[Amazed.]
Warned!—By whom?
DIANE.
What matter by whom?—Enough that we've been told the Civil Guard may search the house this very day.
PAUL.
[With sudden resolution.]
I am glad of it. Thank fate that something forces us to tell your father you are mine.
DIANE.
Nay, Paul—I cannot, dare not tell him that!
PAUL.
Then leave the task to me.
DIANE.
'Twould be but to win his curse. You little dream the deathless pride that's rooted in his heart! To wrench out that pride would break the heart that holds it.
PAUL.
[Bitterly.]
Then let it break! I, too, am proud, Diane, proud as all are proud to be who owe their manhood to their God and not to the favour of a king!—If your father scorns the sacred work of heaven's hand, then he is only fit for scorn himself.
DIANE.
Oh, Paul! Be charitable!
PAUL.
Charitable! To what?—Your father's pride in the race from which he springs—the race whose iron rule for centuries stamped shame on honest labour—crowned infamy with honour—made gods of profligates and dogs of workingmen—ruining their wives—insulting their mothers—debasing their daughters, and sowing the seeds of madness in their veins?—Ah, Diane! when I face your father, 'tis not your husband who should blush for his race.
DIANE.
My father's race is mine.—I forgot its glories, and atoned its wrongs in marrying you!—But I love, revere, my father still, and have hoped each day that he would come to love you for your saving care of me—and grow content to take you as a son.
PAUL.
Who knows—perhaps he will.
DIANE.
[Sadly.]
Ah, no! The more you do for me, the more his pride revolts, till now I dare not tell him of our marriage.
PAUL.
Diane—listen. The time has come when you must choose between us. I staked my life in saving yours, and his! He loves but little if he hesitates to keep the precious life I saved unmarred by sorrow.
DIANE. Well, then, so be it! Have your will! But oh, seek first his blessing for our love, before you tell him of our secret marriage.
PAUL.
My love for you will teach me tenderness for him. Go now and send him here.
[Kissing her.]
Courage! All may yet be well.
[Exit DIANE. PAUL sits at desk wearily.]
Hateful humiliation!—to stoop in pleading for that already mine! But patience, Paul Kauvar; he is the father of the woman you adore.
DUKE.
[Entering and advancing to PAUL.]
One word before we part, good friend. I thought to leave this house without farewell, but I cannot be so cruel. I have learned that this is no longer a safe retreat. I am forced to seek one safer.
PAUL.
And where will you find one, Monsieur?
DUKE. I shall best serve you by keeping that a secret.
PAUL.
And does your daughter go with you?
DUKE.
Could you think that I would leave her here?
PAUL.
Certainly, Monsieur. If to stay seemed less perilous than to go. Why not let me replace you for awhile?
DUKE.
You guard my daughter here alone?
PAUL.
In my character of cousin to Diane Leblanc, gossip has already united us by even a closer tie.
DUKE.
To my infinite annoyance, sir.
PAUL.
Monsieur le Duc, in times like these, Madame Kauvar would be far safer than Mademoiselle de Beaumont.
DUKE.
[With quiet hauteur.]
There are some means of safety forbidden to my rank, sir.—Pardon me if I must say that what you suggest is one of them.
PAUL.
What if I dared to love your daughter, to hope that you would grant me the right to guard her as my wife?
DUKE.
Seriously?
PAUL.
Seriously!
DUKE.
[Shrugging his shoulders.]
This is another of the many insanities of the times.
PAUL.
[Haughtily.]
Suppose I had reason to believe that your daughter would consent?
DUKE.
[Sternly.]
One moment, Monsieur! Your first proposition involves but madness,—your last implies dishonour.
PAUL.
[Indignantly.]
Dishonour!
[Checking himself.]
Monsieur, honesty is honoured now, even though it be not allied to an empty title. Tis not a crest, but character, that measures manhood in this modern age. Therefore I do not fear to tell you—
[DUKE turns quickly. PAUL hesitates.]
that I love your daughter.
DUKE.
[With terrible contempt.]
