As performed at the Royal St. James's Theatre, on Monday, April 13th, 1868.
A New Drama of powerful interest, partly adapted and altered from the French Piece of “La Tireuse des Cartes,” by STIRLING COYNE, Esq.—The New Scenery by Mr. Frederick Fenton.
MARGUERITE D'ARBEL'S COTTAGE, VILLAGE OF CASTELLAN, FOOT OF THE FRENCH ALPS.
GENOA.—THE HARBOUR—AND BRIDGE OF CARIGNAN.
INTERIOR OF RUDIGA'S HOUSE, GENOA.
A STREET, NEAR THE PIAZZA SAN LORENZO.
APARTMENT IN THE PALAZZO DONATI.
SALOON, PALAZZA MONTALBA,
Overlooking the Guideca and S. Giorgio Maggiore.
Ah, bless her heart! that long sleep has done her good.
How kind of you, Ninon, to leave your work and come to help me, to-day, when I am so busy preparing for the return of my husband, whose ship has arrived at Marseilles. I expect my dear little Neomi's parents also; they are coming this morning to take this child. Is the darling awake yet?
Yes; she has just opened her bright eyes, and looks beautiful as an angel.
Sweet angel! It will pain my heart to part with one I love as dearly almost as my own child.
Neomi's parents are Jews—are they not?
Yes; Jews from Marseilles, who on the death of a rich relative were compelled to make a sudden journey last autumn to Hamburgh, to take possession of the enormous wealth which had been bequeathed to them.
And litle Neomi was left in your care?
She was too young and fragile to bear the long journey, so I took charge of her, and have given her plenty of fresh air and goat's milk.
You, and the air, and the goat have done your duty,
Yes; he's a dear little fellow. Do you know, although he has only turned six, he already speaks of going to sea with his father?
I like the spirit of the child, and if I were you I'd let him follow his inclination. Who knows but some day he may rise to be an admiral or a boatswain.
I should like to see him choose some other profession than the sea.
Why, Marguerite, you married a sailor, yourself! Maurice D'Arbel is a good husband, and you are a happy woman.
The wife of a sailor can never be happy; long absences and anxious looking for the loved one's return, make many blanks in her life. When Maurice left me to go this last voyage, I had a strange foreboding we should never meet again.
But he has returned safe, and your fears are over.
There—look—that face!
Where?
'Tis gone!
You tremble, Marguerite—and your face is pale as ashes, what has agitated you?
Do not question me.
Ah! I never had such luck.
A short time, however, revealed to me his real character. I found he was a man without
principle or honour,
A good riddance of such a fellow.
It would be false to say I regretted him; so when Maurice D'Arbel, a few years later, made me an offer of marriage I accepted him.
Just what I'd have done myself had I been in your place. Of course you thought no more of the wretch from whom heaven had delivered you!
Hush, Ninon, hush! that face I saw at the—those eyes which have thrice met mine of late—if Hubert Mallisset be living—that face—those eyes are his.
Good gracious—you frighten me. But I can't believe it, and I won't believe it.
Well, I'll try and banish it from my mind.
And while you do so, I'll prepare breakfast.
There, now I've only to fetch a jug of wine from the cellar, and all will be ready.
Hey! What a charming little warbler? I wonder if she could be tempted to accept an engagement as the Algerine Nightingale in my Dramatic, Operatic, Cabalistic, and Calisthenic Troupe, who will have the honour to give their first performance before the nobility, gentry and respectable inhabitants of this celebrated—
Bah! You never can leave off the showman's patter.
Excuse me my dear friend. I flatter myself that nobody can sink the professional, and glide with greater ease into the elegant habits of private life, than the unfortunate, but still gentlemanly Marquis de Galochard.
Ha! ha! ha! Bravo Victor Sanson! You'll be believing yourself a real Marquis.
Well, it's a pleasing delusion, and I indulge in it— there's a sort of glitter in a title, that dazzles the crowd.
Like the copper lace on your coat.
If it did I should not be seen in your company. But don't let us quarrel about our respectability till we come to the gallows.
With all my heart. And now to business
Right. Quite right! Nothing like business—one, two, three. Go on, don't mind me—there's no deception.
You know when we accidentally met on the road to this village, you told me you had a commission to procure a healthy female infant.
From eight to ten months old—as a substitute for the child of some Italian nobleman—whose name has been concealed from me.
Who cares for his name?
I understand that during the temporary derangement of the mother—caused by an alarm of fire in the chateau—her child died, and on her recovery, the doctor and her husband, fearing the effect which the loss might produce upon her mind, determined to practise a kind of fraud upon her.
By imposing another kid upon her in place of the defunct.
Your last three years in the galleys, Hubert, have given you a vulgarity of expression that I don't like. The doctor said it was the only means of preserving the lady's reason—perhaps her life. It is a case of humanity.
And of a hundred livres, which the doctor has promised for the job, and of which I am to have half, provided I furnish you with a squaller of the requisite age and sex.
That's understood! The noble incognito and the doctor will be outside that door at twelve o'clock to receive the child.
And hand over the rhino.
A sweet little thing, she'd make an angel on the tight rope. But, may there not be danger in the business—the nurse may have scruples.
I'll answer for her.
Oh!
The fame of the celestial beauty, which illumines this remote region, has attracted me.
I beg your pardon.
She don't understand poetry. I'll descend to the ordinary style. How? I am starring, my
dear. You are remarkably pretty.
The Marquis de—?
Galochard. A nobleman of immense landed property and innumerable castles in Spain, but who nevertheless employs his leisure hours contributing to the entertainment of the nobility, gentry, and respectable inhabitants of all the principal cities and towns in the world.
Oh! I'll lay a wager you're the manager of the Travelling Theatre, which opened this morning opposite the “White Horse.”
I have the honour to be the director of that magnificent Temple of Art. Permit me to offer
you a season ticket for the first and positively the last performance of my troupe in this
neighbourhood—being engaged under enormous penalties to appear on next Wednesday at St.
Petersburg, before the Emperor of Austria, the Lord Mayor of London, and the other crowned
heads of Europe.
Oh, I would not miss the Salamander for anything.
Allow me to have the pleasure of conducting you to the Temple of Art.
For a marquis, he has no pride.
To-morrow, then, papa will be home?
I trust he will, my child.
Oh! I shall be so glad.
I have no doubt I shall.
Oh! she's a beauty; and I've called her the Marguerite, after you, mama; and I'll go and fetch it.
Happy time of childhood—when the spirit knows no care, and the heart feels no sorrow.
Oh!
Marguerite!
It is no delusion then—you are—
Hubert Malisset—your husband.
No, no! for mercy's sake, say not so!
I should not mind a lie to oblige you; but the truth happens to suit my purpose better. You know I am your husband.
I do not! He was shot eight years ago in the mountains.
True! but his wound was not mortal. A poor goatherd carried him to his hut; tended him for months, and cured him. On his recovery he became a traveller.
A traveller!
Well, a vagabond—if you like. In the course of his wanderings, he became acquainted with the interiors of most of the prisons of France, and made a rather long visit to the Director of the Galleys at Marseilles. This accomplished individual, I repeat, is your husband.
Wretch, do not approach me.
