Clara
(attired in an elegant ball dress, half opens the small door, R. and calls in a timid
voice) Frederic! (louder) Frederic! (coming on and advancing, c.) Gone!
(goes hastily towards bed) Gone! (coming forward with air of
sadness) And he leaves me thus! He is angry with me, and wherefore ? What have I said
? what have I done? We were both just ready, and on the point of starting for my aunt's ball,
when he received a letter which he endeavoured carefully to conceal from me, but he failed both
in the attempt to hide the letter, and to check the emotion it evidently gave rise to. He is
gone to the ball at the Opera, and for the life of me I cannot keep down my suspicions. " Take
me with you, Frederic," I said. " Impossible! I will conduct you to your aunt's, and leave you
there," he replied. " But why should we separate ? Can you not take me with you to the Opera ?
" " No, it is not proper." " Then, sir, I have cause for suspicion." "No, Clara, you are
wrong—and since I must
tell you, know that it is for Edward—it is on your brother's account I go there. I
have told you all," he concluded. " Now will you go to your aunt's ? " Then, I confess, I lost
my temper and said—perhaps too hastily— " I prefer remaining where I am." He then flew into a
passion, and quitting me, retired to his own room, and when I, kind, tender-hearted creature as
I am, fly to see him, to acknowledge that I have been too hasty and petulant, I find him gone,
positively gone, (walking about vexed, gradually becoming more and more
agitated) I am afraid, very, very much afraid, " my brother" is a mere excuse—and as
to the propriety portion of the story— pshaw! not proper indeed!—Why it's perfectly ridiculous!
Who, I should like to know, would recognise me in a mask ! Oh, I dare not think of it—I dare
not look into my own thoughts, they make me tremble for my future happiness! It's lucky I'm not
of a jealous disposition—no, no, thank goodness, I am not jealous. Certainly I never before
noticed the fascinating accomplishments of my husband—but, strangely enough, at this moment I
see them all—I love him, yes, I do love him, and if I dreaded but one
rival, and knew there was but one, I would soon learn who she was, and then I
could compare myself with her (seats herself and looks complacently into the glass)
I might perhaps say—but that would be in a whisper to myself—" Surely I am superior to
that creature !" (turns away mournfully) But alas, I tremble in thinking on the
many beauties that will beset him at the Opera. Besides, my brother, too wild and gay a young
man by far, will be with him. (rises and walks about) But for this unfortunate
ball to-night such thoughts would never have entered my head. My husband seems to love me. And
after all why should not his going out be an act of necessity ? He said it was, and I
will believe him. (listening) I hear some one—yes, I guessed
right, it is he. (runs to door—suddenly stops and smiles) No, that would be
wrong, quite wrong ; I'll put on a very severe look, that this kind of thing may not occur
again, (seats herself in a chair, puts on an imposing appearance, and after a moment's
silence proceeds) Well! why doesn't he come in ? (rises, goes on tiptoe, peeps
through keyhole, and then returns with a
feeling of dejection) It's only Justine, (looking at timepiece and
arranging things on mantel-shelf) Well, it is but one o'clock, (violent knock
at street door) Ah, this time it is he ! I am sure of it—quite sure of it I my heart
did not deceive me—and yet I tremble! How long they are opening the door, what can they be
about? (listens a few moments very anxiously) No—the door is closed again, and
no sound of a carriage going away, (falls in chair, R.) My fortitude has
forsaken me! (with sudden anger) He shall beg my pardon—on his knees?
(with grief) Oh, that I could sleep—sleep, and drive away these hateful, these
distracting thoughts. (Music—a moment's silence, during which she expresses the double
feeling of fatigue and ennui—she takes up a book, attempts to read, throws it aside, then
takes up another, seems to read a few lines, and at length falls asleep, her arm drops, and
the volume glides from her hand—as she drops off to sleep, the music begins ppp., and
continues at intervals— between the pauses, she utters the following in half-broken words, and
a low voice) Sleep! delightful! soothing! true ! But why is sleep so agitated? The
frame droops exhausted, but the mind remains active. Thought still lives. Sleep is not repose,
it is suffering, (opening her eyes which she keeps fixed—calls) Justine, my
domino! (to herself) He is at the ball, I will go thither, (to
Justine) My mask! (to herself) He will not now know me. (she
seems to robe and mask—here a bar of music rather loud—she then suddenly rises as in a dream,
with the look of a somnambulist) What a blaze of light! What beautiful fancy dresses !
What countless dominoes ! This then is the ball at the Opera, (in a listening
attitude) Hark ! 'tis my favourite quadrille, " La Poule," they are playing.
(hums the air, then sings, adapting the song to " La Poule")
Oh, come with me, for Pleasure calls
The young, the gay, to join her throng;
Light dancers bound in her ivory halls,
And wine-cups flow the whole night long !
Oh, come, while Joy invites thee thus—
Come ere the night shall yield to day;
Garlands are blooming there for us,
And lips their welcome long to say.
