First Performed at the Royal Olympic Theatre, on Monday, October 17th, 1853.
Time - The Beginning of 1810
Scene - Acts 1 and 3 in Paris. Act 2 near Prague.
Seven o'clock, and Madame not returned! astonishing!
Cecile, how often must I repeat to you that servants in a good family ought never to be astonished? Madame is young, charming, a widow, and may choose her own hours.
For her visitors—yes; but you forget this is her night for receiving her Confessor; she never would dare to keep the Abbé Lenoir waiting.
Pooh! she must leave a few of her sins to stand over till next week—there's a running account between them. When the Abbé arrives shew him in here, and take care he is not disturbed in his pious exercises.
Hark! there's a fiacre in the court
What! even for an Abbé!
Why not? one must shew some respect for the church, Monsieur
Jabot.
Oh, woman! woman! As if that walking monument of mortification had eyes for a waiting
maid!
(L)And directed that we should show every attention to your Reverence's wishes.
Thank you, my children—I wish to be alone— see that no one enters this room, except your
mistress, or my other penitent, M. de Cevennes, should he arrive.
Never trust an order while there's a bolt. Now for my ferret:—to all but me, M. le Bon, the
respectable proprietor of the house next door—to me, Maximilian Desmarets, the most
unmitigated rascal and most invaluable head of a secret department in Europe. It was a good
idea of mine to establish him next door to Madame de Fontanges. We meet here unobserved.
At least, I am sure to find YOU at your post!
So do I—my pleasure's here!
I pay Madame de Fontanges enough to ensure diligence, too.
Madame receives exactly double what I do. Suppose you reversed the proportions?
You would serve me no better, and she would not serve me at all; besides, she has the enormous recommendation of an unblemished character!
She!—so much for the world's judgment of a confirmed gambler!
That is her only vice—a secret confined to us, and her mask! It was a good thought to allow of masks at the public tables.
Do they hide many blushes?
They save many reputations. No, my excellent Desmarets, I have not spent twenty years in guaging the price of consciences without arriving at a tolerably fair estimate of the money value of my species, from Kings downwards.
And you think my fidelity is worth just four thousand francs a month?
With your character I think no one would pay half as much for your treachery.
You think so?
If anybody should make the offer let me know, and we can enter into a fresh arrangement!
Ah! you know my heart is devoted to you!
I know your head is, and, as times go, that is perhaps a better security. But to
work:—first, your despatches from England!
Two.—your name, with the Foreign Secretary, but that he fears
your other agent, Mons. Fagan, is not to be trusted.
Ordered—that M. Ouvrard keep a strict watch over M. Fagan.
From M. Fagan, stating that your overtures for peace have been most favourably received by the English Prime Minister, but that he has reason to believe M. Ouvrard is in the pay of the Emperor.
Ordered—that M. Fagan establish a close espionage on M. Ouvrard.
And so much easier found.
The envoy of the Emperor has not yet arrived in London?
Good; by that time I shall have concluded my negociations, and the Emperor will have found himself once more anticipated by his Minister of Police. We must teach these people that they cannot do without us.
It is a dangerous lesson sometimes with such pupils as the Emperor.
Hem! he has trusted me too far, Desmarets. Those letters, from his own hand, extending over the last ten years, are my security. While I have those, I stake his credit against my portfolio.
And those letters, thanks to my skill in iron work, are safe in their secret deposit
yonder
Yes, we have both been able to serve the state and ourselves—go on.
Another? Is the Emperor never to be released from these attacks? Has this one reached France?
Thirty thousand copies have been distributed, but I am sorry to say I have not yet discovered by what channel, which is the more annoying as this one is not directed against the Emperor.
Indeed! against whom, then?
Against yourself!
Ah!
It gives a very minute and apparently accurate account of your career.
No matter.
From the date of your Professorship at Nantes all is recorded—your strong measures in the Convention—your speeches in the Jacobin Club—
Enough, enough!
What he calls your peculations in the Nièvre—your vote for the death of the King—your establishment of the Goddess of Reason in the Nivernais—
Pshaw! A truce to those youthful indiscretions.
Your massacre at Lyons—your—
Unfortunately the facts are supported by regular official documents.
They are forgeries—I destroyed all those papers when I became Minister.
They may have been preserved, or copied.
Impossible! you alone had access to them besides myself!—Desmarets, how comes it this man is not discovered before this?
Ha! ha! ha! What do you say to this.
Give it me. How did you get this?
Through one of my agents—a compositor of the London printer, who puts into type
these detestable calumnies.
Your register of handwritings—quick!
Like that of a man who believes what he writes, and glories in writing it—The wretch!
I must have this scribbler, Desmarets,
Abominable!
Infamous!
Yes—at half-past seven. 'Tis close on the time.
And have you prepared his false dispatches?
They are here, expressing your great anxiety to conclude the Emperor's marriage with the Arch-Duchess Marie Louise!
And the real ones, communicating my negotiations in favor of the match with Russia?
Here, as you directed, in the inside of the bonbons in this box.
Good!—another lesson for you, Desmarets. Fools make the best agents, provided they are skilfully hood-winked!
Yes.
Monsieur le Marquis De Cevennes.
Leave us, my son.
Monsieur De Cevennes, you are a man of the world
Do not interrupt me. A word from me would consign you to Vincennes for life.
Sir, pardon me and I will confess all!
Let me see first what there is to confess.
Good gracious! All known! But I was alone with the King.
Mons. de Blacas was in the room. When two persons are together I generally know what passes, when three invariably.
Is it possible?
You subsequently assured Mons. de Blacas that Napoleon Buonaparte was the man most detested by all classes in France—
Oh, no! your grace—
Except the wretch Fouché! Thank you, Mons. De Cevennes.
But I assure you—
One moment—where was I? “Except the wretch Fouché!” Shall I go on, or can your confession add anything to this tolerably complete detail?
Oh, Sir! as you are omniscient, be merciful. If the devotion of a life—
That is a kind of devotion I have not, hitherto, found very available.
If my gratitude—
In my experience, fear is a more efficacious stimulus. Listen; I have need at the Austrian
Court of a
I fly—
You had better receive your instructions first. You are among Madame de Fontanges' guests
to-night.
I will be as mute as a fish and as cold blooded.
