954 UC-NRLF B 3 SflE bflD .^ ARMAND; OR, THE PEER AND THE PEASANT. a \mn, IN FIVE ACTS. BY ANNA CORA MOWATT, AUTHOR OF •' FASHION, A COMEDY, " EVELYN, ETC. " Ancient Heaven Extends its arch o'er all, and mocks the span Of palaces and dungeons ; where the heaiu In its free beatings 'neath the coarsest vest, Claims kindred with diviner things than power Of kings can raise or stifle." Talfourd. N E W - Y R K : STRINGER & TOWNSEIS^D, 222 BROADWAY 1851. PRICE 12 1-2 CENTS. NEW EDITIONS OF THE FOLLOWING POPULAR WORKS « THE CREAM OF PUNCHY COMPRISING THE SERIES OF PUNCH'S HUMOROUS LIBRARY. A.KE NEARLY READY FOR PUBLICATION, WITH THE ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATION i^ MRS. CAUDLE^S CURTAIN LECTURES. Price 25 cents. PUNCH'S COMPLETE LETTER WRITER. Price 25 cents. PU:NCH'S COURTSHIP. Price 25 cents. LONDON MEDICAL STUDENT Price 25 cents. HEATHEN MYTHOLOGY. Price 26 cents. LABORS OF HERCULES. Price 25 cents. ARMAND; OR, THE PEER AND THE PEASANT. a flap, IN FIVE ACTS. BY ANNA CORA MOW ATT, UfU. AUTHOR OK '^ FASHION," A COMEDY, "EVELYN," ETC. " Ancient Heaven Extends its arch o'er all, and mocks the span Of palaces and dungeons ; where the heai o In its free beatings 'neath the coarsest vest, Claims kindred with diviner things than power Of kings can raise or stifle." Talfourd. N E W - Y R K : STRINGER & TOWNSEND, 222 BROADWAY 1851. ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS, IN THE YEAR 1849, BY JAMES MOW ATT, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southeiti District ' : \." of New Tori;. Notice. KT" Managers in the United States are informed that the right to perform this Play is private property, and the Play cannot be per- formed without the express written consent of J. Mowatt. TO MRS. JOHN H. WILKIN8, boston, massachusetts. My dear Mrs. Wilkin s, Allow me to dedicate " Jnnand" to you — one of the first and dearest amongst those absent friends, of whose love I have had such abundant proofs. I would say to you, as to them, that, highly as I prize the success with which " Ar- mancV has been favored before a British public — that success can never diminish the value of the enthusiastic greeting the Play received in my own beloved land. And I beg my country- men to believe that the ample record of home- kindnesses dwells ever freshly in my memory. I am, My dear Madam, Respectfully and most affectionately Yours, Anna Cora Mowatt. Loudon, Feb. 22iid, 1849. N150858 INTRODUCTION. T hi: -plsiy of Arm and ; or, the Peer and the Peasant, was produced at the Park Theatre, New York, September 27th, 1847, and subsequently in Boston, Massachusetts. It was represented before a London audience, at the Theatre Royal, Marylebone, January 18th, 1849, and was acted twenty-one successive nights. In England, as in America, the indulgence of the audience towards the production of a woman, and the exer- tions of the actors, rendered its success unequivocal and even brilliant. Some slight liberty has been taken in portraying the character of Louis XV., who is not rendered so totally and revoltingly destitute of virtues as he is described by his- torians; but I trust the license is a pardonable one. That Richelieu had a daughter, by a secret marriage, who was brought up in privacy, there is some little autho- rity for believing, and the fact (if it be one) has already been made the subject of novels, &c. The character of Armand has been objected to, as not 4 INTRODUCTION. belonging to the reign of Louis XV., but I think historical records will bear me out in the conclusion, that it was during his reign that the seeds of the revolution were sown, and already began to shoot forth in the breasts of the lower orders. Armand's sentiments are but the fore- shadowing of that revolution. My acknowledgments are due and cheerfully paid to Mr. Watts, the Manager of the Marylebone Theatre, for the liberality evinced in putting the play upon the stage, and in all his other arrangements — to Mr. Davenport, for his impressive and spirited impersonation of the cha- racter of Armand — to the Ladies and Gentlemen of the company, for the heartiness with which they, one and all, contributed their exertions, and to the scenic Artist, for the admirable manner in which his labours were executed. I acknowledge with pleasure that to the united efforts of these parties the play was largely indebted for its success. A. C. M. London, February 22nd, 1849. PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. Louis THE Fifteenth, King of Frauc-e. Duke de Richelieu, Duke D'Antin, an old Noble. Armand, an Artizan. Le Sage, Attendant of the Duke D'Antin. Victor, the King' s favorite Page. Jacot, Etienne, Male and Female Peasants. )T, ? ;nne, \ Peasants. Blanche. Dame Babette. jAauELiNE, daughter of Dame Babette. CAST OF CHARACTERS. NEW YORK. LONDON. Park, 1847. Marylebone, 1849. Louis the Fifteenth Mr. Hield. Mr. H. T. Craven. Duke de Richelieu . . — Barry. — James Johnstone. Duke D'Antin ... — Dougherty. — J. W. Ray. Armand — Davenport. — Davenport. Le Sage — McDougal. — G. Cooke. Victor Miss Denin. Miss S. Viilars. Jacot Mr. Rae. Mr. Green. Etienne — Gallot. — Bowen. Blanche Mrs. Mowatt. Mrs. Mowatt. Babette — Vernon. — Johnstone. jAauELiNE .... Miss Kate Horn. Miss M. Oliver. NOTE. Passages marked with inverted commas are omitted in representation. EXITS AND ENTRANCES. R. means Right; L., I^ft; R. 1 E., Right First Entrance; 2 E,, Second Entrance; D. F., Door in the Flat. RELATIVE POSITIONS. R. means Right; L., Left; C, Centre; R. C, Right of Centre; L. C, Left of Centre. •#• The reader is supposed to be on the Stage facing the Audience. COSTUMES. KINC LOUIS.— First dress: Linlit blue velvet coat, and while satin long vest richly trimmed with silver, large cntts, fnll shirt sleeves and frills, white satin breeches, long stockings, gartered below the knee, three-cornered hat, trim- med with lace and white feather?, white neckcloth and frills, crimson bow and diamond brooch, steel-hilted sword, broad white ribbim, with star over riijht shoulder, star on left breast, cane with rich tassels and cord, black shoes and buckles, on crimson ribbi)n, red heels, full powdered ringlet wig.— Second dress: Rich disguise, cloak and hat.— Third dress: Crimson velvet coat, trimmed with gold," blue ribbon over right shoulder, rest as before. RICHELIEU.