Oh, don't be afraid; I respect female delicacy. I know you've got a second husband, and a son, the boy who just now went into that room.
Would you avenge yourself on an unoffending child?
What should I get by that? No—I have no wish to disturb your domestic tranquility; in an hour I shall have left this village, and you will never see me or hear of me again.
Will you, indeed, do this?
On one condition,—that you give me that child in the cradle.
Give you my little Neomi.
She is not yours; and I have found an eligible position for her, in a noble family where she will be brought up with a silver ladle in her mouth. So you see, it's better you should let me have her.
Never! Never! Her parents intrusted her to me, and with my life I will protect her.
Come, come; don't be a fool. The child I'll have.
You shall kill me first.
Kill you! You should not put that thought in my head. I may take the hint; but that is not all. Your son there will be in my power; he shall be my son—my pupil; I'll make him a vagabond—a robber—a convict—as I am.
Stop! stop! help!
Mad woman! The thing is done and can't be helped now.
It can, it shall.
And your son.
Ah! Heaven pity me!
Swear never to divulge the secret to any one. Come, there is no time to lose. Swear, or you know the consequence—your own death, and the ruin of your son.
Oh! Not for myself
Good! I leave you to meet your visitor.
He is gone, and I breathe again. What has happened? How shall I answer the unhappy mother
when she asks for her child.
Marguerite, we are returned.
Well—quite well.
Oh! I knew you would take good care, Martha. Is she asleep? Oh! I must kiss her!—but I'll
make no noise.
Poor mother!
She is not here! Oh! you put her in your own bed—I will find her there.
How will she support the blow! I will remove these things from her sight.
She is not there. Where is she? Where is my child?
No.
Why do you tremble then?
Because she is lost to you.
Not dead, yet lost to me! What is it you mean? Where is she? Let me see her instantly!
Alas! I cannot; she is gone.
Gone! Woman, woman! A mother stands before you demanding her child, and you answer with that cold marble face—“she is gone.” Beware!
Hate me—spurn me—kill me if you will. I can bear your fiercest anger without a murmur, you know not how I loved her.
I do, I do! You could not have pressed my little darling to your bosom for six months without loving her; pity me for her sake, tell me where she is, who has taken her. Answer me, Marguerite, by a mother's love, by the love you bear your own Claude.
Cease to torture me. I cannot, I have taken an oath to be silent.
What is your oath to me?
Ah! Heaven forgive me!
Barbarous woman! Cannot my misery touch your cold heart!
My strength fails me. I feel that I have nearly reached the close of life's weary journey.
Reuben! Husband, come hither!
Miriam! what has happened?
Look—look on that woman.
Marguerite, is it not?
Look at her—she has robbed us of our child. They have stolen our beloved.
Neomi! the child of my affection. Ah!
Bend! no—I will rise up before heaven, and cry with a mother's voice, “Give me back my
child!”
She must tell what she has done with our child. Answer woman—I command you.
Claude! Claude!
Speak!
I—I—dare not—my lips are sealed.
No answer—then die!
Hold! you must not kill her. Let me speak to her once more. I have been too harsh with her;
she will yet yield to my prayers and pity me, for she is herself a mother.
Heaven will pardon me and protect my boy!
Oh! he has kept his word.
Marguerite! She is dying!
You are avenged; I would tell you how Neomi, but—
Oh! her eyes are fixed! Help! Reuben, call for help! she will die with the secret on her lips!
Help! murder! help!
Marguerite! Marguerite! Oh, for a minute's life longer! Ah! her lips move—she tries to speak—here—lay your head on my shoulder, and whisper in my ear.
Say you forgive me.
I do—but speak.
Where—where are they? Claude, Neomi!
Oh!
Dead!
Murdered!
And she carries her secret with her to the grave! But there is a power in a mother's love—to force—make the grave yield it up. I make a vow, from this hour, to devote myself to poverty, and will abandon all for the recovery of my child! Come, Reuben, take thy staff! We will go forth into the world's wilderness together—town by town, house by house, stone by stone we will seek, until we have found our beloved, our lost Neomi! Come, come!
I wish you had brought me by any other way than this. There are certain institutions I have
a decided objection to. That black prison we passed just now
The finest in all Italy—I know every one of them perfectly, inside and out.
Your opportunities for the study of these public edifices have been greater than mine, but I cannot look at one of them without a depression of spirits.
Then, look at yonder house and let your spirits rise again.
Where? In that tumble-down ruin?
A ruin that will pay us better than a palace. A rough nut with a sweet kernel. Don't you know 'tis the house of Rudiga, the Jewess.
A strange terrible woman! Years ago I met her in Leghorn, where she was called the Sorceress. Afterwards I saw her at Naples, where she got the name of the Card Drawer.
I knew her at Rome, and Bologna, and Milan, as the Magician and the Sybil.
Here in Genoa they call her “The Woman in Red.” She apparently lives by fortune-telling—but that's only a cloak. She has a better trade than that.
Hey! Two strings to the devil's bow! What is the second?
Money lending.
Bah! what has a poor wretch like that to lend?
Some of our beggarly nobles and struggling merchants could tell you, During the past year she has lent two hundred thousand ducats.
Two hundred—thousand!
An hundred thousand to the Dorias; fifty thousand to the brothers Capirani; thirty thousand to Fosco, and twenty thousand to Guistiniani—all in hard gold.
And I was simple enough to think she wasn't worth a ducat—body and soul. You're sure you're right, though?
Right! Was Bravadura's nose ever wrong where there was a scent of plunder? But to-night we will convince ourselves.
To-night—
Let's have no blood-letting, I don't like it—it's vulgar.
Pooh! you were always squeamish, marquis.
Don't call me marquis any more; you know I abandoned my title when we were forced to quit France sixteen years ago—on account of that unfortunate affair at Marguerite D'Arbel's cottage.
Why will you always keep reminding me of that day?
Because I can never forget it was a bad business.
Then why did you join me in it? You had your fair share of the money—fifty Louis.
Yes, and I'd give fifty times the sum—if I had it— that I'd never had anything to do with it; it was enough to kidnap the child, but the murder of the woman—
That was my affair; a chicken-hearted fellow like you would have heard Marguerite D'Arbel confess the secret that would have brought us both to the galleys; the words were on her lips when a bullet from my arquebus stopped them.
Poor Marguerite. I'm glad that deed does not lie on my conscience.
Ha, ha, ha, ha!—it makes me laugh to hear a fellow without a ducat in his pocket talking of
his conscience,
There, don't! You've a ugly habit of handling that bit of steel there. I don't mean to
leak, my dear rascal.
Let us change the subject. There's some merriment going forward to-day. I'll ask that
black-eyed little rogue what it means.
Don't you know that the wife of Matte Twitti, the bird-catcher, has brought him another son, and all the neighbours have been to the christening. Matte is chirping like one of his own birds with delight.
Happy Matte! I must offer him my congratulations.
Here they come!—here they come!
Friends and neighbours, I accept your congratulations with pride and pleasure. I thank you.
Matte. You are making a fool of yourself.
My angel, I never made a fool of myself but once, and that was when I was going to drown myself, because you refused to marry me, but I trapped you at last. Ha, ha, caught you, and kept you ever since.
