. — The gentleman is not so much his own master 
 as when I saw him last. I lenew I was not mistaken. He 's 
 the same party I served breakfast to when I was at the 
 
 Cafe Anglais in Paris 
 
 (Enter Albert and Clotilde, arm in arm.) 
 
 Clotilde. — Oh, what a lovely walk ! 
 
 Jean (aside). — The turtle doves in No. 4. (Aloud.) Beg 
 pardon, monsieur and madame ; but will monsieur and 
 madame take dinner at the hotel ? 
 
 Albert. — No. What do you say, darling, to an excur- 
 sion ? Suppose we visit the Chateau de la Favorite, and 
 dine — no matter where ! 
 
 Clotilde (sentimentally) . — Oh, yes ; anywhere ! Under 
 an arbor ; far from everything ! 
 
 Jean (aside). — In their honeymoon, and no mistake. 
 Makes me think about getting married myself ! (Exit.) 
 
 Clotilde. — Was there ever such a lovely place as 
 Baden 1 
 
 Albert. — Never — except the spot where we were wed ! 
 
 Clotilde. — Everybody seems so happy here. I see 
 nothing but smiles and pretty toilettes. And then I love 
 the music. How gay the shops are ! Did you notice that 
 jeweler's we passed coming back •? 
 
WEEPING WIVES. 
 
 23 
 
 Albert. — What — Mellerio's ? 
 
 Clotilde. — Yes, darling. He had in his window such a 
 pair of diamond ear-rings! (Sighs.) They were perfect 
 ducks ! Did n't you notice them ? 
 
 Albert. — No, I was looking at the cigars, next door. 
 
 Clotilde. — They were set in silver! 
 
 Albert. — What, the cigars J ? 
 
 Clotilde. — Stupid boy. How they shone ! Albert, if 
 you wanted to be just too lovely for anything — I am wild 
 about those ear-rings ! 
 
 Albert. — Whom do you want most to please in all the 
 world, Clotilde ! 
 
 Clotilde.— Why you, of course, dearest. 
 
 Albert. — The first time I saw you, darling, you were 
 robed in simple white, wearing a flower in your belt. 
 
 Clotilde (clings to his arm). — Of course ; I was just out 
 of the convent. 
 
 Albert.— If you knew how enchanting I thought you 
 then ! Let me still feel that our love dates from yesterday. 
 Let me see you ever as on that happy day. Need I give you 
 those diamonds in order to bring a smile into your eyes ? 
 
 Clotilde. — No, but 
 
 Albert. — Then be satisfied now to be lovely and beloved, 
 and one day, perhaps 
 
 Clotilde (gayly). — That is to say, you will give me the 
 diamonds when you cease to love me — Then I would rather 
 never have them ! 
 
 Albert. — You are an angel ! 
 
 Clotilde. — Never mind the ear-rings ! I am going off 
 to dress now, and you will see what gown I shall choose. 
 
 Albert.— Coquette ! 
 
 Clotilde. — A little white frock, a blue sash, and a single 
 flower worn in the belt. Will that please monsieur ? 
 (Albert puts his arm around her and kisses her brow.) If any- 
 one should see us what would they say ? 
 
24 
 
 W EE PING WIVES. 
 
 Albert. — That I love you. 
 
 Clotilde. — Then kiss me once more, but be quick 
 about it. 
 
 (Chairibly enters, B. He perceives couple, and coughs.) 
 
 Clotilde (shrinking). — How perfectly dreadful! We 
 are seen. (She runs off, L.) 
 
 Albert (recognizing Chambly). — Prosper Chambly ! My 
 old comrade at St. Barbe ! 
 
 Chambly. — Albert de Rieux ! Who would have thought 
 of meeting you here. Why, my dear fellow, when last we 
 parted, a dozen years ago, you had a Latin essay in your 
 pocket. Now, when I meet you again, you 've a pretty 
 woman in your arms. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Albert (with dignity). — I shall have pleasure in present- 
 ing you to my wife. 
 
 Chambly. — You are married ! So am I. What a coinci- 
 dence. 
 
 Albert. — The most charming young girl 
 
 Chambly. — Mine 's a magnificent widow ! 
 
 Albert.— A widow ? 
 
 Chambly. — A widow. That has always been my dream. 
 A young girl knows nothing of life, of character. Her 
 experiments may so easily make shipwreck of your happi- 
 ness. A widow, now — there are no whims, no illusions 
 about her! If she has been unhappy with her first, she is 
 the more disposed to be satisfied with number two. Or if 
 she has been devoted to number one, she is inspired by ten- 
 derness to make the most of number two. Why do you 
 laugh ? This is sound logic, let me tell you, man. Now 
 for yourself. Since when are you a Benedict f 
 
 Albert. — We were married six weeks ago. A love 
 match, as you may believe. 
 
 Chambly (eagerly). — Albert, do you keep the key of the 
 secretary, or does she ? 
 
 Albert. — The key of the common fund, do you mean — 
 
WEEPING WIVES. 25 
 
 the purse-strings, in other words ? Why, I do, of course. 
 Why should you ask ¥ 
 
 Chambly. — Oh, nothing ! Of course you do 5 every man 
 does — I do, too. The husband must rule, of course. 
 (Aside.) What a lucky devil he is ! 
 
 Albert. — And you and your wife have come to visit 
 Baden just as we have. For health and pleasure, hey ? 
 
 Chambly. — Yes ; we find it charming. The Black Forest, 
 the old Chateau, the climate, not to speak of the balls and 
 concerts, and — ah ! — ahem — the roulette table. 
 
 Albert. — You 've tried your luck, then ? 
 
 Chambly (shrugs). — Oh, nothing to speak of. A mere 
 pastime. Now and then, from time to time, merely to 
 amuse myself, I slip a few florins upon the double zero — 
 behind the scenes, you know. 
 
 Albert. — I see. Madame does n't approve of it ! By the 
 way, Chambly, was it not you I saw last night, in the 
 company of two young officers, put a few gold pieces upon 
 the double zero u ? 
 
 Chambly (reluctantly). — Y-e-s, it was I. Strange to 
 say, I lost, which seemed to afford some amusement to those 
 confounded youngsters. But, as they laughed in German, 
 I did n't mind. 
 
 Albert. — I unfortunately understood their taunts ; and 
 seeing in you a compatriot, I took it on me to resent their 
 ill-timed pleasantry. 
 
 Chambly. — You became involved in a quarrel on my 
 account ! Generous as of old, and as ready as ever you 
 were to set lance in rest for the oppressed. Let me recom- 
 mend you to be more careful, my good fellow 
 
 Albert (carelessly). — After giving them my plain 
 opinion of their impertinence, I put myself at the disposi- 
 tion of these warriors, and still await them. 
 
 Chambly (cautiously, looking about him). — My dear fellow, 
 are you not very impetuous ? 
 
2 6 WEEPING WIVES. 
 
 Albert. — What ! This from a swordsman so renowned 
 as you, Monsieur Chambly ? 
 
 Chambly. — Yes j but I took up the art of war as a mere 
 hygienic exercise. I wanted to lose flesh. For my part, I 
 hold dueling in horror. But I am none the less obliged to 
 you, my gallant comrade. (Enter Delphine, M.) 
 
 Delphine. — Monsieur Chambly. 
 
 Chambly. — My dear, you will allow me to present to you 
 Monsieur le Vicomte de Iiieux, the Pythias to my Damon 
 in schoolboy days. 
 
 Albert. — Who dares claim a corner by the fireside of 
 your friendship, Madame Chambly. 
 
 Delphine (curtsies). — Monsieur, it is yours already. Have 
 I not often heard my dear Prosper talk about your early 
 intercourse at St. Barbe ? (Enter Clotilde, L.) 
 
 Clotilde. — I 'm ready, Albert — Oh ! 
 
 Delphine (runs to meet her).— Clotilde ! 
 
 Clotilde (embracing her fervently). — Delphine ! 
 
 Chambly (astonished). — Our wives know each other! 
 How very odd. This is the kind of thing they 'd put into 
 a comedy, and the newspapers would say it was n't true 
 to life. 
 
 Delphine (her arm around Clotilde 's waist). — I should 
 think we do know each other ; were n't we together in the 
 convent ? So you, monsieur, are the husband of my dear 
 little Clotilde.? 
 
 Chambly (to Albert). — De Rieux, we had better leave 
 these ladies for a while. They must have an extraordinary 
 amount to say. 
 
 Delphine. — We shall find enough to say about you both, 
 don't fear ! 
 
 Chambly. — Good or evil ? 
 
 Clotilde. — Just what you deserve ! 
 
 Chambly. — Let us be off, Albert, leaving our reputations 
 in their hands. (Aside.) I am dying to try the luck of my 
 
WEEPING WIVES. 
 
 2 7 
 
 last three florins upon the double zero. honeymoon, 
 how deceitfully you shine on all alike ! Come on, De Rieux, 
 come on. (Exeunt Chambly and Albert, C.) 
 
 Delphine. — Now come, Clotilde, tell me all about your 
 marriage. 
 
 Clotilde. — It 's your turn first, Delphine. You have had 
 so much more experience. You left the convent three years 
 before me, recollect. 
 
 Delphine. — True. How awfully old I am ! Well, 
 my dear little Clotilde, hardly had I quitted the convent, 
 where we were so gay, so joyous, when I married Mon- 
 sieur 
 
 Clotilde (joyfully). — Yes, you married Albert's friend. 
 How nice ! It 's just what I should have liked to do if I 
 had n't married Albert. 
 
 Delphine. — Oh, no ! Did I not mention it ? When I 
 married Monsieur Chambly — ( very gayly) — I was already 
 a widow. 
 
 Clotilde (laughs). — Two husbands in such a little while ! 
 But then you always were a clever creature. 
 
 Delphine. — Yes ; I was the widow of M. de Varennes, 
 who had made me as miserable as I could be. At first I 
 thought nothing would induce me to take another husband. 
 But M. Chambly was so kind, so persistent ; I was so lonely, 
 so young, — life with my old aunt at Auteuil was so 
 dreary, — I accepted him ! 
 
 Clotilde (laughs).— You are very wise, my dear. As 
 for my story, it is short. What can I tell but that I am 
 Albert's wife ! 
 
 Delphine. — The sum of earthly happiness ! 
 
 Clotilde. — Is n't he too lovely, Delphine ? But (gaz- 
 ing at Delphine fixedly) 
 
 Delphine. — Very much so. Handsome and distinguished. 
 But what are you looking at ? 
 
 Clotilde (in a pathetic tone). — Your diamond ear-rings. 
 
28 WEEPING WIVES. 
 
 Delphine (carelessly). — Pretty, are n't they ? We bought 
 them yesterday at Mellerio's. 
 
 Clotilde (sighs). — Ah ! 
 
 Delphine. — What is the matter, child 1 If you fancy 
 them, there is a pair left exactly like these. 
 
 Clotilde (sadly) . — I know it. 
 
 Delphine. — Ask your husband to buy them for you. 
 
 Clotilde (with pathos). — I have already done so. 
 
 Delphine.— Well ? 
 
 Clotilde (sighs). — No matter, let us talk of other things. 
 
 Delphine (gayly). — No, let us talk of diamond ear-rings. 
 
 Clotilde (reluctantly). — Well, Albert gave me to under- 
 stand that 
 
 Delphine. — He refused you ? 
 
 Clotilde (sighing) . — Ye-e-s. 
 
 Delphine (tragically). — Clotilde, you are lost! 
 
 Clotilde.— Lost 9 
 
 Delphine. — After only six weeks of marriage you allow 
 your husband to say " No " ? Clotilde, you are on the verge 
 of a bottomless abyss ! 
 
 Clotilde (rising). — Delphine, you frighten me ! 
 
 Delphine (rising). — My poor, innocent child, don't you 
 know your life's happiness depends on the stand you take 
 during the honeymoon ? Oh, it was your lucky star that 
 led you to my hands. If you want those diamonds, you 
 must have them — there ! 
 
 Clotilde. — But when I tell you that Albert has declined 
 to give them to me — that I have already begged for 
 them 
 
 Delphine (eagerly). — In a melting voice, with a tender 
 look, whilst you hung upon his arm ¥ 
 
 Clotilde. — Yes ; the very best I could. 
 
 Delphine. — Don't be too sure. In the arsenal of femi- 
 nine coquetry there is a certain glance, accompanied by a 
 certain attitude — See, this way — Fold your hands and 
 
W EE PING WIVES. 
 
 2 9 
 
 drop your voice to an appealing whisper — " Albert, my 
 Albert ! you can refuse me what I ask ? " 
 
 Clotilde (doubtfully). — I think I might do that. 
 
 Delphine.— Try. 
 
 Clotilde (stiffly, imitating). — "Albert, my Albert! you 
 can refuse me what I ask ? " 
 
 Delphine (discouraged). — No, that is not a success. 
 Try again. 
 
 Clotilde. — Oh, how discouraging ! I can't pretend. Is 
 there no other way ? 
 
 Delphine. — I 'm thinking. Ah, I have it ! Can you 
 cry? 
 
 Clotilde (curiously).— Cry ? 
 
 Delphine (spells). — Yes; C-R-Y, you know! Why, 
 of course you do. All women know how to cry. Between 
 ourselves, my dear, men are less black than we paint them. 
 When we weep, they can't resist us. 
 
 Clotilde (gayly). — I never thought of that. 
 
 Delphine. — It is almost sure to succeed. My poor first 
 husband, whose temper was bad enough, dear knows, was 
 invariably softened by my tears. Try it with M. de Rieux, 
 and you will be astonished at the result. 
 
 Clotilde. — My good Delphine ! 
 
 Delphine. — Oh, the eloquence of tears is infallible. You 
 shall see ! 
 
 Clotilde. — But how does one cry when there is nothing 
 to cry about ? 
 
 Delphine. — Make believe ; put your handkerchief to 
 your eyes, sob, work yourself up to the idea that you are a 
 martyr, and the tears will come of themselves. 
 
 (Enter Albert, C.) 
 
 Ah ! your husband ! 
 
 Albert. — Are the confidences over? 
 
 Delphine. — Yes ; and I give back your little Clotilde, 
 the wiser for my experience. (To Clotilde, aside.) I shall 
 
3° 
 
 KEEPING WIVES. 
 
 leave you to practice on him. Be brave, and all will go well. 
 (Aloud to Albert.) And what have you done with my hus- 
 band, M. de Bieux ? Did you lose him by the way ? 
 
 Albert. — No ; he — ahem — is listening to the band. 
 
 Delphine. — The band? Since when has he become a 
 connoisseur of music ? Well, I shall try to bring back my 
 wanderer. Au revoir, my friends ; we shall soon meet 
 again. (Exit Delphine, B.) 
 
 Albert. — What a charming, spirited wife Chambly has ! 
 
 Clotilde. — Yes ; we all loved her at the convent. 
 
 Albert. — Chambly is a capital fellow. He would make 
 any woman happy. 
 
 Clotilde (pathetically) . — Delphine is happy. He refuses 
 her nothing. Only yesterday he gave her 
 
 Albert. — Well, what? 
 
 Clotilde (sighs). — The very diamonds you refused to 
 give me. And they have been two years married ! 
 
 Albert (annoyed). — Ah! 
 
 Clotilde (hesitating). — If you only knew how I have set 
 my heart on them. (Aside.) I have n't really, but Delphine 
 says my future is at stake ! 
 
 Albert. — Diamonds are cold, ugly stones, not at all 
 suited to your fresh young beauty. 
 
 Clotilde. — It may be a caprice j but, oh ! I can think of 
 nothing else. 
 
 Albert (smiling) . — Then don't you think it is my duty to 
 wean you from caprice ? Come, try to forget them, for my 
 sake. 
 
 Clotilde (voice trembling). — I didn't think such a little 
 sum as two or three thousand francs would stand between 
 us, Albert. 
 
 Albert (aside). — How prettily she pleads! Confound 
 the money, I don't care for that ; but, if I give up now, I 'm 
 gone. 
 
 Clotilde (aside).— That ivas a hit! Let me try again. 
 
WEEPING WIVES. 3 I 
 
 (Aloud.) Albert, my Albert ! you can refuse me what 
 I ask? 
 
 Albert (movement toward her). — Clotilde! my darling! 
 (Aside.) If I don't stand firm, all 's up ! 
 
 Clotilde (aside).— I am certainly improving. (Aloud.) 
 Here is your hat, dearest; we will go together to the 
 jeweler's. 
 
 Albert. — I will give you anything in the world, Clotilde, 
 except those diamonds. Come, be reasonable, and yield 
 the point. 
 
 Clotilde (aside). — There is one thing left. Delphine 
 says my happiness depends on it. (Bursts into tears.) Ah ! 
 Albert, I am so unhappy ! 
 
 Albert (astonished). — Clotilde ! 
 
 Clotilde (sobbing). — Six weeks of marriage, and it has 
 come to this ! 
 
 Albert. — But, Clotilde 
 
 Clotilde. — You don't love me. You have never 
 loved me ! 
 
 Albert (aside). — Hang it, I can't stand tears. 
 
 Clotilde. — My poor mother ! She alone loves me, in all 
 this weary world ! 
 
 Albert. — Clotilde, dearest, and I have made you cry ? 
 Oh, what a brute I am ! 
 
 Clotilde.— Leave me ! All is over ! 
 
 Albert (on his knees beside her). — Becalm, darling. I 
 will fly at once and fetch those miserable diamonds. 
 
 Clotilde. — Oh ! no, no, no ! I shall never want anything 
 again. 
 
 Albert. — In a few moments they shall be laid at your feet. 
 
 Clotilde (hiding her face). — I am going back to the 
 convent ! 
 
 Albert. — Clotilde, don't say such cruel words. There, 
 kiss me. I 'm off to fetch those ear-rings. 
 
 (Exit Albert impetuously, L.) 
 
32 
 
 WEEPING WIVES. 
 
 Clotilde (drying her eyes) . — Real tears ! What a success ! 
 Delphine was right. I had no idea of it. 
 
 (Chambly comes in with an abstracted air, C.) 
 
 Chambly. — The double zero refused to come up. Queer, 
 is n't it ! 
 
 Clotilde. — M. Chambly ! 
 
 Chambly (not observing her). — If it were near the first of 
 the month ! Here it is only the 24th, and I have n't another 
 franc at my command. This month has thirty-one days, 
 and these are the longest days of the whole year. Let 
 me see (Enter Jean, M.) 
 
 Jean (suddenly). — Monsieur called me ? 
 
 Chambly (angrily). — No ; get out with you ! 
 
 Jean. — I thought monsieur called me, on account of the 
 little trifle of twenty francs that monsieur owes me 
 
 Chambly. — Get out, you rascal ! 
 
 Jean. — Certainly, sir ; going this minute. I have entire 
 confidence in monsieur's honesty 
 
 Chambly (aside). — Go to the devil with your confidence. 
 
 (Exit Jean. Clotilde comes forward as Albert runs in, M.) 
 
 Albert (box in hand). — Clotilde ! I have come to sue for 
 pardon. 
 
 Clotilde (aside, triumphantly). — He has them ! 
 
 Chambly (aside, surprised) . — For pardon ? 
 
 Clotilde (aside). — Poor Albert! to have deceived him 
 thus ! I dare not accept those ear-rings. 
 
 Albert.— You are still vexed with me? If you knew 
 the trouble I had to get them ! 
 
 Clotilde.— How ? 
 
 Albert. — A gentleman was in the very act of buying 
 them. The fact is, these diamonds are beauties. I don't know 
 how I could have resisted them before. I bid over him, 
 and the prize was mine. (Shoivs case with jewels.) See here, 
 Chambly, how they sparkle ! 
 
 Chambly. — Yes ; they are exactly like my wife's. 
 
WEEPING WIVES. 
 
 33 
 
 Albert. — Like those you gave your wife, you mean ? 
 
 Chambly. — Not at all. Like those my wife obligingly 
 bestowed upon herself a day or two since. 
 
 Clotilde (confused, taking the case of jewels). — Albert — 
 M. Chambly — if you will excuse me, I will go to my room 
 and try the effect of my new ornaments. 
 
 Albert. — All right, dear. I will finish my letter, and be 
 with you in a moment. (He sits down at desk, L.) 
 
 Clotilde (aside, going out). — All the same, one pays 
 dearly for a lie ! (Exit Clotilde, L.) 
 
