^' 
 
 s 
 

 ALMOST A LIFE 
 
 %, ^mma 
 
 OF POWERFULLY INTENSE EMOTIONAL INTEREST, 
 
 IN SIX TABLEAUX, 
 
 DRAMATIZED FROM THE FRENCH 
 
 BY MRS. ETTIE HENDERSOlSr. 
 
 AUTHOK'S COPY. 
 
 Al.L THE REQUIREMENTS OF THE COPYRIGHT LAW HAVING BEEN COMPLIED 
 
 with, all intringements on my rights will be dealt with "^ according to 
 Law. 
 
 E. H. 
 
 N. B. — This Book is Printed, but 
 
 NOT PUBLISHED. 
 
 NEW YORK: . /^^^'^^"^ 
 
 1878. 
 
CAST OF CHARACTEES. 
 
 JxjLES De Bonneval, a wealthy Nobleman. 
 
 Dk. Satjmaise, a celebrated Ph3^sician. 
 
 Monsieur Manuel, an Advocate. 
 
 Count Ernest Clairnot, of the Chateau Yilloison. 
 
 MoNS. G-EROME, Attorney for the Commonwealth. 
 
 MoNS. DoRANCHE, Grandparent of Mile. Avisie. 
 
 Phillippe, a tenant of Mons. De Bonneval. 
 
 BerincourTj the Prison Keeper. 
 
 CoLLiNETT, an Imbecile, attached to the Countess. 
 
 DouMAT, Magistrate of Sauveterre. 
 
 Antoine, Servant to Mons. De Bonneval. 
 
 ]?"«^™' I Peasants. 
 Gautier, j 
 
 Gendarme. 
 
 Soldiers, Peasants, Messengers, Lawyers, &c., &c. 
 
 Countess Melanie Clairnot. 
 Avisie Doranche, betrothed to Jules. 
 Marchioness De Bonneval, Jules' mother. 
 Francine, engaged to Phillippe. 
 Madelaine, Attendant on the Countess. 
 Mechinette. 
 
 Peasants, &c., &c. 
 
 The action takes place at Sauveterre, near Paris. 
 
 Time — The Present. 
 
 TMP96-0065S1 
 
 I 
 
 riHV- 
 
ALMOST A LIFE 
 
 ACT L 
 
 (One Set.) 
 
 ParJc and Garden attached to the Chateau De Bonneval. 
 Main Entrance with Colicmns and Archway, l. 2 and 3 e. 
 E. 2. E., <3^ small Rustic Villa or Lodge, Trees, Flowers trel- 
 lised on Lodge, &g., c&g. A red light as from the effect of a 
 distant or expiring fire, throws a color on the scene which grad- 
 ually fades as morning dawns. As curtain rises, villagers are 
 seen crossing stage, e. and l. in great confusion. Lights 
 down. 
 
 Phillippe, and Feancine enter u. e. e. 
 
 Fran. Is it a serious fire ? 
 
 Phil. Serious? How it could be otherwise with such a 
 wind as this, I can't see. Why it blows enough to take the 
 horns off our oxen. 
 
 Fran. Fortunately it is not blowing this way. Is there 
 much destroyed ? 
 
 Phil. Must I tell you again and again, that everything was 
 on fire ; barns, outhouses, hay-stacks, the old castle, and all. 
 
 Enter Doumat u. e. r. 
 
 Dou. Thank Heaven ! the doctor has arrived. 
 
 Fran. Doctor? Why! has anybody been hurt ! 
 
 Dou. Yes, the Count Clairnot. 
 
 Phil. Then I suppose he rushed into the danger the first 
 one. 
 
 Dou. Danger ! he has been shot twice. 
 
 Fran. Shot ! oh, my goodness gracious, Phillippe, do take 
 care. 
 
 Phil. Shot. Then an awful crime has been committed. 
 
 Dou. Undoubtedly. 
 
 Phil. But who did it ? What was the motive ? 
 
Dou. Ah! that's the question. 
 
 Phil. The Count is very passionate, but still he is the best 
 and fairest of men. Everybody knows that. 
 
 Don. True, everybody knows it. 
 
 Fran. Why, he never did any harm to anybody. 
 
 Dou. So every person says ; still some one has sought his 
 life. As for the Countess 
 
 Fran. Oh, she is the saint of saints. Everybody loves her. 
 
 Dou. The criminal, therefore, must be a stranger. We are 
 overrun with vagabonds and beggars on the tramp. There is 
 not a day on which a lot of ill-looking fellows do not appear at 
 Sauveterre asking for help to get away. Hun, Francine, and 
 see if you can bring us any news, i am going to Mons. Ge- 
 rome. 
 
 Fean. and Phil, are going u. e. r. 
 Yra-n. points L. 
 
 Here comes Mons. Gerome. 
 
 Exeunt Fean. and Phil. u. e. r. 
 
 Enter Mons. Gerome l. 1 e. 
 
 Mons. G. My good Doumat, abroad so early too 'i Can you 
 tell me the meaning of all this confusion ? 
 
 Dou. Alas ! Mons. Gerome ! Do you not know what has 
 happened ? Incendiaries have set Villoison on fire. 
 
 Gerome. Good Heaven ! do not say that ! 
 
 Dou. Worse still. Count Clairnot has been shot twice. 
 
 Ger. Shot ! where — when — by whom ? 
 
 Dou. I do not know ; all I can tell you is this : I was sum- 
 moned from my bed in haste to lind the fire raging and the 
 family in great confusion. They have carried the Count into a 
 little barn that was not on fire ; there I saw him lying on the 
 straw, pale as a sheet, his eyes closed, and his body covered with 
 wounds. 
 
 Gerome. But they have not killed him ? 
 
 Dou. He was not dead when I left. 
 . Gerome. And the Countess ? ^ 
 
 Dou. Dear, gentle lady ! she was in the barn, on lier knees, 
 by the Count's side, washing his wounds. 
 
 Gerome. This is most horrible. Fij-e and murder ! for that 
 has surely been the object. Yet why ? Does any one suspect 
 the person or there may be more than one. W^e must catch the 
 wretches. 
 
 Dou. I was coming to you to suggest immediate action. 
 
 Ger. Justice shall be done promptly. Fortunately the night 
 
guard have not returned to the city yet. We must demand their 
 assistance. [Cross to l. 
 
 Re-enter Phillippe and Francine e. u. e. 
 
 Ger. Ha ! you — Phillippe — have you come from Villoison ? 
 
 Phil. Yes." 
 
 Ger. What of Count Clairnot — speak? 
 
 Phil. They liave restored him to consciousness at last. 
 
 Dou {to Francine). What did the doctor say ? 
 
 Fran. He says he will live. 
 
 Ger. {to Phil). And the fire ? 
 
 Phil. They have water enough, and the engines are working 
 well, but the wind is rising again. 
 
 Ger. and Phil, retire up talking. 
 
 Fran. My grandmother always said there could be no luck 
 in such marriage. Twenty-seven years between husband and 
 wife ; oh ! it's too much. 
 
 Dou. Hold your tongue, you stupid girl — what has that to 
 do with the fire ? 
 
 Gerome and Phil, advancing. 
 
 Ger. Farm buildings and workshops all gone ? 
 
 Phil. Yes ; even the little barn they had taken shelter in, so 
 tliey are bringing the Count to the Lodge — the Doctor has 
 ordered it. 
 
 Fran. Oh, the poor lady, see how pale she is ! 
 
 Villagers enter hearing the Count on a rustic settee — one or 
 two carry lanterns. Doctor Saumaise and Countess Clatrnot 
 follow close to the Count. All come from r. u. e. Francine 
 goes into Lodge, brings out a cushion — Doctor places it under 
 Count^s head — he pours liquid on handages^ i&c, during 
 dialogue. As soon as Countess is on Jerome goes to her at 
 once. 
 
 Ger. Madame, this is a great misfortune. 
 
 Countess (Giving her hand,) {to Count.) Ah, Ernest, here is 
 our good friend, Mons. Gercme. 
 
 Count {Faintly.) Come nearer my friend. (Ger. goes to 
 him.) This is a fatal night you see, it will soon leave nle noth- 
 ing but a few handful of ashes of all that I possessed. 
 
 Ger, Still let us be thankful — you are safe. 
 
 Count. Who knows, I am suffering terribly. 
 
 Countess. {Anxiously.) Ernest! 
 
 Count. Pardon me if I show any want of courage. {QuicJdy 
 to Doctor^ v)ho is jputting on liquid.) Sir — sir — ah — you'll kill 
 me ! 
 
6 
 
 Doct. I have some chloroform here. 
 
 Count I do not want any. 
 
 Doct. Then you must be content to suffer and keep quiet, for 
 every motion adds to your pain. There, 1 will let you have a 
 few moments rest now. You see, gentlemen (To Doumat and 
 Gerome,) the Count is in a sorry plight, he has been fired at with 
 a gun loaded with small shot, and wounds made in that way are 
 very puzzling. 
 
 Ger. Doctor, it is evident a great crime has been committed, 
 and the criminal must be found and punished. As Attorney 
 for the Commonwealth, I request your assistance from this mo- 
 ment, in the name of the law. May I question your patient ? 
 
 Doot. It would certainly be better to let him alone, for I 
 have made him suffer enough already ; and I must begin again, 
 directly, to cut out the small pieces of lead that have honey- 
 combed his flesh. 
 
 Counters. {Sinking Reside Count, ) Oh ! 
 , Oer. I must insist^ Doctor ! 
 
 Doct, {Shrugs his shoulders.) Oh, if you insist. [Aside) I detest 
 that man. 
 
 {Goes up.) 
 
 Ger. to Count. Are you strong enough to answer my ques- 
 tions ? 
 
 Count. Perfectly. 
 
 Ger. Then pray tell us all you know of the sad events of the 
 past night. 
 
 Francine assists Countess to raise Count up. Gerome and 
 Doumat take out note hooks and 'pencil^ and occasion- 
 ly make notes. During the Counfs sjpeech^ day 
 gradually dawns. Peasants extinguish their lanterns. 
 Some exit e. and l. 
 
 Count. Unfortunately, the little I know will be of no use, I 
 fear, in aiding justice to discover the guilty person. It was close 
 on midnight when I went to bed, and being very much fatigued, I 
 had closed my eyes almost immediately, when I realized that 
 suddenly a bright light had fallen upon the window. I was 
 confused at first, for I was in that state which is not yet sleep, 
 but which is very like it. I said to m^^self, what can that be? 
 when I was shocked by a noise like the crash of a falling wall ; 
 but the thought fiashed across my brain that the house might be 
 on fire, so I sprang from mj bed, and as I hastily thi-ew on my 
 clothes I thought of those bundles of dry wood in the court- 
 yard which would communicate the flames to all the outbuild- 
 
ings. I ran down stairs, and had barely put my foot on the 
 threshold when I felt in my right side a fierce pain, and heard 
 at the same time, quite close to me, a shot. 
 
 Dou. Were you fired at the moment you appeared at the 
 door \ 
 
 Count. Yes. 
 
 Dou. Ah, then, the murderer must have known that the 
 fire would bring you out, and was lying in wait for you. 
 Count. That is my impression. 
 
 Gerome. {To Dou.) Then the attempted murder is the 
 principal fact with which we have to deal — the fire is only an 
 aggravating circumstance — the means which the criminal em- 
 ployed in order to succeed the better in perpetrating his crime. 
 Go on. {I'o Count.) 
 
 Count. When I felt I was wounded my first impulse was 
 to rush to the place from which the gun seemed to have been 
 fired. 1 had not gone three yards when I was again wounded 
 in the shoulder and the neck, and then I lost my consciousness, 
 and I fell. 
 
 Ger. Did you not see the murderer? 
 
 Count. I thought I saw a man rush from behind a pile of 
 wood, cross the court-yard, and disappear in the forest. 
 
 Ger. But you are not sure you saw one — you did not recog- 
 nize him ? 
 
 Count. No, that was impossible. 
 
 Ger. Well, well ; never mind, we'll find him. l^ow it is 
 important to know what happened after you fell. Who could 
 tell us that ? 
 
 Coimt. My wife, who had not gone to bed. Our youngest 
 child was ill, and the Countess was sitting up with her. 
 
 Dou. Madame, how" did you become aware of the accident ? 
 Countess. At first I* scarcely believed.! had heard a shot, 
 w^hen the second one thoroughly aroused me. I ran from the 
 room more with astonishment than alarm. Ah, sir, the fire had 
 already made such headway that the staircase was as light as 
 day. The outer door was open. I ran out ; and there, some 
 five or six yards from me, by the light of the flames, I saw the 
 body of my husband lying on the ground. I called and threw 
 myself beside him, but he did not hear me; his heart had 
 ceased to beat. I thought that he was dead. I called for help, 
 
 ah 
 
 Ger. and Dou. Well, well ? 
 
 Countess. You know how hard it is to rouse the country 
 people. I was in despair when some of the farm liands ran put 
 
drying " fire." When they saw me, they came and lielped carry 
 my husband to a place of safety, for the danger was increasing 
 every minute. The barns were one vast mass of flame, and the 
 roof of the dwelling was burning in several places, and there 
 was not one cool head among us all. I was so utterly bewil- 
 dered that I forgot all about my children, when a brave bold 
 fellow ran in and snatched them from the very jaws of death. 
 This fire will ruin us, but what matters that so long as my 
 husband and children are safe. (^Goes to Count.) 
 
 ' Doct^ {^Impatiently^ Now, sir, I hope you will let me 
 have my patient again. 
 
 Ger. I appreciate the importance of your duties, but mine, I 
 think, are no less urgent. 
 
 Doct. Oh! 
 
 Ger. Consequently you will be pleased to grant me five 
 minutes more. 
 
 Doct. Ten if it must be, only I warn you that every minute 
 henceforth may endanger the life of my patient. 
 
 Ger. I have only one more question to ask. Where do you 
 think the murderer was standing when the crime was committed. 
 
 Count. Somewhere to the right, behind a pile of wood. 
 
 Ger. Doctor, it is for you to tell us at about what distance 
 the assassin stood when he fired. 
 
 Doctor. {Sharjply.) I don't guess riddles. 
 
 Ger. Have a care, sir, you are a physician, and your science 
 is able to answer my question with almost mathematical ac- 
 curacy. 
 
 Doct. {LaugJis sarcastically.) Ah! indeed! science has 
 reached that point has it ? Well, / have not reached that point 
 in science. I am only a poor country practitioner, and before 
 I give an opinion which may cost a poor devil his life, I must 
 have time to reflect and compare other cases in my practice. 
 
 Dou. But we know at what distance a ball is spent ! 
 
 Doct. Oil, you know it, Mons. Doumat. Well, I declare I do 
 not. To be sure I bear in mind what you seem to have forgot- 
 ten. Have you thought of the immense variety of fire-arms, 
 French, English, American and German, which are found in 
 everybody's hands now-a-days ? 
 
 Loud noise and confusion k. f. e. 
 
 Voices heard crying, " Death to the incendiary, death to the 
 
 fire fiend, we have a witness.'''^ 
 Durand' and mllagers drag on Collinett, his clothes dis- 
 ordered, he has a mass of reddish hair, his whole ap- 
 pearance idiotic and brutish. 
 
9 
 
 Yillagers. Make him speak ; he knows somethino-. 
 
 DuTwnd. Mons. Donmat, he knows something ; he said so 
 himself. We w^ant him to tell 3'ou, we want the incendiary to 
 be caught. 
 
 Ger. He knows something! He shall tell ns then. Come 
 here, Collinett. {Goes toward him, he shri?iks from Gerome 
 loho pats him, gently on the shoulder and leads him forward^ 
 There, there now. do not be afraid. Now, Collinett, answer me. 
 
 Doct. You do not really mean to question him % 
 
 Ger. Why not? 
 
 Doct. Because he is an imbecile, an idiot: he cannot possi- 
 bly understand your questions or the importance of his answers. 
 The law will not accept the evidence of a fool. 
 
 Ger. I know my duty, sir. 
 
 Doct. Take care you do not overstep it. What would you 
 do if this poor idiot should make a formal charge against any 
 one. 
 
 Phil. Oil, he is not such a fool as he looks. He can talk 
 very well if he wants to, and can be sensible at times. 
 
 Francine. Sensible! he? ha! ha! ha! I'd as soon trust in 
 a monkey's having good sense. 
 
 Countess. At all events he had both sense and courage 
 enough to save my children from the flames. {Going to hirn.) 
 Come, Collinett, do not be afraid. {Gives him her hand. Colli- 
 nett kisses her hand and gives signs of jpleasure.) 
 
 Colli, {stammering and tremhling.) I — I — am not afraid 
 
 Ger. Well, come, my boy, listen to me. Do you know what 
 has happened at Yilloison ? 
 
 Colli {stammering.) Y-y-y-yes. F-f-fire ! 
 
 Ger, Ah, yes, lire which has burned to ashes the home of 
 your benefactress. But that is not all — they have tried to 
 murder her husband. Do you see the poor lady who has so often 
 cared for you, how she suffers ? 
 
 Doct. What nonsense ! What folly ! 
 
 Ger. to Doct. Sir, do not force me to remind you that I 
 have those not far from here whose duty it is to see my authority 
 respected. Tell me where did you spend the night? {To 
 Colli.) 
 
 Colli. I-in-in-the-c c-courtyard. 
 
 Dou. Did you see the fire commence ? 
 
 Colli. Y-y-y-yes. 
 
 General anxiety. 
 
 Countess {eagerly.) How ? how ? Oh, say Collinett, tell 
 us how. 
 
10 
 
 . Collinett {with a flash of reason.) They — they set it on lire. 
 Everybody hiot Doct: 
 
 All. Who? Who? 
 
 Colli, A gentleman. 
 
 Doct. Such an examination is sheer folly. 
 
 Ger. Did you see the gentleman ? do you know who lie is ? 
 
 Colli. {Iee7%ngly .) Oh-oh-y-y-yes, v-v-ery w-ell. 
 
 Ger. What is his name ? 
 
 Colli, (exultingly and cunningly.) Oh-oh-oh, y-y-y-yes. 
 
 Doct. This is most preposterous. 
 
 Ger. Come, if you know him, tell us his name. 
 
 Colli. M-M-Monsieur Ju-le-s De B-Bonneval. {General 
 shout of derision.) 
 
 Peasants. Ah, ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Dou. Mons. De Bonneval an incendiary ! Who does he think 
 will believe that story. 
 
