Dramatis PersonÆ.
Back ! back ! Savoyard! It's not your turn yet.
Not my turn? why, all the girls are gone but me, and you wouldn't be so rude towards the sex, as to refuse me my share.
Pooh! Stuff! As if a Savoyard had a right to share ! go and fill your pails at the river—you don't belong to us.
And what then, my little water wagtail ? Be off at once—away with you !
Ay ! ay ! be off!—away with you!
Ha! ha! ha! Brididi!—there's a name! Who's your Brididi ? Where's your Brididi ?
Here's her Brididi!—this is her Brididi! Touch her, if you dare! Don't be frightened, Javotte; we two are a match for ten such water melons as these!
Ha! ha ! ha! Let's duck him in the fountain—eh, lads, what do you say ?
Heyday ! heyday ! what's all this ?
Madame Madeleine!
Ah ! ha! now we shall see ! Look here, madame Madeleine.
I'll tell you all about it, aunt—I came here with my pails—
You see, madame Madeleine, the whole story lies in two words—this little Savoyard—
I'll tell you how it begun—you see, Madame Madeleine, just as we were—
Silence! chattering magpies that you are,—one at a time ! Javotte, my child ; what's the matter ?
Why you see, madame Madeleine—
Holloa! young man—are you the child ? Is your name Javotte ?
No, madame Madeleine, only—
Hold your tongue, then! Now child.
It's the old story, aunt—these rude fellows want to drive me away from the fountain.
So much the better—I'm glad of it—I wish they'd succeed ! You ought to have more pride than to carry those nasty water pails about, and disgrace your family; Haven't I offered you a stall in the market ? Haven't I promised to get you received amongst us, and find you a husband into the bargain ?
But
As if she could'nt find one for herself.
Be quiet, Saucebox !
Well, and have'nt
And have'nt I one in my own eye too, if that's all.
Ah ! but not such a one as Alcide Le Fort, the Syndic of the Market, there's a husband, if you like.
But I
No, she don't like, do you Javotte ?
Young! stout! six foot high! shoulders like a wall! hands like grappling irons! there's a man to fight your battles, when such wishy washy fellows as these attempt to insult you.
Well, and can't I fight her battles too ? what's shoulders to do with it ? what's six foot
high to do with it ? The heart within's the thing, isn't it Javotte ? It's the pluck, Ma'ame
Madeleine, the pluck!
Don't ye cry, Javotte !
I will have justice if I die for it!
Justice, will you, where will you get it ?
Here it comes, in the person of Père Bonneau, he shall be our justice, he's the foreman of their district, and will explain the rules.
Now boys, whats the matter ? is the river run
We won't have a Savoyard encroaching on the privilege of Auvergnats.
A fine privilege, forsooth! the privilege of a pail of water! I've as much right to it as you, the water belongs to us all—water was invented before Auvergnats were thought of!
No, no, wench, there you are wrong, when water was invented, there was also a provision made for Auvergnats to sell it, every one knows that! We can't alter the rules.
No we can't do that, and therefore one of them being that I, as foreman of this district, have the right of helping myself first, come when I may.
I intend for once to use it, and so—I give up my turn to you, there help yourself, Savoyard, and Heaven bless you!
Oh! thank you, thank you a thousand times.
Not at all, not at all, the gifts of the earth should be for all its children.
Bravo! Père Bonneau, I love you for that.
Ay, ay, we all know the old boy's weakness, if a pretty girl only shews her face, there's an end of him.
True, Cabri, I don't deny it, there's nothing in that, for any man to be ashamed of I fancy, especially when, like me, he thinks of his own darling child, left with her mother far away.
The beautiful Thérèse, as you call her.
As our whole Village calls her, I can testify ! you won't see such another in the longest day of the year.
That you won't, though I say it, young, gay, active, loving, beautiful, virtuous, the
courage of a lion, and the heart of a child. Ah! boys, it is not because she is mine that I
say it, and perhaps I should'nt say it, but say it I
Egad! master Bonneau, I've half a mind to ask the girl of you, for a wife at once !
Too late, my boy ; too late. She has been married next to a twelvemonth, to an excellent lad, whom she doats upon—Georges Michel, a hard working fellow, they tell me, for I never set eyes on him myself.
No, no, Marie and I managed that business for you; we flatter ourselves Michel! a treasure—handsome to begin with and there's no harm in that, you know.
Moreover, a scholar, educated at the College of Beauvais,!—well mannered, sober and steady. Thérèse loved him,—he loved Thérèse—what more would you have ? smack they were married at once—there was an end of that.
What, and didn't they even invite you to the wedding ?
Oh! yes, but the journey would have cost too much, so I gave it up, and sent the price of it
to the young couple instead. It pleased them less, but was of more use, I know ; besides, for
the matter of that, I had my share of the fun. I shut myself up in my house, there,
Not I!
Nor I!
Now, if Michel were but here; he'd shew you the way!
Bonneau—if you like, I will read it for you,
Lor ! do you mean to say, that a little thing like you, can read writing all by yourself ?
Read it ? like a schoolmaster!
True! I forgot, my Javotte. Read it lass,
No ! it's signed "Michel."
It's the same thing—wife or husband, you know
Is it ? how much he knows about it!
Left home ?
Your Son, Michel."
Poor lad ! Poor Thérèse!
Don't be down hearted, Père Bonneau—Michel is a brave lad—I like his spirit, and he'll succeed, I'll answer for him!
Certainly not!
Wait till
Certainly not!
And who is the rich nobleman, whose protection you rely upon.
The Marquis de Melcy, my neighbour;
So I've heard.
But what has he done ?
Written something or other—I don't know what —but you may suppose it wasn't very right, since they threw him into prison for it.
I say, madame Madeleine, reading and writing isn't all profit after all!
And everybody cries out against him except me
Why except you ?
Madeleine Richard, I am not scholar enough to understand the harm he has
he has
Père Bonneau—kiss me!
Stop! Stop!
Certainly! have I the honor to be remembered, madam ?
Oh ! yes you are Père Bonneau—
You live in this street, I believe?
There's my mansion, madam,
And you live there alone—quite alone ?
Quite alone.
There I am.
To seek
Yes—to tell you to be at home at sunset—at home, and
For what ?
A precious life depends on it.
That's enough, I'll be here.
St. Prie.
Hum !—a precious life depends on it ! of course, I shall be here at sunset. I've time enough
to serve a customer or two and be back.
Of course, they are ! while you were chattering with the fine lady, I was doing your work for you, old boy.
Good lad ! good lad !
I say—they seem turning everything topsy-turvy inside.
I tell you, they don't apply to me!
Oh ! it's Baptiste, the marquis's coachman, who came for his things, and Philippe, the porter, won't let him have them, I suppose.
Serve him right—the drunken dog ! If they'd clapped the seals upon
All except the wine merchants, Cabri! Come, let's go, or they'll mix us up in the quarrel.
Was there ever such a chap ? Wouldn't even let me take away my own clothes. That's a good
idea!
Ah ! that
Where did I buy it ?
Perfectly, I can send him to the galleys in five minutes.
To a friend or a foe, as the case may be M. Baptiste.
You know my name
And your occupation, you are Baptiste by name, a coachman by nature, a sloth and a sot by profession, mixed up in a certain awkward affair of corn and hay, born with the brass to commit, without the wit to conceal. In short, a fool turned up with a knave.
In the same line perhaps
I, Gaspard L'Avisé, who have represented in my own person the Majesty of the Law, as an
Attorney's Clerk, the Grace of Literature as a Writing master, and the Dignity of
Beg pardon, but as you alluded to that little matter of corn and hay—
Which passed through my master's office—
Oh ! I understand, but you won't betray me—I'm looking out for another place, and if that matter were raked up, you know—people have such queer prejudices, I might never get into service again.
Pooh ! I'll take you into mine.
You ! why, you don't mean to say you have a house in Paris ?
I mean to say nothing of the kind, I have but this moment jumped off the Diligence, and the street is my only home. One of the airiest apartments in all Paris.
But, to morrow!
To morrow I am off to St. Domingo.
And I'm to follow you ?
No, I want you here.
What wages am I to have ?
Twenty Louis.
A year ?
A day—there are two to begin with,
Into that house silently!
In the first place, there's no getting into the house—in the second, I know nothing of any will—in the third, they have clapped seals every where—in the fourth, I never heard of a son.
Don't care about his secrets, my inclination does not lead me that way, but I can give you
I hoped to have discovered something from man, who had had every opportunity of knowing all,
and yet here am I, a stranger but just landed, obliged to inform
And how the devil did you come to find out all this ?
I'll tell you. From my master—Monseigneur, the Duke de Melcy.
The Marqnis's father ! —your master—why, then you are nothing but a servant, after all
?
During the last six months I have been the Duke's confidant and factotum; he took an immense and immediate fancy to me—a man of great discernment, the Duke! Appointed governor of St. Domingo, he received at the moment of his departure, a letter from the Marquis, announcing his arrest; and the fact that he had left a will among his papers, revealing the existence of a son, whom he had brought up in secret, because the child's mother had proved herself unworthy to bear the name of de Melcy. This son he commended to the protection of the Duke.
Oh ! the Duke then is afraid lest the will should be mislaid, and he has commissioned you to secure it, and bring him his grandson with the title; I understand all
You understand nothing. The Duke is too proud of his family to allow of the introduction of one whose birth—
Is he illegitimate then ?
No—but the son of a woman of no family—a woman by whom the Marquis was fascinated, and whom he married secretly; fortunately before the marriage was avowed, he learnt that his wife was worthless, as well as birthless, and so discarded her. Now, I am at all hazards, to secure the will and carry it to St. Domingo, for which service I am to receive ten thousand francs. So to work—where did the marquis keep his papers ?
All I know is, that in that room—
That will do—to-morrow its contents are mine.
To-morrow ? But the seals are to be removed to-day !
The devil they are ? To-day !—then there's no time to lose—it will be sharp work!
By Jupiter it will, for here comes old Gobinard, the Commissary of Police, for the very purpose, so there's an end of you at once.
So, it is old Gobinard himself, sure enough.
Do you know him ?
Is there a Commissary of Police in Europe I don't know ? step this way.
On second thoughts I shall not want you—go
Poor Madame Gobinard, a pretty little woman, young enough to bury three such old Mummies as that.
Do you know her ?
Of course, she's the cousin of one of my old fellow clerks, Isidore Patrat.
There he comes again, he's going to the Marquis's.
No, he isn't— do you run for a hackney coach, make the coachman drunk, you know how to do that, take his seat, be on the watch, and when I beckon to you, draw up.
Stop, you're my prisoner !
Yes, I arrest you !
What, you arrest
It is for your good I arrest you.
That's another affair, but quick, be brief, I have work to do in that house.
You need'nt hurry yourself there, there's more pressing business for you than that elsewhere.
On the contrary, I have received positive orders to remove the seals, and forward all the Marquis's papers at once to the Judge—no business can be more pressing.
Well, its all a matter of taste certainly. So then, if some one were to bring you word that your house was on fire, or your wife run away with, you would remain quietly where you are, and consider the public affairs before you own ?