— First dress: Dark blue velvet coat and silver, white breeches and frills, sleeves, shoes, hat, sword, wig, &c., all of same style as King's; white broad ribbon over right shoulder, blue ribbon and diamond pin.— Second dress: Darker velvet, and gold, rest as before. D'ANTIN.— First dress: Moroon velvet and silver, black satin breeches, white stockings, frills, sleeves, shoes, hat trimmed wiih black feather, mourning sword, "&c., all same style as King's; purple ribbon over right shoulder, full powdered ringlet wig, bald front, black ribbon and pin.— Second dress: Black and gold, same style, rest as before. ARMAND.— First dress: Salmon and blue short coat and full breeches, large cutis, full shirt and sleeves, collar turned over, black ribbon, blue and white striped stockings, black shoes and buckles, white hat, trimmed with blue, and pink wreath, nosegay, in left button hole, ringlet wig.— Second dress : Bine military coat, trimmed witli gold, high military boots and spurs, broad sword, shoulder belt, sword to break, white neckcloth and frills, red bow and brooch, powdered wig and ribbon. VICTOR.— First dress : Salmon and silver, vest, breeches, stockings, garters, hat, shoes, sword, dtc.,&c., all same st>le as King's, powdered wig.— Second dress: Garnet velvet and gold, rest as before. LE SAGE — First dress: Brown coat, plain breeches, stockings over knee, shoes and buckles, long salmon vest, same style as the rest, hat without trimming, powdered wig and bag.— Second dress: Black velvet, trimmed with dark blue ribbon, rest as before. MALE PEASANTS.— Various colors, same style as Armand. OFFICER AND GUARDS.— White military coats, three-cornered hats, powder, wliile cravats, Hic. PAGES.— Court dresses, same style as King's, powder, &c. BLANCHE.— First dress: V/hite muslin cottage dress, with rows of white satin ribbon around the skirt, on the head a wreath of white may-flowers, shaped like coronet, a garland of white flowers, hung from the left shoulder. — St-cond dress: Plain white muslin slip, same wreath.— Third dress: A sober colored merino, made in the st>le of Louis XV., the boddice, trimmed with a ruche of pink silk and pompadour rosettes down the front, open skirt looped all around with same rosettes, under skirt of embroidered muslin, a band of pearls on the head. — Fourth dress: Silver brocade, embroidered in blue, closed in front, and looped all around with bunches of blue and silver leaves, the boddice, trimmed with ruches of white tulle and blue ribbon, under skirt of salmon colored satin, linings of brocade the same, powdered hair, with a small wreath of blue and silver leaves on one side, diamond ornaments. BAB ETTE.— First dress : Oranee colored skirt, blue merino boddice, black velvet jacket, white apron, high peasant cap, high-heeled shoes, colored stockings.— Second dress : Red petticoat, black jacket, cap, &c., as before. JAQUELINE.— First dress: Striped under skirt, over dress of gay colored chintz, tucktd up, laced boddice, cottage cap, small white apron, striped stockings. Second dress: Indian silk dress, made in same style as the first. Peasant dresses, in same style as Jaqueline, but none in white. A R M A N D. ACT I. . SCENE I. A beautiful part of the Garden of Versailles. Fountain of Neptune with statues. Le Sage walking about as though musing. Le Sage. Solve me this problem, Le Sage, if thou canst. Why should the Duke d'Antin occupy his thoughts with a young peasant? Why so earnestly desire that his majesty should behold her 1 Unquestionably there is a mystery ; indubitably a mystery ! But thou shalt solve it, Le Sage ! Thou hast a head, — incontestibly a head, — unqualifiedly a wise head, — \Enter Duke d'Antin, l. 1 e. Undoubtedly a head that sees — jy Ant. Better than your eyes, I trust, Le Sage. Le Sage. Pardon, your Grace. Indisputably I did not observe you. jy Ant. I am all impatience to learn what took place last evening. Le Sage. Your Grace shall hear. Preparatively I need not inform your Grace that, obeying your orders, I made my- self acquainted with Dame Babette, down at the village, St. Denis, yonder. Listantaneously I discovered that your Grace had been rightly informed, and that the Duke de Richelieu frequently visits the dame's cottage in the garb of a citizen. Unsuspiciously i\\Q diSimQ, cdXl^ him Monsieur Antoine. B'Ant. All this I know ; proceed. Le Sage. Voluntarily ! B' Ant. You talked to the dame and her young charge of these charming gardens, as 1 ordered 1 10 ARMAND ; OR, [ACT. I. Le Sage. I painted the beauties of Versailles with the hand of an artist and the tongue of a poet! Mam'selle Blanche was enchanted. Courteously I promised to obtain her and the dame an admission ; accordingly, yesterday evening at dusk, when the garden was wholly deserted, I conducted them to this very spot. Secretly I then dis- patched Victor to the King. Insinuatingly he suggested to his Majesty, that a miraculously lovely young peasant girl had, with o, very talkative old woman, inexplicably ob- tained admission to his private gardens, and was wandering abpyt:in pcstaticalbj rustic delight. B' Ant. Go- cn; go on. Le Sage. Immediately I ly Ant. Did he come ? Did he see her ? Le Sage. Certainly. His Majesty was unsuspectedly dying of ennui. Involuntarily he revived at the thought of an adventure, iwudentially wrapped himself in a cloak, and unrejlectingly hastened to the garden. D'Ant. And then, — then he joined the peasants ? Le Sage. Indubitably. D'Ant. They did not suspect that he was the king ? Le Sage. Incontestibly not. B'Ant. He was fascinated with Blanche ? Le Sage. Indescribably ! D'Ant. He became joyous — elated — excited ? Le Sage. Extraordinarily ! B'Ant. Blanche was gay — artless — piquante ? Le Sage. Superlatively ! BAnt. Hush ! Victor comes this way. (crossing r.) Question him closely. This evening you shall have furtlier directions. Be cautious. IKvit r. 1 e. Le Sage. Invariably ! Enter Victor, l. 1 e. Victor. Ah ! Monsieur Le Sage, ice are charmed to en- counter you. Le Sage. Delightedly I salute his Majesty in miniature. Victor. If you reflect on our size, Monsieur Le Sage, we would inform you — Le Sage. That it is immeasurahly beneath my notice. — A particularly correct and pungently philosophical con- clusion. But, Monsieur Victor, a word concerning the young peasant, who yestereveuing, — SCKNK I.] THE PEER AND THE PEASANT. 