 Villagers. Who indeed! {Ridiculing and pointing fingers^ 
 Oh ! oh ! Collinett— ah, Collinett. * 
 
 Doct. Absurd. 
 
 Dhil. Of course it is ; good kind Mons. Jules who is loved 
 by everybody in Sauveterre. Go away with you Collinett — 
 that's to bad. 
 
 Villagers. Yes, yes, yes, go away — go away. 
 
 {They push him about.) 
 
 Doct. to Gerome. If I were in your place I would stop now. 
 Ger. {-firmly.) I Shall goon! {To Phillijppe.) Summon 
 the gendarmes. 
 
 Jixit Phillippe, and shortly re-enters l. u. e., 
 with the night-guard. 
 
 Ger. {brings Collinett forward.) Do you know, my boy, 
 what you are saying ? Do you know that you are accusing a 
 worthy gentleman of a horrible crime. 
 
 Colli. I know ; b-b-but M-Monsieur d-de Bonneval d-d-did 
 s-s-et Yillois-s-on o-o-on f-f-iire. 
 
 Don. And how did he do it. 
 
 Colli, {sloivly trying to recollect.) S-some p-papers in h-h-is 
 p-pocket, 1-light em w-w-with match, p-p-put em in the s-s-straw 
 b-by ap-pile of w-w-wood. 
 
 Ger. And when he had kindled the fire, what did he do ? 
 
 Colli. Hid behind th-the w-wood p-pile. 
 
 Ger. And then ? 
 
 Colli. He loa-loa-ded his g-gun, and when m-m-master came 
 o-ont he-he-fired. 
 
11 
 
 Count. Nonsense, forbear — it is monstrous to allow an idiot 
 like this to charge so honorable a man with such a crime. 
 
 {CoUinett moves to go.) 
 
 Ger. Stop — Do you know how he was dressed ? 
 
 Colli, {stammering and trembling.) He had o-on li-light 
 trowsers, d-dark b-brown s-shooting-jacket a-and b-b-ig straw 
 h-h-hat. 
 
 Ger. Wlio among you saw Mons. De Bonneval last night ? 
 
 Durand. (comes forward) I did, monsieur — I 
 along one of the by-paths in the swamp near the forest. 
 
 DoGt. Stealing wood I'll be bound. 
 
 Durand. How can you say such a thing — I was going 
 to sleep in the forest so as to be up early to gather mushrooms to 
 sell at Sauveterre, when I saw Mons. de Bonne val pass by. He 
 seemed to be in a great rage and was talking to himself. 
 
 Ger. Did he have a gun ? 
 
 .Durand. Yes ; that was what frightened me ; I thought he 
 was the keeper. 
 
 Doct. I knew you were stealing. 
 
 Ger. And dressed as they have described ? 
 
 Durand. Exactly. {retires. ) 
 
 Doct. Do you call this a legal inquiry ? If it had not been 
 for CoUinett you would never have troubled yourself about 
 Mons. de Bonneval's doings, and upon his weak assertion you 
 are trying to form an accusation. Here is a young man, hand- 
 some, immensely wealthy, and popular with every one ; why 
 should he commit this crime ? But there is another reason which 
 will remove all suspicion. Mons. de Bouneval is in love with 
 Mile Avisie Doranche ; she returns his love, and the day 
 before yesterday, the wedding was fixed to take place on the 
 20th of next month. 
 
 Countess. {With supjpressed passion.) Then let him prove 
 his innocence. 
 
 Count. Melanie, my wife, forbear. 
 
 Countess. Why ? they have tried to kill my husband, our 
 children have been near unto death in the flames, why should I 
 allow any means to be unused by which the g'uilty one may be 
 punished. No ! whatever may come of it, I shall regret noth- 
 ing. 
 
 Doct. Monsieur, I beg I may attend to my patient now. I 
 have delayed already longer than I should. 
 
 Ger. Some of you take the Count into the Lodge yonder, 
 and, monsieur, try your skill to the utmost if you wish to save a 
 murderer. 
 
12 
 
 Doct. As yon will yonrs to execute him if yon can. {To 
 men.) Bear him in gently, friends. 
 
 {They o^aise the Count and hear him into the Lodge. Doct. 
 follows. As Countess is ahout to enter Collinett glides 
 stealthily to hei\ she looks at him^pats his head and 
 exits ^ he follows crouchingly. Francine exits.) 
 
 Don. The whole thing seems like a dream. You cannot 
 really believe Monsieur De Bonneval guilty ? 
 
 Ger. I believe nothing, but I see terrible evidence rising 
 against him. I will speak with him at once. {Itings hell.) 
 
 Don. {Looking at chateau^ They must sleep most soundly 
 in this house, since the noise of our voices has not disturbed 
 them, not even the confusion of the tire. Ah, perhaps, Mons. 
 De Bonneval is absent, if so an alibi. {Rings again}) 
 
 Ger. Will clear him ; we shall see. 
 
 {Pause. Rings hell^ it is loud and distinctly heard. 
 After a i^OMse^ Antoine comes from main entrance}) 
 
 Ant. Ah, gentlemen — good morning — you come to see my 
 master? What a pleasant surprise, but rather an early one. 
 
 Ger. Your master is at home then ? 
 
 Ant. Yes ; but not up. Indeed, gentlemen, I am only just 
 out of bed myself. I was very sleepy, for I sat up for master 
 last night, and it was quite late when he came home. So I in- 
 dulged in an extra nap myself, as I had orders not to wake him, 
 and we are the only household at present. 
 
 Ger. So your master came home quite late last night \ 
 
 Ant. Yes, long past midnight. 
 
 (Gee. and Dou. exchange glances.) 
 
 Ger. Did he have his gun with him ? 
 
 Ant. Yes, sir. 
 
 Ger. Do you know where he went \ 
 
 Ant. I am not in the habit of asking my master where he 
 goes when he leaves the house. 
 
 Ger. Can you hear the Brechy bells when you are within 
 the chateau % 
 
 Ant. When the wind is north, yes. 
 
 Ger. And last night, how was it? 
 
 Ant. The wind was from the west. 
 
 Ger. So that you have heard nothing ? You do not know 
 what a terrible calamity 
 
 Ant. A calamity ? 1 do not understand you, sir. 
 
 Ger. My questions are not from idle curiosity ; answer me 
 
13 
 
 truthfully, for your frankness may be more useful to your 
 master than you imagine. 
 
 A7it. (Aiixiously.) My master ! What is the meaning of 
 this? I will answer nothing. 1 will call him. 
 
 [.Is hastening to door. 
 
 Ger. {Quickly.) Stop you shall not stir. {To Phillippe) 
 Go in and tell Mons. Jules he is wanted. {Exit Phil, into 
 chateau.) {To Gendaeme.) Iveep watch on that man, let him 
 have no communication with any one. 
 
 Do a. This will be a sad blow for the family of Do Bonne val. 
 If he is guilty or innocent they will never forgive your inter- 
 ference — you, who professed to be his friend. 
 
 Ger. Do you think I am a man to be turned aside from my 
 duty by any conditions of friendship or personal interest ? 
 
 Jules. {Heard within chateau.) Go to the devil; who 
 bid you waken me 'i Did I not say I Avished to sleep this 
 morning ? 
 
 Ant. He thinks it's me calling him. 
 
 Jules. {Within.) What the devil do you want, I say? 
 Where's that rascal, Antoine? Get out, and send him to me. 
 
 [Antoine moves as if to go. 
 Ger.* You cannot go ! 
 Dou. Will he come out, think you ? 
 Ger. He shall. 
 Jules. { Within.) You scoundrel, will you go? 
 
 Phillippe ajojpears at door^ breathless. 
 
 Phil. It is Mons. Gerome who wishes 
 
 Jules. {Entering, throws hoot at hiin.) I'll Gerome you, 
 you villain ! [Phillippe dodges behind gendarme. Jules has 
 on dressing gown and slijpjpers. As he enters has another hoot 
 in his hand. 
 
 Ger. It is I, Mons. De Bonneval. 
 
 Jules. {Goes to him.) Ah, my dear Gerome, just wait one 
 minute till I put on my boot, so that I can kick that booby. 
 
 Ger. Stay, he was my messenger. 
 
 Jides. Then he shall be treated with some consideration. 
 Ha, ha, ha ! {laughing) lucky there was nothing at hand but a 
 boot. {Throws it down.) Your turn will come by and bye. 
 ha, ha ! {To Ant.) You rascal. 
 
 Ger. Mons. De Bonneval, I must speak with you at once. 
 
 Jules. With pleasure, Gerome ; only give me time to live 
 ray Apollonian form in something more becoming than this. 
 
14 
 
 Ger. You will do as you are. 
 
 Jules. What a happy inspiration, Gerome. You are coming 
 to take breakfast with me, and bring our excellent magistrate 
 with you, {To Ant.) Y^ou scoundrel, go and put on exti-a 
 plates ; w^e'll talk over breakfast, eh \ — ha, ha, ha ! My temper 
 is past, and I feel gay as a lark. My good friends, you do not 
 seem in spirits ; take life easy, like me, ha, ha ! Laugh, sing, 
 be gay. Yive la joie ! [Pirouettes up stage, and for the first 
 time realizes the presence of soldiers, d&c, dec. 
 
 Dou. Sir, that man is innocent ! A guilty one would not 
 have received us thus. 
 
 Gcr. Be silent. 
 
 [Jules loohs round a moment^ as if amazed, 
 and then comes forward, 
 
 J ides. I'll be hanged if I quite comprehend {To Gerome.) 
 My friend 
 
 Ger. We shall have to forget our relations, it is not as a f liend 
 I came to-day, but to execute a duty. 
 
 Jules. A duty ! duty — oh ! ha ! ha ! ha ! some of my tenantry 
 has been stealing from your preserves — more poaching, ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! poor devil — well, well, go on w^ith your duty, and then 
 we'll have some breakfast. This morning air you see, ha ! ha ! 
 ha ! Early bird, &c. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Ger. Will you please to show us your hands, Mons. De Bon- 
 neval. 
 
 Jules. Show — my hands — show — ha! ha! ha, my hands, cer- 
 tainly — perfectly clean and white, are they not? Ha ! ha! ha ! 
 {1^0 oJdng at him jocularly.) Now, what the mischief are you 
 driving at? 
 
 Ger. {Examining his hands.) When did you last wash your 
 hands ? 
 
 Jules. {Getting serious.) Last — wash— come old fellow, if 
 this is joke, it has lasted long enough. 
 
 Ger. Where is the water you used for that purpose ? 
 
 Jules. {Bursts into prolonged laughter.) Well, I confess you 
 nearly caught nie. 1 was on the point of getting angry. 
 
 Ger. to FmLurpE. See if there is any water in monsieur's 
 dressing-room, in which he has washed his hands. 
 
 (Gendarme also.) [Exit Phillippe i7ito Chateau. 
 
 Jules. My dearGerome, you carry on a joke well — very well 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! but my good fellow, what's the bet ? tell me, who's 
 the victim ? 
 
15 
 
 Be-enter Phillippe with wash-lowl, in which is dirty water. 
 
 Ger. Is that the water you washed your hands in last night, 
 or this morning, before you retired ? 
 
 Jules. {Indifferently.) Yes. 
 
 Ger. You had been handling charcoal or some other inflam- 
 mable material. 
 
 Jules. What is this mystery ? Something has happened, I 
 fear. 
 
 Ger. You have good reason to fear. A terrible charge has 
 been brought against you. 
 
 Jules. A charge against me ! And you rouse me from my 
 bed to accuse me — you, my friend ! Sir, if any one had dared 
 accuse you in my presence, I would have defended you with all 
 my energy, without a doubt. But you — I am accused of some- 
 thing, 1 know not what, and you believe the charge and become 
 my judge. At once, sir, what do you want of me ; of what am 
 I accused ? 
 
 Ger. You shall know in good time. Ansvver frankly what 
 did you do last night ? 
 
 Jules. I went out with no special purpose. 
 
 Ger. Your gun on your shoulder ? 
 
 Jules. I always take my gun. 
 
 Ger. Did you cross the marshes ? 
 
 Jules. No ! 
 
 Ger. You are not telling the truth. 
 
 Jules. {Indignantly.) Sir ! 
 
 Ger. { Points to hoots.) Your boots there speak against you. 
 Where does the mud come from with which they are covered ? 
 
 Jvles. The meadows are quite wet. 
 
 Ger. Nay, you have been seen there. Durand has told us 
 that lie spoke to you at midnight when you were hurrying 
 through the forest. 
 
 Jules { With dignity.) Well, it was so — why should I den}' it. 
 
 Ger. I will tell you why. At midnight Villoison was set on 
 fire. [Music] 
 
 Jules {Staggered.) Ah ! 
 
 Ger. And Count Clairnot was fired at twice and dangerously 
 wounded. 
 
 Jules. Great Father! 
 
 Ger. And it is thought you have committed the crime. 
 
 Jules. I ! I ! am I dreaming ! I commit such a fearful, 
 cowardly crime ! Impossible ! 
 
 Ger. You were seen. 
 
 Jules. By whom ? Who is the wretch ? 
 
16 
 
 Ger. Collinett. 
 
 Jules, And upon the senseless words of this imbecile am I 
 charged with such a horrible crime ? 
 
 Ger. The excitement of the lire gave him a singular gleam of 
 returning sense, and his delivery was nearly devoid of idiocy. 
 He says he saw you kindle the fire, and there is the water in 
 which you washed your hands on your return, black with coal, 
 and small pieces of charred paper swimming on the surface. 
 
 Jules. {Groans.) Oh, Heavens ! it is fate ! 
 
 Villagers. {Menacing). At a sign from Gerome 
 gendarmes surround Jules as if to protect 
 him. 
 
 Jules. ( With emotion). These people believe me guilty. 
 
 Ger. Are you prepared to confess ? 
 
 Jules. I confess I am the victim of a combination of circum- 
 stances, but I swear by all that is holy in the world I am inno- 
 cent. For what reason should I 
 
 Ger. Your reason was hatred — you hate the Count and 
 Countess Clairnot — you have said so publicly — you have told 
 me 
 
 Don. Mons. De Bonneval, as a Magistrate I shall feel bound 
 to arrest you. 
 
 Antoine {Runs and, clings to him.) Oh, my master ! 
 
 Jules. Have no fear — I am innocent. 
 
 Ger. Mons. Jules De Bonneval, as attorney for the common- 
 wealth, I charge you with the crime committed last night, and 
 I shall appear against you as an incendiary and an assassin. 
 
 Gendarmes stand right and left. Doumat rests 
 hand on his shoulder. Anto7ii kneels weep- 
 ing heside him. Villagers murmur low as if 
 threatening. 
 
 Tableaux and Curtain. 
 
.A.OT II- 
 
 Scene I. — Elegant apartment in the mansion of Monsieur Doranche. 
 Doranche and Avisie discovered seated together on so/a, r. 
 
 Avi. And I am quite rich, grandpa ? 
 
 Dor. Yes, my child, you have in your own right, twenty-five 
 thousand francs a year, or a capital of about five hundred and fifty 
 thousand francs. 
 
 Avi. Is that what people call being well off? 
 
 Dor. In our little town, an income of eight hundred or a thousand 
 francs makes anybody well off. 
 
 Avi. And what capital would produce an income of a thousand 
 francs a year? 
 
 Dor. At five per cent. , it would take twenty thousand francs. 
 
 Avi. Then, grandpa, I want you to give me twenty thousand francs. 
 
 Dor. You are joking, surely ; what can you want with so much 
 money ? 
 
 Avi. That is my secret. 
 
 Dor. And you have not enough confidence in your old grandfather to 
 tell him what it is ? 
 
 Avi. I am afraid you will oppose me. 
 
 Dor. It is for Jules. 
 
 Avi. Would that I knew what was taking place behind those pitiless 
 prison walls ! 
 
 Dor. He is richer than you ; if money can prove his innocence, he 
 will not need your help. 
 
 Avi. {^Quickly, ) You do not doubt his innocence ? 
 
 Dor. My darling, child, why should I ; is not your love a guarantee 
 for his purity, his goodness ? But let us wait until the Marchioness and 
 Mons, Manuel arrive ; let us consult with them. 
 
 Avi. Impossible, grandpa ; I must know the worst. That unfortu- 
 nate letter will speak against him. Why, upon that night of all others 
 should he have failed to be with me ? I want the money to bribe the 
 keeper with ; when the Marchioness and Mons. Manuel arrive we shall 
 
ALMOST A 
 
 get permission from Mons. Gerome to visit Jules in prison. I must have 
 a large sum for bribery ; yes, grandpa, that is it. I will bribe the prison 
 keeper to admit me to the prison after nightfall. I must see Jules alone 
 without danger of interruption, and urge him to explain away the mystery 
 of his absence. [Rising.) If he cannot, oh, heaven ! I fear the worst ; 
 it will break my heart. {Weeps.) Am I mad, to give way in this 
 manner ! 
 
 [Brushes tears quickly away.) 
 
 Dor, My poor child ! 
 
 Avi. What would Jules say if he saw me thus ? Grandpa, you will 
 give me the money. 
 
 Dor. My child, I cannot permit — it is so large a sum. 
 
 Avi. The keeper might lose his situation if detected, and he should 
 be well paid for so great a risk. Say yes, grandpa. 
 
 Dor. My child, I cannot 
 
 Avi. [Stops him.) Don't say that, grandpa. 
 
 Dor_ I mean I am not willing 
 
 Avi. Nay, now, you will not force your little girl, who loves you so 
 dearly, to the painful necessity of disobeying you for the first time in her 
 life. Grandpa, let me tell you 
 
 Dor. Rather listen to me, my poor child, and let me show you to 
 what danger you expose yourself To go, after nightfall, to that prison 
 would be risking — understand me well — your honor, that tender, 
 delicate honor which is tarnished by a breath, and which involves the 
 happiness and peace of your whole life. 
 
 Avi. But Jules' honor and life are at stake. 
 
 Dor. How do you know but that he would be the very first to blame 
 you for such a step ? 
 
 Avi [ Su r prised ) He.? 
 
 Dor Men are made so — the most perfect devotion irritates them at 
 times - be guided by me. 
 
 Avi. No more grandpa, I must resist your prayers as I shall resist 
 your orders ; for I would rather endure Jules' unjust reproaches, than the 
 idea of not having done my duty. 
 
