First performed at the Royal Lyceum Theatre (under the management of Madame Celeste), on Monday, the 12th of November, 1860.
Adrienne; or, the Secret of a Life.
The New and Extensive Scenery under the direction of Mr. William Calcoott. ‘The Appointments, Decorations, &c. by Mr. Bradwell. The Machinery, &c. by Mr. Bare. ‘The completely New Costumes by Mr. May, Mrs. Clark, and Assistants. The Overture and Music incidental to the Piece composed by Mr. George Loder. The Drama produced under the immediate superintendence of Madame Celeste.
“Ne thynge ys to man soe dere, As woman's love yn god mannere, A god woman ys man hys blyss, Tha her love true and stedefast ys.” Saxon Chronicle—Robert of Boure .
“ADRIENNE.”
Scene I.—APARTMENT IN THE VILLA OF ADRIENNE—ROME.
SCENE II,—The Home of Gianetta on the Road to Terracina. ‘The Artists, and the Model.
scene III.—A MIST ON THE PONTINE MARSH. THE DUEL!
“I hold it true whate'er befall— I feel it when I sorrow most— ‘ "Tis better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all.”
BREAKFAST ROOM IN THE CHATEAU— FRANCE. The Accusation.
“There are many more practicable passes than the Tourmalet, but all of them are subject to tremendous hurricanes, and such is the danger in threading them, that it is a received axiom among these stormy heights, that ‘The son must not wait for the father, nor the father for the son.’”
scene—THE PASS OF THE TOURMALET.
Scene 2—STREET IN MONTAUBAN.
Scene 3.—-THE COURT HOUSE.
“ Like mimic shadows on a toyman’s blind, ‘We come—we go—but yet a moral teach To mortal men, who, if they list, may find ‘A purpose in our idle seeming speech, “If to himself man still were true as man, And would his passion and his honour guard, Then blessings temper e’en the direst ban: Sin meets its sorrow—good its just reward.””—
It is sufficient, Monsieur Samson, I can find my own way.
Not a soul here! then I shall have time to arrange my little gift, so that it may find most
favour in the eyes of my benefactress.
I heard the rustle of a dress. I thought it was my mistress.
Monsieur Bertrand. I presume mademoiselle is not up yet?
Favour me by glancing at the clock.
I look at the clock, Monsieur Bertrand; it is five minutes past ten.
And yet you have the hardihood to surmise that mademoiselle has not risen. She has been abroad at least two hours.
Pardon; I am but a model for the artists here in Rome; you are a mighty steward to a very rich lady.
I think, mademoiselle, I could forgive you even a graver fault.
Ah, but you mustn't do that; you must cease to compliment. I am about to be married.
Bravo, bravissimo! Who is the happy swain?
Happy! Well, we won't anticipate the future; but you know him. La! it's Hector Falloux, art student of Rome.
Son of Hector Falloux, grocer, of Neuville. I congratulate you again.
Well, yes, Hector's father is a grocer; but quite in a wholesale way—is he not?
You had better enquire of mademoiselle: the minutest affairs of her estate in Neuville are sacred in her eyes—she will be here in exactly three minutes.
You are confident, Monsieur Bertrand?
I am; she gives a sitting to-day to M. Savignie.
Then will Monsieur Savignie certainly fail her. I was at his studio yesterday, and he is away somewhere amongst the mountains.
Then to-day besides, she audits the weekly expenses of her household. You will find I am a
true prophet: observe!
Monsieur Samson, you will oblige me by sending the soup instantly; the family I tell you are in want.
You hear
What a charming bouquet!
I'm glad it pleases you—very glad.
And a double welcome for that rare flower
Ah! mademoiselle, your kindnesses are so frequent that it is no marvel you should allow one
to escape your recollection. It was when you took a poor peasant, my mother, out in your
carriage to inhale the pure air of the forest. My dead mother!
Forgive me for reviving so painful a memory.
(R.) Observe, mademoiselle, how dusty are her shoes.
(R. C.) Bertrand?
She has walked more than a league, through a hot sun, along a dusty road, to bring you those flowers.
Books! one would think mademoiselle was a poor clerk in a warehouse, instead of a rich
lady; but I know she audits her accounts, that she may economise her own expenditure, and
give a wider scope to her benevolence.
We have no cellar in Rome, and if mademoiselle will be so generous
Monsieur Savignie!
May I enter?
(R. table) You may, Monsieur Savignie.
Look at me; observe I am dusty—uncouth—travel-stained! May I still enter?
You may. A chair, good Giannetta.
But when that task is a duty transformed into pleasure, why then—then—I declare I attempted a compliment, and I've positively broken down.
Never mind, Monsieur Savignie; mam'selle will soon patch you up again.
Let me temper your severity by shewing you the results of my journey.
You have been away three days.
Yes, precisely, three free happy days: I often envy Salvator Rosa his life among the hills.
