There! I think I've done enough for to day. I wasn't born to work; that's a fact. When madame hired me in Paris, it was distinctly understood, I was for ornament; but now we're down in the country, she looks for utility. She'll be disappointed. (dusting statue down stage, L.) So this is Apoller, as is spoken of for his figger. Bah! put Apoller in livery, I should like to see how he'd look then. (complacently) It's the uniform as tests the man. (moves about, still dusting) I wonder what made the countess quit Paris in such a hurry. Since old Count Beauregard did the amiable thing, leaving madame, young, rich, and a widder, she's been as capricious as the new barometer, that Mr. Copernicus Kopp has just hung up in the hall, which sticks to nothing but change, and must be studied by the rules of contrairy. (throwing himself on couch, R.) Now, if I was a rich young widder, I'd—

This way—this way!Fichu enters, L.Lor! Monsieur Plumeau, is that you?

Yes, Madame Fichu, it's as much as is left of me. I find the country air too exhausting. Early rising and regular habits are killing me. You were speaking to something when you entered—one of the natives, I presume?

Monsieur Molasse's servant.

The retired grocer! (rising languidly) Really, if   madame isn't a little more choice in her acquaintance, I must resign.

Hush! (turning to door, L.) Come in, Monsieur Mouton.

Here I am. (he comes a little down stage, then halts in wonderment at the gorgeous appearance of Plumeau) Well, I never!

I suppose not. (walking round and surveying him superciliously) How wonderful are the works of nature. (posing before Mouton) Don't often see a person like me in these parts?

No; I've only seen one before, an' he were jack-pudding to a travelling doctor.

Barbarian!

Don't stand there with your mouth like a round O in a copy book, and all your fingers pointing different ways like a sign post. What are you afraid of?

I a'n't afraid. I'm 'stonished, that's all. I'm always 'stonished. (laughing sheepishly) It's a way I've got. (pulling out note) Here's the compliments of Monsieur and Madame Molasse, an' they'll be here in an hour, to wait upon the Countess Beauregard.

One would think you read it.

O' course I have; I'd nothing else to do on the road.

Good—very good—the brute   has parts, if cultivated. (laughter in conservatory at back) The Countess! it's really too bad. You don't hear such laughter as that in Paris—very coarse merriment, very.

Laugh on, dear, I am always happy to contribute to the amusement of my friends.

Don't be angry, Clare; but I must laugh, to think that I should have met that pearl of fashion, and queen of ton the Countess Beauregard, perched upon the back of a shambling donkey, between two baskets of cherries, one on each side, to preserve her balance.

I confess the donkey, but deny the shamble. Fatigued with a long walk, I accepted the offer of a good-natured peasant woman, and was returning home in true Arcadian fashion, when, to my joyful surprise, I met you. (taking both Julie's hands) Tell me to what lucky chance I am indebted for this visit, which I hope to make a long one?

A chance indeed. I was on my way to join our old friend, the Baroness d'Antin, who is holding quite a little court of her own at Eaudouce.

The bathing place a dozen miles from here?

Exactly. But halting to change horses at this village, I heard by accident, that you were the owner of this estate; and so, dear friend and schoolfellow, I renounced the Baroness for a time and—am here.

Nor shall you speedily depart.

  It is now my turn to put a question. May I ask the reason of your sudden disappearance from society and Paris?

I have but a woman's reason to offer—caprice!

Which, of course, as a woman, I am slow to believe. I suspect an affair of the heart!

Heart. My dear Julie, you are talking of society and Paris, where such an adjunct to one's anatomy is found only in a fossil state, preserved in cabinets of curiosities.

Yet all the world said—

Nothing worth listening to, be assured. Ah, Julie, the little of belief still left to society is reserved for calumny alone.

But—

Seized with a sudden disgust for the artificial, I resolved upon studying the natural, so placing those two curious specimens of art, Fichu and Plumeau, outside my travelling carriage, I mounted inside, and somehow—I scarcely know how—found my way here.

A delightful place!—but the natives?

A most docile race, that from living in continual companionship with the cattle have caught much of their dumbness and placidity. When any of the inhabitants do make a descent upon you—they either sit silent for hours like a circle of Druidical stones, or all open upon you at once like   a kennel of hounds at feeding time.

You, at least, have not changed.