 Dor. [Slowly.) And suppose — suppose Jules is guilty, and when he 
 sees you, confesses his crime, what then .^ 
 
 Avi. [ Willi horror.) Oh grandpa, what you say is too terrible. 
 
 [Mechinelte, from l. ) 
 
 I 
 
ALMOST A LIFE. 3a 
 
 Mech. The Marchioness De Bouneval and Mons. Manuel. 
 Avi. (With Joy.) Oh show them in at once. [Exit Mich, l.) So 
 soon, so unexpected ; thanks, good Providence ! 
 
 (Enter l. Marchioness and Manuel. ) 
 (Avi. throws herself into Marchioness arms. ) 
 
 Oh my mother ! this fearful misfortune ! 
 
 March. JMy poor Avisie, your letter terrified me almost beyond the 
 power to endure. You cannot know what I have suffered on my way 
 from Paris, or ihe great effort I have made to preserve a calm face before 
 the people we have met on our journey. What a horrible comedy ! 
 Jules, my son, my only one, wickedly accused of crime, arrested, thrown 
 into prison ! It is too fearful to comprehend. But it is evident to me 
 that Jules is the victim of some horrible intrigue, and we must unravel ii. 
 To this end I have brought with me Mons. Manuel, who has promised 
 all the assistance of his experience, his talents, and his devotion. 
 (Introduces.) My son's intended bride (Manuel bows') Monsieur Doranche. 
 
 Man. {Bows.) Mademoiselle — Monsieur- — ^I am all hope, but unfor- 
 tunately I know but few of the facts. 1 cannot conceive why ^Nlons. 
 Jules should allow himself to be accused if he can establish his innocence. 
 Yet, as I have heard, he has shown in the manner in which he received 
 Mons. Gerome at his house the morning of the accident, a most unheard 
 of self-control and a matchless genius for comedy. Unfortunately, 
 though, we want something more than logic to meet a jury, with an 
 abundance of witnesses on the other side. 
 
 March. My son's situation appears then very serious.^ 
 
 Man. I said it was dangerous, madame. 
 
 Avi. (In grief. ) Oh, Jules, Jules — he must be saved ! 
 
 Man. I have been informed that Count Clairnot is highly regarded 
 by the people hereabouts. But Mons. De Bouneval hates him, and 
 they have repeatedly quarrelled. 
 
 Avi. What does that prove .^ We do not murder all the people we 
 detest ! 
 
 Man. Quite right, my little champion. And the Countess, what of 
 her .^ Does Jules hate her also } 
 
 Avi No, they all call her the saint, the angel. Why, even Jules 
 has often said so perfect a person was too good even to notice such a 
 fellow as he ; and he would be very unhappy if his wife was such a 
 Madonna, whose feet were almost too dainty to touch the ground. 
 
4a ALMOST A LIFE. 
 
 (During the former speeches Marchioness and Doranche retire and sit on 
 sofa ; Manuel joins them as Phillippe enters. Enter Phillippe l. 1 e. ) 
 
 Phil. Here is the order from ]\Ions. Gerome, Mademoiselle — the time 
 named for you to visit the prison is from two to four. Your permit in- 
 cludes Madame the Marchioness and Mons. Doranche — here is one for 
 Mons. Manuel the Advocate, as was requested by his mother by tele- 
 gram from Paris. The hour named is twelve o'clock. 
 
 Avi. You are very good to me Phillippe. 
 
 Phil. Not to you — oh, bless you no ! its to Francine. She says she 
 will never marry me unless Mons Jules is acquitted, and I must do all 
 I can to help him. Do you know, Mam'selle, she vows she will die an 
 old maid if I don't, and I am bound not to let her make such a sacrifice, 
 
 Avi* You love Francine truly? 
 
 Phil. Truly and tremendously ! 
 
 Avi. You would tell her your heart's best secret, if she asked it? 
 
 Phil. Oh, Francine lives in my heart, so of course she knows every- 
 thing. 
 
 Avi. And I live in Jules' heart. I shall know everything. 
 
 Phil. Now Mam'selle, I 'm off to bring a patient to see the Doctor, 
 he is in close confinement just now. Phew ! I had a long chase for the 
 creature ; but I thought of Francine, and it shortened the distance. The 
 Doctor is coming here, and I shall soon be back. 
 
 (Exit Phil L. \. E. Doranche and Manuel come down. ) 
 
 Dor. You are right, it is a very serious business, and all the more 
 because he has refused to tell where he passed the night. 
 
 Man. But his letter to Mademoiselle. 
 
 Avi. That is what frightens me ; these were his words : "I curse from 
 the bottom of my heart the business which prevents my spending the 
 evening with you, but I cannot possibly defer it longer." 
 
 (Enter Antoine l. 1 e. ) 
 
 March. (Goes to him.) My good Antoine, why did you not come to 
 me the moment your master was arrested ? What is the matter ? 
 
 Ant. (Trembling. ) Matter — matter — the matter is — well — I'm afraid. 
 Man. You do not doubt your master ? 
 
 (Antoine looks inquiringly at March.) 
 
 March. Do not be afraid of this gentleman ; he is our friend, the 
 lawyer, whom I have brought from Paris to defend my son. 
 
 U 
 
ALMOST A LIFE. 5a 
 
 Ant If the gentleman is his lawyer it is all right. I can say all that 
 weighs upon my heart. Oh, it was dreadful ! Even I was stupefied for 
 a moment ; every answer he made sounded like a confession. 
 
 March. Who ? 
 
 AnL My master [March, and Avi. embrace and iveep.) See now : 
 a crime had been committed at Villoison ; he had been seen coming 
 from there by a side path ; a fire had been kindled ; his hands bore 
 traces of charcoal ; shots had been fired ; shortly after the accusation, 
 one of rhaster's cartridge cases was found close to the spot where Count 
 Clairnot had been wounded. 
 
 March. ( Wringing her hands.) Why — why, did you not come and 
 tell me all this immediately ? 
 
 An/. How could I ? Didn't Mons. Gerome put seals on everything 
 and everywhere, and he said if I dared touch one I would be sent to the 
 galleys ; and then, Sir, oh then, I had an idea that gave me the 
 shivers — that gun- 
 
 Man. Well, well. 
 
 An/. The evening before I had washed and cleaned the gun, and 
 when Mons. Gerome looked at it, I saw his face light up as if he had 
 found a clew. Oh, if I could only break those cursed seals and see for 
 myself whether the gun was clean or dirty ; but I did not say when I 
 last cleaned it for fear my evidence might hurt him. 
 
 Man. You have done well to keep silence, and I cannot urge you 
 too earnestly not to say a word of this to any one. Madm'selle and 
 Madame have patience and courage. I am going now to see Mons. 
 Jules, and I hope to learn from him something by which 1 shall be 
 enabled to restore him lo you with honor. Come, Antoine, I have 
 something to say to you. (Going l., re/urns.) By the bye, I am for- 
 getting the order — have you it Madm'selle .'^ {She hands paper.) Nay, 
 nay, do not droop — Jules is not lost yet. W'ait ! hope ! 
 
 [Exeiin/ An/, and Manuel l. I e. ) 
 
 Dor. My darling child, promise me to be. calm during this coming 
 interview. 
 
 Avi. Will you give me the twenty thousand francs I asked you for } 
 
 Dor. What, now .? 
 
 Avi This moment. 
 
 March. For what purpose — cannot I 
 
6a ALMOST A LIFE. 
 
 A7j/. No, Madame — it must be I alone. Now, grandpa. 
 Bar. Unhappy child. Well, I will do so. 
 
 (Exi/ Dor. R. 1 E. ) 
 {Noise outside. ) 
 Avi. {Startled.) What can that be ? 
 
 {^Enter Doctor Sauniaise, l. 1 E.) 
 
 Doct. Don't be alarmed, my dear ladies, but I've taken the liberty 
 of ordering that fool Collinett to be brought here. He lived two years 
 in my house as a subject of study, and I did not know but one of those 
 gleams of reason, which he seems occasionally to have, might overtake 
 him there ; and if he recognized me, or the house, we might not be able 
 to get any information out of him ; for if he thinks we are trying to, he's 
 as stubborn as a mule. Besides, he's fond of ladies, and Mam'selle 
 might induce him to speak : he has not said one word since the 
 accusation. 
 
 Avi. How did you find him } 
 
 Doct. Ah, I knew but one man who would be likely to ferrit him 
 out, and that was Phillippe. 
 
 [Phillippe drags on Collinett l. 1 e. , and throws him round to c. ) 
 
 Phil. I've got you — here he is, Doctor, safe and sound. 
 
 Doct. Upon my word, my good fellow, you have done better than 
 the gendarmes could have done. 
 
 Avi. And all for love of Mons. Jules. 
 
 Phil. Love for him .'* no, no, it's for Francine. I knew his hole in 
 the rock in the forest, and I said to myself, I am sure he is in it ; so I 
 ran there. But it was not so easy to pull him out of his den, and he 
 bit me on the hand like a mad dog, as he is. 
 
 March. What, my good fellow, bitten, too .^ 
 
 Phil. Never mind, Francine will cure it, 
 
 Doct. Why would you not come — why did you bite Phillippe.^ 
 {Collinett looks savagely, and tears his face and hands convulsively.) Do 
 you know that Mons. De Bouneval is in prison on account of what you 
 said .'' {Collinett rims towards door — Phillippe stops him.) 
 
 Phil. No ; you can't go yet. 
 
 Avi. Collinett, tell me, won't you — did you really see Monsieur 
 Jules at Villoison that night .? Are you sure he fired at the Count .^ Speak 
 — I can be kind to you — will love you, too, if you will save him. Col- 
 linett, speak if you can — one word will do it, 'Tis useless, he does not 
 know what I am saying. 
 
ALMOST A LIFE. 7a 
 
 Dod. Oh, he is cunning and treacherous — he knows well enough 
 the mischief he has done, or why should he hide himself in the rocks. 
 
 Phil And fight like a tiger before he would let me get near him — 
 though I coaxed and coaxed ; and then I told him the good lady wanted 
 him — he thought I meant the Countess — oh, he's a tricky fellow. 
 
 Avi. But, my good Doctor, of what use is his coming to us? It is 
 he who has accused Jules ! 
 
 Doct. All the more reason to suspect him ! 
 
 Avi. Suspect - Collinett ! > ,_ , ,, , 
 
 March. Oh! Doctor. \ {Togefher. March, comes forward ) 
 
 Doct. Who can tell that he is not the assassin — what was he doing 
 in the courtyard ? Gerome did not ask him that ; I'll have it out of 
 him ; he shall speak the truth 
 
 March. If he only would — they say he often has flashes of truthful 
 intelligence. 
 
 Doct. It's a great pity one of those flashes did not strike him when 
 he saw Mons. de Bouneval kindle the fire ; the whole catastrophe might 
 have been prevented. His wits came to him very soon afterwards. 
 
 Avi, What do you propose to do with him 'i 
 
 Doct. I am going to take him to the hospital to be kept in close con- 
 finement. Phillippe, you must go with us. 
 
 Phil. Not with that idiot again. I've had enough of his biting and 
 fighting, and enough's enough, I won't go. 
 
 Avi. Not for Francine .? 
 
 Phil. Oh, I forgot Francine — all right, Doctor. 
 
 {^Exit L. 1. E.) 
 
 Doct. {Patting his shoulder, coaxingly.) Come, Collinett, there's 
 nothing to fear. Til take you home again. 
 
 Coti. {Stammering and whining. ) I — I — am — am h — h — hungry. 
 
 Doct. Hungry ! Come and eat — see here. [Hotds out an apple. 
 Collinett seizes and devours it eagerly.^ And you saw Jules De Bouneval 
 fire at Count Clairnot. Well — well — well. You saw him ? 
 
 {Collinett eats and appears indifferent. To Avisie.) 
 
 Mark the cunning of this rascal, he could tell me he was hungry, but he 
 does not hear me now. Ah ! see — who is coming — the Countess Clair- 
 not. 
 
 {Collinett throws down apple quickly, runs about a mofiient, gladly, and then 
 shakes his head, uttering a low moan of disappointment.^ 
 
8ft ALMOST A LIFE. 
 
 Doct. {Gleefully.) Ha, ha! my good ladies. You see I am right ; 
 if they will only let me have full power over him for a fortnight, CoUi- 
 nett will be unmasked. [Collmett makes an expression of hunger and 
 whines again as if asking fr food.) You are hungry, eh ; hunger opens 
 many a mouth— here, now come home {Offers another apple. Collinett 
 seizes and eats eagerly, going off, hut looking back occasionally, as if for the 
 Countess, and whining low. Exeunt l. 1 , e. Doctor and Collinett ) 
 
 {At their exeunt Doranche re-enters r. 1. E. ) 
 
 Dor. Here, my child, here are bonds amounting to twenty thou- 
 sand francs, and I trust to heaven they will help you in this great distress 
 of your young life. 
 
 Avi. Thanks, best and kindest grandpa. Now let us go to Jules ; I 
 am all impatience. Come, mother. 
 
 {Exit I..) 
 
 March. My son ! My poor boy ! I almost dread to meet him. 
 Monsieur, is it a close carriage.? 
 
 Dor. Why do you ask, Madame } 
 
 March, (c. ) Because I do not want all people to see my grief — my 
 tears. 
 
 Avi. (l.) Oh, mother ! let me entreat you to conceal your anxiety; 
 dry your tears, and show the most perfect confidence. Let every one say 
 no mother could look so who thinks her son guilty. We have wept 
 tears enough — now let us act. 
 
 March. You are right, my child. {Brushes away tears. ) Come, 
 Monsieur, I will show you what a woman can do when she thinks of her 
 son's life. 
 
 {Exeunt l. i e. ) 
 
 CHANGE SCENE. 
 
 Scene H. — interior of a Prison. The cell lighted from an upper window. 
 Doors L. c. Door practical. 
 
 {fules discovered, he looks pale a7id haggard.) 
 fides. { Walking to a?ul fro. ) \<\\\ no one come ! not a living soul to 
 bring me some hope, some word of encouragement. Even my mother, 
 does she desert me .? Oh, mother, I have never needed you so much as 
 
 1' 
 
ALMOST A LIFE. 9a 
 
 now ! My mind is made up — to my last breath I will defend not my 
 life, but my honor. Avisie, my own, how I suffer for you ; how I lament 
 your tears, your trials ! If I could but see you, could but hold your 
 hand in mine. Ah, dear one, I pay a heavy price for a fault which, until 
 now, I have been almost unconscious of Gerome, that man who was 
 once my best friend, he, wishes me guilty ; my dishonor would be a step- 
 ping stone to his fame ; he would himself commit a crime in order to 
 charge me with it. I can scarce control myself when he approaches 
 me, — -this man who was my friend and now is my accuser. 
 
 {Noise of bolts. Bernicourt en/ers, showing in Manuel. Exits again.) 
 
 Jules. [Rushes to him. ) At last you have come — at last I see an 
 honest face and hold a trusty hand. Ah, 1 have suftered so terribly that 
 I am surprised my mind has not given way ; but you are here Manuel, 
 you are by my side, and I am safe. 
 
 3Ian. My poor injured friend ; now tell me all. {T/uy sit.) 
 
 Jules. I know the charges must be overwhelming, since they have 
 convinced many of my former friends. Alas ! why did I refuse to speak 
 when they gave me in charge .^ My honor ! What a phantom, and still 
 I should refuse to speak if my life alone were at stake ; but the honor of 
 the house of De Bouneval bids me tell you all. You shall know the 
 truth; you shair see my innocence in a word. I was the lover of 
 Countess Clairnot. 
 
 Man. [Starts.) What! Oh, impossible! 
 
 Jules. Improbable I know, but still I was her lover. It was on a 
 visit to my uncle that L first met her, and it seemed to me I had never 
 in all my life seen a being so perfectly beautiful, and I was madly in 
 love with her. W^hen we parted she told me she went to Fontainbleau 
 every Tuesday by the three o'clock train; on the following Tuesday at 
 that hour I was at the station. 
 
 Man. It is not credible. 
 
 Jules. I do not ask you to believe yet, only hear me. The trips to 
 Fontainbleau decided our fate. One evening she left her friend's house 
 at the usual hour, but she did not return to her home till the day after. 
 
 Man. [Indignantly rising. ) Jules ! 
 
 Jules. Oh, I see, you think there is no excuse for the man who 
 betrays the confidence of the woman who has loved him. Ah, I thought 
 then I was the happiest man on earth — my heart was full of vanity in the 
 belief of my love for this beautiful woman, whose purity was above all 
 
lOa ALMOST A LIFE. 
 
 calumny. Oh, heaven ! I had tied around my neck one of those fatal 
 ropes which death alone can loosen ; and, fool that I was, I thought 
 •myself blest During one of our meetings she told me of her hated 
 marriage with Count Clairnot, he almost thirty years her senior ; but 
 how to save her father's fortune and name she sacrificed herself to a man 
 she despised ; but that she loved me truly, and so we passed such happy 
 days together. At length a month passed without my seeing her, and 
 when we met she was both strange and bitter. I inquired why, and she 
 replied : " Who knows but you have been followed here ; but if we were 
 to be discovered by any cn^ I would rather it should be my husband 
 than a stranger. I shall never forgive him for taking me as a common 
 sacrifice ; but I bear his name, and I want it to be respected. I love 
 you, Jules, but remember that between him and you I should not hesi- 
 tate a moment, and that I would sacrifice your honor with a smile upon 
 my lips, even though my heart should break, if by so doing I could 
 spare him the shadow of suspicion.'' 
 
 Man. This is incomprehensible ! the Countess Clairnot whom every- 
 body salutes as a saint t 
 
 Jules. At last it became a fixed idea to break with her. I met Avisie 
 Doranche and thought of marriage; for I loved the sweet and gentle 
 girl. I sought another interview with Melanie, and told her of my plans 
 for wedlock. ''And I," she exclaimed, "what am I to you ! you belong 
 to me ; I told you that I valued my reputation more than my life, but I 
 do not value life. On the eve before your wedding day my husband 
 shall know all, and your name will be linked to such a tragic affair ; 
 your life will be ruined forever. " Weeks have passed since then, Man- 
 uel, but I feel as if that meeting was but yesterday. I see the Countess 
 still whiter than the snow. I still hear her trembling voice — see her 
 
 tearful eyes 
 
 {Paces up and down, excitedly.) 
 
