First Performed at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, (under the management of Mr. C. Kemble), on November 16, 1822.
HENRY.—Light blue frock coat, crimson striped waistcoat, and light blue stocking pantaloons, striped stockings, and black shoes.
MAJOR DE LISLE.—Blue regimental coat, white facings, gold lace, white breeches, long black boots.
BONHOMME.—Green coat, gilt buttons, broad green striped waistcoat, buff cassimere breeches, short gaiters, white beaver hat.
LA ROUTE.— Crimson coat, tambour silk waistcoat, buff cassimere breeches, powdered hair.
BASIL.—White jacket, flowered waistcoat, blue breeches, striped stockings.
FELIX. Grey boy's suit.
CLAUDE.—Short brown coat, flowered waistcoat, buff breeches.
THE UNKNOWN.—Brown trousers, spotted Guernsey shirt, leather belt, brown large cloak.
LOUISE. Plain white, high muslin cap, and silk handkerchief.
Time in Performance—1 hour 15 minutes.
WHEN Michael Kelly, the composer, first set up wine merchant, his present majesty, the Prince
of Wales, wittily remarked, that his old friend Mic was a composer of wine and an
importer of musie. Now, Mr. Howard Payne, we suspect, is more au fait at
drinking wine than making it; but he is a very considerable
importer of foreign dramas, which he mixes up with sundry good things of his own, to
suit the English market—as a certain patriotic dealer in gin and compounds ran a pipe
of pontac into one of port, for the purpose, as he said, of
improving the former, though the rogues of excisemen would have it that it was not to
improve one pipe of pontac, but to make two pipes of port.
The Two-Galley Slaves is derived from the French. The story is that of a ci-devant
clerk in a Parisian bank taking upon himself the charge of felony, to screen the real offender,
who is his own brother. He is therefore branded on the arm, and condemned to the galleys. In
journeying to his place of destination, he contrives to scape; and, after some adventures, has
the good fortune to captivate the heart of a rich buxom widow, who thinks the best proof she
can give of her veneration for her dear departed is to appoint this young convict his
successor. But, as a melodramatic hero is nobody without a due portion of mystification, Mr.
Henry becomes on a sudden marvellously musing and melancholy. The
The Unknown" (a rascal, by all accounts better known than
trusted), to spoil the sport. Who this unwelcome personage proves to be, we leave to
the reader to find out; being determined not to mar the exquisite delight his curiosity will
receive from the discovery. The monotony of the piece is enlivened by a conceited, inquisitive
postmaster, who is an unsuccessful candidate for the young widow's affections—a Monsieur
Bonhomme, whose name is sufficiently indicative of his good qualities; and Basil, a
simple-hearted young villager, who is a rare adept at a joke and a junket. The characters were
all well supported.—Mr. Fawcett acted with a generous roughness which no one can better portray
than himself; Mr. Keeley was quaint and amusing; Mr. T. P. Cooke displayed his branded
arm with picturesque effect; and Mr. Farley his brandied nose, that made us
question if our ancient friend Bardolph, instead of being hanged, had not been
transported for his portion of the Gadshill affair, or some such pranks, and
exhibited his everlasting bon-fire light, in the person of "The Unknown!"
D——G.
Ah, lads and lasses, welcome! Let the joy of the day make your hearts as light as your heels. Skip and sing, my merry larks, and kick care to old Nick.
Huzza for Basil! Welcome, Master Basil!
Well, have you seen the bridegroom that is to be ?
Not yet.
Not yet? Out ever since daybreak, and not back yet? Stay—yes—now I know—he's gone to the farm, a few miles off, he always looked sharp after Madame Montel's concerns; now they're going to be one, of course her affairs are his; but it was just the same when he was only my fellow-servant in the mill, and before he dreamt of rising to be my master.
Tell us, now, what passed before the notary, when the marriage articles were drawn up. Did he say who his father was?
Not he.
What name did he give in, then?
Henry—no more. What have we to do with his father? Who knows if he ever had a father? But if he can't boast of his family, he may of his goodness.
Ay, and that's what won him my mistress's heart, which is worth more than a regiment of grandfathers, and which the highest born in the land couldn't have gained with a pedigree as long as a race-horse.