And—yes, I think I may trust you so far—you will also present to that lady a
bonbonnière from Mons. Lenoir. Remember the name.
Mons. Lenoir. It is engraved, Monsieur, here,
And this is the suspicious and double-dealing Fouché! Confess, your friends of the Faubourg St. Germain do us injustice, marquis.
I will undeceive them. Oh! your grace, I have been so ill requited for my services to the
Royal Family. Here is my statement of them, I presented it six times without any effect to the
King, I mean the exile. If you think it would serve me with the Emperor—
Let me see your memorial.
And your own hand-writing?
No—copied by my Secretary, a young man, a native of Guadaloupe, where his father was Governor, under Louis XV.
What is his name?
Yes, I wish to make a note of it, for employment in my bureau. Such a writer ought to be at once laid hold of.
So!—de Neuville!—Guadaloupe!—
A rash young man; but one, I have no doubt, whose eyes may be soon opened to the error of his ways.
As your's have been. I should like to see him. Bring him with you to-night; but remember that, in this house, I am not Fouché, the Duke of Otranto, but the Abbé Lenoir.
I pledge you the honour of a De Cevennes; and when did a De Cevennes succumb to either fear or temptation?
I will be punctual to a minute.
I have this bravo of the pen—this stabber of reputations. To-night he shall sleep in
Vincennes!
(R. C.)But I heard the door close, and I knew I was wanted! I have not yet got through my despatches.
They will keep, Desmarets—they will keep!
I am not accustomed to see you indulge in the vulgar emotions of joy or sorrow.
You are right. A Minister of Police, under the Emperor, cannot afford the luxury. Look here,
my old friend—here!
Eh!—I do not perceive—
Where are your eyes? The characters are identical to the turn of a hair stroke—and more, I know the writer,—and more than that, he will be here in half-an-hour!
You do not seem to relish this discovery.
Your excitement stupifies me!
It is unworthy of me, I admit it; but the Minister is but a man; he must be allowed his
moments of weakness.
De Neuville discovered—arrested! will he have mettle to resist and keep the secret? Should
he turn coward and purchase pardon by discovering that it is from one of Fouché's confidential
agents he received the information contained in the pamphlet—should he have preserved the
letter which sent it—should Fouché discover that letter came from me! He must not be arrested,
or my life is not worth an old pen stump. But how to baffle Fouché? Let me see—let me see—I am
as much excited as he was—I can't think coolly!
The Duke?
He is busy in my cabinet; can I not supply his place?
What money have you about you?
Money?
Yes, you ought to understand the word, money!
My last month's salary was paid to-day; it is here —four thousand francs.
Give it me—quick!
Eh! give it you?
Your master—our master, Fouché, will repay it on my order.
Madam, I have an infinite respect for you, and the most implicit confidence in your note of hand, but you will forgive my hesitating, at least, till I know—
Till you know what I want this money for so urgently? 'Tis the old story, then, if you will
have it; I have played again to-night; I have lost all, down to my bracelets—see!
Madame—Madame de Fontanges, I would give you anything—everything I possess in the world—but this money I will not give you!
Insolent! you dare to refuse me?
I will not supply you with the means of ruining your beauty—your health—your happiness—your peace of mind—at the gaming-table.
Youth—beauty—peace of mind! Ha! ha! ha!
To Marie de Fontanges—the daughter of a noble father, the widow of a brave gentleman, the ornament of the Faubourg St. Germain!
No, no!—that is the world's Madame de Fontanges. You speak to Marie de Fontanges, the gambler, the spy, the creature of Joseph Fouché, and, lower still—if there be a lower—of Maximilian Desmarets!—No more words; but the money, man, the money!
You use a strange way to charm it out of my pocket.
Pshaw! Do you want me to cringe for it—to wheedle and cajole? I am low enough even for that, but do not force me.
Why will you repay with scorn my respectful interest?
Interest!—you forget to whom you are speaking.
You have reminded me—to the gambler, the spy, the creature of Joseph Fouché.
True, true—why will you awaken in me a pride I ought to forget?
Because I love you.
You!
Why not? By your own showing, we are equal. But it is not that I would level you with me; I wish you to be a thing that I may look up to—that may teach me to be better myself, and to think better of others.
No more of this, Desmarets. Desperate necessities, and an absorbing passion, may have driven me to Fouché's service; the chances of the table, and some love of secret power, may keep me there. I seldom look into myself; but you almost awaken me to reason, when you show me how near I am fallen to the level of a creature like you.
I am low—I know it; but love works such wonders! It will save me. It is the one spark of
good left here—
Miscreant! dog! slave of a slave!—stand up, or I will tread you under my feet!
Take care—I might hurt your heel. Marie, listen to me!
Silence! Oh, I hear foul words enough about the green table, and try to shut my ears to
them; but I would like to remember them all, that I might pour them on your sordid head.
Serpent! let go my hand!
How dare you? Keep your money—I will not take it.
So, Marie de Fontanges! “Serpent,” she said; well, serpents are grovelling things, no doubt,
and proud folks tread on them, but they sting, and so does Maximilian Desmarets.
Has Mademoiselle de Fontanges not yet returned?
Yes; from the gaming table—plucked to the last feather, as usual.
Why don't she cheat?
She has still some scruples left; another twelve-month under your tuition may remove them. Not finding you, she has gone back for another cast of the dice.
Her passion for play will be that woman's ruin.
M. De Cevennes—M. De Neuville.
Abbé, let me present to you my secretary, M. De Neuville; M. De Neuville, the Abbé Lenoir.
The unworthy confessor of Madame De Fontanges.
Pardi, Abbé! your task should be a light one, for Madame De Fontanges, the Marquis assures me, is perfect.
Perfection is not given to erring humanity; but Madame is unusually near it.—A model for her
sex and a goddess for ours.
She seems to want one virtue, however—punctuality—for here we are in the temple, but where is the divinity?
Your language is profane.
I beg your pardon.
Nay, I know the warmth of a tropical temperament, and can excuse it.
I will try not to sin again; but our Creole tongues, Abbé, have a terrible trick of running away with their masters.
You will find the need of a curb in Paris, my young friend.
I will put the unruly member under your training. Luckily, here, in the Faubourg St. Germain, we are safe.
Alas! how little you know Paris! You may, even now, be surrounded by spies. May he not, M. De Cevennes?