You are an adorer of your art, Monsieur Salvator Rosa Victor Savignie!
I use a privilege of friendship, and enter unannounced.
I was unaware—monsieur will pardon me—I am engaged.
(up stage, to BERTRAND) He is not what you'd call a particularly nice man; now is he, Monsieur Bertrand?
Monsieur de Grassac, may I solicit the solution of a certain mystery of which you are the master?
I am at your service, Monsieur Savignie.
The date was Thursday, the 12th day of March—the place, the fête of the Solerno's. The wealth of Mademoiselle de Beaupré was there mentioned, and you greeted the allusion with a sneer.
Beware, monsieur !
Have you finished?
Ladies were present, and I too was dumb. Before men, I too am a man. The explanation I requested then, I demand now.
The explanation?
Of the impulse—the base impulse, which prompts a man to degrade abroad the character of a lady, at whose house he is an honoured guest. Still silent.
Presently I may be more communicative.
Then it is for me to speak—for me to tell you, Monsieur de Grassac, that from your sneer
and your silence a suspicion has been bred that the sneer and the silence are alike
unworthy—that the suspicion they have created is a lie.
When an innocent woman is cruelly maligned, every gentleman becomes her
champion—self-elected.
I spoke—a—lie. One thing alone can obliterate that.
To-night—on the Pontine Marsh, by the Saint's Cross, at ten.
To-night by the Saint's Cross, at ten!
Ah, my dear De Grassac, I am so infinitely delighted to see you after the fatigues of last night. Bertrand!
Madame.
Is my niece down, Bertrand?
She has been out, madame, but has returned.
You hear, De Grassac? Out and alone, and she an orphan too; and then, dear me, Monsieur de Grassac, she is so very rich! Where is my niece, Bertrand?
She has retired, madame, to arrange her toilette for the sitting with which she honours Monsieur Savignie to-day.
And your appointment—
Spare your regrets, madame, it is postponed, not abandoned. Have you any commands? None.
Then I will take my leave. Your servant, Monsieur Savignie.
See, I am quite ready. Ah, ma chère tante, how admirable you look after your dissipation of last night.
You too should have been there—the fête was superb.
The honour of our house must be supported by you my dear aunt, moving in the ever-whirling circles of society.
And by you in the purer duties of domestic life. Your hand a little more elevated.
This portrait has occupied a great deal of time.
Do you think so? The hours seem to have glided very rapidly away; it seems but yesterday it was begun.
She will make a very pretty picture, will she not monsieur? She is uncommonly like my brother, the general—Ah! when I was her age!
With reference to the texture of her daughter's wedding train; the cost and colour of her
new carriage. You must excuse my absence, you must, indeed—accompany me, Bertrand.
None, my good and faithful Bertrand—none.
You have soon relinquished your task, Monsieur Savignie.
Alas! Adrienne—may I call you Adrienne?
You are very gallant!
Is not my time shortened by the visit of Monsieur De Grassac? I heard him say he returns at eleven.
He does; but why so angry, Savignie: you speak like a jealous lover.
Do I? well, perhaps—
Ah, a secret! proceed, Monsieur Artist—at whose shrine have you paid your vows—is the lady rich?
Better than rich, Adrienne—she is good. Her purse ministers to no selfish pleasures. It feeds the hungry, it consoles the afflicted. Her sole meed the poor man's blessing, the widow's sacred smile. Do you recognize the portrait ?
I!
It is your lips which must pronounce my doom; you know my secret, Adrienne, have mercy on
me—speak!
This is quite a comedy. Monsieur is very abrupt though his bluntness will offend the lady .
No, no comedy; no dramatic imitation of a passion, but the outpouring of a love for months
prisoned within my soul, but broad as the broad land, soundless as the deep unfathomable sea.
Be calm, Savignie, still; your words tear my very heart! Listen: as you are noble so will I
be honest; could these lips hail you husband, then would the happiness of a life be condensed
in the ecstacy of that instant. Between us, Savignie, there is a gulf which you will never
see; but which divides us always, yet I would not have your words unsaid; in years to come,
when my step shall falter and my eye be dim, their memory shall cling and cling till the
cruel earth closes over me, and shuts it out for ever!
My instinct does not deceive me—a love scene!
Mademoiselle, your servant! Monsieur, yours!
You will perhaps excuse me if I enquire the reason of this special visit.
(C.) Your caution is somewhat alarming.
You have since learnt, monsieur, that I prefer living in strict retirement.
Surely not always. Is it ever to be Mademoiselle? You understand me. Is it ever to be Mademoiselle?
Between excessive candour and offensive bluntness there is a limit. Let me beg, Monsieur de Grassac, will not trespass on the line.
Is it ever to be Mademoiselle? Well, we shall see. Now for myself. Never having boasted of wealth, I am not ashamed of poverty. Rome is expensive—my creditors are cruel—and my involvements so pressing, that it is necessary I should at once liquidate or remove them.