And you take this time to declare it! When you have burdened me with obligations that leave me powerless at your feet?—when I must see in the demand for the daughter's hand, a possible bargain for the father's life.
[PAUL turns fiercely. The DUKE checks him.]
No more, sir! Happily I have two securities against dishonour: my child's sense of what is due to herself—my own scorn of life purchased at such a price.
PAUL.
Perhaps your daughter may not deem the protection of my name so great a degradation as yourself.—Dare you put her to the test?
DUKE.
What test can you propose?
PAUL.
[Seating himself at desk and writing.]
Here is a pass procured at the risk of my life.—I fill it out for George Leblanc.—It will convey you, alone, safely beyond our borders. Here is another. I make this out for George Leblanc and Diane his daughter. This will enable both of you to escape.—These passes have the signatures of the chief of police; I countersign them, thus—a double surety for you, a double risk for me.—Now, Monsieur, either one of these passes is yours, as your daughter may decide, if you will offer her the choice of remaining under my protection, or of leaving France with you.
DUKE.
[Striking a bell.]
The choice is at her will.
[Enter NANETTE.]
Send my daughter here at once.
[Exit NANETTE.
PAUL.
One word, Monsieur. These passes are at stake, and my life as well. I promise to be bound by the decision of your daughter.—If she decides to remain, you promise to go and leave her here with me?
DUKE. I promise this on one condition. I pledge my honour to put the alternative fairly before her. You must pledge yours to use no word to influence her choice.
PAUL.
I pledge myself to silence.
DIANE.
[Entering pale and anxious.]
You sent for me, Father?
DUKE.
I did. Listen, child. I am about to leave France. By my side there is peril—here is safety. Answer frankly: will you follow me, or remain here under the protection of Monsieur Kauvar?
DIANE.
[Aside.]
What can this mean? He could not ask this if he knew the truth.
[Aloud.]
Father, I do not understand.—What shall I say?
DUKE.
What your heart prompts, child.
[Turning away.]
Nay, do not hesitate; I will not influence your choice even with a look.
DIANE.
If I shrink from danger, if I stay here, what becomes of you?
DUKE.
I go alone.
DIANE.
Alone to meet your peril?—Then, by the bond of a daughter's duty, my place is at my father's side.
[PAUL staggers. The DUKE retires quietly to desk. DIANE speaks aside to PAUL.]
Remember he is old, with none but me to comfort his last days.
PAUL.
[With stern self-control.]
Monsieur, the double pass for George Leblanc and Diane his daughter has been fairly won.
[Hands the pass to the DUKE, bows coldly, and leaves the room without a look at DIANE, who falls into a chair and hides her face.
DUKE.
[Looking suspiciously at DIANE.]
Could there be warrant for his strange presumption? If so, this separation is none too soon.
[Enter GOUROC.]
Ah, Marquis, congratulate us. We are now released from all need of burdening even you.—See! Here is a pass which opens the doors of our prison. We fly to-night to Vendée, where we hope you may soon rejoin us, and our cousin Rochejacquelein.
GOUROC.
[Aside.]
The devil!—
[Aloud.]
You are fortunate, Duke. Alas that I cannot go with you!
DUKE.
Well, come, Diane; time flies. We must prepare for our escape.
[Going with DIANE.]
Au revoir, Marquis.
GOUROC.
Au revoir, Monsieur le Duc, and bon voyage, Mademoiselle de Beaumont.
[Exeunt the DUKE and DIANE. GOUROC changes to a fierce and hurried manner.]
Ah!—Not so fast, dear Duke! You're not out of France yet. This sudden flight destroys all my plans. Again this girl, the heiress of ten millions, will get beyond my reach.—No!—death, dishonour—nothing shall snatch her from me now!—Aye, but how to prevent it?
[Reflecting.]
The Duke has not many years to live, and in these ticklish times old men's days are easily shortened. He dead, his daughter's at my mercy.
[With sudden triumph.]
I have it!—I see the way to place her wholly in my grip!—A brilliant move and easy to execute!—Kauvar knows nothing of my rank!
