First Performed at the Royal Alexandra Theatre, Liverpool, June 27, 1870.
Scene - A Chateau in Brittany. Period - Louis XV.
Time in Performance, One Hour.
The Music of Lost and Found is Published by Messrs. Duff & Stewart, 147, Oxford Street, and may be had of all Music Sellers complete for 10s. 6d., nett.
4s. each.
You are the last person I should have ever thought of meeting in the wilds of Brittany.
Meeting you is almost as great a surprise to me, my dear Baron. I had not the remotest idea that I was trespassing on your property. You're here for the shooting, I see.
Yes—Sport has always been a mania with me. But what are you doing in this part of the world ?
Studying my profession
I remember now, you're a painter. That picture you painted of my wife when you were
recommended by the Marquise de Beaulieu, ought to have made your fortune. She was sixty-three
at the time, and you made her look thirty-six. Such talent must surely bring you plenty of
customers—among the old noblesse.
But I assure you, the Baroness–
Appeared even more charming—drawn by you, than painted by herself—But the
Marquise de Beaulieu— there was a charming little woman if you like,
Oh, nothing!
She was a connection of my wife's, and we were thrown a good deal together, at one time. I remember making rather a fool of myself about her, I made her a—declaration!
You did ? how did she take it ?
Burst out laughing in my face, and told me to go home to my young and pretty wife, whose
picture she had just seen at your studio. I wonder she'd any laughing in her, married as she
was to a man so unsuited to her. The Marquis's life was spent in eating, drinking and
gambling; with these three little expensive weaknesses he consumed a great part of her large
fortune, and no doubt the whole would have gone if he had not been drawn into a quarrel, and
killed in a duel. His adversary, who banks with me, wrote me an account of it all yesterday,
and to-day the whole story's in the paper,
With all these details it must be true. Oh! why did he not live a little longer, so that I might have avenged her wrongs!
Or die a little sooner. So that he could have married the widow,
Because when on earth to me she was an angel, a ministering angel. Poor and unknown, with no one to patronize me, I was dying of want in a miserable garret. My last picture had just been refused at the Exhibition— in a fit of despair I took up a knife, cut it to atoms, and was on the point of putting an end to my wretched existence, when I heard a knock at my door.
Suicide postponed sine die.
On opening it, I found a lady, accompanied by a servant in livery. She had heard me raving,
from the room next door, (where she had been on a mission of charity,) for she said to me in
the kindest manner " You are a painter I understand." The next day she gave me her first
sitting ; from that moment a future seemed open to me. She gave me fresh orders, paying me in
advance,
Ah! I see you love her, and I don't wonder at it. But what should you say if I were to show
her to you once more—not in a picture but in the flesh ? I have only been here two days, and
yesterday I met a village girl called Madelina, a dairymaid, I fancy, who is —the very image
of the Marquise, she lives down at the farm, with her aunt; but she comes here twice a day
with milk for the use of the house,
The same features, same eyes, same expression—I almost believe it is she.
What is it, good sir ?
Well, my lovely one, so you've brought the milk, don't spill it as you did yesterday,
Sir!
It is not she after all.
Do I look so very alarming ?
Terribly ! You frightened me so yesterday that I spilt ever so much milk, twenty sous worth, aunt says, and its to be stopped out of my wages.
Your aunt's a barbarian, but you shan't suffer for my fault. Here,
I'll have no conditions.
She likes the look of it.
Why that's gold, sir; you've made a mistake.
No mistake at all; take it to buy ribbons.
The form and features are hers; but the manner and voice, oh how different!
What is the matter, sir, with that young gentleman, have I frightened him ?
No, quite the contrary; the fact is, you're the image of a great lady — a Marquise, he once loved, but to whom he never dared tell his love.
Why does'nt he tell her now ?
Because she is dead, poor woman. But the most extraordinary thing is that he goes on worshipping, her now she's dead, and refuses to be consoled for her loss.
Poor young man !
Oh ! he thinks it romantic.
You have none of that imagination, sir, I am sure, in your head.
No, thank heaven, I, Madelina, am a practical man.
But this great lady ?
You'd like to hear all about her, would'nt you?
Yes. Was she pretty ?
I have already said she was like you.
I suppose that's called a compliment. I don't get many at home. My cousin Jean Pierre, he's
a regular bear, and
I am sure I wish him joy. But here he comes, I recognize his
Well, if you don't choose to stand anything, in goes your name to the mayor.
What is it, Jean Pierre ?
Good gracious! the Baron !
Won't stand something handsome, eh ?
Who's been saying that ? some ill-natured person I know. I should'nt wonder if it were cousin Madelina; oh ! how I do hate that girl.
Hate me! why I should like to know ?
Why indeed ?