11 Victor, Ah ! you touch ns nearly when you talk of her! Oitr love for the " illusive sex" — for such we deem them — is our Achilles' heel — our vulnerable point ! His Majesty, like ourself, has been cold for a season ; but once more the intoxicating effect of the tender passion has overpowered z<5. Enter King and Richelieu, l. 3 e. In a word, his Majesty is pleased with this young piece of incarnate loveliness, — we may say charmed. King. Boy, thou art overbold to speak of this To other than ourselves. Away, and be The answer to our wish when next you seek Our presence. Go! You comprehend us, sir? [Victor and Le Sage make a lotv obeisance. [Exeunt Victor and Le Sage, l. u. e. Here, Richelieu, is the consecrated spot Where I beheld her first. Here would I raise An altar, sacred, — not to love, (no rood Within our kingdom but were meet for that.) Be this to first impressions dedicated ! Rich. My liege ! I'm all impatience to behold The wondrous beauty — King. The wondrous beauty — nay ! I said not beauty — it was not what men Call beauty, that has thus enthralled my soul; It was the spirit's loftier loveliness. Unseen, — ethereal, and ineffable! Which breathed from her pure lips — gave to her step Its springing bound — her every movement lent Its airy grace — pervaded her whole being — Impregnated the air that kissed her robe. And with an atmosphere of purity Encircled her ! It was her voice whose music No sorrow yet had touched — her childlike prattle. By very artlessness made arch — her form, TJntortured to its light fragility By court accessories of beauty's toilet — Her affluent tresses, flowing unprofaned By touch of mocking powder, which had lain Upon their golden light, like fleecy clouds Upon the sun ! Rich. Now, heaven be thanked, my liege ! B 2 12 ARMAND; or, [Act, I. No rhapsody so Wvirm bath passed your hps A twelvemonth ! Duhiess ends her weary reign. 'Tis plain this young enchantress will dethrone hcF» King. In sooth, she shall ! Richelieu, n^y friend, be prompt ! With speed let this new constellation shine Upon our court. — Some noble dame select, Beneath her high protection place this maid. Nor rank, nor title shall she lack, to gild Her lowly origin — Enter Victor, l. u. e. and for the rest — Vic. Your pardon, sire ; the old woman — King. What ! is she come ? Conduct her hither. \Exit Victor, l. u. e. Now, Richelieu, use but your wonted skill, and we are once more your debtor. Rich. Sire, you have but to speak — to wish, and though she were some chaste inhabitant of the moon. Enter Victor, ushering Dame Babette, l. u. e. [Exit Victor, l. u. e. the vestal dweller of some star, she should exchange its light for — (Sees the Dame and starts hack greatly moved.) Heavens ! Babette ! King. Why do you stare so? You don't mistake this curious relic of antiquity for the fair one who holds me in thraldom ? Hich. Not exactly — that is, precisely — I thought so! — that is, I never thought so. If it were but my own fancy that had conjured up this spectre I \half aside. King. Spectre ? You are dreaming. The old lady ap- pears to us in a remarkably substantial condition. Bah. (glancing nervously at the King and away again while she talks) I'm all over in a flutter. I suppose its my place to speak first, though I never talk. I see they feel just as frightened as I do. Dear me ! how they stare, to be sure. If Blanche was only here, she'd wonder at the observation that some people sometimes attract. (After an effort). Gentlemen, I hope I do not confuse you. I'm really quite alarmed myself, before such well-dressed cava- liers. I was sent for here, but I say nothing, I never talk, as everybody knows. I was sent for, that's all — I Scene I.] the peer and the peasant. 13 do'nt know why, so shall not say. (King retires up, she crosses to Richelieu.) If you could inform me, Sir, for I'm but a poor woman — I live down at the vil--lage yon— der — [as she is speaking the last icords she looks very intently at Richelieu and gradually re- cognizes him. Blessed Mother! it is Monsieur Antoine ! Rich, (aside to her) Silence, fool ! Bab. Silence, forsooth ! as if I ever talk ! Ah, Monsieur Antoine, to think of finding you here and dressed so grand. Rich. Hush! King, (who has come forward attracted hy Rahette' s exclamation) Why, Richelieu, the old dragon seems to have recognized a friend ! Bah. Richelieu? Hey, what? Richelieu! (Richelieu silences her by an action.) Oh! I say nothing ! Rich, (crosses c.) Quite a ridiculous affair — ha, ha ! (trying to laugh.) The old gentlewoman — ha, ha! — she actually fancies she has traced a likeness between me, and some relation who died in the last century, sire ! Bab. Sire! sire? His Majesty? Oh blessed Mary? Holy St. Dennis ! And last night I talked in such a way — that is, I said nothing — I never talk — what will become of me? (falling on her knees.) Pardon — your Majesty — pardon ! I did not know you — I never suspected you ! And was it you last evening that— Oh, pardon ! pardon! Ki7ig. Nonsense, my good woman; your breach of decorum will not put your head in jeopardy. Bab. Oh! I hope not, your Majesty, (rising). Holy St. Anthony! My neck has grown quite stiff at the thought ! King. We leave you with the duke who will communi- cate our commands. [Exit. r. 2 e. Bab. Duke? Oh! Monsieur Antoine, are you a duke! and such a familiar way as I've treated you this many a year. If you will only condescend to pardon me ! (falling upon her knees again.) Rich. A truce to this folly. Rise and listen to me. Dame, for on your implicit obedience hangs your future welfare — perhaps your life. Bab. Life ! life ! Oh ! Surely you won't kill me ? Monsieur Antoine — I mean your Grace, consider my years 14 ARMAND; or, [Act I. — Mercy ! mercy ! Oh ! my poor neck will be stiff for a year. Rich. Be silent, and listen. You were walking last evening in these gardens with Blanche, — by what unlucky chance you came here — by what strange means obtained admission, I have not time to learn. The King saw Blanche — is enamoured of her — desires that she shall be presented at court. Bah. Blessed Mary ! what an honor ! and I — his jMa- jesty saw me too — of course his most gracious Majesty expects me to be presented also? Oh ! I'm in such a