Eh! so they say; but I don't believe it!—
Well, I will promise to be rash only in the Marquis's hearing, and in yours, Abbé, and then, at least, I shall be secure!
Let us hope so; but Madame de Fontanges does not appear! I suppose I must give up my game at picquet.
If you will allow the Marquis or myself to replace the lady for once, and then you can
lecture me while we play—
With all my heart, my son. But you will find me a bad schoolmaster; I have too much sympathy with the openness and ardour of youth.
Good! now for our game.
If you'll allow me, I will look on.
As on a second self: he is one of us; come!
I conclude from your high spirits, my son, that you have not been long in Paris?
Only a fortnight! and, to tell you the truth, I am disenchanted already; I had imagined it the home of pleasure, gaiety, and wit; the theatre of noble arts, the arena of great deeds.
And you have found it—
The haunt of intrigue, servility, and treachery; a great prison, where every one is the
gaoler of his own thoughts; a huge masquerade, but without the mirth, the music, and the
champagne. I sigh for my native Guadaloupe! Oh, Abbé! if you but knew our island—its blue,
You are primitive in your tastes, Sir!
Very! I hate laughter without joyousness; lovemaking without passion; society without confidence, and sanctimoniousness without piety. I fear I am very old-fashioned.
Oh, savage! perfectly savage!
Yes, Paris is sadly changed; but we must pay the price of imperial glory!
The glory of one man bought by the misery of millions! There is no true glory so purchased, Abbé. Frenchman as I am, I feel dishonoured in this man's greatness. Blood tarnishes the gold of his crown; blood stains the purple of his Imperial robe! His acquisitions are a robber's booty; his triumphs, the brutal mastery of wrong.
Hush, De Neuville!
Let him talk—he refreshes me!
It is most refreshing!—your card, M. de Neuville.
And is it to this, Abbé, that the horrors of the revolution are to conduct us? Must the drunken dream of the mob end in the heavy waking of the prison house, or the bloody delirium of the battle field? No, this cannot be the end. This is a purgatory we are passing through—the glory is beyond.
Why not, if there are swords to maintain them? but the swords will come, for when were such thoughts spoken but they found echoes in a thousand breasts?
Yes, thank the spirit of old French chivalry, we have still some who dare utter all we feel. The author of those recent pamphlets, for example, signed Timon, those master-pieces of indignant eloquence—
What—you have read them?
I know them by heart.
I have read them too—that last, for example, against the monster Fouché.
Ah! how the wretch must have writhed!
I thought he was invulnerable to shame, as he is inaccessible to pity. Depend upon it Fouché is one of that lowest stamp of rogue, who imagines shamelessness, heroism, and consistent rascality, statesmanship. Oh, I know him well, Abbé.
I have heard him called inscrutable.
Only because few are base enough even to conceive the acts which he practices habitually. No, that pamphlet traces his career, step by step, through every doubling, from disguise to disguise, from treachery to treachery, and only leaves him, at his present post, on the right of the Imperial throne, the tricky head to guide the desperate hand. Does that pamphlet contain one word beyond the truth?
Not one.
Every document cited was authentic, for I had information—
Thank you for the warning, but the subject of these pamphlets has a peculiar interest for me.
A nearer one, young man, than it would be safe to avow here. Nay, do not start—our friend de Cevennes has hinted.
What, De Cevennes, you cannot have been so imprudent?
Oh! he knew his man. Do not blush. Great writer, scourge of tyranny, barer of the face of
fraud, let me embrace you.
M. De Cevennes, have you brought with you that list of your services which you promised us?
No, I—I left it at home, I think, on my bureau.
Careless man that you are! It is most unfortunate, as the Abbé wanted to forward it.
I will go for it with pleasure. I know the paper— I copied it only yesterday!
Nay, I cannot allow you to take this trouble.
Yes, yes! If only to hide my confusion at your praises.
Stop, my coach is below; suppose you take it—the night is damp!
A thousand thanks!
I will show it you from the window, if the fog will permit.
At last, daughter!
A thousand pardons, Abbé! Marquis, what penance should he impose?
Hush, hush, or the Abbé will scold you! I have to confess to him, and your delicate
compliments will oblige me to add another to my list of sins. Item—to one indulgence in
feminine vanity. No, not a word will I hear!
Ah! cruel!
Yes, increasing your revenue, M. Fouché. Nay, don't frown at me, what would become of your secret service money, without the contributions of the gaming houses? And what would become of their contributions without me, and those like me? You see I am logical for a woman.
Woman never yet wanted logic to guide her to ruin.
Ruin! Ha, ha, ha! Who first lured me to the table?
My agents, but that was to drive you into my nets— now you are there, I wish you to avoid those places.
And our compact—do I not keep it? Do I not play your spy at those places.
No, you get so excited by your cards that you lose your faculties of observation. Once for all, you must and shall give up play. Do you hear me?
And you tell me this—you and to-night when I have broken the bank at
Petiot's—see—
You are punctual; a good sign; your dispatches are in the carriage.
And the bonbonnière?
Ah I had forgotten that, in weightier matters.
Thank you. I am infinitely obliged.
Oh! do not mention it
Do not scold me now. I cannot bear it; leave me to myself a little. I have a calculation to
make
I will stay, and stay you, Desmarets
He leaps from the carriage. He runs this way.
I thought my house safe—at least from this.
De Cevennes!
Save me—M. le Duc—Abbé—I mean—say it is a mistake—say I'm not the man.
There—I said I was not the man! But they would fire, though, thanks to the fog, they missed me.
(R. C.)Now, Sir, what is the meaning of this?
(R.)That is what I was about most respectfully to ask you.
(R)A mistake of the carriages, owing, no doubt, to the fog. De Neuville is, by this time, beyond the barrier, on his way to Prague, in the carriage intended for M. de Cevennes!
Quick, the telegraph!
I thought of that, but unfortunately the fog is too thick for the telegraph to work.
Baffled! Confusion!—Desmarets, this is your bungling.
By to-morrow morning pursuit will be in vain— nothing can stop him!
What a pity it is I had made such perfect arrangements that the Marquis's journey should be uninterrupted!
Marquis De Cevennes, this will cause a day's delay in our plan; but be ready to start
to-morrow.
Certainly, M. le Duc; but I do hope you will give the gendarmes orders to be a little more
particular about firing. Madame, I have the
honour.