What! you really aspire to be—
A flunkey; so if your honour would like to take me to Paris, and give me an independent sitivation.
I'll think it over—speak to me about it later.
To the dairy to help aunt make the cheese.
And who's to cook my dinner I should like to know ?
Why don't you go and dine in the kitchen ?
As super-numery—ah! that I will.
Yes, go Jean Pierre and have thy fill.
Ah! that I will.
She's charming. How I do wish the Baroness would take her to Paris as lady's maid. I do
like to see pretty faces about the house; I fear this one will be almost too pretty for the
Baroness,
More wretched than ever—this fatal likeness—far from being a comfort to me, is only a source of pain. The features are hers, it is her living image, cast as it were in the same mould; the outward form is hers, but the soul and mind, alas ! are only Madelina's.
Whoever the outward form belongs to, it's remarkably attractive. If you don't take care you'll be caught by it yet.
I—caught ?
I'll make a bet!
I-—forget the Marquise ! compare a mere woman with that angel! I have a
single thought for anyone else! No, Baron ! the sight of this girl gives me only painful
emotions.
I am sorry for that, for more reasons than one.
What may they be ?
I was going to ask you to do me a favour.
I am at your service.
My wife would be so pleased to have a likeness of the Marquise, who you know was a relation
of hers ; and I want you to paint one, a pendant to the Baroness's portrait. You
could do it in two or three sittings.
Yes! you are right, it is the only chance left of getting a likeness of her.
Come then.
Ah !
Why what's the matter ?
Seeing her fills me with emotion I cannot control. What is she doing here ?
She's only on her way to the dairy.
Oh! don't talk about it!
Too matter of fact I suppose — too material! no sentiment, or poetry to be squeezed out
of—buttermilk, eh! Well, well, I must go and wash my hands, for I'm unsentimental
enough to want my dinner. Good bye for the present.
They were intended for–
Not leave me more !
Do pray this favour grant!
I don't object—but, you must ask my aunt.
Tell me one thing, and frankly, dear, I pray;
Hast thou a sweetheart ?
Sweetheart! Must I say ?
At your age, there's no doubt.
I've not one, yet—
She says this with a feeling of regret.
No hers—
Well, hers, in thine caressed.
That gave you some new thought, I well could see.
It made me wonder what this love could be.
Say—in this village does thy lover dwell ?
Farewell, farewell, &c, &c.
Yes, poor child, I will undertake to secure your happiness. It is a duty I owe to Louise—and one I promise to perform in remembrance—of her. As soon as I learn her lover's name, I'll speak to the Baron about it—and if necessary, I will sell every picture I paint to provide her with a marriage portion,
I tell you I know it, for a fact.
Cousin Madelina,—loves me ?
Good heavens! this is the man!
Ah! you're at work, I didn't see you. We shan't interrupt you, we're only talking over some business—quite uninteresting to you.
Uninteresting to me ! Fancy my gentle Madelina loving a boor like that.
Now I comes to think on it, may be you're right after all, and tho' I've no fancy for she,
that's no reason she shouldn't be sweet on me. She would'nt be the fust in the village who's
made up to Jean Pierre, and been disappointed,
The conceited Ape!
But suppose this here be true—what's the good on't?
If you'll listen I'll tell you. You wanted me this morning to take you into my service.
I wants it all the more since I've been in the kitchen.
Well you see, I'm a very straight-laced kind of a master. I'm a married man myself, and wont have any unmarried men in my house.
Then we shann't fall out there—for this very morning I promised marriage to a young woman, a remarkably fine young woman, they call her the infant down here, for a joke, 'cause she's so full grown, and her father's going to give her two hundred crowns.
The remarkably fine young woman won't suit me. I don't want any prize cattle in my establishment, besides they tell me she squints and I dislike a squint.
But she's got two hundred crowns.
And carotty hair.
But she's got two hundred crowns.
Your wife will of course accompany you to Paris—where my house is renowned for its elegance and refinement. I like my servants to be as little unrefined as possible, and that is the reason I have selected Madelina; therefore, whether she suits you or not, you don't enter my service unless you marry her. I'll give you five minutes to decide.
Yes. No. Yes. No. When in doubt toss up.
But here she comes. Go and make her happy. I shall expect to hear this evening that its all settled.
I have at any rate saved her, in spite of the Baron, from marrying a boor who would have rendered her life unbearable.
Are you looking for me, my pretty cousin, Eh ?
No, Jean Pierre; I'm looking for the housekeeper, who wants to see me.
That's a good joke, but it won't do. Why you're all of a tremble. I understand it,—so I shall come to the pint at once. I love you.
How dare you speak to me like that. ?
I offer you marriage on the spot.