[Rings bell, goes to desk and begins to look at papers.]
Yes, these are what I need to guarantee my triumph!
[Enter POTIN.]
Have you any blank warrants?
POTIN.
I have!—I keep them always handy, especially for the petticoat sex.
[Giving them.]
I say, Comrade, I hope it's a she-man this time, for there's nothing like this—[Making sign across throat] to stop the wag of a woman's tongue.
GOUROC.
Go.—Remain in the ante-room.—I may want you to summon a guard.
POTIN.
[Going.]
All right, Citizen! I'm always ready at the call of the Republic.
[Exit.
GOUROC.
Good!—Now to secure my victory!—But where can I find Kauvar?
[Starts for door. KAUVAR enters, absorbed in thought, without seeing GOUROC, who watches him.]
He's just in time! Fate conspires with me for success.
[PAUL seats himself at desk and buries his face in his arms.—GOUROC goes over quietly and touches him on the shoulder.
PAUL.
[Starting up in dismay]
You here, Gouroc!
GOUROC.
I am, old friend,—though you seem scarce glad to see me.
PAUL.
Pardon, Comrade; you find me at a moment when my mind's absorbed with many cares.
GOUROC.
I understand;—in times like these perplexity pursues the patriot. I would not now intrude, dear friend, if duty did not force me.
PAUL.
[With sudden suspicion.]
Duty! And what duty can bring you here?
GOUROC. I have important warrants for your signature.
PAUL.
[Sitting again, with a sigh of relief.]
Another time.—I cannot sign them now.
GOUROC.
[Firmly.]
Friend, the business of the Republic is sacred; it cannot be postponed.
PAUL.
[Wearily.]
Well, well!—What are these warrants?
[Takes up pen carelessly.
GOUROC.
[Calling off papers, as he gives them to PAUL to sign.]
Warrants for the arrest of Catherine Cler—
[PAUL signs.]
Maxime Berton—
[PAUL signs.]
Marie Legrand—
[PAUL signs.]
And this blank warrant for a suspected party, whose name that fool Potin has registered so badly that I must get him to decipher it before I can fill it in.
[PAUL signs mechanically.]
[Aside.]
Tis done!—And she is mine!
[Aloud.]
Shall you be at the club to-night, friend?
PAUL.
[Shortly.]
No!
[Night comes on.
GOUROC.
What excuse shall I offer the fraternity?
PAUL.
Say I am busy—busy—[Striking his breast.] breaking the heart of a traitor to France!
GOUROC.
[Going.]
A welcome message.—I sha'n't forget it.
[Exit.
PAUL.
Wife gone!—Home desolated!—Naught left but the haunting memory of joy forever lost!—Ah, I am weary, heart-broken—helpless!
[He sinks into the chair at desk, and buries his face in his arms. Slowly the light dims to darkness. At back, the stage is transformed into a TABLEAU OF KAUVAR'S DREAM OF ANARCHY.
_Mysterious music accompanies the Dream, which consists of a tableau of the guillotine in the Place de la Revolution, in Paris, by moonlight.
Here is seen the scaffold, with its ghastly paraphernalia, surrounded by ferocious_ SANS CULOTTES, and GENS D'ARMES. _Amidst them is an old hag.
The death-cart, with its load of victims, is seen in the foreground—the entrance to the garden with the palace of the Tuilleries in the background.
The_ HEADSMAN _stands ready, near the knife of the guillotine.
From the death-cart_ DIANE _glides on and slowly goes up the scaffold steps.
As she reaches the top, she is seized roughly by the_ HEADSMAN.
At this moment PAUL starts with a cry of agony from his chair—and at his shriek, the whole Tableau of the Dream instantly disappears.
PAUL.
[Starting up wildly.]
No, no!—My life for hers!—My life for hers!
[Waking, as the Dream disappears, he looks about dazed and bewildered; then bursts into hysterical laughter.]
A dream!—Thank God, a dream!—Only a horrible dream!