Not at all. Remain here indeed, and quietly! what an idea ! luckily, however, my house is
not on fire, and as to my wife—
You fancy she is safe at home, I suppose!
Of course I do -nay I don't fancy it, I know it; where should she be ?
Why, where she should'nt be, of course. Confiding individual! Candid Commissary ! Innocent husband! no sooner had you turned upon your heel, than she was off—
To sup with her uncle.
To sup with her cousin.
Isidore!
Patrat, Clerk in the Customs, a dissipated young dog, fond of wine and women, and doating
upon his cousin, with whom he has a rendezvous this evening. Why, he was boasting of it, not
half an hour ago, in my presence, the scapegrace ! boasting of his treason, and laughing at
your shame! I had not the honour of knowing you, respectable M. Gobinard, of personally
knowing you, but said I to myself, "Dubois," said I, "you are a married man, and one who has
suffered bitterly, from the conduct of Mrs D —, it is your duty to enlighten the respectable
and respected Gobinard." It
And therefore true.
But my wife can't bear her cousin Isidore, she is always speaking ill of him.
A sure sign, that she thinks well of him.
She has made me forbid him my house !
That she may visit him at his.
She thinks him hideous !
And you know he's handsome.
That's what she says I am.
And you are as ugly as sin. Excuse my frankness but you must confess you are damnably ugly.
You think so ?
Unmistakeably!
To think of my wife! To tell you the truth, I always suspected as much.
Look you there now! oh! a man of your sagacity could not do otherwise.
Perfidious woman, but I will surprise her.
Burst upon her.
I fly, but it's such a deuce of a distance.
And you hav'nt a minute to lose! Mercy on us ! a minute did I say ? a minute and you may be too late! I'd take a coach, if I were you! By the bye, I have one here, I just engaged by the hour—I'll lend it to you. Between husbands there should be community of interests—you shall have my coach.
How can I return your civility ?
Don't think of returning at all, I beg you won't.
Now, sir.
You must drive this gentleman where he wishes
And gallop like a race horse, d'ye hear ?
Like lightning!
Like a snail—remember you're by the hour.
Ay, ay , I haven't forgotten that, nor the price you're to pay for it.
Come! Come! Oh! sir, how shall I ever! come along !
That's all right! Now if Baptiste only keeps him off for one hour, the trick's complete ! I
thought his wife would be a safe lure. How devilish ready men are to believe any ill of their
wives ! Now for my part of the farce ! There's not an instant to lose.
Evening draws in, and I am here at my post.
Bonneau !
Is that you, Madame, and in such a dress ?
I must not be recognised I come to ask your assistance—your protection!
For yourself?
For the Marquis de Melcy.
The Marquis de Melcy!—my assistance!—he shall have my life! Oh! could I but get him out of the Bastile!
That's done already.
Already ? The marquis has been liberated!
By my means—he will be here directly, but must remain no longer than the time sufficient to exchange his dress for a suit of yours.
He shall have it—I've a new suit of clothes all ready made for Thérèse's wedding, and never put on; he shall have the hanselling of them.
By favor of that disguise, he may reach the Quai de Chaillot, where a post chaise awaits him.
You have thought of everything, I see.
But the time is past when he should be here.
Stay! There's a man there, surely ; yonder, in the dark—he's coming towards us
It is the Marquis!
You may venture this way, sir—there's nothing to fear from us.
To me ? unhappily, no !—I wish it were! Here is your deliverer.
Did not your heart tell you ?
I did not know you were in Paris. And have you flown to me in the hour of danger ?
While you are chatting, I will get out the suit of clothes we were talking of for you.
Marquis ! I ask not for a husband's love— he has long withdrawn it from me, with his name; which he refuses to let me bear: and his child, whom he refuses to let me see. I ask not for his love, my own heart is dead to it; but I ask for that justice which no honorable man can now withhold. I ask for his recognition of my innocence!
Coralie ! it is yours, and with it my repentance.
And with it your son ?—you hesitate! For years you have made me suffer the penalty of your unjust suspicions—for years you have refused to see me, to acknowledge me as your wife; to let me behold my child, and all because you believed an idle calumny, rather than the mother of your boy :—and now—now that the calumny has been at last avowed, now that you know you had no cause to blush for your wife, except for her humble birth ; now when I demand the reparation I have a right to claim, you hesitate.
Your son shall be restored to you, our marriage shall be avowed—I have already avowed it in my will. If I hesitated, it was—
All's ready—we'd better not loiter.
Quick! in at once—the travelling carriage is waiting at the Quai de Chaillot,—I'll go forward, and meet you there.
And as we fly from Paris, we will talk of our dear boy, and the pleasure of meeting him again.
Shall I indeed see him ? Shall I call him mine, and press him to this heart ? Oh,
happiness! But there
Now, to equip you. It's not a very smart suit for a marquis, but you'll be one of the best dressed water carriers in all Paris, I promise you.
Bonneau, I have another service to beg of you.
In a few days my son will be in Paris, he will ask for you—
Your son !—is it possible ? —
But you dare not venture into it.
Venture I must—ay, even at the risk of being discovered. Who is there now ?
Philippe, the Porter. They've left him there to guard the seals.
Philippe will not betray his master.
You must not trust him, indeed, you must not— the risk is too terrible to think of.
But my son's welfare requires it.
Quick ! quick ! into my house!
Wherefore ?
The Commissary of Police is here.
Now then, you young rascal; where are you leading me to ? Did I not tell you the Hotel de Melcy ?
No, they are going to examine your house. You see, if you had been one minute there, you would have been lost !
Knock at the gate, and say who's here.
Look !—you can see them yourself.
Who's there ?
The Commissary of Police! In the name of the law, I am come to break the seals, and take possession of every scrap of writing to be found in the place.
Well, but I thought it was Gobinard had that to do.
You were right, but my friend Gobinard has been forced to delegate his office to me, in
consequence of a domestic
You see, you see, what an escape you have had.
What is to be done ? my son will be left without resources.
Tell me where the money is to be found, and I'll manage it. I serve the house with water, and Philippe expects me presently, so that I have a good excuse for getting in.
Once there, if you can but manage to get into the boudoir, behind the sofa is a small panel in the woodwork, which conceals a recess, there you will find the money in a bag.
And where am I to send it ?
I'll write to him minute instructions, while you are gone. At present he does not even know the name of his father—he has been brought up in the country, far away from me—I have a long and painful history to tell him.
Meantime go in—put on the things I have prepared for you.
But where are you going ?
Round the back way—men of my sort are not good enough to enter houses by the front
gate.
Now for my disguise.
Perfidious woman, it was too true! tete-a-tete with her cousin sure enough. Lucky I was in time! But now she is safely under lock and key, and shall remain so. Knock at the door, sirrah—in the name of the law, knock.
Who's there now ?
It's I, my good friend. Gobinard ! come at last to break the seals.
They're almost all broken already, your deputy has made quick work of it, I can tell you!
My deputy ?
Yes, and a sharp fellow he is, his nose is everywhere.
There's some mistake ! my deputy !
What ! did'nt you send him ?
Fool, you have been the dupe of some thief, follow me quick !
All seems quiet, I may venture now, a few lines to my son, and then away ! but hark! what noise is that ?
What's the matter?
The Opera is in flames.
Everybody fall in rank.
You, a water carrier, and in doors still!—for shame ! out with you, and fall into the rank !
Mercy on us !—there is no more water—no more water!
And none either at the Traversine Fountain !
Friends, we must haste to the Chateau d'Eau! We shall get plenty there.
Here they are—I've got the precious Louis d'ors— safe in my bucket. But what's this, eh ; a fire ? I thought I heard the shouts of fire ! and Père Bonneau not at it! I'll just put away the money, and be with them in an instant.
Ha ! ha ! hunt away my fine fellows—I've got the
The roof has fallen in!
I'm afraid this man is badly hurt.
I recognize him through his disguise—it is the Marquis de Melcy!
And dead!
Quite dead!
Michel! Michel! rouse man! Come nearer and hold on by the mast.
I have no strength left! I am cold—exhausted!
We are in sight of land I tell you, and if the wreck will but float a short time longer, we shall be on the rocks of St. Domingo.
In a minute—hold on but a minute.
Now, Madeleine, where's this girl of yours ? we can't stay here dilly dallying all day!
No sharp's the word, we must get to work !
All in good time, ladies, she is only putting on her cap and her best jacket, to do you honor.
What's the cap for ? Best take it off, I say, and let's see what's under it.
Ha ! ha! well said, Manon, and the jacket, too ! We can tell a walnut best, with the shell off.
And an orange when its peeled.
She's not butter, I suppose ! she can bear the sun.
No, nor eggs neither, to be cheapened by any one, I promise you.
Well, it's time we got some fresh hands into the Market, for I think the deuce is in the girls now-a-days—there's no keeping them here at all.
Why, there's Françoise gone now too—the fat old
Married!
Next to it, her mother says if she isn't she will, be, and that's all the same thing in the end you know.
Well, so it is. At any rate, it's better than Georgette's stupidity. You remember her ? the handsome blonde, who used to keep the Flower Stall over the way, and attract so many customers to the Market.
Well, what's
Married in earnest an old miser, with a face like a medley, and legs like sugar tongs.
Ta! ta! ta! what's the use of raking up all this rubbish ? Javotte's none of these—where she's planted, there she grows— and if she marries at all, it shall be within the precincts of the Market.
That's right Madeleine !
Right, I believe you! isn't she my niece, and brought up with my principles ? I'm not like our neighbour, Nannette Souffle, who married her daughter to a Shoemaker, who looked down upon her as if she'd been an old slipper! none of that for me ! the best way to make one's children respect one's calling, is to marry them into it, and keep up the race.
Bravo, well spoken, Madeleine! that's something like!
And here she comes to pass her examination, attention !
So, young woman, you want to be admitted into the Market do you ?
Well answered.
I believe you too.
But do you know the duties of the situation ?
Ma'am!
Do you know what you'll have to do ?
Let's hear some of them.
First, there's to be up at daybreak, to get the first chance, then to try and get served before one's turn, to fight for one's place, when somebody else has taken it—to be good friends with the Market Women, and coax the Inspectors.
Very well, very well, not bad.
Isn't she a lamb ?
What's the first rule of selling ?
To set off the worst things to the greatest advantage that they may get bought before the good ones.
What must you do when masters and mistresses come to market themselves ?
Charge them double, to sicken them from coming again.
And when the servants come ?
Charge them only fifty per cent more than the worth, and share the difference.
You see how she has been brought up eh ! she'll be an ornament to the Market.
But they'll find you out at last, what then ?
Why then they'll beat me down, and be happy.
Very well, she'll do, she'll do!
And if one of
Hollo, that won't do ?
And if a buyer were to abuse you ?
I should be all sweetness in return—you can't catch flies with vinegar.
Oh, that won't do, that won't do at all!
And if, on the other hand, he were to try and coax you over ?
I'd let him coax me, and thank him for the honor of his custom.
So, then your notion of a Market Woman is—
That she should be civil with everybody, sharp with nobody, and by not frightening her customers away, never have her goods left on her hands.