I am curious, monsieur, to ascertain how or in what manner this frank confession can concern me.
Your curiosity shall be speedily gratified. My friends suggest a wealthy marriage; but whom to marry? the lady must be young, beautiful—above all, she must be rich. I am no courtier when I declare that you, mademoiselle, fulfil each of the these three conditions.
Forgive me? this is amusing, really amusing. Are you serious?
Serious.
You will listen to me, Adrienne. I never dared to hope your love, ours may be but a marriage of convenience, but a marriage it shall surely be.
His coolness frightens me.
Of three hundred millions of people in this world there is a secret known only to two individuals, those two are Adrienne de Beaupré and Eugene de Grassac.
Worn at the edge, the characters paled by age, on these papers is transcribed the destiny
of Adrienne.
You will not reveal — you will not betray.
If wealth—
I have determined, monsieur.
And your resolve is?
To let it come, if you are mean enough, and cruel enough to speak the word; let the false fabric fall and crush me in its ruins.
I keep my word; the intelligence will spread—the salons of Rome will experience a
new sensation —the mysterious orphan—the rich Adrienne!
Spare me, De Grassac! my soul is unsoiled with sin—oh, be merciful!
What is the matter? Adrienne—my niece!
(R. C., coolly putting on his gloves and preparing to depart) Tell her when she recovers, that at the last moment my heart relented; that I shall be at the Saint's Cross in the Pontine, at ten o'clock—tell her to meet me there, or—
Or what?
My message as I delivered it!
In time—that's lucky. Had my respectable father came and found the place empty, then pity
poor Giannetta. Fire still burning—that's lucky! wants blowing up again though!
Well, Gianetta, my daughter, how wags the world with you—gently and fairly, eh?
Yes, father, well—very well. Since this morning the world has wagged to the tune of thirty scudi. I have been a Madonna for my arm, an Andromache for my hair, and a Rebecca for my—
For your ancle, eh? never blush! you take after your father, the brigand.
Hush, don't mention it! Did the neighbours know you were one of the Varderelli ?
The neighbours would say that old Jacopo Scarotta was a brigand. We fought for our freedom, and as outlaws we were treated. Had we succeeded, what patriots we should have been; we fail, and—peste! we are brigands.
There is enough garlic; there's too much garlic.
Oh, no temper! what, cross with your old father, Giannetta?
Not cross with you, no, not so; but I am hot some-times, and that's the truth on't.
You'll never get a husband if you go on so. You'll soon be on your last legs.
No, I'm not on my last legs—I'm not on my last legs. I've got a husband, and he's coming to ask your consent this very evening.
He shall have it. What's my new son-in-law—a soldier?
No, father, he's not a soldier.
Hang it! he isn't a trader, is he?
A trader? Do you think I'd marry a trader?
Well, I should think not; though your father is but a brigand, you ought not to disgrace your family.
He is an artist.
Clever?
Clever? I believe you! He is a Pre-Raphaelite. You should see a rasher of bacon he produced
last week—you never saw such a likeness in your life.
Thank you, Giannetta, my own one. Is that your papa?
Yes.
Fine man, isn't he—eh?
Well—yes; we are considered a very fine family.
(crosses to c.) Signor Scarotta, I—I—I—
You've said enough, young gentleman, my daughter is yours.
Takes it uncommonly easy, doesn't he?
On one condition.
Name it, signor; I'll agree to anything—I'll wait years for her—I'll—
I do not demand so sublime a sacrifice; your willingness, however, shall be rewarded. You shall marry her tomorrow.
Oh, papa!
How's this? You love my daughter, and would marry her; you ask my consent, I give it at once. Santa Diavolo! the word is said.
He's uncommonly short in his manners, isn't he now?
Is he though? La! and who are the Varderelli?
Why, the brave men who hold the passes in Calabria.
Bless us and save us! Why, you don't mean to say your father is a brigand?
Hush! he might hear you, and he's very particular; yes, that's what's malicious people call poor papa.
But you don't mean to say your father is a brigand?
Yes, he is.
He's a grocer, perfectly respectable, and entirely in the wholesale.
Grocer! bless you, my father kills such people as grocers by the dozen.
The devil he does—well, he's a respectable party.
Oh! I wouldn't wrong her for the world; we never mean to quarrel we shall go to Neuville,
and there live all by ourselves as happy as the day is long.
A vetturino has stopped at the end of the lane. Oh, father, it is Monsieur Savignie and his friend, Monsieur Herman.
Savignie! Ah, we are fellow students. By the way, has he yet finished the portrait of Mademoiselle de Beaupré?
Well, I'm sure I don't know, but let me put away the soup.
Do you know Mam'selle Adrienne?
Of course I do: my father is a —
Rashers of bacon being his forte.
So, I handed it over to Monsieur Savignie to finish, and I don't think he has succeeded
better than I did; for that's months ago, and he hasn't completed it yet.