 Chambly (aside). — He's in funds, evidently! I sha'n't 
 hesitate to borrow enough to set me on my feet again. (To 
 Albert.) My dear fellow ! 
 
 Albert (icithout looking tip). — You 're off ? 
 
 Chambly. — Yes ; but I say, old fellow, here 's a bore ! 
 
 Albert (still writing). — What 's up ? 
 
 Chambly (feeling in his pockets). — I stupidly forgot to 
 put any money in my pocket. Have you by chance five 
 louis about you ? 
 
 Albert (giving him gold). — Entirely at your service. 
 
 Chambly. — Thanks, I '11 return it to you this evening. 
 
 Albert (carelessly). — Suit your own convenience. 
 
 Chambly (aside). — Then I '11 pay on the second of next 
 month. (Aloud.) You are going out ? 
 
 Albert (seals his letter). — Only to drop this letter in the 
 box, when I shall be at the command of my wife. 
 
 Chambly. — ye turtle-doves! 
 
 Albert. — But she 's such a little angel, Chambly. You 've 
 really no idea what an angel she is ! 
 
 (Exit Albert, C. Enter Jean, JR.) 
 
 Jean (suddenly). — Monsieur called me ? 
 
 Chambly (buttoning up his coat over the gold). — No, get 
 out with you. 
 
 Jean. — It's no matter, monsieur. Monsieur knows I 
 have every confidence in monsieur's honesty. 
 
34 
 
 IVEEPING WIVES. 
 
 Chambly (laughing). — Here, you impudent rascal ; here 
 are your twenty francs. Let 's hear no more from you. 
 
 Jean. — I suppose this is good money, Monsieur Chambly ? 
 Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Chambly. — As I look at you, you grinning idiot, I seem 
 to recognize that stupid face. Where have I seen it before ? 
 
 Jean. — I once had the honor to serve monsieur's 
 breakfast at the Cafe Anglais, in Paris. I thought we 
 recognized each other, monsieur. But I was thrown 
 oft' the track by the fact of monsieur's being now a 
 married man. 
 
 Chambly. — Unfortunately, I omitted to send you wed- 
 ding cards. But I had not your address, you know. You '11 
 excuse me ? 
 
 Jean. — Oh, certainly, monsieur. 
 
 Chambly. — You are very kind. (Aside.) Just the same 
 idiot he always was. The borders of the Rhine have n't 
 changed him in the least. Well, I 'm oft. With four louis, 
 and good luck, I can — (Aloud.) If Madame Chambly asks 
 for me, you will say that I have gone to admire the beauties 
 of nature. Ah, there she comes. 
 
 (Exit Chambly, L. Enter Delphine, B.) 
 
 Delphine. — Monsieur Chambly is not here ? 
 
 Jean (bows). — No, madame, he is not here — he never 
 was here — that is, he bid me say to madame that he has 
 gone to admire the beauties of nature. 
 
 (Exit Jean, confused, B. Enter 
 Clotilde, dressed in white, with 
 jewels in her ears, L.) 
 
 Delphine. — Clotilde, let me kiss you ! How did it work ? 
 
 Clotilde (joyously, showing her diamonds) . — Judge for 
 yourself ! (Albert appears at door.) 
 
 Delphine. — You must have cried very hard. 
 
 Clotilde (dropping her eyes). — The best I could, dear. 
 
 Delphine (laughs). — I can imagine the scene ! He was 
 
WEEPING WIVES. 35 
 
 so remorseful, so repentant ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! It's a snare 
 as old as love ! No man can escape it. Poor, dear Albert. 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Clotilde. — I had some compunction — (archly) — not 
 much. 
 
 Delphine. — Not much — ha ! ha ! No. I fancy not. 
 What a child you still are, Clotilde. And now, my dear, to 
 celebrate our victory, these husbands of ours shall take us 
 to dinner at the restaurant. Fetch your gloves and parasol. 
 All Baden shall do homage to your diamonds. Come 
 
 quickly (They go out laughing, JR. 
 
 Albert comes forward as 
 Chambly enters, L.) 
 
 Albert. — And I am the dupe of these designing women ! 
 Oh, it is contemptible ! 
 
 Chambly (absorbed in his own thoughts) . — Yes ; it is really 
 contemptible. 
 
 Albert (surprised). — What do you mean ? 
 
 Chambly. — That confounded double zero ! This time it 
 came up. 
 
 Albert.— Well, and what of that ? 
 
 Chambly. — You don't understand. This time I had 
 changed the combination. I put my stakes on thirty-six. 
 
 Albert (absorbed in himself). — And I was fool enough to 
 be really cut up. (Goes up, B.) 
 
 Chambly.— What do you think Iamf I have n't a soli- 
 tary franc left. Hallo ! Where are you off to ? 
 
 Albert (going). — I have a headache — heart-ache. I 
 must get a little air. 
 
 Chambly.— You Ve been losing, too ? 
 
 Albert. — Nothing to speak of — only my little all. 
 
 Chambly. — You are joking, Albert. On what number ? 
 
 Albert (bitterly). — I have lost faith forever in my wife. 
 
 Chambly. — Faith — is that all? Bah! Faith is easily 
 renewed. It springs up like an aftermath. 
 
3 6 WEEPING WIVES. 
 
 Albert. — Suppose I were to tell you that your wife — 
 my wife — both our wives — are — mousters of duplicity ; 
 that they are leagued together to destroy our happiness? 
 
 Chambly. — Nonsense. 
 
 Albert. — That together they revel in hypocrisy, coin 
 sentiments to betray us with, invent soft speeches to ruin 
 us ; feign tears, and after they have wrung from us what 
 they want 
 
 Chambly (sadly). — Not Delphine, I 'm sure. She 's no 
 need for that. 
 
 Albert. — She, if anything, is the worse. She leads the 
 way, and my wife follows. She is the high priest, Clotilde 
 the neophyte. " Weep, weep, my dear," counsels your 
 insidious wife, "and nothing will be refused to you." 
 
 Chambly. — What 's that ? 
 
 Albert. — Oh, I can't stand the thought of it — I 'm 
 off ( Exit A Ibert, C.) 
 
 Chambly. — What did he say ? Delphine said, " Weep, 
 weep, and nothing will be refused to you ! " Au idea 
 comes to me. A light breaks on my darkened pathway. 
 Let me see. History tells us that Monaldeschi, reader to 
 Queen Christine, wept systematically and successfully when- 
 ever he wanted anything from the queen. I really don't 
 see why the lachrymose method should not succeed as 
 well in the Grand Duchy of Baden as it did in the King- 
 dom of Sweden. Here she comes. 
 
 (He holes out of window, C. 
 Delphine enters, R., in walk- 
 ing dress.) 
 
 Delphine (gaily). — Well, Monsieur Chambly, you seem 
 preoccupied. 
 
 Chambly (sighs). — I was wrapt in contemplation of the 
 beauties of nature, my dear. A view like this is balm to 
 the wounded spirit. (Aside.) Not bad for a beginner. 
 
 Delphine (surprised). — Ah ! 
 
WEEPING WIVES. 
 
 57 
 
 Chambly (looking through window). — How sweetly pensive 
 is the light of the setting sun, as it slants athwart yon 
 antique mill — and the donkey in the foreground ! 
 
 Delphine (looks at him). — And the donkey in the fore- 
 ground ! I quite agree with you. 
 
 Chambly (aside). — I 'm afraid the melancholy won't work 
 as well as I had hoped. 
 
 Delphine (with animation). — Do you know, my love, that 
 we are to dine to-day at the restaurant ? A jolly party of 
 four — with Monsieur and Madame de Rieux ! 
 
 Chambly. — Delightful, my love — and — ah — I 've just 
 got a letter from my tailor. The stupid fellow has the assur- 
 ance to ask me for five hundred francs by the next mail. 
 
 Delphine. — How odd ! Your tailor has written to you 
 here — at Baden ? 
 
 Chambly (uneasily). — Deucedly impudent, was n't it ? It 's 
 always impudent when a tailor wants his money, is n't it ? 
 
 Delphine (calmly). — Show me his letter. 
 
 Chambly. — The strangest thing ! I lit my cigar with it. 
 
 Delphine. — But you don't smoke. 
 
 Chambly. — That's true! I don't smoke — certainly, I 
 don't smoke. But coming out from play just now I met a 
 man, — he was coming out from play just now, I mean, — 
 and he was smoking — he wanted to smoke, I mean — and 
 I lit his cigarette ; exactly — that was the way of it. 
 
 Delphine. — You said, first, that your tailor's letter was 
 used to light a cigar. 
 
 Chambly. — Ette — ette. In my hurry I dropped the 
 end of it, that 's all. I meant a cigarette. 
 
 Delphine. — Very clear, indeed ! And so this gentleman 
 could n't light his own cigarette ? 
 
 Chambly (desperately). — Didn't I tell you? He was an 
 old soldier — a veteran in the last war, poor fellow, who had 
 both arms shot off by a cannon-ball. 
 
 (Enter Jean, C, arranges chair, etc.) 
 
38 
 
 WEEPING WIVES. 
 
 Delphine (satirically). — You are not strong in invention, 
 my dear. I would advise you to cultivate your imagina- 
 tion before the next time you are in need of funds. 
 
 Chambly (appealingly). — Delphine ! 
 
 Delphine (deliberately). — And, as I see plainly that your 
 passion for play is on the increase, you shall not have 
 another franc from me. 
 
 Chambly. — As you please ! Oh, what a miserable life is 
 mine ! (He falls into a chair and bursts into tears.) 
 
 Delphine.— Eh ! What is this ? 
 
 Chambly (weeping). — Oh! I see it all now. My life has 
 been a sacrifice — I am no longer beloved ! 
 
 Delphine. — What 's the matter with him now u ? 
 
 Chambly. — Nobody loves me. Oh, my mother — my 
 poor, poor mother ! Why did I ever leave her ? 
 
 (At back, Jean takes out his hand- 
 kerchief. Delphine bursts into 
 hearty laughter.) 
 
 Delphine. — If you only knew how ridiculous you look. 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Chambly.— Ridiculous ! 
 
 (Jean bursts into audible sobs.) 
 
 Chambly (sitting up). — What is the matter with Jean ? 
 
 Delphine. — Be comforted, you have touched one tender 
 heart. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Jean. — Beg pardon, monsieur, you look so pitiful. I 
 can't stand it. (He sobs.) (Delphine laughs.) 
 
 Chambly (aside). — My sole success is with a hotel- waiter. 
 This is humiliating ! 
 
 Jean (approaches Chambly). — Oh, monsieur, I'm not 
 what they call rich — I have only sixty francs. Here they 
 are (sob) ; monsieur will give them back to me when he 
 can (sob). I have every confidence in monsieur's honesty. 
 
 Chambly (leaving him off). — Leave me to myself, waiter. 
 You cannot help me. 
 
WEEPING WIVES. 
 
 39 
 
 Delphine. — Here comes Clotilde. Perhaps that may 
 induce you to stanch the flow of your tears. 
 
 Chambly (aside). — So it appears, I 'm an utter failure. 
 The truth is, I have never learned to cry. I wonder if I 
 could take lessons somewhere. (Enter Clotilde, L., with 
 
 hat on, parasol, etc.) 
 
 Clotilde. — I 'm sorry to have kept you waiting. Well, 
 are we ready to set out ? 
 
 Delphine. — We are ready, I believe. 
 
 Clotilde (looking about her). — My husband is n't here ? 
 
 Jean (looks out of window). — If I may take the liberty to 
 speak, monsieur is at this moment walking up and down 
 like mad, in the poplar alley, yonder. 
 
 Clotilde. — We will pick him up, on the way. Why, 
 what is the matter with Monsieur Chambly ? 
 
 Jean (interposing). — Take no notice, madame. By the 
 way, madame, I have just remembered that the proprietor 
 charged me to give a letter to madame. I have it some- 
 where — Ah ! here it is. (Produces letter, hands it to Clo- 
 tilde.) 
 
 Clotilde. — A letter from the proprietor ! I wonder why 
 he sent it to me instead of to my husband. 
 
 Jean (indifferently). — I can't say, madame, really. But 
 it is probably important, because the proprietor observed 
 that it concerns the life of Monsieur de Rieux, which is in 
 immediate danger. 
 
 Delphine. — Danger — his life ! 
 
 Clotilde (screams). — Albert! Heavens! if he should 
 be lost ! * 
 
 Chambly (dreamily). — Lost! Yes, on that double zero. 
 
 Delphine (takes letter from Clotilde). — Let me see, dear. 
 (reads) " Madame : Yesterday, at the gaming table, your 
 husband took sides against three young officers who were 
 amusing themselves at the expense of one of his com- 
 patriots." 
 
40 
 
 fVEEPING WIVES. 
 
 Chambly (listening). — That was I ! 
 
 Delphine (reads). — " Although in the wrong, these offi- 
 cers could not brook the defiant rebuke of Monsieur le 
 Vicomte de Rieux, and they have publicly announced 
 that they will demand satisfaction at his hands, upon his 
 appearance in the gaming hall to-day. As a well-wisher, 
 let me counsel you to restrain Monsieur le Vicomte from 
 setting foot in the place mentioned j for should he do so, 
 he is lost ! " 
 
 Chambly. — Sapristi ! 
 
 Delphine. — Well, monsieur, so you intend to remain 
 here ? You, who are the source of all this trouble ? 
 
 Chambly (calmly) . — Oh, never fear. I myself will under- 
 take to settle the whole affair in the most amicable style. 
 
 Clotilde (clasping he)' hands). — Only do so, my good, 
 kind friend, and I will love you always. 
 
 Delphine (to Chambly). — Hurry, Chambly. You might 
 have been there by this time. 
 
 Chambly. — Never fear! Never fear! (Aside.) And 
 what the devil am I in for, now I Sapristi ! 
 
 (Exit, C.j followed by Jean.) 
 
 Clotilde (distracted). —Delphine, while your husband 
 has gone to intercept those cruel, bloodthirsty officers, I 
 shall fly to Albert, cling to his dear neck, and implore him, 
 for my sake, not to fight. 
 
 Delphine. — Not at all. The sensible thing to do 
 will be to hide the whole affair from him. Don"t let him 
 leave your side to-day, or allow him to go near those 
 horrid gaming-rooma. To-morrow morning, by dawn of 
 day, you must find some pretext for setting out for Paris. 
 (Returns letter.) 
 
 Clotilde. — Right, Delphine. You were always so wise 
 and calm. Thank Heaven ! here he comes. 
 
 (Enter Albert, C.) 
 
 Albert. — And why are you in such confusion, may 
 I ask? 
 
WEEPING WIVES. 
 
 41 
 
 Delphine (aside to Clotilde). — He knows nothing. Only 
 keep him at your side. 
 
 Albert (coldly, to both ladies). — Are you about to take a 
 walk before dinner ? 
 
 Clotilde (takes off her hat and sits on sofa). — No ; I don't 
 care to walk, thanks. 
 
 Albert (shrugs). — As you will. Chambly has gone out ? 
 
 Delphine ( sits on other end of sofa from Clotilde). — Chambly 
 wants to see you particularly. He will be back directly. 
 Sit down, M. de Rieux — here, between us. That is as it 
 should be. 
 
 Albert (stiffly, sits). — You are very kind. 
 
 Delphine (takes out embroidery). — Just before you came 
 in, Clotilde and I were having a good, old-fashioned chat — 
 a woman's gossip about gowns and novels. 
 
 Albert (with emphasis). — Emotional, no doubt ! 
 
 Delphine. — Clotilde prefers — (aside to Clotilde) Brace 
 up, my dear — (aloud) Balzac. 
 
 Clotilde (with effort). — And Delphine prefers George 
 Sand. What is your idea, Monsieur de Rieux ? 
 
 Albert (looking from one to the other). — In my opinion, all 
 novels are alike. There is the inevitable heroine, plunged 
 into the inevitable love-scrape, who sheds the inevitable 
 tears. Of all things, I despise tears ! Then there is the 
 inevitable fool of a lover, who allows himself to be imposed 
 on by those tears. Am I not right, Clotilde ? 
 
 Delphine. — My dear Monsieur de Rieux, you have sud- 
 denly grown cynical. In a little while you will grow dull. 
 Am I not right, Clotilde ? 
 
 Albert (coldly). — Clotilde will not dispute you, Madame 
 Chambly. (Looks at watch.) An horn* yet before dinner. 
 (Rises.) 
 
 Clotilde (impetuously, hand on Albert's arm). — Oh 3 don't 
 go out, Albert ! 
 Albert. — Why ? if I may ask ! 
 
42 
 
 WEEPING WIVES. 
 
 Delphine (points to window). — Look at that great cloud 
 gathering. We shall have a fearful storm. 
 
 Albert. — All the better. Nothing is so grand as a storm 
 in these mountains. Chambly and I will enjoy it together. 
 
 (Turns, top stage.) 
 
 Clotilde (tearfully). — Albert! 
 
 Albert (turns, coldly). — You did me the honor to speak, 
 madame ? 
 
 Clotilde. — Albert, I beseech you, I entreat you, to stay 
 here — close to my side. 
 
 Albert. — You surprise me. I can't understand how I 
 can add to your knowledge of gowns and novels. If you 
 wish my experience in woman's tears — no w — ( Offers to go.) 
 
 Clotilde (springing toward him). — Albert, you are cruel. 
 If you love me, stay ! 
 
 Delphine. — Monsieur de Rieux, do you not see the 
 poor child is suffering ? 
 
 (Clotilde bursts into tears.) 
 
 Albert. — Tears again, Madame de Rieux ! Are you 
 already in the mood to change your diamonds ? 
 
 Clotilde (extending her hand) . — Have mercy ! 
 
 Albert (to Delphine). — Your scholar makes rapid prog- 
 ress, does she not, madame ? By ill-luck, a short time 
 since, you ladies undertook to chant the psalm of victory, 
 aloud — and, by ill-luck, I overheard you 
 
 Clotilde (despairingly). — He will never believe in me 
 again ! 
 
 Albert (coldly). — You are right. Too well you knew 
 my blind confidence in you ; you knew that every one of 
 your tears would find its way to my heart. Counting upon 
 this, you had recourse to simulated grief, and afterward — 
 you laughed at me! What mattered it to you? — the 
 comedy had succeeded. There I was, on my knees at your 
 side, imploring your pardon, and offering you those mis- 
 erable gewgaws. What did you care that I was made 
 
KEEPING WIVES. 
 
 43 
 
 sport of ? You had your diamonds ; you could afford to 
 laugh at me. 
 
 Clotilde. — Albert, have mercy ! It was all a jest ! 
 
 Albert (paying no attention). — Yours was an easy 
 triumph. But now that my eyes are opened, these tears, 
 summoned at will, make no impression. No j I believe in 
 you no longer. Sorrow and tears, common enough in the 
 lot of most of us, should be held sacred from idle jesting. 
 You have not only wounded me, Clotilde, you have deceived 
 me. Farewell ! 
 
 Clotilde (with a strong effort, passing from tears to laugh- 
 ter). — No, no, Albert. You won't leave me thus. I can- 
 not bear it. See, I 'm not crying now. You are right. 
 Tears are deceitful things. But you '11 believe me when I 
 smile f Why, I am laughing — don't you see ? 
 
 (She changes again from laughter 
 to tears, and falls sobbing on the 
 sofa. Albert looks in astonish- 
 ment at Delphine, tcho snatches 
 the letter from Cloiilde^s gown, 
 and hands it to him.) 
 
 Delphine. — Read this, and you will understand. 
 
 Clotilde. — No, no ; he must not. Give it to me. 
 
 Delphine. — Read it, Monsieur de Rieux. 
 
 (Albert tears open the letter, and reads the contents.) 
 
 Albert. — Tears ! Real tears, and wrung from you by 
 my danger ! Clotilde, my darling ! beloved by you, I 
 shall live forever. Why, I insist upon living — now let 
 me go ! (Enter Chambly, C, followed by Jean.) 
 
 Chambly. — It is too late. 
 
 Albert, Delphine, and Clotilde (together). — Chambly! 
 
 Chambly (gaily). — Losing no time, I soon found our 
 three adversaries — in line of battle, as it were — thirsting 
 for our blood. I began by attempting to explain the 
 affair ) in my usual happy style, I endeavored to illustrate 
 
44 KEEPING WIVES. 
 
 the pacific state of mind maintained by our side. Impos- 
 sible to make them listen to reason. It 's true they spoke 
 German, while I spoke French. 
 