Well, ladies, what do you say ?
You stupid little donkey.
I knew you would overdo it, with your sugar mouthed nonsense.
There, now she's snivelling! she only wants that to settle her in the eyes of the Market.
Javotte!
And so they are, a set of oyster wenches, fish fags—
Javotte, Javotte, you'll make them angry.
I don't care, so they are, milk maids, apple women, cabbage sellers, let 'em come on! I'm
not afraid of the whole market!
Bravo! bravo ! there's spirit, there's spirit!
Received ! you don't mean that ?
Ah ! I told you what an angel she was. She'll hold her own with the best among us.
Oh! how happy I am—and how I wish Brididi had been here!
Brididi ! Fiddle-de-dee! I've something in my eye better than Brididi for you !
Something in your eye again? oh, dear! aunt— you've always got something in your eye.
Here comes Marie—here's Marie Bonneau—and little Edouard.
Good day, Marie—good day—good day Edouard !
Good day, girls—good day, Madeleine ! why how pleased you all look ! what's the matter ?
Javotte's just passed the scrutiny, and has been received into the Market.
That's right wench ! Give me a kiss. Thérèse shall give you a lift, when she comes in. Now, Edouard, darling ; quick! run and get your new sash—and let's make you smart— and you, girls; run away and each bring me a bouquet here in ten minutes time.
A bouquet ?
Why, what's the matter with you, Marie ? you've got on your Sunday gown, too; and look so full of joy—what's it all about ?
Ay, what's it all about ?
All in good time. Run along, and do as I bid you ; and when you come back I'll let you into the secret—but mum ! not a word, till I tell you!
Now, stand still ; there's a dear !
I won't have my hair curled !
Nonsense, dear—you'll never be a man, and ride on donkey, if you don't!
Oh ! then I will, if Grandpa Bonneau'll give me another ride.
Yes, yes; I'll take care of that!
Heyday! why, Marie, what's he about ?
Hollo, sir !—what are you doing there ?
Hush ! ma'am Bonneau—not a word.
But what business have you here?
Never mind me—I'm only carrying off the sign-board.
Well, you're a cool fellow !—to morrow I shall find you busy at the
No one gave me permission—I was ordered by Alcide Le Fort, the Syndic of the Millers.
Oh! if Alcide ordered you, that's another thing. Ay, ay; Alcide has a certain readiness with his arms, which makes his logic very striking.
What a fist he has to be sure.
I should know it among a thousand!
That's it, I'll swear to it, oh !
Let him alone Alcide, you'll crack him like a filbert.
Off with you, chatterbox!
Have patience, and you shall see, what you shall see.
Very well, but you'll own such a coat as that's enough to—
Enough to drive one mad! I only wish I had the rascal who made it, under my thumb, I'd make him remember it—the seams crack as I walk, and I daren't lift my arms, for fear the sleeves should drop off.
Ma'am Bonneau—
Javotte for ever !
Ah! there's Brididi! ah Brididi!
You have'nt seen Thérèse's lodger, Monsieur Victor, have you ?
Monsieur Victor ! no, lad, he has not been here since I came in.
Yes, Monsieur Alcide, my niece Javotte, now belongs to the Market, and though I say it, is a wife for an Emperor. Curtsey Javotte. What do you think of her ?
Urn, she's a little one !
A nice little one !
Isn't that Brididi ?
Ain't you ashamed of yourself, you young rascal, ashamed to shew your face among those who work for their bread, and you who only beg for your's! to think of a fellow with shoulders like his, passing his day at the church door, with his hands held out.
You're right, it is a shame, sure enough—its a bad trade, but it's the only one I was brought up to.
Ay, it's not the lad's fault. One fine morning he was found in a shawl, under the church
portico by old Brigitte, who begs there. She took possession of him on account of his
And old Brigette brought me up as a child of her own—she was a mother to me, bless her—and the Parish adopted me.
Yes, but she made a beggar of you !
Poor old soul, she knew no better. But though I beg in public for Brigitte, I work in private for myself. Yes and to-morrow my apprenticeship expires, to-morrow I reach the dignity of a tailor! Yesterday I turned out my first coat! A coat of which an artist might be proud, and to-morrow I begin to receive wages.
Your hand, young'un, ah ! there goes another seam.
And so you are a tailor, after all,
And a very good thing too, a tailor!
You'd say so, I flatter myself, if you could see the coat I made! oh, such a coat! it made one's mouth water to look at it! my master Rigobert himself, was in ecstacy!
Rigobert, why that's
Oh, this is your master-piece, is it?
Cracks, you mean; dolt!—don't you see my back's laid open!
Oh! that's nothing ! I've my needle and thread in my pocket—give me the coat, and I'll make it all right in a minute! It's not the fault of the sewing— that's strong enough for anything, the fault's your own—you're too strong for the sewing.
Ah ! there's my good man, at last ! Alcide—mum !
Ah ! Neddy knows the door, and won't pass without stopping.
There's Grandpa! now for a ride! now for a ride !
There, now you've kissed the donkey; I suppose my turn will come. How d'ye do, everybody ? Thêrèse not come back yet ?
Not yet—I expect her every moment.
What can she be doing at the palace ?
She couldn't tell herself! Yesterday she got a great letter, with a seal as big as a cardinal's hat; and all it said was, that Thérèse Michel was to present herself at the Palace, at Versailles, and ask for the Maitre d'Hotel.
Some wedding order, I suppose.
Ay, that's it, I dare say,—or something else—
Ay—it's that, or something else!
Come, Alcide; don't you screw up your nose, as if you smelt mystery!—you know nothing about
it, so you needn't look so wise
What does he mean ?
He means what he knows—nothing.
Well, well; we shall hear the good news by and bye—we shall all make our fortunes in good time, and retire from business ! You see I've set up my carriage already, and she'll do the same, I hope, some day.
She's beautiful enough to ride in one, at any rate! Ma'am Bonneau, by the side of your girl,
Venus would have been but a fish fag !
There's a bit of sentiment, for a Syndic.
Couldn't you lay it on a leetle stronger ?
Poor man ! poor Syndic! People think he's made of rock—I know he's as soft as butter !
Hold your chatter!
He's strong in the arm, but weak in the head—I know his tender place, —it's in the heart!
I'll make a tender place in your back, if you're not quiet!
What's that you say? what are you talking about?
Phew ! don't listen to his nonsense?
Never mind, Alcide—when Thérèse is a widow, you may have a chance—there's plenty of time, lad.
Oh, my chance is good now !
And Michel ?
Who knows—he's been gone long enough by this time to—
Alcide ! how dare you talk in that way ? I'd recommend you not to let Thérèse hear you, that's all. She, who adores her Michel, and lives but for the hour of his return !
Why, she has never even had a letter.
What then ? Remember where he is — at the end of the world ; a man can't write when he's at such a distance as that. Besides, did'nt we, three years ago, receive from him what was better than a letter—didn't we receive three thousand francs from St. Domingo, the sum with which Thèrése bought this fine business ? No, no, Alcide, you mustn't deceive yourself.
Well, I don't care, I say still, it's a sad thing to see such a lovely young woman pining for a husband, when there are so many to be had for the asking; but I suppose you are right; there being no proof she's a widow, there's but one thing left for me to do.
Exactly,
To take myself off.
You, Alcide!
I'm going to Marseilles, the place of all places for oranges, and oranges will remind me of Thèrése.
He's going away, Brididi, give him his coat; don't let him wait for us.
I'll just see the effect of our little surprise, and then—
Hem, hem.
Suprise, what suprise ?
There's your coat, Syndic.
Don't you see he doesn't know what he's talking about.
I must go and fill my barrel again at the fountain.
Oh, grandpa, take me with you, I was promised a ride.
Come along, my little man.
Now, Bonneau, take care of him.
Oh, let us alone, we know what we're about, don't we, boy ? Besides, I'll answer for it,
Neddy won't run away with us.
Come, Javotte, let's go and get our bouquets, or we shan't be back in time to hear Marie's secret. Good bye, Alcide, you'd better turn your eyes this way.
Not at all—he'd rather look the other, wouldn't you Syndic? Good bye, Brididi; ah, there's
nothing like a nice little tailor, after all.
Psit, psit, Brididi, is there any one within hearing ?
Not a soul.
Your old lottery numbers, eh ?
They must come up this time, and then we shall all be rich.
I will tell him all.
That's the best way.
Yes, as soon as I have gained the prize.
Oh, not till then.
Another yellow boy ! I say, the Louis d'ors must grow in your house, that you have so many to put in the lottery.
Hush, there's some one ; run along and bring me the ticket.
Oh, I know them well enough, without that—I think I ought, by this time.
Twenty-three, forty-five —
Yes, Twenty-three—forty-five.
Fifteen and seventy.
Keep on your own side. Good day, Ma'am Bonneau don't you remember me ?
Oh! yes, perfectly—you are M. Baptiste, formerly coachman to the Marquis de Melcy—
With whom are you now ?
With, Madame St. Prie, but she lives too quiet for me. I have been accustomed to a more
bustling life. My horses have waited at the doors of concerts, balls, and theatres, while I
regaled myself in style. Now I'm kept waiting outside
Well, I'll speak to Thérèse for you. Leave me your address. You will find pen and ink on the counter.
What a precious place ! One ought never to venture here without stilts. Number nineteen, this must be it. But what a door ! Hang me if I attempt to go in. Holloa there ! my good woman!
It's at number nineteen, I believe, that is to say, in this house that Monsieur Victor lodges, is it not ?
Monsieur Victor, oh ! yes, and a nice young gentleman he is. Poor fellow ! he lives at the top of the house, up six pair of stairs.
You do know him then ?
Know him, of course I do—only by sight though, for he speaks to no one. He is always decently dressed, and you'd fancy, to look at him, that he wanted for nothing, but ah: sir! in this life appearances are like thin ice, very dangerous to trust to.
Is he within ?
I know that voice!
No sir, I think not.
That's a pity! I came to answer a letter he addressed to my master, the Marquis de Melcy.
Is the late Marquis's son then found at last, and in Paris ?
He has been a week and more in the mansion of his fathers.
Baptiste !
Here's luck! you were looking out for a situation, and can now perhaps pop into your old
one. I'll leave you to talk it over, and, in the meantime, Monsieur Victor may be in again!
I am neither blind nor deaf, Master Gaspard. I heard you say that the young Marquis was installed in his father's mansion, and I see you wear his livery. You are in his service then !
Your sagacity has hit it.
I did.
To destroy the will!
I did—I see you've a good memory.
You didn't succeed then, in carrying it off ?
I carried it off.
And yet you couldn't effect your purpose after all!
Monsieur Baptiste, your sagacity this time is at fault. Know, sir, that I
Ah ! ah! where the Marquis's father, the Duke, awaited you, and in exchange for that will, was to pay you ten thousand francs. You handed him the will, and he handed you the money. Nothing could be more simple, or more agreeable.
You think so ? But it so happened, that on my arrival, I learned that the Duke was dead ! What do you say to that ? He left behind him only a daughter, the elder sister of the late Marquis—the aunt of the present.