You mustn't mind me, signor. I am the father of Giannetta, and being away in the mountains see my child but seldom.
Whenever I can gather new flowers or fresh grapes. She was kind to my mother—when—when—
If you should
What's that—swordsman; a duel!
Your hand, Monsieur Savignie! quick, I have gipsy blood in my veins.
I shall keep awake all night; I shan't sleep a wink.
Oh, yes, you will for my sake, Hector! Good night, my Hector—to-morrow—ah, to-morrow!
First we are married, and then —
Yes, then we start to live quietly and cosily at Neuville—good night!
Giannetta, though I'm not your father, may I not have a kiss?
Giannetta, my gun!
They will descend at some distance from this spot.
You heard the prophecy of Giannetta?
The fulfilment of which is in your own hand. Strengthen your soul, and the combat is already decided.
I shall fulfil it, Herman; I shall revenge her slighted honour.
You have spoken to Mademoiselle de Beaupré.
I have, and been rejected. Had she broken vows
(to HERMAN) Good evening, monsieur—our course is action, not talk—I—
Let us then lose no time.
(L. C.) On guard, monsieur.
Yes, yes!
As some men, Monsieur de Grassac, tie a knot in their handkerchiefs, or place a paper within their snuff box, to remind them of something which otherwise might be forgot, so when the word of slander trembles on your tongue, may the memory of your wound serve as a useful warning.
Boaster! but my revenge is bitter: the lady whom you champion—Mam'selle de Beaupré.
Yes; punctual to
Mercy ! our reconciliation is stopped, mam'selle, by a wall of blood.
Stay, I entreat you; anything is better than this mystery.
Is the promised wife of Eugene de Grassac!
The chair a little more this way, Monsieur Samson, if you please; mam'selle prefers her
back to the light. How dull she is and spiritless.
You seem dotingly fond of your mistress, Monsieur Bertrand?
Men of my colour when they attach themselves to an object or person, do so with all their
hearts, Monsieur Samson. To madame, the mother of our young mistress, I owe all—even life. A
fever—her care won me from death when death had his
Oh, where it is, Monsieur Samson, near the fire— though his wound renders him so irritable, I almost wish it would never heal!
And why, Monsieur Bertrand?
Because then he would not marry our mistress; my eyes are not deceived, Monsieur Samson, her young heart loathes him.
Then why?
Hush!
Good evening, gentlemen. Is mademoiselle within? I did not see her in the grounds.
She rests in her boudoir—she will be here soon.
Oh, Monsieur Bertrand, I do hope she will. I wish to speak to her before I leave Neuville.
What, Madame Falloux, are you already leaving the Elysian cottage, in which you were to be so happy with your new husband?
Husband! don't mention him, the brute! I'll go to my father in the mountains. I'll never see the wretch again— never! Will mademoiselle be long?
No, she must pass through here on her way to Monsieur de Grassac, who is reposing in the
laurel arbour.
I never have any luck, never! Six times has Hector been drawn for a conscript, yet, somehow
or other, he always contrives to wriggle out of it. If he'd only get shot or
something
Hush, mademoiselle, my mistress.
It is, mademoiselle.
Monsieur de Grassac desired—no requested— requested me to rejoin him at eight.
Weary with sleepless watching. Monsieur de Grassac suffers no one to approach him but me. Monsieur Carnot, our physician, has not visited us to day.
Not to day. There has been some accident in the village—he has been busily engaged. He sent, however, to request the continuance of the former treatment.
And my aunt?
Has left for Paris; she declared the irritability of Monsieur De Grassac—
Oh, don't mention him, mademoiselle, he's a hateful wretch!
Monsieur Bertrand, you are affected.
I remember our young mistress, Monsieur Samson, a merry prattling child, in pleasant, happy Martinique. I have carried her out in the broad forest, and decked her brow with the wild flowers—when I remember that, and see her now chilled, cowed in early womanhood, and the slave of—well then, Monsieur Samson, I wish—
What, Monsieur Bertrand?
Why, that the end were come, that's all! That the end were come.
Oh, Monsieur Samson, where's Monsieur Bertrand? I've brought the keys of our little cottage; I'm going off to father's!
Why, what's the matter?
Madame Falloux's the matter—oh, well, she's turned out awful; but there are the keys.
But I thought Madame Falloux was very amiable.
Oh, so she was till I married her! we were so very fond of one another, that we agreed to
shut ourselves up in a
Three days?
And three nights. First row was about cleaning the stairs; she wasn't used to cleaning stairs she said; she had always lived on a ground floor—well, I wasn't going to do it, you know, then she said it was most unreasonable of me to expect her to do what I objected to do myself; so we engaged old Mother Follejamb to do the work, and I do that venerable female no injustice when I say she is as little like a human being as you can well conceive.
And was this your only annoyance?