[Suddenly stops short in horror.]
How dark and still the house is. My God!—Something has happened!—What is it?
[Shrieks with terror.]
Diane!—Diane!
NANETTE.
[Entering with lamp.]
What's the matter?
PAUL.
Diane—Mademoiselle Diane, where is she?
DIANE.
[Appearing, dressed to go away.]
Here!
PAUL.
[Makes a spontaneous movement toward her, then checks himself and turns to NANETTE.]
Leave us!
[NANETTE goes silently away. PAUL speaks to DIANE hoarsely.]
Where are you going?
DIANE.
I am going to do my duty—follow the father who would die without my care.
PAUL.
[After a pause.]
Yes, I remember now.—You are right.—You will be safer out of
France.—The dream! The dream!
DIANE.
What dream?
PAUL.
No matter! I am resigned now! Yes, resigned—resigned—resigned!
[Sinks sobbing into chair.
DIANE.
No, no, Paul!—I cannot endure this!—I will stay! I will stay!
PAUL.
[Starting up.]
No! You must not! I dare not keep you here.—I fear the worst!
DIANE.
What do you mean?
PAUL.
Don't ask me. I do not know myself. But you—when you are gone—you will not forget me?
DIANE.
Not while memory lasts!
PAUL.
And I—perhaps I—some day—shall be free to seek you.
DIANE.
God grant that day is near!
PAUL.
And we—when we meet again, will you find courage to acknowledge who I am?
DIANE.
Nay—if you desire it—I'll prove my deathless love before I go.—I'll tell my father all.
PAUL.
No, never!—Never till I've won a name that even your proud father is forced to honour. Meantime, I ask but this—your love and trust, while I have life to strive.
DIANE.
You shall have it!—Yes, through sunshine and shadow, I will love and trust you to the end.
[They embrace.
DUKE.
[Outside.]
Nanette, the coach is ready: be quick, bear our baggage to the door.
[PAUL and DIANE separate quickly. Entering, the DUKE glances suspiciously at the two, then advances to PAUL.]
Paul Kauvar, let us not part in bitterness. I owe you much; I grieve to see you suffer. Courage! Believe me, I never honoured you as I do now.
[Extends his hand. PAUL turns away.]
Will you not take my hand?
PAUL.
No, Monsieur. Not until you think it worthy to guide and guard your daughter, as my wife.
DUKE.
[Starts haughtily, then turns to DIANE.]
Come, child! Tis time that we were gone.
DIANE.
[Crossing and extending her hand to PAUL.]
Farewell!
PAUL.
[Taking her hand, speaks aside to her.]
Remember, love and trust.
DIANE.
Forever!
[PAUL kisses her hand. She comes slowly to her father, keeping her eyes in anguish on PAUL.
[The DUKE leads her toward the folding doors which are suddenly thrown open, disclosing a platoon of GUARDS. DIANE shrieks, the DUKE starts back, PAUL turns in horror. TABOOZE advances into the room.
TABOOZE.
In the name of the Republic, I arrest Honoré Albert Maxime, heretofore
Duc de Beaumont.
DIANE.
[Clasping the DUKE.]
Father!
PAUL.
[Sternly.]
What does this mean?—Whose name is on that warrant?
TABOOZE.
[With surprise.]
Why, your own, Citizen.
[PAUL recoils, stunned.
DUKE.
What! Betrayed by you?
DIANE.
No, no! It is not true!
[Snatching the paper, looking, then with a cry.]
Great heaven!—It is!—His name and hand!
[She sinks down in despair.
PAUL.
[Passionately, to the DUKE.]
I betray you!—I, Paul Kauvar.—Tis false!
[To DIANE.]
You at least will not believe this lie.
DUKE.
[Interposing.]
Silence! Better death to her than the pollution of another word from you!
PAUL.
But my God!—You do not know.—She is—
DIANE.
[Starting up wildly.]
Stop!—I forbid you to say more!
CURTAIN.
ACT II.