The Countess de Melcy, I know her. Well! of course you claimed the recompence from
I believe you! In half a minute.
Exactly—without knowing whether she shared the prejudices of her father, without previously ascertaining whether, instead of paying you the ten thousand francs, she would not have sent you to prison for the abstraction of the will!—as she would infallibly have done, for she found among her father's papers, a letter from the Marquis ; revealing the existence of his son! towards whom she already felt her heart yearn.
And that yearning cost you ten thousand francs. I see it all.
You see nothing.
You didn't lose the ten thousand francs?
Quite the reverse—I gained a hundred thousand.
Whew! And nibbled them ?
I
But who are they to come from ?
The young Marquis de Melcy.
Whom you wanted to disinherit ?
When it answered my purpose, but I lost no time in putting him into possession of a great name, and a splendid fortune when I found it answer my purpose better. The hundred thousand francs will be paid to me on the day when the sequestration of his property is annulled, or on the day of his marriage with a rich young wife, which will take place in a week's time.
Really, you're a cleverer fellow than I took you for. I bow to my superior !
Sir you are too complimentary.
But, stop ; how did you know where this young man was ?
I didn't know. I
Found him ! but how ?
Simply by wanting to find him.
Miraculous ! But what put you on the trace ?
Chance ! that blind protector of the bold and skilful. The young man was in St. Domingo, and knew nothing of his noble birth; I enlightened him! I found him poor, ambitious, without a name! I made him rich, noble and contented!
And you count upon his gratitude ?
Its stamped and in my pocket. I have him in my power.
You're a wonderful man! May I hope for your interest in getting me my old place of coachman to the Marquis ?
It's yours already! The Marquis and his noble aunt have only just arrived in France, and the old house is scarcely mounted yet. In fact, I came here to look after a young man, who solicited the place of secretary.
You took that trouble ? What a condescension !
I had a purpose in it—but I can't wait now—my hat.
Madame St. Prie, did you say? Baptiste, a word; you needn't mention to your mistress, that you are coming to live with the Marquis. I don't want her even to know of his being in Paris, just at present.
Mum !
Certainly, sir. Here Baptiste—run for a coach, directly!
A coach! for Monsieur Gaspard!—not exactly— I'll have the honor of driving him myself! My mistress will be an hour longer, at the very least; and in the meantime, her coachman and her horses will be proud to be at his service.
Sir, your offer is too tempting to be refused—but I must be home in ten minutes.
In seven—I drive my horses, as you do your affairs. I smash now and then, to be sure, but I always arrive in time.
Monsieur Baptiste,
At last, that fine gentleman's gone, and we may come in. Now, Marie ; where shall we place ourselves ?
Come in! come in, all of you !
Well, but Marie; let us into the secret now, at any rate.
Well then—but mum! I don't want my good man, Bonneau, to hear—the suprise is for him, as well as Thérèse— and he'll be back in a minute, so watch for him, and listen!
Holloa! holloa ! What's all this ? Is the Market in a state of siege ?
Its a little surprise, my dear Bonneau ! you'll know what it is as soon as Thérèse comes.
Well, and what do you call this?
Now Syndic! off with the covering, and unveil the mystery.
What's that? Thérèse Michel, Fruiterer to His Majesty!
What do you say to that, old man ? she has been for her diploma to Versailles, and here she
comes. Strike up music!
Long live Thérèse, Fruiterer to the Court!
Long live Mamma, Fruiterer to the Court.
Father—mother—friends—you know all then !
We've only just heard it.
The secret was well kept, for a good reason—nobody knew it.
Except Alcide Le Fort, and his modesty no doubt prevented him from speaking; for you must
know friends, that it is to
Alcide!
Which only proves that some people have credit at Court, and don't forget their friends on
occasion. Up with the sign boys.
And how am I to thank him, I owe him so much—
That you must pay him directly. Never run in debt my child, especially with the men ; they so seldom do anything to merit gratitude, that women should be careful not to dishearten them.
You are right mother, and as I have kept out of debt so long, I won't begin now. Alcide, I
pay cash down—
Eh ! Thérèse what do you mean ?
Pretty little innocent, does'nt understand when a pretty woman says—kiss me!
What really ?
Object!
Well, well, we'll adjourn the fete till to night, and then we'll return to it with spirit. Come girls! one cheer and good bye!
Long live Thérèse ! Fruiterer to the Court!
My darling Thérèse, your happiness is now complete, indeed.
Oh ! yes—as far as—
Why that sigh, Thérèse ? It's ungrateful at such a moment.
It is—it is—but it was involuntary. I ought to be happy, yet sadness fills my heart—a vague
presentiment steals into my breast, I know not of what.
What nonsense! you are rich enough now to replace it by two of gold, if you like.
No gold can replace that, for it contained a lock of
It was you then, madam, to whom this heart belonged? I am delighted to be able to restore it to you.
Monsieur Victor!
Oh, thanks, Monsieur Victor, thanks. I don't know how to thank you sufficiently.
She wouldn't do all that for a lock of my hair! How she loves that confounded Michel! I
can't stand by patiently and see it.
Holloa, holloa! Take care of the property, young man.
He's going into the upholstery line, I suppose.
Monsieur Victor, you have made me as happy as a Queen.
What's that you say, Marie ?
I say that which will make you jump for joy, too, old man. The young Marquis, whom you have so long been expecting, is arrived at last, and is now in the house of his father.
Impossible!
I tell you, he has just arrived from St. Domingo.
St. Domingo! Where my Michel is!
Where are you off too in such a hurry, Syndic ?
To pack up.
Nonsense, don't be a noodle !
I shall be, if I stop here. Look there.
What, at the young man ?
No, at your daughter. I'll pack up and be off.
Heyday, what's the matter with the Syndic ? Père Bonneau, I've been looking for you; here's a man brought a letter from your old village; you weren't at home, and so I brought him along with me.
From the village, let's have a look at him.
And pray let us know your success.
Oh! how gladly shall I return to announce it. The poverty I have struggled to conceal, is
not the consequence of a fault, nor of idleness. I have sought work everywhere, but it not
easy for a
You
Not so; but I am a gentleman by education. A worthy man, whose name I never knew, placed me at the College of Beauvais, and furnished me with the means of pursuing my studies there, when suddenly my pension ceased, and I never heard of my benefactor more. Thrown thus upon the world without resources, without family, I resolved to profit by the education I received—I had became Secretary to the Count de Cremancé.
And how did you lose the place ?
By having a heart that forgot my humble state—by daring to love the daughter of the Count, who loved me in return. Driven from the house like a valet, who has rubbed his master, I have since vainly sought employment, until today, when the chance of the Marquis de Melcy's accepting my services seem like a gleam of sunshine.
May it prove so, and repay you for the happiness you have given me.
Mercy on me! what's the matter with Bonneau ?
You'll know soon enough.
You frighten me to death.
Come, quick.
He knows all, and I'm lost.
Our prayers will go with you, Monsieur Victor.
They cannot fail to bring me good fortune.
And should your hopes not be realized, come back to us, and you shall always find a home.
Thérèse, I have something to say to you.
What can it be ? How agitated you seem mother !
No, only just now you were speaking of a presentiment—
Nay, my dear Mother, not on my account. I am in high spirits now, and this evening intend to dance with our merry neighbours at the Carnival, join their procession to the Porcherons, sup with them, sing with them, Edouard shall go with us, and we'll drink to the health of Michel, and to his speedy return.
His return!
Yes, we shall see him soon now—I feel we shall.
Thérèse, you're in too high spirits—don't! You make me feel I don't know how, for—
To me! No; that is yes, for all that concerns you is— You know how dearly I love you.
That you had a presentiment—
Exactly. Yours came from the loss of this trinket, mine from—from—
A dream, perhaps ?
A dream, yes, that's it. I've had a dream.
Poor mother, always dreaming.
Yes I dreamt something last night, that I want to relate to you; come, sit down by me.
Listen, my darling, and leave your hand in mine, while I am speaking, it will help me, it will give me courage. Well, last night I dreamt of—him—
Michel!
Michel. I saw the poor fellow, there, far away, across the seas, where he went to seek his fortune, I saw him plainly, and he smiled at me from his bed of sickness.
Very ill, the doctor was at his bedside.
Michel ill! dying! but what folly, it was only a dream, after all.
That's all. Only just now, while I stood here calm, happy, suspecting nothing, your father beckoned me to see a stranger, who brought a letter addressed to you at our village, and coming from—
A letter from Saint Domingo, and not from him, and you are weeping ! it was not a dream then ! Support me Heaven! Michel is dead !
I dared not conceal it from you, longer!
Dead ! Michel dead!
It is a terrible blow, Thérèse, but think of your boy, he will give courage. I do not speak
of your father, of myself, of all the friends who love you. Thérèse! Thérèse! why don't you
cry? it will relieve you.
Michel, dead!
Mamma, Mamma, come and look ! here's such a grand carriage, just driving into the Market!
Oh,
My child ! my boy ! oh! I have still my boy !
Oh, mamma, don't cry so ! what's the matter ?
Edouard—you will never, never see your—
Thérèse, Edouard is too young to feel his loss yet. Don't sadden his dear little heart!
Lost!—what's lost mamma ?
You are right, mother—I will not awaken such early sorrow in his breast. Edouard, you are
now my life—for
What is all this ? Cannot a carriage pass along this abominable place?
The Marquis de Melcy!
The Marquis de Melcy !
The Marquis de Melcy ! Oh ! then I am mad !
Ma'am Bonneau! Ma'am Bonneau!
Don't be alarmed, Ma'am Bonneau, its only me! I've just dropped in as I was passing by, to beg a drop of spring water, to bathe my eye.
Well, to be frank with you, I can't see clearly what is the matter—perhaps you can tell me.
Ah! my poor lad, what's this ?
It's a left hander— a left hander I gave to—
To yourself!
To myself, not such a fool as that—no, to somebody else, of course. I sent this left hand of mine at him, and he replied with a right hander upon my left eye, you see the consequence.
But how comes it, Brididi, you whom I thought so quiet and so peaceable, are you a fighter then ?
Oh! I can strike a blow now and then, as well as my betters, and you're welcome to one, Ma'am Bonneau.
I'm much obliged to you.
No, no, you do not understand me. I mean, it was in your service that I invested one, just now on the nose of my adversary as a small proof of my esteem, and which he has so lovingly returned on my eye. It was Cabri, who was bringing his water buckets into the Lottery Office, while I was getting your ticket, he asked me who I was buying for—
Not I, trust me for that! what, to a comrade of your husband's ? no, no, no, I replied boldly, that I was buying for myself.
Good lad, that was right!
Yes, but he had seen me give the Louis d'or to the clerk, and he had the impertinence to say I deserved to be taken before a Justice, as it was quite clear that such a sum of money laid out on a Lottery Ticket by one like me, could only have been stolen.
Stolen!
Now, as I knew that was false on the very face of it, I thought I'd prove it so on the face of him who had asserted it. I did so, I asked him telegraphically with my left hand, what he meant by that insinuation, and here's his reply. If you get nothing by the Lottery, Ma'am Bonneau, at all events I've got something.