 Man. Is this delirium ? Calm yourself, Jules. 
 
 Jules. "But my letters," she said; ''you must bring them tome, 
 every one. I will be at the edge of the grove by the castle at eleven 
 o'clock " At the appointed place and time we met — she seized the 
 letters and counted them eagerly, and then drawing a package from her 
 breast said : "and here are yours ;" but she did not give them to me. 
 '*Stay," she said ; "let us burn them all." You cannot mean it, I re- 
 plied, the fire will surely be seen, " We will go a little farther into the 
 
 i 
 
ALMOST A LIFE. lla 
 
 woods," said she. I had no light, but all sportsmen know there is a 
 way to replace matches. I took a cartridge out of my gun and emptied 
 the shot, and put in instead a piece of paper. Then resting my gun on 
 the ground so as to prevent a loud explosion, I made the powder flash 
 up. So we had light, and a few moments later nothing was left but a 
 few blackened fragments, which I scattered to the winds with my hands. 
 "And that is all,"' she cried, '' that remains of those years of our life ! 
 Of our love ! Of your vows ! Ashes !" 
 
 Man. Jules, you inspire me with terror, yet I must listen. 
 
 Jules. "And now," she said, ^'you abandon me for another." But 
 you are married, I answered ; "and if I were free," she resumed, " if I 
 had been a widoiuP^' Ah, I said, you would have been my wife ; you 
 know that well. "Oh, heaven ! " she cried, " his wife ! What a mercy 
 that terrible thought never came to me before." 
 
 Ma?i. And then 
 
 Jules. I offered her my hand, but she spurned me, and cried : "Spare 
 me the insult of your pity. Good by ;" and fled into the house It 
 was then, almost mechanically, I drew the burnt cartridge from my gun, 
 and put in a fresh one, and returned home through the forest. 
 
 Man. And the trees prevented your seeing the fire, or of hearing the 
 sound of the two shots fired at Count Clairnot, 
 
 Jules. Yes. I was walking against the wind, which was very high, 
 and, under such circumstances, the sound of a gun cannot be heard 
 beyond fifty yards. 
 
 Man. And you think your statement explains everything ^ 
 
 Jules. It surely explains why I desired to keep my visit to Villoison 
 a secret. How I was met in coming and going through the forest at the 
 time of the fire. It explains, finally, how one of my cartridge-cases was 
 found near the ruins, and why I had to wash my hands when I reached 
 home. 
 
 Maft And when they told you of the crime that had been committed— 
 
 Jules. I said to myself, the Countess wants to be a widow! 
 
 Man {Rises, ivith passion.) Unhappy man ! How can you dare 
 accuse the Countess Clairnot of such a crime 1 
 
 Jules. Whom else should I accuse } A crime has been committed 
 under such circumstances that it cannot have been done by any one but 
 the Countess and myself I am innocent, so she mast be guilty ! 
 
 Man, (^Indignantly.) You do not speak the truth, Jules ; you are a 
 clever man, and have made a good story. There is nothing lacking in 
 
12a ALMOST A LIFE. 
 
 it except probability. You might tell me the Countess has unfairly en- 
 joyed her reputation as a saint, and I might be willing to believe it ; but 
 when you say she has set her own house on fire, and taken up a gun to 
 shoot her husband, that I can never admit ! 
 
 Jules. Still it is the truth ! 
 
 Man. No ; for the evidence of the Count is clear ; he saw his 
 murderer — ^^it was a man who fired at him. 
 
 Jules. And who tells you that the Count does not know all, and 
 wants to save his wife and ruin me — that would be vengeance for him. 
 
 Man. Ah, be silent, or prove ! 
 
 Jules. All the letters were burned. 
 
 Man. And if I, your friend should believe you, how would that help 
 you } Would any one else believe you .? Even if I were sure of all the 
 facts you mention, I should never plead them in your defence unless I 
 had some proofs. 
 
 Jules. {In agony.) Ah, heaven! do you forsake me.? Have I no 
 friends } no one ? not even a mother ! I was hoping for her presence ; 
 but the wretch who is accused of such a crime is no longer her son. 
 Henceforth I stand alone in the world. 
 
 Man. Despair never reasons. You forget Miss Doranche. 
 
 Jules. Do you not understand that the memory of her kills me. If 
 my life alone were at stake, my sufferings would not be so great — but 
 Avisie ! Ah, why did I ever cross her path ! 
 
 {Ber in court enlers. ) 
 
 Berin. The Marchioness de Bonneval, Miss Doranche and Doctor 
 Saumaise. 
 
 Jules. Mother ! Avisie ! Wretch that I was to doubt. 
 
 {Enter Marchoincss^ Avisie and Doctor.) 
 
 March. Jules, my child ! 
 
 Avi. Dear, dear, Jules. ( [ules cmljraccs both, and holding her 
 tenderly.) Avisie, you do not believe me guilty.'' 
 
 Avi. {Simply.) If you should say so, I would not believe you. 
 
 Doct. Exactly m)^ sentiments. {Shakes hands with hifu.) 
 
 Jules. {Gives hand) Doctor — friend — thanks. {Doctor S. retires 
 and speaks with Manuel. ) Avisie, darling, you will not hate or turn 
 away from me .? 
 
 Avi. Turn from you — now that's unkind. If you only knew how 
 I have longed for this meeting. Oh, Jules {passionately wiping her tears 
 
ALMOST A LIFE. 13a 
 
 and throwing herself in his arms), if I could only share this humiliation 
 with you. If I were only your wife. 
 
 Jules. (Shudderi7tg.) Thank heaven, you are not ! 
 
 Avi. {Simply and tenderly.) Why, don't you love me now.? 
 
 Jules. Only too well ; but now, my darling, I spare you this disgrace. 
 
 A-vi, Jules, whatever I may share with you can never be disgrace to 
 me. 
 
 Jules [Kisses her tenderly. ) Avisie, would it seem unkind if I ask 
 you to leave me with my mother, only a few moments 1 
 
 Avi [Delighted.) No — no, indeed ! I want to see — I mean I'd like 
 to see the little wife, Monsieur Berincourt ; you know she nursed me 
 when I was so ill, and I shall never forget her. May I go .? And you'll 
 come too. I can't go without you ; I should lose myself in this gloomy 
 building. [Aside.) Oh, happy chance ! 
 
 ( Takes out notes as if to feel assured of their safety as Berincourt 
 exits, and bolts and locks door by which they entered) 
 
 You are not afraid to leave him with his mother, 
 
 Berin. Certainly not, Ma'm'selle ; but the duties of my place require it. 
 I am a poor man, and I must be careful. 
 
 Avi [Aside.) Now to try him ! If money will accomplish my 
 desires, he shall be poor no longer, but rich. 
 
 [Berincourt has unlocked the door opposite., and speaks. ) 
 
 Berin. Through this door, Ma'm'selle, the good wife will be glad to 
 see you. I must not be long away. 
 
 Avi. Oh, I don't want to stay away from Jules. 
 
 [Exits with Berincourt through door, which is heard to lock again.) 
 
 Jules. [Going to Marchioness.) Mother, can you forgive me this great 
 grief I cause you } 
 
 March. Alas, my boy, what have I to pardon .? If you were guilty 
 I should still love you; and you are innocent. 
 
 Doct. [Comes forward. ) Well, Manuel, say what you will — doubt it 
 if you choose — I believe it. Oh, these be your angels. 
 
 Jules. Now tell my mother all — only spare Avisie the knowledge of 
 my guilt. 
 
 Doct. Courage, Jules. 
 
 Jules. [Impetuously.) Oh, Doctor, what am I to do? 
 
14a ALMOST A LIFE. 
 
 Dod. Defend yourself — fight. 
 
 Jules. Without hope ! 
 
 Dod. Without anything. If you had been convicted, and it was the 
 day before your execution, I should still say fight. 
 
 Man. It must be a single fight, then, for I decline to defend him. 
 
 Jules. [With horror.) Manuel — Man. — oh! this is incredible. 
 
 March. (Comes down. ^ Manuel, did I hear your words distinctly. 
 You abandon the case — you refuse to defend him. 
 
 Man. I should be mad to attempt it. What is his story — a most 
 ridiculous catalogue of circumstances woven together to suit his purpose 
 — a lie upon the. face of it 
 
 Jules. (Sprifiging upon him.) A lie ! 
 
 Dod. {Restrains him. ) Patience — patience. 
 
 Jules. Oh, Doctor, I see my future life a curse, my honor blasted, 
 my home a ruin, and yet you talk to me of patience. [music. 
 
 (Falls with grief into Dodo?'' s arms. ) 
 
 March. (To Manuel^ This is a fearful blow ! I see, too well, you 
 think my Jules is guilty. 
 
 Man. What should I think, when he can give no proof of his inno- 
 cence, and I do not believe his story .? 
 
 March. But you will save him — what does it matter — you have saved 
 so many, even in your young life — think of his youth — you can find 
 means to do it. We are rich — our honor, pure as the snow, till now. 
 
 Man. I have lost my faith, and I cannot plead if my conscience does 
 not furnish me some argument. 
 
 Jules. (Struggling with Doctor. ) I cannot endure these insults. 
 
 Man Let him go, Doctor. I know my ground^I will not, let it 
 be distinctly understood, I will not take his case without some stronger, 
 better grounds than those furnished in his weak story. 
 
 Dod. Manuel, for shame — never was there a nobler cause entrusted 
 to you. 
 
 Man. A noble cause, indeed ; Mons. De Bouneval simply asserts 
 that things have happened thus and so, and when I ask him for his proof 
 he says " there is none," and flies into these mock heroics. Madame, I 
 regret this scene for your sake, but you must secure the services of some 
 other advocate. 
 
 Dod. Manuel, you are not the man I took you for. 
 
ALMOST A LIFE. 16a 
 
 Man. {Impatiently.^ Give me something in reason — .something that 
 I can act upon — your story is so utterly inadmissible. 
 March. {Anxiously. ) But what is it he says ? 
 \^ Man. He says he is the lover of the Countess Clairnot. 
 
 March. ( With passion ?) Deny it Jules. 
 
 {Jules is partly turned away from his mother. As she says ' ' deny it Jules " 
 she places her hand on his shoulder turning him toward her — he avoids her 
 look and, falling on his knees, exclaims :) 
 
 Jules. I cannot, mother. 
 
 March. And her husband assassinated. Oh ! 
 
 {Falls swooning as Doctor catches her.) 
 
 Am. {inters quickly.) Mother ! Jules ! 
 
 {Jules catches her as she is about to go to March., and holds her as he places 
 finger on his lips, motioning silence to Manuel. Berincourt at hack. 
 
 JULES. 
 
 BERIN. 
 
 DOCTOR. 
 
 MANUEL L. 
 
 
 MARCH. 
 
 QUICK CURTAIN. 
 
 ir' 
 
 jD^ 
 
1 
 
 ■ 
 
ACT III 
 
 Private parlors in the Hotel Meiirice at Sauveterre. On the 
 R. H. an archway^ with doors beyond, leading to the ajpart- 
 nients of the Countess Clairnot. l. h., archway, and 
 doors beyond. Doors facing audience froin u. e. l., with 
 civrtains, leading to the office of Doctor Saumaise. French 
 window, R. 1 and 2 e., v^ith handsome foliage plants 
 standing near it. Furniture, curtains, c^c, of a rich and 
 elegant description. 
 
 Doctor Saumaise a7id Gerome enter from archway, l. h. 
 
 Ger. And yon think the Count is visibly declining % 
 
 Doct. I fear so. When he first came to this hotel he would 
 sit up occasionally, aud now he rarely leaves his bed. The 
 wonna in the shoulder, which at first seemed to be the least 
 dangerous, has become very much inflamed owing to the heat 
 of the past few days. And as misfortune never comes singly, 
 the little girl is very ill. The fright, the night air, and the re- 
 moval at the time of the fire, have brought on a relapse which 
 may prove dangerous. So you see I am passing most of my 
 time at my ofiice here in the hotel. These parlors connect with 
 the apartments of the Count and Countess, so 1 am enabled to 
 give my two patients a great deal of my attention. 
 
 Ger. Poor Countess ! Wherever she goes since this tragic 
 affair, though it is seldom she is seen abroad, except on her wa}?- 
 to church, she is received with the most profound sympathy. 
 
 Doct. {^Nervously. ) Um— um — um. 
 
 Ger. I wonder how De Bonneval could have the heart to 
 injure her 
 
 Doct. {Smiling.) What, you still stick to it, eh ? Well, 
 when a blunder is once made 
 
 Ger. Do you still insist that it is a blunder to do one's duty ? 
 Has not a crime been committed ? Is it not my duty to find 
 out the culprit and have him punished ? Is it my fault that the 
 author of this crime is an old friend of mine ? There is no 
 one in court who doubts Mons. De Bonneval's guilt, yet they 
 are all as cold as ice towards me, and they treat me — ah 
 
 i^ 
 
Doct. Such is the world. They praise virtue, but they hate 
 it. 
 
 Ger. Yes, they hate people who have done what they have 
 not the courage to do. By the way, Doctor, how is your other 
 patient ; the unfortunate idiot who 
 
 Doct. Takes such a prominent part in the drama of Yilloi- 
 sin % Um — his condition remains unchanged. ( With sarcasm.) 
 Those sparks of intelligence which the crime elicited seem to be 
 entirely extinguished, and it is impossible to obtain a word from 
 him. 
 
 Ger, Have they examined him at the hospital again? Have 
 they decided that he is not an idiot ? 
 
 Doct No, but I have. 
 
 Ger. Ah, you are always the same, Doctor ; facetious, satiri- 
 cal and 
 
 Doct. {Significantly.) People cannot always help making 
 asses of themselves. 
 
 Ger. {Aside) Can it be that they hold in reserve something 
 which, at the last moment, will destroy the whole edifice of the 
 prosecution and cover us with ridicule ? Doctor, here is the 
 permission you requested from the iVttorney-General. Mons. 
 De Bonneval is to be no longer kept in close confinement, but 
 may receive the visits of his family and counsel in the prison 
 parlor. 
 
 Doct. More favors ! Jules' case must be very bad indeed. 
 Take care, Mons. Gerorae, nothing is so certain as uncertainty. 
 
 Ger. Happen what may, I shall always feel that ray con- 
 science supports me. \_Exit through arch^ c. l. 
 
 Doct. Poor Jules, you are lost, indeed, unless we can obtain 
 some'evidence against the Countess. And, if she be guilty, 
 Jules will always be looked upon as her accomplice. What 
 can we do ? 
 
 Enter Manuel through arch^ c. l. 
 
 Man. So the prosecuting attorney has been with you. Have 
 you discovered anything that will assist us in this great calamity ? 
 
 Doct. No, he has given the permission, though, for Jules to 
 meet his family and his lawyers in the parlor of the prison. 
 And you — have you solved the riddle \ 
 
 Man. I can only think Jules conceals the real truth. I told 
 you how he described the burning of the letters. Who can tell 
 but some of the fragments which he scattered might not have set a 
 straw-rick on lire, and so communicated to the buildings. When 
 the Count rushed out, Jules may have thought himself watched. 
 
he sees his marriage broken off, his happiness destroyed, he 
 loses his mind, aims and fires ! 
 
 Doct. {Startled.) Great ELeavens ! 
 
 Man. What ! what have I said ! 
 
 Doct. Take care never to repeat that, the suggestion is so 
 plausible, that if it becomes known, no one will ever believe 
 the real truth when it is told. 
 
 Man. The real troth ? then you still think I am mistaken % 
 
 Doct. Most assuredly ! Oh, I know I surprise you. The 
 Countess may not have committed the crane directly, but she 
 may have had an accomplice, and that accomplice may be — 
 
 Man. You do not mean Collinett. 
 
 Doct. Yes, I do. 
 
 Man. Always Collinett. 
 
 Doct .{Tappirig his forehead.) When an idea once makes 
 its way in here, it remains fixed. 
 
 Enter Fk an cine through arch l. 
 
 tran. Doctor, here I am, and it is all right. PiiilJippe has 
 gone as you desired. Oh, such fun {laughs) you would never 
 have recognized him, he looked the biggest fool I ever saw. But 
 still I am frightened — suppose he sliould be brought home with a 
 knife between his ribs, and all for ten thousand francs. 
 
 Doct. We'll make it fifteen thousand francs without the 
 knife, and if he succeeds, the house in Yine street, too. 
 
 E^ran. Fifteen thousand francs ! Well, for that a man miojht 
 run some risk. And there's a lovely garden to that house where 
 I could have fruit and flowers. But do you think he is in dan- 
 ger ? Will he be long in the hospital \ 
 
 Doct. Once he is in there, a very short time will answer my 
 purpose. 
 
 Man. What have you done ? 
 
 Doct. I intend putting a spy on Collinett. To those most 
 interested I appear to be taking little notice of him, but in 
 reality I am watching him closer than ever. 
 
 Fran. I hope it will come right ; if it should not I shall be 
 the most unfortunate girl in the world. 
 
 Man. Why so, Francine % 
 
 Fran. Why, you see, mt>nsieur, I was silly enough to make 
 .a vow that, if Mons. Jules was not acquitted, I would die an 
 old maid, and that would be a d'readful fate. 
 
 Doct. Dreadful! 
 
 Fran. So I want you to do all you can to help Phillippe, 
 and do please take care, and don't let him fall into the hands 
 of those horrid gendarmes. {Going ^ returns.) And please 
 
$^Bm^ 
 
 don't let him be disfigured by some horrible weapon, because 
 1 hate scars, and I want people to say, when we go to church, 
 that we are a nice looking couple ; and with onr 15,(>00 francs, 
 and the house in Yine street, we shall be so happy — that is 
 provided Mons. Jules is set free — if not, oh, dear ! [begins to cry) 
 I shall have to die an old — old — old maid, and that will be 
 dreadful ! [Exits arch. l. 
 
 Maoi. Doctor, your faith and courage put me to the blush. 
 Here is my hand. {Gives it.) I am witli you heart and soul to 
 unfathom the mystery which surrounds our unfortunate friend. 
 
 Doct. {Shaking hands.) Ah, now you talk reason, and we 
 shall do wonders. Hnsh ; did 1 hear the Countess {listeni7ig). 
 No. 
 
 Man. Is she so near as to hear us ? 
 
 Doct. No; the servant's apartments are between us, and the 
 chamber the Count occupies. It is there she spends most of her 
 time. {Noise outside^ Stay. "What confusion is there with- 
 out? 
 