Better be known, as Henry is, by a good character without a name, than the highest name without a character.
Name! If he brings no name to his wife, he'll leave one to his children; and he that can make both at once must be a clever workman. Think what he has done for the district! Now, last year, when the prize was offered, you know, for hunting wolves, he always got it. 'Twas of no use my trying to keep up with him. I felt brave enough till I heard the rascals howl, then, somehow, we always lost one another in the thick of the fray—he took to the wolves and I took to my heels; he won the feast, and I helped to eat it.
How the robbers skip when he scours the woods! But for him, I should not have a home over my head, and my poor babes would be starving.
Yes, and old daddy Bertrand, that tumbled into the water, would have been food for fishes. He was drowning, when Henry jumped in, and saved him:—ay, jumped souse into the water, for all he had his Sunday clothes on.
What a pity it is, that, when he makes everybody else so joyful, he should be so sad himself.
Oh, he'll sparkle presently. Love made him dismal, but wedlock will bring him to. Madame
Montel was so pleased with her former trial that way, that, after two years holiday, she now
ventures again, and takes a second husband, in compliment to her first. Were it only for the
love she bears her son, she ought. So fine a boy deserves a father, and here he comes. Look
at him! there's a pattern to work by!
See, Basil! am I fine enough for my new father's wedding?
Fine enough? Why, sure you can tell without asking ?—You've been at one wedding before.
Not I.
Oh then, you wasn't by when your first father was married?
Mind, George, fill all the baskets with fruit. Roll out two hogsheads of the best wine.
Nothing can be too good for my sister's wedding.
Monsieur Bonhomme, we come with the most respectful salutations, to make humble
manifestations of the sincerest congratulations.
Thank ye, my friends, thank ye
We'll go and meet him on his way from the farm, and surprise him with compliments:—and we can gather new garlands as we go, too, for the road-side is full of flowers. Come, lads and lasses.
And I'll go and finish the two letters, which I am to paint all in flowers, at the top of
the verses the schoolmaster has been composing for me to present. You can't think how pretty
I shall make those two letters! — Now for it!
Brother why did you leave me so coldly ?— When everybody else approves my choice; why is it blamed only by my brother ?
Your brother would see you happy, permanently happy; and he dreads, lest the man you have chosen— I hurt your feelings, my dear, but you know my heart.
Yes, and I trust I know his, too, better, much better than prejudice will suffer
you to know it.
I fear the fatal prejudice is not with me. A man of no condition, no means, and received
here under such circumstances! — Little did I expect a result like this, when, seven years
ago, alarmed by groans amid the howling storm, the flashes of the lightning gave him to my
view, stretched, fainting with hunger and fatigue, before our mill. Ah, Louise! may the
homeless outcast we sheltered from the tempest, ne'er prove a serpent to sting thee! But
there's ever a lurking devil in mystery: —mere misfortune has nothing it can be ashamed of
Has he not told us, over and over again, that the disclosure of his secret would endanger the safety of his family? His half avowals leave us no room to doubt. You know Henry has been a soldier—may be— a deserter.
Desert the colours of his country!
Be sure 'tis something of that nature which weighs upon his soul, and wraps him in so deep a gloom.
But his deep gloom has cast no cloud between him and his interest; — he has kept a sharp look out to that. A starving adventurer, who can worm himself into the good graces of a young and pretty woman, and into the proprietorship of a fine establishment, has no cause to complain, and no right to look melancholy.
Nay, brother—you do him wrong. Had interest been his incentive, would he not have been eager to have urged our wedding? would he so often have put off the ceremony, which is to make my hand and wealth irrecoverably his?
Well, well, we're only wasting words, so we'll drop an ungracious subject. As the proverb
says, — "What can't be cured, must be endured." I'm sure I'm disposed to like him, and I
should like him, if he'd be frank, and tell us who and what he is;—or, rather, tell you, for
Heaven knows, I'm only inquisitive on your account. But to you! to you, whom he owes
happiness, life itself, to keep up this mystery is shameful. Presently, however, you'll be
his. May you never have cause to repent! But, should regret and sorrow be your portion, be
sure these arms can ne'er be shut against you. Fly hither from the blast, and in your
brother's bosom seek shelter and a home.