Your plan, Desmarets?
He will be on friendly territory at Prague—it won't do to carry him off by force.
I know an infinity of schemes that won't do—tell me one that will.
Suppose you sent her
A good thought!
Well, Sir, what is that to me?
You must follow him to Prague, where he has taken refuge; and employ those charms which are so irresistible when you like to exert them, to attract him again to Paris.
No! I have been your spy, but I will not be your decoy.
As a request is insufficient, I regret to change it into an order.
And I must meet that order by a refusal. Oh, I know you can imprison me—torture me—murder me, perhaps—I shall not be the first, I have not forgotten Pichegrue and Cadoudal!
They were state criminals; but, my dear Madam, when did you ever know me rude to a lady? No, you are free to refuse—do so, and to-morrow I have you proclaimed in every drawing-room of Paris as the paid agent of the police —the salaried spy of Fouché.
You will not. You cannot have the heart to put this choice upon me. You know me for what I am, but still I have a high place and fair fame in the world. I will be your slave—your unquestioning tool in all besides this—but do not set me between such business and such dishonor.
Choose!
I know you cannot feel respect for me, but there may be some women in the world you reverence or love —a mother, a sister, or a wife. If there be, think of her, and spare me. Do—do—only in this—only in this!
Choose!
He is pitiless!
I give you five minutes.
Better face my own conscience than the world. I will go—
I thought she would!
Do not alarm the servants—a glass of water!
Oh, dear! oh, dear! what a length these German days are, to be sure! I suppose it's because
one measures time by laughs in Paris, and by yawns in Prague. Two months have we been here—two
months with nothing to look at but those stupid trees, and flowers, and clouds, and that
great, long, lazy river, run—running, shine—shine—
(L.)Note!
(R.)Oh, Lord!
Note!
Oh! for Madame, from M. de Neuville! I wondered we had been a whole day without seeing him!
He hasn't spent much time in his own little cottage since he made Madame's acquaintance! I
never saw a poor young man more in love, but Madame doesn't treat him as I should treat such
a lover.
What are you about, Karl?
Flowers.
Will you make me a bouquet, Karl?
Can't.
There! was there ever!—
No.
Dear, dear! one might as well try to amuse one's self with a German Primer. “Ach,” “Och,”
“Ich!” all in grunts of one syllable. But here comes Madame.
So: you may go, Cecile.
Your pardon, Madame, if I have come without a summons—You have read my letter?
Yes, M. de Neuville, and shall I tell you the truth?
Tell me nothing but the truth always.
The tone of it is new to me.
It may be, for it is the voice of a real, a devoted love—the love of a man who has never felt before what it was to hang with all his being upon the breath of another. Till now I have shared the hopes, and fears, and projects of my party, of those who looked to the restoration of our rightful King. But now ambition, projects, plots, hopes, fears, all are dead within me—my life, my soul are yours!
I cannot believe her frivolous who awakens in me what I feel.
At least do not conclude too soon. I shall soon return to Paris, and absence will test your devotion.
Absence! You do not think I can leave you?
Nay, it is impossible you can return to Paris, where Fouché threatens your liberty—indeed your life!
Ha! so danger is to deter me! Go, go! that you may see if I will follow—aye, though Fouché's
spies
Obstacles! Name them, that I may prove to you they are none.
Suppose I were to say I will never marry —that I find the liberty of widowhood too agreeable?
I would not believe you. Give me a better reason.
You have grave duties to your party— duties which love distracts you from. Till your King is restored to France you have no right to chain your destinies to a woman.
The King was first in my heart till I knew you— now he is second. A better reason still. Do you love another? De Cevennes has boasted—
He! Oh, no; my heart is free! But why force me to say there are motives—I regard you too much to tell you them. Do not ask me, if you would still love me as you say you do.
Oh, why will you not lay bare your heart to me, as I do mine to you?
How do you know that I have one?
By the colour that mounts to your cheek when I speak to you of love; by the languor that
veils your eyes when we sit together and watch the sunset in a silence too passionate for
speech; by the trembling of your voice when we bid each other farewell; by the thrill that
shoots from my being to yours, from yours to mine, when our hands meet, or a tress of your
hair brushes my cheek. By these signs, and the thousand subtler that a lover's eye can see but
no tongue can describe, so delicate are they—you have a heart, Marie de Fontanges, and that
heart is mine!
Acting!
Yes: do not talk to me, after that tirade of your inexperience. Talma might take a lesson from you. I remember uttering just such a scream after his grand burst in “Orestes.”
Oh, you will drive me mad!
No, no; but seriously,
No; the instincts of such a love as mine are infallible;—it would shrink up at the contact of baseness as the sensitive plant at a touch! I know you as if I had watched your actions from a child;—I know you as your own conscience knows you!
Hush—hush, Henri!
Oh! let me throw myself where the slave should be—at his tyrant's feet; where the worshipper
should be —prostrate before his saint.
Oh, Henri! check this passion—you must; it is not that my heart is cold to it. If I durst
listen to its promptings!
A gentleman, Madame—oh, I beg pardon!— who gave his card.
M. Lebon.
My preserver! Oh, shew him in here, Cecile, at once!
M. Lebon.
Being on my way from Vienna, whither a little money affair took me, I ventured to pay my respects to Madame.
You are too kind!
Failing Madame de Fontanges, you have a sacred right of asylum with me, M. Lebon; you remember me?
Ah, M. de Neuville!
Your timely warning saved me on the night Fouché was to have arrested me. I have bewildered myself in endeavouring to discover a clue to the treachery which betrayed me. Can you explain it?
We live in wretched times, my young friend. The son is not safe from the father, the husband
from the wife, the lover from his beloved.
Say, rather, all treacheries and all basenesses! But here I can defy him. Spies cannot
breathe the air of purity and peace that bathes these blue hills, and scarce ripples that
placid river. I only think of him as of an adder, whose spring I have escaped, and whose
hisses I laugh at.
Oh! one of his creatures, the wretched Desmarets, had a scruple of conscience, or rather some fear for his own safety, which led him to reveal the plot to me, that I might warn you.
So!
By the bye—what interesting documents that last pamphlet of yours brings to light. How did you procure them?
From an unknown correspondent, one evidently having access to the archives of the Police.
You have, of course, preserved the letters transmitting them?