You! Jean Pierre! offer her marriage, when you have promised to marry the "Infant," and have been paid for it!
Five hundred francs!
Don't believe him, Madelina.
There's no mistake about it. The Baron has given me twice as much as you, on condition, I marry Madelina.
But I wont have it I tell you.
Quite right, Madelina. I'd see him at the bottom of the sea before I'd marry him. You're quite right.
Quite wrong. Its a downright robbery, trying to deprive me of a fortune and a career, but
for all you may both say, she shall be my wife.
Shall she.
Why not ?
Because I don't like you.
I knows better nor that.
Because I dislike you—will that do ?
Who'll believe that ? Say if you like, that there is others who—perhaps at this moment, you may be a hankering after; others—strangers, like this gentleman here.
The idea of such a thing!
Why she's seen me to-day for the first time!
But not for the first time to-day!
Will you be quiet, Jean Pierre ?
I saw her behind the fir-trees this morning, a pushing back the branches that she might have a good look at you, when you were sitting on the bank drawing, she never took her eyes off you.
Pray don't believe him, he's a wicked story-teller.
And when I caught her at these here games, she blushed with shame—and was all of a flurry.
Don't believe him—I had only that moment perceived you.
She'd been there ever such a long time, you know that, very well, and I'll let everybody else know, shame on you—running after a gentleman in that way!
I'll go and find the Baron, and then we'll see.
What makes you look so unhappy ? Come and tell me all about it.
He'll go and say all sorts of things about me.
Never mind, no one will believe him.
You already believe that this morning I was hiding to look at you.
Wasn't it true ?
Yes; but quite innocently. We don't see many new faces down here, and I was merely saying to myself— " Who can that be, painting on the bank there ? "
I quite believe you.
I hope you don't think it was anything else, for one can't be good for much, if one gives one's thoughts to —a—person, who all the time he is speaking to you—is thinking of somebody else; who looks at you without seeing you, and who says " I love you," when all the time he means some one else—for you do love some one.
She is, alas! no more.
That's all the worse; beauty fades, youth withers, but memory is an evergreen!
What a sentiment! how did you get hold of that?
I am sure I do'nt know.
Altho' of course you know you are pretty, Madelina. I don't think you have any idea how charming you are. I assure you, you are very nearly as attractive as—
The Marquise ?
Yes; but in a different way.
Ah! if I could only become like her, and a lady! but of course with a country girl that is
impossible. She was very, very pretty, I suppose ?
She had some qualities you, Madelina, do not possess; such as distinction, grace, &c. But you, on the other hand, are more tender, more a child of nature—and then her eyes—
Were of a different colour?
No. The very same, but their expression was that of pride, or rather of coldness and indifference, whereas yours beam with tenderness. Then you are without name or fortune. The Marquise was well born and rich. It was that indeed which caused me to shun rather than seek her society; the thought that she could imagine I loved her for her wealth and station was intolerable to me.
Then you never told her you loved her ?
Never ! with you, I had more courage.
Because what you said was not meant for me.
Oh, yes it was, partly ; I have a great affection for you, and should like to see you happy ; I wish I could find some one worthy of you.
Thank you, sir,
What, never marry ?
Never.
Why.
That's my secret,—but you, sir.
I! unfaithful to her !
No, Madelina, I shall never marry, the only affection my heart will ever admit will be a brother's love for you.
If you really have any friendship for me, leave this place to-day, and never see me again.
What give up my only happiness, Madelina ?
Your happiness, alas! I am but the reflection of it.
What matters it—if it gives me an interest in life—and helps to console me for her loss.
For pity's sake—leave me—leave me ere it is too late.
Yes Madelina let me love you—with a brother's love— let me be——
No, it is too late, you should not have spoken of this—other love. Leave me I
implore, remember your promise.
You insist? Then farewell, but before I leave—you too must grant me one favour—let
me
Ah! what do I see ?
What's the matter ?
Why Madelina, my intended, whom you gave me your purse to marry—
Well?
Was being kissed by that gentleman.
Say nothing about it, you shall have a thousand francs more.
That's another thing.
So, so , my melancholy swain. In spite of your grief you appear to allow yourself—
This sarcasm is thrown away, Baron. I don't deny the emotion I felt at the sight of this young girl; you know the cause, but however great the interest or affection she inspires me with, may be, it will not detain me a single day more in this country; and having made up my mind to go, I was taking leave of Madelina—with her permission.
Oh! if it was taking leave, that's another pair of shoes ; there are circumstances—
Extenuating circumstances—
As that's the case, sir, I'm sure I axe your pardon,
Yes, my dear fellow, pardon us for having for one moment supposed that you had other intentions.
My only intention is to proceed on my journey.
To-day ?
Immediately.