I'd a visit from one of the chiefs of the tribe only this morning, and he sat staring at me thus—with a face round and blank as a Dutch clock, and, to complete the simile, he only sounded twice within the hour, once to tell me the time of day, and once to instruct me as to the probable state of the weather.

But you have another neighbour of whom you have not yet told me—the proprietor of that white house which overlooks the river.

The General Lacroix.

Hercules Lacroix! I have heard my father speak of him—a brave old soldier; and also, if my memory serves me well (she places hand on Countess's arm and glances archly into her face) the uncle of Felicien Doucet.

Well?

Is he here?

The general—

No! Felicien.

What do you mean?

Nothing—only the clouds are beginning. to disperse. (her manner changes into one of affectionate kindness) Clare! Clare! you must not attempt to deceive me. All Paris talked of Felicien's love for you.

  All Paris was mistaken then.

Of one thing I am sure. Pardon the frankness of a friend—almost of a sister—but—

What?

You loved him.

I?

Nay—I will spare you the pain of an avowal—that blush is more eloquent than words.

Well then, I loved him—(she takes Julie's hands) and I love him still!

And he?

Loves me no longer.

Is it possible—has another usurped?

Oh, no, no; I am sure of that! (with a growing agitation) yet I will be satisfied—and I have a means!

What means?

His uncle.

General Lacroix!—a confirmed woman-hater!

But now a captive to my bow and spear.

The lion in love? impossible!

Hopelessly entangled. (they both laugh) In his noble simplicity of heart he sees nothing that is passing around him, and believes that his nephew and I have met here for the first time—seeing this, and irritated—justly irritated—by Felicien's change of manner and strange indifference, I determined   to—

Play the uncle against the nephew?

A freak, and I almost fear a foolish one—yet it is the only test—for without jealousy (she sighs) there is no love.

A lover of sixty! Cupid repudiates the idea.

Don't be alarmed, neither Cupid nor Hymen are likely to involve themselves in this matter—on one side at least.

You will fail, or General Lacroix is sadly belied by his reputation.

A word of mine, and this scorner of a woman is at my feet. You shake your head! Come, I will wager this bracelet, which you were admiring so much, against your tablets, or what you will—that in a week, nay, this very day, I will draw from our man-of-war a declaration, and that in due form.

The witness?

Yourself! It is for the credit of our sex I break a lance. Come, and while you make your toilette, we will organize the attack.

And the enemy?

Announce, General Hercules Lacroix!

Hush! he is here!

General Lacroix! are you asleep? sleeping at your post is death by all the articles of war. (striking cane upon ground and coming down stage) Thunder! here's a name that   I've borne for sixty years and more, and yet it's too much for this lazy rascal to carry conveniently for two minutes. (turning a little up stage) Pons! where's Sergeant Pons?

Here!

Very good! (seeing Plumeau) What not gone yet?

I'm going. (as he exits, R.) Here's manners!

The Countess is right. An army is nothing without a head, nor a house without a master—women are all very well, but there's no discipline—no drill—no subordination. (looking cautiously around) Sergeant!

General?

Give me a pinch of snuff.

'Gainst orders.

Whose orders?

The Commander-in-Chief's—she don't like snuff.

Give it me, rascal! (handling cane) Give me the box! (he takes box from Sergeant, and is about to open it, when a noise is heard at back—hastily) There's somebody coming! It's the countess! Take back the box, do you hear, sirrah?

It's only Master Felicien.

De-licious! I promised not to carry a box myself—so you carry it for me.

To think that a man as I've seen face a whole park of artillery without a quiver of the eyelid should give up all his pleasant habits, because—

  Silence!

Yes! mon General!

Felicien, did you say?

Looking at the flowers with Monsieur and Madame Molasse.

The grocer and his wife! Sap-r-r-ris-ti!

'Gainst orders.

What's 'gainst orders?

Swearing—You told me to remind you.

Bah! No snuff—no smoking—no swearing—what else is there in life worth living for?

Nothing!

Silence!

Yes! mon General.

'Twas your fault, Madame Molasse; if your confounded dog hadn't got between my legs—

My dog? for shame, Molasse; there's not a person who hears his voice but says, “That's not a dog but a duck.”

I'd a dog once of just the same breed, he bit everybody—he was always mad.

Mad?

General, allow me to introduce to you Monsieur Copernicus Kopp, an amateur astronomer, in correspondence with all the learned societies of Europe.