(at the conclusion of the song she turns suddenly round, and utters a slight
scream) Ah ! I am followed, and have no one to protect me. How indiscreet to come to
such a place alone! Gentlemen, I—I entreat of you to leave me. (suddenly, and as if
seeing some one) Ah, Edward, my brother, is it you ? Your arm—give me your arm, I say.
" Why am I here," you ask, "unknown to my husband?" Because he is here unknown to me—I am sure
of it. Come, come let us find him. (Music—she moves about like a person who has taken
another's arm—places her hand to her face as if she held a mask, and walks about in an
agitated manner—starts suddenly as though she had discovered her rival) Tell me,
Edward—that—that majestic-looking creature yonder in the blue domino—is she not
(pointing) my rival ? You must know her. What charm is she gifted with that
enables her to rob me of my Frederic's heart ? (as if she had received an
answer) Beauty, you say ?—sprightliness, which captivate, enchain him ! Is it because
she dances like this ? (she imitates a cachucha, gracefully burlesquing it)
Well, I can dance also; so can anyone, (suddenly) Ah! they want an opposite
couple, Edward—did you hear ? I'm ready, (standing up as if in a quadrille) Now,
then, I'll quite overpower him. (dances and speaks every time that she fancies she
passes her husband) I find you in very agreeable company, sir— upon my word, Frederic!
My coming here was very improper, was it, sir ? Surely a wife may go where her husband goes,
(passing over) A separation! (her voice choking with tears) Oh,
yes, by all means—an excellent idea!—with all my heart, sir. (suddenly stops, strongly
agitated, and looks on every side) Heavens ! Gone! Where are they ? Edward, come,
let's follow them, (she seems to drag some one along, and falls into chair, L.)
Ah ! I see them together—yonder—look ! look! (points towards a private box, and, after a
moment's agitation, utters a cry, then rubbing her eyes, starts up quite awake, and looks
round her with an expression of extreme joy) No ball! No rival! still in this room!
Thank heaven it was a dream. (after a moment's thought, changing the expression of her
countenance) No, it wasn't a dream, it was a warning voice from heaven—dreams often
are. He is deceiving
me—I know it I feel it. The conviction is in me, I know it as if I saw it The proof
alone is wanting, and something tells me I shall find that too. (her wandering eyes at
length fix themselves on the secretaire) Ah, the key in the secretaire! this the first
time he has neglected to take it with him; He was too hurried when he left home to think of it.
There's a coincidence! (advancing quickly towards it) If he has any secrets
(tapping the secretaire) here they are. (hesitating) It would be
rather treacherous in me to take advantage of such an opportunity—yet, he may be faithless, and
my happiness, yes, my happiness depends on my being satisfied. I am resolved then, (she
places her hand on the key, then stops suddenly in great alarm, turning as if she heard a
noise) Ah! who's there ! (recovering) No one! I'm frightened at my own
shadow, I declare, (opens secretaire quickly, looking around) I'm alone, quite
alone! (places the candle upon the flap of the secretaire, hurriedly opens and examines
all the drawers) There is nothing—nothing. Papers of no interest— memorandums of no
moment, (reads) " Diary of expenses." (she throws this aside also, then
pauses suddenly and picks it up, assuming great seriousness) Stay! his expenses! well
thought of—men's expenses are a safe clue to their habits, (reads quickly and with much
agitation) " Seventeenth—lent Edward six thousand francs, and yesterday, paid for
Edward ten thousand francs"—no doubt for his wedding presents. There is nothing—still I find
nothing—surely I cannot have examined all carefully. What's this? a secret drawer! Oho!
(touches spring, drawer flies open in middle of secretaire) Ah! what do I
behold ? a faded bouquet! Good heavens ! he must have carried on this intrigue for some time,
(again examines drawer) Ah! a miniature! in fancy costume ! and in his secret
drawer, (places her hand to her heart and seems ready to faint) She is very
beautiful—O yes, much, much handsomer than I am ! I dare say he worships it—There, there lies
his idol, (casts it on to the floor) Broken I hope, like my heart,
(seizes with great eagerness a paper from the same drawer) A letter too—in a
woman's hand ! (examining it closely) Why it's the very billet he received this
evening. Oh,
now the discovery is complete, (seating herself) I shall now learn
all. (reading with great agitation) " My dear
Frederic"—(speaking) Her dear Frederic! (reads) " Tomorrow I
start for London, you know it, and yet you come not to me"—(speaking) A gentle
reproach for not keeping the assignation. This then was the cause of— but no matter, I will
read on—(reads) " And he, how different from you, comes to me daily,
(speaking) He! he ! Oh, a rival no doubt, (reads) " He has
determined to follow me, and as I do not forget that I owe everything to
you"—(speaking) Indeed! (reads)—" my first appearance and
consequently my good fortune, for your sake I have hitherto struggled hard. But if I do not see
you to-night at the ball of the Opera, (reading with increasing emotion to the
end) where he will not fail to be before you, I cannot answer for myself, and then do
not blame my heart" (speaking) Perfidious creature ! (greatly
exasperated) And he is gone there! actually gone to meet her! False, treacherous
being! (while uttering this her rage gradually increases, till in her fury she overturns
the candle—lights down) Ha ! the light is out. Well, what need have I to know any
more? The name of this woman ? What, what is it to me ? My husband loves me not, he never did
love me, he married me for my fortune! (walking about, stops suddenly) I sought
for a proof; well, here it is, a decided proof of guilt and shame ! I am duped, betrayed !