SCENE. Interior of the Prison of the Republic. A room with cells.—Entrance to outer corridor. Table with chairs near it.—As curtain rises, howls of a Mob are heard outside.
POTIN.
[Entering in the midst of the howls, then clapping his hands to his ears.]
Oh, that I were deaf! Then I'd escape the shriek of my wife, and the roar of this cursed tribunal condemning poor devils to death.
[Renewed howls.]
Aye, that's right! Howl on, hyenas! I could howl, too, yesterday, as well as the worst of ye. But I can't now; no, not since the arrest of the poor old Duke. There he lies, in yonder cell, and here am I quartered as a witness against him—and that villain Gouroc has done all this!
[Enter GOUROC quietly in the background.]
Curse him! He rules me with a rod of red-hot iron! I wish I had him here now! By the gods! I'd take courage for once; I'd tackle him with my tongue—like my wife. I'd say—
GOUROC.
[Advancing coolly.]
Well, Citizen,—you'd say—?
POTIN.
[Aside, startled.]
The devil take you!
GOUROC.
What would you say?
POTIN.
Nothing!—anything!—everything!
GOUROC.
That's lucky!—I have much for you to say before the day is done. The trial of the Duke will soon begin. When asked who gave you the order for the Duke's arrest, you must swear that it was Paul Kauvar who did so.
POTIN.
Why, Lord help me! 'Twas you who gave me the order, and forced me to carry it, too.
GOUROC.
Possibly; but, in spite of that, my name must not be mentioned in the affair, to any one, do you hear?
POTIN.
Alas, I do!
GOUROC.
And will swear as I command?
POTIN.
[With sudden resolution.]
Never!
GOUROC.
Do you care to save your head?
POTIN.
Of course! What could I do without it?
GOUROC.
If you refuse to attest as I have dictated, I will declare you guilty of treason in trying to conceal the presence of the Duke in Paris. Such a declaration from me is sure perdition to you. How say you now: will you swear?
POTIN.
[Wilting.]
I will swear.
GOUROC.
You are wise.
[Going.]
Within an hour, the trial comes on. Be at hand, or—
[Making a sign across his throat.]
There's nothing like this to quiet a traitor's tongue.
[Exit.
POTIN.
[Looking after him.]
To lie living, and be a coward—or to lie dead, and be a corpse; that's the riddle.—No! I'll be neither a coward nor a corpse. I'll run away!—run like a brave man, enlist in the army of Vendée, and so escape damnation, and my wife.
[Starts off.]
Liberty, lend thy wings that I may fly—
[NANETTE appears.]
Ye gods!—Fate is false again!
NANETTE.
Ha! It's you, is it?
POTIN.
No, it was me; but now you're here, I'm nobody.
NANETTE.
Where's the Duke?
POTIN
[Pointing.]
In that cell.
NANETTE.
And I believe 'twas you betrayed him!
POTIN.
[Indignantly.]
That's a lie!
NANETTE.
Well said! Short and sharp, like the truth.
[She pats POTIN on the back. He turns away.]
Bravo!—But one moment! Do you know who did betray him?
[POTIN shakes his head mournfully.]
You do know! I can see by the wag of your head you know, and I mean to make you tell me!—But I can't stop now; I'm here to see Mam'selle Diane; where is she?
POTIN.
[Pointing to cell.]
There—with her father.
NANETTE.
I'll be back soon, and then I'll give you a piece of my mind.
POTIN.
Give me peace if you like, dear, but keep the mind for yourself; you've none to spare.
NANETTE.
Woe to you when next we meet!
[She flounces out.
POTIN.
Yes, it's woe to me whene'er we meet!—But now to fly; I've no time to lose; between my wife and Gouroc, I shall go cracked. So here's for liberty, and Vendée!
[Exit into his room.
Enter GOUROC, followed by GUARDS escorting MARDOCHE.
GOUROC.
[To GUARDS.]
You may leave the prisoner with me.
[Exit GUARDS.]
And so, Mardoche, you have been tried and condemned.
MARDOCHE.
Yes. Accused by beasts, tried by fools, and condemned by assassins.