My only annoyance! she was always a worrying me to increase our income by my artistic skill: now my genius is peculiar, and I confess it—limited. Rashers of bacon are my forte, and occasionally a cut of ham, introduced into the corner in order to gratify the eye of the spectator, with a graceful and pleasing variety.
I remember, you made mademoiselle, my mistress, a present of one.
She hasn't hung it up in the drawing room yet, has she?
I have received no instructions.
Waiting for the gold frame from Paris I suppose ?
Something of that kind, possibly.
Ah, like the works of all clever men—mine didn't sell; I was very persevering too; whenever a new cabaret set up in the neighbourhood, I would go to the proprietor,— "Monsieur," I would say, "you will require a sign? Good— I will paint you one—a rasher of bacon—the best possible thing for a sign—suggestive of thirst." But cabarets don't set up every day, and they can't all be called the "Rasher of Bacon."
Very true.
Then I tried an historical subject "Nero Playing the Fiddle amidst the Flames of Rome."
Were you then more successful?
I should have been, Monsieur Samson, but conscientiousness was the ruin of me. You can imagine in a flare up like that, nothing could be seen but fire and smoke.
I should fancy not.
That was the view I took of it. It was nothing but fire and smoke.
But the buildings?
Oh, you couldn't see them for the fire.
But Nero?
Oh, you couldn't see him for the smoke?
And did the great work sell?
Such is the want of appreciation in France, Monsieur Samson, that the great work never sold at all; but Madame Falloux insisted on getting rid of it, and what do you think that extraordinary woman did?
I haven't an idea.
She raffled it—positively raffled it! Then she sacked the old woman, and insisted on my doing the work.
And you did it ?
I was obliged; but this morning things came to a crisis. She desired me, her lord and master, to hearth-stone the door step—that was a step too much. "No," says I, Madame Falloux, I'll be d—dashed—d——d if I do!
And she?
I thought at first I had shut her up; but I hadn't. "Is that the language you use to a lady?" said she; with that she ups with her fist, and gives me such a one-er on the side of the head.
She struck you?
Yes; me—her lord and master! And she hits out from the shoulder too, evidently trained to the exercise from an early period.
My mistress and Monsieur de Grassac!
You have the keys.
Thank you.
Quick, begone! My mistress.
Why don't you tell your servant to wheel the chair nearer the fire? I am positively shivering with cold.
(L. C., aside) You are very ill, mademoiselle.
Is that sufficiently near, Monsieur de Grassac?
The cushions higher.
Are you easy?
Easy! when for months my life has lingered in the active misery of a relentless torture, or the dull apathy of an unrefreshing sleep. Oh, may the hand be accursed which dealt me this wound!
Shall I moisten your bandage? Will you take your draught?
Yes—no—the pain increases —well, yes.
Prepare the draught, good Bertrand.
Mademoiselle!
See—see—the colour has changed! In the bottle yellow; purple in the glass—it's taste
Oh, yes—exactly, yes!
And the opinion of the doctor?
He gave none; he says he will send me a written communication.
Will you take a glass of light Madeira?
You know I am strictly forbidden, and yet you would torture me with the offer.
Surely you should not complain, Monsieur de Grassac: your debts are paid—I am ever with you—to watch over—to tend you. Why, unknown to me, did you consult Dr. Leroux?
Simply because the village physician, who asserted he could cure me in a week, evidently does not understand my case. His letter of this evening will inform me. Read aloud, Adrienne—the pain has left me.
Beranger?
No, Racine—anything.
Lean back—so.
Hush! be still. He sleeps.
Oh, mademoiselle, I have just seen—
Whom?
Adrienne!
He answers for me.
Where?
There!
I dare not. Stay!
Yes, I could guide no pencil since—since—— My company halting at Neuville, I could not resist the fascination of a last interview.
Would I could share your triumphs—partake your danger!
I am very weak; can scarcely stir—the least excitement exhausts me. More wood—more wood—I
shiver!
More wood?
Yes, mam'selle; I've just seen Monsieur Samson, and he tells me
I am, Madame Falloux, very ill; but what makes you weep?
It's Hector, monsieur; he's used me very badly—he has enlisted in the company halting just now in the village. He'll get shot, I know he will.
You told me you were not happy with him, Giannetta?
Lord! not happy, mam'selle! what woman would not be happy with a man you could twist round
your finger, as I could Hector? I could do anything with him, but at times he was very
unreasonable; I never could get him to clean the door step.
I am going to my father, mam'selle, he now leads a band in the Pyrenees, about ten leagues from here; I do believe he'd fight the French anywhere.
One by one, the faces that I know forsake me, one by one—one by one!
Say the word, mam'selle, and Giannetta will never quit your side! Oh, mam'selle, let me stay with you!
Hush! you are going away you may see him! He commands your husband's company, tell him I shall think of him always. If he is wounded, tend him; if he is suffering, console. You promise?
Enough—you promise!