What, what is left me but despair and death ? (firmly) Yes, death is my only
refuge, (listens in greatest agitation) Ha! (a carriage rapidly
approaches) he returns then at last. Yes, I am resolved—I will fling myself under his
horses' feet, and he shall witness my death. He shall behold the fearful sacrifice, and he will
know what it means, (she rushes to the window and throws it wide open) No, no, I
am deceived again ; it is gone by— Ha, I am cold, very cold—shivering, (leaves that
window quickly and seats herself near the one at back) The first breeze of morning
seems to thrill through my veins (speaking slowly) It has revived me—I no
longer feel the same creature—I can breathe again—I am better, not so unhappy (weeps as
she approaches the balcony with her face to the audience—lights gradually up—in an afflicted
and reproachful voice, mingled with sobs) Frederic has been all night from
home ; his absence until one o'clock I could have borne without chiding—even till three
o'clock. But to be all the night away, it is most cruel, unfeeling, unnatural! (her eye
falls on the letter which she had dropped near the window, she picks it up) I hold
within my hand again that fatal letter, (raise lights a little here) Day begins
to break, and with its dawn rise thoughts more cheering in my troubled mind. I'll read this
letter by the daylight then, it may assume a brighter aspect now. (reads the letter
slowly, turning the paper towards ths window to catch the first light of day, which is
represented at side scene) " My dear Frederic"—(turns away her eyes an instant,
then goes on) " To-morrow I start for London—you know it, yet you come not to me."
(breaking off) Reproaches ! it is necessary to be urgent with him, then; he is
perhaps less culpable than I imagined, (continuing letter) " And he—how
different from you!" (speaks) Who, then, is this lady whose wondrous charms so
fascinates them all? I can now see her signature ! (turns the letter) " Anais."
(struck with the name) Anais! that name is familiar to me—yes, my brother
refused a most excellent match for a lady called Anais. But let me proceed,
(reads) " He has determined to follow me; and as I do not forget that I owe
everything to you, my first appearance, and consequently my fortune" (speaks
briskly) Yes, yes, so she does; and her engagement in London she owes to my husband,
who made many sacrifices to tear her away from my infatuated brother. Why, he would have fled
with her this very night! Oh ! (joyfully) then it was to prevent this indiscreet
match that Frederic hastened to her at the ball, (returning quickly to the secretaire,
she replaces the letter of Anais upon the flap, and seeing the bouquet, picks it up)
But this bouquet! Alas! this admits of no such explanation. These flowers kept in secret!
this—this proves his love for some one! (examining the flowers closely, and exhibiting
great emotion) Here is myrtle— emblem of tenderness, constancy, and permanence ;
violet, primrose, heart's-ease ! (struck with the recollection) Why, I seem to
remember these flowers ! (joyously) Yes, the
last time we danced together I wore violets, heart's-ease, and myrtle. Now, if it
were—— Yes, it is the same ! 'Tis mine—'tis mine! He took the bouquet from me, and has kept it
ever since, (pressing it with delight to her lips) Dear, dear Frederic!
(in moving across the stage she kicks the miniature, which has remained on the
floor) Good heavens ! what's this ?—the miniature! I fear I have broken it, and he is
certain to discover who did it. (picks it up and examines it) No, no! I have not
injured it—thanks to my lucky stars! What is this inscription engraven on the back ?
(approaches the window a little, and reads slowly) " Marie, Countess of
Lavignon, painted in"—In when ?—" in 1754!" (hides her face in her hands, then
recovering herself, bursts into a fit of laughter) Ha, ha, ha! his grandmother!
(very archly) So then I have been jealous of my husband's dear, good,
venerable, and long since deceased—grandmamma! (puts the miniature into the drawer of
the secretaire—takes the bouquet and holds it up, smiling) I've been jealous of my
husband's wife, too ! How ridiculous do I now appear in my own eyes!—how groundless were all my
apprehensions ! (closes window, and returns to c. of stage—knock heard) Ah, this
time it is my husband! (listens to footsteps) Yes, he comes with my
brother—dear, dear Frederic ! and I all but suspected him of infidelity, (rushing
towards door) I will fly into his arms (stops suddenly and says with great
archness) No! no! no ! that is too fond a reception to bestow upon my truant Frederic.
Ha ! the door of the secretaire stands open, he must not suspect anything. (carefully
closes the secretaire) If he knew that I had been jealous, I should tremble for the
consequences, for the fact is, husbands misconstrue everything, even our love for them. Hush,
hush! he comes, (goes rapidly to door, R., which she opens, and as she passes out,
says—) The Night of Suspense is ended. (immediately as door R. closes, door L.,
opens—the Servant appears with candlestick as at rising of curtain, lighting some one who is
about to enter)