The bridegroom! the bridegroom! Now we shall have the ceremony. Like Cupid, I'm wedlock's forerunner, and I've fairly run myself out of breath, too, which Cupid has no right to do, before marriage, for that comes quite soon enough after.
I see no bridegroom. There's La Route, the owner of the post house, turning the corner, but no bridegroom.
Monsieur La Route! so it is! well they say Cupid's blind, and here's a proof.
Worthy widow, I kiss your hand. Friend Bonhomme, yours to command.
At any rate, every one knows who you are.
Who I am? I believe you. There'd be no getting on, in this country, but for me. The post-house has, for the last sixty years, (father and son understand) been my property; and it is hard that I, who have moved half the kingdom should have failed to move the sweet widow there.
But, now, since the widow is happy in the choice of—
Henry! Henry at last —huzza! huzza! huzza!
Oh, my heart's comfort! Trust me, my beloved Louise, a circumstance, beyond my control withheld me from you thus. Each moment away from you has been an age of impatience to me, love!
So you are late, too.
Monsieur La Route, our neighbour.
Good morning, sir.
Proud as Lucifer! "Set a beggar on horseback"—umph "!—
Gendarmery!
The horses were dropping with fatigue and the men with hunger. So I had to wait till both
were fed and rested, before I could hope to find out what brought
Well?
I was as wise as at its beginning. After a thorough search through my premises, off they set.
To return no more?
Oh, no. They're sifting the neighbourhood, and will be back here, I dare say, to open your wedding-ball with you.
With what intention ?
What intention? Oh, these gentlemen are not so fond of telling their intentions. Yet from
the few words they let drop, I could smoke 'em. Penetration is a gift, and they that have it
discover things, which sometimes, astonish the finder.
Speak—speak!
'Tis very important, observe! Don't get me into a scrape, now
Deserters!
Criminals!
It is suspected, nay, it is pretty certain, that, for a long time past, several of them have found refuge in this district. Such measures are taken, that nothing but a miracle can screen them from justice. They'll have the deserters, and the deserters will have their deserts.
Unhappy men!
Unhappy! ha! ha! ha!—so it is — never content. Half the world are crying out. that they
can't get their due, and the other half, because they do get it,
Sir, the wretched, though guilty, claim pity, and not sneers. There is nothing so unsafe as severity. Who knows but among these proscripts, there may be some who have merited a better fate? The victims even of law may be the victims of error; and, till man can be infallible, he has no right to be unfeeling.
Had I any compassion to spare, I think I might bestow it better than on convicts.
Louise, a moment longer and we shall be one. Heaven knows such bliss o'ertops my proudest
hope, fulfils my dearest wishes. Still, whate'er the cost, I am ready to sacrifice my
happiness to yours. The wretched sport of destiny, nameless, pennyless, with no earthly prop
but you, you only, to whom I owe everything, what can I
I have weighed all. My resolution is as unalterable as my love.
That is not the language of dishonesty.
Here come all the villagers, men, women, and children, to conduct them to church.
Great Heaven! should they observe!
Believe me, I deserve your friendship, and shall deserve it. Though worn by affliction, I am pure from guilt.
Lead to the ceremony.
They are gone—not a soul left. Now for a moment's halt. Ah! I can no longer drag on without
rest.
At it, my lads! Make all ready, so that, when they come, there'll be nothing to do, but to
eat and caper.
No, he's not dead. Help! help!
The very spot, and the very condition, in which, seven years ago, we found poor Henry. Lift
him up—
What the devil are you afraid of ? Nobody here wants to hurt you.
Thanks, thanks!
That's a cure for all evils.
I had well nigh betrayed myself.
"The more haste, the worst speed," as my schoolmaster says. Take my advice, and stay here
the rest of the day. There's a wedding too, and that will please you. You shall tell me your
story, and that
The boy's right; don't think of stirring.
I accept your kindness.
Mamma, you won't scold me, I'm sure you won't. See, I've been helping this poor man. We found him dying on the bare ground. You always told me, 'twas our first duty to relieve the afflicted.
And 'twill always be our pride, my boy, to see you remember such lessons.
That voice! I've heard it before, somewhere.
That face! Should it be——
Can I be mistaken! No—there's not a doubt. 'Tis he!
