PAULINE.

Good woman, I really-why, prince, what is this? does the old lady know you? Oh, I guess, you have done her some service: another proof of your kind heart, is it not?

MELNOTTE.

Of my kind heart, ay!

PAULINE.

So you know the prince ?

WIDOW.

Know him, madam? ah, I begin to fear it is you who know him not!

PAULINE.

Do you think she is mad? Can we stay here, my lord? I think there's something very wild about her.

MELNOTTE.

Madam, I—no, I cannot tell her, my knees knock together what a coward is a man who has lost his honour! Speak to her, speak to her (to his mother); tell her that—oh, Heaven, that I were dead!

PAULINE.

How confused he looks! this strange place, this woman-what can it mean? I half suspect-Who are you, madam? who are you? can't you speak? are you struck dumb?

WIDOW.

Claude, you have not deceived her? Ah, shame upon you! I thought that, before you went to the altar, she was to have known all.

PAULINE.

All! what? My blood freezes in my veins!

WIDOW.

Poor lady! dare I tell her, Claude?

(Melnotte makes a sign of assent.)

Know you not, then, madam, that this young man is of poor though honest parents? Know you not that you are wedded to my son, Claude Melnotte?

PAULINE.

Your son! hold, hold! do not speak to me. (Approaches Melnotte, and lays her hand on his arm.) Is this a jest? is it? I know it is; only speak; one word, one look, one smile. I cannot believe-I who loved thee so I cannot believe that thou art such a-no, I will not wrong thee by a harsh word; speak!

MELNOTTE.

have pity on her, on me; leave us.

WIDOW.

Oh, Claude, that I should live to see thee bowed by shame! thee of whom I was so proud!

Her son, her son

[Exit widow by the staircase.

PAULINE.

MELNOTTE.

Now, lady, hear me.

PAULINE.

Hear thee!

Ay, speak; her son! have fiends a parent? speak,
That thou mayst silence curses; speak!

MELNOTTE.

No, curse me :

Thy curse would blast me less than thy forgiveness.

PAULINE (laughing wildly).

"This is thy palace, where the perfumed light
Steals through the mist of alabaster lamps,
And every air is heavy with the sighs

Of orange groves, and music from sweet lutes,
And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth
I' the midst of roses! Dost thou like the picture?"
This is my bridal home, and thou my bridegroom!
Oh fool, oh dupe, oh wretch! I see it all;
The byword and the jeer of every tongue
In Lyons. Hast thou in thy heart one touch
Of human kindness? if thou hast, why, kill me,
And save thy wife from madness. No, it cannot,
It cannot be; this is some horrid dream;

I shall wake soon. (Touching him) Art flesh?
man? or but

The shadows seen in sleep? It is too real.
What have I done to thee? how sinn'd against thee,
That thou shouldst crush me thus ?

MELNOTTE.

Pauline, by pride

Angels have fallen ere thy time; by pride-
That sole alloy of thy most lovely mould-

The evil spirit of a bitter love,

And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee.
From my first years my soul was fill'd with thee;
I saw thee mid the flow'rs the lowly boy
Tended, unmark'd by thee; a spirit of bloom,
And joy, and freshness, as if spring itself
Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape!
I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man
Enter'd the breast of the wild-dreaming boy;
And from that hour I grew--what to the last
I shall be-thine adorer! Well; this love,
Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became
A fountain of ambition and bright hope;
I thought of tales that by the winter hearth
F

Old gossips tell; how maidens sprung from kings Have stoop'd from their high sphere; how Love, like

Death,

Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook
Beside the sceptre. Thus I made my home
In the soft palace of a fairy future!
My father died; and I, the peasant-born,
Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise
Out of the prison of my mean estate;

And, with such jewels as the exploring mind
Brings from the caves of knowledge, buy my ransom
From those twin jailers of the daring heart,
Low birth and iron fortune. Thy bright image,
Glass'd in my soul, took all the hues of glory,
And lured me on to those inspiring toils
By which man masters men! For thee I
grew
A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages!
For thee I sought to borrow from each grace
And every muse such attributes as lend
Ideal charms to love. I thought of thee,
And passion taught me poesy; of thee,
And on the painter's canvass grew the life
Of beauty! Art became the shadow
Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes!
Men call'd me vain, some mad; I heeded not,
But still toiled on, hoped on; for it was sweet,
If not to win, to feel more worthy thee!

PAULINE.

Has he a magic to exorcise hate?

MELNOTTE.

At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour
The thoughts that burst their channels into song,
And sent them to thee; such a tribute, lady,
As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest.
The name-appended by the burning heart
That long'd to show its idol what bright things
It had created-yea, the enthusiast's name,

That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn!
That very hour, when passion, turn'd to wrath,
Resembled hatred most; when thy disdain
Made my whole soul a chaos, in that hour
The tempters found me a revengeful tool

For their revenge! Thou hadst trampled on the worm; It turn'd and stung thee!

PAULINE.

Love, sir, hath no sting. What was the slight of a poor powerless girl To the deep wrong of this vile revenge? Oh, how I loved this man! a serf! a slave !

MELNOTTE.

Hold, lady! No, not slave! Despair is free!
I will not tell thee of the throes, the struggles,
The anguish, the remorse: no; let it

pass ! And let me come to such most poor atonement Yet in my power. Pauline!

(Approaching her with great emotion, and about to take her hand.)

PAULINE.

No, touch me not!

I know my fate. You are, by law, my tyrant;
And I-oh Heaven!- -a peasant's wife! I'll work,
Toil, drudge, do what thou wilt; but touch me not;
Let my wrongs make me sacred!

MELNOTTE.

Do not fear me.

Thou dost not know me, madam: at the altar
My vengeance ceased, my guilty oath expired!
Henceforth, no image of some marble saint,
Niched in cathedral aisles, is hallow'd more
From the rude hand of sacrilegious wrong.
I am thy husband; nay, thou needst not shudder;
Here, at thy feet, I lay a husband's rights.