  Only press of business has hitherto prevented any of those distinguished bodies from answering his letters.

A would-be prophet, who searches among the stars for reasons why everybody should be miserable on earth.

Good morning, General, if any morning can be good after such a night.

Night! it was a beautiful night.

Beautiful! with the tail of the dragon crossing the house of Mars? (with sudden fervour) I hope you're well, General.

Never better in my life.

Ah! that's a bad sign. It's an awful thing to feel well sometimes; now there's Molasse, I've no doubt he feels well too?

Very well!

It's very sad, very—but such omens arn't sent us for nothing. (to Molasse) There was a friend of mine, about your build, only you're shorter in the neck. Kopp, he says to me one morning as merry as a cricket, I can't tell what's come over me, I never felt better in my life. (glancing at General) I didn't say anything to discourage him at the time, but of course I expected the worst.

Lor!

And sure enough it came.

  What came?

Apoplexy, that very night—dreadful!

A cheerful person.

Very. I don't know what we should do without him, he foretells all our misfortunes; not a morning passes but he's something new for us, as I say to Sophonisba, (indicating Madame Molasse) our Eden wouldn't be complete without Monsieur Kopp.

Eden?

It's the name we've given to our estate; for as I say to Sophonisba, all depends upon how you christen the article one offers for inspection.

But an Eden should have trees.

And we've a beauty, growing right in front of the house, shedding such a delicious gloom, that you can't see your hand in either of the rooms.

While the noise of rooks makes conversation impossible.

But then the stillness of the night.

And the comfort of the stars.

Certainly, our nights would be quiet enough if it weren't for two owls which have taken forcible possession of our pigeon house, and out of gratitude I suppose, hoot all night under our windows. But, then as I say, what does it matter? it's rural, and if it wasn't for such things, we shouldn't know   we was in the country.

Bother the country, it's all very well to talk about, over a bunch of flowers in a bough-pot, but as I says the bulk ain't up to the sample. Persons of our property, should move in our proper spear, which isn't stuck in the middle of a garden.

But think of a delicious little hermitage all covered over with ivy.

I'm none of your 'ermits; I don't approve of 'em.

White curtains that reflect the sunlight.

With spiders crawling all over them.

Fresh flowers in the bedrooms.

Poisoning the air.

And a faithful dog in the outhouse.

Who howls so all night that, you're disappointed if you wake without a sudden death in the morning.

Dreadful!

Thunder! Madame, since you'll have neither fruit nor flowers, what do you say to the vegetables?

Vegetables! We haven't a potatoe in the garden, but which from the cost, mightn't have been a pine apple.

My potatoes! you should see 'em, General; so round and plump—such olive complexions and languishing eyes; each one promising an increase of family.

  Molasse!

Sophonisba, I am silent.

Madame will be with you directly. (to Molasse) The gardener is in attendance to show the tropical plants monsieur desired to see.

Them creepers which go about hanging themselves everywhere.

The owdacious ones, and justly named.

Stay! (to Pons, who has remained standing like a sentry in background) Sergeant!

General!

Snuff box. (takes box—inhales a large pinch rapturously, then returns it to Pons) Now, right about face—march!

Yes, mon General.

Why are you so sad, Felicien—heart touched; eh?

Grazed by a passing shot perhaps—nothing more, sir.

Umph! Womankind's a strange invention, but a necessary one. Without some such contrivance there'd soon be an end to recruiting—no men, no soldiers—and without soldiers—thunder!—there'd soon be no France. Take a wife— take a wife—take a wife!

A wife? you're jesting.

Morbleu! but the boy looks as scared   as I did when I heard the whiz of an enemy's bullet for the first time; but, as I soon got accustomed to the one, you'll cease to turn pale at the idea of the other.

Pardon me, sir; if I declare myself a convert to your opinions, so often expressed—I shall never marry!

My opinions—what opinions?

Surely, sir, I have heard you declare marriage to be the worst description of gaming, and one in which it was impossible to get a glimpse of your opponent's cards.

Umph!

That it was taking a life-lease of a house of which you've only seen the painted sign-board.

Bah!

And voluntarily placing yourself in a pillory to be pitied or laughed at by your friends.

Thunder!

It was a collar for the neck! It was a clog for the heels! and a man might deem himself fortunate if these were the only adornments.