GOUROC.
And of what were you accused?
MARDOCHE.
I was a quiet cobbler; I made shoes for Jacobins that pinched their toes, so I was accused of sympathy with aristocrats.
GOUROC.
Is this all the cry they raised against you?
MARDOCHE.
No. I was never heard to swear, so I was watched—and was seen upon my knees. As piety is poison to the Republic, I was accused of being a priest! I was searched, and these were found upon me.
[Showing a crucifix and rosary.]
This was enough. I was immediately condemned to die.
GOUROC.
A fine fool you were, to be caught with such baubles in your bosom.
Had you forgotten old mother Dupaix?
MARDOCHE.
The old woman who never gossiped, wore clean linen, and kept four cats?
GOUROC.
The same—who was therefore accused of being a Duchess in disguise, and sent to the guillotine.
MARDOCHE.
Moral:—In this age of reason, death to him who prays!
GOUROC.
Or keeps four cats! But cheer up, Citizen; I have a crumb of comfort for you yet. In your cell someone is waiting impatiently to see you.
MARDOCHE.
Who?
GOUROC.
Your sister.
MARDOCHE.
Great heavens! Of what do they accuse her?
GOUROC.
Nothing. She is here by my care to bid you farewell.—Listen and understand.—You are going to die, and leave your sister in poverty amidst the perils of the Republic.—What would you be willing to do to provide her with an independence?
MARDOCHE.
I would do anything. I can do nothing.
GOUROC.
You are mistaken. If you choose, before you die, you can place in her hands 10,000 francs.
MARDOCHE.
How?
GOUROC.
By helping me to save another man's life.
MARDOCHE.
I do not understand.
GOUROC.
The Due de Beaumont has been discovered, and is about to be condemned. For reasons of my own, I wish to save his life. There is but one way. You, who are destined to die soon, must be disguised as the Duke, answer to his name, and go to the scaffold in his stead. Consent to do this—and you shall place in your sister's hands 10,000 francs in gold.
MARDOCHE.
What! That Jacobin of Jacobins, Gouroc, asks a cobbler to save a
Duke—?
GOUROC.
Why not? The Republic is poor, the Duke is rich. He has been condemned for our glory. But if his secret escape will bring us gold, why not crown the Republic with riches as well as fame? Is not this Patriotism?
MARDOCHE.
Yes, Patriotism to-day! Yesterday and to-morrow—Jesuitism.
GOUROC.
Well, your answer. Will you save the Duke?
MARDOCHE.
[After a pause.]
I will.
GOUROC.
Good! In your cell you'll find everything for your disguise.
MARDOCHE.
[As howls are heard outside.]
Listen.—That is the voice of fraternity shrieking for fratricide!
GOUROC.
By heaven! No cobbler talks as you do!—Who are you? What are you?
MARDOCHE.
A victim—to present madness! An atonement—for past wrongs! A pledge for future progress!—The Abbé de St. Simon.
GOUROC.
Ha! As I suspected.
[SOLDIERS are heard approaching.]
Take care!—Hurry to your cell; they are coming for the Duke.
MARDOCHE.
And my sister—?
GOUROC.
You shall have the money at your parting.
MARDOCHE.
Thus my death will bring her more than all the years I might have lived to love her. [Exit.
OFFICER.
[Entering, followed by GUARDS, and presenting paper to GOUROC.]
An order for the person of Duc de Beaumont.
GOUROC.
[Looking at order.]
Correct.—There is his cell.
OFFICER.
[Reading from paper at the door of DUKE'S cell.]
Honoré Albert Maxime, heretofore Duc de Beaumont, you are called for trial for your life. In the name of the law, stand forth!
The DUKE appears with DIANE clinging to him, followed by NANETTE.
DUKE.
I am ready.
[The GUARDS surround him.
OFFICER.
[To DIANE.]
Young woman, free your father; he must follow me alone.
DIANE.
If he is guilty, then I am guilty. I have shared his prison; I claim the right to share his scaffold.
OFFICER.