Oh! don't say
Well, its not pleasant, certainly. But after all, you've a right to do as you please with your own money.
No, Brididi, there's the misery of it—it was not mine.
Eh! not yours! What, all those Louis d'ors that
I have—
Marie.
Give me the key of the stables.
Take it, Brididi, you will find it in my work basket; my legs refuse to carry me.
The fact is, I have got some important business to transact; I'll tell you all about it presently.
Now, Ma'am Bonneau, you'll explain, I hope, what this little affair is that I have been mixed up with; I feel rather uncomfortable, and have certain misgivings that I gave Cabri a tap on the nose that he was not entitled to.
Oh, Brididi, I have been to blame, greatly to blame, but still not so much as you suppose.
As I suppose ! Oh, I had no particular suppositions ; at any rate, no dishonourable ones. It is not very likely that you've been stopping the Diligence at your time of life, and robbing the passengers—you are not a highwayman, I know.
When I said the gold was not mine, I didn't exactly mean that—I had a right to a share of it after all, for what belongs to my husband belongs to me.
Oh, its only a little domestic matter, is it! Oh, then, Cabri may keep his tap on the nose; but I forgot—he returned it to me.
I can't think why my husband should have made a mystery of his little fortune to me; I had no suspicion of anything of the kind till three years ago, when we moved into this house to be near Thérèse. Late one night, Bonneau believing me to be asleep, rose gently from the bed, and through my half closed eyes I saw him take out of one of the water buckets a small canvas bag, which seemed very heavy, and with it he passed out of the next room into this. I followed him; saw him lift up one of these squares, and after digging in the ground underneath with his knife, he hid the bag carefully away, and closed the square over it. When he returned, I still feigned to be asleep, but I lay awake, torturing myself with all sorts of absurd suspicions. In the morning, while Bonneau was gone to work, I raised the stone, opened the bag, and found it full of gold.
How terrible ! No, I mean how pleasant!
You see, Brididi, I had always from a girl a presentiment that I should gain a fortune in
the lottery; but, in my miserable existence, the chance had never occurred of my being
That's where you got wrong.
I took one Louis d'or—having lost that, you may easilly suppose I risked another, in the hope of getting it back, and so I have gone on, losing and losing, until the last Louis d'or that the bag contained is now gone, and if the prize does not come up this time, all is over. If despair and shame do not kill me, my husband will.
Nay, nay ! don't talk in that way, Ma'am Bonneau. You must win, you shall win; you've got excellent numbers— the clerk told me so, and he ought to know.
But you haven't given me my ticket.
That's true.
Twenty-three, forty-five
Fifteen and seventy
Yes, fifteen and seventeen, that's it. I'll run to the office, and bring you the list of prizes as they come up. Oh here's Thérèse.
That's right, child, you have done well to come and see us. Its not good to be alone, when one's sad.
Yes, I came to—What did I come for ?
You have something perhaps to tell me ?
No. no ! I left home without motive, without object, simply because I could not rest quiet. I walked on listlessly, till I found myself opposite the little shed where my father lived when we first came to join him in Paris.
Ah ! in that happy Rue de l'Echelle ; where we were living when Michel sent you the three thousand francs.
The last token we had of his existence. I wished to see that house again and still more, the house which faced it, and which used to be sad and silent as a tomb, but which is now open to all the world; full of life and movement. As I gazed on it I forgot my grief—for I had a hope, a strong and fervent hope—but I waited a long time, and he did not return.
Return! why who on earth did you expect ?
No one, no one at all, mother—I have no one to expect, now! and yet were I to tell you the idea which pursues me—an idea which, though I cannot believe in it, nevertheless incessantly comes back upon me—
What idea, Therese? what is it?
That Michel is not dead !
Poor child! poor child !
Tell me, mother! Michel never spoke of his family to us, did he ?
His family! you know that he had none; he has told us a hundred times, that he was a foundling.
Yes! educated by charity in a college where he served as an example to the other pupils, because he was more diligent, because he had more talent, 'Twas that very superiority which gave him his ambitious notions.
Yes! he had always an idea in his head that he was born for some higher condition.
And why should he not be ?
Thérèse, I do not understand you ! This very day you receive the certificate of your husband's death, and yet you speak of him as if he were still alive.
Mother, I have already told you that the announcement of his death, was no proof to me.
No proof!
No. You assert that I have lost him, I answer, that I have seen him.
Seen him!
See him still.
What is she about?
Do
Yes, just a little.
And you believe in the cards, do you not ?
Of course I do. They often shew us what we wish for.
Then let us see if they will not shew me—
Hush ! your father's there, and he can't bear cards. He says that consulting them is flying in the face of Providence.
No matter,—at any price I must discover—Sit down, dear mother; you won't be a moment—I intreat you!
No, no; stay where you are, and I'll shew you. If your father comes he won't scold you. Now, shuffle the cards.
Must I choose one ?
No, never do that! you must take them as they come.
Of course! chance is everything. Now, place them
What next ?
Count the cards one by one, till I stop you.
Yes, the Knave of Hearts!
Joyful news, mother ?
Well!
Do you see that my child ?
How you tremble!
With joy, dear ! with joy ! Do you see that card— the Nine of Clubs! The Nine!
And that means—
Money—heaps of money—a fortune !
Not a word—here's some one!
May I come in ?
You are in !
Shall I go out again, and knock first?
No —our door is always open to friends, and the Syndic is one of them.
I should think so, and Madeleine is another—come in, Madeleine.
What brings you here ?
Well, I can't say that we absolutely came to see you, Marie ; old friend as you are. Our visit was to Thérèse— not having found her at her own house, we thought she might be here.
Yes, our visit was to Thérèse.
To me, Alcide; for what?
To spare you, if possible the annoyance of receiving the whole market. As soon as the girls heard of your misfortune, they were all coming down in a body, to—to—
To congratulate you.
What are you saying ?
No, no ; I don't mean that—I mean to condole. Did I say "congratulate ? That's because I'm an ass—I only meant that all the girls were—and so am I—I'm sure —I needn't—
That'll do—you'll only make it worse. The fact is, Thérèse, we had another object; we come commissioned from the market—
Not now, kind friends—another time.
Unfortunately no other time will do. Its a mere form— we know it is impossihle for you to accept the honour at such a time, but it is our duty to offer you the privilege of presenting the bouquet!
Bouquet! what bouquet?
You know our custom in the market—on all public occasions—births,—marriages,—fetes, we have the right by patent, to present ourselves in our holyday clothes, at all the great houses, with our eloquence and our flowers! His Majesty himself has listened to our harangues before now—and so as the son of a grand Marquis has been restored to the house of his fathers, and come into possession of his property ; we have decided that it would be a pretty little compliment to ofter him the bouquet of congratulation !
And as Syndic of the Market, I head the procession!
But my dear friends, you know Thérèse has always refused to join in such ceremonies.
What did I say Madeleine? why, even when we went to the King himself you know she would'nt go with us ! It's a likely joke, that after that, she would give the preference to the Marquis de Melcy.
To the Marquis de Melcy, did you say ? is it to
Yes, to shew our delight at his return.
Exactly, our frantic delight. No one ever heard of him before, but that does'nt matter—our delight's just as great, and the compliment costs us nothing.
You refuse, of course ?
I accept!
What?
Impossible!
Wait for me a moment, and I'll go with you.
But my child—
Yes, to the Marquis de Melcy's!
She's a girl after my own heart! I'll run for Javotte meantime, and be back to meet her in five minutes.
I can't make it out! Thérèse accept on such a day ! the first day of her mourning! Oh, her grief must have turned her head!
Marie, was'nt that Thérèse I saw just now, tripping along with Alcide, the Syndic ?
It was indeed!
Going where ?
To present a bouquet to the new Marquis de Melcy.
To the son of my old protector! for he is so!—I have made every inquiry, and there's no
doubt as to the fact. Ah, ah ! they are going to carry him a bouquet, are they ? I flatter
myself I have one for him that will beat theirs into fits, and be twice as well received.
Marie, go and get my Sunday coat,
Why Bonneau, what has put you in such tip-top spirits to-day ?
Do you want to know ? then I'll tell you.—I've had a two hundred pound weight upon my breast for years, and now its removed. That's my state. For five years I have been labouring under the oppression, and now I breathe again.—If it wasn't for the sorrow of our darling daughter, I'm so happy, I could sing songs, and cut capers like a child.
But what's it all about ? one would think you had gained a prize in the Lottery ?
Lottery indeed! I gain a prize every time it's drawn.
You do ? How, how
By never putting into it. That's the way all honest folks should win. Lottery indeed! Ah, Marie ! when I pass by the office, and see the crowd of women there, carrying to that Grumbling House the hard earnings of their husband's toil, the sweat of their brows, the price of their children's bread, and all to satisfy their wretched passion for unholy gain, I say to myself, shame be upon their heads! they are bad wives, and worse mothers! Heaven can never smile upon their works.
First give me my holiday clothes! I'm going to court ! In state! my white cravat, my new waistcoat!
What for ? what for ? The man will drive me crazy!
Get me my cravat, and I'll tell you.
I'll not budge an inch, till I hear!
Well, then—
In gold!
What's the matter with you ? Its as true as I sit here ! That gold I was to place into the hands of his son—but his son never came! Nevertheless, my duty was simple—I had to keep the money till the young Marquis appeared to claim it— ay, and I'd have kept the two hundred Lonis d'ors till doomsday, if—
Were there so many ? Two hundred Louis! here !
Oh! don't be alarmed—not only
I understand—the mere thought of such a sum of money concealed in our poor dwelling, and we responsible, has upset your nerves; but compose yourself—the danger is over now—for this very day, this very hour, I am going to restore it, intact. Oh ! for that matter, rather than have used a sou of it, we would all have starved!—eh, Marie? Money that does not belong to us, is sacred. We have no right to touch it; not even to buy a loaf of bread !
There it is under that square.
Victory! ma'am Bonneau, victory ! we've won!
Oh! yes, I may tell all now! I've just come from the drawing.
I've just come from the drawing of the lottery. Embrace me, Ma'am Bonneau. Embrace me, Père Bonneau. The numbers have come up right, and have brought seventy thousand times the amount of the stake.
Of course, I am, here's the list.
Forty-five!
Forty- five!
Fifteen!
Fifteen!
And seventeen!
What's the matter ? Seventeen, I say.
It should be seventy. Lost! all's lost!
I understand—the money for the lottery has been stolen from me.
Here we are, ready to start! Where's Thérèse ?
Lottery!
That has brought this disgrace upon me. My treasure stolen, and the thief—
Brididi!
Me!
Wretch !
Brididi! Oh, no !
Père Bonneau, look in his face, and read deceit and treachery there. But I've found him out—Cabri told me all; Cabri saw him put down the Louis d'or for the ticket, with his own hand. Cabri made him acknowledge on the spot, that the gold was his own, and the clerk said it was not the first, by dozens, he had bought. He has robbed you for years, Père Bonneau, and deserves the Galleys.
And Marie is silent!