Sa-pr-r-r-ri-sti! the rule I grant you, but there are exceptions—exceptions.

I would fain believe so; but must decline to try the experiment. (gravely) I shall never marry.

Never's a long day, and I must own it   grieves me, Felicien, when I hear it from your lips. (in a gayer tone) Come, come, such was not always your opinion. If report speaks true a pair of bright eyes had something to do with your long stay in Paris. (Felicien starts) Though you have kept their owner's name a secret—even from me.

I pray you, sir.

Was the wound then so deep?—pardon me if I have probed it too roughly. Yet I do not despair but it will heal in time. Love is the rainbow that spans the horizon of youth and is made up of tears and smiles, as the other is of rain and sunshine—besides, a lover's quarrel—

It was no quarrel, sir—mine was a foolish dream, from which I have awakened.

She was unworthy then of love.

Of such a love as mine, yes.

My poor Felicien! tell me, who was the lady?

I pray you, sir, let her name be as my love—a secret.

Love! and a secret! both matters that should have some interest for a lady. (with intention) Is it that Monsieur Doucet can have felt the passion?

He has; but is happy to number it among the things of the past.

A happiness possibly shared by the lady.

  A woman, madame, is only happy when she suffers or makes others suffer. To suffer, when she loves—to inflict suffering, when she is loved.

You are severe.

Will you not break a lance, General, in defence of our sex?

I—I, madame. (recovering himself, and bowing over hand which he raises to his lips—she watching Felicien, who is turning over books on table) Against the world, if permitted to wear your colours.

Well, there, then (she plucks flower from stand of plants) a rose, (giving it) but beware it has thorns.

I already feel them—in my heart, madame.

Countess! come and help us to laugh; here's a Monsieur Copernicus Kopp prophecying the most dismal things. It seems all our stars are falling ones.

He shall cast my nativity. (to Lacroix, as they go up stage) For when I was born—

Venus must have been at her greatest brilliancy.

And Mars in the ascendant. (aside and glancing at Felicien) If I could only make him jealous!—but, no! he is marble.

Why do I stay!—this woman has   no heart.

I will inform Madame—

No occasion, (laughter at back) my friends have already joined her. I'll wait for them here.

As monsieur will. (aside as he moves back towards door, his admiring eyes rivetted upon De Fauconville, who is surveying apartment through a lorgnon) There's style!—there's manner!—Paris in every gesture. (sighs heavily) Such a sight makes a man feel he's an exile.

Baron de Fauconville!

Monsieur Felicien Doucet! (sneeringly) Though where the body is we may expect the shadow.

Monsieur de Fauconville, when in Paris I warned you to jest no further upon this subject. I repeat that warning here.

I mean no jest; so bright a planet should have many satellites—has had many— so we need not be jealous of each other.

Enough, sir. If I could not doubt the information you forced upon me—one privilege at least was left me.

What was that?

To despise the informer.

I ought to be angry; but that I can make allowance for the irritability of a deceived and disappointed   lover. Painful as it was for me to dispel the soft mirage of love, yet, for once, I felt called upon to play the part of a Mentor, and point out the desert beneath.

And your presence here?

As easily accounted for as your own. When half dead with ennui at the neighbouring watering place of Eaudouce, I learnt by accident that the Countess Beauregard was our neighbour; and so a party of us, all Parisians, set out en masse upon a voyage of discovery, to find by what magical influence the most charming coquette of all Paris had been transformed into a shepherdess.

And your search—

Is already rewarded. (bows) I too am an Arcadian!

Sir!

Oh! in charity! let us not disturb this Paradise which seems complete in all things.

Even to the serpent among the flowers.

Only think, dear, of our disinterring you in this manner?

Just at the time, too, that we were bored to death by that monotonous sea, and were praying for a new sensation.

How was it you discovered this humble retreat?

It's a discovery we owe to Horace de Fauconville.

De Fauconville!

 Who, like another Columbus, lighted on a new world just as we were beginning to tire of the old one.

Let us hope the invaders are welcome.

This man again! (aloud) In these primitive regions our doors are open to all.

She receives him with a smile. Oh! woman! woman!

Nothing so delicious as the country. I could live in it for ever—that is, for a week or two—to picnic among the ruins—there are always ruins—to walk by moonlight—it's always moonlight in the country.

Charming!

Dee-lightful!