You are not called, and cannot go with him.
DUKE.
Courage, child! Remember who you are, and scorn to show these miscreants what you feel.
[Putting her gently from his breast.]
We shall meet again.—
[Turning to OFFICER.]
Lead on, sir.
[The GUARDS go off with the DUKE.—DIANE falls into a chair near table, overcome. NANETTE approaches her; GOUROC waves her back.
GOUROC.
[Pointing to cell.]
Wait there, till you're wanted.
[NANETTE goes out sullenly. GOUROC draws near to DIANE.]
At last I'm free to crave your pardon for the part I'm forced to play in these dark days of tragedy.—Say you'll forgive me.
DIANE.
I have nothing to forgive, sir.—You did not betray my father, and if you dare to feel for such as we, then it is for the Republic to pardon your secret treachery.
GOUROC.
Always cruel, Mademoiselle. If you knew the truth, you could not wound me with your scorn.
DIANE.
[Going.]
If my face offends you, I will go.
GOUROC.
Stay, and be just.—I am the slave of a great purpose. I am fast securing the ruin of the Republic. My affected zeal but masks the well-aimed blows I strike at the enemies of our order.—Before many weeks have past, Robespierre will go to the scaffold, the Jacobins be ruined, and the Republic crushed.—To this great end I am content to suffer anything, even your contempt, if need be.
DIANE.
Yes, I despise all blows dealt in darkness.
GOUROC.
Even though those very blows could save your father's life?
DIANE.
[Turning and staring at him.]
Save my father's life?
GOUROC.
Yes; I hold it in my power to set your father free, and escape with both of you to Vendée.—Say but the word and it is done.
DIANE.
Tell me the word that I may speak it quickly.
GOUROC.
You know the past.—My one wild dream was to win you as my wife. Revolution came; I lost you in the chaos of the times; and when at last I found you, a traitor had nearly caused your death.
DIANE.
[In anguish.]
No more, sir! No more!
GOUROC.
But I can save you yet.
DIANE.
Save my father! That is all I ask.
GOUROC.
To save his life I must imperil my own. I am willing to do this, but—
DIANE.
[Scornfully.]
You must have your price!
GOUROC.
Yes—that price, the right to save and guard you as my wife. One word of hope, and I am your slave forever.
DIANE.
Such a word would be cruelty to you, and crime in me.
[She starts to go.
GOUROC.
[Seizing DIANE'S hand.]
Hear me, I beg—beseech—
[A bell tolls.]
Nay—I command!—Listen!
A VOICE.
[Calls slowly in the distance.]
Hubert, Marquis de Ferrand,—Comte de Vigny,—Duc de Beaumont——
[DIANE turns in horror.
GOUROC.
Your father is called for trial! That means certain death.
DIANE.
[Kneeling.]
Save him!—I will pay the price with everything I have.
GOUROC
I may hope?
DIANE.
Yes! Take hope from my despair.
GOUROC.
Then you will be my wife?
DIANE.
When he and I are free.
GOUROC.
Your father shall be saved!—I go to perfect all my plans.
[Kissing her hand.]
From this moment I am yours—body, mind and soul!
[Exit hurriedly.
DIANE.
When he has saved my father—death shall deliver me.
[Exit.
POTIN enters cautiously, with various things hidden under his clothes, giving him a grotesque appearance.
POTIN.
Now, O Fate, is your chance to protect a patriot! If I can only get away,—I shall escape perjury in Court, and tongue-lashing from my wife!—Now to run!—To run for Vendée! Better the awful thunder of masculine war than the piercing tenderness of a woman's tongue!
[Starting to run of, he begins to sing—to the tune of the Marseillaise chorus:]
To leave—to leave my wife!—
NANETTE.
[Rushing in and stopping him.]
Hold, Citizen Potin!
POTIN.
[Wilting.]
Oh, Republic, I am lost!
NANETTE.
Dodolphe—you're up to mischief! Speak out—what's up?
POTIN.
Patience, gentle lamb!
NANETTE.