flutter — how shall I live through it? Rich. Are you determined to distract me ? Blanche — Bab. I understand — I understand — she is to be pre- sented at court. Rich. She shall die first? Bab. Hey? what? die! Rich. Yes, die ! Bab. Well, your Highness, I say nothing. — But little Blanche ! To see her in her grave ! And after all the fine learning you have given her ! And to have her miss being presented at court too ! — Why she always walked and talked — yes, when she was but two years old she walked like a queen — and since the King, his gracious Majesty, has so graciously looked upon her — Rich. Ay! — he has looked on her I And that one look has like a flash of scathing lightning blasted her whole existence ! (ci^osses to r. n.) Bab. Well now I can't understand where' s the harm. Rich. Listen, Babette. The King has commissioned me to conduct Blanche to the palace — to-morrow evening is the latest moment to which I can postpone his orders — she must be saved from the profanation even of his suit, and the energy of my will alone can save her. You, and you only, can aid me — you must, you shall aid me ! To- morrow morning at your cottage I will communicate my project, and I warn you that I shall exact the most implicit obedience. Bab. And Blanche won't be presented at court ? Nor I neither ? My lord Duke, I to refuse such an honor! An honor that would make half the village die with envy ! Enter r. 2 e. King and Duke d'Antin. Scene L] the peer AND THE PEASANT. 15 liich. (seizing her by the arm) Fool ! I tell you that JBlanche never — never — (sees the King — suddenly releases Bubette, and changes his tone and manner) never should refuse such a — such a distinguishing mark of his Majesty's favor. Bab. There now, that's just what I said, your highness, and you would not listen to me. Just what I was telling him, your Majesty! Such an honor for us both. — I am ready to expire at the very thought ! When Dame Barbara knows it — but I say nothing — nobody shall hear it from me. King. Why, Duke, this is a novel mode of proceeding. It seems you were executing our orders h\ force of arms 1 Rich. Your Majesty is facetious. This droll old woman — ha, ha, ha ! I can't help laughing at her tenacity — having conscientious scruples, she refused — Bab. I ? I refused 1 Refuse such an honor ? Oh ! your jMajesty — Rich, (aside to her) Another -word and it shall cost you dear ! Bab. Oh! dear! how fierce Monsieur Antoine has grown since he became a Duke ! King. There is some enigma here ! B'Antin. Which your IMajesty may find diversion in solving, (aside to him.) Rich. Dame Babette, you will remember the directions you have received, and to-morrow — Bab. Then your mind is changed? — you consent? — and to-morrow we shall have the honor — such an honor — Oh ! your Grace, when you forbade me just now, I felt — King. Forbade you ? Why, Richelieu, is the old wo- man mad ? Rich. I believe so, sire. — I really believe so! — There, you are at liberty to go. That way — that way. [trying to lead her towards the entrance, she takes a step or two and persists in turning back. Bab. Oh! I have not saluted his gracious Majesty! [bi'eaAs away from Richelieu, and curtsies low to the King. I wouldn't have your Majesty think me wanting in manners — when I am to be presented at court too. Such an honor! You see. Monsieur Antoine — that is, his highness — I can't help calling him Monsieur Antoine, on account— IG armand; or, [Act I. Rich. On account of the likeness. His Majesty knows — you tire his Majesty. Go! go! \tryiny to force her away. Bab. The hkeness ? What hkeness? I beg pardon for fatiguing your Majesty. I was only going to say — Rich, (still forciny her) His Majesty djes not desire to hear. Go, go. Bah. I am gone, soon as I have made my salute. [breakiny from him, she curtsies ayain to the Kiny, crosses, and yoiny, returns. The other grand-looking old gentleman — I have not made my reverence to him yet. Oh ! I'll shew them breeding, now that I am to be presented at court ! [ctpproaches Duke d'Antiri and curtsies low. Rich. Dame — Kiny. Nay, Richelieu, we are amused at her vagaries. Rich. Oh, Sire ! I see you are much annoyed. Are you coming ? \to Babette. Bab. But his Majesty says he is amused, and — ^ ^ Rich. Come, come I say ! [Forciny her. I 1^ ■£V^''^' \ But Richelieu— )>| Kiny. S I Bab. His Majesty says he is amused ! | S* Rich. Come ! come ! J ^ [King and d'Antin, r. Richelieu /orc/»^ out Babette, l. ivho endeavours to return. liND OF ACT Scene I.] THE PEEil AND THE PEASANT. 17 ACT IL SCENE I. Room in the Cottage o/Dame Babette, r. h. f. open door, L.. H. F. large open window, shewing a country scene. Chamber door right and left. Dame Babette with a letter in her hand. Jaqueline, seated on a low stool at window, making garlands of small green branches. Chairs and tables, jug and tin cup on table. Bab. Well, well, the Duke must be obeyed — and I must say nothing of his being a Duke; — but no fear of that — I never talk. He will be here presently, and I must send for Blanche. Poor little Blanche, she will lose her May-day sport; but then the honor of receiving a Duke! Here, Jaquehne, child, throw down those garlands, run to the green, and tell Blanche she must hasten home directly. Jaq. Not I, indeed, mother! Bid Blanche hasten home on May-day? I shan't think of such a thing. Be- sides, Blanche begged me to weave more garlands for the may-pole. Bab. Never mind the garlands, chatterbox ; go and tell Blanche she cannot dance upon the green to-day. I need her home. Jaq. (still working at the garland) Just as if the villagers would let her go, mother ! They can do nothing without Blanche! They would come and carry her away by force. Bab. Stop talking, nimble-tongue! What a fondness these young ones have for chattering. Ah! they'll be as silent as I am when they grow old ! There ! (snatching away the garland,) leave the green things and go ! Jaq. Blanche won't come — I would'nt if I were she. Oh! I'll go; but Blanche shall have her garlands, if I make them on the road, (gathers up the garlands.) Who do you sup- pose would disappoint our Blanche ? [rims out door, off l. Bab. How fast the child talks! Where she got her fondness for chattering, I can't tell; her poor father was as silent as a post, and I'm sure its not from me. Enter