Permit me to compliment you upon your good fortune, in having secured so charming a companion, for the domestic cage.
Oh sir!
Yes; I'm the happiest fellow in Genoa, with my wife, my children, and my birds.
Which music do you mean?
Both Sir—all—That's a family concert you don't hear every day.
No—thank heaven!
Ninetta and I have been married six years. We have got a comfortable little home, a brisk trade in singing birds and sweetmeats, and a thriving family of five boys— there they are—bless their dear little hearts.
Five sons in six years.
Yes, sir, and if I live to have fifty, I'll make bird catchers of them all.
Aye, aye!
Pray, which is the house of Rudiga, the fortune-teller?
The Woman in Red—she lives there.
Something I would find.
A lover, or a lost dog?
Thus closely veiled, nobody can know the Countess Donati, whose last hope of saving the
credit of her
What do you want with the sorceress, Marcella?
Only to ask about my husband, who has been away nine months on a voyage. If the fortune-teller read in the cards that I am a bereaved widow—
You'll have to marry again.
I fear that must be my sad fate.
They say she foretells the most extraordinary things. She predicted only a month ago, that Pietro Costara would soon rise to an elevated position, and he was hanged last Thursday.
Bah! any one could have told you that! This woman takes your money, and laughs at you.
No, no! she gets no money from me; and yet she told me I should ride in a carriage some day.
A carriage provided by the state, when you ride some fine morning to the gallows, Spada.
Oh! I'm in no hurry for such an honour. I can wait.
She won't answer.
She may not be at home. I will come again this evening, after vespers.
If there was any chance of getting to that window, one might look in.
A good idea. Here, you ladder-backed scarecrow, stand still!
Sixteen years!—sixteen weary years of fruitless search!
Speak to her—you.
What can she be muttering to herself!
Some cabalistic spell, no doubt.
Bah! she's calculating the interest on her last loan.
I want you to tell me my fortune. You can read the book of fate in my hand as well as in
the cards. Just look at mine. Have I the lines of long life and riches; and
Ha! I remember her face and voice!
Little bird-catchers, my good woman—all chirping and lively. Could you oblige us by telling us if we shall make up the dozen?
Back! back all! I have to speak to her alone.
Hah! It is a long time since I was called Ninon, not since I was a girl, in my native village, where I married Matte Twitti, and came to live with him here in Genoa. They now call me Ninetta. But who are you?
Look in my face. Do you not know me?
No, no; your features are strange to me.
Alas! sixteen years of misery have changed me. The first and last time we met was in the cottage of the unfortunate Marguerite D'Arbel.
Oh! I recognize you now. You are Miriam the Jewess, whose child disappeared on that terrible day. Have you recovered her since?
No, no. Heaven in its anger still withholds her from me.
And your husband—where is he?
Poor Reuben sleeps with his fathers; the loss of our infant killed him; but I lived, for the mother's heart could not rest even in the grave, until it had felt once more the pressure of the child she had borne in her bosom. In every town and city of Europe I have sought my Neomi. Despised, insulted, wherever I came—the poor Jewess had but one thought in her heart—one prayer on her lips. “My child! My child! Oh, God of Israel, give me back my child!”
Poor mother! poor mother! And you still cling to the hope of finding her.
Hope sustains me, for I hold a double power in my hands—superstition and gold. These are my
master keys, with which I can unlock the secrets of every heart.
Hah! the young Count Claudio—the very man I want to have a little private conversation
with.
This, if I mistake not, is the third time you have accosted me.
Precisely—the third time in three years; and if you remember the first time, I warned you of a danger.
Which I avoided.
The second time, of an enemy's plot.
Which, thanks to your information, I defeated,
This time, I have to put you on your guard against a snare into which you are walking unconsciously.
What snare?
The most dangerous to our weak sex—that which a woman spreads.
I cannot read your meaning.
Need I ask why the gallant Count Claudio comes every morning through the narrow streets of this quarter, and takes his stand at the foot of this bridge—if it be not to meet a certain fair young signora returning from devotions in the chapel of Santa Maria de—
Francisca Donati.
Ha! Have I hit the mark? The signora is young and beautiful—you believe also that she is rich.
Her father is amongst the wealthiest merchants in Genoa.
A mistake! Paulo Donati has invested large sums in some hazardous speculations with the house of Juan Rebollado, in Barcelona. These speculations have failed. Rebollado is on the verge of bankruptcy, and Donati will be ruined. A friend just arrived from Barcelona, where Donati is now striving to sustain the tottering firm, has brought me this news,—'tis every word true. If you marry Francisca Donati, you will be duped. Take the warning as you like— I give it you as a friend.
What claim can I have upon your friendship?
You are the son of Marguerite D'Arbel who was assassinated sixteen years ago.
Oh! you knew my mother?
I can't say I did; but I happened accidentally to be a witness of the fact. I saw you then, a brave little fellow, standing beside the body of your murdered parent, and I made a promise to myself that I would be your friend and protector should you ever need my help.
I thank you with all my heart; and the more so that your voluntary guardianship appears to be perfectly disinterested.
Well, the fact is, I took a fancy to you. I'm a strange sort of fellow; good or bad as the wind blows, and if the gallows don't prevent my pious instructions I shall die a saint at four-score.
And you assure me that Francisca's father is ruined?
Ruined; unless he can produce fifty thousand crowns to meet his engagement next month. I should not like to see the wealth your rich uncle bequeathed to you swallowed up in the gulf into which Paul Donati's fortunes are sinking.
I care not, I will never forsake Francisca—my fortune will suffice for both; still I thank you, friend, for your caution.
Oh, don't mention it; follow your own inclination, marry the girl if you like—perhaps I admire you the more for it—I have been myself a martyr to the tender passion. Adieu, Count; I perceive the beauteous object of your affections descending the hill.
Ah! the Signora Francisca Donati—she always stops to ask after my children.
Oh, she's a kind and beautiful young lady, and so charitable.
Not the least pride about her.
Everybody loves her.
What a beautiful little foot!
What a superb gold chain!
I fear I have kept you waiting, Claudio?
No—no!—take my arm, and let us get out of this crowd.
One moment, I must not forget my little pensioners
Sweet angel! shall I ever be worthy of her?
Noble young lady; would you learn your fortune from the cards? I am Rudiga, the daughter of the stars—the handmaid of destiny. I can trace the line of fate in your hand, or read the fortune in your face.
Hah! the features of our race— the living image of Reuben, as he looked when first I loved him.
Take my hand, Francisca?
She would have been just her age.
How that strange woman looks at me! Do you know her?
They call her the Woman in Red.
A stranger?
A Jewess?
A Jewess!
A Jewess! Oh!
She, too, abhors our race. If she had been my child, the blood of Isaac and of Jacob would not have shrunk from its source.
See—she weeps!
Neomi—my loved and lost one!
Unhappy woman! She seems crushed by grief and misery! I am sorry now I let her perceive
my repugnance to her nation. Jewess or not, she is poor and wretched!
Keep your money!—I need it not!
You are proud!
Why should I not be proud? Am I not the daughter of an ancient, glorious race!—the chosen of the earth!
Offers made in kindness deserve not to be rejected with scorn.
Her voice!—'tis the echo of my own, as I remember it long ago! Speak, lady!—speak again, in mercy!