No! fearing they might some day endanger my unknown informant, I burnt every scrap I ever received from him.
M. Lebon, that is a counsel no gentleman would take. I am surprised any gentleman should give it.
Ah! you have the chivalry of youth, I the caution of riper years;—but this conversation is not interesting to Madame.
Pardon me! all that concerns Fouché has a strange fascination for me.
Oh! I could tell you stories of him that would horrify you! Conceive his employing a troop of wretched, degraded women, whom he calls his “Cohorte Cythérienne,” to attract his victims within his reach—and they do it, too
Can there be women so base?
But surely death would be preferable to such baseness?
Death!—Yes! But he can disgrace these women; reveal their shame to the world—nay, worse—to those they love, and who love them! What death is so sharp as that?
Poor creatures—poor creatures! They are much to be pitied. I pity them, especially when I think there may be haughty beauties among them, who have been used to despise others.
With pleasure, if M. Lebon will accept me for a guide; but I warn you it is rough climbing.
Never fear, I've a strong sense of the picturesque.
But have you a strong pair of legs? You have— eh? Then come along; I'll show you every sight
worth seeing within a league round
Au revoir, Madame!
Yes, the mask is off at last! I see my hideous self! And he thinks me pure! The sincerity of
his own nature reflects itself on mine! What an awakening, should he learn the truth! And
Desmarets, malignant as he is, will soon find out I love him. What is to be done? Fouché alone
can relieve me from this task, which, base always, is now a sacrilege; for I love him—love him
as he is worthy to be loved—love him with my whole soul! Yes! I will write to Fouché.
him. I will write at once!
I have despatched M. de Neuville into Prague for my calêche. Let me congratulate you,
Madame, on the restorative effects of the Austrian air. You look so much better,—that is—you
did until you saw me. You were going to write to Fouché—pray write—unless you think I
can save you the trouble.
He has sent you down here?
Yes; he was naturally anxious about your health, and he sent me to enquire—merely to enquire. He was also anxious to know how our little ruse was succeeding— when we might expect to see the Siren wing her flight back to Paris, with her captive in her clutch.
M. Desmarets, I have lived a new life since that promise was made. I cannot keep it.
Ah—M. Fouché will be sorry to hear it. He is so particular about promises, so very particular—
Sir, you have pofessed an interest in me; if you retain a spark of that interest still, release me from the degrading task to which M. Fouché has condemned me.
Listen to me, Marie de Fontanges. I am not young, not pleasant to look at; I have no graces of speech; I am what the world calls a spy, an informer—what you will that is more ignoble and treacherous; but I have a will like iron, and a head which, under any other chances, might have made a different man of me. Till I knew you, all my species were alike to me—counters to be pushed about as suited my game; but at sight of you I felt that you were my fate—my good angel, if you chose to be so!
Oh! no, no! we are our own good and evil angels.
Let me finish. You spurned me once in a fashion that few men of a less determined spirit would provoke or endure twice. Yet I provoke it again, for proud as you are I love you still!
Oh! no, no!
I love you still! There is but one way to save you from Fouché—it is by sacrificing him! Give me but hopes that time will change your scorn of me to endurance—leave me to change endurance into pity, and pity into love. From the day which gives me that hope, Joseph Fouché's fall and your rescue are both begun!
This from you! I thought you were devoted to him?
Oh, so I am—so I am!—ha, ha, ha! but my devotion never stands in the way of my will—never!
But surely it is madness in you to dream of striking at one placed so high and seated so securely?
Ho, ho, ho!
That fool! Will you see him?
No, no; not now!
He is here—we will resume this conversation when he is gone.
He is certainly the man of the fewest words I ever— Ah! Madame not here, eh? The excellent
M. Lebon,
Few that meet the Marquis de Cevennes can forget him.
Ah, Monsieur, you are very polite! Yes, it was a delightful soirée—that is, all but the
little mistake which
Oh, I give it up!
A stick—this stick—
You can examine it at your leisure while I wait for Madame.
Shall I order you some refreshment?
Eh! well, really—if you can take the liberty—but shall I not see her first?
I am afraid not—she was denied to me—she is not well.
Poor creature! excitable always! Well, if I cannot see her, I think a cutlet and a bottle of Geisenheimer—
Karl!
Good!
A thousand apologies for the trouble. By the way, I have been so constantly on the move since the eventful evening, I have never been able to recover any trace of my secretary, M. de Neuville. You remember the young man the Duke took such a fancy to, who disappeared so mysteriously on the same eventful evening? What can have become of him?
Ah! from discretion, I've never inquired.
Ah! my friend of the limited vocabulary! Have you observed how very sparing he is of words?
Dis—cretion.
Yes; I have remarked the Germans are discreet.
Lunch!
I'm coming, my abrupt friend, I'm coming.
The chattering ape has left behind him the only thing worth a thought—this stick. Ah! he
little knew I turned it!
What?
A fac-simile of this paper immediately.
Good!
A very valuable man, Grisboulle. He can assume any disguise, copy any handwriting, drink any
quantity of wine, and never goes beyond monosyllables.
Has the Marquis gone?
No; but he is at table, where, as I don't hear him chattering, I conclude his teeth are employed. Let me resume the conversation he interrupted.
You ventured to threaten Fouché!
I never bark when I cannot bite! Papers of his are in my hands that would condemn him were he ten times Fouché!
And he knows this?
A man must trust somebody! He has trusted me! Ho, ho, ho!—And I will trust you! I contrived the place of deposit for these very papers. You know the picture on the left of your drawing-room?
Yes.
Press the third ornament on the right side of the
Ha!
Touch the rosette of the third panel in that passage—it slides away. In the recess stands the box containing Fouché's treasonable correspondence with Bernadotte, with Murat, with all who have an interest in the Emperor's death, or hopes of sharing the spoil of his downfall; there, too, are the Emperor's private letters and instructions, the bulwark to which Fouché trusts when all else fails him. Madame de Fontanges, I have given you my secret. I have put into your hands the master-key to my life and fortunes; you know my secret!
I have surrounded Fouché himself with the meshes of my police. He is inquisitor over France.
I am inquisitor over him.
And having overthrown Fouché, you would aspire to his post?
If alone, yes; if with you, no. I will go where you bid me—be what you will—if you will not refuse the endurance, which is all I ask, in return for restoring you to honour and happiness?