 Enter Gendaeme c. l. 
 
 Gend. Sir, we have a man outside who has to be sent to the 
 hospital at once. 
 
 Jjoct. Bring him in. I will examine him. (^a?^^^ Gendarme 
 and return hnmediately with Phillipi>e disguised. His clothes 
 muddy and torn, his face joale, etc. Man starts.) 
 
 Man. Phil. 
 
 Doct. {Quickly.) My good man, what is the matter? 
 
 Gend. Why, you see, sir, this individual was playing the 
 fiddle in the courtyaid, when all of a sudden he fell on the 
 ground, rolled about, and twisted and writhed with such fearful 
 howls, and foamed like a mad dog. * We picked him up and 
 thought it best to bring him to you. 
 
 Doct. Wait outside a moment. 
 
 [Exit Gendarme c. Phillippe shakes himself. 
 
 Phil. Ugh ! What a piece of business ! Just look at me. 
 What a disgrace if Francine should see me in this state. 
 Phew ! And soap, too. Ah, ugh ! {Spits it out and shivers.) 
 
 Doct. But the point is you hare played the epileptic so well 
 that the gendarmes have been taken in. 
 
 Phil. " And they have taken me in. I'm a prisoner. A very 
 creditable trick indeed. 
 
 Doct. An excellent one, since you will now go to the prison 
 hospital. They w^ill put you in the same ward with Collinett. 
 I shall see you every morning when I make my visit, and who 
 
knows bnt by-and-by— well — yon may earn the fifteen thousand 
 francs and the house in Vine street. 
 
 Phil. Say no more. I'm a happy prisoner. I'll do anything 
 for the house — and Mons. Jules. He has been always so srood 
 to me, and was kind to my poor bedridden mother before she 
 died. Besides, I've got to earn Francine for a wife — oh, I'm 
 ready for anything. 
 
 Doct. {Calls.) Officer. 
 
 Re-enter Gendarme. 
 
 TJiis fellow is in a pitiful condition (Phillippe tioitches and 
 jerks)^ and requires instant care. [Takes out notebook and 
 writes an orde7\) Here is an order to the good sister at the 
 hospital ; he is to be put into the insane ward. (Phil looks 
 despairingly at Doctor, and then assumes again his demented 
 condition.) Poor fellow ! (Phil tvntches and jerks again.) I 
 will see him early to-morrow morning. Go on, my man. 
 
 [Exit Gendarme, c. 
 
 Doct. Whispers Phil as they exit.) You are a capital actor. 
 Phil. Am I ? Ugh ! [Both exit. c. 
 
 Man. An excellent opportunity. All is quiet. I will see 
 this angel countess, and try what effect the letter will produce. 
 
 \_Rings hell attached to d. u. e., r. 
 
 Enter Madelaine. 
 
 Is the Countess disengaged \ if so, say I would like to speak 
 with her. 
 
 Mad. Madame le Countess receives no visitors. My master's 
 condition is so sei'ious she does not leave his bedside. 
 
 Man. Say that Mons. De Bonne val's counsel desires her 
 presence. It is important. 
 
 Mad. Yery well, monsieur. \_Exit. 
 
 Man. Now to try this woman. It cannot be possible that 
 she is the murderess. No; if she is guilty, I should despair of 
 human nature, and renounce all faith in the world. 
 
 Enter the Countess from Door. 
 
 Count. I believe I am addressing Mons. De Bonneval's 
 counsel. 
 
 Man. Yes, madame. 
 
 Count. And you desire an interview with me ? 
 
 Man. Y^es, madame. 
 
 Countess, with great dignity and the utmost calm- 
 ness., points to seats. She sits. 
 
Count. I am listening, sir. 
 
 Man. {Seats himself) I ought first of all, madame, to state 
 to you my client's true position. 
 
 Count. That is useless, sir ; I know 
 
 Man. You know, madame, that he has been summoned to 
 trial, and may be condemned. 
 
 Count. Will be condemned, you mean. 
 
 Man. I repeat may be. You know 
 
 Count. I know, sir, that Count Clairnot has been the victim 
 of a most infamous attempt at murder, that he is in great dan- 
 ger, and that unless Heaven works a miracle I shall soon be 
 without a husband and my children without a father. 
 
 ( Weejys^i 
 Man. (Slowly.) Bat Mons. De Bonneval is innocent! 
 Count. ( With surjprise and looking steadily at him?) Inno- 
 cent ? Who, then, is the murderer ? 
 
 Man. To a prisoner, madame, to an unfortunate man on 
 the eve of judgment, an advocate is a confessor to whom he 
 tells everything. 
 
 Count. I do not understand you, sir. 
 
 Man. My client, madame, had a very simple way to prove 
 
 his innocence ; he had only to tell the truth. He has preferred 
 
 risking his own honor rather than betray the honor of another. 
 
 Count. My moments are counted, monsieur ; may I beg you 
 
 to be more explicit ? 
 
 Man. I am desired by Mons. De Bonneval, madame, to 
 hand you a letter. 
 
 Count. A letter to me % By what right 
 
 Man. {Gives it.) ■ Pray take it, madame. 
 Countess takes letter — oj^ens it slowly — running her eyes 
 over it she becomes indignant andlooking at Manuel withsup- 
 jpressed rage sjpeaks. 
 
 Count. Do you know what this letter contains % 
 Man. Yes, madame. 
 
 Coiont. Do you know monsieur that Mons. de Bonneval dares 
 call me by my first name, Melanie, as my husband does? 
 
 Man. Mons. de Bonneval claims that he used to call you so 
 in former days, when you called him Jules ! 
 
 Coiont. This is most infamous ! Mons De Bonneval has 
 
 dared to tell yon this ? That I — the Countess Clairnot 
 
 Ma7i. And moreover, he afiirms that a few moments before 
 the fire occurred at Yilloison, you were together, and if his 
 hands were blackened, it was because he had burned the let- 
 ters which had passed between you. 
 
Count. ATid you could believe it — you ! Oh, Mons. De Bon- 
 neval is severe in his hatred of my husband and myself. His 
 quarrels with the Count have reached a fearful point, since he 
 can grow so bitter. Are we to be persecuted still further ? 
 Have we not been beggared by his treachery, and were it not 
 for for Heaven's mercy I might even now bewail the loss of my 
 two children, who came nigh perishing in the flames kindled by 
 that monster's hand. 
 
 Man. Madame be calm. 
 
 Count. Yet Mons. De BonnevaPs crimes are nothing in com- 
 parison to this. Not satisfied with having ruined us, he means 
 to dishonor us ; not content with seeking the life of the hus- 
 band, lie will now blast the honor of his. wife ! 
 
 Mem. Lower. Madame pray speak lower ! 
 
 Count. I understand ! You are afraid of being heard, l)ut I 
 — what have 1 to fear ? I could wish the wdiole world to hear 
 us and to judge between us. Why should I speak lower? Do 
 you think if the Count were not on his death-bed this infamous 
 letter would not at once be placed within his hands? But 1 
 am only a v^'oman ; and you think my husband is lost already, 
 and that I am alone in the world without a protector, without 
 friends. 
 
 Man. jS^ay, madame, Mons. Do Bonneval pledges himself 
 to the most profound secrecy. 
 
 Count. Secrecy ! In what ? Your abominable plots ? 
 Your cowardly insults ? 
 
 Man. Take care, madam, we have proof, absolute proof ! 
 
 Count. Well, then, produce your proof ! We shall see if 
 the vile calumnies of an incendiary and an assassin can stain the 
 reputation of an honest woman. We shall see if a single speck 
 of this dirt in which you grovel can reach up to the Countess 
 Clairnot ! 
 
 Throws letter on the carpet and indignantly exits r. d. 
 Manuel walks ujp and down agitatedly y picks up 
 letter. 
 
 Man. I am amazed, confounded ! I have seen strange 
 things, and heard fabulous stories, and had to dive down into 
 the low^est depths of life, and if this woman is guilty she ex- 
 ceeds anything 1 have seen and possesses an audacity beyond 
 belief. 
 
 Enter Doctor c. w. 
 
 Doct. What is the matter my friend ? 
 
 Man. Matter? I have just seen the Countess, told her that 
 Jules has confessed their secret. 
 
Boot. And she ? What did she say ? 
 
 Man, Yon should have heard her — seen her. What a woman ! 
 Not a rnnscle in her face betrayed lier, and she defied me with 
 the air of a queen. No, Doctor, the Countess must be innocent, 
 and if she is, Jules 
 
 Doct. Must he guilty, you think? Jules has deceived us all 
 then % 
 
 Man, Doctor, do not press me now, give me time to collect 
 my thoughts, I am bewildered by all these conjectures. 
 
 {Exit archvmy^ l. 
 
 Doct. The Countess has a genius for prudence ; she trusts no 
 one. She struggles, she triumphs, perhaps, and if she should 
 succumb — well, well, we shall see. 
 
 \_Exit into office^ l. h. d. 
 Enter Doeanche with Avisie, c. w. 
 
 Avi. Now, grandpa, I am safe — you will wait for me in the 
 garden. Berincourt will keep his word and Jules will return to 
 his prison cell before the dawn of morning. Have I not done 
 well ? 
 
 Doran. My child you are as pale as death, your eyes are 
 swollen. 
 
 Am. That's because I have been crying, grandpa. 
 
 Doran. And you went to him in his prison, Avisie. You 
 begged him. Ah, we are mistaken in this man, he has no cour- 
 age, no feeling. 
 
 Avi. Silence, grandpa ! who can tell the mystery that sur- 
 rounds him but himself, yet he is silent. Who knows whose 
 honor he sustains, whose life he saves ? No courage — he is one 
 of nature's heroes ! 
 
 Doran, But, my child, 'twill kill you. How white you are. 
 You are hurt in your heart's heart, and he will see you suffer. 
 
 Avi. Alas, he suffers most of all of us, for he is innocent. 
 
 Doran. And you still think so % 
 
 Avi. AY bat could change my thoughts? His own confession 
 might. No, not even that, for I would not believe Jules guilty 
 till heaven itself declared him criminal ! It is time for Jules 
 to come. K he was successful in leaving the prison without 
 observation, he was to have met me here a moment that I might 
 be sure of his safety, and then I will leave him to his plans. AYhat 
 they are 1 know not, but I love him and have faith. Wait for 
 me, grandpa. 
 
 [DoRANCHE, going c. meets Jules, who enters c. w. 
 
 Ah, my love. {Runs to him.) 
 
 [Doran Exits, c. l. 
 
You are safe. 
 
 Jules. Avisie, what a precious friend I have in jou. 
 
 Avi. Listen to me, Jules. Let uie tell you why I ran the risk 
 of taking tin's step, that may cost us so dear. I must again 
 urge you to explain the cause of your absence from me on the 
 night of the fire. By obstinately refusing to tell the truth you 
 are running into the greatest danger. If you wait much longer 
 you are lost. Should your trial commence without your confes- 
 sion, you will only, innocent as I am sure you are, make one 
 more on tlie list of judicial murders. 
 
 Jules, xllas, everytliing you tell me 1 have told myself more 
 than once. 
 
 Avi. And you will not speak ? 
 
 Julc!^. I cannot. 
 
 Avi. ( With grief.) Jules, you do not know 
 
 Jules. I know that the galleys is at the end ! 
 
 Avi. You cannot have considered — 
 
 Jules. Not considered ! What do you think I have been 
 doing all these mortal hours I have been alone in prison — alone 
 to confront a terrible emergency, and still more terrible accu- 
 sation. 
 
 Avi. Is it not the first duty of a dishonored man to establish 
 his innocence? 
 
 Jules. ( Whispering intensely^ And when he camiot — can- 
 not, I say. 
 
 Avi. {Terrified}) Ah ! this is insanity ! 
 
 Jules. {Laughs hysterically^ Establish my innocence — easily 
 said. No, I am not guilty, but a crime has been committed and 
 for that crime justice will have a culprit. How can I defend 
 myself? I did not speak the truth at first, who will believe me 
 now ? I said to myself, this is a cloud that a breath will scatter. 
 Madman that I was, the cloud has become an avalanche and 1 
 am crushed. 
 
 Avi. These are wild thoughts. You must tell the truth, 
 you can tell it to me, your friend, your affianced. 
 
 Jules. To you less than to any one. 
 
 Avi. But your future is at stake — our future, our happiness ! 
 Oh ! listen to me ! is not your honor my honor, as your life is 
 m}^ life ? 
 
 Jules. Avisie, do not deprive me of my last remnant of 
 strength and courage. But go, dearest. I cannot think of your 
 being seen here at this hour of the night. 
 
 Avi. I comprehend. They have not deceived me. I was 
 sure they were keeping something from me all the time. Your 
 
VV>^^ 
 
 mother — Mens. Manuel, I can doubt no longer. Jules, to- 
 night you will meet a woman. 
 Jules. Avisie, I beseech you. 
 
 Avi. A woman whom you have loved, perliaps, love still, at 
 whose feet you have murmured the same sweet words you have 
 whispered to me. ( With great emotion.) She cannot love you 1 
 am sure. Why did slie not come to you, when she knew you 
 were in prison, accused, falsely accused of a hideous crime ? 
 
 Jules. Avisie I will tell you everything rather than have sus- 
 picion enter your pure mind — listen and forgive me. 
 
 Avi. No, I do not wisli to hear anything. I believe in 
 
 you, only you must remember that you are everj'thing to me, 
 
 hope, life, happiness. If you should deceive me I know but 
 
 too well I could never cease loving you, but oh what I should 
 
 suffer. \_Going c. 
 
 Jules. Avisie let me confess who this woman is and whj^ I 
 
 must see her. 
 
 Avi. No, do what your conscience bids you — I believe and 
 
 ♦ trust you. {Hurries off c. 
 
 Jules. I will hesitate no longer — I will s])are this woman no 
 
 longer — I am bound to protect Avisie. {Rings hell at door 
 
 u. E. B.) What shall I say? — no answer — but I must see her. 
 
 {Rings hell again.) 
 Oh, my heart beats with so much violence — will no one come ? 
 {listens.) Ha ! footsteps — is it she ? 
 
 {Jules retires — Enters Countess e. u. c, she looks rou?id 
 without ohserving. Jules comes c. and confronts her as she is 
 ahout to return. 
 
 Jules. {Intensely^ At last we meet alone. 
 Countes. {terrified.) Jules! {THes to avoid him.) 
 Jules. Do not attempt to escape, for I swear I should pursue 
 you into your husband's room, even to his dying bed. 
 Count. You ! you here 1 
 
 Jules. Yes, I am here. You are surprised, are you not ? You 
 said to yourself he is in prison, closely kept under lock and key. 
 I can sleep in peace no — evidence can be found. I am guilty 
 but 1 shall escape — he is innocent and he is lost. These were 
 your thoughts, is it not so ? And yet you find me here. 
 Count. This is monstrous ! 
 Jules. It is indeed ! 
 Countess. Murderer ! Incendiary ! 
 
 Jules. { With convulsive laughter.) And you dare call me so ! 
 
 Count. I do ! You cannot deny your crime to me. I know 
 
 the motive, which even your judges cannot guess. You thought 
 
 10 
 
I would carry out my threats, and you were frightened. It is 
 all over, you said ; she will tell her hnsband ; and tlien you 
 kindled that fire in order to draw my husband from his bed, 
 you incendiary, and then you fired upon him — murderer !" 
 
 Jules. A clever plan— that is the story you mean to tell — 
 wretched woman — who do you think will believe it? The let- 
 ters are burned, no proof exists, and what you assert I can 
 deny. As for being in fear of your husband, I might have 
 feared when at Fontainebleau he could have surprised us with 
 a pistol in his hand, and made himself at once the judge and 
 executor of his sentence. Ko; when in the first moments of 
 my blind and fatal passion for his wife I did not kill him, why 
 should I now, when his existence had ceased to interest me \ 
 Kill him ! hal ha! that would be poor revenge on you. No, 
 let him live, 1 said, but what said you 'i 
 
 Count. Am I losing my senses % Is it possible you did not 
 
 fire at him — you 
 
 Jules. You know full well I did not — would not ! 
 Count. If you are innocent, who then can be the guilty one % 
 Jules. {Seizing her arm and hending closely to her ear.) 
 You ! — wretched being — you ! 
 
 Count. ( With sujpjpressed shriek.) Ah, my God ! 
 Jules. You, who wanted to be a widow in order to prevent 
 my breaking the chains in which you held me. You, who at 
 our last meeting overcame my foolish heart by your hypocritical 
 tears, and wrung from me the silly words that if you were free 
 I would marry you. 'Twas then you cried, how happy I am 
 that that idea did not occur to me before. What idea was it, 
 Melanie? — come, confess that it occurred to you too soon, after 
 all, since you so speedily carried it out. Is it well for you to 
 ask if I am innocent, who then is the guilty one? 
 
 Count. Jules, Jules, for mercy's sake, what horiible thought 
 is in your mind ? It seems as if you think /had committed 
 this awful crime. 
 
 Jules. Seems ! — think ! No, I believe ! 
 
 Count. ( With agony.) Father in heaven, he believes — you 
 
 believe 
 
 Jules. That you are guilty 1 
 Countess No, Jules. No — no — no ! 
 Jides {aghast?). On your life ? No ? 
 
 Countess. On my life and soul ! No, no. I am a wicked 
 woman, but {kneeling) not guilty of that crime. Thank God ! 
 Jules. Merciful Father ! what mystery surrounds us. Oh ! 
 my brain will turn. [ to l. 
 
Countess. What is to be done % 
 
 Jules. Melanie, the truth must be told. 
 
 Countess. What truth % 
 
 Jules. That I went to Yilloison by appoiutment with you ; 
 that the cartrldore case which was found there was used by me 
 to procure a light ; that ray hands were soiled by the half 
 burned fragments of our letters ; that 
 
 Countess {terrified^. Never ! 
 
 Jules. It shall be told. I will it so. 
 
 Countess {furiously). J^ever, I say ; they would not believe 
 in our innocence ; they would look upon us as accomplices. 
 
 Jules. Be it so. I am not willing to die as a crimiual. 
 
 Countess. Say that j^ou will not die alone ! 
 
 Jules. I will not. 
 
 Countess. Would your fate appear less cruel to you if there 
 were two victims instead of one ? 
 