Come—come, Claudio, she terrifies me!
Stop one moment.
Ah!
My Neomi had a mark on her shoulder—a seal imprinted on her snowy skin—by nature's hand, if it be there—'tis she.
Insolent woman, why do you stop our path—away, or
Speak gently to her, Claudio.
Let us leave her—she must be mad.
Aye, that is what they say— “she is mad.” For this I have been hunted like a wild beast,
driven with curses from every door, cast into dungeons,
What is it you want? Why are you a wanderer on earth?
A sacred instinct, a hope that my heart tells me, will one day be realised—leads me on my path alone through the world.
Alone! Ah! How sad your fate.
You pity me. Yes, your eyes are bent in tenderness upon me—a light breaks upon the darkness
of sixteen years in my soul, a power which I cannot resist, draws me to you—let me but kiss
that cheek, and press your head upon my aching heart.
A Christian maiden's cheek shall not be sullied by the lips of a Jewess.
No no!
Forbid her not. Heaven yields to Christian and to Jew his equal mercy. The sun that warms to life, the blessed rain, and gentle dew, the sky, the sea, the earth, all nature's countless blessings—do they not flow from the same bounteous hand, alike on Jew and Gentile. It is not much I ask.
It must not be. Come Francisca.
No, no!
Off, wretch, off!
Spurn me! kill me! still I will cling to her.
She has snatched the cross from your neck.
No, no—it was accident.
Hah! sacrilege! sacrilege!
Down with the Jewess! down with the Jewess!
Down with the Jewess! Death to the Sorceress! Haah!—hooh!—Aa-h!
Over the bridge with her!
Aye, aye! over the bridge! Hurrah!
Stop—I command!
Neomi!
Yes, yes; it was she; that mark upon her breast convinced me. It was my Neomi. The treasure I have sought for sixteen years is found, but found in the possession of another.
I will weep no more. Tears are for the weak. The courage which has sustained me for so many years must not fail me now.
Your keys!
Your gold!
If it be not putting you to too much trouble, madame.
Who speak? Ah! masked men! robbers!
Tax collectors, madame; gentlemen whose exchequers require to be replenished as well as the duke's.
And you expect to supply your wants in this miserable place?
No words; come to business, or—
Your keys, this instant!
Take them.
Excuse our impertinent curiosity, but your house is so full of interest, that we must have a peep into every corner,
What have you got there?
Rags and rubbish. Have you found anything?
Yes. Old pans and dishes—nothing else.
Nothing, my friends, absolutely nothing.
A rotten nut not worth the cracking.
Ha! ha! ha! ha! I expected you, and was prepared for you. You seek for gold—there it is for you?
Why do you not scramble for your share?
Because 'tis not worth the trouble. Let them have it: I take what fortune sends me on easier terms.
Ah! you are not a common robber?
Oh dear no! The art of extracting gold is a science—a species of alchemy, which requires
skill and delicacy.
I understand—you want money. One word. Will you serve me?
Serve you? Will you trust me?
Let me look at your face.
We are discovered!
If my face was as ugly as yours, I might be ashamed to have it seen. You shall not harm her!
Ugh!—he's a fool!
Let us begone.
Go; I'll follow you directly.
You know me?
I do; your name is Victor Sanson.
The devil! How did you discover that?
You forgot I am a magician. The cards reveal everything to me.
True! Have the cards told you that!
More still. You were arrested on suspicion of having murdered Marguerite D'Arbel.
I was innocent, though, of that crime; the cards will tell you so.
They do.
That 16th July was an unlucky day for me?
It was the dark day of my existence; for on that day, my child, whom I had entrusted to Marguerite D'Arbel, was stolen.
Was that beautiful infant yours?
He saw her, then!
No, no!
The cards show it! There—you dare not deny it!
I—I don't deny it! I admit I was acquainted with the kidnapper of the sweet little creature.
Ah! you can tell, then, what has become of her!
I wish I could; but it's impossible. I am in utter ignorance of her fate.
Alas!
Stop—stop—don't curse them; it's not pleasant, though you have had cause for it. I'm a
vagabond—worthless
Of what?
No matter—what's past is past, and can't be helped, I can't tell how it is, but the sight
of your tears melt me.
You will obey me?
Hector Fiaramonte—I mean Victor Sanson—gives you his hand upon it.
Hear me then. I have discovered my long-lost child.
Hah! I give you joy.
Yes, I have found my daughter, but still she is not mine.
Your daughter who is not your daughter! If this be the language of the cards, 'tis by no means intelligible.
She lives—I have seen her—heard her—clasped her in these arms, but I dared not say I was her mother. She has been brought up as the daughter of a rich family in this city.
Well, why don't you claim her?
Alas! who would listen to me—who would believe that the noblest and fairest maid in Genoa could be the offspring of the despised Jewess?
True, the prejudices of the world are disgusting. I've been their victim all my life.
I will tell you. My child was stolen from me in infancy, why should I not recover her by the same means?
I don't see why you should not.
A thousand ducats shall be yours, if you will aid me.
I understand.
Francisca Donati!
Francisca Donati. The betrothed of Count Claudio?
The same.
You would not separate them?
I would—I must. Neomi shall never be the wife of him whose mother died with that terrible secret in her heart which made me a childless wanderer for so many years.
But your daughter loves him.
I hate him, that is sufficient.
To recover your daughter, my life is at your service, provided that no harm comes to Count Claudio; a hair of his head shall not be hurt.
I said a thousand ducats—I will make it five thousand.
Five thousand! I am not master of ten scudi in the world, but still I have strength to say
“No.” I was always fond of expensive luxuries, and now throw away five thousand ducats for
the gratification of feeling that I have still a heart.
Take this purse with you.
Excuse me, I have not earned your money— another time perhaps. Adieu! make my respects to the Goddess Fortune, though she has proved but a hard stepmother to me, adieu.
My fate! my fate! Even gold cannot tempt this reckless fellow to my purpose. Is it that
heaven is angry with me, and will not hear my prayers? Has my child been clasped in my arms
for a moment, only to make my agony more bitter?
Perhaps I disturb you.
No—you may enter.
Yes.
Magicienne, sorceress, diviner by cards. My soul communicates with the past, and penetrates the future. Your hand.
There.
There is high blood in these veins. Lift your veil.
What need I? You should know me by the art you practise, without seeing my face.
Hah! I see the arms of Donati enamelled on the back of the watch she wears.
I am.
The cards tell me all; sit down.
Her looks make me tremble.
By which method shall we read the book of fate?—the magic pack, of thirty-two cards,
By that.
You know me?
Only by report. They call you Rudiga, the fortune-teller —the Woman in Red.
And Rudiga the Jewess—Rudiga the money-lender and usurer.
Yes, sometimes.
I am known by many names.
Go on!
Wherever you went you were pursued by a constant fear which haunted you like a spectre; you dreaded that the child would be taken from you.
My darling Francisca was in delicate health.
Had you no apprehension but for her health? Was the hand of death the only one that you feared might be stretched to snatch her from you?
Whose else should I fear?
Let us pass that. Choose for “your house” now.
I came to hear it.
You are threatened with misfortune—ruin. Hah! a faced card—see, the Queen of Spades; it brings grief and mourning under your roof.