So retired—so quiet.

Quiet!—ask Molasse! We came into the country in search of solitude; but unless we're always making a noise we get no peace.

It's rural.

But not comfortable: and as for privacy, we can't sit down to our tea, but—boo!—a cow comes and thrusts her head in at the window.

Beautiful!—who can doubt the genuineness of the milk when the cow herself condescends to look after it.

New milk and eggs—delicious!

  Charming!

Dee-lightful!

Eggs!—that's another mistake. I bought a hen the other day, warranted a good layer; so naturally expected she would supply the family—we're only six. Well, she does nothing of the kind—quite the contrary.

She gave us an egg pretty regularly at first, but since I engaged a boy to look after her she lays nothing but shells.

You'll find them all in your star—I've been casting your nativity—signs all bad—dreadful!

Fiddlesticks!

It's not your fault. You were born in a wrong house.

I was born in the house of Molasse and Co., under a most respectable sign, and my father—

Don't talk of fathers, they're only secondary causes —the planets are the primary.

The deuce they are! If any such planets enter my house—

Molasse!

Sophonisba, I am silent!

A word—I would speak with you.

Sir!

I will speak with you.

Speak on, sir.

  We parted in Paris to meet no more; accident has reversed that decision, and I am again at your side. (his voice softens) Clare, dear Clare!

Have a care, or—

Do you have a care! (glancing quickly round, he leans towards the Countess, and speaks in a mocking whisper) By quitting Paris you thought to escape me. (he laughs) Folly! I am your shadow, Clare Beauregard.

Will no one rid me of this man?

Do not forget your wager—(with alarm) but how pale you are—you are ill!

It's nothing; nothing, I assure you.

Some sudden fear—a souvenir perhaps.

You are mistaken. I have no fear. (she sweeps past him, and takes C. of stage—her manner as she addresses Guests is very bright and sparkling) Baroness, you have not sufficiently admired my flowers. In bidding you all welcome, I did so on the understanding that ennui should be left at the door.

The reservation was superfluous: ennui died as we crossed your threshold.

Charming!

Dee-lightful!

You are queen regnant, dear.

And shall use the royal prerogative—a yawn, eternal banishment—a sigh, the crime of lése Majesté, at least.

No fear, she says! (his face darkens, and his voice changes) She braves me, then!   Rests upon her innocence, perhaps. (he laughs) A broken reed! a broken reed!—with such proofs as I hold, the world, her world, will not hesitate to condemn. Marriage is out of the question; for, though forgiveness is part of a lover's creed, Felicien Doucet has only to know that those papers still exist.

For him to demand them again.

Monsieur Doucet still here! (recovering his sangfroid) Delighted to have again the pleasure.

I demand of you, Baron de Fauconville, those papers which you promised me to destroy.

You demand them, and by what right?

By the right which belongs to every man who believes a woman to be falsely calumniated, and knows her to be defenceless!

Falsely! you cannot doubt the proofs I offered?

I do!

Your reason?

Their being offered, and by you!

Young man, for a lesser insult I have exacted a life—yet I would fain make some allowance for blighted hopes. You are not the first, nor will you be the last who has been the creator of his own angel and borrowed wings from heaven to bestow them on a creature of clay.

Enough, sir! I have not now to learn the power   of a slanderous tongue, so deadly in its venom that a whole life of purity and truth cannot obliterate the momentary stain.

Ah! I see. The country air is dispelling the smoke of the town. (laughs) Birds, flowers, and sunshine all invite to love, no wonder we tune our guitars.

No jesting, sir!

Chut! the ladies.

A beautiful collection!

Charming!

Dee-lightful!

Really nature, you know, is not so bad after all, if 'tweren't for the exertion, the fatigue, and—and so forth.

For shame! to be wearied with everything is now so much the fashion, that to be satisfied with the world we live in, is to proclaim oneself out of it.

Volnay is right—our modern life is too exhausting.

We talk of exhausting life as the peasant accused the ass of drinking up the moon when its reflection disappeared with the water. Our dulness grows out of ourselves and is apart from the active world around us. Look at our young men for instance, who profess to be tired of life before they have properly opened their eyes upon it. For enthusiasm they have substituted indifference—for, eloquence a drawl—   for intelligence (laughing and throwing wide her arms) a blank!

And the remedy—where is that to be found?