Withering recollection!
Comrade, this is not our first meeting.
Do you think so?
I know so.
'Tis done! I'm discovered!
What, shun an old friend! Oh, that'll never do!
An old friend!
What! my name and face forgotten—both? I've a better memory. Your name is—
Hold! hold! hold!
Come, come, Henry. Our worthy neighbours wait. By St. Denis, at your age, I should have been the first to lead the dance.
I—I—
I—I—what ails you Come, come; lead forth your bride. You, sir,
Both rest and food, indeed, would be welcome, sir.
You shall have them. Here, Basil, show this stranger an apartment, and provide food and wine.
Thanks! thanks!
I wish the stranger had continued so. Now I shall lose the dancing; but I won't, though.
This way— this way—
Be cautious, I implore.
I warrant; he saves me, or he sinks with me.
Now, then; lads and lasses, married and single— the dance—the dance!
He sleeps profoundly! He sleeps—with a life deformed by crime, and threatened momently with
the scaffold! He sleeps! while I, with an untroubled conscience, court repose in vain!
Agonizing fate! After unprecedented woes, happiness began to brighten round me, when this
monster comes to strike my soul with terror, and disturb the peace of a seclusion, till now
unknown to sorrow. One word, and Louise is lost to me for ever! I am given up to dishonour,
and can find no refuge but in death. Oh, pitying Heaven! turn aside the storm ready to burst
on my devoted head. I did not care to live, till love gave live a value; but, now, blest in
the affection of an angel, I cannot bear to die.
Hence?
Would you break your promise? Now the darkness favours you; and ere another hour, gens-d'armes may be here.
Let 'em. I don't know how it is; but somehow, since I have had the luck to meet you, I begin not to care so much for the gens-d'armes. You can't let me be taken, you know; for, once caught, I might— 'Twas high time to stop my mouth, lad. I was just going to let all out: no wife for you, then; and, what's worse, no fortune, neither. She's a rich dowry, eh? You're a lucky dog. Who the devil would have guessed seven years ago No matter. I wouldn't change places with you, for all that. I have nothing to lose, and you are in my power.
Can man be humbled lower?
It's a pity. But, pluck up. I'll not blab; but you know the terms.
I shall keep my word. There's not a moment to be lost. Take this purse:—it will provide for your present wants. If I may be sure of your silence, yearly, on the same day, you will receive the same sum.
Ay, you may be certain of me. I've no love for law, but a great respect for money.
Hence! Nothing is in the way of your departure now. Hence! and in some deep, impenetrable seclusion abjure your errors, expiate your crimes, and open your heart to penitence.
Oh yes: I repent as it is
It is of the deepest importance that your going should not be observed.
I know that.
That door leads to a passage, opening on the court-yard. Once there, you have only a low
garden-wall to scale, a hedge to pass over, and you are beyond our premises.
I was just thinking how I should contrive to get back, and he has shown me the way.
He's gone, and I am safe, at least for a time
Henry! what the deuce are you about here? They're all asking after you.
An explanation! On what subject, pray ?
Why, your mysterious manner, which nobody can explain. You must have seen plain enough, that I'm not pleased with you, though I've done my best to keep it down before Louise; for I wouldn't have made her unhappy by what I suspect.
By what you suspect ?
Yes, sir, by what I suspect.
What do you suspect?
That you have no affection for her. Before you were married, I ascribed your sadness to your fears of losing her. You've got her, and now you absent yourself, and seem more sad than ever. Why, sir, do you steal away from her at this moment? The man who can use any woman ill, is cowardly and base; but he who can wound the heart of an affectionate girl who loves him, is un. deserving of the name. There, now it's out, and so you may make the best of it.
Mr. Bonhomme, you have always been against me, notwithstanding my unwearied efforts to deserve your friendship. I call Heaven to witness, my whole soul is devoted to Louise! I thought yesterday you had renounced your prejudices; but your language to-day proves I was mistaken.
No sir, you were not mistaken: but let me find that you deserve my friendship.
There is no sacrifice—
I want no sacrifice. I want open dealing. So tell me what is become of the man whom we assisted yesterday, he, whose sudden arrival astonished you so, and seemed to give you uneasiness? What's become of him ?