Death, perhaps?
No. A life-long separation. Hah! your daughter—
What, what?
Strange—most strange!
What do you see? Speak—tell me—tell me!
Your daughter.
Insolent woman! How dare you utter such a falsehood!
The cards are never false. They have said it— you are not her mother.
I am—I am! She is mine!
Yours? You are a high-born woman—patrician blood flows in your veins! that girl whom you call your daughter is of plebeian birth—the offspring of an accursed and banished race.
No, no!
You are a Christian, she is a Jewess!
You shall wound my ears no longer by your base inventions. I will not listen another moment to your lies!
Hold! Shall I lie if I tell you what brought you to this miserable door to-night?
I do not wish to hear.
But you shall! It was not the fortune-teller you sought so much as the money-lender.
Ah!
The rich Jewess, whose secret hoards may sustain the tottering fortune of the merchant prince, your husband.
It was
Paulo Donati writes from Barcelona, imploring you to raise amongst your friends a loan of fifty thousand ducats, which he must have within ten days, or become a bankrupt.
You know all, then?
Your friends have proved a broken reed. They will not lend you a ducat; and, as a last
resource, you come to me. Well,
Ah! you have the power to save us! Fifty thousand ducats would enable my husband to meet
his engagements and maintain his credit. The money will be
It will not do.
My diamonds, then—my jewels! I will place them in your hands; only save us from ruin!
They are not sufficient.
What would you have then from me?
One word—one single word of truth. Is Francisca your child?
What does it concern you to know?
Answer my question, or you get no gold from me. Is she your daughter?
You have no right to question me.
I wish to prove the truth of my science—think of your husband.
Why does she try to wring my secret from me?
To-morrow will be too late—to-night, it must be or—
Stay—a minute.
Ah! she is not your child!
Hush! You have surprised my secret—but knowing so much, you shall know all. More than sixteen years ago a sudden stroke deprived me of reason, and for several months I lived in a mental darkness. During this period my infant daughter died, and when my reason returned, she, whom I believed to be my own, was nestling in my bosom.
But you discovered afterwards that she was not your child.
Yes, some years after, when my little Francisca was lying in fever at the point of death; my husband confessed the kind fraud he had practised. The disclosure, however, did not lessen my affection for the dear child—whom I loved as though she was indeed my own.
And you cared not for the agony of the mother from whom she had been torn.
Every feeling was absorbed in my love for the dear child. But, perhaps you know her mother?
You?
Aye—can you not read the mother's joy in my face? Ah! my long years of misery are forgotten
like a dream.
No—keep it—I will not touch it. I can seek help elsewhere.
But you will restore me my daughter, will you not?
Never!
Ah! take care!
Never—never!
I will appeal to justice. You have confessed she is not your child!
I will deny it.
Your conscience will not let you.
I can be silent.
You shall be compelled to speak. Dare you perjure yourself!
You know not what I would dare.
Then you shall not leave this room.
Ah, detained by force. Open the door and let me pass, or I will have you whipped through the city.
Ha, ha, ha! you forgot that 'tis I who command here. Sit down, Constanza Donati, and write me an order for Francisca to go with me, her mother—
Are you mad!
Write!
I will not.
I must dispense with your authority then, and use my own.
Whither are you going?
To my daughter.
No; you shall not go near her, you shall not.
Back! back! here you remain.
Woman!—mercy!—come back!
Yo-yo-yo-yo-yo-oo-oo ic tooi-tooi-tooi—ha, ha, ha' ha! That last bottle has set me chirping like one of my own canaries, tweet, tweet, tweet, too, too, tweet. Well, when a man has been six times a mother—I mean, when a woman has been six times a father—no, no, when a mother has been a father—no, I should say, when a father has been a mother six times, he ought to be congratulated accordingly; I've been congratulating myself, and drinking to the health of the little stranger who has recently made his appearance in the domestic nest; I wish I was comfortably there too, but the streets wind in such an extraordinary manner that a sober man is all night getting home; Government must look to it—Government must really look to it. Now there will be my dear little wife sitting up for me—and I know she will not be in the sweetest of tempers; she'll say I've been getting drunk, which is abom— abom-'able; and very likely she'll say I've been gallanting, ha, ha, ha, ha!—gallanting—ha, ha, ha, ha! as if I was capable of anything of the sort—ah! it's a dreadful calamity for a man to have a jealous wife; what a life she leads me about Pippa, the pretty sempstress who lives opposite our house—well, if Pippa has the brighest and blackest eyes in the world she can't help it, and if I sometimes look across the street to admire those eyes I can't help it; but, good gracious, if Ninetta were to catch me at it wouldn't there be warm work for the ears.
I will ask the stranger to protect me.
A woman! Don't come nearer, I don't wish it, I have my reasons for it.
But I am unprotected.
So am I.
I am in danger.
So am I.
I am endeavouring to reach my home.
So am I.
Oh! my strength fails, ah! support me.
I can scarcely support myself.
For heaven's sake let us not remain here. Come, come!
Bless me, how you tremble.
If you will accompany me to the Palazzo Donati, you shall be well rewarded for your trouble.
The Palazzo Donati! I feel myself getting rapidly sober. Certainly Signora, certainly—don't be afraid to lean on me.
It's always the case, when Matte goes out without me, he falls into what he calls pleasant company; as if a man's wife wasn't pleasant company for him. I know he has been spending the night at the wine shop, and he'll be coming home alone, so I thought I'd meet him, and take care of him— he's such a fool is Matte.
It's my wife.
This is the way he should come.
You're right, my dear!
Matte—with a woman!
Right again, my angel.
What, you are not ashamed to confess your baseness? Who is this creature? Let me see her face. Ah, you do well to conceal it under a veil.
Hush! Ninetta—hush—she is—
The Signora Donati.
Oh! Signora—I beg pardon—I—I thought—
Never mind explanations; but hasten home with me, for I fear the shadow of an enemy may have fallen on my threshold before I can cross it.
Any tidings yet, Signor—of my lady?
No, I have been to the houses of all her friends, where she might possibly have been detained, but have obtained no intelligence of her.
What will become of my poor young mistress?
Dear Francisca! this strange disappearance of her mother must alarm her terribly.
Maria!
She calls you, Maria. Do not betray your uneasiness. We must endeavour to keep up her spirits, and allay her fears.
Fetch my hood and cloak, Maria. I am going to the Convent of the Carmelites, She sometimes
visits the sisters.
Your love exaggerates your fears! She has been prevented by some unforeseen circumstance—some sudden indisposition, perhaps—from returning home; but she is safe; depend upon it, she is safe.
Heaven grant your words prove true!—they have given me hope and courage!
A strange man, signora, requests to speak with you.
A strange man! What is he like?
A genteel sort of ragamuffin, signora.
He may bring me intelligence of my mother.
And I will be near you, on the balcony, during this interview.
Approach, friend. You bring me intelligence of my mother, do you not?
No, signora.
But you know where she is.
I regret I do not.
Why do you come here then?
Because I am a good-natured devil, whom most people would call a fool.
What is your business with me?
To save you.
What does he say?
You are in danger; and if you will condescend to
I never knew I had an enemy.