 Albert. — .Go on ; what happened f 
 
 Chambly (deliberately). — All in due time, my dear fel- 
 low. When I found that somebody must fight, I said to 
 myself : " Well, you spent seven years in learning to break 
 foils with old Griset, why not utilize your skill ^ " I wanted 
 to assure myself that the old professor had earned his 
 money fairly. At the same time, I reflected that it was on 
 my account you got yourself into this scrape. To cut the 
 matter short, I offered to fight all three of 'em ! 
 
 Delphine (draivs near, tvith animation). — That was noble, 
 Chambly ! 
 
 Chambly. — You flatter me, Delphine. Jean here, agreed 
 to be my second, and together we set out for the field of 
 blood. The combat was short and decisive. I wounded 
 one of my adversaries, and the two others promptly 
 accepted my friendly overtures. 
 
 Albert. — You actually wounded your man ? 
 
 Chambly. — A mere scratch — but it was enough to 
 satisfy him. A charming young fellow, a most agreeable 
 talker — in German, by the way. 
 
 Jean (enthusiastically). — Oh, monsieur fought like a lion. 
 
 Chambly. — You are partial, Jean. To sum it all up, 
 they have invited me to breakfast, this day week. 
 
 (Albert shakes hands with Chambly ; the 
 ladies salute him. Clotilde and Albert 
 retire up, arm-in-arm.) 
 
 Delphine. — Do you know what I think of all this, Mon- 
 sieur Chambly 1 
 
 Chambly (apologetically). — Be merciful with my infirmity, 
 my dear ! I '11 promise not to fight again this year. 
 
 Delphine. — On the contrary, I have never admired you 
 so much as now. Ask of me what you will. 
 
KEEPING WIVES. 
 
 45 
 
 Chambly. — Then in future, every time I am in want of 
 money, must I kill a man to get it ? 
 
 Delphixe. — No j I mean to save you the exertion. You 
 need fight no more duels. Here is a little token of my love. 
 
 (She extends to him the ley of the 
 secretary. Chambly seizes her 
 hand and kisses it.) 
 
 Chambly. — The key of the secretary ! Mine, once again ! 
 Hurrah ! Now, tell me, you dear, forgiving creature, why 
 is it that when women cry they get all they want from men, — 
 while men get only laughter for their tears ? 
 
 Delphixe (laughs.) — A woman may, possibly, look pretty 
 when she cries, but a man — Oh ! if you could have seen 
 yourself ! What an object ! 
 
 Chambly. — I suppose so, judging by Jean there. (Points 
 to Jean.) He certainly was a fright ! And now, my friends, 
 our dinner waits for us ! 
 
 Tableau. 
 
 Jean, 
 Albert, Clotilde, Chambly, Delphtne. 
 
 Curtain. 
 
BEHIND A CURTAIN 
 
 A MONOLOGUE 
 
 AS PLAYED BY MRS. CHARLES DENISON AT THE 
 
 MADISON SQUARE THEATRE 
 
 JAN. 14, 1887 
 
Behind a Curtain, a Monologue, is given here, as played by 
 Mrs. Denison (Miss Mathilde Madison), of the Madison Square 
 Theatre, at the matinees of January 13th and 14th, 1887, and 
 during the Summer of the same year, at the Rodick House, Bar 
 Harbor. This Monologue has also been acted by Mrs. Walter 
 Andrews and other amateurs in private houses. The scene 
 represents a sitting-room in a hotel in New York. A curtained 
 
 bed may be used in one corner, or Mrs. Bellamy, in going to 
 look for her burglar, may retire behind a screen, or go into an 
 adjoining bedroom and return. It is perhaps needless to suggest 
 that to hold an audience by a monologue requires constant action 
 on the part of the player, and unflagging spirit. This one was 
 rendered by Mrs. Denison with the addition of original "busi- 
 ness," adding greatly to its success. 
 
BEHIND A CURTAIN 
 
 Scene : A room in a hotel in New York. Mrs. Bellamy, 
 a young widow, dressed for traveling, bag in hand, 
 comes in. 
 
 Mrs. Bellamy (speaking off). — There, that will do ! See 
 that my luggage is sent up f (Comes forward.) What a 
 runaway ! When I awoke this morning I had n't the least 
 idea of sleeping in a strange hotel in New York. The 
 truth is, I had to come. It was the only way to save my- 
 self from that tiresome Captain Fitzhenry. Worn out with 
 trying to keep off a proposal, I finally consented to receive 
 him at twelve this morning. At twelve this morning I was 
 on the train — " called to New York on business of impor- 
 tance." Poor man ! I should have liked to see his face 
 when my butler gave the message. (Laughs.) 
 
 (Sits in chair.) — What a long journey from my country- 
 house to town ! I am tired to death ! I wonder if Fitzhenry 
 believed the butler ! It 's true, I have an excuse for coming. 
 
5o 
 
 BEHIND A CURTAIN. 
 
 To-niorrow is Augusta's wedding-day. Augusta was my 
 dearest friend at school. When I was married before her, 
 three years ago, she was quite green with jealousy; but 
 when poor Mr. Bellamy died, six months after, leaving me 
 all that money, Augusta was ready to tear my eyes out. 
 Poor Augusta ! she never could stand another person's luck ! 
 
 (Knock at door.) 
 
 "Well, who 's there ? (Goes to door, takes in letter.) A 
 letter ! For me ? Who possibly could know I am in town ? 
 Captain Fitzhenry's handwriting ! Ridiculous ! 
 
 (She tears open letter and reads.) 
 
 " Clever as you are, dear Mrs. Bellamy, you can't elude 
 me. By judicious bribery of your servants, I managed to 
 find out what train you took to town. I was, during the 
 whole journey, in the rear car of your train. It was 
 horribly dull there, in company with a maiden lady, who 
 ate lozenges ; but I was comforted by thinking, if an acci- 
 dent occurred, I should, at least, have the happiness of 
 perishing with you. My cab followed yours to the hotel. 
 To-morrow, at eleven, I shall present myself to receive my 
 final answer. Devotedly yours, 
 
 " FlTZHENRY." 
 
 What incredible impertinence ! I '11 refuse to see him. 
 Haven't I said, over and over, that I will never marry 
 again ! What ! sacrifice my life of enchanting independence 
 for the sake of a man ! Here I am, free to come and go 
 as I please — (Starts.) What was that noise? How 
 nervous one becomes in traveling alone ! I wish my stupid 
 maid had not sprained her ankle yesterday. Now I come 
 to think of it, this is the first time I was ever at a hotel by 
 myself. It certainly is not as pleasant as it looks. Suppose 
 a burglar — I '11 look under the bed. (Goes back, returns.) 
 No one there. I'd better barricade the door. (Piles up 
 chairs.) If any one comes in, I '11 hear it. I won't be mur- 
 dered without knowing it. My death shall make a noise in 
 the world, I promise you. (Sits, takes up newspaper.) It 's 
 
BEHIND A CURTAIN. ^i 
 
 all the fault of these horrid newspapers. I never pick one 
 up without reading some dreadful tale of robbery and 
 murder. The villains seem to pick out solitary females ; 
 widows especially. (Beads.) " Only last week a young and 
 charming widow — chloroformed at — her hotel ! " Oh, if I 
 had known that, I never would have come. (Looks at cur- 
 tain.) Good gracious ! what was that ? Did n't the cur- 
 tain move ? What shall I do! Let me behave as if I 
 noticed nothing. (Takes up book on table, tries to read.) 
 What 's this — " Triumphant Burglary." (Drops book, looks 
 again at curtain.) I see his feet! In great big boots, such as 
 robbers always wear. Here I am, locked in with him. To 
 reach the bell I 'd have to pass that window. I '11 die first. 
 Horrible ! To-morrow there '11 be a new murder to put in 
 all the newspapers. A widow, alone, unfriended, in a 
 strange hotel. How could he know I have my diamonds in 
 this bag ? What will Fitzhenry say when he comes here at 
 eleven to-morrow, and finds me weltering in my gore ? 
 Poor Fitzhenry ! he loves me. He would have saved me 
 from this awful fate. 
 
 Oh, those feet, those feet. I dare not look at them 
 again, and yet I must ! Stay ! If he is going to kill me for 
 my diamonds, I '11 offer them to him. If he has a shadow 
 of delicacy, he will accept them. (Speaks to curtain, in a 
 trembling voice.) Sir, I know you are there, behind the 
 curtain. You cannot hide from me, I have seen your feet. 
 But do not be afraid, I won't summon the police. No doubt 
 you are more unfortunate than guilty. A series of financial 
 reverses may have impelled you to this method of earning 
 a livelihood. Your wife, no doubt, is dying. Your children, 
 poor little things, are gnawing crusts. I may seem to you 
 angry and terrible, but indeed I 'm not. I am about to offer 
 you my diamonds, every one, and all the money in my 
 purse. Here they are (shows jewel case), in this bag, most 
 convenient for carrying in the hand. If you don't mind, I 
 
52 BEHIND A CURTAIN. 
 
 will keep one or two necessary things. My comb and brush, 
 and my tooth-brush. They can be of no use to you. (Takes 
 out articles named, tears off bracelets and rings, puts them in 
 bag, closes it, puts it on chair, pushes chair toward curtain.) 
 There, take it and go out by the window as you came. I '11 
 shut my eyes, so as not to look at you. I could n't identify 
 you again, no matter how hard I might try. (Shuts eyes, 
 stands center stage, ears stopped. Pause. Opens eyes.) 
 
 What! the bag still there? You won't take it 1 ? You 
 persist in murdering me 1 (Falls on knees.) Mr. Burglar, 
 spare me ! Have pity on a woman who never did you any 
 harm ! 
 
 (Knock at door.) 
 
 Who's there? Ah! 
 
 (Jumps up, rushes to door, upsets chair, opens it wildly.) 
 
 (Voice.) — Beg pardon, ma'am, but there 's a pair o' boots 
 in there, left by the gent as had the room before you. 
 
 Mrs. Bellamy. — Boots ! Where ? 
 
 (Voice.) — Hunder the window-curting, ma'am. 
 
 Mrs. Bellamy. — Boots ! Curtain ! 
 
 (She rushes to curtain, draws it aside, picks up boots, 
 carries one in each hand to the center of the stage, 
 and stands, flourishing them.) 
 
 Saved ! Saved ! (Runs to door, throivs out boots.) Here, 
 my good man, take your boots. What a frightful adven- 
 ture ! I never shall get over it. One thing is certain : from 
 this time forth I shall go nowhere alone. To provide for 
 all contingencies, to-morrow at eleven I accept that dear, 
 big, brave Fitzhenry. 
 
 Curtain. 
 
TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK 
 
 A DRAWING-ROOM COMEDY 
 IN ONE ACT 
 
 CHARACTERS : 
 
 Mrs. Effingham, . . . A young widow. 
 Mrs. Marabout, . . . An emotional female. 
 
 Mrs. Coddlngton, . . \ A ™™ m \ ™ th a dau htcr to 
 I bring out. 
 
 Arabella Coddington, . A girl with nothing to sag. 
 
 Arthur Kutledge, . . An innocent offender. 
 
 Walton, A social cynic. 
 
 Grayson, A tender and true young man. 
 
 Appleby, A canH-get-it-out young man. 
 
 Sabretache, A thunder- and-Mars young man. 
 
 Dr. Grantley, . . . . A professional button-holer. 
 
 Thomas, A footman. 
 
 
 THE SCENE IS IN A NEW-YORK DRAWING-ROOM 
 
 TIME, THE PRESENT 
 
 MODERN MORNING DRESS 
 
Tea at Four o'Clock was first seen at private houses in 
 Lenox and in New York. It was presented, after mncli rehearsal, 
 at the Madison Square Theatre matinees, January 13th and 
 14th, 1887. This play requires brisk action and perfect 
 knowledge of the lines. It should, therefore, not be put on 
 hastily to fill a gap in some programme. Where so many actors 
 are at once upon the stage, each having a character part to sus- 
 tain, there is no hope of success without faithful preliminary 
 
 drill. The scene is a drawing-room of modern days, furnished 
 luxuriously ; the costumes those in ordinary use on the occasion 
 of afternoon visits. The men wear frock-coats and carry hats and 
 sticks. The ladies, except Mrs. Effingham who wears demi- 
 toilette, are in street costume with wraps and bonnets. Palms, 
 screens, etc., scattered about the scene are useful in affording 
 opportunities for " business," the dramatis personse changing 
 places from time to time to avoid stiffness in their grouping. 
 
HP 
 
 
 TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 
 
 Scene: A fashionable drawing-room. Thomas in the 
 act of reading a newspaper. In one hand he holds a 
 feather duster, in the other a Dresden Jigurine, which 
 falls to the ground with a crash. Thomas stoops to 
 pick it up, with a grimace. 
 
 Thomas. — Bad luck to ye now, for a murtherin' blag- 
 guard, to slip atween me fingers like that. Sure, an' me 
 lady ought to know better at her time o' life, and she a 
 widdy woman, to go temptin' a pore fellow's fingers wid 
 scatterin' the chaney around, for all the wurrld like a 
 musayum. I '11 be blist av there 's a table convaynient to 
 lay the duster on, while I do be readin' me marnin' Hirald. 
 And what '11 I do wid the payees ? Here 's his head, the 
 spalpeen. He 's squintin' at me ! Och, for sure, I '11 be afther 
 clappin' it in me pocket, and the misthress '11 never be the 
 wiser. Faith, an' it 's grateful to me she might be, wid 
 such a lot o' them imidges as I ain't broken yet. 
 
56 TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 
 
 (Enter Mrs. Effingham in reception toilet, R.) 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — What, Thomas, not ready yet ! How 
 often have I told you that you must be in livery before three 
 o'clock on Mondays! ( Catching sight of fragments on carpet.) 
 What is that ? An arm of my lovely Dresden figurine, that 
 I paid such a price for only a week ago ! 
 
 Thomas (scratching his head). — Sure, mum, it 's an arrum, 
 or a leg, or a head. I 'm that flustered wid misfortune, I 
 can't adzackly make out which. 
 
 (Picks it up and hands it to Mrs. Effingham.) 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — And where, if I may ask, is the rest 
 of it? 
 
 Thomas (taking pieces from pocket) . — Here, ma'am. I was 
 just considerin' av it could be rightly mended ; but if ye 'd 
 take my advice, ye 'd discard him altogether, the cross-eyed 
 spalpeen ! 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — And you intended to omit the arm in 
 restoration ? 
 
 Thomas. — I was only takin' pattern by the artist that 
 made yer statoo of the Vaynus. I '11 be afther tellin' ye, 
 ma'am, the way the accident occurred. I was only aisin' 
 me mind by reading the inarnin' paper, like this — And 
 the butt end of my duster went whack, like this — 
 
 (Suits action to words, with same result 
 as before; another figurine is smashed. 
 Thomas aghast.) 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — Enough, Thomas ; you will ruin me. 
 I am forced to give you warning. 
 
 Thomas. — Och, ma'am, an it's not the Christian lady 
 ye are that 'd be turnin' a pore b'ye away widout a kar- 
 racter, an' all on account of his family troubles, when it 's 
 nearly kilt 1 am wid just thryin' to live, avick ! Thrue as 
 ye 're born, ma'am, it 's from me grandfather in the ould 
 country I got it, and he, pore man, — God rest his soul, — died 
 of it, forbye the doctors, and an illigant funeral he had, as 
 
TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 57 
 
 'ud be a satisfaction to an}- corpse. It 's a sort of a kind of 
 a jerking spasm, that takes me all unbeknownst when I do 
 be not in the laste prepared. 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (laughing).— Go, now, Thomas, and get 
 yourself in condition to attend the door, at once. 
 
 (Exit Tliomas, holding the fragments 
 of figurine in his hand. He apos- 
 trophizes them in dumb show be- 
 hind Mrs. Effingham.) 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (drawing on her gloves, and walking 
 to and fro to arrange chairs, lamps, flowers, etc.). — Well, 
 here I am, booked to stay in-doors on this lovely Spring 
 day when I would like nothing better than a turn in 
 the park ! What a nuisance one's day at home becomes ! 
 The right people never come in when they are expected, 
 or if they do 't is only to run into the wrong people. I 
 believe I 'm getting cynical. How strange it is ! At fifteen 
 one believes in eternal youth ; one mocks at the grim 
 wolf, middle age, as he growls from afar. So the years 
 drift on, till some fine morning one wakes up to confront 
 the first wrinkle — the tiny foreshadowing of a wrinkle — a 
 pencil sketch to be inked hereafter ! (Looks nervously about 
 her.) I have seen it just here (touches cheek with forefinger), 
 and (in a melancholy tone) soon every one will see it ! (She 
 drops into easy chair.) Ah ! how long this afternoon will 
 seem ! Not a soul I care to see, of course. A stream of dull 
 people, and I, smiling here, bowing there, pouring out 
 tea, protesting I am enchanted, when I am bored, bored, 
 bored to death! I can't understand why Arthur didn't 
 come yesterday ; not so much as a note or a bunch of vio- 
 lets. I was so cold on Saturday when he said good-bye. 
 His eyes had that deep, wounded, yearning look ! No, he 
 will never come on my day at home, that 's certain ; he 
 detests gossiping people. Ah! (rising and walking about) 
 society is a prison into which we are cast, as soon as we 
 
58 TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 
 
 are born, and in vain we cry, " We can't get out ! " Alas ! 
 (She sighs deeply, then catching sight of her reflection in the 
 mirror, a complete change of manner ensues.) I thought so, and 
 now I 'm sure of it ! (Works her arm about in sleeve.) This 
 is the last dress she shall ever have from me, the horrid 
 little fraud. That abominable Clementine has simply 
 ruined my back ! 
 
 (Bell.) 
 
 Ah ! one of my jailers, I presume. 
 
 Thomas (withdrawing a portihre, announces). — Misther 
 Grayson. (Exit.) 
 
 (Enter Grayson.) 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — Mr. Grayson ! This is an unexpected 
 pleasure, to welcome one of your sex so early in the day. 
 To what happy chance do I owe it ? 
 
 Grayson. — To no chance, I assure you. I've latterly 
 failed so often to see you, that I have made a bold effort to 
 be your very first visitor to-day. (Seats himself at her side.) 
 In fact, I 've so generally been too late, it is a comfort to 
 find myself for once too soon. 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (unfurling fan). — Don't think my re- 
 mark meant a reproach. You know you are always welcome. 
 
 Grayson (aside). — Too cordial by half. But now that 
 I 'm here, I must seize my opportunity. ( A loud, putting down 
 hat and stick.) Dear Mrs. Effingham, if you could only 
 understand what these delays and obstacles are to a man 
 in my tortured state of mind ! Be gracious, be compassion- 
 ate, and say that you will hear me ! 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (aside). — I'm afraid I'm in for it. 
 (Aloud.) One couldn't be anything but gracious on such 
 a heavenly day, Mr. Grayson. (Rising and going to window, 
 JR.) Oh, what an elastic atmosphere. Really, it is almost 
 warm, don't you think so ? 
 
 Grayson (ruefully picking up hat and stick). — Not at all; 
 I find it cool, decidedly. 
 
TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 
 
 <>9 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (arranging flowers in window-box). — My 
 mignonette will soon be in bloom. Do you know, Mr. 
 Grayson, I can't imagine anybody, who can be out-of-doors 
 to-day, being willing to remain within. 
 
 Grayson. — I refuse to take the hint. Your presence, 
 Mrs. Effingham, makes perpetual sunshine. 
 
 Mrs. Effingham.— What pretty things you always say, 
 Mr. Grayson — to everybody, don't you ? 
 
 Grayson. — Crushed again ! Yes, as you were saying, the 
 weather is fine, certainly — very fine ; I — ah — venture to as- 
 sert, without fear of contradiction, that I never knew it finer ! 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — Such a long, dull winter as we are 
 having ! Don't you find it very dull, Mr. Grayson ? (Sup- 
 presses yaicn.) I do. 
 
 Grayson. — Hum ! ha ! (Aside.) She shan't get the 
 better of me, I '11 swear ! When a man has a declaration on 
 the tip of his tongue he 's a fool if he lets slip an oppor- 
 tunity like this ! (Aloud.) My dear Mrs. Effingham ! 
 Adorable Lilian ! If ever there were a man whose love for 
 
 you is true, intense, overmastering, it is 
 
 (Bell) 
 
 Thomas (withdrawing portiere) . — Misther Walton! 
 