Stop; ask if there is any communication from Marseilles; my fate depends upon that —upon
the letter of Doctor Leroux.
(R., beside him) I am here, monsieur.
Your thraldom will soon cease. Whilst Giannetta was speaking there — I know— I know your
secret
I have sent for the physician.
Giannetta will return directly.
It's safew! it's safe — the secret, I mean; I wander—close to me—my mother —
Yes, monsieur, yes!
Resides at Toulon—I am exhausted!
Resides at Toulon; yes.
I have neglected her much, very much; be kind to her, Adrienne, promise me this, or—or—
I promise !
The letter of Doctor Leroux.
Yes, Toulon.
He wanders.
Toulon—Toulon !
Courage! courage!
Wine! wine!
The physician has forbidden it.
Wine, or I shall faint.
You guess the contents of this letter?
Not I, monsieur.
Stand there, Adrienne de Beaupré!
I must have it. I want strength to speak—
What say you to this, mademoiselle?
Halt! front! order arms!
Come, prisoner, show us your retreat, and you are free.
You shouldn't ask me that; we may die, but we never betray!
Yes. Victor Savignie, by the memory of your old student days in Rome the beautiful, loosen these ligatures!
'Twas I who felt your wrist before the duel on the Pontine.
In the house of Giannetta?
Of my daughter; yes.
The duel on the Pontine.
What do you speak in that stupid way for?
Oh, comlade, I got such a code in my node.
Bah! you're not seasoned.
I was nearly being nicely peppered just now, in that scrimmage with the brigands!
Here, sergeant!
Gather some sticks.
Oh, sergeant, I am so jolly code!
Hector Falloux!
Here, sergeant!
If you disobey the orders of your superior officer, you will be instantly shot. Cut the sticks!
I wish I could amputate my own!
Here, sergeant.
Scrape this carrot.
I say, sergeant, my hands id so numb—
Hector Falloux!
I am a scraping on it, sergeant.
That soup will be welcome—it's cold.
It
Cold—ha, ha! I remember Eylau—that was glory. Not like this guerilla work in the mountains: hundreds of us dropping at every fire.
It must have been beautiful.
Heads—Lord bless you!—knocked about like nine pins.
How I do wish I'd been there.
I was in the division of General de Martres—glorious man—wonderful soldier!
Scoundrel!
Remember, sergeant, a true soldier treats his prisoner with compassion.
Pardon, captain.
Enough! had you the same cause for hate, you would curse him as I would do.
De Martres—the name clings to my recollection.
Afterwards Count of the Empire, Captain, and Commander of Martinique —the Count de Beaupré!
The china bowl for the captain.
Halt! the word!
Vive la France!
Who goes there?
Rochet! devoted to the Empire, as he hated the Republic.
Rochet—the turn-coat !
Rochet—the blood-thirsty—
Pass.
Pass.
Savignie! captain! third company, twelfth regiment.
The commander of my division,
Read it, captain. Hear it, soldiers.
Supposed—now only supposed, but I have the proofs clear. The court is sitting and in an hour—
A supposed criminal who is concealed among the mountains—
I know the very spot.
Our comrade reports, captain, that in the ravine above there is a woman almost lifeless,
who has fallen in a snow drift.
Giannetta!
Father a prisoner?
Yes; but fear not for me, nor for her—the captain is Savignie.
The captain Savignie? And the woman—
Why did she leave the hut, where she might have been safe for months?
Why, comrade, you seem alarmed!
It was a vision, I saw—
A ghost?
Worse than a ghost—It was my wife.
What, frightened at a woman?
Only when I'm married to her—Ah, you're single I see—never mind, you'll tumble into wedlock
some day, for there never was a man so old, or so ugly, but some woman will be sure to lay
hold of him.
Bertrand—Bertrand!
The name of her servant.
Who after the death of De Grassac, fled with us to the mountains.
De Grassac, dead!
Have you not heard? alas!
Let us go, Giannetta, Bertrand alone is faithful. There! there he is see, see!
Wearied with waiting, Mademoiselle and I left the hut. From the top of yon precipice we
could see my father's
Happy Martinique Martinique of the pleasant pastures, of the waving forests, of the flowing streams.
The memory of old time returns.
Help me, sergeant.
And the last words of De Grassac accused Adrienne.
Yes? but Bertrand preserved her—"Twas Bertrand who persuaded her to escape with me to my father's hut, my father who protected her, and who is now your prisoner.
He shall be exchanged for the two poor fellows fallen into the hands of his companions.
Oh, father! do you hear, you will be free? do you hear—free?
Never to part.
It was a sin, a cruel sin, not alone to me, but to him whose wife you would have been.
Good friend, I must not shrink from privation, I am a soldier's daughter.
A soldier's daughter.
Of the General of Division, Emile de Martres.
Of my dear old General.