Jaq,ueline, running, r. d. f. Jaq. Didn't I tell you, mother, they would never let 18 ARMAND; or, [Act II. Blanche come? She insisted, and the villagers insisted ou coming along with her, and they intend to carry her away again, (rustic music without.) Hark ! there is the music, they will be here in a moment. Bah. The villagers coming here! Oh dear. Oh dear, I shall be ruined if the Duke finds them. Run, tell Blanche that I want her alone, and they must not enter. Tell her my poor neck — no, no, — tell her they must not come in. Jaq. I'll tell her, but she wont mind; I would' nt if I were she. \Exit. c. off \^. r. d. f. Bah. (music) There they come sure enough! Oh, dear, what shall I do to get rid of them! If the Duke finds them and gets angry, I shall die of fright ! Oh ! my poor neck — I shall never again be sure that I have it on my shoulders. Blanche ! Blanche ! Is Blanche coming? \^Lusic, inano, through speech — stop at end of it. Enter Blanche, r. d. f. Blan. Yes, Dame, here is Blanche. Bab. Good child ! good child ! Blan. Nay, Dame, pay homage to our Majesty I I'm chosen Queen, dear Dame, the Queen of May! You do not smile — prithee, what serious thought Has cast its grave reflection on thy face? Bab. I was thinking how beautiful a crown — a real crown — a crown of gold and jewels — would look upon your head. Blan. A crown? Why you are dreaming, Dame, at mid-day ! Bab. And if I am, there's something, sometimes, in some dreams — but I say nothing — only wouldn't you like to dream of wearing such a crown. Blan. No, in good sooth, not I ! This woven band Of dewy wild flowers lightlier girds my head, And circles in its ring but happy thoughts! Then for my King — whom think you I have chosen! Bab. Wait 'till you see the King himself. Blan. Has he a nobler mien — a loftier look — A braver, truer, purer heart than Armand? Bab. Have you forgotten the cavalier who walked with us in the Gardens of Versailles? Blan. No, I remember him, — 'twas but last night. Bab. Then listen, what would you say if he were the Scene L] the peer AND THE PEASANT. 19 King ! the true King ! Louis XV., the King of France ! Oh dear ! what would you say to that? Blan. "Why if he were the King — in truth the King — I could but say that wayward nature played On fortune's favorite a most idle trick! While to the humble artizan she gave The aspect, soul, and bearing of a king! Bab. Oh dear, Oh dear! what a young traitor! Its very fine talk — yet for all that there's a great difference between your Armand and the King — I mean the cava- lier. Blan. I grant you that, dear Dame, difference indeed ! How different seemed in each like attributes; The lightness of the cavalier to me Seemed senseless levity, while Armand's mirth Is the o'erflowing gladness of a heart At ease. Each had his separate pride — one pride. The scorn that narrow minds from narrower minds Inherit. But our Armand's pride looks down In scorn upon mean acts alone — disdains But falsehood — spurns but vice — rebels against Injustice only — while he arrogates No merit to his virtues ! Men may bow The knee to royalty, but there's a more Enduring, and more sacred homage all Must feel for what is better than themselves! Bab. How these young ones talk to be sure ! You'll sing a new burden to your song before long. You must think no more of Armand. Blan. What — think no more of Armand ? is he not The very centre of my thoughts, round which All feelings and all hopes alike revolve. As planets circle round their sun ? But, Dame, Thou dear, mysterious and oracular Dame — What boding dreams have mocked you through the night? Or what portentous omens have you seen ? Nay, speak; prithee, what has befallen thee ? Bab. Oh, don't ask me. — I say nothing. — You know I never talk. (Villagers ivithout) Where is our Queen? our Queen ! Bring us our Queen ! [Armand and Villagers appear at window. 20 armand; or, [Act II. Arm. (without) Patience, my friends, your patience while I seek her, And for an instant tarry where you are ! Enter Armand lightly and quickly, r. d. f. Arm. Blanche! Blanche! Queen Blanche ! where are you dallying ? Your subjects grow rebellious to behold you! Ah ! who can wonder that they cannot live From thy sweet sight ! And I, the least of all. Good-morrow Dame, they've sent me here to claim Our faithless sovereign. Come, thou truant queen. Bah. No such thing, Monsieur Armand; Maniselle Blanche remains where she is. Arm. Heyday! what next? ii/ow,s<>2«r Armand, forsooth. And Mcanselle Blanche! how courteous we have grown! You're almost too polite Madame Babette ! Bab. Maniselle Blanche cannot dance upon the green to-day. Blan. Not dance, dear Dame, when I am chosen queen? And I, in turn, have chosen xVrmand king ! Good Dame ! dear Dame ! indeed, but I must dance ! Arm. Are you possessed, my good Madame Babette ? The villagers would tear your cottage down. Nonsense ! Come, little queen, they wait for us. The Dame is but our subject after all ! Obedience is her duty, and not ours. Good-day, good Dame — good-day, Madame Babette! [Puts his arm around the ivaist of Blanche, and is running with her to the door. Babette intercepts them, and leads Blanche away. Bab. (with great dignity) Stay where you are, Blanche, I order you! You are to receive a visitor. The Duke will be here presently. ml] Tl>eDuke! Bab. Who said anything about a Dnke ? I'm sure I did'nt! My foolish tongue. But it's just like me — that is, it's not at all like me — I never talk. I mean Monsieur Antoine will be hero, and desires to sec Blanche upon par- ticular business. Monsieur Armand, I must request you to retire. Scene I.] the PEER AND THE PEASANT. 