The hand of justice shall at once—
Hold ! hold, for mercy's sake, Bonneau! I cannot bear this. He is not the culprit.
And now lacqueys, lend me your ears. Yesterday you waited at table with a carelessness that
horrified me. If we had been in St. Domingo, I should have had you all whipped like Negroes,
But as, unfortunately we are denied those luxuries here, and have only the right of kicking
such fellows out of doors, rely on it I shall exercise that right, and effectually, if it
occurs again. Now, Chocolate !
To see the Marquis, she said she would call later in the day.
If I am absent when she calls, you will beg her to call again—if I am at home, shew her into me—but to me alone, you understand. I hear a carriage—it's the Marquis take these away.
Not at this moment, her ladyship is not in the house; she ordered her carriage to the Count de Cremancé.
To the Count de Cremancé, I thought as much !
Your lordship seems annoyed! Has the Minister raised any difficulties in the way of removing the sequestration from your property ?
Oh! all difficulties disappear before the influence of the Count de Cremancé, and I have just learned that he looks upon me already as his son-in-law. The Countess, my noble aunt, has I find arranged a marriage between his daughter and myself, and that too, without doing me the honor to consult me.
Ay, ay, that's something like an aunt! She's an invaluable lady.
As if I were to be disposed of in that manner. Not even my consent asked.
Why should it be ? Isn't it better as it is ? Your aunt is a woman of the world, and fearing some difficulty in getting your consent, does without it. Mademoiselle de Cremancé is a charming person—I remarked her at Versailles. She has a dowry of a million, and an influential family. Where could you find a better match ?
Gaspard, you are mad. That my aunt should contemplate such a marriage, I can understand; but you ! You know perfectly well that I cannot accept the hand of Mademoiselle de Cremancé. You know that I cannot marry.
You are joking!
I am serious.
Serious!
As death.
You pledged your word never to demand that sum until I came into possession of my father's property.
Decidedly. And you pledged yours to abstain from saying or doing anything that could interfere with this payment. If, therefore, you refuse the splendid alliance now offered you, it must be because you have some other still more splendid resource ; in that case, you can pay me—pay me !
Marry Mademoiselle de Cremancé! I! Why, madman, have you forgotten the history I gave you of my past life ?
Your past life ended, when your present began. It was washed away in the waves from which I
rescued you ; you, the last scion of an ancient family—but for me, engulphed in the depths of
the ocean. I found you poor, friendless, helpless. I made you rich, noble, powerful.
Gaspard, you know it cannot be—you know that I am married to another.
Not at all. Michel, the poor devil who battled in vain with the waves was married, but he is
dead, drowned,
Gaspard, hear me. Thérèse is still my wife, and no earthly power can separate us.
But if you should be free!
Free ! Heavens, can it be ? Thérèse dead!
Or married—its the same thing.
Married ! What do you mean ?
I mean that Thérèse is a widow, and she knows it.
Knows it!
Unless she is again a wife. I sent her the certificate of your death myself, drawn up in due form, so there can be no mistake. She has had time to shed a tear over your memory, and make your successor a happy man.
You dared to do this ?
I dare do anything that answers my purpose—that answered it. Besides, it was for her good! Think of her situation—neither wife nor widow! It was cruel! and I consider I was doing a good action, in relieving her from it.
Exactly. And do you suppose I mean to do it gratis ?
Ruffian!
Silence!—some one comes.
There is a person wishes to speak with his Lordship —he says he comes with a message from the late Marquis de Melcy.
What does this mean ?—I will see the man myself first.
Gaspard, remain where you are! Dubois, let him come in !
But I had better—
I will have it so !
Dubois shows in Bonneau, L. H.
Marquis—I—I—that is, my commission—forgive me—I wish to speak, and can't—for you see, when a man wishes to weep, and swallows his tears—it stifles him somewhat— but it will be over directly.
Oh! Marquis, I have indeed reason enough to be agitated. The last time I was in this room,
your honored father sat in that very chair where you now sit—my heart then was
An act which did you honor.
It was my duty, as it is now my duty to speak to you of the deposit of two hundred Louis d'ors, which, as you doubtless know, your noble father placed in my charge.
And which you now bring with you.
Alas ! no—I have it no longer—and yet I had concealed it carefully under the floor of my
house. I had told no one, not even my wife, of its existence ! every morning as I went to my
work, I said to myself—"the young Marquis may return when he likes, his money is there!"—and
to-day I was so happy
You have been robbed!
No, Marquis, I dare not let you suppose that—it might cast a slur upon my neighbours. 'Twas no robbery, 'twas an error.
Yes, an error; and the culprit was my wife—my own wife—whom I have left at home almost out of her mind, because the money which she thought was ours, proves to have belonged to another. 'Twas my fault, it was indeed! I ought not to have concealed the sacred deposit from her. This, Marquis, is my story—I can scarcely ask you to believe it.
Though were your father living, who knew me well, he would at once have taken the word of Père Bonneau, for ten times that amount.
Yes, I am well known in the neighbourhood. But you look kindly at me—you believe in me! Oh, Marquis! my heart thanks you, my tongue cannot. And mind, I came here to tell you of my debt. To tell you it shall be paid— every sou of it—but you must wait some time—for two hundred Louis d'ors is a debt which will take a deal of water to wash out.
I beg pardon, I can't read, but if this is an agreement you wish me to sign, give me the pen, and I will make my mark.
No, Père Bonneau; it is not an agreement, it is a receipt.
No, no, it can't be done so. It's all very well for you to say you are no longer my creditor, but that does not make me less your debtor—my conscience won't suffer that. You shall be paid. All my family will work for me. Oh! if my son-in-law were alive, he would help me, for he was a fine hearted fellow they tell me. But my daughter, Thérèse, his widow, will come to my assistance. She will sell everything, rather than suffer dishonour to fall upon her father.
Thérèse, —your daughter—is—here—in Paris !
Yes Marquis, she's the Fruiterer to the Court
I'm gone—Marquis, I shall never forget your generosity—though I don't accept it, I am not
the less grateful. But we all have our little notions you know, and my pride revolts!
You heard what he said ?
Distinctly. Your father-in-law is as honest as he is ignorant. Luckily he does not know you—if he had ever seen you before, your unguarded manner must have led to your discovery, to a certainty.
And Thérèse, whom you supposed dead, or married, is alive ! Thérèse is here! near me, in Paris!
Gaspard! do you take me for a villain ? Do you think that I will sully my lips with perjury,
my life with infamy ? No! I will not disown the woman whom, in the face of Heaven, I have
named my wife! I will not repose in the luxury of wealth, while she is weeping desolate in
poverty! I will not check the yearnings of my heart, nor thrust my love from out of it!
Very well, then, avow all to your aristocratic aunt. The Countess will be flattered to see the blood of the de Melcy's flowing in a water carriers bucket.
Flattered or not, she must hear the truth! Even family pride must bend before necessity!
Your brains are wandering, Marquis! This is downright folly! Don't you perceive, that no
sooner does your proud aunt hear of this degrading marriage, than she
But it
His consent! Poor fellow, he's in a dream!—but I must wake him. Oppose the Countess she will renounce you! This house is hers—it has been yours only by her courtesy—the sequestration of your property will be confirmed, and you will sink again into that misery from which I dragged you : rendered deeper, blacker, by the remembrance of the brilliant position you have lost.
I care not—poverty, with all its terrors, is not so terrible as infamy!
Um ! you think not ? Well that's a matter of opinion, after all. But at any rate, you will agree with me in this—that a fortune and a title are better than the Galleys.
The Galleys!
Don't you see that your fastidious scruples send you there headlong. You thwart the Countess—good! A lawsuit follows,—an endless suit. Lawyers are damnable ferrets— they poke their noses everywhere—and they will soon discover the forged certificate of your death, inscribed in the parish books.
That forgery was yours!
It was, I admit ; and you were my accomplice !
I!
Where is the Judge who will believe otherwise ? Have I not the agreement to shew, signed by
yourself; giving me one hundred thousand francs, if, by my means, you obtained possession of
your name and fortune ? One hundred thousand francs!—the sum's enormous! But forgery is not
bought for a trifle—and when a man pays so handsomely, he generally knows the value of what he
is paying for. You will of course deny, but your verbal denial will not stand against your
written accusal.
And you will dare to assert—
That we were accomplices ? Certainly. I told you I dared do anything that suited my purpose. And since you force me to it, I will speak out plainly. It is better we should understand each other at once. From this moment we change places—you are no longer what you were. I am the master here, not you ; so think well before you act. Henceforth you neither know Père Bonneau nor Thérèse, his daughter. You will never see them again. Enrich them as you please, with all my heart, but nothing more. In short, remain a Marquis, or be branded as a felon. Take your choice.
Her ladyship has returned, my lord, and begs your lordship's presence in her apartment.
Her ladyship has doubtless to announce to you the consent of the Count de Cremancé to your
marriage with his daughter.
You are a fiend incarnate!
You told me to inform you when Madame de St. Prie arrived.
Is she there? Show her in at once.
Are you the Marquis's Valet de Chambre ?
Yes, Madam.
Will you inform him that Madame de St. Prie would speak with him.
What?
Her own interest, no less than that of my master, forbids Madame de St. Prie from seeing her son.
Her son, you know then—
I know everything. It was with me that the late Marquis left all his instructions. I am, so to speak the guardian of his son. Now, although it would gladden me to allow the mother to embrace her long lost child, she must restrain her impatience till that son is married. I know the young Marquis well. He would never consent to see his mother as a stranger— he would avow you at once, and publicly.
Well ?
Do you not see Madam, that such an avowal would inevitably break off his pending marriage
with one of the highest families in France ? You are supposed to be dead, living, they would
have to acknowledge you. The prejudices of the class are so strong, that rather than receive
one of your humble birth, they would decline the alliance; remain in the
It is a cruel necessity, but I must submit, give him this portrait of his father, from—
A friend of his mother.
So be it, a friend of his mother—I will write to him.
I will fetch you a taper !
Where is this Gaspard, whom I was to meet ? they told me he was here—a lady!
Monsieur Victor!
Madame de St. Prie! you remember me, Madam ?
Oh ! yes. Your story interested me. I have also learnt your attachment to Mademoiselle de Cremancé, and its unhappy results—but I may serve you possibly more than you imagine, in that quarter.
You, Madam!
Hush!—not a word here. Come to me this evening. Silence!
Madam, if I may be allowed—Who is this ?
Thank you!
Is your name Gaspard?
At your service.
My name is Victor, and I am here by appointment !
Victor!
You will give the Marquis this note, with the miniature.
Certainly, Madam.
Good day, Monsieur Victor. I shall expect you this evening.
Without fail, Madam.
You have dropped the miniature.
That portrait is the image of—a person—yes, it must be my generous protector; to whom I was
indebted for
This the Marquis de Melcy? oh no, then I am of course mistaken.
But to business, you have applied for the place of Secretary?
Your note led me to hope—
Employment certainly. The place of Secretary is already disposed of, but from all I hear of
you, I feel so much interest in your welfare, that you may rely upon my doing my
utmost—
My most ardent desire is to be able to quit France for ever.