I was about to say that I was connected with the army, but when I look at that miserable unit that calls itself a soldier, I beg to retract my intention.
No one was a speaking to you, Madame Falloux.
Nor is any one addressing me now I believe, Monsieur Falloux.
I was a speaking, Madame Falloux.
Oh, I don't consider you anybody, Monsieur Falloux.
Thank you, Madame Falloux.
An order to join the main body.
Oh, Victor, if your heart does not acquit me heaven alone must attest my innocence.
If I had ever loved—Oh, dear heaven, if I had ever loved.
Quick, Adrienne!
Savignie — Captain, 3rd company,. 12th regiment, more men.
I have orders from my commanding officer which I dare not disobey, to return at once to Montauban.
Listen, Captain Savignie.
Back, Monsieur Rochet! Fly, Adrienne.
Suffer her to escape and, Savignie—Captain, by the Heaven above us you shall be disgraced and shot.
Shot!
Heed not for me— fly, Adrienne, to safety, and for life.
Cowards! will none stir? Rochet forgets no duty, betrays no trust; Savignie—Captain, you
refuse her arrest, then I —
Stay, Scarrotta! Victor Savignie, in the face of a sure death we breathe no lie—these hands
are clean of crime; believe that, believe too that I would be tortured to a thousand deaths,
rather than one hair of your head should be injured for my sake. Soldiers, fall in—I come,
Monsieur Rochet, I come.
Whither do you go?
For your sake, to my death at Montauban. March.
Courage, Bertrand, courage; the cut is nothing. 'Tis the cold—the bitter cold—which bites
into my tropic
Pardon, Monsieur, I am a stranger at Montauban. Can you inform me where a poor man, like myself, can obtain provision and a lodging for the night?
If you be honest, there, at the Widow Manette's, where you see the lamp swinging—but if you if you—
Be not honest, you were about to say—
Then had you better quit the town. Sous-Prefet Rochet is very strict upon travellers.
I have heard his name; but I do not fear him, monsieur.
The Court of the Procureur-General.
Do they sit so late?
Know you not this was the very nest of rebels or patriots, as each has been in turn called by the Empire or the Directory? 'Tis the Empire now, so "Vive L'Empereur!"
Are there then so many prisoners to try?
The sous-Prefet provides plenty of food for the galleys or the guillotine. This time it is no political prisoner for whose blood he thirsts, 'tis a girl charged with murder.
A girl charged with—with murder! Oh! stay, monsieur, was it murder by—by poison.
Yes! now I remember it, Yes!
And her name? do you happen to recollect her name?
If I heard it, I think I—
Is it that of a lady of Beaupré, — Adrienne?
Yes! Ah, that was it, Adrienne.
Adrienne—stay, am I sure, am I certain—was it a breath of fancy, or reality, Adrienne—It
was—mercy! mercy Heaven on my breaking heart. For me let the past be past. But, Adrienne, for
thee is a future yet a future which my death shall shape, and which thy innocence shall
crown.
It's head in the lion's mouth, Giannetta, and though I know it well I care not; I'll just in, to hear what that rascal Rochet has to say. You are a good daughter; she was ever kind to you—and hang it, spite of my leg, I'll hobble to that den of thieves; I may be useful to her.
Now, father, you're such a temper, you're always flying out about something or other; or
if—
My temper's as sweet as an angel's, as long as I have my own way.
Oh, don't I take after my father!
Stay you here, child, while I trouble that cabaret there for a drop of eau de vie, the true spiritual water of life.
I'll accompany you, father!
What I !—I allow a child of mine to enter a common public house!
Well, father, I haven't so great an objection when there's anything good to be got there; but do not stay long.
Fear not for me. By this time our band have delivered their prisoners, and I am free. See
there!
And then—yes that's it, and then—what then? alas! my poor mistress, my very soul weeps for
her; to day free among the mountains, to-night upon her trial, and to-morrow, oh, heaven! I
shudder to think of to-morrow; and I so lonely. Oh, if only Hector
She's a lovely woman.
After all he's better than nobody.
She's got such a commanding way with her.
He's an uncommon fine man in his uniform.
Giannetta!
Hector!
I never said I didn't love you, Giannetta.
You never shewed you did, Hector.
Don't let us bring up the doorstep, Giannetta.
Don't bring up the doorstep, and why shouldn't we bring up the doorstep?
Because that was a thing I never could swallow.
Of course if you have any objection to take part in the household work, there's nothing more to be said.
Good-bye!
Good-bye!
Farewell!
Farewell!
And for ever.
Fare thee well.
Oh!
O-oh!
Giannetta!
Hector !
Oh—nothing!
That's what you're always talking about.
What were you observing, Hector?
Bracing weather!
It's good embracing weather; what then?
Nothing!
O-h!
I was a thinking
Dear me, is it possible?
I was a thinking whether we'd forgive one another and be happy once more.
It rests with yourself, Hector; will you clean that doorstep?