(R. C.)Give me some time for reflection!
Oh, certainly! certainly! Weigh my offer well. I will wait for your answer before I return
to Paris. Work with me if you will—betray me if you
dare!
He dare attack Fouché to serve his ambition! Shall I fear him to save my love? These
secrets! Without betraying him I might use them to extricate myself and to save Henri.
Desmarets does not know I love
Ha! his carriage!
Ah! Madame, this is indeed happiness. I was going away a heart-broken prilgrim without a sight of the fair saint of my pilgrimage.
A truce to compliments, Marquis; it is important I should return to Paris speedily and secretly.— Will you give me a seat in your calêche?
Ah Madame! the felicity will be overpowering.
I will meet you at the turn of the road. Not a word to any one!
Not even to that dear M. Lebon?
To him least of all.
I fly, a happier man in every respect.
Yes, I will go—but Henri, what will he think of this departure? Oh! I cannot leave him:—and
yet, with Desmarets here, I dare not risk a parting, or our love will be known, and with it,
my infamy. Yes, I must go for his sake; and, once at Paris, I may save him, and free myself
from the sword which is always hanging over my head. Yes, though my heart break, I must leave
you, Henri!—And yet, to go without one word! No—no—I cannot —
Ah! not here.
Out, I suppose, Sir.
She has not passed out by the Terrace.
All I know is, she's not in her room.
Where can she be?
Gone!
Gone?
Gone! with no word for me?
No!
De Cevennes' carriage stops at the turn of the road —a woman gets in—it is she! The carriage starts again at full gallop!
Gone!
Oh! fool that I was to leave my calêche at Prague! She carries my secret with her! My
fortune—my life may depend on my outstripping them to Paris. But this note to De Neuville!—“I
love you passionately!” Can she really love him? Then her listening to me was a trick to worm
my secret out of me, and then use it for herself. I see it all, all now! Oh! gull, idiot that
I am! She loves him, and so flies to escape the revelation of her infamy face to face. What
hinders me from revealing it to him still? Or shall I keep the secret and let him follow her
to Paris? Were he brought there, Fouché's end would be gained. He has burnt my letters. I have
nothing to fear from his arrest now. Yes, it shall be done—he shall follow her to Paris. She
has gone with De Cevennes—ah! jealousy—jealousy!—
M. Lebon, your calêche will be here in ten minutes; I saw it brought out, and the horses harnessed I am sorry you leave us so soon, and so will Madame D. Fontanges be, I am sure; but at least you must not go without a stirrup cup. Here, Karl—wine! Cecile, tell Madame M. Lebon is going.
Madame is gone herself!
What do you mean? Gone!—Where?
Nobody knows.
Surely she has left some word—some letter—
Nothing!
But when—how did she go?
Just now—in the carriage with the Marquis De Cevennes.
The Marquis De Cevennes!—
'Tis the privilege of friends at Paris.
This accounts for her caprice—her hesitation— her trifling with my passion. She was only
playing with me, to pass away the time, while that frivolous coxcomb was in her heart all the
while! Gone!
Forget her.
Forget her! Old man, she has grown a part of me—to tear out her image. I must tear out my heart-strings with it! Oh! to know what road they have taken!
We have no chance of overtaking them.
We have!—What speed can outstrip revenge?
Revenge!
Do you think that when one of my blood is so wronged, he that wrongs him is allowed to live?
My carriage will be here immediately. It is at your service. We will go together.
Thanks, my friend, thanks!—but, their route, their route? How to discover that? No matter, the instinct of revenge will guide me—come!
I know.
Ah! their road!—speak! speak!
To Paris.
To Paris! to Paris!—Quick!
Think of the danger. Arrested by Fouché on French soil you are a dead man!
Death may be there, but revenge is by its side. I want that first: then let death come! To Paris, to Paris!
He is mine!
(R. C.)A thousand excuses, Madame, for having kept you at the door.
Enough, my good Jabot, I accept them; I was not expected.
I had retired unusually early.
No more apologies; light the candles and leave me.
Madame—
Well, why do you not light them?
A thousand pardons, Madame, but—
Yes; but Madame will understand—I am not in a fit state; I ask pardon—but my—my deshabille; I am not fit to appear—
You are too good, Madame; you have relieved my mind. You require nothing more, Madame?
Nothing, Jabot. Good night!
I have the honour—
Do not come unless I ring.
The candlestick is too heavy for your hand, Madame, allow me to relieve you of it.
I discovered it by an accident.
You have reason.
I did not know—
Oh! my visit then is an unexpected pleasure—not so yours!
You knew I had left Prague?
How else should I have been prepared to receive you?
No news could have reached you! I left suddenly, and we travelled as fast as four horses could carry us.
Inscrutable man! Then you know all?
Not all, precisely, but most; your travelling companion, for example.
De Cevennes has told you?
You had your spies even there! Perhaps you know my reasons for leaving?
The reason you gave the Marquis, of course. But a lady's real reasons are beyond even my penetration. Perhaps you will favour me with them—I am all attention.
You know how I struggled against the duty you imposed upon me.
You see I chose my emissary well.
You did not!
Ah?
You thought the hot wind of play had dried up in me all that was good or akin to good.—I
thought so too.—Neither of us knew how vital the roots of love are in
And you did not lead him to Paris? It was a blunder!
I resolved to risk my life to save his. I knew all I exposed myself to in disobeying your
orders. I knew that shame, imprisonment, perhaps death, lay in the path of duty. There they
sit in you—and here
I should not have said “struggle.” How can an unfriended woman struggle with the potent Minister of Police?
Exactly the question I wished to ask, better expressed.
I meant, after telling you the truth, to have appealed to the good I cannot believe utterly
dead in you, now that it has revived in me. Ah, Fouché! think of all that virtuous love means
in a woman like me—self-scorning, self-loathing, living only to be the prey of frantic
excitement, or the tool of dark intrigues.—It is the branch that sweetens the bitter waters of
my life—the ray that breaks upon the labours of the prisoner to tell him he has pierced the
outer wall of his dungeon. Till I knew it, I had nothing to believe in—nothing to
venerate—nothing to live for. Having it, a future of peace and purity opens before me. Do not
darken this future! Spare him, that I may love him—far from Paris, far from plots, and
intrigues, and passions. Spare him, Fouché! spare him! —and spare me!