Don't lamb me, sir!
[Twisting him round.]
What's this mean?
[Tapping him.]
Porpoise!
[Pulling breeches from under his coat.]
Culottes!
[Pulling cap from his breast.]
Ye gods, what's this?
[Pulling hose from his pockets.]
By heaven! A woman's hose!
[Shaking hose in his face.]
What does this mean?
POTIN.
Nothing, precious love! This is my uniform;—I have recruited for
Vendée.
NANETTE.
You—a soldier?
POTIN.
[Posing.]
Yes: The safety of France demands it. I go to preserve the Republic! France beckons—while Victory extends her arms, panting to embrace my noble form!
NANETTE.
Embrace ye?
[Putting his head under her arm.]
Let Victory try it if she dare!
TURNKEY.
[Entering with GUARD.]
Citizen Potin, you are wanted as a witness.
POTIN.
Caught!—From the frying-pan into the fire!
NANETTE.
We shall meet again, my dear.
POTIN.
Don't remind me now; I'm sick enough already.
[Enter PAUL KAUVAR. POTIN starts at sight of him, and speaks to the GUARD.]
I'm ready; show the way.
PAUL.
[To POTIN.]
Stop!—Thank heaven I have found you! Tell me, who ordered the Duke's arrest?
POTIN.
[Sullenly.]
What I know of, that I'll tell only to the Court.
[Exit.
PAUL.
[Turning to NANETTE, who is going.]
Nanette, one word.
NANETTE.
What word can an honest woman speak that you would care to hear?
PAUL.
Justice!—I want that word, and all it signifies.
[Mob howls outside.
NANETTE.
Listen! Go to them—they'll give you justice, aye, and glory, for you betrayed the innocent—to glut their appetite for blood.
PAUL.
That's a lie—a vile, infamous, monstrous lie!
NANETTE.
Is it a lie that you signed the warrant for the Duke's arrest?
PAUL.
My name was forged.
NANETTE.
I know your hand too well to be deceived. I've seen the warrant; it bears your name, and written by yourself.
PAUL.
Then it was obtained by some strange trick! I've tried to learn the truth, but no one will tell me who took the warrant to the office of the Guard.
NANETTE.
I wish I could believe you.
PAUL.
[Forcing her to face him.]
And so you shall!—Do I look like the vilest of mankind?
NANETTE.
No; in looks you're lucky!
PAUL.
Would any man conspire to kill the wife he adores?
NANETTE.
Why ask that?
PAUL.
Because Diane de Beaumont is my wife.
NANETTE.
Your wife?
PAUL.
Yes! For me to betray her father would be to break her heart! Pain to her is the anguish of the damned to me! Can you not see that I am—I must be innocent?
NANETTE.
In these days the fairest faces mask the foulest souls! Looks and words prove nothing! Evidence alone will clear you of this crime.
PAUL.
That—I have not been able to obtain.
NANETTE.
Then get it quickly before it is too late.
PAUL.
Where is Diane—my wife?
NANETTE.
[Pointing.]
There!—Praying for the father she believes you betrayed.
PAUL.
No, she cannot! By the light of her own love she sees the innocence of mine.
NANETTE.
Then love is lunacy!
PAUL.
Send her here to me!
NANETTE.
She will not come.
PAUL.
I'll stake my life she will!
NANETTE.
You shall see.
[Exit.
JEAN LITAIS enters, watching PAUL intently.
PAUL.
Two things at any cost I must accomplish! First, prove my innocence of treachery, and save her father from the guillotine.
JEAN.
[Advancing.]
For that I came to help you.
PAUL.
Who are you?
JEAN.
Look well and you will see.
PAUL.
I've seen your face before, but have forgotten where we met.
JEAN.
I am Jean Litais. Six months ago, I was accused, and about to be condemned. You saw—took pity—spoke in my behalf—and by your eloquence saved my life! So now the life you saved, and all its service, is yours to use, or forfeit as you please! A lion freed a mouse—the mouse now comes to serve the lion.
PAUL.
I do not understand.