Indeed, how lucky! I have it in my power to promote you to a most important post—the superintendance of one of the Marquis's estates in St. Domingo. But there is a difficulty, I fear an insurmountable one—you must leave Paris this very night, in order to reach Bordeaux in time for the next vessel; in three days you must embark.
Nay, I am ready to depart at once!
But have you not an appointment for this evening with Madame de St. Prie ?
Oh! that is of no consequence, Madame de St. Prie is a stranger to me—
She has a kind desire to serve me, but alas! her hope of doing so, I know to be a fallacy. I must not give up the substance for the shadow.
Indeed then your fortune lies before you! Be at the Fleur de Ly's, in the Palais Royal in an
hour's time, I will send you there your letter of instructions, and the money for the voyage.
Energy and speed are required, and you're the man we want.
In an hour I will be there.
will be best. For
Come, there's one plague out of the way, and without much trouble either.
Sir, a man who calls himself Alcide, wishes to—
Alcide what ?
He merely said Alcide.
But Alcide is no name !
Syndic!
And what do you want with me, Syndic ?
Nothing, footman! I never deal with valets and lacqueys. Where is your master ? I come to him as ambassador from the ladies.
Ladies ! What ladies ?
The ladies of the market, who are come to offer a bouquet of welcome to the Marquis de Melcy.
Very well, I will receive them directly.
Who are all these people I see in the Court-yard ?
The ladies of the Market solicit the honor of presenting a bouquet to the Marquis de Melcy.
A deputation from the Market! They must be received. It is a privilege recognised even by the Court itself.
One sees that your ladyship is a woman of the world; a lady of the highest breeding.
Who is that?
The Syndic of the Market, whom they have appointed their ambassador!
They could not have made a better choice.
Your ladyship is too flattering.
Marquis, this visit will amuse you, and serve to shake off awhile the sudden melancholy which has seized upon you. While you receive the bouquet, I will see that a collation be prepared, worthy of these good people's merit.
Follow me, Gaspard.
Good day, Ambassador!
Humph ! the Marquis is not as well bred as his aunt.
Allow me to present to your Lordship the Mother of the Market. If not the oldest, she is the most respected among the middle aged, and the most eloquent among all. Oratory is her special gift. Oh, such a tongue ! such epithets! especially when aggravated. Don't blush Madeleine, the Marquis is all attention. Present—fire!
I give you my word my Lord, that I have dished up nothing expressly for the occasion. Impromptu speeches with me always want a good deal of preparation. But Javotte here, my niece, makes her first attempt to day, and she shall address you with the speech I made his Majesty on his recent return to Paris. It has only been served once, and is as fresh as ever.
It's as good as new!
Now Javotte, clear you voice, and don't be frightened!
" Marquis ! you have long been away from us, you are now come back— and France possesses one good man the more."
That's all. And then the King kissed me !
And then the King kissed me.
Well Madam, such being the custom—if you will allow me—
No Monseigneur, that honor is for the bearer of the bouquet.
And without any ill compliment to Madeleine, Marquis you'll be no loser by the exchange.
But where is she ? come forward child
Thérèse !
Now for the kiss. On both cheeks, in the good old style.
And now, how about some refreshment ? the heat makes one thirsty. Besides, I was thirsty at starting !
Now ladies to business!
No, I have a word to say to the Marquis.
She's going to ask him for his custom.
Will the Marquis order his valet to leave us ?
Never?
No—I—I—do not know you.
It is not possible such a likeness can exist! Features, expression, voice, all!
Michel, is it possible you can behold me thus, and yet your heart remain silent ? Does not the memory of the past, speak within you ?
I can only repeat—I—I never saw you till this moment.
I humbly ask your pardon for what I have said, you must have thought me mad, and to be frank with you, I fear my poor brain is wandering, I have suffered so much ! But you have just left Saint Domingo, 'twas there my dear husband died. He left me to seek his fortune, he cajoled me into letting him depart. It broke my heart to give consent, but he wished it, and his wish to me was law.
And have you never heard of him ?
Yes, twice; the first time—two years after he left us, oh! it made me so happy—but since then, I have waited again, three long years, counting the days, the hours, and each night as I have rested my aching head upon my lonely pillow, I have said—"To morrow —I must hear to- morrow." Even yesterday, I said the same. To day all hope is gone—for they have brought me the certificate of his death!
Would
Beyond all doubt!
It is no proof. No, none to
My son ! Have I then a son ?
And you had the heart to say—you did not know me!
Thérèse, if you but knew what I suffered in saying that.
I believe it—your heart is still unchanged, Michel —for, at the name of our child, you could not smother the cry of nature. But why this silence still? why do you deny me? And how did you become the Marquis de Melcy ?
You shall know all—but not now, not here.
You had always a presentiment of a noble origin— but why did you not write, and inform me of your good fortune ?
Prudence commanded my silence.
Prudence!—I do not understand. Had you but said, I am well—I am happy—I think of you—I love
you as of old—I should have asked no more. But living to send me a certificate of your death !
Explain
I sent it not, Thérèse—I knew not of it—on my soul, I did not!
Who then prepared it?
Ask me no more. Let it suffice you for the present, to know that it is necessary for me to
gain time to combat the haughty pride of my family, who would
Annul our marriage. They cannot!
They can, Thérèse, they can. Be ruled by me. My ambition was, to make you rich and
happy—that end is on the point of being realised—but to attain it, the world must remain in
ignorance that your husband lives.
My lord, the Notary from the Count de Cremancé is in the Countess's apartment. He desires me
to say the contract of marriage with Mademoiselle de Cremancé awaits your signature.
Thérèse!
The mask of hypocrisy and falsehood is torn from your face! In a few days you would marry
with another! Not while
I dare not go home, and yet I should do so. Poor Bonneau ! how grieved he was at having given way to his passion ; and how melancholy he seemed, when he started to go to the Marquis. What will be the result of this interview! I dread to think of it! Oh ! I am well punished for my error.
Marie! dear Marie!
Not by myself, Bonneau.
Nay, Marie, I was as much to blame as you—perhaps more so. I was the cause of all.
You!
Of course I was! I know your heart too well, Marie. If you had thought that the money did not belong to us, you never would have touched it.
Never! never! Oh! why Bonneau, why did you conceal it from me ? Could you not trust me ? The very mystery you made, aroused my curiosity, and the temptation was too great!
Well, the evil's done, and let it be forgotten. Besides, the Marquis has given me time.
You have seen him ?
And told him everything. An honest man is always eager to face his creditor—its only the shuffler who avoids him.
Oh ! you were right to seek him.
And I was rewarded. If you had only seen the way I was received. The generous young Marquis wanted to give me a receipt at once—but that wouldn't do for me. No ! no! the sacred deposit must be restored, and so I told him.
But I was proud at the confidence he placed in us, and left the house with a heart relieved. The Marquis de Melcy is worthy of his name.
The Marquis de Melcy is a villain !
Thérèse! What do you say ?
I say the Marquis de Melcy is Michel! My husband!
Your husband!
Impossible!
Oh! I recognised him this morning, but thought that I was mad! But when I confronted him face to face but now, in his own house—calmly and deliberately—all doubt disappeared. 'Twas in vain he refused to acknowledge me, I knew he was my husband!
Do you mean what you are saying ?
I swear it, in the face of Heaven! And yet, when I was alone with him—when with a breaking heart and tearful eyes, I said to him—" Michel, I am your wife—Thérèse!'' He, Michel—my husband—replied, " I do not know you!"
Then you see, my poor child, its clear you were—
Hold, father, and hear me out. Convinced that I was not mistaken, I spoke to him of Edouard—his child! At that name he softened, and confessed everything at once.
Confessed !
Everything ! But entreated me—implored me for my own sake—for his—for the sake of our
child—to keep our marriage secret for a few days ! Fool that I was! weak, credulous fool!
Deceived by his hypocritical tears, and my own yearning heart, I consented. And
Michel alive ! But you received the official certificate of his death!
Of course, she did—I read it myself. And now I see his object plainly. He did not choose to make his wife a Marchioness, and so would have made her a widow. What infamy ! Thérèse, that man never loved you! Forget him, and rejoice in the barrier he has raised between you. If he looks upon us in our humble, station with disdain, let us view him in his proud position with contempt.
Thérèse, you are right! It
I have given him twenty-four hours to reflect—it is too much ! This very night I will seek him again—you will both accompany me. We'll take Edouard with us, and see if Georges Michel, Marquis de Melcy, will dare to have his wife and child spurned from his door !
Well said, Thérèse! I'll go and fetch your marriage certificate! We'll be armed with that,
at any rate; and if all else fail, we have a last resource—a Court of Justice. If Michel will
not recognise you, the law will. There are no rich and poor there—the law is for the whole
world!
Who have we here ?
I am the Aunt of the Marquis de Melcy !
Her ladyship wishes to speak with you.
Oh! my daughter is quite ready to listen to any explanation !
Explanation!
Oh ! we have the honor of being addressed by her mother, then ?
You have.
If we can obtain her voluntary renunciation of her husband, so much the better. If we fail, we must have resource to the more violent measure.
Now, Madam, I await your commands.
Yes, we are ready to hear you.
I have but just learnt the tie that unites you to my noble nephew.
Its no fault of ours that you didn't know it sooner.
No! it was I who revealed all to her ladyship, unknown to the Marquis, and at the risk of his anger. He may discharge me, but I have discharged my duty, and my conscience is at rest.
What an honest fellow !
No—no—only to talk over the family affairs, I suppose.
To talk business, in short.
There can be no business to discuss between us— You are the Marquis's only relation, I am his wife. I would it were in my power to do you more honor, by my birth and education; but under your guidance, madam, I hope that I shall improve the one, and have the other forgiven.
If you will take the trouble to recollect, you will understand, that at the time my nephew married you, he did not suppose that there was any disparity between you.
Oh ! pardon me, he knew it perfectly.
What!
We peasants are as scrupulous of our honor, as you are of yours, madam ; and we look upon it as derogatory, to ally ourselves to those who cannot avow their family. Michel was in that position—a foundling—but I loved him—I had confidenee in his affection, and in his probity. In spite of all that could be said against him, I listened only to my heart; which said, no matter what his birth, an honest man cannot be unworthy of an honest woman !
Oh ! what then, the condescension was on the side of the Bonneaus?
Of course it was !
Undoubtdedly. Now perhaps you will say that it is the de Melcys' who have to blush for that alliance. If so, let, Michel remember the courage with which I braved the prejudices of my class—and imitate it, by renouncing the false pride of his.
Fairly put, Thérèse, and I am sure the Marquis—
We will end this useless discussion if you please, at once.
I beg your pardon, Madam, but I do not understand you.
Its clear enough, too, I think. Her Ladyship generously places herself entirely at your discretion—she offers you a fortune!
In exchange for your departure from Paris.
And your promise never to return. In fact, your consent to annul your marriage.
Are you aware, madam, that what you propose is neither more nor less than infamy ? The very thought of it is an outrage.
Allow me to tell you, Madam, that you must be either very bold, or very imprudent to come here, here in the very heart of the market—
In my own house, to try and buy my honor!