 (Enter Walton. Exit Thomas. Gray- 
 son, disgusted, takes up hat and stick 
 and goes to window, B.) 
 
 Grayson (aside). — That fool, Walton ! 
 
 Walton (aside). — That idiot, Grayson ! 
 
 (They salute each other frigidly.) 
 
 Mrs. Efffngham. — Mr. Walton ! I thought you were in 
 Wyoming or Arizona — some one of those buffalo and In- 
 dian places men escape to nowadays. 
 
 Walton. — And so I have been ; just as far away from 
 you as I could conveniently go. 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (languidly). — Thanks, very much, I ? m 
 sure. 
 
60 TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 
 
 Walton. — But we wanderers come back to New 
 York for civilization, as whales come to the surface for 
 air. 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — Of course, you are brimful of adven- 
 tures. Pray tell me the most exciting thing that happened 
 all the time you were away. 
 
 Walton. — Willingly. For one thing, I got married. 
 You would not have me, and so, finding consolation else- 
 where, I jumped headlong into matrimony, as a harlequin 
 goes through a trap. 
 
 Grayson (aside). — Married, by jove ! Hurrah ! 
 
 (He comes forward.) 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (indifferently). — Married! I congratu- 
 late you. 
 
 Walton.— That is to say, I was married ; very much 
 married — utterly married. But I 'm not at all so now, 
 thank you. I 'm a despairing widower. 
 
 Grayson (dejectedly, aside). — The devil he is! (Aloud.) 
 I say, Walton, does that sort of luck — ahem ! — I mean, 
 blow — often happen to a fellow so soon in married life ? 
 
 Walton. — I see how you feel for me, my dear fellow. 
 Thank you for your sympathy in my grief. 
 
 Grayson (who has been smiling, endeavors to be gloomy). — 
 I ? Oh — ah — yes ! Pray believe in my deepest commis- 
 eration. 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (handkerchief to eyes) . — And in mine. 
 
 Walton. — Kestrain your emotion, my good friends ; 
 keep it for a more worthy object. I am afraid I made a 
 fiasco in that little venture. Strange ! Everybody knows 
 what a sweet-tempered, biddable, affectionate kind of 
 creature I am. She was reputed to be an angel. And yet, 
 marriage is like an experiment in chemistry. Unite two 
 harmless drugs and you have a deadly poison. 
 
 Grayson (sentimentally glancing at ividow). — But then 
 yours was not a love match, Walton. 
 
TEA AT FOUR 0> CLOCK. 6 I 
 
 Walton. — Love! What, are you Arcadian enough to 
 still believe in that exploded myth *? 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — Was there ever anything so odd as 
 the way people have of drifting into this kind of talk ? No 
 matter what point the conversation starts from, it always 
 ends in 
 
 Walton (cynically). — * 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (satirically). — I Love! 
 
 Grayson (tenderly).— J 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — Come, Mr. Grayson, you are a be- 
 liever. Give us a good definition of the tender passion. 
 (Aside.) One must find something to say. 
 
 (She seats herself on sofa. Grayson leans over 
 it from behind. Walton stands, back to man- 
 telpiece.) 
 
 Grayson (aside). — Another opportunity. (Aloud.) Will- 
 ingly, Mrs. Effingham. You inspire me to eloquence — you 
 loosen the flood-gates — you uncurb the torrents, that, 
 lava-like 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (interposing her fan) . — ■ Ah ! I beseech 
 you, Mr. Grayson, no volcanoes; no torrents — nothing 
 violent or exciting. Give us a nice, comfortable, easy- 
 going, jog-trot sort of an emotion. 
 
 Grayson (discomfited, aside) . — H-um, h-a-h ! This is not 
 what I call easy-going. Devil take the woman. (Aloud.) 
 Love, my dear Mrs. Effingham, is perhaps most briefly 
 
 described as embodied in 
 
 (Bell.) 
 
 Thomas (withdrawing portihe) . — Misther Appleby! 
 
 (Exit Thomas. Grayson makes a gesture of im- 
 patience ; crosses stage to examine pictures, etc.) 
 
 Walton. — What, Appleby, the miser millionaire, en- 
 rolled among your slaves ! Truly, he is a formidable rival. 
 'T is said he is even saving of his words, which accounts 
 for his never being able to complete a sentence. 
 
62 TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (with lifted forefinger). — Hush ! he is 
 here! 
 
 (Enter Appleby. He advances to 
 meet hostess, who rises, then re- 
 sumes her seat. Appleby sits 
 on sofa at her side, L.) 
 
 Appleby. — Mrs. Ef-Ef-Ef -ingham ! Mr. Grayson i Mr. 
 Walton ! (To Walton.) I have n't had the pleasure since we 
 cr-cr-crossed together in the Gug-Gug-Gug 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (rapidly). — Delightful ship, isn't she"? 
 I never take any other if I can help it. As you came 
 in, Mr. Appleby, Mr. Grayson was just giving us his defi- 
 nition of love. No one would ever believe how eloquent 
 and clever he can be ! (Grayson winces.) Pray continue, 
 Mr. Grayson. 
 
 Grayson (stiffly). — You will excuse me, Mrs. Effingham; 
 the thread of my ideas was too suddenly snapped. 
 
 Walton. — Will you accept my definition, instead ? 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — Something chemical, I suppose ? 
 
 Walton. — Love is an airy nothing — a thistledown 
 
 that a breath may blow away ! In brief, a 
 
 (Bell.) 
 
 Thomas. — Misthress Marabout ! 
 
 (Enter Mrs. Marabout. Exit Thomas.) 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (rising and coming forward). — How do 
 you do, my dear ? So good of you not to forget my Mon- 
 days. (Aside.) Just came to show her new Worth wrap. 
 (Aloud.) Pray sit down and throw aside your cloak. 
 You '11 find it oppressive in this warm room. (Offers to 
 remove Mrs. Mfs cloak.) 
 
 Mrs. Marabout (resisting and out of breath.) — Not at all, 
 my dear ; I 'm always a little chilly, you know. (Looks 
 around for a fan, takes up Chinese fire-screen and fans herself 
 violently.) How pretty your rooms are, and how charmingly 
 you 're dressed ; but you 're pale, are n't you — or else a 
 
TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 63 
 
 little thin? Worn out, perhaps, with keeping too late 
 hours'? 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (aside).— That 's the civil for saying I 'm 
 a fright. (Aloud.) We are not all so successful in pre- 
 serving our looks as long as you do, dear. By the way, 
 your wrap is really very nice. I had n't noticed it before. 
 I had no idea Clementine could do so well. 
 
 Mrs. Marabout- (sharply). — Clementine, indeed! 
 Worth's last, my dear 5 and I should think you would 
 know the difference ! (Fans herself.) 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (smoothly). — Worth ! I would n't have 
 imagined it. Tea, Thomas ! And, Thomas, Mrs. Marabout 
 finds the room is cool ; poke the fire. 
 
 (As Thomas increases the blaze Mrs. 
 Marabout walks away, JR., fanning 
 herself with increasing vigor.) 
 Walton (following her, JR.). — Pray, let me relieve you. 
 (Takes fan.) 
 
 (Grayson and Appleby stand near Mrs. Effingham and 
 converse with her. Enter Thomas with tea-table, which 
 he places by Mrs. Effingham; afterward brings in tea- 
 tray, fashionably equipped. Mrs. Effingham makes 
 tea.) 
 Thomas (going out, shows broken cup). — Musha, it's lucky 
 then, the quality don't count their dozens. She '11 never be 
 afther knowin' that I 've just sint one of them egg-shell 
 tay-cups to kape company with the broken imidges. 
 
 (Exit Thomas.) 
 Mrs. Marabout. — So nice to see you back again, Mr. 
 Walton. I quite envy you that delightful unconventional 
 life you have been leading. A more primitive state of 
 society than ours would be just what I would choose. There 
 used to be a poem when I learned lessons, about Lo ! the 
 poor Indian, whose something — mind — I forget the 
 rest. If a few thousand persons moving in society could 
 
64 TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 
 
 only go and be Indians, I would put down my name 
 directly. But, moving in society, unfortunately we can't. 
 Walton. — An enormous loss to the Indians, madam. 
 Mrs. Marabout. — I often say to my husband that I am 
 utterly unsuited to the cold atmosphere of conventional life. 
 Such a child of nature ; the weakest of creatures — my 
 feelings touched in a moment. Yes, sugar, please ; and 
 cream, Mr. Appleby. (She sips tea which Appleby crosses to 
 hand her.) Often and often I sob for hours together, for 
 no reason in the world. 
 
 Walton (aside). — Uncommonly cheerful for Marabout, 
 I swear. (Aloud.) Highly interesting for the doctors, is 
 it not ? 
 
 Mrs. Marabout. — Doctors ! Don't speak to me of doc- 
 tors ! I 've baffled them all ! One of my pet peculiarities 
 is an objection to the smell of certain flowers. Hyacinths, 
 for instance, make me faint. (Looks about her and sees vase 
 on table.) I would wager anything there is a hyacinth in 
 that vase yonder. Oh, this terrible oppression ! — water ! — 
 eau de cologne ! — anything ! — all grows dark before 
 me. 
 
 (She droops. Walton, ivith a 
 gesture of dismay, receives 
 her in his arms.) 
 Walton (aside). — For a creature all sensibility she 's no 
 light weight. (Places her on sofa.) 
 
 (All surround Mrs. Marabout. Mrs. Effingham applies 
 usual remedies. Appleby seizes the milk-jug, but is 
 prevented from throwing its contents on the sufferer. 
 Grayson, ivith vague idea of burnt feathers, brings 
 dust brush from the hearth. As the invalid revives 
 Mrs. Effingham brings near the vase of flowers, hiding 
 them behind her.) 
 Mrs. Effingham. — Are you relieved now, dear, and you 
 are quite sure it was the scent of those naughty hyacinths ? 
 
TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 
 
 65 
 
 Mrs. Marabout (faintly).— Oh! that fatal hyacinth! 
 Lilian, what would I give for nerves like yours ! 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (distinctly). — My nerves are proof 
 against hyacinths, I confess ; especially when they are 
 made of muslin. (She shows the vase.) Artificial, my dear 
 Julie, as you see ! 
 
 (All laugh. Confusion of Mrs. Marabout. Bell.) 
 Thomas (withdrawing the portiere). — Mistress Codding- 
 ton and Miss Coddington ! 
 
 (Exit Thomas. Enter Mrs. Coddington 
 and her daughter ; they greet hostess 
 and cross, M.) 
 Mrs. Coddington (to daughter, aside). — Now, Arabella, 
 mind what I say, and whatever you do, don't let the con- 
 versation flag ', keep the ball moving ; be gay, sprightly, 
 artless, agreeable, and suave. 
 
 Arabella (helplessly, aside). — But if I Ve nothing to say, 
 mamma ? 
 
 Mrs. Coddington (sharply, aside). — Nothing to say, for- 
 sooth ! Nothing to say ! And how dare you presume, 
 miss, to have nothing to say ? Keep your wits about you, 
 miss, or when we get home again, I '11 have something to say ! 
 (Conversation around tea-table. Appleby 
 has repeatedly consulted his watch, is 
 about to take his leave.) 
 Walton (to Mrs. Effingham, aside). — What the deuce is 
 Appleby always looking at his watch for ? I have it ! He 
 has taken a cab by the hour. 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — Oh, you malicious creature ! We 
 can only hope his hour has come at last ! 
 
 Walton. — What fun, to plunge him into the extrav- 
 agance of another hour of cab hire ! 
 
 (As Appleby just then approaches to say 
 adieu, Walton slips his arm irithin 
 Applebyh confidingly.) 
 
66 TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 
 
 Walton. — Appleby, did I ever tell you that adventure 
 of mine in the Kockies last August ? 
 
 (Walton leads Appleby apart, extreme L. Appleby' ] s 
 watch drops back into his pocket and ivith manifest 
 effort he resigns himself.) 
 Mrs. Effingham (pleasantly). — I hope you have enjoyed 
 your drive this afternoon, Miss Coddington ? 
 
 (Arabella, much alarmed, drops card-case, scattering 
 
 cards. Appleby tries to pick them up ; their heads 
 
 meet and bump.) 
 
 Mrs. Coddington (to daughter with a jog, aside). — Speak 
 
 up, you awkward thing ! Be lively, bright, be unstudied — 
 
 artless as a fawn — a greenwood fawn ! 
 
 Arabella (with a desperate effort, aside). — How can I be 
 like a fawn, mamma, when you glare at me like that. (To 
 Mrs. Effingham.) Yes, Mrs. Effingham, not at all ; that is, 
 very much, thanks. (Aside.) Oh, dear, I hate society. She 
 told me to say anything that came into my head. Nothing 
 comes into my head but that I 'd like to drown myself. 
 Mamma's elbow will jog me black and blue before she 's 
 done. (Aloud.) Yes, Mrs. Effingham, if you please, we 
 drove out in the park — Central Park — yes, that was the 
 very park. Something came near happening as we passed 
 the Museum — yes, the Museum. It was a sea-lion that had 
 escaped and was running down the drive. 
 All. — A sea-lion ! 
 
 (Arabella, much confused, drops cards again. Appleby 
 again stoops, she stoops, their heads meet, Arabella 
 finding all eyes upon her.) 
 Arabella. — I mean a gazelle, or perhaps a crazy man ; 
 at all events, policemen took it to the station-house, and it 
 kicked — oh ! how it kicked and swore — yes, swore dread- 
 fully! Oh! 
 
 Walton (taps his forehead, aside, to Appleby). — Light in 
 the upper story, eh f 
 
TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 
 
 6 7 
 
 Mrs. Coddington (hastily ) .— My daughter and I have 
 just had the pleasure of visiting the Sybarites' new club- 
 house. What luxury ! What extravagance ! Think of men 
 spending all that money on a place where women can't be 
 with them ! I '11 vow it is a mystery how marriages are 
 ever made nowadays. The Sybarites is a premium on 
 celibacy. 
 
 Appleby (watch in hand, makes a fresh start. He crosses 
 room). — T-t-t-hat reminds me — reminds me, Mrs. Effing- 
 ham, that I 'm d-due at the c-cl-club at 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (glancing mischievously at Walton). — I 
 protest against your desertion, Mr. Appleby j not, at any 
 rate, before I have had the pleasure of presenting you to 
 my friends. Mrs. and Miss Coddington — Mr. Appleby. 
 
 (Appleby'' s watch falls in 
 pocket ; he resigns him- 
 self again.) 
 
 Mrs. Coddington (aside). — Appleby, the millionaire; the 
 match of the season. What a delightful coincidence that 
 he and Arabella should have bumped each other's heads. 
 That 's what I call purely providential. Arabella, child, don't 
 poke your chin out ; think of something clever to say upon 
 the spot. Be sportive, and sparkling as the dew-drop on 
 the rose, and mind what I say, miss : remember you 're on 
 no account to let the conversation flag. 
 
 Arabella (aside). — I have n't the ghost of an idea j I 'm 
 cold to my very toes, she frightens me so. It 's like speak- 
 ing a piece on Fridays before the school. 
 
 Mrs. Effingham.— So you visited the Sybarites, Miss 
 Coddington, — that fountain-head of gossip, — and brought 
 away no news ? 
 
 Arabella (goaded by a glance and a nudge from Mrs. 
 Coddington). — Yes, Mrs. Effingham, there was news of 
 something dreadful. It was — yes, I believe it was a 
 murder — no, a duel 
 
68 TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 
 
 All. — A duel at the Sybarites ! 
 
 Arabella (hurriedly). — A desperate duel of the worst 
 kind between two — two adversaries. It was likely both 
 would be killed at once, or one immediately after the other. 
 Yes, both killed ! Eeally dead, you know. They had gone 
 away from town to fight. Yes, away, quite away, from 
 town. 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (speaking languidly). — To Maryland, 
 I suppose j that classic ground. But pray tell us the 
 names of the combatants, Miss Coddington. You pique 
 our curiosity. 
 
 Arabella (holding down her head). — It was — Captain 
 Hartshorn, I believe ; — yes, Captain Hartshorn, and they 
 vowed to kill each other without the slightest intermission. 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (still languidly). — But his adversary"? 
 Don't leave us in such painful expectation. 
 
 Arabella (hesitating, aside). — His adversary. Oh! must 
 he have an adversary? Who shall I say 1 ? (Aloud.) It was 
 Mr. Rutledge, I think ; — yes, Arthur Rutledge, and I don't 
 know anything more about it, I'm sure — not if you tease 
 and tease me ever so much. (She bursts into tears.) 
 
 Mrs. Coddington (horrified). — Arabella! But what is 
 the matter with dear Mrs. Effingham ? 
 
 (Mrs. Effingham starts violently, 
 utters a faint scream, half rises 
 from her chair, sinks into it again 
 and lets fall her cup ; cup breaks ; 
 Grayson and Walton exchange 
 glances of astonishment.) 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (aside). — Rutledge — Arthur! Great 
 
 Heaven ! Fighting! Wounded perhaps (She rings bell.) 
 
 (Enter Thomas.) 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — Thomas ! 
 
 Thomas.— Yes, ma'am. 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — I rang for you. 
 
TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 69 
 
 Thomas. — Sure, an' it's meself that be's answerin'ye, 
 
 (Mrs. Effingham goes to left of 
 stage. Thomas follows her.) 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — I want yon to go — to send — to call 
 a cab, a messenger, immediately, to — (Aside.) Oh, no ; I 
 dare not ! How hopelessly foolish of me even to dream of 
 it ! (She ponders.) 
 
 Thomas (puzzled). — It 's to call a cab, an' to call a mes- 
 senger, and pl'ase, ma'am, is the cab to go in the messenger 
 and where 's he to go to when he gets there ? 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (starting from reverie). — Pick up the 
 bits of that cup, and bring hot water. (Aside.) My place 
 is here, chained to the wheel, while he is madly throwing 
 away his precious life in this desperate encounter. (Crosses 
 back to tea-table.) 
 
 Thomas (carefully collecting fragments of cup). — And to 
 think of the mistress herself turned butter-fingers ! Howly 
 Mither o' Moses, but is n't this a consolation to an inni- 
 cent ofiinder ! 
 
 (Bell. Exit Thomas.) 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (aside). — And I let him go without the 
 fond, foolish words that were ever trembling on my tongue, 
 but that I dared not utter. 
 
 Thomas (drawing portiere) . — Gineral Sabretache! 
 
 (Exit Thomas. Sabretache 
 enters swaggering.) 
 
 Sabretache. — My compliments to you, Mrs. Effingham ! 
 Ladies, good morning ! 
 
 Mrs. Marabout. — Good-bye, Lilian, I really must be 
 off. Six teas still on my list, and I 'in dying to drop in on 
 Fanny Golightly to see how she takes the news of Rut- 
 ledge's affair. You know that everybody is saying she and 
 Rutledge are engaged. Shall I tell her, dear, she has your 
 sympathy ? Good-bye, dearest ; keep your spirits up ! 
 
7 o 
 
 TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — Good-bye, dearest ! (Aside.) Horrid 
 little cat ! 
 
 (Exit Mrs. Marabout. Appleby is about to follow 
 her, when Walton interrupts him by an intro- 
 duction in dumb shoiv to General Sabretache, 
 who greets him with effusion, squeezes his hand 
 until Appleby winces, and takes Appleby's arm 
 in his. Grayson, Mrs. Coddington, Miss Cod- 
 dington form group, L. Mrs. Effingham at 
 tea table. General Sabretache, Walton, Apple- 
 by, B. 
 Walton. — You are just in time, General, to shed the 
 light of experience on our discussion. Duels and dueling ; 
 testimony by an expert ; startling facts in evidence ; 
 broadswords and blunderbusses, eh ! And champion shots 
 — from a very long bow. 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (with an effort). — Pray do, General 
 Sabretache ; it will be so amusing. 
 
 Sabretache (fiercely). — Amusing! Not so, madam; as- 
 tonishing, exciting, awe-inspiring, if you will, but not 
 amusing. I never amuse. The book of my experience is 
 writ in characters of b-lood ! 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (shudders, then recovers herself, aside). — 
 I am a woman ! Let me hide this from their eyes. (Aloud.) 
 Then pray go on, and be as terrible as you choose. 
 