In action! like Demosthenes I exclaim—action! action! action! till our Sybarites cease to complain of a crumpled rose leaf; and act the Stoic and the hero at home as well as they have done abroad.

And she can speak thus—this man must lie, or—

You dine with us to day, Monsieur Doucet? You uncle has promised.

Impossible!

A previous engagement?

I have other engagements.

As you will. (aside) I will punish him for this.

We shall meet again, sir.

When and where you please.

Madame! where nature has been so prodigal of loveliness, I dare scarcely hope a favourable reception for her meaner beauties.

I thank you, General.

I speak a truth that would   appear a flattery only to those who do not know you. (he starts as his eyes rest accidentally upon De Fauconville, who is still leaning against statue) Pardon me, madame! (with agitation) but —the name of that gentleman?

The Baron De Fauconville—shall I introduce you?

An introduction is unnecessary.

You know him?

We have met.

We shall lose the sunset.

Remember our wager. (to De Fauconville) your arm, Baron.

General, I have a question to ask you.

Madame! I—(bows) Ask me a hundred, I shall be but too happy to reply.

Is it true that your nephew returns to Paris next week?

To-morrow, madame!

To-morrow? you surprise me.

Egad! he surprised me—sick of inaction I suppose, and I can't blame him, for when I was his age, I'd smelt powder, and knew what it was to give and take a sabre cut; though, for the matter of that, I think that my Felicien has been wounded.

  Wounded!

Shot through the heart, madame, by that scoundrelly young rifleman, Sergeant Cupid. Been jilted by one of those coquettes, who, cat-like, lacerate while they play.

I know our sex finds but little favour with General Lacroix.

Madame, I—I—(as she turns slightly away he wipes his forehead) Then—(aside) I'd sooner face a cavalry charge than her eyes—each glance is a bayonet thrust.

And Monsieur Felicien has never mentioned the name of this lady?

Not he—the rascal is as close as an oyster. The wound is but green as yet though, for whenever I attempt to use the probe, he winces, as I did when first—

Then you questioned him?

I might as well have questioned Sergeant Pons, who answers only in monysyllables; but pouf! at the first rough shock in life these young fellows cry out that their hearts are broken. In such matters there's no cement like time.

And your advice to him?

Is to marry—one nail drives out another—it's the only way to out-manœuvre the enemy.

You think he will adopt your counsel?

Sure of it. Meanwhile I shall order him off to Italy, nothing like change of scene to cure such a heart disease.

  Quit France?

Madame, I love Felicien—love him as a son; and I cannot bear to know his life embittered through the arts of some frivolous coquette.

Perhaps you judge too harshly; are you certain the fault lies with the lady?

I am certain there is no fault in Felicien.

Keep Felicien at home, General. Cease to live like a hermit—throw open your doors—invite your friends—give balls—fêtes—it's change of society that's wanted, not change of scene.

Balls! Fêtes! Turn my house into a caravanserai? Impossible. (aside) Thunder! What would Pons say?

Why impossible?

At my age habits have become a second nature; our prejudices stiffen with our joints.

At your age, general? Are men at fifty then so very old?

No, madam; but old fellows of sixt—(he suddenly meets her eyes and stops abruptly) I am over fifty—a year or so.

You'll induce Felicien to stay with us—(correcting herself)—with you?

How can I sufficiently thank you for the interest you take in him?

In him! in you! It is in you I   take an interest. (looking down) I would not see you left utterly alone.

There's always Pons.

Yes, mon General! (laughing, and with an air of great simplicity) But how is it you never married?

Sap-r-r-ris—(a gesture on part of Countess stops the remainder of oath) I lacked the courage, madame.

What! beat a retreat before you have faced the enemy? (archly) The face must—needs be very terrible.

I offered battle once, though; but just as the enemy was ready to capitulate—

She changed her mind.

No, madame, I changed mine. I met the lady at a ball, and fell in love with her beautiful hair. It was the most beautiful hair I ever saw—(glancing at Countess) with one exception; and when the dance was over it had twined itself so tightly round my heart, that it left me only breath to whisper my love in her ear; and at parting a gentle pressure of her hand told me that I might hope. My leave of absence expired on the next day. I determined to bring affairs to a crisis, so the morning saw me at her gate. There was no need of ceremony, for her father and I had served together in Algiers. I crossed the lawn and entered—unannounced—the breakfast room. To my astonishment, Sophie—her name was   Sophie—was there and alone.