An enemy? No!—that would be impossible! But there is a certain person here in Genoa, with gold at command, who has determined to separate you and Count Claudio.
The name of this person?
Ah, signor! I didn't know you were a listener.
I have heard enough to make it necessary I should hear more. I require the name of this person by whom our future happiness is threatened.
I cannot give it.
I request—I intreat you to do so; and if a liberal reward—
Stop, signor!—it is impossible!
Take care!
I may be silent. Good night, signor.
Stay, I beseech you— the Count was wrong; but his love for me must be his excuse.
Ah! true, true. You might be an excuse for almost anything. Count, you may reckon on me as your devoted servant from this hour. I will be your unseen but constant protector.
Thanks, my friend, I can defend myself when needful; but my dear Francisca, this secret enemy of whom you spoke has already perhaps struck a cruel blow at her happiness. The signora's mother has mysteriously disappeared.
It must be that devil of a woman! I'll lay my life on it.
Ah! your countenance tells me you know where she is.
No signora, no. I swear I am ignorant of what has become of her.
But you suspect?
Perhaps.
And you will save her. I feel convinced that you can if you will. Ah, you will have pity on me.
Signora! This position—
Will you take me with you? I may be able to assist you.
The offer of a good sword, and a courageous heart, should never be refused. I accept both—adieu, signora.
Adieu, Francisca, hope for the best; we will soon find your mother.
His words give me courage, I will hope and trust to him.
My child!
I wonder will they be long? No, no! I feel she will soon return. An invisible power attracts me, her presence seems to fill the air.
Neomi, Neomi!
Ah!
It is I; fear nothing.
You!
Stop! for pity.
What do you want? Why do you pursue me!
Oh! No, no, no, I would not for the world's treasures hurt one of the silken hairs of your head. What have you to fear from a poor woman kneeling at your feet.
How piteously she gazes at me through the tears that fill her eyes.
You do not fear me. Oh! say you do not fear me?
I do not. I pity you from my heart, for I see you have tasted misery.
Tasted! I have drank the bitter cup of misery to the dregs. Look at these wasted limbs, these hollow cheeks, this hair, once dark as the raven's wing, now grey and scant. Misery has done this. Misery has been my sole companion through life.
Alas! you have suffered much. Rise—pray rise; give me your hand.
Thank!—thanks!
Why do you gaze so earnestly at me?
What?
Do not hesitate to confide in me—I can sympathise with your sufferings. Speak.
She might kill me by a word.
You doubt me perhaps?
No, no; you have told me you pity me, and your words fell like heaven's music on my ears!
Then speak to me as a friend.
Let me kiss your hand.
My hand?
I had a daughter once, whom you resemble. She was stolen from me—stolen in infancy. When I look at you, I fancy I behold her; and if I might press your hand to my lips, I should be happy.
There.
Neomi.
Why do you not reclaim your daughter?
Because the tender plant which has so long lain in the bosom of the woman who calls herself her mother, may have taken root there; better to lose her for ever, than find the empty casket from which her love has been stolen by another.
But such a theft would be impossible. The voice of nature would have whispered to her, “she is not your mother.”
Then, you do not love this woman?
What woman?
Pardon—pardon! I sometimes forget myself. I mean, if the Signora Donati were not your mother, would you love her?
The thought would kill me, for none other could I feel the affection that I owe to the fond parent who has watched over my tender years.
She has robbed me of that blessing.
Night by night, kneeling beside the cradle of the pale being, whose life seemed fleeting away like a shadow, she struggled with death for his prey, and tore me from his icy grasp. It was more than a mother's tenderness; it was the devotion—the self-denial of an angel. You cannot know how dear she is to me.
It is thus she would have loved me.
So kind, so gentle, and so beautiful as she is.
Ah! Well may she be. Despair
Stay!
No; let me depart! You loath me; you shrink from the poor Jewess. Ha, ha, ha! The voice of Nature! There is no such thing—I laugh at it. Ha, ha, ha! Poor mother! To your grave, to your grave! They have been digging it for sixteen years; now 'tis ready to receive you. To your grave! where this poor broken heart will be at rest. Adieu, signora!
You shall not leave me. Your voice penetrates my heart, and agitates me with strange emotion. What can I do for you?
Nothing, nothing. All I ask is that should we meet again in this world, you will not turn from me in contempt or horror. Promise that you will bestow a kind word or look upon me as you pass.
I promise you.
Again, I thank you. One last look and—
In heaven's name, what does this terrible struggle mean?
It means—Neomi—I am your mother.
Alas, grief has disturbed her reason.
Come—Neomi, come. Does not that name make your heart thrill? come.
Yes, yes, to-morrow. There will be time enough to-morrow.
To-morrow—Ah! she, too, believes I am mad.
Ah, mother!
My dear Francisca.
Your absence nearly killed me. What happened to you.
An accident, I was in danger, but 'tis past; let us not talk of it now. Matte the bird-catcher, and his wife, your protegés, were conducting me home, when we met Claudio and this stranger.
Allow me to introduce myself, Hector Fiaramonti, always at the service of the ladies.
I am safe now, and I hold you again in my arms, my child.
Your child?
Ah, you?
Diavolo.
What brings this woman here? You know her, signora.
Do not ask me, but let us fly from Genoa,
Constanza Donati. You may go, but she goes not with you.
Call the servants, and let that maniac be turned into the street.
And I'll order the carriage. You have no time to lose, you must quit Genoa to-night. That woman has the power of gold, and she will use it too.
Mother, why does she look at you so strangely.
You hear what she demands, Signora?
Oh, heaven!
Ah, your tears and silence fill me with terror. Am I for ever lost to you? Shall my heart which rested so peacefully upon yours, until they seemed to beat with but one pulse, be torn from you?
How she loves her!
Look at me—clasp me closer. Do not these embraces and kisses prove that I am yours?
You are—you are—my child!
Swear that she is your child!
Woman—woman!
Swear, signora—and let the world be witness of your oath.
You can save me, mother; swear that I am your child—you will—you will.
Swear before heaven—on the symbol of your faith—swear on this cross!
Mother!—Mother!
No!
Ah!
There's a splendid equipage waiting in the courtyard; but it is not the Countess Donati's carriage.
It is mine. Come, Neomi, you can now accompany your mother.
I have been so long her daughter, that it is not easy to part thus. I would embrace her once more before I go.
Do—do.
My tongue must no more call you mother, but my heart will ever know you by that tender name. Farewell!
Francisca—
Claudio, adieu!
No embrace for me.
Hah, Ninetta, are you arrived, and is Madame Montalba come with you?
Yes, we're here, just arrived, with ever so much money; for madame has taken a fancy that the Signora Francisca shall not see this new palace, till it bursts suddenly upon her. So she has brought her here blindfolded in a gondola.
What a strange idea! Well, I hope she'll be satisfied with my exertions. She sent me here from Trieste ten days ago, with orders to spare no cost in the newly purchased palazzo of hers, the most splendid in Venice, and I flatter myself I've obeyed her instructions to the letter. How do you like it, Ninetta?
I never saw anything so beautiful—never! Why it must have cost Madame Rudiga, or as she is now called, Madame Montalba, a mint of money.
She intends to surprise Signora Francisca. You know this is her birth-day, and this palazzo is to be her mother's present.