 'Jules. Always the same. I am sinking — drowning — and 
 she calculates — bargains ! 
 
 Countess. Bargain ? yes, it is true, I did value my i-eputa- 
 tion as an honest woman more, a thousand times more, than my 
 life. In the enthusiasm of my love — the only love of my whole 
 life, I sacrificed it for you, and above that sacrifice I valued 
 you. You need not perish — let us fly — one word from you, and 
 I leave all, honor, countrj^ husband, children ; say but the word, 
 and I will follow you without remorse, without regret. 
 
 Jules. Oh, this is too terrible ! 
 
 Countess^ You are free; what need prevent our flight. We 
 will go to some other land where our life will be one unbroken 
 enjoyment. You shall never again say that I bargain. I will 
 be yours body and soul, your wife, your slave ! Speak ; shall 
 it be so, Jules ; will you ? 
 
 Jules. No ! no ! rather the galleys. 
 
 Countess. {Drawing herself up calmly.) What then do you 
 want of me ? 
 
 Jules. Your help to save me ! 
 
 Countess. In other words, you wish me to sacrifice myself 
 for Miss Doranche's sake. I am the past to you — bitterness ; she 
 is the future — happiness. You think little of my being dis- 
 graced, if she be honored ; of my bitter tears, if she but smile. — 
 My help! Oh, no. No! no! 
 
 Jules. And you will see me perish ; you will break Avisie's 
 innocent heart. Miserable woman ! you shall not escape ; you 
 shall suffer with me ; I will denounce you. 
 
 Countess. Ha ! ha ! ha ! you do not know me yet. Go. 
 
 12 
 
Speak. Keveal all. Mons. Manuel can tell yon how I can 
 deny and defend myself. 
 
 Jules. ( With intense jpassion rushes to her.) Wretch ! trai- 
 tress ! I could — {^Raising his hands to grasp her.'] 
 
 Count Clairnot .^taggers from r. d. to c. with revolver in his 
 hand— points it at Jules. 
 
 Count. Do not touch that woman ! (Countess shrieks, and 
 buries her face.) I have heard all. 
 
 Jules. And will take your revenge — here is njy naked breast 
 {Tears open vest.) Shoot^ Count, I am your betrayer. 
 
 Count. {Throws 2yistol down with passion.) The courts of 
 Justice will give me my revenge, for I shall swear I recognized 
 you as m}^ assassin. You have robbed me of my honor, I want 
 yours. You shall go to the galleys — ha ! ha ! {8i7iks exhausted.) 
 
 DocT. Saumaise enters quicMy and receives Count in his 
 arms as he falls convulsively. Jvi^^sfalls in chair c. 
 CouNTESs/a7^s with horror, as cur tai7i falls quickly. 
 
 k 
 
1 
 
Scene. I- Ante-? oom in the Court House of Sauveterre. Doors at varuus 
 entrances^ -K. and i.. and q Windows open, &fc. All- appointmenis 
 p)lain and neat. 
 
 At intervals during the scene, Lawyers and Messengers are seen passing in 
 and out of different doors as if busily engaged, sotne carrying papers, 
 books, &=€., &'c. 
 
 [Enter Dou?nat and Mons. Gerome d. l. h.) 
 
 Ger. You forget, my dear Doumat, we have an eye-witness.' 
 
 Doufu. That miserable fellow, Collinet, 'Suppose he cannot or will 
 not repeat his evidence in court, then you have virtually no witness. 
 
 Ger. All the accusations point to Jules de Bonneval as the criminal, 
 and, although he protests his innocence, he obstinately refuses to tell 
 where he passed the night. I cannot think he would permit the 
 Marchioness de Bonneval to be brought into court and himself held up 
 to a public trial if there was any possibility of preventing it. But heaven 
 knows what may not be tried to rescue a guilty man, or to tie the hands 
 of Justice. Oh, Doumat, the anxiety of this case has cost me sleepless 
 nights and feverish days. 
 
 V Doum. Because you fear to lose the case. You wish to become Mayor 
 of Sauveterre — to be celebrated — rise in the world. Increasing fortune 
 is always followed by increasing care. 
 
 Ger. If I had to begin again, I should pursue the same course,' for I 
 have only done my duty. 
 
 (Enter Doctor Sau?naise, c. ) 
 
 Doci. Damn such duty ; it's persecution — malice ! But, Gerome, 
 you need not think you will crow over us so easily. I say us, for I tell 
 you, you won't get rid of me in a hurry. 
 
 Ger. Doctor, your friendship and largeness ol heart do you infinite 
 credit, and I honor you. Is there anything new.'' 
 
 Doct. No. They still insist on ruining poor Jules, and so they'll 
 stop at nothing. 
 
 Ger. They.? Who? 
 
 iMH 
 
2b ALMOST A LIFE. 
 
 Doct. Why, you — you — and all of your colleagues in this detestible 
 affair. This wonderful physician, too, whom you have sent to examine 
 into Collinett's condition — he is an ass, sir — I say he's an ass ; and one 
 whose length of ears and thickness of skull surpasses all others. He is 
 fully persuaded that his mission, as employed by the prosecution, is to 
 say amen to all the stories of the prosecution. With grave importance 
 he asserts that CoUinett is an idiot because every one tells him so. 
 
 Ger, And do you not think he is one, really, Doctor } 
 
 Doct. Certainly not. I see in him a scamp who has an iron consti- 
 tution, and who climbs trees like a monkey. To be sure I do not pre- 
 tend that he is not an imbecile who has some faculties developed while 
 others more essential are missing ; but he can speak, make known his 
 wants, and is capable of cunning and dissimulation. 
 
 Ger. Very well, you hold him then responsible, 
 
 Doct. On the contrary, he is not responsible; he will lie as readily as 
 tell the truth; and I hold it a sin to use his testimony against De Bonneval. 
 No, Monsieur, I look upon him as a false witness brought forth to ruin 
 an honest man. 
 
 Ger. My dear Doctor, don't you see that to prove CoUinett knows 
 what he says would be more fatal to your friend .? 
 
 Doct. Not if we prove that he has told a falsehood. 
 
 {People pass ivindoiv.) 
 
 Ger, It does not depend upon me now to set aside Collinett's statement, 
 however stupid and absurd it may be. {Lawyers and messengers cross 
 stage and exeunt different doors. ) You see the unusual commotion 
 about this place to-day — you can see for yourself that the people are 
 greatly excited over this trial which is about to take place. 
 
 Doct. {Looks out. ) The people — those same people who have cheered 
 and applauded Jules will now forget his noble services, when at the time 
 of the Russian invasion he led his men so bravely in the very face of the 
 fire. They will forget that General Chanzey himself rewarded him on the 
 field of battle with the Cross of the Legion of Honor, And such a man 
 is to be tried for assassination. Bah ! What a world, and what is that 
 thing they call honor! {Looking out again.) It is with difficulty the 
 gendarmes can keep the people back. There is a carriage. It is the 
 Marchioness with Miss Avisie and Mons. Doranche ! 
 
 {Exit Doumat. Ger. retires, l. Doct. retires, r. ) 
 {Enter Marchioness .^ Avisie and Doranche.) 
 
ALMOST A LIFE. 3b 
 
 Avi. Be of good heart, dear mother, and remember whatever you 
 may hear, do not allow a single word to be torn from you, eiiher of joX 
 or sorrow, or we are lost. 
 
 March. Oh, my boy ! my son ! If I could only suifer for you. 
 Avisie, if he would but speak — confess that 
 
 Avi. Confess ! what is there to confess ? Would you have him say 
 that he is an assassin ? Poor Jules ! Do I really remain the only one to 
 defend him — he, who in prosperity had so many friends ? 
 
 Doii. [Comes doivn.) No, there are two of us, young lady. I don'- 
 intend to give him up yet. 
 
 March. Doctor, what is to be done ? 
 
 Doct. If we lose this time we must try again . 
 
 Ge*-. (Comes doivn. ) And the prosecution will carry its case to a 
 higher court until a final decision can be obtained. In the meantime 
 Jules must remain in confinement. 
 
 March. Mons Gerome, you have proved our mortal enemy. 
 
 Avi. And this trial may last for years, since Mons. Gerome is deter- 
 mined to prove Jules guilty. 
 
 (Enter Manuel from door l. 3 e.) 
 
 Man. Nay, ]\Iadm'selle, let us hope we shall soon be able to arrive 
 at a conclusion which will set my client free. 
 
 Ger. Not if he maintains his obstinate silence. 
 
 Man. His silence cannot interfere with the regular process of busi- 
 ness. He will be called upon to produce his justification ; if he refuse's 
 to do so, the law proceeds without him. 
 
 Ger. (From l. crosses to Manuel. ) But you must admit that a 
 refusal to answer justifies a Judge in believing the charges are true 
 which the accused does not care to refute. 
 
 ( Exit door, l. c. ) 
 
 March, Oh ! we are lost. 
 
 Doran. My poor Avisie ; do you not see all hope is gone ? 
 
 Avi. I will not believe it. 
 {Enter Sergeant of Police with fules, attended by gendar?nes from door.) 
 
 March. (Goes to him.) Oh, heaven, Jules ! my heart trembles — is 
 the time of trial so near } 
 
 fules. (Coming to her. ) Avisie, I see the struggle is to be a hard one, 
 and the result most uncertain. Never fear, darling, you may be sure I 
 will be firm. 
 
4b ALMOST A LIFE. 
 
 Mafi. I wiil see how long before our case may be called. Take 
 courage, my dear friend 
 
 [Exit door.) 
 Jules. Dear mother. 
 
 ( Docior, A visie and Doranche retire. ) 
 
 March. [Comes quickly to Jiim.) My poor son, how you must have 
 suffered. 
 
 Jules, Suffered ! Is there a human being in this world whose mis- 
 fortunes equal mine ? 
 
 March. Might we not prevail upon the Countess to speak. It is only 
 the loss of her name. 
 
 Jules, Is not that everything to her and her two children ? If she 
 had spoken at first I might have been saved ; but now, alas, it is too 
 late* Mother, do you know Avisie bribed the prison-keeper with a 
 large sum of money, and that I passed half a night out of prison— was 
 with the Countess ? 
 
 March. With her ? 
 
 Jules. Imploring, entreating her to save my honor, my life ! 
 
 March. And the result? 
 
 Jules. Will be terrible. The Count surprised us during our inter- 
 view. Oh, Heaven ! what have I done to deserve this punishment ? 
 
 March. My son, your sin was a grievous one. 
 
 Jules. No ! I loved the Countess with the passion of my youth; she. 
 unfortunate woman ! has always loved me. 
 
 March. A guilty passion that has brought its own punishment. 
 
 Jules. Had we met before that fatal marriage all would have been well; 
 we should have been man and wife. It was not to be, and man's nature 
 cannot be const int to a shadow. So the end came — a bitter end. Pity 
 her, mother, and do not despise her, but let the past be buried in oblivion. 
 {Music ceases. Marchioness retires. Avisie approaches Jules.) Avisie, 
 your faith, your devotion, touches the tenderest spot in my nature, and 
 whatever happ ns now, I feel I have had my share of heavenly bliss. 
 
 Avi. Jules, I fear the chances in this trial are against you. 
 
 Jules. 1 must be firm ! 
 
 Avi. [Meaningly.) You have no right to throw a single chance 
 away. 
 
 Jules. What do you mean } 
 
 Avi. [JVhispering.) You can escape. 
 
 Jutes. Escape ! 
 
ALMOST A LIFE. Sb 
 
 Avi. Yes ! I have arranged all ; the prison-keeper is bought, and as 
 soon as night falls a horse will be in readiness. You can soon reach the 
 sea, and there any of the pilot boats will carry you to England. 
 
 /u/es. No — no. I cannot abandon all I hold dear, Avisie. My 
 mother — you ! 
 
 Avi. I have expressed myself badly, I fear; you will not go a/one/ 
 
 Jules. Oh, my well- beloved girl ! 
 
 Avi. Did you think I would be cruel enough to forsake the friend who 
 is betrayed by everybody. No — grandpa will go with us ; you can 
 change your name and we will go far in the West, to that new coun- 
 try, where we can 1 ve happily. It won't be France, Jules ; but our coun- 
 try is the country where we are free, where we are beloved, where we are 
 happy. 
 
 Jules. The dream is too beautiful to be realized. 
 
 Avi. What say you, Jules .? 
 
 Jules. That I cannot, must not escape. 
 
 Avi. But if you are condemned.? 
 
 Jules. I may be, I know. 
 
 Avi. ( Weeping. ) No, no ; fly, Jules, escape ! 
 
 Jules. Avisie, for pity sake, listen. I am innocent, and to fly would 
 be to confess that I am guilty. 
 
 Avi What does it matter, if you are free ? 
 
 Jules. What is freedom worth, if 1 must live dishonored in exile with 
 a price set upon my head — and where could I live.? Is there in all this 
 world an asylum of peace for a man branded as I am } No, no, no ! 
 
 Avi. Again, I say if you are condemned 
 
 Jules. At least I shall have met my fate and defended my honor. 
 
 {Enler Manuel. ) 
 
 3Ian. Now, Jules, pray listen. We must take every advantage of 
 the few precious moments left before the counsel for the prosecution 
 meets us. You do not know with what difficulty I have obtained the 
 consent of the Attorney General for this meeting before the trial. Had 
 it not have been for your social standing, and the high reputation of your 
 family, I could not have accomplished anything. As it is, Mons. 
 Gerome chafes and frets. 
 
 Docl. {Comes Jorward.) That's his chronic condition. I only wish I 
 was his doctor. 
 
 {Avisie goes up,^ 
 
6b ALMOST A LIFE, 
 
 Mim. Nothing from Phi llippe yet, Doctor? 
 
 Doci. No. Collinett holds out ; not a word of any kind can be ob- 
 tained from him. There is some deviltry at the bottom of his silence. 
 
 Man. If we could only prove this ; but how } 
 
 Doct. The Countess could -make him speak. 
 
 Jules. I have heard she is the only one with whom he ever would 
 converse. 
 
 Doct. Yes, and I wondered at her readiness in letting Mons. Ge- 
 rome examine him on the night of the fire, and I am ready to affirm un- 
 der oath that when Collinett accused Jules De Bonneval the Countess 
 exhibited no sign of surprise. 
 
 Man. Well, if Phillippe had succeeded in obtaining any evidence 
 from Collinett before the trial we should summon and examine the 
 Countess, and our views of the case would change entirely. But now 
 we shall go on as if there was no such person as the Countess ; we shall 
 say nothing of the meeting at Villoison, nor of the burned letters. The 
 w^orst featuje we have to meet is one which, in the hands of the prose- 
 cution, may become a terrible weapon. {Crosses l with Jules. ^ ^ 
 
 Jtiles. I do not know 
 
 Man. Have you forgotten the letter you wrote to Miss Doranche 
 the evening of the crime ^. 
 
 Jules. Has she given them that letter .^ 
 
 Man. It was so gentle and loving ; she hoped to help your cause, 
 but Gerome says it confesses what he desires. That letter is very much 
 
 against us. 
 
 i^Enter Phillippe.) 
 
 Phil. Ah, Doctor, I thought I should find you here. 
 
 Doct. And Collinett — will he speak .? 
 
 Phil. Not a word. He is an idiotic brute. I shall lose my house in 
 Vine street and Francine will lose a husband. 
 
 Doct. At least I must compliment you on what you have accom- 
 plished, your complete disguise. 
 
 Phil. What would be the use of going about as myself, everybody 
 would know me. A wandering musician can go anywhere, and nobody 
 is surprised. He enters the back yards, slips into houses, accosts every- 
 body, asking alms, and so follows everybody. But now, if you wish me 
 to preserve my incognito, you must give me my permit, so that when 
 I present myself at the hospital I can go to my bed. I am still with 
 
ALMOST A LIFE. 7b 
 
 Collinett and wish to be until after the trial. If the lawyers only make 
 him open his mouth, I'm inclined to think he would rattle off a lot of 
 news ; some of it may be worth preserving. 
 
 Doct. {Hands pa per. ^ Here is your permit; don't be discouraged. 
 You have not lost the house in Vine street yet. 
 
 {Enter Mons. Gerome, R. 2 e., atid Mons. Douniai, l. n. ) 
 
 Ger. Mons. Manuel, you requested this interview, and at the request 
 of the Attorney General, who I think oversteps his power. I am here to 
 grant it. 
 
 March. Heavens ! how proud he looks. 
 
 Doct. He sees himself already on the highest round of the official 
 ladder. What a pity if he should slip. 
 
 Man. Mons. Gerome, remember that this man who is now to be tried, 
 was once your friend. A friend whose hospitality you have enjoyed, and 
 whose favors you have eagerly sought. During this trial will you still 
 act the part of a persecutor, whose heart is like a rock against which all 
 human passions are helplessly broken to pieces. 
 
 Ger. Mons. JManuel, after such an accusation as that made by Colli- 
 nett, Mons. De Bonneval would have been sent to trial even had I been 
 silent. He will now have an opportunity to prove his innocence. Let 
 him say why the empty cartridge which was found should fit his gun, the 
 only one of its make, an American one, known to be in this country. 
 
 Man. Another man would not have been bent exclusively upon 
 proving Mons, De Bonneval guilty. 
 
 Ger. I certainly shall prove it. 
 
 Man. A friend would have tried to solve the mystery. 
 
 Ger. {Smiling.) I have solved it, I think. 
 
 Man. I congratulate you ; it must be delightful to know the secret 
 of all things. 
 
 Ger. Upon the evidence the jury will condemn jMons. De Bonneval. 
 
 Ma?i. Well, I am not so sure ; the jury may have some scruples if you 
 have none. They are men of sense. 
 
 Doct. Many a slip between the cup and the lip, Mons. Gerome, and 
 instead of your hoped-for promotion to higher office, we may succeed in 
 getting you a polite invitation to visit Corsica or Algiers. 
 
 Avi. Mons. Gerome, do you know that Mons. De Bonneval spent 
 last night out of prison .? 
 
 Ger. Out of prison ! Impossible ! 
 
8b ALMOST A LIFE. 
 
 Doran. No ; it is the truth — he could have escaped this ignominious 
 trial, but he refused. 
 
 Ger. Escape ! Refused ! Berincourt shall suffer for this breach of 
 duty. 
 
 Avi. No ; for with the twenty thousand francs I have given him he 
 leaves France, and so flies from your punishment. Do you believe a 
 guilty man would not have escaped, knowing his guilt. Jules remained. 
 