 Sabretache. — The toy of inexorable destiny, I have been 
 from my cradle compelled to dabble without ceasing in 
 human gore. At Chickamauga and at Gettysburg, at Sadowa 
 and Sedan, at Plevna and Alexandria, the name of Sabretache 
 may be found inscribed upon the highest roll of honor. And 
 not in the tented field alone. Affairs of honor — pooh ! mere 
 bagatelles ! I 've had 'em by the score — at Paris, at Ham- 
 burg, in Vienna, in New York. Once resolved upon the 
 fall of my opponent, his doom is sealed. A case in point ? 
 
TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 
 
 7* 
 
 You shall have it. My little adventure in Paris — the affair 
 Solomon, I call it. I was lounging in the garden of the 
 Palais Royal, my dog at my feet. A gentleman, in passing, 
 was inconsiderate enough to tread on the tail of my dog j 
 my dog howled. I remarked to the offender, " Sir, a dog 
 is the friend of humanity. Sir, you have stepped on the tail 
 of my friend — mark you, my friend. Sir, you will apolo- 
 gize to my friend." If you will believe me, he refused. He 
 
 even went so far as to say, " D n your friend ! " Of course 
 
 there was but one alternative. I offered him the sword 
 
 (Sabretache stops, glares, twirls his mustache.) 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — And the end of it all, Colonel Sabre- 
 tache, was 
 
 Sabretache (ominously). — -What would you have, 
 madam ? The man apologized, so to speak — went down 
 upon his knees to Solomon. 
 
 Appleby.— S-S-S-S-S-olomon ! 
 
 Sabretache (fiercely). — My dog's name, Mr. Appleby, 
 was Solomon! S-o, So, l-o, lo, m-o-n, mon, — Solomon! 
 Perhaps you don't approve of it ? 
 
 Appleby (shrinking at every syllable). — P-p-p-perfectly 
 so, my dear sir ; I don't recall a more appropriate title for 
 a do-og — a f r-f ri-f riend, I should say ; a friend. Really, 
 Mrs. Effingham, I must (Consulting watch.) 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — I was just about asking you to ring 
 the bell for me. (Aside.) I must do something ; but what ? 
 (Appleby's chance lost ; his icatch drops in 
 pocket ; he rings bell. Enter Thomas.) 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (walking to extreme left).— Thomas, I 
 have an order for you. (Aside.) You will go immediately 
 — send immediately — to the lodgings of Mr. Rutledge. 
 Say that his — his maiden aunt is in town, and wishes to 
 know whether there is news of him. (Aloud.) See to 
 the fire. 
 
72 TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 
 
 Thomas (aside). — Sure, an' it 's meself knows the road 
 to the gintleman's, when it 's paved both ways with silver 
 shillings. 
 
 (Thomas kneels before fire arranging it. Mrs. Effing- 
 ham crosses, H., to jardiniere. Grayson follows her. 
 They stand talking.) 
 
 Walton. — You have given us an interesting account — 
 a bloodless victory, General Sabretache. Is there nothing 
 more recent ¥ 
 
 Sabretache (mysteriously). — Nothing, sir? Too much — ■ 
 I dare not reveal all in the presence of lovely woman. 
 
 (Boivs and leaves his hand. Mrs. Coddington curtsies.) 
 
 Miss Coddington (aside). — Here, mamma, is a gentle- 
 man who does not let the conversation flag. 
 
 Mrs. Coddington (aside). — Take example by him, my 
 dear. A most agreeable talker, and so exciting. 
 
 Sabretache. — Latterly, I was at the theater. A man 
 persisted in staring at me j an oblique gaze. Striding 
 toward him I demanded the meaning of that gaze. Some 
 men with him were audacious enough to take his part. 
 Idiots ! in ten minutes, instead of one affair upon my hands, 
 I had four. 
 
 Mrs. Coddington. — Four ! 
 
 Arabella (following suit). — Four ! 
 
 Walton (aside). — Why in the world did n't he make it 
 fourteen, while he was about it ? 
 
 Sabretache (swaggering up and down). — We met on the 
 appointed day. In less than half an hour I had broken 
 the arm of one antagonist, the thigh of another, the collar- 
 bone of number three. A-a-h ! 
 
 Mrs. Coddington. — And the fourth, poor soul ! what 
 became of him ? 
 
 Arabella (imitating). — Yes, what became of him ? 
 
 Sabretache. — Just here occurred a most extraordinary 
 circumstance. I had abandoned the pistol for the sword. 
 
TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 
 
 73 
 
 Naturally there was no hope for my opponent, who, by the 
 Way, was the man who stared at me. But, with my usual 
 generosity, I resolved to spare his life. 
 
 Mrs. Coddington (raising her hands). — How truly great 
 of you ! {Aside to Arabella.) Speak up, Arabella. 
 
 (Arabella, aroused from reverie, starts, drops cards. 
 Appleby picks them up ; their heads bump. Ara- 
 bella rises in confusion, and looking about her, says 
 to Appleby — " How truly great of you! "J 
 
 Sabretache. — Wasn't it? I had resolved only to 
 strike the sword from his hand. Observe what follows. 
 My stroke was so neat that his sword, lifted high into the 
 air, turned thrice and descended, piercing my ill-fated 
 adversary thro' the eye — of course, instantly killing him. 
 A-a-ah ! 
 
 Mrs. Coddington. — How superbly heroic! Arabella 
 thinks so too, don't you, Arabella ? 
 
 Sabretache. — So it was, madam. But the cream of the 
 joke is that, when all was over, I discovered the fellow meant 
 nothing at all by his oblique intensity — he squinted. 
 
 Thomas (who has been loitering under pretense of brushing 
 hearth, etc., aside). — For the wurrld and all, like me chaney 
 imidge. 
 
 Mrs. EFFINGHAM (perceiving him, and crossing from jar- 
 diniere). — What, Thomas! not gone yet? (Aside.) How 
 can I endure this anxiety one moment longer. (Aloud.) 
 And pray, what do you mean by loitering here ? 
 
 Walton. — He was waiting for the death of the Gen- 
 eral's fourth victim. (Exit Thomas, with a grin.) Positively, 
 Sabretache, you inspire me to recall some of my own war- 
 like experiences ; not that I have anything worth telling, 
 after you. 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (aside). — How persistently they hover 
 round this subject. (Aloud.) Mr. Walton, of that you 
 will permit your audience to be the judge. 
 
74 
 
 TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 
 
 Mrs. Coddington. — Yes, do, Mr. "Walton. 
 
 Arabella (aside, to her mother) . — Here is somebody else 
 who does n't want to talk, mamma. 
 
 Mrs. Coddington (aside). — Stupid! of course he does. 
 "Wait a minute and see. 
 
 "Walton (with affected hesitation). — Well, well, since you 
 insist upon it ; but my achievement is a feeble gas-jet, beside 
 the General's Brush-electric. It was during the late war, 
 when I commanded a company of cavalry in Virginia. I 
 rode out before breakfast, with my orderly, saw smoke 
 issuing from the chimney of a disused cabin, rode softly 
 up, dismounted, peeped thro' the chinks, saw a round 
 dozen of desperate fellows, — Mosby's best men, — armed to 
 the teeth and sitting at breakfast with bowie-knives beside 
 each plate, and muskets laid across their knees. Without a 
 moment's hesitation I uttered a terrific war-cry and placed 
 myself at the threshold with extended sword. Believing 
 themselves surrounded, the black horsemen dashed to the 
 door. Single-handed I met them and after a long and 
 bloody conflict, eleven of them bit the dust. 
 
 Sabretache (with an air of mortification). — Eleven ! 
 
 Walton (calmly). — I was a trifle out of breath, and my 
 arm had lost a little of its terrible dash, and so the 
 twelfth 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — Ran away, I suppose. 
 
 Walton. — Far from it ; you never were more mistaken. 
 The twelfth cavalryman rallied ferociously and— (imitating 
 Sabretache) — killed me on the spot. 
 
 (He laughs. All laugh 
 but Sabretache, who 
 frowns blackly.) 
 
 Sabretache. — I don't know what you call it, Mr. Walton, 
 but this appears to me to be a very poor joke. 
 
 Walton. — Joke ! It was a serious matter to me, I assure 
 you. I never dreamt of disputing your feat with your 
 
TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 75 
 
 squinting adversary, General. I beg of you to show equal 
 respect to my untimely death. 
 
 Sabretache (making his adieu to Mrs. Effingham). — Your 
 servant, madam. You, Mr. Walton, shall hear from me 
 anon — anon, sir ! A-a-ah ! 
 
 (Exit Sabretache.) 
 
 Mrs. Coddington (alarmed).— Oh, Mr. Walton, how 
 could you tempt that desperate character! I tremble at 
 the danger that may be in store for you. 
 
 Walton. — Never fear, madam. An encounter with the 
 valiant Sabretache is a brevet of immortality. I wish my 
 friend Rutledge were as safe in his affair. Hartshorn, it 
 is said, is a crack shot. (He watches tJie effect on Mrs. 
 Effingham.) 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (hysterically). — Mr. Grayson, you are 
 the most obliging of mortals ; if you would only go to the 
 club and fetch us the very latest news of this affair of poor 
 Mr. Rutledge ! We 're all so interested ! 
 
 Grayson. — At your command, " I'll put a girdle round 
 the earth in forty minutes." 
 
 (Exit Grayson.) 
 
 Walton (calling after him). — Take Appleby's cab, Gray- 
 son, you '11 make better time. 
 
 (Bell.) 
 
 Appleby (starts, looking anxiously at watch). — I would vol- 
 unteer with p-p-pleasure, Mrs. Effingham, but that it is 
 impossible f-f-for me to return. I shall really be obliged to 
 s-s-s-say 
 
 Thomas (announcing). — Dr. Grantley! 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — Arthur's uncle ! 
 
 Walton. — That long-winded old Grantley, who is for- 
 ever talking about the tariff ! 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — He has come to tell me all. Heaven 
 give me strength to bear it. 
 
 (Enter Dr. Grantley.) 
 
7 6 TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 
 
 Dr. Grantley. — Good-day, madam, good-day ! Fine 
 weather we are having ! 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — Oh, Doctor, don't dissemble ! Don't 
 try to hide it ! I have divined the object of your visit. 
 
 Dr. Grantley. — The object of my visit ! 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — Go away, please, and talk to some 
 one else. Only say that you don't despise my weakness. 
 
 Dr. Grantley. — Despise your weakness ! 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — How could you, though, considering 
 how dear the object is to both of us. 
 
 Dr. Grantley. — Hum ! haw ! To both of us ? 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — Go, leave me. Already curious eyes 
 are turned upon us. 
 
 (Mrs. Coddington and Arabella draw 
 near ; she introduces him to both.) 
 
 Walton. — Appleby, I '11 make common cause with you. 
 I '11 share your cab. By hard driving, your man may 
 reach the club inside of the two hours. 
 
 Appleby. — Two hours, at a dollar and a half an hour, is 
 pretty deuced s-s-s-t 
 
 Walton. — Steep. Excuse me, but I 've no time to 
 spare. See, he is coming toward us. Cling to me, Appleby, 
 or I am lost. 
 
 Dr. Grantley. — Walton ! Appleby ! The very men I 
 have been looking for, to talk about the tariff. (Takes an 
 arm of each and leads them doivn, R.) I can't think how I 
 managed to lose you at the club last night, Walton, just 
 after I had promised to read you that little article of mine, 
 prepared for the " Evening Post." Appleby, too — a man 
 of capital and one of our representative citizens ; you will 
 be interested in my views of the important question. Come, 
 now, there 's no time like the present, and while our good 
 hostess is making herself agreeable to her other friends, 
 just let me give you a few of my leading points. I have 
 my manuscript here in my pocket. No trouble ! No trouble, 
 
TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 
 
 11 
 
 I assure you. I like to oblige my friends. (Draw's immensely 
 thick paper from pocket, puts on spectacles, and, with hems and 
 haws, reads.) " The paramount puipose of a tariff should 
 be to provide for the expenses of Government by taxes 
 which so distribute themselves as to be not only indirect, 
 but least burdensome upon the industries of the country. 
 If special industries are fostered, the protection afforded 
 should be incidental only " — incidental, you observe 
 
 Walton. — Yes, incidental. Exactly. So I should have 
 said. 
 
 Dr. Grantley (resumes). — "And the law-maker should 
 never consider his duty performed when he enriches a few 
 at the expense of all." 
 
 Appleby. — That's j-j-just what you're doing to us, 
 doctor, don't you see ? Why d-d-don't you enrich 'em all ? 
 
 Dr. Grantley. — There are moments, sir, when a joke is 
 out of place. However, as you and Walton seem interested, 
 I'll go on. This paragraph, now, will take your fancy. 
 Hum ! haw ! " The present tariff is an iniquity for which 
 the circumstances of the present situation afford no justifi- 
 cation whatever. In reforming it, the free list should be 
 immediately enlarged by a long catalogue of raw materials." 
 (During this Walton and Appleby steal away.) 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — He is taking out a paper. No doubt 
 a telegram. Yes, dear Mrs. Coddington, of course, you 
 may put me down. 
 
 Mrs. Coddington (subscription book in hand). — So kind 
 of you, Mrs. Effingham. Fifty dollars, did you say ? What 
 good news for my committee ! I '11 try for a subscription 
 from that dear old Doctor Grantley. 
 
 (Dr. Grantley looks up from paper, sees 
 sofa vacant, looks around disconcerted, 
 encounters Mrs. Coddington.) 
 
 Mrs. Coddington. — I was about to call to your notice, 
 doctor, this very inter (Bell.) 
 
78 TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 
 
 Dr. Grantley (cuts her short). — I am sure you will be 
 interested, Mrs. Coddington, in what I 'm reading here. 
 Pray sit ye down, ma'am. Hum ! haw ! As I was saying, 
 the Morrison tariff bill which introduced the proposed 
 
 horizontal reduction 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — Horizontal ! That means poor 
 Arthur was lying on the ground. 
 
 Dr. Grantley. — "Was stupidity itself ; was neither scien- 
 tific nor practical. (Recaptures Appleby and Walton.) I 
 appeal to you, Appleby ; to you, Walton. Was it either 
 scientific or practical ? (Brings them down to sit on either side 
 of Mrs. Coddington.) Hem ! haw ! While we have been 
 
 wasting time 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — Wasting time ! I knew it ! 
 Dr. Grantley. — In an idle discussion of its absurdity, 
 the welfare of our country (raising his voice) — its very life — 
 is trembling in the balance ! 
 Mrs. Effingham. — His life ! (Sinks in chair, L.) 
 
 (A 11 turn to her. Mrs. Coddington goes 
 
 over to back of chair, Walton stands at 
 
 table ; Appleby, B.) 
 
 Dr. Grantley. — The heat of the room, no doubt. 
 
 (Goes over, feels pulse.) Oh ! it 's a trifle ; she '11 do very 
 
 well. 
 
 (Goes back to table, re-seats Appleby 
 and Walton, resumes reading. Bell 
 rings. Enter Thomas; goes back of 
 Mrs. Effingham's chair.) 
 Thomas. — Please, ma'am, it 's Misther Rutledge. 
 
 (Enter Rutledge. Sensation.) 
 Mrs. Effingham (flies to him). — Arthur ! Not dead ; not 
 wounded ! 
 
 Rutledge. — Neither, that I know of. But, if you would 
 promise to keep this up, I might consent to any fate. 
 
TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 79 
 
 Mrs. Effingham.— Then you killed that poor, poor 
 Captain Hartshorn ? 
 
 Rutledge. — I left him a moment since, yawning his head 
 off at the club. He may be dead by now, for he was read- 
 ing my Uncle Grantley's pamphlet. 
 
 Dr. Grantley.— Eh ! What's that? He couldn't be 
 doing a more admirable thing. 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — Then what does it mean ? All of us 
 are burning with curiosity to hear the true story of your duel. 
 
 Rutledge. — Duel ! What duel ? 
 
 Dr. Grantley. — Nobody told me anything about a duel. 
 
 All. — Yes, tell us about your duel ! 
 
 Appleby.— Y-y-yes, t-t-t-tellus 
 
 Rutledge. — Duel ! My good friends, you natter me. I 
 have n't the least idea, nor ever had, of fighting with any- 
 body, thank you. Just now — (glance at Mrs. E.) — a lamb 
 might lead me at its own sweet will. 
 
 All. — Then there has been no duel ? 
 
 Rutledge. — Certainly not. 
 
 Mrs. Effingham (tenderly). — But, oh, had you known 
 how we have suffered on your account. Have n't we, Mr. 
 Walton? 
 
 Walton. — Acutely. Especially Grayson, who has gone 
 to collect your dying sentences. (Enter TJiomas.) 
 
 Thomas.— General Sabretache ! 
 
 (Enter Sabretache.) 
 
 Sabretache. — Ladies, your most obedient! Grayson 
 tells me the news of this duel has reached you. No doubt 
 you are astonished I did not mention it. The fact is, I was 
 pledged to secrecy. But for circumstances I need not 
 mention, I was to have been Hartshorn's second. 
 
 (Enter Thomas.) 
 
 Thomas. — Misthress Marabout. 
 
 (Enter Mrs. Marabout.) 
 
8o TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 
 
 Mrs. Marabout (out of breath). — My dear Lilian, I've 
 just run in again to say the story of the duel was a hoax. 
 Rutledge dined at Delmonico's last night, lunched at the 
 club at two, was in the bow-window at half -past, and is at 
 this moment driving Fanny Golightly down the Avenue in 
 his dog-cart. 
 
 (Bell) 
 
 Thomas (announcing). — Misther Grayson ! 
 
 Grayson.— My dear Mrs. Effingham, I'm told, on the 
 best authority, Dr. Grantley has just paid all of Rutledge's 
 debts, and that he and Miss Golightly are to be married 
 a fortnight from to-day. 
 
 Rutledge (advances from behind Mrs. E.). — Thanks, 
 thanks, very much, my friends. So kind of you to settle 
 my affairs. Certainly I am to be married very soon, but 
 not — (takes Mrs. ESs hand) — to Miss Golightly. 
 
 (All bow, and congratulate Mrs. E. and 
 Butledge. Sabretache, Grayson, and 
 Mrs. Marabout retire up, disgusted.) 
 
 Mrs. Coddington. — Well, I declare, I won't get a wink 
 of sleep to-night unless I find out how this story got about. 
 Who started it 1 
 
 All. — Who could have started it ¥ 
 
 Appleby. — W-w-w-w-who c-c-c-could 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — Perhaps Miss Coddington can en- 
 lighten us. 
 
 Arabella (jumps violently.) — If 
 
 Mrs. Coddington. — Oh ! Ah ! I remember. I shall 
 expire ! 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — Come, Miss Coddington, speak up. 
 Who told you about the duel ? 
 
 Arabella (bursting into tears). — Nobody. I made it up. 
 It was n't my fault, mamma. You know you told me on no 
 account to let the conversation flag. 
 
 (Sensation, surprise and laughter.) 
 
TEA AT FOUR O'CLOCK. 8 1 
 
 Mrs. Coddington. — Oh, I am disgraced ! Wait till I 
 get you home, miss. Dr. Grantley, may I offer you a seat 
 in my carriage J ? 
 
 Dr. Grantley (who is talking to Walton and Appleby). — 
 No, thank you, ma'am ; I am very much engaged. 
 
 Mrs. Coddington. — Perhaps you '11 stop to dine with 
 us ? I 'm sure Mr. Coddington would be charmed to have 
 a talk with you about the tariff. 
 
 Dr. Grantley. — Ah, in that case, madam — (Offers her 
 his arm.) And I say, Walton, I '11 meet you later at the club, 
 and finish what I was saying. Oh, I '11 wait for you, 
 never fear. (They retire up.) 
 
 Walton. — Come, Appleby, Grayson. Let us fall into 
 line, and retreat from the field with drums beating and 
 with colors flying. 
 
 Mrs. Marabout (to Walton). — Going back to your buf- 
 faloes and Indians for consolation, I presume. 
 
 Walton. — Not when I can derive such entertainment 
 from nature nearer home, Mrs. Marabout. 
 
 ( Mrs. M. tosses head, turns head away.) 
 
 Rutledge (to Walton). — Stay for the wedding, won 't 
 you? 
 
 Mrs. Effingham. — Stop, please. I hope nobody will 
 go until I 've thanked our friends for their kind attendance 
 on our Tea at Four o'Clock. 
 