No—now—here. I will not leave this spot till you have answered me.
I am sorry for it, as I must refuse.
Refuse! Oh you cannot!
You have laughed at my love—fear my hate!
Come, this is better; your grief pained me, your rage amuses me.
Take care lest the time should come when you will sue to me.
Eh! ha, ha! Excuse my laughing, but—when shall I sue to you? Ha! ha! ha!—though you are charming enough, especially when excited, to render it not improbable.
Mocker! I tell you I have means of action against you you little dream of—I will use them—I warn you of it—ruthlessly—remorselessly—if by them alone I can save the man I love!
No—on mine.—Return to Prague. Fulfil your contract, and all shall be forgotten that has occurred to-night. Refuse—and to-morrow, your connection with the Police is the topic of conversation in every salon of Paris.
Very well! Then it is war between us— war to the knife! Be it
so!
She has a man's courage, at all events. I rather
I will announce M. le Marquis to Madame!
Do! Say I merely wish to assure myself she has not suffered by our rapid journey,
tête àtête!—Unluckily I was so fatigued, I slept most part of the way!
No; the dear Duke first, and then Madame!
My movements, like my intelligence, are rather mysterious, Marquis! But here I am.—I
congratulate you on your quick return, and on your fair compagnon de voyage!
Oh! your Grace has heard! It's incredible!
(R.)You delivered your despatches?
Yes!
They required no answer. I think I may dismiss you at once to Madame.
Ah! I had almost forgotten! The Duchess Von Kaiserleben—really, 'tis too odd, too ridiculous—particularly requested me—you'll excuse the absurdity—to present the Abbé Lenoir—now don't be angry!—with this walking cane!
Give it me!
You are not surprised?
Never! so—a pretty cane! The handle is a souvenir.
Why, I never observed before; 'tis a death's head and cross bones!
Yes; an appropriate present to me, in my spiritual capacity; very pretty and cheerful!
Remarkably!
You are impatient to see your travelling companion? You will find her in that room;
Ah, your Grace!
So—and now for Czernitcheff's despatch; it should announce the final stipulations for the
Russian alliance.
So now for this new mark of imperial favor, Monsieur le Duc. Madame having retired, I am at your Grace's service.
Mutilated! The stick is as when I received it—upon the honor of a De Cevennes.
The Duchess's letter, describing it, speaks of diamonds in the eyes of the skull. They have been abstracted.
No—upon my honor!
The stick must have quitted your hands!
Never! I kept tight hold of it all the way from Prague to Paris.
You slept in the carriage?
Not a wink—on the honor of a De Cevennes.
Then you extracted the diamonds yourself!
Oh! M. le Duc—what a slur on the honor of a De Cevennes!
That for the honor of the De Cevennes.
The doors are guarded. The Officer has orders not to allow me to quit the house! What is to
be done to get this paper carried? Ha! Fouché not here, and De Cevennes alone! May I trust
him? I must, Monsieur.
Eh! not the Duke! Madame, you come to save me.
How?
Madame, for the love of mercy, how do you spell Schratzenellebogen?
Pshaw! You have seen the Duke?
I have.
And this new mark of imperial favor he promised you?
There's a hitch somewhere. In fact, I'm a disgraced—a ruined man, and it will be entirely owing to the Duke's good nature if I'm not denounced to-morrow, for my treasonable correspondence with the King. He says there are diamonds missing from the head of that cane.
Hush! there is missing from that cane what is more precious to Fouché than all the diamonds of Golconda. There needs but one quarter of an hour's resolution to enable you to save yourself and to ruin him.
Only a quarter of an hour's resolution? Madame, I am prepared for any danger—speak!
The cane concealed a secret dispatch.
A secret despatch!
Which I abstracted in the carriage while you slept.
Oh, Madame! How could you?
Many lives depended on it. That paper involves Fouché in the guilt of high
treason—
But this letter?
Only stipulates for the safety of one who is very dear to me as the price of this intelligence. Quick! Fouché may be back every moment,—and soon, no doubt, egress from my house may be as impossible for you as it is for me. Quick! do not hesitate.—For my sake!
But the risk?
For your own sake.
I will go at once!
And now, Duke of Otranto, it is a race for life between you and me!
A gentleman to see Madame instantly. Here is his card.
Desmarets! He here! I was just in time! And Henri—he will bring me news of Henri! Yes, admit
him!
Delighted to see you once more, Madame; but you have given me a hard journey.
I cannot read through the mask.
So our deposit is safe! Your departure from Prague was so abrupt, I fancied you were in a hurry to transmit certain papers to the Emperor.
You see I have respected your confidence.
Hm!—At least I see you have not had time to make use of it.
M. Desmarets, pardon my sudden flight. I had motives.
Oh, a lady is not bound to have any, you know, nor to tell them if she has!
But tell me,—what did M. de Neuville think, say, of my disappearance?
Oh! you don't expect me to repeat a lover's incoherencies—for I find he is a very warm lover. I congratulate you on the success of that part of your mission. But the best of it is, he is under the impression, poor innocent, that you love him!
That I love him! Ah, he is so inexperienced—and these Creoles are so passionate! And then I
played my part so well! It was my part to appear to love him! Love him! he
thinks? You know the truth!
(R. C.)I do. Shall I tell it you?
(L. C.)Me, Desmarets?
Yes, you, Marie de Fontanges! you do love this man!
Oh! no, no, no—you must not believe him!
It is not from him I know it, but from you!
Me! I tell you it is not so—I do not love him!
Will you tell him so?
Oh, if that will satisfy you, I will write as much to him at once!
Why write, when he is here?
Here! Here, in the very den of the wolf?
In your house, Madame!
You have not told him what I am—with what intentions I came to Prague?
Eh!
Oh! for mercy's sake—You have not told him of my shame?
What matter if I have or not—you do not love him, you know; but it is time to undeceive him.
I will send him to you that you may tell him you do not love
him.
One moment will decide all.
Your love! that name was not meant for me. I am Henri de Neuville, Madame!
For you—for whom else but you? Do not look at me so! Speak to me—the worst, if it must be— anything rather than this silence!
Better silence than the truth.
The truth!
Your pardon! I forgot myself. The man whose heart you have made the plaything of your
summer leisure, when he wakes to the truth may suffer,—it is a compliment to your
fascination,—but that he should complain—absurd! I do not come to complain, Madame!