And you proposed in due form?

I did nothing of the kind—for, in place of my charmer of the previous night, I beheld a tame, expressionless girl, with a head like a gigantic firework; her beautiful hair had all disappeared, and in its place I saw only a forest of papers the very rustling of which haunted my dreams for months after.

And that was the only cause?

Madame! the illusion was gone, and marriage stood before me in its blank reality. Her beauty was not for the domestic eye, but was only brought out from its cases and papers with the robes and jewels and other adornments. I stammered something—an adieu of some kind, and fled. Thunder! having witnessed the cooking—I'd no longer an appetite for the dish.

A soldier! and lay down your arms after one defeat?

I confess the enemy too strong for me. Why, the very shops—and I studied them well when in Paris, gave me a glimpse into the depth of the enemy's strategy, and I recoiled in terror. And ever afterwards, if I found my resolution melting away before the fire of a pair of bright eyes, I strengthened myself with the reflection that, perhaps, after all my heart had been set beating and my sleep disturbed by attractions which were derived from the bone of the whale and the tail of the horse. Ah! madame, our modern beauties   defy Time, and with reason, for they have an inexhaustible arsenal in the toilette.

Then you've resolved never to marry?

Nev—(he stops abruptly) Who would marry an old fellow like me?

Very many, I'm sure.

What a woman! If I dared! but no, I'd sooner attack Gibraltar.

I will gain my wager for the credit of my sex, and (with bitterness) to punish Felicien.

No coquetting there. Ah! if Felicien had only met such a woman.

I'm afraid, General, you men speak against women, as servants abuse their masters, and mistresses, trembling the while lest they should be overheard, and thereby lose their good opinion.

I would not lose yours, madame, not to be made a Marshal of France—this little hand—

Well?—(Lacroix drops her hand in great confusion) What do you want with my hand?

Nothing, madame, but—(exploding) Sap-r-ris—!

Fie! General; that makes the third great sounding oath I've heard in five minutes.

True, madame, true. (desperately) It's all that rascal Pons. If I don't swear at him, he will have it   that I'm ill, and immediately sends for a doctor—but—(he has taken her hand again—aside) My heart beats faster than a roll of drums, from a dozen regiments.

Have you any favor to ask me?

A myriad!—that is, one for myself—for Felicien.

For Felicien!

If he could only have such an adviser ever near him. (she starts slightly) as a friend; as—as—an aunt, say. (Countess bends over embroidery, to conceal her laughing. Lacroix continues, each moment growing more confused and empressé) He would remain with us for ever—no, no, I don't —that's not what I mean—not for ever; but till he'd found such another, which is impossible. (exploding) Sapr-r-r-ris-ti!! madame! I adore your sex—that is (catching the Countess's laughing gaze) I would, were all women—

Surely, General, you are rehearsing a part. I fear you too, have caught this heart disease; it must be in the air, it's so infectious.

Pardon me, if—

Pray continue; but first tell me the happy fair one's name.

Her name? Morbleu!

You've broken my silk.

Madame, I—

I see Julie peeping—I shall win! (she takes skein of silk from basket, and placing one hand on Lacroix's shoulder, prevents him from rising)   At least repair the damage you have done. (placing silk quickly over his hands) You can talk while I wind. (she commences to wind off silk) But not if you look in my eyes so.

Your eyes! Madame, do but look in mine, and read my heart—I love you, and am—

A lion caught in the toils!

A triumph of Cupid!

Hercules at the feet of Omphale!

I am content to have been deceived, it is a just penalty for my blindness and folly; but this, and this, (touching the cross of honour and other decorations on his breast) might have pleaded with you, and prevented me from becoming the amusement of your guests. (the Countess is advancing, but he waves her back, then holding up hands, about which still cling the filaments of silk) Spare me further jesting; you see the net is broken.

When we next meet, Baron de Fauconville, the mirth will not be all on your side; for the present, the jest's with you. (he hurls De Fauconville disdainfully aside, and passes up stage—on threshold of conservatory he again pauses, and turns to Countess, who stands down stage, R. overwhelmed with shame and confusion, her eyes bent on the ground) Madame la Comtesse Beauregard, I take my leave. (he bows) But the battle is not over, and I may yet have my revenge.