 Curtain. 
 
TWO STRINGS TO HER BOW 
 
 A COMEDY IN TWO ACTS 
 ADAPTED FROM THE FRENCH 
 
 CHARACTERS : 
 
 Dumesnil, A bourgeois father. 
 
 Mme. Dumesnil, His wife. 
 
 Coudray, The friend of the family . 
 
 Alphonse de Luceval, . Suitor of Cecile. 
 
 Cecile, DumesniVs daughter. 
 
 Baptiste, An old servant. 
 
 TIME: BEGINNING OF XIX. CENTURY 
 SCENE I : THE PARLOR OF DUMESNIL'S COUNTRY HOUSE 
 SCENE II : THE GARDEN OF DUMESNIL'S COUNTRY HOUSE 
 
 
Two Strings to Her Bow was first given at Sedgwick Hall, 
 Lenox, September 27th, 1884 — and again at the Lyceum 
 Theatre in New York, as part of a programme for the "benefit of 
 the Babies' Shelter of the Church of the Holy Communion, on 
 the afternoon of April 7th, 1887. The costumes used on both 
 occasions were of the Empire period of France. It will be 
 observed that the play offers an opportunity for both songs and 
 dances at the finale of second act ; but that they can, with pro- 
 priety, be omitted. The scene with Cecile at piano in the first 
 act can be enlarged or omitted altogether. 
 
 The cast of this play at the Lyceum Theatre was as follows : 
 
 Monsieur Dumesnil Mr. Henry Gallup Paine. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil Miss Ada Webster Ward. 
 
 Cecile , Miss Alice Lawrence. 
 
 Alphonse de Luceval Mr. Edward Fales Coward. 
 
 Monsieur Coudray Mr. Alfred Young. 
 
 Baptiste Mr. Harold Harrison. 
 
 Stage-Manager Mr. David Belasco. 
 
TWO STRINGS TO HER BOW 
 
 Act First. 
 
 (A room in a French country house of the middle class ; 
 
 C. B. a folding-door ; doors R. and L. To the left of 
 
 the audience a table, guitar or piano, flowers, and music 
 
 books ; to the right a table with embroidery, etc., mantel 
 
 mirror, clock, and vases. Monsieur Dumesnil in his 
 
 dressing-gown ; Madame Dumesnil, a stout lady, in 
 
 camisole and curl-papers.) 
 
 Dumesnil. — If you would only take pattern by me, my 
 
 dear. Don't hurry yourself; keep cool and comfortable. 
 
 Our visitor can't possibly arrive before ten o'clock. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (moving about fussily). — Don't hurry 
 myself, Monsieur Dumesnil ! Pray, what would become of 
 this house if I did n't hurry myself ? And to-day, of all 
 days ! 
 
 Dumesnil. — Too much care killed the cat. Perhaps 
 Monsieur de Luceval will like us better without so much 
 ceremony. 
 
 
86 TWO STRINGS TO HER BOW. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil.— I should think you might trust 
 matters to me, Monsieur Dumesnil — I, who have seen the 
 world. Did n't I once go to the ball at the Mayoralty and 
 dance with his Honor in the opening set 1 Here I am, on 
 the point of marrying off my only daughter — in the act, 
 as it were, of embracing my future son-in-law. Dear 
 boy, how I love him already! How I like to think of 
 the young couple ! What an interest I shall take in their 
 affairs ! 
 
 Dumesnil (taking snuff). — No doubt, no doubt. You'd 
 be a new kind of mother-in-law if you did n't. But don't 
 count your chickens before they are hatched, old lady. Our 
 son-in-law, heaven bless him, has to pass upon us first, to 
 say whether he will accept us. He is handsome, young, an 
 orphan, of domestic tastes, — rich 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (interrupting). — Eieh ! An orphan ! 
 Dear creature, my heart expands more and more to him ! 
 
 Dumesnil (as before). — Tired of the heartless routine of 
 fashionable Paris, he has determined on settling in the 
 country. He has bought the chateau Avhose turrets we see 
 yonder from our south window 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (sits, eagerly). — Such a house! Such 
 furniture ! Such a farm and poultry yard ! Cecile will be 
 a great lady. Oh, I can see them walking arm-in-arm 
 from church, and all the people staring and crowding to see 
 my girl. Husband, I shall certainly get some of Cecile's 
 guinea-eggs. I suppose we shall dine there every other 
 Sunday. Dear young man ! He must be sweet-tempered ! 
 How he will enjoy his seven little brothers ! Such gay, 
 lively children as ours are. I fancy the dear creatures will 
 be forever at their house. One thing worries me dreadfully, 
 Dumesnil. Do you think our son-in-law would like tomato 
 sauce, or spinach with his cutlets ? 
 
 Dumesnil. — Softly, softly, wife ; wait till our bird is safely 
 in the cage. You women are always so impatient. 
 
TWO STRINGS TO HER BOW. 87 
 
 (Voice of Coudray, heard outside, C. B.) — No need to stable 
 him, my good man. Just walk him up and down in the 
 shade a bit j I 've but a moment to stay. 
 
 Dumesnil. — That 's Coudray, our dear girl's godfather. 
 What a piece of luck that he should have returned to-day, to 
 hear our news. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil. — Yes, and how surprised he will be 
 to know we have secured such an excellent match for 
 Cecile, without his help. For a year past Coudray has 
 made it his business to drum up all the desirable marry- 
 ing men. 
 
 Coudray (entering, C. B., riding-dress and whip. Salutes 
 Madame D., then D.). — Here I am, glad enough to get back 
 to the fields and woods, I '11 warrant you. Good news flies 
 fast, you know, and I 've traveled full speed. 
 
 (D. and Madame B. seize each one of Coudraifs hands, 
 and speak alternately with great rapidity.) 
 
 Dumesnil.— I knew you would sympathize with us, old 
 fellow. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil. — One can always count upon Cou- 
 dray! 
 
 Dumesnil. — In character and position unexceptionable. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil. — The fortune is better than we 
 expected ! 
 
 Dumesnil. — His ideas about a settlement most liberal! 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (takes steps). — I can fancy you dan- 
 cing at the wedding, Coudray. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Dumesnil (takes steps). — Yes, how Coudray will cut the 
 pigeon wing. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 (Coudray, C, is more and more surprised. He looks 
 from one to the other.) 
 
 Coudray. — The mischief knows how you two have found 
 me out. 'T was only this morning we settled it, De Geron- 
 ville and I ; and I 've been in the saddle ever since. 
 
 Dumesnil (surprised).— What ! 
 
88 TWO STRINGS TO HER BOW. 
 
 Coudray. — Hark ye, Dumesnil, you remember when we 
 were boys together, how all our dreams of the future were 
 of becoming millionaires. I was to be a bandit, you a 
 corsair. We were to amass money, and marry princesses. 
 Ho ! ho ! 
 
 Dumesnil (poking him in ribs). — Yes, and to live in 
 palaces, and eat off gold and silver plate. Ho ! ho ! 
 
 Coudray. — Here we are, two grizzled old fellows ; you 
 married to a jolly soul who has given you a houseful of 
 boys and a girl. I am a rusty old bachelor. We have 
 about money enough to rub along with. What interest 
 have I but you and yours ? My little bit of money will go 
 to Cecile when I die. She is my godchild, and. my pet. 
 Ever since she approached the marriageable age I have 
 been plottmg and planning to secure for her a worthy hus- 
 band and a good establishment. At last, my friends, I 
 have succeeded. To-day, thank fortune, our girl is pro- 
 vided for ! 
 
 Monsieur and Madame Dumesnil (together).— She is ! 
 But how did you find it out ? 
 
 Coudray. — How did you find it out, you mean. As you 
 know, I am never so zealous as when serving a friend. An- 
 other man might have bungled in so delicate a mission ; I — 
 never ! The principal object of my stay in town was to 
 bring to a successful issue the matter I have long had in 
 mind. The husband I am empowered to offer you for 
 Cecile is no less a person than the son of our Inspector- 
 General, Monsieur Jules de Geronville ! 
 
 Monsieur and Madame Dumesnil. — Monsieur Jules de 
 Geronville ! Impossible ! 
 
 Coudray. — In proof of it, I bring you the formal letter 
 of demand from his father. What luck, Dumesnil ! The 
 Chief of your Bureau, the man who holds your fortune in 
 the hollow of his hand. You are a made man, and our 
 dear Cecile has a charming husband. Why, what does 
 
TWO STRINGS TO HER BOW. 89 
 
 this mean ? You hesitate, you draw away from me ! 
 Coudray has made a blunder! 
 
 Dumesnil. — You mistake us, Coudray. My best of 
 friends, you never were more mistaken. Astonished — be- 
 wildered, we may be, but not insensible. (They embrace, 
 kissing on both cheeks.) 
 
 Coudray. — Why in the devil, theu, are you so backward 
 in welcoming Cecile's husband ? 
 
 DUMESNIL. — I'm not at all backward, I assure you. 
 The difficulty is, what can she do with two of them ? 
 
 Coudray.— Two of them ! 
 
 Madame Dumesxil (site). — Yes, my dear Coudray ; when 
 you arrived we were in the very act of preparing our 
 household to receive a visit from our other son-in-law. I 
 mean Cecile's first husband — that is — really, I seem to get 
 a little mixed. How very unfortunate she should have to 
 miss being the daughter-in-law of our Inspector- General. 
 To be sure (sighs) — an orphan son-in-law is always more 
 desirable. This poor De Luceval is quite alone in the 
 world — no inconvenient mother and jealous sisters; then 
 the De Geronvilles have always held themselves so very 
 high — it really is perplexing. 
 
 Coudray (whistles). — Alphonse de Luceval ! So this is 
 your boasted prize ! A conceited cockney, who has come 
 down here from Paris with a little money in his pocket, 
 bought out the land adjoining yours, and thinks to impose 
 on us honest country folk by his fine city airs and graces. 
 Put a little whipper-snapper of a fellow like that beside my 
 big, handsome, manly, sensible Pierre de Geronville ! Bah ! 
 the idea 's preposterous. 
 
 Dumesxil (angrily). — Coudray ! 
 
 Coudray (walking about whipping his boots icith riding- 
 stick). — Of course, it is none of my affair. I've no right to 
 take exception. Cecile is your child, not mine. Be as 
 ridiculous as you please. 
 
9° 
 
 TWO STRINGS TO HER BOW. 
 
 Dumesnil. — Much obliged to you, Monsieur Coudray. 
 Certainly, Cecile is my child, as you obligingly concede ; and 
 I propose to dispose of her hand without reference to the 
 impertinent remonstrance of an outsider. (Angrily.) What! 
 my word is passed, and you compel me to retract it ? Bah ! 
 the man has lost his wits. 
 
 (As Coudray, in great indignation, — seizes his hat, 
 lifts his whip with a gesture of defiance, and starts to 
 leave the room, the voice of Cecile is heard in the garden 
 outside.) 
 Cecile. — Yes, that's my godfather's horse. I was sure 
 of it. I am almost as happy when he comes back to as as 
 when papa does. I '11 pick a rose for his nice old button- 
 hole. There 's his favorite bush. Dear, dear godpapa ! 
 
 (During her speech Coudray and Dumesnil waver toward 
 and from each other. At the close of it their hands 
 meet in a friendly clasp.) 
 Dumesnil. — Coudray, my dear old fellow, what a fool I 
 was to be angry ! 
 
 Coudray. — No, Dumesnil ; I was the idiot. My unfortu- 
 nate testy temper ! 
 
 Dumesnil. — You know I never can help boiling over. 
 Coudray. — Say no more about it. I accept De Luceval. 
 Madame Dumesnil (wiping her eyes). — This is as it should 
 be. It seems it is next to impossible to take both of Cecile's 
 suitors (sighs deeply), and we must make the best of cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
 (Cecile is heard singing without. A song may be intro- 
 duced here, or not.) 
 Dumesnil. — Here she comes ! Let me warn you both to 
 say nothing that will lead her to suspect a suitor is in 
 question. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (disappointed). — Not tell her about her 
 sweet young man, who 's coming to be her husband ! Why, 
 Dumesnil, who ever heard of such unfatherly behavior ! 
 
TWO STRINGS TO HER BOW. 
 
 9* 
 
 Dumesnil. — Never mind, wife ; I have passed my word 
 to Monsieur de Luceval. He has taken a fancy to appear 
 among us unknown to Cecile, save in the light of a pur- 
 chaser for my south meadow. 
 
 Coudray (aside). — Hum! So our young cockney is 
 romantic, it appears. 
 
 (Enter Cecile. She is dressed in ichite, with wide straw 
 hat. She has a basket of eggs in her hand, and holds a 
 bunch of roses, which she distributes.) 
 
 Cecile. — One for you, godpapa (kisses him on both cheeks), 
 to welcome you home again; one for mamma, and this 
 deep-red beauty for my father. Do you know, to gather 
 it, I had to shake out a bee — a great, big, saucy fellow ! 
 After a hard struggle, I conquered him. 
 
 Coudray (taking from breast-pocket a case). — Fair exchange 
 is no robbery, Cecile. See what I found for you in the Rue 
 de la Paix. 
 
 (Cecile opens case and takes out a bracelet. She utters 
 a erg of delight, and kisses Coudraifs hand.) 
 
 Cecile. — Godpapa, you are a darling! I never had 
 anything half so lovely before. (Tries it on her arm 
 before mantel mirror.) Nobody knows how long I have 
 been sighing for a bracelet! (Admires her arm in various 
 postures.) 
 
 Dumesnil (examines basket, which she has placed oti chair) . — 
 And what have we here, little vanity ? 
 
 Cecile. — Those — ah! take care, papa — those are the 
 eggs I found just now in the hay. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (aside). — Innocent little dear ! Such, 
 such is life. Little does she know that these very eggs will 
 make an omelette for her future husband. 
 
 Cecile. — It was such fun! When I was tired, the 
 farmer's wife gave me a great bowl of milk and a slice 
 of her good brown bread. How hungry I was ! And how 
 I devoured it ! 
 
9 2 
 
 TWO STRINGS TO HER BOW. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (aside). — How providential that she 
 should have taken the edge oft' that unromantic appetite. I 
 can never teach Cecile that a well-brought-up young 
 woman must always appear indifferent to her food. 
 
 Cecile. — And so, having eaten heartily, mamma, I am 
 going to ask to be excused till dinner-time. I have ordered 
 the pony to be saddled, and, with old Jean to attend me, 
 I 'm off for a long, delightful ride in the forest. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (aside). — Bounce out of the house at 
 the very moment her lover sets foot in it ! (Sharply.) You 
 will do nothing of the kind. Think of your complexion, 
 after a ride in heat like this. Besides, the dressmaker has 
 just sent home your new gown, and I wish you to try it on. 
 Go to your room at once, and put on that gown without 
 delay. 
 
 Cecile (pouting). — I can't endure new gowns. A stiff, 
 tight thing with a long, tiresome tail to it. How much 
 better T can run and jump in one like this. 
 
 (Works her arms and shoidders, and goes through gym- 
 nastic exercises like a schoolgirl.) 
 
 Dumesnil. — Obey your mother, my child. (Exit Cecile, 
 reluctantly.) And this, Coudray, is our future Madame de 
 Luceval ! But see, time is flying, and I am not dressed to 
 receive my son-in-law. Of course you'll stay, Coudray. 
 Smoke your cigarette on the terrace, whilst my wife and I 
 make ready for our guest. 
 
 (Exeunt Dumesnil and Coudray. Madame Dumesnil is 
 about to go to her room, when she discovers something 
 awry in the furniture. She sets to re-arranging it, 
 when Baptiste enters.) 
 
 Baptiste. — Madame, madame ! 
 
 Madame Dumesnil. — Well, Baptiste ? 
 
 Baptiste. — Monsieur is in the greatest way! He can't 
 find his embroidered waistcoat anywhere. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil.— That 's just like Dumesnil. Can't 
 
TIVO STRINGS TO HER BO IV. 
 
 93 
 
 see an inch before his nose, when I put his things all to- 
 gether on a chair not ten minutes since. 
 
 Baptiste. — And madame, madame, the cook wants to 
 know if she shall serve the kidneys and the cutlets to- 
 gether ; and madame has forgotten to tell me what table- 
 linen to use. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil.— I am almost distracted. The clover- 
 leaf set, of course, you booby; they are lying in your 
 pantry. And send Marie to me. 
 
 (Voice of Dumesnil, B.) 
 
 Dumesnil. — Madame Dumesnil, my dear, I can't find 
 my blue necktie anywhere. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (clapping her hands to her ears, runs 
 out). — Coming, coming, Monsieur Dumesnil. Oh, what a 
 piece of work to marry off one's daughter. 
 
 (Exit Baptiste, L. Exit Madame D., B. As her mother 
 disappears, enter Cecile, C, with fingers on her lips.) 
 
 Cecile. — To marry off one's daughter ! I am a daughter. 
 I am the only daughter here, and so it must mean me. 
 What a perfectly dreadful thing ! When one is married 
 one has a double chin ; one has to be always fussing with 
 the cook, or dusting the furniture, or counting the linen 
 from the wash, or disputing with papa about whether or 
 not the beef is overdone. Mamma has n't a bit of fun, ever. 
 Fancy her riding races on the pony, or climbing haystacks, 
 
 or hunting eggs. If I am to be married 
 
 (Enter Baptiste ; comes up to his young lady icith affec- 
 tionate familiarity.) 
 
 Baptiste. — Come, Mademoiselle Cecile, that is n't at all 
 the face I should have hoped to see on my young lady the 
 day she expects her future husband. 
 
 Cecile (starts violently). — Husband! Oh, I never thought 
 of him. Oh, dear Baptiste, must there be a husband ? 
 
 Baptiste.— Well, mademoiselle, it 's in general to be 
 expected when a young lady sets out for to get married. 
 
94 TWO STRINGS TO HER BOW. 
 
 Cheer up, mademoiselle, and don't look so down in the 
 mouth. We (assumes an air of importance) — your honored 
 father and mother, and your godfather, and all of us — 
 have spared no pains to bring about this happy moment. 
 The young gentleman we have selected is one worthy of 
 the family, and will reflect credit on our choice. It is your 
 duty to do everything you can to make a favorable impres- 
 sion on him. In an affair of this kind, you know, mademoi- 
 selle, there is always a risk that the suitor may withdraw. 
 
 Cecile.— Withdraw ! 
 
 Baptiste. — Yes j make himself scarce — back out, you 
 know. 
 
 Cecile. — Oh, if he only would ! Tell me, Baptiste, you 
 dear, kind Baptiste, how one might set about making the 
 suitor — back out, you know ? 
 
 Baptiste (with dignity). — Tut, tut, tut, my little lady! 
 My master does me the honor to repose confidence in his 
 old Baptiste, and shall I prove faithless to the trust ? Be- 
 sides, Mademoiselle Cecile, not only does the credit of the 
 family demand that you should be married, and have an 
 establishment of your own, but there is another reason. 
 
 Cecile (mournfully). — Tell me all — all at once, Bap- 
 tiste ! 
 
 Baptiste.— My young lady is no doubt aware that I 
 have been for many years in her father's service, and that 
 during that time my reputation for sobriety has extended 
 wherever the name of Baptiste is known. (Waves his arms.) 
 
 Cecile. — Yes, of course. Don't be so slow, Baptiste. 
 
 Baptiste. — My reputation for strict temperance has not 
 only brought upon me the scoffs of outsiders, but has been 
 the cause of a coolness between me and my oldest comrades. 
 Now, to retrieve my name for good fellowship, I owe them 
 some amends. I have made a solemn vow that, on the day 
 your marriage is decided, I will indulge myself to the extent 
 of — well — of putting an enemy to my lips to steal away 
 
TWO STRINGS TO HER BOW. 
 
 95 
 
 my wits. (Dumb show of drinking.) I hope my good young 
 lady will remember how much depends on her. (Bell rings, 
 C. B. Baptiste looks back.) There he is ! There 's the future 
 husband! Run, Mademoiselle Cecile, and get on your 
 finery, as madame bids you. 
 
 Cecile (shades eyes ivith hand and looks out). — A young 
 man on horseback at the lodge gate. At any rate, he's 
 neither fat, nor bald — like husbands generally. 
 
 ( Bell inside rings ; DumesniVs voice, L.) 
 Dumesnil. — Baptiste, Baptiste! 
 