Such a mother never was; she only thinks of gratifying every wish of her daughter's heart. You know when she discovered that Signora Francisca was her child and she took her from Signora Donati, the young signora wished that I should accompany them when they left Genoa on their travels.
I beg your pardon, Ninetta, it was I whom the signora desired should be taken into their service.
Well, perhaps she was grateful to you for the service you rendered the Signora Donati that night in the street.
Yes; and when Madame Montalba proposed that I should accept the office of intendant in her family with a magnificent salary, I replied—
I beg your pardon, Matte, it was I who replied, “Matte, madame, never travels without his wife.”
Ah, quite right. So when I was installed as intendant to the mother—you were engaged as waiting-woman to the daughter—while your seven little bird-catchers were left in the care of my mother till our return.
Ah! and now here we are in Italy again—after having travelled half over Europe in twelve months. Are you not happy, Matte, to feel we are drawing near our little ones again, thought 'tis still a long way from Venice to Genoa.
Dear Genoa! I wonder do the birds sing as sweetly there as when I used to coax them to my net? Ah, I dare say they have nobody to catch them now—nobody like Matte Twitti; and the pretty girls too, what flocks of them used to come fluttering at my call!
There, don't be prating like a magpie, or you'll have nothing prepared to receive our mistress.
Ah—true! and there's fifty things still to do. Here, Paulo—Marco—Pietro!—here! Where have the idle dogs got to?
Heaven is propitious to my wish—Ninetta!
Bless me—'tis Hector Fiaramonti! Oh! I'm so glad to see you! Why, you're not a bit altered since I saw you in Genoa twelve months ago! How did you know I was in Venice? When did you leave Genoa? How are all our friends, and what brings you here?
Briefly and categorically—I am infinitely obliged to you. I had information you were
returned to Italy. I left Genoa six days ago. Our friends are pretty much as usual. I was
brought here partly by land and principally by water, and beg to now offer you my profound
respects.
Never was better.
And Madame Montalba and her daughter—how do they agree in their new relationship?
Wonderfully! Never did mother love a daughter so tenderly, and never did daughter repay a mother's affection with such dutiful observance; but—
Hah!—there is a “but?”
Perhaps I ought not to mention it; but I fancy that neither of them are quite happy.
How is that?
Madame Montalba perceives that, notwithstanding all her endeavours to direct her daughter's mind from the past, the poor girl's thoughts dwell continually upon it. I often find her in tears over a miniature which she carries in her bosom. One day I got a peep at it over her shoulder, and whose do you think it was?
Not mine.
Yours? Count Claudio's! There—she loves him still!
By Jove! I'd run a man through the body with pleasure for such a girl as that!
But trying to conceal her unhappiness from her mother, the poor soul grows paler and thinner every day.
And Madame Montalba?
It is still worse with her. By day she struggles to conceal her feelings, and appear gay
and cheerful; but at night—at night—
Yes, I remember when I was a boy, I used to frequently walk in my sleep to a neighbouring orchard, and when I awoke in the morning, I generally found my bolster case full of apples.
Well, Madame Montalba is what they call a somnambulist, and when her mind is much disturbed, she comes at night like a spectre from her chamber, with those great dark eyes of hers wide open, though she is fast asleep; and then all the strange and terrible scenes of her life seem to pass through her brain, and are acted over again. Ah! the poor woman has suffered as you have never suffered. We take care though that Signora Francisca never sees her in this state, it would shock her so, but mark my words, this dreadful struggle will kill one or both of them, if it lasts much longer.
Then why not end it?
Can you tell how it is to be done?
Certainly. By restoring the girl to those whom she has loved from infancy.
That can never be. Madame Montalba lives but in her daughter's presence; to part with her for a single day would kill her.
But others suffer as she does: Signora Donati and Count Claudio.
Yes; it must have been a dreadful trial to them to part with her.
I don't make a boast of my fine feelings, but I
Ah! I pity the poor young gentleman.
Do you? Then it is in your power to mitigate his grief, by conveying this letter from him to the signora.
Impossible! Madame Montalba has strictly forbidden any private correspondence with her daughter.
Consider the peculiarity of the case. Picture to yourselves two fond lovers torn asunder.
It's shocking; but I can't.
Realize the highly dramatic situation of their agonising farewell.
It brings tears to my eyes.
Think of the pangs of absence.
They're cruel, I know.
Imagine the distracted lover, sending a letter to his heart's idol by a faithful hand; fancy the joy which the sight of it will bring to the disconsolate lady; how the colour will come back to her cheek, and the smile to her lip, when she learns that her lover is at this moment in Venice!
Count Claudio in Venice?
With Signora Donati, to whom he has been all that an affectionate son could be, since her husband died last year a bankrupt at Barcelona.
Heaven bless him for his goodness.
You'll take the letter then?
I will. She shall have it, whatever comes of it.
Lucky chance! Adieu. Compassionate dove, adieu!
Hah! There was not a moment to lose.
You must not look yet.
Where are you leading me?
A moment more and you shall know.
How she plays the child for her!
Where am I?
Another step.
Oh! what a beautiful place.
It is yours.
Mine. This fairy palace?
Is my birthday present, to you.
Ah! you remembered it was my birthday.
This embrace repays me for all.
Ah! what a magnificent scene. But surely, I have beheld it before, that sea, that shore, that island, and its ancient church—Have I dreamed of this enchanting picture—Ah! no, no, I now remember it, every familiar object returns to me like the faces of old friends.
You know it.
Perfectly, ten years ago, when I was but a child, I passed a month in this Palazzo with my mother.
Your mother!
With the Signora Donati, we were returning to Genoa from Vienna. Here on this terrace, I remember we use to sit in the golden light of evening, the waters of the broad lagune spreading like a mirror before us, while the chant of the gondolier floated around us on the perfume-laden air.
Amongst these happy memories there is no place for me.
Hark! listen to that melody.
It comes from yonder gondola; that one with blue silk curtains which approaches the terrace, like a wild sea bird on the wing.
'Tis the song that lulled me to sleep in infancy, when I lay upon the bosom of one who was mother.
A lady stands in the gondola waving her handkerchief.
'Tis Constanza Donati.
My heart flies to embrace her.
She has recognised her.
The bark glides past—the song dies upon the waves like the dreams of happy childhood.
That woman comes again to cast her shadow on my path. Is it not horrible, they will not
leave a daughter to her mother. They robbed me of her for sixteen years, and now they count
the minutes while she is near me.
Superb! What splendid diamonds.
And this coronet, in which the artist's hand has copied those wild flowers so skilfully?
A matchless work, indeed!
You shall put them on, Francisca; I want to judge their beauty near to yours. Assist me,
Ninon, 'twill be done in a moment.
Oh, madame, has she not the air of a queen?
Are you satisfied with your lady's maid? Has she succeeded in her task?
Marvellously! For whom is this magnificent present intended?
For you. Another birthday offering from a fond and doting mother.
For me! Oh, 'tis too much, you overwhelm me with your gifts. How shall I fitly thank you?
By loving me with all your heart.
That song—that voice—again!
Neomi!
They are approaching.
She hears me not.
Gentle wind, bear this kiss to her who was my mother.