You forget you made me a promise, a promise I won't let you break; my wife will be so pleased, and she's coming down here to-morrow. You know you promised me a portrait of the Marquise.
True, but though I confess the idea pleased me this morning, I am less inclined to carry it out now; then I've none of my things here, I left them at the village inn.
We'll soon have them fetched for you. That's Jean Pierre's business,
You'll excuse me, sir, but under present circumstances, which don't happen to be
extenuating, I say —you'll excuse me if I don't think it right—if I don't
altogether—think—
Think? what the devil do you mean Sir? what business has a fellow like you to
think ?
That's a good joke! How's a man to help thinking? why you can't prevent yourself thinking that I've no business to think, any more than I can help thinking I have—
If you must ape your betters, do it at any rate on the way to the Inn, and make haste and bring back the gentleman's painting things, for he wants to be off.
And to get me off that he may take leave again.
I suppose he wants something for his trouble, something on account, he has a decidedly commercial mind.
Leave him alone for that, he'll never lose a chance of extorting money out of someone. I am
almost sorry now that I have promised to take him to Paris, he'll want me to stand something
every time I look at Madelina, and so unless her beauty vanishes, my weekly bills will
increase so rapidly that the Baroness may think it necessary to look into the accounts,
I'm off, but no leave taking, mind, while I'm away,
He'll soon be back unless, he finds someone, to pay him to stay, but that's not likely, so you will soon be able to set to work.] If you've positively made up our mind about it, you shall go after you’ve done this, but I didn’t fancy all my plan being knocked on the head.
All your plan?
Yes, I had an idea—a capital idea.
Ah!
Touching this portrait— I’ve given orders to the old housekeeper to unpack one of the Baroness’ boxes which arrived just now, take out the prettiest gown she can find, and dress up Madelina as a great lady, as a Marquise, so as to render the likeness even more striking, if possible. You will then have a perfect copy to work from ; one’s only got to mention the Marquise and you are worked up in a minute. You no longer refuse, Eh? I'll tell you how to take her—it will be quite new—with a basket of flowers in her hand.
Ah yes, she loved them so.
I'll go and gather some in the garden,
The moment I have finished the portrait, I will leave. It is right that I should do so.
is Louise. In heaven's
name say you are Louise.
Alas ! I am but Madelina, whom they have dressed up like this. Tell me, pray, what it all means.
It means that I am to paint your portrait for them, as I promised,
I thought you were going to leave the Chateau?
So I am, but not without a likeness of my lost love—I promise to go directly I have done it.
You promise?
Yes, it wont take me long, and then I will leave you —The sketch will ever remind me of
this day—so fraught with pleasure and pain,
Did the Marquise sing ?
Yes, quaint old ballads, charmingly.
I think I can sing a ballad, or legend they call it here, about a sort of fairy who used to haunt the river side, many years ago.
Oh! do sing it.
I will.
Just stand up like that for a few minutes.
Brava! Brava!
But you've not begun the picture.
I was listening.
You can't expect me to stand like this all day.
That's true, straight at me.
Like that?
Yes, like that; don't move,
Is that right ?
No, you mustn't look at me, it prevents me working.
Not look at you ? I must look somewhere.
Stay! can you read?
No.
Never mind ; look as if you could,
That's capital, don't move.
Good heavens ! what is the matter? She trembles—drops the paper—she is fainting ?
Speak Madelina ; what is it ?
A pretty state of things again! no extenuating circumstances this time!
Hold your row, will you !
Hold my row, while that gentleman remains on his knees to my intended. What do you think I am made of?
You shall have five hundred more.
That's another thing, after all, perhaps he is only taking leave, again.
I heartily wish he was.
Help ! for goodness sake. Can't you see that she is ill.
Quick, run and call some one.
Yes, but you'll look after them won't you? Keep your eye on that gentleman, if she should come to while I'm away.
She's coming to—she's coming to.
No! remain now.!
What do you say ?
Well, is she better ?
Oh! it is nothing, Sir, only the heat, fatigue, and surprise.
Well, it wont do for me to interrupt your sitting,
The most interesting my dear Baron.
First rate, upon my honor.
They say that the Marquise de Beaulieu, a lady well known in Paris, had recourse some time ago to a stratagem, to free herself from an insupportable life, with her husband. She positively spread the report of her own death!––
Good heavens ! they say that ?
Why she's making fun of you.
But in reality, concealed herself in the house of her old nurse in Brittany,
Can this be true ?
Having made up her mind to pass the remainder of her days there in peace. The sudden death
however of the Marquis, has restored her once more to the world,
You are then Louise, my loved Louise.
Forgive me—Marquise—pray.
On condition that for the future you behave better to your young and pretty wife.
Intended stuff.
We'll let you off.