 Baptiste (shrugs). — There 's my master calling ! (He 
 does not stir.) 
 
 (Bell inside rings ; Madame DumesniVs 
 voice, B.) 
 Madame Dumesnil.— Baptiste, Baptiste ! 
 Baptiste (shrugs). — There 's my mistress. Curious how 
 they always do it together. (Does not stir.) 
 
 Cecile (desperately). — Oh, it's all over with me! Why 
 must I have a husband ? 
 
 (She runs out, C. B. Madame Dumesnil runs through 
 
 door, M. She is in an ample dressing- go ivn ; holds 
 
 curling-tongs in hand, and has a large curl-paper 
 
 on top.) 
 
 Madame Dumesnil. — Baptiste, you stupid fellow, run and 
 
 open the door without delay. (As Baptiste goes out, lie looks 
 
 at audience.) 
 
 Baptiste. — I can hardly believe my good luck. The 
 happy day has come. After years of abstinence — only a 
 beggarly glass of absinthe on Sundays ! Put it to your- 
 selves ! (He makes motion of drinking, smacks lips, and exit, 
 C.B.) 
 
 -Madame Dumesnil. — Hurry, hurry, Baptiste. Where in 
 the world is my husband ? Monsieur Dumesnil, Monsieur 
 Dumesnil! Oh, he ought to be there to receive the dear 
 young man. 
 
c>6 TIVO STRINGS TO HER BOW. 
 
 Dumesnil (rushing in, L. f ivithout coat, and brandishing two 
 hair-brushes). — Wife, wife, he 's come ! No mistake about 
 it. He is riding up the front gravel at this moment. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (sharply). — And are you going to be 
 dancing a fandango with those hair-brushes all day ? and 
 not a soul ready to do the honors of the house. That is the 
 way. You are always behindhand in every important crisis. 
 
 Dumesnil. — I was busy with Coudray. We had to 
 compose the letter turning on 2 the other suitor ; and diplo- 
 macy takes time, I tell you. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (regretfully).— True, that letter had 
 to be written. Being forced to refuse the son of the In- 
 spector-General is the only drawback of this happy day ! 
 But hurry, Dumesnil, hurry. 
 
 Dumesnil. — I can't. My coat is not yet brushed. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil.— You surely don't expect me to 
 receive my son-in-law like this ! 
 
 (Enter Coudray.) 
 
 Dumesnil. — Here's Coudray, just in the nick of time. 
 He is the very man. Coudray, my dear fellow, hasten to 
 do the honors to Monsieur de Luceval for us. You have 
 just the air of dignified repose — in addition to the fact of 
 having on your coat. (Pushes Coudray to door.) 
 
 Madame Dumesnil. — Yes, do, Monsieur Coudray. Your 
 hair is not in curl-papers. 
 
 (Exit Coudray.) 
 
 There, he is off — and so am I. 
 
 Dumesnil. — And I. 
 
 (Retires, brushing his hair wrong. Ashe passes Madame 
 Dumesnil they collide. She burns him tvith tongs acci- 
 dentally ; he jumps in the air, etc., etc. Exeunt Mon- 
 sieur and Madame Dumesnil, B. Enter Coudray, usher- 
 ing in Alphonse de Luceval, C. B.) 
 
 Coudray ' (stiffly). — I am charged, sir, by my friend, 
 Monsieur Dumesnil, with the duty of receiving you in his 
 
TWO STRINGS TO HER BOW. 
 
 97 
 
 stead. Madame Dumesnil and himself will join ns imme- 
 diately. 
 
 De Luceval (aside). — Immensely cordial old party. 
 (Aloud.) Yon are too kind, sir. A member of the family, 
 I presume ? Great-uncle, — grandfather,— hey ? 
 
 Coudray (stiff!)/). — Not at all, sir; not at all. (Aside) 
 Too cool, by half. What right has he got to presume any- 
 thing? (Aloud.) I am an old and intimate friend of the 
 Dumesnil family, and godfather to the young person 
 
 whom 
 
 " De Luceval.— Ah ! Godfather to the young person 
 
 whom , are you u ? (Aside.) Well, I can see for myself 
 
 that I have no especial favor to expect from the godfather 
 
 to the young person whom (Aloud.) Very good 
 
 friend, you have no idea what pleasure your honest rustic 
 countenance gives me. It is a sort of assurance that all 
 the rest will be in keeping. 
 
 Coudray (aside). — Honest rustic countenance! Con- 
 found him for a city popinjay ! (A loud.) I don't know what 
 your expectations are, sir, but I assure you that ours 
 
 De Luceval. — Oh, I won't trouble you with the list, 
 worthy godfather. Let me confide in you my emotions. 
 Just now, as I rode up the avenue, I said to myself, " There, 
 behind those modest green blinds, is the companion of my 
 future joys and sorrows, a dear little unsophisticated inno- 
 cent, with a skin like cream and hair like sunbeams ; for I 've 
 seen her at mass, two Sundays since. And then those good, 
 simple bourgeois, her parents ; no pretensions, no state, no 
 ceremony. They will come forward to receive me with 
 honest hands, wide open, and the girl will have no accom- 
 plishments, no frills and flounces — " By the way, what 
 has become of the family ? 
 
 Coudray (aside). — What a very abrupt young man. 
 (Aloud.) Monsieur and Madame Dumesnil are at their 
 toilet, sir. 
 
98 7 WO STRINGS TO HER BOW. 
 
 De Luceval. — Toilet ! 
 
 Coudray (pompously).— Yes ; and I am glad of this oppor- 
 tunity to tell you that ray friend Dumesnil is entirely worthy 
 of all you say of him. During the forty years of our inti- 
 mate friendship I have never known him to neglect a duty, 
 or withdraw from his word when he had passed it. His 
 daughter is a young person whose merits will develop daily 
 as she advances in years. Pious and modest, of excellent 
 principles, we have taken pains to bestow on her, from 
 earliest childhood, a due measure of feminine accomplish- 
 ments — to bestow on her a distaste for the mere fripperies 
 
 of life — to bestow on her 
 
 De Luceval (aside). — While they were about it, why did n't 
 they bestow on her another godfather ? What an alarming 
 list of virtues ! My enthusiasm is quenched already. (Aloud.) 
 My good sir, you alarm me. I don't want a district visitor. 
 Coudray (aside). — A district visitor! 
 De Luceval. — I want a sweetheart, not a missionary. 
 Coudray (aside).— A sweetheart ! I 'm not so sure of his 
 principles after all. 
 
 (Enter Madame Dumesnil in full toilet, with a portentous 
 cap, and Dumesnil in knee-breeches, buckles, his chapeau 
 under his arm ; behind them Cecile, awkward in a stiff 
 new dress, her eyes cast down, her hair puffed out- 
 rageously, etc. As they come in, the most absurd and 
 exaggerated exchange of salutations takes place. No 
 one will ever allow the other's bow or curtsey to be the 
 last.) 
 De Luceval (aside).— Good Heavens ! This is intermi- 
 nable. One might as well be dancing a perpetual minuet. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (aside). Cecile, come forward, child, 
 and don't hide in my pocket. 
 
 Dumesnil (to his wife, aside).— Say something, can't you ? 
 Deuce take it, if I can find a word. Women are always 
 ready with their tongues. 
 
TWO STRINGS TO HER BOIV. 99 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (aside).— I 'm frightened to death. 
 I have n't an idea in my head. 
 
 (The parents and Cecile advance in a 
 stiff row.) 
 
 De Luceval. — I owe you, ladies, a thousand apologies 
 for disturbing you so early in the day. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (with an assumption of society ease). — 
 Not at all, monsieur. My daughter and I are apt to be a 
 little lazy, that is all. Nothing ages a woman so soon as 
 early rising, they say ; and we owe it to society to preserve 
 our complexions. 
 
 De Luceval (aside). — Hers is like a lobster. (Aloud.) 
 There are some complexions, madame, that time only 
 touches to improve. 
 
 Dumesnil (with assumed elegance). — It is we who owe you 
 an apology, my dear sir, for keeping you waiting, and for 
 allowing you to surprise us in this demi-toilette. 
 
 Coudray (aside). — Demi-toilette ! What does he mean 1 
 He 's not been so fine before since his own wedding-day. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (same manner). — But the country 
 covers a multitude of sins against etiquette, for which, 
 you must know, we are the most determined advocates. 
 (Aside.) Cecile, step forward, and hold your head up ! 
 
 Cecile (aside) . — I can't, mamma ; this dress pinches me so. 
 
 De Luceval (looks at Cecile, aside). — What abominable 
 hair-dressing. It makes a fright of her ! 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (to husband, aside). — See how he looks 
 at her ! There is rapture in his gaze. 
 
 De Luceval (still looking at Cecile, aside). — This is a most 
 unpleasant surprise. A little, stiff, commonplace, ill- 
 dressed, boarding-school miss, in place of my woodland 
 nymph. 
 
 Dumesnil (aside to his wife). — For goodness' sake, make 
 the girl talk. She hasn't said a word. Everything de- 
 pends upon first impressions. 
 
100 TWO STRINGS TO HER BOW. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (aside to him).— And the trouble gen- 
 erally is to make her hold her tongue. ( Aside to Cecile.) 
 Come, come, my dear ; speak up, without delay. 
 
 Cecile (half sobbing). — I can't possibly, mamma. I'm 
 laced too tight. 
 
 Dumesnil (aside to Coudray). — Do you keep up the con- 
 versation, Coudray ! As the godfather and family friend 
 it is your business. (Wipes his brow.) This is the hardest 
 day's work I ever did. 
 
 Coudray (aside). — There is justice in what he says. I 
 clearly am the person to rescue all parties from the em- 
 barrassment of the present situation. Let me think of a 
 remark that is applicable under all circumstances to a 
 newly arrived visitor. Ah, I have it. ( Steps forward. Aloud 
 to De Luceval.) What, sir, are your impressions of our neigh- 
 borhood ? 
 
 De Luceval (aside). — Is he reporter, as well as god- 
 father? (Aloud.) Very fair, indeed. Good natural points, 
 certainly (glances at Cecile), but spoiled by an attempt at 
 cultivation ignorantly bestowed. 
 
 Coudray. — Hum ! I suppose you are a trifle bored by 
 your solitary lif e at the chateau ? 
 
 De Luceval. — Not at all. I am never bored when I have 
 the company of my own thoughts. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil. — You are exactly like my daughter 
 here, I do declare. Oftentimes I ask her if she would not 
 prefer the society of some gay young people to her books ; 
 but no, it is impossible to wean her from those serious occu- 
 pations. 
 
 Cecile (aside). — Oh, pray, mamma, be quiet about me. 
 
 Coudray (aside). — Slow work, this. (Aloud to De Luce- 
 val.) Perhaps you play the flute ? 
 
 De Luceval (laughing).— So badly that I reserve the 
 accomplishment entirely for myself. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil. — That 's exactly like my daughter. 
 
TWO STRINGS TO HER BOW. IO l 
 
 I 'm always urging her to play and sing in company, after the 
 mints of money that have been spent on her music ; but she 
 persists in saying that my husband and her brothers are the 
 only persons who can appreciate her fairly. (Cecile disap- 
 pears behind her mother.) 
 
 Coudray (aside). — See how I 've set the ball a-rolhng. 
 (Aloud.) No doubt you draw, Monsieur de Luceval? 
 
 De Luceval. — I am afraid I am destitute of all the 
 polite accomplishments, Monsieur Coudray. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil. — Oh, you should just see the beauti- 
 ful head of Romulus my daughter has drawn. She brought 
 it home from school with her ; and, actually, when it was 
 taken out of the portfolio she did n't know it herself. 
 
 Cecile (from behind her mother). — None of us girls ever 
 knew our things, mamma, after the drawing teacher touched 
 them up ! 
 
 Madame Dumesnil. — Run, fetch your portf oho, my dear, 
 and let Monsieur de Luceval see your head of Romulus. 
 
 Cecile. — I can't, mamma. He was such an old fright 
 we nailed him on the barn door as a target for our arrows ! 
 
 De Luceval (laughing, aside). — Here 's one touch of 
 nature, by Jove ! 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (reproachfully).— For shame, Cecile. 
 At any rate, you shall sing for Monsieur de Luceval. By a 
 happy chance the man came to tune your piano this morn- 
 ing, and here is the last song from the new opera. 
 
 De Luceval. — Yes, mademoiselle; you are surely not 
 unkind enough to deny me this rare musical treat ? 
 
 (Cecile attempts to sing ; business at piano.) 
 
 Cecile (aside). — He is making fun of me ! I am ready 
 to cry ! I am crying ! Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! oh, dear ! 
 
 (She bursts into tears and escapes from the room. Cou- 
 dray follows Cecile, ichile Monsieur and Madame Dumes- 
 nil apologize in dumb show to De Luceval, who stands 
 bowing icith an air of mockery.) 
 
102 TWO STRINGS TO HER BOW. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (aside, fanning herself). — Nothing 
 goes right. 
 
 (Enter Baptiste with a napkin beneath his arm.) 
 
 Dumesnil (aside). — Ah! here is Baptiste to announce 
 breakfast. How lucky. At least, if the young man can't 
 draw, or play, or sing — he can eat. 
 
 Baptiste (bowing). — The breakfast is served, madame. 
 
 Dumesnil (bowing).— 1 hope that Monsieur de Luceval 
 will share our family meal. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil. — A simple country meal, monsieur. 
 
 Baptiste. — And cook says if the company don't make 
 haste her omelette will fall as flat as any pancake. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (angrily, aside). — Be quiet, you awk- 
 ward idiot. 
 
 De Luceval. — Really, my kind neighbors, it is hardly 
 worth while. I merely called — I dropped in to talk over 
 affairs — that little meadow through which my brook 
 takes a turn, Monsieur Dumesnil ; perhaps you will be 
 willing to part with the land; another day we will 
 discuss it. (Offers to go.) 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (holds up her hands, aside). — Only a 
 little meadow. Would anybody believe it ? (Aloud.) 
 But you can never think of leaving us like this, neighbor 
 De Luceval, and the breakfast smoking on the table ? 
 
 De Luceval. — Thanks, very much ; but the truth is I 've 
 already breakfasted. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil. — Already breakfasted ! 
 
 De Luceval. — A cup of fresh milk this morning at the 
 farm. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil.— That 's exactly like my daughter. 
 Such sweetly simple tastes. Cecile ! (Calling Cecile.) 
 
 Coudray (re-entering). — I am sorry to say that Cecile begs 
 to be excused. The little witch has coaxed me until I don't 
 know my right hand from my left, to say she may stay in 
 the garden till we have finished breakfasting. 
 
TIVO STRINGS TO HER BOIV. 
 
 103 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (catching at idea). — Perhaps Mon- 
 sieur de Luceval would like, also, to remain in the fresh air 
 awhile. 
 
 De Luceval (indifferently). — As you like. If Monsieur 
 Dumesnil does n't object, I '11 take a look at his pigs. 
 
 (He bows, and goes out, C. B. Madame Dumesnil 
 aghast.) 
 Madame Dumesnil. — Pigs! 
 
 Coudray. — Come, come to breakfast, my friends. For 
 breakfast one must, whether the course of true love runs 
 smooth or no. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (aside). — And all my good things 
 wasted on Dumesnil and old Coudray ! 
 
 (Coudray offers his arm to Madame Dumesnil, ivho 
 accepts, with look over shoulder at door, C. B. 
 Dumesnil follows.) 
 
 Curtain. 
 
 Act Second. 
 
 A garden, tvith rustic bench in arbor, B. Enter Cecile in ordi- 
 nary dress, knitting-bag on arm. 
 
 Cecile. — I saw him going down the lilac walk, and I 
 hid behind the bushes till he passed. Hateful, conceited 
 creature ! I know he was laughing in his sleeve at us. 
 ( Goes into arbor.) 
 
 (Enter De Luceval. Cecile takes knitting out of bag 
 and begins to ivork.) 
 
 De Luceval. — I saw her steal away from me, and fol- 
 lowed her. Something tempts me to make one last effort. 
 Perhaps she is not the affected, brainless doll she seems to 
 be ! Ah ! there she is, without her finery. What an improve- 
 
104 rwo STRINGS TO HER BOW. 
 
 ment. (To Cecile.) It appears we have been playing a 
 game of hide and seek, mademoiselle. 
 
 Cecile (with assumed stupidity). Hum. (She drops the 
 ball of ivool, L.) 
 
 De Luceval (picking up ball, and restoring it with a boiv). — 
 They tell me that yon, like myself, have breakfasted, al 
 fresco f 
 
 Cecile (stares vacantly). — Al — what? I don't under- 
 stand you, monsieur. (Drops ball again, B.) 
 
 De Luceval (picks it up, etc.). — I should congratulate 
 myself on the result. 
 
 Cecile.— Yes 1 (Drops ball again, C.) 
 
 De Luceval (picks it up, aside). — Devil take it ! (Aloud.) 
 Since it has secured for me this opportunity to profit by 
 the conversation of a young lady who is as clever as she is 
 beautiful. 
 
 Cecile (with a movement of anger, aside). — Now he is 
 ridiculing me. Horrid thing! (Aloud, stupidly.) If you 
 please, monsieur, did you wish to see the pigs ? 
 
 (She drops the ball, ivhich rolls out, back. She stands 
 motioning him to follow it.) 
 
 De Luceval (aside, in disgust). — Confound it, the girl 
 seems an absolute idiot. Can it be she means to make a 
 fool of me 1 ? (Picks up ball. Aloud.) For the last time, 
 mademoiselle. (He bows and attempts exit, B.) 
 
 Cecile (laughing). — The other way to the pigs, monsieur. 
 (Exit De Luceval, angrily, L.) 
 
 Cecile. — Victory ! Victory ! We fairly hate each other. 
 
 (Enter Madame Dumesnil.) 
 
 Madame Dumesnil. — I hope Baptiste will remember to 
 — Baptiste ! (Enter Baptiste.) Put the sherry in the cup- 
 board, and take that claret stain out of the cloth before 
 you fold it. (Exit Baptiste.) These servants are so stupid. 
 Ah! how tired I am. This dress is so uncomfortable. 
 
TWO STRINGS TO HER BOW. 105 
 
 Everything goes wrong to-day. Cecile, I thought Monsieur 
 de Luceval was with you. 
 
 Cecile (demurely). — Monsieur de Luceval preferred the 
 pigs, mamma. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil. — And how dare you let him prefer 
 the pigs ? 
 
 Cecile. — Never mind, mamma ; it is better so. We should 
 always have been quarreling. You know you and papa 
 say " anything for a quiet life." 
 
 Madame Dumesnil. — What do you mean, you saucy 
 girl? Oh, you have all combined to drive me mad 
 to-day. 
 
 (Enter Coudray.) 
 
 Coudray. — Well, Madame Dumesnil, our little game is up. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (agitated). — Speak quickly, Coudray. 
 Don't keep me in suspense. 
 
 Coudray. — De Luceval has backed out, confound him ! 
 (Cecile, back, leaves her handkerchief.) He 's been expressing 
 his regrets in such flowery terms that I can't remember 
 half of it. But the main point is, he 's off, or will be as soon 
 as his horse is saddled. 
 
 Cecile (claps hands). — Joy! joy! Come, mamma, don't 
 take it so to heart. This is the first time I 've felt happy 
 since I have heard the name De Luceval. (Exit, back.) 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (sinks upon bench) . — Ungrateful 
 wretch ! What have I done to deserve this blow ? Oh, I 
 shall die of vexation. 
 
 Coudray. — Cheer up ! Remember you 've another string 
 to your bow — the son of the Inspector -General. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (brightening). — That dear De Geron- 
 ville ! I always said he would suit Cecile the best. 
 
 (Enter Dumesnil, an open letter in his hand.) 
 
 Dumesnil (rubbing his hands). — You will say I have lost 
 no time. I '11 show that jackanapes De Luceval that we 
 
106 TIVO STRINGS TO HER BOW. 
 
 can be independent of him. Here is my letter to the In- 
 spector-General accepting for my daughter the honor of 
 his son's hand in marriage. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil. — I hope there '11 be no mistake this 
 time, husband. 
 
 Dumesnil. — Mistake ! Read that, madame. (Hands 
 letter.) It 's as plain as pen and ink can make it — as plain 
 as the nose on your face, Madame Dumesnil. Read that, 
 Coudray ! 
 