This struggle with relentless fate will kill me. I feel the fabric of my hopes crumbling to
its fall. I will not try to stay it another day—no, not an hour; let it come and crush me in
its ruins; she shall leave me—leave me for this woman whom she loves, and then abandoned by
her, death will soon come to release me from my misery.
Oh, this double love tears my heart asunder. How nature draws me to the mother who bore me; these long cherished memories hold me to her who was to me in all but blood, my mother. Why cannot I keep them both for ever near me—press them together to my heart, and mingle my affections with their love. But no, the world and its prejudices must for ever divide us.
Signora.
Poor stars! that cannot cast one ray of hope upon my darkened path. Take them,
Ninetta—take
I thought, signora, that you might be pleased—that is that you might not be angry—at my bringing you this letter.
From whom?
From Count Claudio.
From Claudio? Hush!
That letter will make her happy for to-night at least.
Oh, Ninetta! he has not forgotten me—he loves me still. Claudio and my mother, they both
love their poor Francisca!
Permit me to assure you to the contrary, signora.
Goodness!—how did you get in?
You forgot the key of the door on the canal which you intrusted to me.
I remember your face: you are a friend of Count Claudio's. What brings you here?
My good nature, which leads me everywhere. I promised Count Claudio and the Signora Donati that they should have an interview with you this evening; and I have kept my word—they are here.
My child!
Mother!
Francisca!
Claudio!
You need comfort, then? My dear child! are you not happy?
Oh! yes, yes—I am happy! I ought to be happy, for she loves me dearly as mother loves her
child. But I fear I am ungrateful. She asks affection for her tenderness; I can only give
respect. Yet sometimes when I see her weeping alone, suspecting not that any eye beholds her,
I feel a strange
Not here, signora, if you please. Your mother sleeps in the next room.
You are right, Ninetta—lead the way for us.
I think they can dispense with my company, so I'll amuse myself with my pipe on the terrace
till they return.
All quiet here, not a mouse stirring.
Bravadura!
This rich Jewess, I hear carries about with her heaps of plate, jewels, money; could I but discover her hoard—I'd relieve her of the care of so much superfluous wealth.
Disinterested rascal!
Ha! This old cabinet here promises well—I'll take the liberty of seeing what it contains.
Not so fast, my amiable friend.
Hah!
Stop! Do you not know me?
Why it's Hector Fiaramonti.
Sorry to interrupt your interesting work.
Oh! never mind. I suppose we're on the same business. Ah, well—there's enough for both.
Quite enough!
We'll go shares in the plunder—that's fair, isn't it.
Perfectly fair—the only objection to this pleasant arrangement is—that I've become an honest man.
Honest! Ha! ha! ha! You shouldn't make me
My dear friend, your skill and energy are wonderful. If nature had not made you a burglar, you'd have been a prime minister; but you must desist from your operations, and instantly quit this house.
Quit the house. What do you mean?
That you must go—without accomplishing the object of your visit.
Ah! you want to have the job all yourself, but you shan't, I tell you.
March this moment.
He shall taste my steel first. Hold! Do you not see a figure moving on the terrace?
Burglar! You forgot the mirror.
No matter.
Hah
Holloa! what means this alarm? Hold, there!
Count—Count Claudio! Help!—hah!
Hector—I am here!
Fiends seize the fool! The odds are too many for me.
Stop!
Don't let him escape—he came to rob the house.
Rob?—me rob? Nothing of the sort. I merely called when passing to inquire after the health
of Victor Sanson—my old friend, companion,
You should not have reminded me of that. Count Claudio, I denounce that man as the murderer of your mother!
Ah, villain! Have I found you at last?
Hubert Malisset and we have a long account to settle.
Two swords against one?
Stand aside, Hector. Leave him to me. The assassin of my mother shall fall by no hand but mine!
Show mercy to a rat—well!
Fool!
Ha! Well, thrust, Count. Ha, ha, ha! He's young and vigorous, and—ah!— that infernal lunge of Hubert's! Ah!—my fingers itch to be at him. Well guarded—ha! There!—bravo!—bravo! Press him—press him, Count! He gives way! Viva!
Malediction!
Hurrah, hurrah!
Dead as a stockfish. 'Twas a sharp bout while it lasted.
My mother is avenged!
He wasn't pleasant to look at when living, and death hasn't improved his looks. There, that's a load of my mind, and now I'll go and smoke my pipe.
We grew uneasy at your absence, Claudio; hearing a noise we feared some danger.
I was obliged to use a little force to expel an intruder, that was all.
It grows late, my dear child, and we must leave; but we will come again, and you will accompany us to the house where your happy days of childhood were passed.
Your lute lies untouched, your songs unsung; the birds that answered to your voice are
mute, the flowers you
Claudio! Mother! urge me no more. Heaven knows how dear to me you are; but the holier duty which I owe to her who gave me life commands me not to leave her.
And whose the greater sacrifice, the mother whose short pangs, the penalty of nature, are forgotten soon, or she who in the pride of youth and beauty, surrounded by the world's delights and its allurements, left them all to watch and pray beside the cradle of thy suffering infancy, giving her very life to purchase thine?
Think you I ever can forget your love.
Signora, signora! Your friends must leave you. Madame Montalba is moving in her chamber—I heard her. Pray let them go directly.
She is here—she will see you.
No, she is asleep.
Asleep?
Look, Reuben, down there in the valley—the cottage that holds our treasure, her arms are stretching forth to clasp me. Ah! Marguerite, I am here. Kind, good Marguerite, where is my child—my Neomi? We are rich now. Where? Ah! here in her cradle.
Oh, this is dreadful!
I have seen her often thus. She now fancies herself in Marguerite D'Arbel's cottage the day you were carried off.
What have you done with her? Speak, woman, or I will tear the secret from your heart!
My poor mother.
To wake her suddenly, would kill her.
All—all are gone! Reuben dead, Marguerite dead, Neomi lost. Alone then, I will seek my
child— the world is all before me.
She thinks only of me.
Lay thy head here—upon my breast, my Neomi— my treasure upon earth—my life. When you were an infant, I held you thus.
Mother, dearest mother!
Ah, your eyes are turned from mine! What do they seek? Ah, wretched mother! her heart still
clings to that woman, and she has no love for me—none.
Ah, 'twas my selfishness that wrought this misery!
If I might but kiss her hand.
Once, ere we part for ever, let me embrace thee, my child.
Hah, Neomi! What is this? in my arms—on my heart; I have been dreaming. Am I dreaming still?
No, dearest mother; till now, I never knew the strength of a mother's love. I am yours, alone! alone!
Happy mother!
The past is a dark gulf, in which I have buried my hatred with my griefs.
Cast into it the prejudices that divide two noble hearts. Are you not both my mothers—in— the love you bear me—both sisters by the sacrifices you have made for your child.
We shall love her better united.
Madame, I thank you fervently.
Heaven has heard my prayers, and if—
A name trembles on your lips—“Claudio.” Your heart cleaves to him—take him—love him—he is worthy of you.
A life's devotion shall prove my gratitude.
And you who have pitied the sufferings, and felt for the wrongs of the poor Jewess,—rejoice with her now, for she has subdued all, suffered all, and gained all by the powerful magic of a Mother's Love.