21 Ann. No; I remain to bid Monsieur Antoine Make haste, and tell him we await our queen. Bab. (angrily) Monsieur Armand, I tell you — Blan. (crosses c.) Go, dear Armand, the Dame desires it— go! Come for me in an hour. May he, good Dame? Sa}'- yes — now do say yes — you smile the yes — You will not speak — and a consent is twice Consent that with a smile is given. And now Armand, for one short hour, we say farewell. Arm. Sweet sovereign, I can scarcely disregard Your first command, although this banishment Is tyranny. " Farewell, I shall return " Before our garlands wither, though to me *' Their freshness and their beauty vanish with ** The hands that wove them" — fare thee well, my Blanche! Madame Bahette and dignity, good day! [Exit. r. d. f. Bab. Such wonders as I have to tell you! — such won- ders! — but I shan't say anything about it. Only suppose it was the King w^e saw at Versailles ! I say suppose — and suppose that Monsieur Antoine was a great Lord! Only suppose — for I say nothing — I know how to hold my peace. Hark! I hear the wheels of a carriage. Go to your room, child, for I must speak with him alone. Go ! Go ! — Blan. But, Dame, I'm only queen for one short day, My crown may fade, my sceptre wither up Before I use them — so I pray thee haste To free me. You'll remember? will you, Dame? [Exit into chamber, r. 2 e. Enter Duke de Richelieu, r. d. f. — comes down l. h. Bab. Oh ! dear, if she only knew that the King him- self — a real King — Oh! your Highness, (brings chair down c.) the walls of my poor habitation are so honored by your presence that they — Rich. Where is Blanche ? Bah. In her chamber, your Highness, waiting your gracious pleasure. They were just going to dance upon the green when I sent for her. Shall I summon her ? Rich. I first must speak to you — mark well my words! Blanche must be saved — the King must never more Behold her — to remove her secretly, "Would be impossible — yet at the risk 22 ARMAND; or, [Act II. Of life, be it her's or mine — or both — she shall Not breathe the court's contaminating air. Bab. But the honor, your Grace, the honor ! Rich. Be silent, woman ! at your peril make Ready to do my bidding. Bab. Oh ! How terrible these grand people are ! Mon- sieur — I mean, my Lord, on my knees I swear to obey you! Rich. That's well — since flight then is impossible. Death only can protect her from the King — Bab. Death ! commit murder ! Monsieur Antoine, murder poor little Blanche? Oh! how terrible ! But I say nothing — what a Duke commands of course is right — but death — Oh ! my poor Blanche ! Rich. A seeming death may serve — so that the King Shall think it real. There are drugs which produce A sleep that seems the very twin of death. Yet do not harm the sleeper. Take this phial. Its contents have pla^-ed servants to my wish Before to-day : Blanche too must prove their power. The liquid, look, is colorless: 'tis tasteless. And not immediate in its influence. Your part is to administer the draught. Bab. Oh ! no Monsieur Antoine, I dare not touch it, — I shall never have courage. Rich. You have already sworn, you shall abide Your oath. Take it, I say: act cautiously, And in your act be speedy. Bab. This is to deal with great persons ! What shall I do? What shalll do? Ricfi. Do as I command you — be quick and silent ! Bab. Silent, indeed! your Grace, as if I ever said anything! Blan. (music) [opening the door. May I come in ? Dear Dame, the stirring sound Of the glad music through my casement steals — My feet dance to it of their own accord, And threaten shortly to dance aftei' it ! 1 give you warning, Dame ! Rich. Come hither, Blanche. Blan. (crosses to c.) Monsieur Antoine — but is it you indeed ? Your face and voice I know, or this rich garb Scene I.] the peer and the peasant. 23 Had well disguised you — I could half believe It was no jest, when Dame Babette declared That Monsieur Antoine was a lord ! Bab. Ah ! your Highness, excuse her — she will talk — she won't learn to say nothing as I do. Blanche, control that little tongue of yours, lest it give offence to his Grace, the Duke — the Duke of Richelieu ! Blan. Richelieu! Oh! no — Richelieu that bold, bad man. Monsieur Antoine whom I have known so long — Have loved so well — the Duke de Richelieu — no — That cannot be ! — [sinks into chair. Rich. Who taught the child this folly? Bab. Oh ! indeed, your Grace, I didn't — I never said a word about it I'm sure. Rich. Blanche — ha! she faints! Bring water and take this. Fortune, I thank thee! Take it. \Jiands her the phial unperceived bij Blanche. Bab. I dare not! I dare not! Rich. Take it! Fool! (imperativehj). Bab. Oh! dear, I must! \_takes the phial, goes to table^ pours out water and mixes the liquid with it. Rich. Child, you are ill — Blan. No, no, I am not ill — I was confused — Stunned at the thought — don't heed me. I am well ! [Babette hands her the glass, turning away her head. I do not need it, Dame. Rich. (taJdng the glass) Drink, drink ! your lips Are quivering — you are fainting — drink ! you must — Must drmkl Blan. (looks icifh surprise in his face, and calmly takes the glass) If you desire it, certainly — [drinks. Rich, [aside as she is drinking, (laughing) Richelieu, when did thy star abandon thee! Blan. I do not understand — Rich. Ay, but you shall I Go, dance, they wait you on the green — [crosses to Babette ivho stands motio?dess. Why stand You there as you were petrified ? Come, rouse Yourself. Bid her go dance — Fool! rouse yourself ! Sweet Blanche — go dance — light foot, and joyous heart! 24 armand; or, [Act II. The wise man cogs the dice and laughs at fate, (aside) [r. d. f. exit hastily, off r. Blan. Why, Dame — why do you stand so motionless ? "Why gaze upon me thus with that fixed look Of wondering terror ? Dame, — dear Dame Babette, Will you not speak ? pray you — do speak to me! Bab. (recovering, throws herself iveeping upon Blanche's neck) My poor, poor Blanche! Blan. Poor Blanche? nay Dame, I needs must laugh at that. Bab. You seemed so happy ! Blan. Then did I — do I seem the thing I am ! Seem happy^iow could I seem otherwise? 'Tis happiness to me to live — to be ! INIy very instincts — nay, the"very use Of every separate sense by which we hold Commiunion visible with external being Is happiness! To gaze upon the sky Arched in blue glory o'er my upturned head — The forms of beauty, called by loving spring Out of the affluent bosom of the earth; The sun, beneath whose warm, resplendent light All nature teems : these simplest, daily things, Which custom cannot strip of loveliness. To look on these is to be happy ! — is To feel my bosom swell with gratitude To him who made them, to make us more blest! Bab. Oh! Blanche! Blanche! \inusic heard at a distance. Blan. Hark ! 