Oh, ain't it a bitter pill! Well there then, since you make such a point of it, I will. Father will buy me off.
Oh, Hector, you have got such a tongue.
Say wilt thou be mine, my own?
My sweet!
Embrace me!
Wait a minute—try it again.
My own!
My sweet!
My own!
My sweet.
Gendarmes, lead in the accused.
Do not weep, Savignie; I am happy.
Monsieur le Prefet, read the act of acccusation.
known hitherto as Adrienne de Beaupré"—
Hitherto known?
In a few moments, Monsieur le President, I shall have the honour to explain.
All things in their order. Accused—your name!
A moment, Monsieur le President, while I ask this woman by what right she dare assume that title—
I must request the Captain Savignie to forbear an interference with the functions of the Civil Court.
Your pardon, Monsieur le President. I will strive to be patient.
Once more I would ask this woman by what right she dare call herself Adrienne de Beaupré?
To spare the time of the Court, I would merely ask the accused to explain the nature of
these papers,
Still silent! I would respectfully entreat the Court to remember the dates of each. The first—18th July, 1795— a certificate of the marriage of Emile de Martres, afterwards Count de Beaupré, at Pisa, to one Mina Scarotta. The second, on the 21st November in the same year, also a certificate of marriage of the same Emile de Martres at Paris to Stephanie de Saint Croix.
My mother!
The third and last. Also a certificate, but this time of a death, it is dated 14th October,
1796, of the death of Mina Scarotta—the first, and only legal wife—the real Madame de
Martres. On the face of these facts, I ask the court whether she
Speak—whisper—or even sigh! this silence will make ye mad.
Stone I am, Victor, only stone.
Shall I put these documents into court, or will you spare me that necessity by the confession of the truth?
Yes, it's true—it
And you have known this for some time?
Yes, Monsieur le President, yes. Amongst my father's papers, at his death, the eyes of my poor mother rested on the proofs of her own dishonour, and—and—of mine! When she herself was going to to Paradise, she made me swear to her never—never to reveal this secret, and through suffering and through sorrow, I have kept my oath.
And the large revenues you inherited, which were not yours——which you stole—where are they?
Quick, father.
Child, I'm bursting.
Father will get hanged; I know he will.
Your name?
Jacopo Scarrotta.
Your country?
Italy.
Your profession?
E'en a patriot.
Brigand!
As you please. I doubt not but that you know more about brigands than patriots, Monsieur Rochet.
What have you to say?
The truth. Courage, Adrienne! 'twas not your mother; 'twas this poor child!
How through this storm of sorrow bursts the flood of joy! Mother, could I but see your face—could I but touch your hand—oh! mother, mother, look down upon and bless me !
A providential revelation, which at once supplies the motive. Eugene de Grassac knew then of this secret !
Oh, monsieur, I am in such a dream of happiness. Joy with my joy, Victor, be glad as I am glad!
Accused, have you forgotten that your life is the stake at issue?
Adrienne, for my sake—
De Grassac knew of this secret—yes; and threatened its revelation.
And you were his nurse, his constant attendant during his illness?
I was—alas—
I would wish the Court to note the frequent opportunities that must accompany such close association. I believe, too, you entertained something warmer than a mere passing attachment for that young officer by your side. You cast down your eyes—'tis a sufficient reply. The object of the assassin becomes doubly clear. Dr. Theodore Leroux.
Monsieur, your name—
You may spare the preliminary questions. Dr. Theodore Leroux is well known as one of the
most skilful physicians in France.
You were acquainted with the deceased Eugene de Grassac?
I was.
And conducted, I believe, the medical examination after his death?
I cannot. I never saw the like symptoms before. It was by some deadly vegetable poison, at present unknown In Europe.
None, monsieur, none.
Proceed, M. Rochet.
With due respect to the Court, it appears to me there is little more to be said. The
evidence of Dr. Leroux
Your name?
Bertrand. I was a slave when I was bought by the Count de Beaupré; and in Martinique they give slaves but one name.
Your occupation?
I was formerly steward to that lady, Mademoiselle Adrienne, so wronged and yet so innocent.
You say innocent?
I say innocent, because I know the name of the really guilty.
Perhaps, then, you will reveal it.
I am here for that purpose—it is my own.
Bertrand!
Be silent, mistress most beloved! I would have heaped a blessing, and it has been transformed into a curse.
We have read of the romantic attachments of the South. May not this man, in order to screen his mistress, have taken on himself the consequences of her crime?
I had anticipated the objection, and am prepared to overcome it. Dr. Leroux was anxious to
know the nature of the poison which destroyed De Grassac: it is here.
Then—
"Tis an affair of seconds, Dr. Leroux—I die no shameful death! If on my body you find the same symptoms as those of De Grassac, will you then believe her innocent?
We must, perforce, admit it.
Then I die—happy! Oh! mistress, pity me—pray for me!
Adrienne !