That man you'll see no more.
So much the better! He has one of those countenances one don't care to meet twice.
Great Heaven! Maddening remembrance! Terrible coincidence! Detested letters! My eyes cannot look on them and not shudder.
Henry!
Oh! nothing, nothing. This child's device—
Flutters your heart, as it does mine. The first union of our initials thus seems to give a
reality to the dawning union of our lives, and could not but excite emotion
Where'er I turn, the horrid brand of opprobrium and dishonour!
What agitates him now! There's a something about that man that baffles every
conjecture.
There's a post-chaise at the door.
A carriage at this hour! What can bring—
And two people stepping out.
An officer ?
Yes, an old officer.
You see, I'm a man of my word. When I promised to come back, I little expected to come in such good company. Permit me to introduce a new guest to you. This gentleman comes into Auvergne for the purpose of buying that beautiful estate, of which you have the disposal. It was impossible for me to give the gentleman all the information he required, so I took the liberty to bring him to you. I was just going out, when he came in, so, as he offered me a seat in his chaise, I accepted the honour, and here we are.
A wedding! Had Monsieur La Route made me aware of this sooner, I would not have intruded. This is no time to talk of business; and I am much afraid in my presence—
Sir, the presence of a soldier and a gentleman,
I thank you for your politeness; but I should be exceedingly sorry to be in the way of—
You are in no one's way, my dear sir; and if the rejoicings of our worthy villagers are not disagreeable to you, we should be happy if you would rest under our roof from the fatigues of your journey; and to-morrow we will endeavour to give you the information you require.
Allow me, sir, to join in the invitations of my husband and my brother.
Didn't I tell you they were the best souls in the world? You can't stand out much longer, I am sure.
I accept your kindness; and, believe me, it gives me pride and pleasure to find myself in
such worthy company. Led to Auvergne by motives of much deeper interest than the purchase of
a domain, which is but a secondary object, perhaps you may be able to serve me more than you
imagine. But let not my coming disturb any of your arrangements.
Stop thief! stop thief! A man, whose face I couldn't get a glimpse of, has got into the bedroom, broken open the desk, and taken out all the money. Seeing me, he dodged out of the way; but I'll be bound he's not off yet.
Just heaven! can it be?
Let him be pursued.
If he be taken, I am lost. Should the robber be that wretch, he will seek to escape by the
passage, which, in the terror of the moment, I myself pointed out to him. Unheard of
perplexity! Forced to favour the flight of a miscreant, whom, with one word, I might— might
what? am I not in his power?
Ha! behold the criminal! 'Tis he! Stop! you go to your destruction.
Too civil by half! I should lose more than I can afford by that bargain.
Would you seal my ruin?
I only do like you—make the most of my situation.
Restore, I charge you, the fruits of your crime, or I give you up instantly to the tribunals.
And I devote you to shame and infamy.
This is too much! I will no longer bear this thraldom. Rather death at once, than life in base subjection to a miscreant like thee.
Death! Well, then, death be it—death—but on the scaffold.
The scaffold! Monster! then your life shall pay for it.
Stand there. I defy your impotent rage.
Come what may, I care not. Ere I perish, I'll have vengeance.
Here! here! this way, this way!
The scoundrel's given us the slip.
Just Providence, protect my Henry! Great Heaven! he's wounded.
'Tis but slight: the ball has but grazed his arm.
There can be no danger.
No, no—I warrant, none, sister.
What?
Behold the indelible brand, the fatal mark!
What mark?
That of a galley slave!
Oh, dear! oh, dear! who would have believed that such an honest man as Mr. Henry could have been such a rogue, as to be branded as a galley slave!
Silence! hold your tongue! Mightn't he have been born with it? You're a ninny, and don't know what you're talking about.
But, tell us, Basil, does any one know what's become of the rascal that gave him the wound?
No—but never fear, he'll be caught, for there's more than sixty of our comrades at his heels. But here comes that inquisitive post-master, M. La Route.
Hey, how, staying here yet? Arn't you afraid the walls will fall about your ears?
Come, come, Monsieur la Route, your tongue goes faster than your horses, and wants what they never do.
What's that?
A curb. If honesty's the word, you'll find more here than you bring.