You don't know where you are! You don't know the volcano you are standing upon !
Or to whom you speak, madam. You forget, that she, whom you have just outraged, is a woman whose education has been neglected; who knows not how to restrain her language ; whose indignation may cause her to forget the respect which she owes to herself and you.
In a word, madam, to the Queen of this Market! Ay, and who has as much pride as the King upon his throne. The Market Women suffer insult from no one, and fear not to assert their rights against the highest in the land.
Ladies! ladies!
Oh ! fear nothing. You Madam have forgotten who I am, but I shall not forget who you are. Tell Michel who doubtless sent you, that an honest woman does not sell her husband, nor deny her child!
Once more reflect—
I have reflected. When Michel was poor, and friendless, I said to him, "There is my hand; my house is your home." To-night before an hour has passed, the Marquis de Melcy shall receive me into his.
Enough Madam, we shall see. Come Gaspard!
It's lucky they're gone. I could'nt have kept off much longer.
Oh, I did not fear my anger, but my grief. I would not have wept before her, for worlds.
May I speak to you Madam? oh! I will not detain you long, but your daughter has been so kind to me, that I could not leave, without saying farewell.
Are you going to leave us then! to quit Paris ?
France—and for ever.
Wherefore ?
It must be so, I cannot stay to see Mademoiselle Cremancé the wife of another.
It is.
Mademoiselle de Cremancé! who is to marry the Marquis de Melcy ?
The same.
Then dismiss your fears good friend, that marriage will not take place.
What do you say ?
I say that never will Mademoiselle de Cremancé be Marchioness de Melcy while I live. I cannot yet tell you more, but I swear to you that that marriage will not take place.
How strange ! this is the second assurance I have had to day. Oh, dared I but hope!
May I come in ?
Of course, I don't know why you ask, for you never wait for an answer.
Monsieur Victor, remain at all events, for a few days.
I will. I will see you and Madame de St. Prie once more, before I decide.
That's right, stay and pass the carnival with us, we're all preparing for jollity to-night. It's the affiancing of Brididi and Javotte, too. There'll be dancing and music in front of the fountain, and a grand supper at the Fleur de Ly'.
Thank you, Alcide; but such joyous doings are only for those who are happy.
If that's the case, I'm sure I ought not to go there either.
What Syndic, you not happy ?
No but I hope I may be so in time, if I can only follow the advice of Madeleine. She has given me up in despair as a husband for Javotte, so now she can advise disinterestedly.
And what is it that she advises you to do, to be happy ?
Oh don't let me stand in your way, flower of modesty. I'll go and fetch Edouard, who is
going out with us.
Look here, Thérèse! You are a widow—I am a bachelor; you're lovely—I'm not bad looking. You've some money—I've an old uncle crippled with the rheumatism, who'll leave me all he has in the world, except the rheumatism. Can't we put all this together ? If so, I remain where I am—if not, say the word, and I'm off to Marseilles.
Alcide, you must not go.
I cannot be your wife; but you are my friend, my truest friend ! I have need of you, and you will remain.
I have a service to ask of you!
Something to ask of me ? A service ? Thérèse, don't ask, command !
I am going out presently on very important business.
I understand, and you wish me to go with you. I'm ready ! Let the Carnival go to the devil! Here I am.
No, that is not it, Alcide. Be here tomorrow by break of day, and if I have not returned, nor sent you word where I am, go you straight to the house of the Marquis de Melcy—insist upon seeing him. And if his Porter refuse you the door—
I'll get in at the window.
Then ask the Marquis boldly, what he has done with Thérèse, his wife !
His Wife!
No questions! If the Marquis refuse to answer, I am in peril, and in that case, act as if you heard me, say "Alcide, my friend, save me !"
I don't understand a word, but never mind that! Had'nt I better go with you now ?
No; to-night my father will accompany me.
Oh! he'll do. He's a rock! I can trust you with him. Till daybreak to-morrow, then, good by,
and good luck!
You are Thérèse Michel?
I am. What would you with me ?
You must follow me!
Follow you ? Where ?
All dark ! Thérèse!
Where is she ?
In prison!
Gone!
For ever.
Bravo, ladies ! Here's Brididi and Javotte.
All gone, and without waiting for their Syndic! that's respectful, however ! But I'll
astonish them, in spite of themselves. I'll jump into a hackney coach, and get there before
them now.
Hoigh! out of the way there—you'll be run over.
Not I! on the contrary—I'm going to get in—I've taken you!
But I'm hired already !
That's nothing!
Thérèse's voice! where do want to go ?
To the Marquis de Melcy's !
And where are you taking her ?
To the Bastile !
Not if I know it. You must first get my permission !
Seize that fellow, and take him to the guard house!
Seize
As for you, you whipper snapper, I'll soon cool your courage!
Hear! hear !
The happiness of Madeleine Richard is this day complete. Indeed I may say—as so many have said before me —that this is the proudest moment of my life.
Hear! hear!
This day my, niece, Javotte, has been triumphantly received into the bosom of our honorable Market! This day she has been affianced to a worthy lad—bow, Brididi! —and this day week she will be married to him. Having opposed the match for years—having thrown every obstacle I could think of, in the way of her happiness, I consider I have done my duty as an affectionate relation—let her now do her's. My prejudices against the lad are all removed, and the magnificent truth shines forth in all its beauty — that virtue must prevail at last.
Hear! hear!
Javotte, the speech is with you—I've done—and will now sit down amidst tumultuous cheers.
Hear ! hear !
Madame de St. Prie has not arrived yet—nor the Marquis either, who was to meet her here. I am first at the rendezvous. I know not wherefore, but a vague hope seems to whisper courage to me. I think I see her coming now.
The resolution I have taken, is the only one that can restore me to that tranquility of conscience, which my error has banished. Thérèse shall have ample reparation. No longer will I stoop to the base cowardice which lends itself to crime—the threats of Gaspard shall no longer avail. Let him speak out—let them suppose me his accomplice—condemn me as such—I care not ? Let the whole world believe me guilty, so that Thérèse—Thérèse forgive me !
Marquis, finding your carriage was at the door, I ordered your coachman to drive me to you; as I have been seeking you everywhere, to accompany me to the Count de Cremancé.
Madam, I am sensible, deeply sensible of your kindness in promoting this alliance for me : but I must with pain inform you, that it cannot take place.
With still more pain, it is my duty to inform you, Marquis, that it must and will.
But I have myself broken it off!
You have done nothing of the kind.
I have written to the Count de Cremancé !
But your letter did not reach him. Here it is.
That you are married to Thérèse Bonneau—a Market Woman, I believe they call her. I know that already, but it makes no difference—that marriage is void!
Void! not so. To annul it, my consent must be
Where would you go ?
I go to seek my wife!
And let loose the tongue of scandal for no purpose!
You will not find her!
What do you mean ?
Madam, your orders are executed.
Orders! What orders ? And against whom?
There, I said so !
Ah ! Père Bonneau and Marie at last!
One moment, friends!
It
Who is this ?
Who is
Will he dare look
Bonneau, he will look you in the face, and say, " Father, I know you well; I honor you—I embrace you!"
There, madam, you see who
Then give me back my daughter, whom you have had cruelly arrested, and sent to prison.
To prison ? Thérèse in prison !
In prison ! What's that ? Thérèse in prison!
Back, friends—do not interfere !
But I have the marriage certificate here! here with me ! and yet, to recover my daughter, I will not produce it. I will forget that she is your nephew's wife ! I will forget—deny it! I will declare that he is not Michel! Oh ! madam, implore his pity for me—implore him to give me back my child.
Blind, foolish man! Do you not see that I, whom
I thought so ! I never liked her, from the first.
She! Do you hear that, madam ? What, then, have you done with my daughter ?
You shall know all, as soon as this disgraceful marriage is annulled.
Annul the marriage ! No one can do that!
No! not even such a great lady as you!
Wherever she may be, I will publicly claim her as my wife!
Go, then, claim her at the gates of the Bastile!
The Bastile!
The Lettre de Cachet that sent her there, must have been obtained in my name—my name shall now secure her release.
You're under a slight error, Marquis. The Court of Criminal Appeal forbids your approaching her. You will will never see her more.
Room there, for the Marchioness de Melcy!
Thérèse !
Thérèse !
Yes Thérèse ! who has come hither to demand, in public, her title of wife! who has come to make her rights, and those of her child, respected! Marchioness, or Market Woman, no one need blush for Thérèse Michel!
Well said Thérèse, well said !
Thérèse, my own Thérèse ! and so I once more see you near me.
My heart is full, dearest Thérèse, they shall separate us no more. Persecution threatens me, but I will brave it. I will brave all for, your sweet sake.
Again that man!
Are you at all aware whither your madness is hurrying you ? we may as well speak plainly,
now that we are in the bosom of our family, for the moment is arrived when further delicacy
would be misplaced. But I will not speak too loudly, lest the rest of your family there should
hear us—and
A felon!
The name he bears, obtained by fraud, belongs to another, he is
I am not the Marquis de Melcy ?
He has robbed another of the name !
I wanted a Marquis de Melcy, and I made one ! I wanted a Marquis de Melcy, who would owe all
to me ! I found you an orphan, poor, yet ambitious—poverty made you credulous, and easily
moulded—the clay was at my hands, and from it I modelled the
And the will of the late Marquis was not authentic ?
Perfectly authentic, I simply substituted the name of Michel for that of Victor.
Victor!
Villain ! and why did you deceive me! why did you not let me perish where I was ?
And how do we know that this is not also false ?
Oh no father, this time he speaks the truth.
And now perhaps, you understand why I have at last made a clean breast of it before you all?
Yes! that we may be silent, that we may resign ourselves, that we may become your accomplices, is not that your object ?
That's it exactly.
Miserable wretch! but you will be disappointed. When I prayed for the return of my husband,
I did not pray to have him rich, but honest. Michel, raise your head, for you are not the
accomplice of such a
You!
I! all that this wretch has told me, for the sake of forcing me to commit a crime, I can use, to restore to a poor Orphan the name and fortune he has robbed him of.
Not quite so fast, if you please ! Michel, you belong to me, by right of salvage! I don't make Marquises every day, and I can't afford to give them up so readily. Pay the money as agreed between us, or we go to the galleys together.
But he is innocent!
What Judges will believe him so ?
I will be his witness.
You! his wife !
We will all bear him witness.
In vain! There is but one living witness who can avail.
Victor!
Victor! And he has quited France for ever.
Victor!
Not gone!
The only living witness who can avail, and who will declare the innocence of the husband; of
his benefactress.
And he had better stay here no longer.
No thoroughfare ! but to the Galleys !
The Galleys ! Never!
Hold ! you cannot be allowed the luxury of suicide! You are now a prisoner. If you attempt to move, I treat you as an escaped convict, and shoot you like a dog!
Be quick, then, for I have the start of you. The law is in my own hands, agd thus I—
Fire!
He who deceives all the world, should die deceived.
Michel?
Long live the Marquis de Melcy !
Health to Michel and Thérèse !
Health to Michel and Thérèse!