(L. C.)To revenge!
(R. C.)Has that man betrayed me?
Oh! you use the wrong word; he has opened my eyes—I know all!
All!
The mode of your departure—it was admirably contrived;—your companion—he was well chosen, for he was my friend!
Ah! De Cevennes!
I expected to find him here.
that coxcomb could hold a place in my heart.
I did not imagine he held a place in your heart, Madame, but in that which does duty for your heart—your vanity. Besides, he had prior claims. How often has he not proclaimed himself your adorer—long—long before I had the misfortune to know you.
Henri De Neuville, look at me well. It was necessary, to save you, that I should leave Prague secretly and speedily. The Marquis De Cevennes's carriage offered me the only means. I took that means for you— and you doubt me.
Marie! Is this the truth?
Look into my eyes, as I swear to you, this is the truth.
There is conviction in your look, Marie—I do believe you! Forgive me.
No! no! It is I who must ask for forgiveness. Oh! if you knew all!
I know only this, that we are once more together, and that we will never part more.
Hush, Henri! in my joy, I forget all!— to stay here is death.
Nay—nay. Fouché is the only enemy I have to fear, and here I am secure from him.
Oh! no, no—what place is safe from that man?
Yes, this place is safe.
His kisses scald like molten lead. Oh! Fly! fly! Henri! Every minute it may be too late!
Ah!
Has treason followed me so close! I will not die without a struggle!
Oh! I forgot to explain to you the counter spring.
Lost! lost! Oh! no—
Doubtless they do. I am betrayed. I may yet discover the traitor.
(R.)You may, easily—shall I reveal his name?
(C.)You? Where is he?
(L.)No, no—for mercy's sake!
(C.)Where is he?
I am sorry for it. I tell you—
Oh, mercy! mercy! Do not!
There stands the woman who, when you escaped hence, followed you to Prague to win your
affections and lure you back to death at Paris—your affections are hers— you are in Paris—she
has obeyed her orders—
Liar!
Marie, you hear him? Tell him as I have told him—he lies! likes like a coward! How's this? No word? You hide your eyes when they should strike him dumb! Marie, speak to me, if not to him; say he lies! Oh! God! he lies! Marie, does he not lie?
(C.)Let me answer that!
The Abbe Lenoir—in this dress!—but you know her, Abbé!
First let me set you right about myself! I am Fouché, though, thanks to Madame's complaisance, I have been occasionally allowed to usurp the character of her confessor.
She needs one no longer now; I have confessed for her!
Let her agony save her the pain of an avowal. Accept my assurance that what this gentleman
has said is, oddly enough, the truth!
This shock is naturally overpowering at first, but you will get over it,—particularly with
the advantages for cool reflection which you will have in Vincennes, to which safe and retired
residence I have particular pleasure in consigning the brilliant and sarcastic Timon!
Ah,—And she spurned me—but I bear no
malice!
Still here!—I hoped I was alone!
It is true; but let me not hear it from your lips. Spare me! spare me! I cannot bear it.
No, no, no!—do not look at me so— speak so! I was not vile enough to finish what I had the
vileness to begin. I loved you, Henri, at last—truly, fondly loved you—with the love before
which life and death are indifferent. Only one thing I could not bear—your scorn! It was dread
of this that kept me from avowing the shameful truth that sometimes made your softest words
daggers. If you knew the weight of self-scorn I bore under my happiness in your love—my nights
of bitter tears—my days of hidden shame—fallen as I am, you would pity me, Henri— indeed you
would!
How am I to know this tone does not mask some new treachery?
No! my shame is revealed now—and that—that was all I ever concealed from you!
And your flight was not to draw me to my destruction?
No!—as I live, no! It was to try one last appeal to Fouché for release from my infamy.
But what could she have been who could first lend herself to such ignominy?
A gambler, Henri!—enticed to the table by Fouché's arts—beggared there by his agents—and then, when ruin and dishonour beset me, the tempter was ever at my elbow with gold. I listened—I fell—I became his spy; once fallen to that, the man who tempted me ordered me to tempt you—and I did tempt you—wretched woman as I am —you, for whom if I had a thousand lives I would give them all!
Poor, poor Marie! My suffering dates but a few hours back, and yours has been the misery of years!
Ah! I am forgiven! Speak!
Yes! yes, my poor Marie! I forgive the past— such suffering and such repentance redeem all!
Kill me! kill me! How can I live with his blood upon my head? Henri! Henri!
(L. C.)One moment, gentlemen. Joseph Fouché, so sure as there is an eternal justice above us, so surely shall this wickedness be atoned for! Aye, smile, and tremble while you smile—for you feel that truth speaks out of him, who on his way to the grave, pauses here to give you your true titles of knave and coward!
(C.)Do your duty!
Ha! Berthier! Prince, my prayer?
(R. C.)Is granted.
He is free! Henri, you are free! free! Do you hear? I said so; I knew they could not part us now! You are safe—something here at my heart told me so—you are safe! God bless the mouth that tells me so!
M. le Duc, my errand is to you.
Your Grace will not wonder, after this discovery, that I am charged to demand your portfolio: you will give up your cabinet and papers to the Duke of Rovigo!
(R. C.)Savary—poor Savary!
(C.)Among the papers to be given up the Emperor includes all his autograph letters and instructions.
Burnt it!—you will find it difficult to convince the Emperor of that.
I have always found him difficult to convince. But it is nevertheless true. His autographs
are burnt.
Not all, I think, M. le Duc—not quite all.
You, too, Desmarets! then I am down!
Your Highness will find His Majesty's revered autographs in this box, besides much
interesting correspondence with Marshal Bernadotte and the King of Naples.
Prince, I am a victim to calumny. I resign my portfolio and myself, until His Majesty again
requires my services. Desmarets—no—I leave you to my successor ad interim. I have
only to hope he will find you as trustworthy as I have done—
(R.)Adieu!
au revoir! Madame, permit me to
compliment you on the skill of your play! M. de. Neuville, you have acquired a jewel. Treasure
it, but don't forget you took it out of the mire.
(L. C.)I will remember it, Duke of Otranto. Think
you how precious must be that jewel, which, for a moment soiled by
contact with your hands, is yet worthy of being set here—in the heart of an honest man!