 Ger. {^Impatiently.^ We trifle time, and arrive at nothing. Ah, 
 here are our principal witnesses. 
 
 {Collineit is brought on by gendarmes. Durand and Gautier follow. 
 Francine and a few peasants enter. Collinett seems indifferejit and plays 
 listlessly with his hatids and hair. ) 
 
 Ger. [To Collinett.) Well, my boy, you've had a nice walk this 
 morning. How do you like it ? 
 
 Dad. [With sarcasm.) Um — um — he'll tell you, no doubt. 
 
 Ger. Do you like where you are in the hospital, or would you rather 
 go back to Villoison, to the Countess .? 
 
 [Collinett starts at the name, expresses eagerness, shudders, and then 
 relapses into idiocy. ) 
 
 Ger. See, here are five francs. 
 
 [Holds out money. Colli, teaches for it eagerly. Ger. draivs back. ) 
 
 Boct. He understands that ; but I presume that's another of those 
 flashes of intelligence. 
 
 Ger. No, no ; first you must answer my questions. 
 
 Phil. He won't do that, I know-^he's savage; he's had no food for 
 12 hours ; but it's all the same, he won't even say "• I'm hungry," now. 
 
 fules. [Goes to him.) Collinett, you are sending me to death. Speak ! 
 unsay your words, or you will kill me ! (Collinett raises his hands ex- 
 presses hatred of Jules — would like to strike him, but restrains himself, 
 shaking with passion and relapses again into indifference. ) 
 
 Doct. Ah, you may as well send him back to the village to get his 
 support, as he did before. He is a useless charge on the hospital . 
 
 Phil, I hope they'll do that, eh, Francine .^ And if they give me 
 time I may get you yet ; but if they hurry me they'll ruin everything. 
 
 Ger, He will be called as a witness. 
 
 Man, It will be useless trouble and time wasted. 
 
 -1 
 
ALMOST A LIFE. 9b 
 
 Ger. We shall see ! 
 
 Jules. Inveterate and implacable still. 
 
 Ger. You forget, Jules, that I am aware of your hatred of Count 
 Clairnot. Did you not yourself tell me that you were once so irritated 
 with the Count that you said, '* He will not leave me alone till I put a 
 bullet into him? Do not deny it; you will hear what the witnesses say." 
 
 Jules. Gerome, it is plain you have sworn my condemnation shall be 
 the stepping-stone to your greatness. But the day must come when the 
 true criminal will be known, and then you will shrink from the honors 
 you have acquired by my conviction. 
 
 Ger. You have leave to prove your innocence. 
 
 Jules. I attest it before heaven ! 
 
 {Enter Count Clairnot, very Jeehle^ pale and haggard. ) 
 
 Count. And before Heaven, I swear that he is guilty. 
 
 Dad. {Quickly.) Count Clairnot, retire. You are unfit — this is th^ 
 delirium of fever. 
 
 Ger. Silence, Doctor Saumaise. Speak, Count. 
 
 Man. He shall not speak. I deny his right to be present. Retire 
 Count. I command his absence. 
 
 Ger. You dare not command. 
 
 Man. Doctor, is this to be allowed } 
 
 Doct. The Count is suffering from fever, I say. He is insane. 
 
 Count. Feeble — dying perhaps, but quite sane. 
 
 Ger. You see, sir, you are mistaken. Speak, Count. 
 
 Jules. He dare not. It is revenge. I will tell all. 
 
 Count. And I too, will tell all, even before Miss Doranche, that he 
 
 is 
 
 {Marchioness utters a groan.) 
 an assasin ! 
 
 Ger. Count, I rejoice at the effort you have made to assist justice. 
 
 You will appear at the trial as a witness } 
 
 Count. I fear I am dying ! Let me be sworn — now. 
 
 {Doumat goes to him and in action he is sivorn.) 
 
 Ger. Why do you assert that Jules De Bonneval is guilty } 
 
 (Doumat writes at table.) 
 Count. I saw him ! 
 
lOb ALMOST A LIFE. 
 
 Man. Great heavens ! 1 
 
 Doct. Impossible ! . ( Together, ) 
 
 March. My boy — my boy ! J 
 
 Ger. When I first questioned you, after the crime, you declared you 
 had not recognized the assassin. 
 
 Count. Because I felt a sense of commisseration and tried to save a 
 young man who belonged lo a highly esteemed family from a disgraceful 
 punishment ; but I am dying, now ! and on the point of appearing be- 
 fore my Maker, I come to tell you that De Bonneval is guilty. I recog- 
 nize him as my assassin ! 
 
 Jules. By all that is dear and sacred t® me in the world, I swear that 
 he speaks false. Count Clairnot says he is about to appear before God ! 
 I appeal to the justice of God. 
 
 {Marchioness falls, with a loiv moan. ) 
 {Doctor and Jules bend over and raise her ) 
 
 Avi. {Quickly aside.) Manuel — this person — this woman who seems 
 to have an influence on Jules' life — will she not, can she not save him .? 
 
 Man. {To her. ) The Countess Clairnot is incapable of such devo- 
 tion. 
 
 Avi. {Staggering. ) The Countess ! What will be the end of this } 
 Ger, Count, you oath is taken — your words written. Will you sign 
 this paper } 
 
 {Doumat hands pen to Count. ) 
 
 Jules. {With great emotion.) No, no — heaven will surely not permit 
 it ; his hand will be palsied ! 
 
 {Count writes quickly as T>oumat offers pen and paper,) 
 
 Count. You see it is not — it it quite firm — ha, ha {co?ivulsively)y 
 this hour repays me for all. You will be tried, condemned upon my testi- 
 mony. You will hear the words ; He is guilty, and then the galleys ! 
 
 {Crier heard without, says, "Jules De Bonneville come into court.'') 
 
 {Exit door. ) 
 
 Jules. {In agony. ) Why did I not die before this day } 
 Man. Courage! Do not give up all hope. {Aside.) He is surely 
 lost. 
 
 {Exit door.) 
 {Phillippe, Doumat, ^c. , gather aJ door. Low murmurs outside. ) 
 
 {Messengers exit. ) 
 
ALMOST A LIFE. lib 
 
 Ger. The people can scarcely be kept within bounds. I shall win 
 this famous case which excites the public mind, and then, ah ! I see my 
 greatness, my honors already, 
 
 {Holding up paper which Counl signed. Exit door. ) 
 
 Count. Say what you will, you cannot unsay my words. You will be 
 tried, condemned, for almost a life ! Ha, ha, ha ! Sentenced — Guilty ! 
 Guilty ! Guilty ! 
 
 (Coujii sinks back i?ito chair, laughing convulsively. Avisie /alls, c. Jules 
 goes to her. Doctor and Francine bend over the Marchioness, who has revived 
 and is sobbing audibly. ) 
 
 {Collinett has thrown himself on stage during scene, and appears totally 
 unconscious.^ , 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
ACT Y. 
 
 Same set as Act III. 
 Enter Doctor from the ajpartments of the Countess. 
 
 DoGt. Yes ; he will surely die, strive as I may to save him. 
 Ugh ! what a profession mine is. Here is a man, a wretch 
 whom I should be most happy to strangle with my own hands, 
 yet I am compelled to do all that I can to restore him to life. I 
 must seek every means to alleviate his sufferings while he in- 
 flicts a torture worse — 
 
 Enter Avisie quicMy, c. 
 
 Fran. Good heavens ! Miss Avisie, yon here ? 
 
 Avi. How is the Count ^ 
 
 Doct. He is dying. I have just informed the Countess that 
 if she wishes her husband to die in peace with heaven, she has 
 but just time to send for a priest. 
 
 Avi. And she did ; thank heaven. 
 
 Boot. Not at all. She said her husband would be terrified 
 at the sight of a holy brother. 
 
 Avi. But the good father from Beechy was here. I passed 
 him as I came. 
 
 Doct. She sent him off without much ceremoiiy. But why 
 are you here ? 
 
 Avi. Do not ask me. It is our last hope. Only be silent. 
 
 Doct. Brave girl ! brave girl ! 
 
 \_Exit, c. 
 
 Avisie. {Rings hell at door.) Oh, that poor, unhappy 
 woman ! 
 
 Enter Madelaine. 
 
 Say to the Countess Clairnot, Mademoiselle Doranche desires 
 an interview with her. 
 
 \_Exit Madelaine. 
 Avi^ How I tremble ! Yet, why should I hesitate ? 
 
 Re-enter Madelaine. 
 Mad. Mademoiselle, tlie Countess bids me say she cannot 
 leave her husband's side. 
 
Avi. Ketnrn and tell the Countess that if she does not come 
 to me, I sliall go to her ; that nothing will keep me back. I 
 must see her. 
 
 Mad. But Mademoiselle — 
 
 Avi. Go, girl ! Do you not see it is a question of life and 
 death. 
 
 [Msit Madelaine. 
 
 And they call this human justice ! This woman will escape, 
 while Jules is lost, disgraced, dishonored. 
 
 Enter Countess, looMng very ^ale. 
 
 Count. Since you insist. Mademoiselle, I come to tell you 
 myself that I have not a moment to listen to you. Are you not 
 aware that 1 am standing between two open graves, that of my 
 dear girl, who is nigh unto death, and that of my husband, who 
 is breathing his last. 
 
 [ Turns to go. 
 
 Avi. If you return to your husband, I shall go with you. I 
 shall ask you how you dare to order a pi-iest away from his bed- 
 side at the hour of death, and whether, after having robbed him 
 of all happiness in life.^ you mean to make him wretched 
 through all eternity. 
 
 Count. I do not understand you. 
 
 Avi, Yes, you do understand me. Do you not see that I 
 know everything ; that Jules was your lover, and your husband 
 has had his revenge ? 
 
 Count. Ah, this is too much — too much ! 
 
 Avi. And you have permitted this to be. You did not 
 come and cry out in open court that your husband had lied ; 
 yes, lied ! You mean to live on with this thought in your heart 
 — that the man whom you love is a convicted felon. A priest 
 might induce the Coimt to retract his statement, hence you refuse 
 to allow one to approach him. Oh, this is base — this is in- 
 famous ; but you will save your reputation as an honest woman. 
 
 Count. My reputation ; it is only a few hours since I offered 
 to fly with Jules ; he had only to speak and I would have given 
 up my family, country, children, everything for him ; but he 
 replied, " rather the galleys !'' He has condemned himself, you 
 see. I was quite willing to ruin myself for him, but not for 
 another woman ! 
 
 Avi. Ah, you mean me ! 
 
 Coimt. Yes ; you, for whose sake he abandons me. 
 
 Avi. Yet I should have been more generous, and to prove it 
 I have come now to make a compact. 
 
Count. A compact \ 
 
 Avi. Yes — save Jules, and by all that is sacred to me in this 
 world, and he is most, I promise to give him np to yon. I will 
 enter a convent, and he shall never see me — never hear my 
 name again. 
 
 Coivnt. You would make so great a sacrifice for me ? 
 
 Avi. For you? Ko, madame; for Jules. 1 love him 
 dearly enougli to prefer his happiness to my own a thousand 
 times. Even though bnried in a convent 1 should suffer less 
 knowing that he was with you, than to know him innocent and 
 condemened. 
 
 Coimt. ( With sarcas7n.) Admirable ! 
 
 Avi. Madame ! 
 
 Count. You condescend to give up Jules De Bonneval. 
 Will that make him love me ? You know that he loves you. 
 Heroism on such a condition is very easy. Immured in a con- 
 vent he will love you all the more ardently, and execrate me all 
 the more bitterly. 
 
 Avi. H9 shall never know of our interview. 
 
 Count. What matter ! He will guess it. 1 know wliat 
 awaits me, I have felt it long, this agony of seeing him daily 
 growing colder to me. What have I not done to keep him near 
 me ; how I have stooped to meanness, to falsehood, to keep him 
 a single day longer, perhaps a single hour ! All was useless. I 
 was a burden to him, and my love became a heavier load than 
 the chains with which they fetter him. 
 
 Avi. You speak thus — you the wife of another ? 
 
 Coimt. Girl, girl, you do not know the horrible slavery of 
 an existence like mine. Bound by a cruel father to a man whom 
 I despised and hated — sold for gold to a tyrant, living through 
 hypocrisy and deceit, called an angel by those who should term 
 me a fiend — my whole life one living lie. The only pure and 
 holy feeling in my heart my love for Jules. He was my hope, 
 my adoration. Oh, why did cruel fate separate I'ls, I might 
 have been a pure and stainless woman. {Exit l.) 
 
 Avi. Oh, this is most horrible ! 
 
 Count. Horrible to you, because you have only seen the 
 morning dawn of love — wait for the dark evening and you will 
 understand me. Is not the story of all women the same \ I 
 have seen Jules at my feet, as you see him at yours. The vows 
 he swore to me he now swears to you. Tremulous with passion, 
 in burning words he tells you that h& will love you forever, and 
 so he told me. You have his promises, so had I, and the proof 
 of it is, that I gave him my honor, the honor of my family, and 
 
I would have given more had there been more to give. And 
 now to be forsaken, despised, to sink lower and lower, until at 
 last I have become the object of your pity. 
 Avi. ( Weeping.) Do I not suffer too ? 
 Count. And now, that I hold a vengeance in my hand, shall 
 I let it slip ? Shall I be blind enough to be moved by your 
 hypocritical tears — secure your happiness by the sacrifice of my 
 worldly reputation? No, girl, cherish no such hope. 
 
 Avi. I conjure you by the life of that sweet child, whose 
 moments in this world are few. Your daughter, she might have 
 lived to love as / love, she might suffer unto death, even as I am 
 suffering. Oh, madame, look at me, as you have a mother's 
 heart, see a poor girl, alone in the world, plead to you. 1 have 
 no mother, no sister, but 1 will love you, I will pray for you 
 with a sister's devotion ; I will wash away your sin with an 
 orphan's tears. 
 
 Count. (Moved.) Who urged you to this plan? 
 Avi. No living soul ! No one knows of my purpose ; the 
 thought was like an inspiration, and when the Doctor said you 
 had refused admission to the Priest, I knew it to be our last and 
 greatest misfortune, for should Count Olairnot die withot re- 
 tracting Jules can fiever be restored to honor. I hoped that I 
 might touch your heart or that you would pity my great sacrifice. 
 Count. And is the sacrifice so great % 
 
 Avi. Can you ask it % You love Jules, see how hard it is 
 for you to give him up. Am I less a woman than yourself. I 
 offer you my hajpjpiness^ the worlds I offer you my life! 
 Count. ( 'Wee]}s}j Your life ! 
 
 Avi. My life ! Pity my grief \i you cannot y^V^^ Jules' great 
 agony. 
 
 Count. What assurance do 3^ou give me that if his innocence 
 is confirmed you will not forget your promise. 
 
 Avi. ( Very quicMy.) Name what pledge I am to give. I 
 will do whatever you require. Ah, Countess, I am at your feet 
 {kneels)^ humble, supplicant ; have mercy on Jules — I entreat 
 7iot for myself. Oh, if you loved him as / do you would not 
 hesitate. 
 
 Count. Love him ! Alas! alas! What shall I do? 
 Avi. (Quickly., under breath,) Induce the Count to retract 
 his words ; to confess that he swore falsely. 
 
 Count. It is useless ; he is a man of iron ; you cannot con- 
 ceive what he has suffered, nor the depth of his hatred. He 
 has said but an hour since that he will die contented if Jules is 
 declared guilty upon his evidence. 
 
Avi. And on his evidence he was co9(deni7ied and sentenced. 
 Even as 1 fled from the court I heard those awful words. My 
 God ! they drive me mad. " Twenty years hard labor in the 
 galleys !". [Cross l. 
 
 Count. ( With supj)res-^ed screcwi.) Condemned ! It is too 
 late. No word of mine can save him. Go,' girl ; I will listen 
 to no more. 
 
 [Going to door ; Avisik ?ntshes and places her 
 hand on hnoh as if to enter. 
 
 Avi. I will tell the Count you have forbidden the presence 
 of the holy father. 
 
 Count. (Throwing her from the door. ^ You will murder 
 him, and he is my husband. 
 
 Avi. Will you not murder Jules, my husband ! 
 
 Count. What ! Are you married ! Speak. Are you his 
 wife. The truth or I will kill you ! 
 
 Avi. {Points to Counfs room.) As you w^ould have killed 
 him, the father of your children, at midnight and alone ! 
 
 Count. Wretched girl, you are mad, indeed, and I am losing 
 precious moments wasting words with you ! [Going to door. 
 
 Avi. It shall be deeds, then. If tjou open that door 1 will 
 follow and denounce you. [Seizes and holds her. 
 
 Count. {Struggling.) Let me go to my dying child and 
 husband. Have pity! 
 
 Avi. I cried to you for pity, but you have none. I begged 
 for mercy for the man you say you love alone on earth. He is 
 in prison with the lowest of criminals. For you he will suffer 
 disgrace. Honor foi'bids him to breathe one woi'd against your 
 name, for the sake of your two iimocent girls, and so he suffers, 
 nobly, baring his pure forehead to be branded with the name of 
 "assassin," while here is the vile wretch whose forehead should 
 be blazoned with the scarlet letter of infamy ! 
 
 Count. Is not my punishment great enough? 
 
 Avi. No! For as the small snowflake becomes the ir- 
 resistible avalanche, so shall your burthen grow, till worn and 
 weary with years of misery and despair, you shall lay dow^n 
 your life, accursed on earth, rejected b}^ heaven ! 
 
 Count. Oh, this is terrible! 
 
 Avi. Will it not be more terrible to lie upon your pillow^ at 
 night, hearing the low moans of that poor prisoner in his cell, 
 to start from your imperfect sleep with the sound of the clank- 
 ing chains that bind his limbs as he labors side by side with the 
 thief and murderer in the galleys. Oh, I hear them now — I see 
 his anguish, his uplifted hands to heaven — oh, who wdll save him ! 
 
Count. I will ! The woman who loves him best ! I will 
 send for the priest ! 
 
 Avi. Yes, yes , he will find words to shake Count Claim ot's 
 resolutions — he can speak in the name of Him who even on 
 the cross forgave those who crucified him. 
 
 Count. I thought no human power could sliake the proud 
 rebellious impulse of m}^ soul, but now my wicked thoughts fly 
 from me like leaves under tlie breath of the tempest. Innocent 
 girl, you have conquered me. 
 