'tis the villagers ; they come for me. And Armand, too, expects his queen. Good Dame, My subjects must not wait. Adieu ! Adieu ! [going. Bab. Blanche! Blanche! My child ! my kind, light- hearted child, embrace me. Do not go until you've said that you forgive me. Blan. (embracing her J Forgive you, Dame ! What crime have I to pardon. Except, indeed, too doting love for me. What ails you? You are weeping ? What's the matter? Bab. No, no, I'm not — I'm not weeping. Oh, my darling Blanche ! [bursts into tears. Blan. Can I have wounded you, dear Dame ? Scene II.] the peer and the peasant. 25 Bab. Wound me? Did you ever wound a fly ? I've seen you brush away with careful hand the very insect that had stung you. {Music ivithout.) They are coming for you. Go to the green. Go, go, Blan. First, with a kiss, let me seal up the fountains Of those dear eyes, where tear and smile contend. Like April sun and rain, they know not why. Now for my crown and sceptre. Dame, adieu ! [As Blanche is running off Armand appears at the door. [Exeunt r. d. f. Bab. Blessed mother, guard her ! That dreadful drug! If harm comes to her, I shall never know a happy hour ! Oh, this it is to deal with grand people. Yet for all that, he is a duke ; and to be sure, what a duke says must be right. How could a duke do anything wrong? [Ejcit into chamber, r, SCENE II. Village green. A maypole iii the centre dressed with long garlands hanging to the ground. Jaqueline, Eti- enne, Jacot, and Villagers busied about it. Music playing. Several Villagers as musicians, with pipes and tabors. Jac. Give another look towards old Babette's cottage, Etienne, and tell us if you see our queen. Etien. I see two figures yonder, through the trees. They turn this way. Yes, 'tis Blanche, and Armand is with her. Jac. Then hurrah for the dance, hurrah for the king and the queen! Finish with your garlands, and let us dance. Enter Armand a«J Blanche r. u. e. Arm. A.J, for a dance, make ready, lads and lasses. And be your hearts as light as are your feet, In honor of the May. [Blanche puts her hand to her head and app}ears to be ill. Blanche, you are ill ! Your eyes are heavy, and your cheek how pale ! Blan. Oh ! no, no, Armand ; I am well — quite well. And yet I think my very happiness Oppresses me ; a faintness steals upon 26 armand; or, [Act II. My yielding sense, as if it were the languor Of a content so perfect, it could wish For nothing on this earth it hath not now, But on the far-off future shuts its eyes. Arm. Our future, Blanche! It must indeed be bright To vie in promise with the present joy ! We live in that which is, and so defy What maij be. Let the unknown future bring Us years — long years of unimagin'd woe. — It cannot steal the lustre from these hours, •' Whose very memory would irradiate •*The darkest, time and fate can hold in store!" Blan. " How should the placid current of our lives ** Bear aught but flowers upon its laughing tide? " And yet, I sometimes think to see it ruffled. '* Thou and thy state, Armand, are not akin; " And thy ambition wakes my fear — Yet why! — " Why should he feel ambition to he great, *' Whose nobler struggle, in a nobler strife, •* Has made him good''' Arm. *' My nature is not cast, " Sweet Blanche ! in mould so true and pure as thine *' Ambition winds itself about the root " Of every vigorous mind. Ambition gives •* The startling impulse to its higher action ! " Ambition spurs it on — sustains — inspires ! *' And, rear the better beacon which shall guide " Ambition's course aright, it is no more " A vice !" Blan. ** Ah! when I listen to thee, Armand, *' I tremble lest the artizan's poor garb •' Should hide the warrior's danger-loving heart." Arm. " Nay, Blanche, to love my country with my soul ** Is nor to love the warrior's perils — nor " His triumphs. — All men, be they high or humble, '' Owe to the land that gives them birth a tribute ! *' And with his talents man may pay the debt, *' Or with his industry, or with his blood!" Blan. " Oh, never with the last ! I could not live ** And see thee pay it! How is this? we both '* Are grave, though this bright morn would bid us think " Of gladness only. Come, my king, be sure Scene II.] the PEER AND THE PEASANT. 27 " That I shall chicle thee, if I trace a shadow ** Upon thy brow." Ann. '" And shall I not chide thee " For that white lip and cheek, on which the rose " So lately bloomed?" Come, let us dance, my queen! To quicken in thy veins the timid blood, And stain these lilies with a healthier red. Jacot, Etienne, are you not ready yet? Jac. Most excellent and worthy sovereigns ! we but wait your pleasure. Arm. Now, Blanche, for thy light foot. Come, lads, a dance ! \_Maypole dance with garlands. Towards the dose, Blanche appeal's to grow fatigued, and falls suddenly in Ar- mand's arms, as if fainting . Blan. Armand, I cannot — I am weary — stay — Arm. Thou weary, Blanche; whose airy foot were match For the blithe humming bird's untiring wing? Great Heaven ! How pale thou art ! thou tremblest, too ! Blan. 'Tis only weariness — so — let me rest. — (falls, c.) My head is strangely heavy, and before My eyes a floating vapour spreads itself. Armand, I scarce can see thee. — Art thou there? Arm. Blanche! Blanche! my own, my only love ! Oh, Heaven ! she grows more ghastly white. Etienne ! Quick, fly for help, — and Jaqueline bring Babette ! [^Exeunt Jaqueline and Etienne, r. u. e. How cold thou art ! Speak to me, Blanche! thou hearest me? Tell me thou hearest me ! Blan. Yes, Armand, yes, I hear thee, my beloved, yet I feel — That we are parting — death — Arm. We cannot part ! This is not death ! no, no, we will not part! Blan. Nay, Armand, war not thou with heaven's high will ! Death cannot break the bond that knits our souls! Shall I not be thy bride — there — where I go To wait thee? For awhile we needs must part ! — ■ Death's icy finger chills and clogs my blood. Like frost it falls upon my heavy eyes — And yet I seem to see! A luminous mist Envelopes all things round me — through its veil c 2 28 armand; or, [Act. II. A threshold paved with Hght appears — beyond, A land of flowers — and now bright forms in robes Of radiant white are flitting ronnd me — ah! They bear me from thee. Armand! Oh! Armand! I cannot see thee — though I feel thine arms Girdle my frozen limbs ! Arm, Thou wilt not leave me, Distract me not — but once more speak — let me Once more drink in the music of thy voice! Speak to me! Give me one last proof of love. Blan. Armand — I do — this — [i-aises herself with an effort, feebly kisses him and sinks back apparently dead. Arm. 