 (Goes back calling, " Baptiste! Baptiste ! "J 
 
 Coudray (takes letter from Madame Dumesnil) . — Very good, 
 very good. Make hay while the sun shines, and strike 
 while the iron 's hot. No doubt the young man will be here 
 to-day. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil. — To-day! I wish they would give 
 me a little time between my sons-in-law. Poor Cecile's first 
 husband can hardly be past the gate. However, — for my 
 
 child's sake (Fans herself.) 
 
 (Enter Baptiste.) 
 
 Dumesnil. — Baptiste, you will carry this letter with 
 your own hands to the house of the Inspector- General, and 
 fetch an answer. Be very careful, and lose no time to go 
 and come. Remember that your young lady's marriage 
 depends on you ! 
 
 Baptiste. — Begging your pardon, sir, — if it is not taking 
 too much liberty, — is this really and truly the day of my 
 young lady's betrothal ? 
 
 Dumesnil (pushing him). — Really and truly, my good 
 Baptiste. Here is a piece of money with which to drink 
 her health. Oh, I forgot you are such a temperance man ; 
 put it into your pipe and smoke it — only do be quick. 
 
 Baptiste (pockets money, aside). — He little knows my 
 vow! (Aloud.) By the way, sir, the other one is outside, 
 asking the honor to take leave of monsieur and madame. 
 
 Dumesnil. — The other one ! 
 
TWO STRINGS TO HER BOW. 
 
 I0 7 
 
 Baptiste. — Yes, sir; the one we are not going to many. 
 But he can wait, can't he, sir ? 
 
 Dumesnil. — Ask the gentleman to step here, and be off 
 with you, rascal. 
 
 (Exit Baptiste, shows in De Luceval, exit again.) 
 
 De Luceval (advances with a frank and manly air). — My 
 dear Monsieur Dumesnil, I was not content to take leave of 
 you without another word of apology. I am deeply sensi- 
 ble 
 
 Dumesnil (icho has regained his natural manner). — Say no 
 more, neighbor. The whole affair was a mistake. We 
 are plain country folk. I don't wonder you found us not 
 up to your notions. 
 
 De Luceval (embarrassed) .—May I beg you to believe 
 
 Dumesnil. — Never mind, never mind. You don't under- 
 stand what an affair it is among us bourgeois to marry off 
 an only daughter. We were a little off our balance, that 
 is all. Now it is over, thank Providence, we are free to 
 act like our every-day selves again, without any nonsense 
 or ceremony. Make yourself at home here, Monsieur de 
 Luceval, now and when you will. 
 
 De Luceval (aside) . — This is quite another man. (A loud.) 
 I am more than pleased to accept your friendship, Monsieur 
 Dumesnil. (They shake hands.) 
 
 Dumesnil. — Then stay to dumer with us. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil. — Yes, do, Monsieur de Luceval. 
 
 De Luceval (aside). — What an extraordinary change of 
 base ! And what nice, unaffected people they are ! (Aloud.) 
 It 's a great temptation, in exchange for my solitary table. 
 
 Dumesnil. — Agreed, then. You'll like our home-raised 
 mutton! Besides, my boy, you can help us, if you will. 
 You are a man of the world ; we are blundering country 
 folk who spoil whatever matters of diplomacy we touch. 
 We have on hand another affair of importance; a little 
 enterprise — like yours, you understand. 
 
108 TWO STRINGS TO HER BOW. 
 
 De Luceval.— What, the deuce ! Another suitor for the 
 hand of mademoiselle ? 
 
 Dumesnil.— Why not ? He was only waiting till you 
 had had your turn. One of these days when you have a 
 daughter to marry off, you will understand the situation. 
 This time we must be quite sure not to fall into any mistake 
 like the first one. The new young man is in every way 
 desirable for Cecile. 
 
 De Luceval (aside, winces). — I wish him joy of her. 
 (Aloud.) I congratulate you, Monsieur Dumesnil. Count 
 upon my services. 
 
 Dumesnil. — Thank you. And as to the little meadow 
 you spoke of, it is yours at your own price. 
 
 De Luceval. — This is really kind. If I accept, 't is more 
 through sentiment than for any other reason. I wished to 
 own that bit of land, because I have learned that just there 
 once stood the little house where my Uncle Rambert lived 
 in his boyhood. 
 
 Coudray. — Rambert — Paul Rambert, who was the cap- 
 tain of a merchant vessel, your uncle 1 Why, Rambert 
 was my chum at school, and the best fellow in the 
 world. Have you never heard him speak of Louis 
 Coudray ? 
 
 De Luceval. — Of course I have, many a time. He swore 
 by old Coudray, as he called you. 
 
 Coudray (jovially). — Give me your hand, my boy, for 
 Rambert's sake. Of course, his sister married a De Luceval. 
 What a donkey I was not to have thought of it ! I was at 
 your christening, ha, ha, ha ! but perhaps you would hardly 
 remember it. What has come of my wits that I didn't 
 recognize Rambert's nephew ? But you 've changed a good 
 deal since then, to be sure. I may have seemed cold to you 
 at first, but you must n't mind it. As Dumesnil says, we 
 were none of us ourselves. 
 
TWO STRINGS TO HER BOW. 
 
 109 
 
 De Luceval. — You must make it up by coming to Luce- 
 val on all occasions. You will not refuse to shoot over my 
 woods ¥ 
 
 Coudray (delighted).— The best shooting in the country ! 
 This is heaping coals of fire on my head. I wonder I did n't 
 notice what a fine, manly face he has. 
 
 De Luceval. — You will both dine with me on Sunday, 
 I trust. I can give you some capital Burgundy, and my 
 cook is a treasure, in his way. 
 
 Coudray. — A chef! What an admirable young man 
 Rambert's nephew turns out to be! 
 
 Dumesnil. — And now, since we understand each other, 
 away with ceremony. I am off to attend to matters on the 
 farm, and you, Coudray, must come with me. My wife has 
 her housekeeping to look after. We treat you like one of 
 the family, De Luceval. Make yourself at home. Help your- 
 self to books, pencils, music. Walk in the garden, stroll 
 in the orchard, read, sleep. This is Liberty Hall. We '11 
 meet at dinner-time. (They go out, arm in arm.) 
 
 De Luceval (takes up book from table). — What a fool one 
 is to judge by first impressions. And I was going off in 
 disgust of these worthy people ! How came they ever to 
 have such a little idiot for a daughter J ? Ah ! here she comes. 
 (Grimace of distaste.) 
 
 Cecile (coming in with basket of flowers). — Ah — I beg 
 your pardon. I thought my mother 
 
 De Luceval.— I can understand, mademoiselle, that my 
 continued presence here surprises you. 
 
 Cecile (frankly). — Not at all, monsieur. My father tells 
 me that you have promised, like a good neighbor, to stay 
 for dinner. I am glad you have proved your generosity. 
 
 De Luceval. — My generosity, mademoiselle ? 
 
 Cecile (smiling). — Yes, in forgiving the annoyance we 
 caused you this morning. 
 
HO TIVO STRINGS TO HER BOW. 
 
 De hvc^VAL (bows). — Mademoiselle. (Aside.) Now that 
 she knows I have refused her, what a scrape I 'm in. 
 (Aloud.) I beg you to believe — that reasons — reasons — 
 strictly personal reasons 
 
 Cecile (aside). — What fun! He is as ill at ease as 
 I was. Ha, ha, ha! (Aloud.) Don't be alarmed, 
 monsieur. I will not hold you to account. My god- 
 father has bid me make a friend of you ; and now 
 that I know you don't wish to marry me — I really 
 don't think you so very ugly and disagreeable. As a 
 proof of it, go on with your reading. I '11 just arrange 
 my flowers. 
 
 (As she scatters flowers upon the little table De Luceval 
 follows her with his eyes.) 
 
 Cecile. — What! you are not reading 1 ? Your book 
 does n't interest you 1 
 
 De Luceval. — Passably. But, if you don't mind, I think 
 I had rather talk. 
 
 Cecile. — As you please. I have nothing else to do. 
 
 De Luceval (aside).— Small encouragement. (Aloud.) 
 Then, as you are in a listening mood, perhaps I may explain 
 some things in my manner, this morning, that may have 
 displeased you. 
 
 Cecile (with sudden spirit). — Some things ! Everything. 
 You assumed such a scornful, mocking air when you came 
 near me — you affected to belong to a superior order of 
 beings — to look down on my good parents, my honest 
 godfather. How could a girl of spirit submit to patronage ? 
 The idea of marrying you filled me with dismay. I thanked 
 heaven when you withdrew your suit. 
 
 De Luceval (mortified). — If we were all to judge by 
 appearances, mademoiselle 
 
 Cecile (arranges her roses, rapidly). — Ah! I know what 
 you would insinuate, monsieur. But here we are, on the 
 verge of a quarrel, when my godfather has given me the 
 
TWO STRINGS TO HER BOW. \ \ \ 
 
 strictest orders to make friends with you. Tell me about 
 the uncle whose memory is so dear to him. 
 
 De Luceval. — Willingly, for my uncle Rambert was the 
 saint to whom I owe all the good in my life. He was the 
 captain of a vessel, who had spent more than thirty years in 
 active service. Rich in honors and ripe in years, he died 
 recently, bequeathing to me not only his fortune, which 
 was considerable, but an example of virtue it shall be the 
 effort of my life to follow. 
 
 (Cecile drops her flowers on table, and gazes at him 
 fixedly.) 
 
 De Luceval. — It was his wish that I should give up 
 Paris, and settle in the country. By good fortune I heard 
 of the estate adjoining yours, and was able to purchase it. 
 The meadow your father has been good enough to part 
 with to me, once contained the little cottage where my 
 uncle was born. Do you wonder that the spot is sacred to 
 me — that I dreamed of attaching myself to it by another 
 link? 
 
 Cecile (faintly). — Would that, too, have been his wish, 
 monsieur ? 
 
 De Luceval. — It was the last he expressed to me. That 
 I should choose for my wife a country girl, true and loving, 
 coming of good bourgeois stock, and inheriting their 
 simple virtues. When I found myself alone in the Chateau 
 Luceval, I was oppressed with its size, with my solitude. 
 My park was like a desert. My servants were strangers, 
 and my days hung heavy on my hands. The smoke curl- 
 ing from the chimneys of your home seemed an invitation. 
 I saw you at church. I made inquiries about your parents, 
 and heard of them and you what filled me with hope. This 
 is my uncle's choice, I said, and it is mine. (He draws near. 
 CeciWs head droops. Enter Coadray.) 
 
 Coudray. — Well, young people, and how do you get on ? 
 C6cile, I am asked by your mother to bid you prepare the 
 
I 1 2 TWO STRINGS TO HER BOIV. 
 
 dessert. No doubt Monsieur de Geronville also will be here 
 to dinner. 
 
 Cecile (starts). — Monsieur de Geronville ! 
 
 Coudray. — Yes ; your future husband. Has n't my 
 friend De Luceval been helping us in that direction as he 
 promised ? 
 
 De Luceval (coldly).— I— I had forgotten, Monsieur 
 Coudray. 
 
 Coudray. — By this time Baptiste has placed in the hands 
 of the Inspector- General your father's letter of acceptance 
 to his son. 
 
 Cecile. — Monsieur de Geronville m — my — future hus- 
 band! Oh, no, no, no, I cannot ! 
 
 (She bursts into tears and runs off. As Cecile goes out 
 in tears, her father comes in, back. He looks curiously 
 at her, then at De Luceval, then waits, back, during the 
 following interview.) 
 
 Coudray. — Tut, tut, tut, what does this mean 1 ? 
 
 De Luceval (walks back and forth agitated). — Tell me, 
 Monsieur Coudray. You were my uncle's friend ; that means 
 you are my friend, does it not ? 
 
 Coudray (giving him his hand). — Trust me, my boy. 
 
 De Luceval. — Promise that you will not despise me for 
 a weathercock. Lend me your aid. I am desperately in 
 love with Mademoiselle Cecile. The first glance of sym- 
 pathy from her eyes revealed her to me. She is the wife 
 I need. The wife I will have! I want you to ask her for 
 me from her father. 
 
 Coudray. — Ask for her — again — after — Whew ! ! ! 
 
 De Luceval. — Yes, that is exactly what I want. 
 
 Coudray. — " What I want "— " what I want ! " Listen to 
 his majesty! Why, you young turnabout, the thing's 
 impossible. They have already accepted Monsieur de 
 Geronville. 
 
 De Luceval. — Let them break with him. 
 
TWO STRINGS TO HER BOW. M ^ 
 
 Coudray. — Impossible. In this ease there are graver 
 reasons. Snch a rnpture would bring ruin to my good 
 friend Dumesnil. His chief dependence is his income from 
 the Registry Bureau; and of this the Inspector-General, a 
 proud and insolent man, may deprive him at any moment. 
 
 De Luceval (joyfully). — If that 's all, I invite you to my 
 wedding on the spot. Fortune ? Thank Heaven, I have 
 enough for both. 
 
 Dumesnil (comes forward with dignity). — Pardon me, my 
 friend, if I heard what has just passed. No, Monsieur de 
 Luceval, my word to De Geronville is given, and it cannot 
 be retracted. Fortune you may have, but not enough to 
 cover the dishonor of a broken pledge. 
 
 Coudray (strikes Dumesnil on the back approvingly). — 
 Right, as usual, my friend. What did I tell you, De Luce- 
 val ? Be reasonable, give up this fancy. You may be best 
 man at her wedding yet. 
 
 (Enter Madame Dumesnil followed by Cecile, ichose eyes 
 are downcast.) 
 
 Madame Dumesnil. — Such a pleasant surprise. Some of 
 Cecile's young friends have heard the news, and are com- 
 ing to wish her joy. Well, what cheerful faces! One 
 would think a funeral instead of a wedding is in prospect. 
 What ! it can't be that Monsieur de Geronville, too, has — 
 (She totters and falls into a chair.) 
 
 Dumesnil (dryly). — Be comforted, my dear. Our pres- 
 ent difficulty is a superfluity of suitors. 
 
 De Luceval (seizing Madame DumesniVs hand). — Ah, 
 madame, speak for me ! Urge him to retract his promise 
 to De Geronville. I love your daughter, and I promise to 
 make her happy. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil. — There you go again. Just as I had 
 got accustomed to my other son-in-law ! Really, my head 
 is so confused I don't know what to say. 
 
 (Dumesnil and Coudray talk to her in dumb show.) 
 
II 4 TWO STRINGS TO HER BOW. 
 
 De Luceval (to Cecile). — Mademoiselle, I appeal to you. 
 You have pardoned my blindness, my fatuity. Add to 
 your goodness by believing in my love. 
 
 Cecile (sadly). — You are too late, monsieur ; and even if 
 I believed, my father's word is passed. That is the law of 
 this household. 
 
 De Luceval. — At least, tell me that I might have 
 hoped — that you are not in love with this man they have 
 chosen for you f 
 
 Cecile. — Alas ! no, monsieur. I have only seen him 
 once — and besides — I have never even known what love 
 might be — until to-day. 
 
 De Luceval (impulsively). — Cecile ! 
 
 (Cecile glides past him to her father. Bumesnil extends 
 his arms. Cecile hides her head on his breast, weeping. 
 Coudray turns away and takes snuff to conceal 
 emotion.) 
 
 Dumesnil (holds out disengaged hand to Be Luceval) . — Mon- 
 sieur, I had asked you to spend the evening here. After 
 what has passed I think you will agree with me that it is 
 wiser for your visits to be suspended for the present. You 
 are a man — be strong for yourself — for me, and — for 
 this poor child. (He hisses Cecile' 's hair.) 
 
 De Luceval (with resolution). — You are right, Monsieur 
 Dumesnil, and you shall see me no more. Farewell, madame. 
 Farewell, Cecile — forever 
 
 Cecile (impetuously). — Oh, not forever — don't say that. 
 — My father is so good, so loving, he will find some way — 
 No, he cannot. Oh, father, father ! (She falls again, sobbing, 
 into BumesniVs arms.) 
 
 (Enter Baptiste, pale and dishevelled. He falls on 
 his knees at BumesniVs feet.) 
 
 Baptiste.— My good master, I deserve to be kicked out 
 of the house like a dog. 
 
 Dumesnil. — What have you done, rascal ? 
 
TWO STRINGS TO HER BOW. 
 
 1*5 
 
 Baptiste. — It is what I have n't done, monsieur. Mon- 
 sieur knows that I long since made myself a promise to get 
 drunk on the day when my young lady's marriage should 
 be decided — the first time in my life, monsieur, I swear 
 by all the saints. 
 
 Dumesnil.— Well, well, go on. 
 
 Baptiste. — After drinking with some old comrades, I 
 fell asleep on the bench before the tavern door. When I 
 woke up, a few minutes ago, I said to myself, " Baptiste, an 
 errand was intrusted to you — an errand on which de- 
 pends the wedding of your young mistress. What have 
 you done with the letter to Monsieur Geronville ? " 
 
 De Luceval (joyfully). — Great Heaven ! Was it lost ! 
 
 Baptiste. — Monsieur, not at all 
 
 Coudray.— You delivered it? 
 
 Baptiste. — Oh, dear! no, monsieur; not at all 
 
 Dumesnil. — Speak up, then, fellow. What did you do 
 with it ? 
 
 Baptiste. — Messieurs ! Madame ! Mademoiselle ! I shall 
 never have courage to own my guilt; but here (produces 
 a soiled and crumpled letter) is the letter to Monsieur de 
 Geronville. 
 
 De Luceval (seizes Baptiste violently by the hand and 
 shakes it). — My good man, you are our benefactor for- 
 ever. Take this. (Gives him money.) 
 
 Coudray. — Baptiste, you are a capital fellow, and worth 
 your weight in gold ! Take this ! (Gives him money.) 
 
 Dctmesnil. — Baptiste, you have served me long and 
 faithfully. Consider your wages raised from this day 
 forth. 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (in melancholy tone). — I wish I could 
 understand it. As far as I can see, I 'm to have no son- 
 in-law. 
 
 Baptiste (feels pockets). — No more do I understand it, 
 madame — I, that expected to be dismissed upon the spot. 
 
I 1 6 TWO STRINGS TO HER BO IV. 
 
 (Aside.) Now that I see how satisfactory it is to all parties, 
 I wish I 'd had another drink. The truth is, it was n't pos- 
 sible. (Baptiste retires, up stage.) 
 
 Dumesnil (tearing the letter and throwing it away). — And 
 now, De Luceval, with all my heart, I give to you my 
 daughter. 
 
 Cecile (archly). — And with all my heart, papa. 
 
 (De Luceval kisses Cecile's hand, they retire up.) 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (embracing her husband effusively). — 
 How well you 've managed, husband, dear ! I always liked 
 dear De Luceval the best. To be sure, poor De Geronville 
 was a splendid match. 
 
 COUDRAY (rubbing his hands joyfully). — Dumesnil, your 
 hands are full ; suppose I go and draw up the new letter to 
 the Inspector- General I Tact, hey ¥ Diplomacy ? I 'm 
 the man for your little business, hey 1 
 
 Dumesnil. — Do so, Coudray, and tell him 
 
 Madame Dumesnil (interrupting). — Be sure you are very 
 considerate, Coudray. Make him understand how much 
 we regret 
 
 Cecile. — But we don't a bit, mamma. 
 
 De Luceval (bows). — Pray, madame 
 
 Madame Dumesnil.— I beg your pardon, son-in-law. 
 You know it is our duty to be very civil to those De Geron- 
 villes. 
 
 De Luceval. — Never mind that, mother-in-law! Tell 
 him, Coudray, that he shall have the De Luceval support in 
 the matter he wrote me of. That will make all smooth 
 between our families. And now, to celebrate this happy 
 day, here come the young people of the village to do honor 
 to their favorite. 
 
 (Enter young girls in procession, song, dance, ending in 
 country dance, in which principals join. Last of all, 
 Baptiste is imprisoned in a ring of girls and made to 
 dance.) 
 
 Curtain. 
 
//;vo u, 
 
 gHORT (OMEDIES 
 
 FOR 
 
 AMATEUR PLAYERS 
 
 ADAPTED AND ARRANGED BY 
 
 MRS. BURTON HARRISON 
 
 I 
 
 NEW YORK 
 THE DE WITT PUBLISHING HOUSE 
 

 >cJ