 Avi. Then, when Jules' innocence is made known, I will 
 leave the world for ever — he shall never behold me again. 
 
 Count. And did you think I would enforce this promise — 
 permit yonr heroic sacrifice. No, no ; it is I who will enter the 
 convent's sacred walls and try to atone by a life of true repent- 
 ance. Ask Jules to forgive my crime, and oh, Avisie, pray to 
 heaven for my pardon. 
 
 Avi. No, I have pledged myself, and 1 will Jceep my word ! 
 
 Connt. Never ! Jules shall be yours — he loves you, and 
 you would have sacrificed your life for his sake ! He forsakes 
 me, but 1 will sacrifice my honor to save his life. (Ring at 
 " save his lifer) God bless 3^ou, Avisie. Farewell ! [^Dashes 
 hurriedly of^ d. u. e. 
 
 Axi^YE. falls a second on her knees, as if thanJcing heaven, 
 and then weeps as she throws her arms despairingly 
 towards door as if awaiting some change.^ as 
 
 CURTAIN FALLS. 
 
 f 
 
 i' 
 
r 
 
\ 
 
Parlor in the Prison, Large window c. d. r., and l. u. e. Bay window 
 L. 2 E. Door R. 2 E. Table c. Chairs, so/a, r. 
 
 Marchioness- discovered lying on sofa. Doctor and Jules beside her as if 
 watching her recovery. Francine and Doiimat talking together, 
 Manuel seated at table looking over papers. Berincoiirt at back. 
 
 Franc. After all it was a mean trick. Why didn't he speak out be- 
 fore? One should not wait for a man to be down before they strike him. 
 
 Dou. True, girl ; but the Count is a strange man. 
 
 Franc. Did you notice how Mons Jules and he looked at each other? 
 One might have sworn there was something else between them very dif- 
 ferent than what appeared on the trial. 
 
 Dou. The whole matter is far from being cleared up. The jury were 
 some time before they agreed ; and even then, I think Mons. De Bon- 
 neval would have had a lighter sentence if it had not been announced 
 that Count Clairnot had been taken from the court-house in a dying 
 condition. 
 
 Exit Doumat, d. i.. u. e. 
 
 Franc. I know it's wicked to say it, but I wish he had died before 
 he reached the court-house. Poor Phillippe — and the house in Vine 
 street, all gone. What luck for a poor innocent girl. 
 
 Exit, D. R. U. E. 
 
 Jules. She revives. Mother, speak to me ; your love is still left me. 
 
 March. My poor boy, what does it matter that we know your inno- 
 cence, since we cannot relieve your sufferings ? 
 
 Man. {Looking up. ) Would you be happier to know him guilty ? 
 Think of that, Madame. 
 
 March. But is he not forever cut off from society. No hand will 
 touch his hand hereafter. Those who were proud of his affection will 
 pretend to forget him, forget his very name — his best friend will know 
 him no more. 
 
 Dod. And who, then, am I ? Do you think I'll desert him ? No — 
 no. I'm just as proud of his friendship as ever. 
 
 ifiives Jules his hand,) 
 
2c ALMOST A LIFU. 
 
 Jules. You are my most precious friend since you love me through 
 my misfortune. 
 
 Dod. Why didn't you speak out ? Why not tell the court the reason 
 of the Count's enmity ? Why not expose the perfidy of that woman ? 
 
 Jules. My sense of honor, and pity for her two innocent children, 
 kept me from it. Besides, every letter was burned, all proofs destroyed. 
 
 Bod. Dear, dear, if we only had one; but it's no use wishing. 
 
 {Jules comes to Manuel. ) 
 
 Jules. Well, Manuel, Gerome has triumphed. 
 
 Man. As long as there exists a ray of hope I will not think so. Don't 
 despair, all is not over yet. There is still the appeal and the petition for 
 pardon, not to speak of what may happen that cannot be foreseen. You 
 do not know that {Checks himselj) 
 
 Jules. I have nevertheless undergone the disgrace of condemnation. 
 Take this Manuel, keep it in memory of me, and if I never regain the 
 right to wear it-^^ — 
 
 {JIands him cross oj the Legion oj Honor which he takes Jrom his vest. ) 
 
 Man. [Rejuses. ) No ; I will not allow you to think you have dis- 
 honored it. You have been a brave soldier, now be a brave man. 
 
 Jules. Ah my mother, Avisie, the horror of my condemnation lies in 
 the thought of them. May they forgive me for the affliction I cause 
 them, and for the disgrace I — I — it is too dreadful to contemplate. My 
 God, I wonder I do not go mad. 
 
 {Falls in chair, and buries hisjace at table and sobs convulsively.) 
 
 Man. I understand your grief, but while there's life there's hope. 
 
 {Re-enter Francine d. r. ) 
 
 Franc. I can't see Phillippe anywhere. What's the use of his fol- 
 lowing that idiot now ? The mischief's done. 
 
 Dod. We must undo it. 
 
 Franc. I wish we could ! There's quite a commotion in the street ; 
 the people are standing in crowds at every corner, and they talk as if they 
 were not quite satisfied with the verdict. They wonder why Collinett 
 was not examined, since it was upon his accusations Mons. Jules was 
 arrested. 
 
 Dod, {Gleejully rubbing his hands.) The tide turns already, eh ! 
 
 ( Jules starts up. ) 
 
 {Conjused low murmuring voices outside, l. D. u. e.) 
 
 {Filter Gerome and Doumat^ l. d.) 
 
ALMOST A LIFE. 8c 
 
 Ger. Some of your tenants and your old servant, Antoine, have 
 
 requested permission to bid adieu to you before you go to 
 
 Jules. Remember, Monsieur, my mother is present. 
 
 [P.jinis to Mirchiomss. D)uinit gozs to d, r. u. e. Enter Durand, 
 Gjutier, Antoine mid a couple of peasants.^ 
 
 Ant. My dear master, at last I am allowed to come to you, (kneels) 
 to kiss your hand. (Jules raises him. ^ If I could only strangle that 
 villain Gerome ; it is he who has brought all this trouble upon you. 
 
 Jules. Poor Antoine. 
 
 (Ant. goes to Marchioness. ) 
 
 Gautier. (Comes to Jules.) Mons. Jules, I come to ask forgiveness 
 for anything I said against you — I am sorry now — but if you'd have let 
 me have the little farm I wanted — but I'm sorry now. 
 
 Doct. (Aside.) Damn such contrition, 
 
 Durand. (Comes doivn.) You'll forgive me, wont you, Monsieur. 
 I never meant to /^//anything, but I was so frightened because, you see, 
 I was in the forest 
 
 Doct. Stealing his wood ? 
 
 Jules. Enough — enough ! I bear no malice ! Say no more, I beg 
 — I entreat ! 
 
 Ant. (Coming down.) INIaster, you cannot think how the people 
 feel for you. Why I believe, if you could show yourself now, they 
 would carry you on their shoulders ; they say the Count must have had 
 a motive ; his examination was not in accordance with the strict letter of 
 the law, and the decision of the court is not fair. 
 
 Ger. (Comes forward.) Who dares say that .? 
 
 Man. (Comes forivard ivith papers.) Everybody. We shall have 
 another trial ; the sentence is unjust. 
 
 Ger. Unjust .? The testimony is sufficiently overwhelming to con- 
 demn, even had you weapons more skilful than those you have already 
 used. Mons. Manuel, your speech as a sample of rhetoric was emi- 
 nently successful. 
 
 Man. I cannot equally compliment your powers or your knowledge of 
 law. An oversight in some of those details which every efficient lawyer 
 knows makes the whole proceedings null and void. 
 
 (General consternation.) 
 Ger. Impossible ! 
 
4c ALMOST A LIFE. 
 
 Jules. Why did you not tell me of this before ? 
 
 Man. It was one of those secrets I dared not even confide to my own 
 pillow. Remember, in the course of the proceedings, the error might 
 have been corrected ; now it is too late, and Count Clairnot's conduct 
 gives us extended power. Mons, Doumat— 
 
 [Donmat comes forivard. Manuel hands papers. ) 
 
 in your hands these papers will be safe. Let Mons. Gerome convince 
 himself. 
 
 ( They look at papers eagerly. ) 
 
 I have already prepared an application for a new trial. 
 
 March. Manuel, you raise new hope in my heart. Jules, my son, 
 have courage ! 
 
 Bou. 'Tis true, Gerome, Manuel has the best of you. 
 
 Doct. And I think he's likely to keep it. 
 
 Ger. [Aside.) Oh, I could tear his tongue out for those words. 
 But I will not let them triumph. (Aloud. ) You think then that you 
 can alter the sentence passed ? I will show that necessity compelled me 
 to accept the Count's statement as ante-mortem, for he is perhaps at this 
 moment breathing his last. 
 
 fuks, [To Doctor.) Doctor! [Appealingly .) 
 
 Doct. 'Tis true. My presence was no longer needed. The Priest 
 alone could help him. 
 
 Jules. [With hope.) Ah, the good father from Brechy would make 
 him speak the truth. 
 
 Doct. ( With sarcasm. ) No, no — that saintly Countess denied him 
 access to her husband — the blessed angel ! 
 
 Ger, Mons. De Bonneval, is it not enough that you are the cause of 
 this lady's great misfortunes. Will you allow her also to be insulted by 
 the jeers and contempt of your friends .? 
 
 Jules. [With anger.) Gerome, leave this room. I am here to bid 
 adieu to my friends — you are my enemy. Go from this room, I say, 
 
 Ger. [Laughs defiantly. ) Ha ! ha ! ha ! your acting is superb. 
 You assume the part of a hero, while you bear the character of a con- 
 victed criminal ! 
 
 Jules. ( With intensity.) Insult me no further, or by Heaven 
 
 Ger. Threats ! from an assassin ! 
 
 Jules. And execution ! 
 
ALMuST A LIFE. gc 
 
 {Is about to strike Gerome ; is caught by Manuel and Doctor ; Gerome 
 stands on the defence ; Marchioness throws herself on her knees before Oe- 
 ro?)ie.) 
 
 ( Tableau. Kept perfectly still as the faint notes of a violin are heard. ) 
 
 Doct. Hark ! Listen ! 
 
 Franc. It is Phillippe ! 
 
 Doct. It was the signal agreed upon ; it is a signal of hope. 
 
 fules and March. Hope ! 
 
 ( The tableau not to be broken till this exclamation, then general movement. ) 
 
 Doct. Friends retire. Conceal yourselves — only a few moments — 
 and for heaven's sake be silent ! 
 
 Man. [Pressing him back. ) Retire, Mons. Gerome. 
 Ger. I will not retire ! 
 fules. You must ! 
 
 [Forces him back — all retire at different recesses as Phillippe with Gollinett 
 passes the windozv at back. Phillippe enters playing violin, l. u. d. Collinett 
 follows as if slightly drunk. Phillippe sings, pretenditig to be drunk. ) 
 
 Phil. (Singing. ) "In the spring mother red breast made her nest 
 in the bushes — little birdie — pretty birdie." 
 
 (Sits on sofa or chair. ^ 
 
 Colli. That-tha-tha-that's a n-n-nice s-s-song. 
 
 (Sits down on stage. Phil, takes out flask and. pretends to drink. Gives 
 it to Collinett, who drinks eagerly. ) 
 
 Phil. (Sings and plays Violin.^ Pretty birdie — little birdie — 
 Colli. (After drinking.^ Th-th that's goo-good. 
 
 (Phil, takes a large piece of bread out of his pocket and a clasp-knife, cuts a 
 piece of bread and gives it to Collinett while speaking — he eats some.) 
 
 Phil. You didn't have such good wine as that to drink at Villoison. 
 
 Colli. Y-y-yes I-I-d-d-did. 
 
 Phil. What ? as much as you wanted } 
 
 Colli. Q-qu-quite enough. (Laughs idiotically and stammers.) I-I-g- 
 g-got i-i-into th-th-the c-c-cellar th-th-through o-o-one of th-th- the w-w- 
 wind-windows, and d-d-drank o-o-out o-o-of th-the b-b-barrel, th-th 
 through a-a-a st-s-s-straw. 
 
 Phil. (Plays violin. ) You must be sorry you are no longer there ? 
 
6o ALMOST A LIFE. 
 
 Colli. ( With idiocy?) Y-y-yes. 
 
 {He has crumbed up his piece of bread. They drink again. Phil, gives 
 him the loaf and knife. He strives to cut it. 
 
 Phil. If you liked Villoison so well, why did you set it on fire ? 
 
 {Manuel watches.^ 
 
 Colli. I want-w- wanted t-to b-b-burn s-some s-s-straw t-to m-m-make 
 ch-the C-C-ount c-c-come out. I-it w-wasn't m-m-my f-fault th-the 
 w-w- whole h-h-house g-g-got o-o-on f-f-fire ! 
 
 Phil. {Playing piano.') Eut where did you get your gun .? 
 
 Colli. T-the-the C-C-Count br-b-brought h-h-home a n-n-new 
 g-g-gun — ^j-just c-c-come from A- A- America. I-I 1-like to s-see a 
 p-p-pretty n-n-new gun. I s-s-stole it th-th-that night ! 
 
 Phil. {Pretending to knoiv.) An American gun. Oh, yes — Mons. 
 De Bonneval has one, too, hasn't he ? Is it like his ? 
 
 Colli. Ju-just 1-1-like i-it, m-m-master. C-Count bought one 1-1-like 
 M-M-Mons. J-Jules. I-I 1-1-like it t-too — p p-pretty g-gun. I-I 1-1-like 
 g-g-guns. 
 
 Phil. {Drinks again.) But why did you want to kill the Count } 
 
 ( The cliaracters aypear at the recesses, ivatcMng. ) 
 
 Colli. {Imitates Phil.) H-he a-a-always m-mide th the p-p-pretty 
 1-1-lady c-cry so. I 1-1-love th-the p-p-pretty 1-lady, a-and I-I w-w-want 
 t-to m-m-make her m-m-m-ary h-h-her l-lover, m-master J-Jules. 
 
 Phil. Then why did you say it was he who shot the Count ? 
 
 Colli I I s-saw h-him th-there w-with h-his gu-gun, a-and wh-when 
 th-the boys s-said may be it w-was mnie, I d-didn't 1-like it. I-I ra- 
 rather th-they c-cut o-ff h-h-his h-h-head th-than m-mine 
 
 Phil. And the pretty lady — she told you to do it, did she ? 
 
 Colli N-no — no. B-but s-she c-cried s-so m-much a-and I-IVe 
 h-heard h-her s-say s-she w-would be-be h-happier if h-h-he was d-d-dead ! 
 S-she w-w-was a-always s-so g-good t-to CCollinet and th-the C-Count 
 w-was a-always b-bad. I w-wanted t-to g-get even, s-so I m-made the 
 b-big f-fire and I-I st-stole th-the gun and w hen th-the C-Count c-came 
 ou-out I-I s-shot him ! 
 
 Doct. {Rushes forivard.) Bravo Phillippe. 
 
 {All come from recesses, Collinett, with a howl rushes on Phillippe with the 
 knife as Manuel and fules seizes him. He struggles violently, but is overpow- 
 ered. Berincourt manacles him. ) 
 
ALMOST A LIFE. ?c 
 
 Ger. (Furiously.) This is a trick. The fellow is drunk as well as 
 an idiot. 
 
 Doct. It's one of his gleants of intelligence. We'll take his evidence 
 now. 
 
 Ger. Of what avail is that, since the Count did not consider it nec- 
 essary to summon him as a witness. Who will believe his garbled inco- 
 herent version of the story against Count Clairnot's written statement. 
 You cannot dispute this document, sworn to before all. You cannot 
 unsay these words. [Holds up yaper. ) 
 
 Man. Who knows ? Come, Doctor, let us seek the Count. I will 
 reveal the mystery of that paper if he does not speak. 
 
 {They are qoing. Enter Berincourt, quicTcly : icMspers to Doc- 
 tor.) 
 
 Doct. Count Clairnot's dead ! 
 
 Ger. Ha ! ha ! I win at last. Jules De Bonneral, you have been 
 condemned. Your sentence is " twenty years in the galleys." Your 
 friends have accepted the verdict of the court ; even your betrothed fled 
 from the scene of trial in despair, as she cried guilty ! 
 
 Jules. Avisie's fled ! 
 
 Ger. It is evident she no longer doubts your guilt, since she does 
 not even come to say farewell. 
 
 Jules. 'Tis true, she must despise me now. I am a vile criminal. 
 Come, take me to my prison. Shut me out from the world. Avisie is 
 gone, and nothing is left me but despair and death. 
 
 {Enter Avisie.) 
 
 Avi {Holds up paper.) No, Jules, not death, but life ! 
 
 Omnes. Life ! 
 
 Avi. I bring the Count's confession ! 
 
 {General movement. Jules rushes up, seizes paper, opens ner- 
 vously, tries to read.) 
 
 Jules. {Giving it.) Manuel, read — I cannot— I am blind — I 
 
 Avi. {Looking at Gerome. ) Yes, read it, Mons. Manuel ; read 
 aloud ! 
 
 Man. {Reads slowly.) Being about to die as a Christian, I owe it to 
 myself, I owe it to Heaven that I have offended, and I owe it to those 
 men whom I have deceived to declare the truth. Actuated by intense 
 
LS^"^ ^^ CONGRESS 
 
 8c 
 
 ALMOST A LIFE 016 103 654 7 
 
 hatred, I have been guilty of swearing falsely that Mons. De Bonneval 
 was my assassin, and that I recognized him in the act. I did not recog- 
 nize him, and I know he is an innocent man. I swear by all that I 
 hold sacred in this world I am about to leave, and in that in which I 
 must appear before my sovereign Judge. 
 
 Signed, ERNST, COUNT CLAIRNOT. 
 
 ^ , I Father Pierre of Brechy, 
 
 ' j Melanie, Countess Clairnot. 
 
 Jules. Avisie, God bless you ! {Emhraces her.) 
 
 (Doctor dances about stage. FMllippe and Francine emhrace. 
 Gaiitier and Durand have Collinett doiun on stage. Marchioness 
 ly Jules. Doranche with hands uiMfted. Doumat looking at 
 Gerome, who is crest fallen, a.s general joy is manifested, a^nd 
 
 CURTAIN FALLS. 
 
 \ 
 V 
 
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-/^l 
 
 r • 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 016 103 654 7