Ahem; queer, very queer, When I think I should have ventured to such a suspicious place, I wonder at my boldness; I really don't know what to think of myself.
I'm sure nobody wants you to stay, and the sooner you go the better. This house, sir, is my master's, and I mind nobody here but Mr. Bonhomme, and Henry, my new master,
Your new master. Ha, ha, ha! A pretty master he is. He'll teach capital letters with a vengeance; he'll not soon forget the lesson he learned.
Why, Monsieur La Route, what did you mean by capital letters P
What! didn't you see the brand upon his arm, H. L., hard labour? You'd much better take
yourselves off, or you'll get into a scrape. Any moment the premises may be surrounded by the
soldiers. Whoever they catch will be taken for witnesses, and accomplices too, for aught I
know; so, take my word for it, you'd better make yourselves scarce.
And can you, who pass for such a good sort of fellow, have the heart to stick by 'em, eh ?
Why, will it hurt my character, think you?
Ruin it, don't you see that?
Not I.
You're a fool.
Oh, then you think I shan't pass for what I am?
Zounds! you'll get a pretty name. Fancy the people saying —"Who does Basil live with?"—"Why that Henry"— "What, he, we heard?"—"Ay."—"You don't say to"—"Truth, on my word"—"Really—oh oh!"
No?
You'd better cut. If you like to go—
Well?
I've a place to bestow.
Indeed!
What wages do you get here? Thirty crowns a-year ?
Exactly.
Well, come and live with me, and you'll have the advantage of being in a virtuous family, which is a great deal, you know, and I'll give you twenty crowns a-year.
What! ten crowns short! I give ten crowns for your virtue? That's more than my own's worth.
Can you really think of staying in the house of a malefactor ?
Stop, sir. Whatever that man's faults, you are beneath his roof, and there is no crime more despicable than his, who basely seeks to cool the few friends who remain faithful to a man in the hour of his adversity.
Yes, sir, and I'd have you to know, sir, I love my master, and I'll stay by him to the
last, and you'll never get me to quit him, with all your flummery—
Mr. Bonhomme, your servant insults me.
You shouldn't have put it in his power.
You take a tone which doesn't become your situation.
My situation! Sir, I can hold up my head anywhere. I never talk behind backs, and in
whispers; nor
'Twould be well for you all, could you prove it calumny..
The smoothest tongues are as little to be trusted as the worst appearances, sir. I thought you were afraid this house would hurt your character. The door is open, sir.
And tell your virtuous family, they inweiggle no servants from here -(aside)-for~ten~crowns~short.$
I'm going, sir! don't be alarmed—I'm going. And never, while I live, will I set foot in
this place again! I'm going.
Go to the devil, with your ten crowns short.
Go to your work, sir; and if you wish to leave our service, no tampering with our
foes first, but do it.
Not for ten crowns short.
My sister judged truly of that meddling, prating postmaster. His glih tongue took me in; a
rascally knave, to trample on a fallen man thus! I never took Henry's part before; but now
I'll fight for him through thick and thin.
Where, where can my sister have hid herself? Why, why does she shun the presence of her brother? Ah! she comes!
Spare me, brother! I know what you have a right to say. Had I listened to your advice—could I have believed. But I am punished cruelly, most cruelly. Don't add reproach to what I suffer.
Reproach, Louise! The severity of a true friend never follows calamity—so, no more of the past. What's to be done?
Alas!
No, no; don't weep.
I know my duty, and will do it, though 'twill cost me dear. You shall know all.
Good, sister, good. That's more than I could have ventured to hope.
Perhaps it is more than I could have dared to resolve, had not the sight of my boy awakened
me to what I owe him, and the world. Still, my brother, if, spite of my reason, spite of
myself, too weak to sustain the sacrifice, I should fall, at last, a victim to shame and
love, swear, swear solemnly never to forsake that child; and though his mother did not heed
your warning, remember that his father was an honest man,
Madam, I am—
What, what does he want?
Your pardon, madam. Your husband—
My husband! 'Tis done! True, he is my husband!
Pray, sir, what would you have with us? You perceive my sister is not in a state of mind to receive strangers.
I have several times attempted to see her husband, but ineffectually. All that I have been able to learn of him proves, that his conduct has been most exemplary ever since he has lived in this part of the country.
Be sure, sir, had it not, William Bonhomme and his sister would not have received him under their roof.
Oh! yes, sir, if ever he did forget the laws of honour, his conduct for the last seven years has been a reparation most ample and most public.
Seven years an inhabitant with you!
Yes, sir.
And found under very strange circumstances, I understand?
Yes, sir.
They say, too, he never gave any intimation of his name or family. But I can hardly think that. Surely, with you he could have no reserves.
He ought to have had none, sir, but he had.
I see it now! 'tis Henry they mean to pursue.
He was born in Paris, was he not? He has a brother. Did you never hear him speak of that brother ?
Sir, I tell you again, I know nothing about him, nor should I have ever been inquisitive, but on my sister's account; for I have no great opinion of those that try to worm themselves into the confidence of others, while they are so very guarded with respect to themselves.
I understand your allusion, Mr. Bonhomme; but it does not touch me; and, were you aware of the motives upon which I act, you might deem me worthy of a better opinion.
Oh, sir, there's no great penetration wanting to see into your motives.
You are your own master, sir; but there is a way to get at the truth; and, as I am determined to find it out, that way I must adopt.
Sir!
Brother, he will be lost, if not hurried from this place instantly. Save him from public
shame.
Ah, sir! I supplicate you, if Henry's fate is in your hands.
You mistake me, madam.
No, no! You seek in vain to hide your purpose. I see, I feel, that you have long been in pursuit of this unhappy fugitive.
That's perfectly true, madam; but—
Then, in the name of Heaven,
Madam, this posture ill becomes you. Believe me, had it been in my power to restore your husband to happiness, your tears had been dried up ere now.
I hear steps. They are leading him this way. Perhaps this is the last time we can ever meet.
I leave you, madam. Heaven grant that my return may bring you happier tidings!
Henry! It breaks my heart to see him.
Ah, madam! this last kindness is more than all the rest. To consent to see me, after—
Forget not your duty to your child. Come, Felix, come with me.
Dearest Louise! Can I ever hope your pardon for what I have made you suffer?
My pardon! Are not your sufferings as great as mine?
Greater than words can picture. Do you not hate the causer of your woes?
Hate you? Our moments are numbered. We are beset by spies. An hour hence, perhaps, you cannot escape their vigilance. If you still love me, fly, fly! It must be; for your ruin is sworn. Go, live far from your Louise, and trust her love, whose heart is yours for ever.
Unparalleled devotedness! Can I have concealments from a heart like this? Louise, I claim more than love—I claim your esteem and, ere I leave you, you shall own I merit it.
What! Oh, speak! Go on, but don't—oh, don't deceive me!
Not for worlds! Learn, then, I was never guilty.
Great Heaven, I thank thee!
An officer, moved by my early years, and deep calamity, lent himself to my escape. I effected it with the wretch who recognised me this morning, and who, less fortunate than I was, was captured, has only gained his purpose after many years of suffering, dreadful, though deserved.
And why would you not reveal this sooner?
Oh, I could not make my innocence apparent, without bringing on my brother the punishment from which he had been redeemed by my sacrifice.
O, my Henry, we may yet be happy! Now my heart may own thee. Conscience no longer struggles with my love.
Fly hence, unhappy man!
Whither, sir? He is innocent! whither would you force him?
To safety. I tremble for him. The villagers are armed. They conduct the soldiers hither.
I know not, sir, whence the interest you express for me can arise; but, whatever may be your object, I have her esteem, whose approbation is more dear than life, and now I defy calamity.
Confide in me. One word may save you.
Ha!
Avow your name. I answer for the result.
Huzza! huzza! They've got him! They've got him!
Who?
The devil!
The wretch who deceived me.
Save me, or we both are lost!.
Infamous villain! dare you—
Save me, I say, or give me arms: I'll fight 'em to the last—
Paul de Lisle! Great Providence! thy ways are just. The object of my long search is gained. The monster, who would crush thee, destroys himself, and gives thee back to the world, to happiness, to honour.
What do I hear ?
Your brother, dying, avowed his guilt your sentence is revoked, your innocence proclaimed.
Be happy in your uncle's arms, and share his heart and fortune!