'Twas her first kiss! Thou pitying heaven, — let it not be her last ! She is not dead! dost thou not hear me, Blanche ? No, no, she is not dead! It were to lose The sun that warms with life — to lose the light That tells the presence of that sun, — it were To lose the air we breathe, to lose thee, Blanche! I stifle at the thought ! My life's sole light Is endless darkness now — Oh! Blanche, my Blanche! My earth and heaven! all peace — all joys — all dreams — All blessings, and all hopes, are gone with thee! [Flings himself upon the ground beside Blanche. Pea- sants group) around them. Tableau. Slow Curtain. END OF ACT II. Scene I.] the peer and the peasant. 29 ACT III. SCENE I. An Antechamber in the Palace of Versailles. Enter Le Sage l. and Victor r. Vic. Monsieur Le Sage! our dear Monsieur Le Sage! We are overwhelmed by the sight of his Majesty's affliction. One moment he is hke an angry child disappointed of its plaything, the next a very woman deluged in tears. But we can sympathize with him ; we know the pangs which a passion for th' illusive sex too surely inflicts. We have suffered ourselves. Le Sage. Possibly. Vic. His Majesty's new despondency will once more shed a gloom over the whole court. Le Sage. Inevitably ! Enter Duke d'Antin, r. 1 e. jy Ant. Le Sage ! Le Sage. Listantaneously, your Highness. D'Ant. My words are for your ear alone. Vic. We shall withdraw, my Lord. [j'etires up r. UAnt. The young peasant is dead. Le Sage. Dejiniiively I jy Ant. A death so sudden, so improbable, so unac- countable, excites mistrust. If the report be false, — I have my doubts, vague and unconfirmed, still I doubt her death. The King must be persuaded to visit old Babette's cottage, and himself behold the corse, if corse there be. This Doyish page can at all times gain the ear of Louis. Often when the voices of our most powerful courtiers were un- heeded, his suggestions have received attention. You comprehend me? Le Sage. Distinctly ! B'Ant. His Majesty must cross this antechamber when he leaves his apartment. You will remain here and see that the opportunity is not lost ? Le Sage. Decidedly ! B'A?it. I shall be in the gardens an hour hence (crosses L.) You will join me there. [Exit l. 1 e. 30 armand; or, [Act III. Le Sage. Punctually ! Vic. (comin (J forward, -L.) fr^(? consider his Grace the Duke d'Antin the most sonribre person o^ our acquaintance. Le Sar/e. Incontestabhj and induhitahly ! Vic. Henceforth his Majesty may prove as sombre. Alas ! unhappy King ! Le Sage. Appropriately — has his iVIajcsty taken a last farewell of the poor little peasant? Vic. We believe not. Le Sage. VndeniahJy his i\Iajesty listens to your voice, when he is deafly disposed to all others ? Vic. You flatter vs. Le Sage. Had I been you I should urgently have per- suaded him to behold her once more. Vic. It never occurred to us; and you think tve should do so? Le Sage. Seriously; but the Duke de Richelieu would inevitably object. Vic. Monsieur Le Sage, learn that ice can overrule the Duke. Le Sage. Profoundly credulous as are my inclinations, I must consider that assertion incredibly dubious. Vic. (roused) We will give you proof, Monsieur Le Sage, — incontestably — incont rover tibly — indisputably — in- dubitably multiplied proof. The King shall visit the Dame's cottage this very da}^ and Richelieu shall be kept in ig- norance of his movements. Le Sage. JJnavoidably I shall believe when unexpectedly I see. But look how opportunely his Majesty approaches. I leave you experimentally to disprove or confirm your as- severations, [crosses l. Vic. Do you mean to doubt. Monsieur Le Sage, that we shall do the latter? Le Sage. Indubitably, and I trust inoffensively. [Exit L. H. Vic. We deem that a malicious aspersion upon our character. Enter King r. 1 e., a7id is liensively crossing the stage. Your Majesty, — King. Victor, is it you ? I scarcely know a face, save yours, boy, I could to-day endure about me. Vic. We are com — Your Majesty comjiliments me. Scene IL] the peer AND THE peasant, 31 Alas ! Sire, your grief has fallen heavily upon our — upon my heart. King. One by one have all life's joys been snatched away from me, and now to lose her too, — never to see her more. Vic. Might not your Majesty find your sorrow assuaged by the sight of her still unchanged loveliness ? Will your Majesty deign to listen to the humblest of your subjects \ If you could but be persuaded to visit the Dame's cottage, — We have a — /have a presentiment that you will find a sad consolation in the effort. King. What matters it whither I go ? The very wind that blows upon me can urge me on or draw me back, I have lost all impulses of my own. Vic. Your Majesty then will grant my petition? King. I care not to refuse it. Vic. And your Majesty will permit us — that is me, to be your sole attendant? Your sorrow would be desecrated by the presence of those that did not share it. King. Even so. The very thought of beholding her once again — beholding her even in the frosty arms of death, reanimates me. Yes, we will go, — and instantly. [Exit R. H. Vic. (aside) Monsieur Le Sage, we shall convict you of being philosophically and adverbially incorrect. We at- tend your Majesty. \Exit r. h. SCENE II. A chamber ^V^DAME Babette's Cottage. Set doorSy r. & l. \st E. In the centre a Couch upon which Blanche is extended apparently dead. White flowers upon her brow and in her hands. A white wreath hung at the foot and at the head of the bed. At the head, a table covered with ivhite, holding twelve candles in the form of a cross, eleven lighted and one extinguished. Around the couch, a group of Village Maidens. Jaqueline, kneeling at the foot. Arm and, standing at the head. Arm. Jaqueline, — my friends, — grant what I ask. — Leave me awhile alone with her. You loved her well, — But I — I — [bursts into tears. 52 ARMAND; or, [Act in. Jaq^. Our Blanche never denied a request of yours, Armand, nor will we who loved her so dearly do so. \Exit slowly and sorrovjfully, followed by all the maidens. Arm. (after gazing awhile on Blanche.) Oh! Blanche! my own — though lost — still, still my ownl A little while I yet may gaze on thee. And in the treasury of my soul may store The memory of each stiff'ning lineament Where beauty lingers still! " It cannot be! *' Shall those soft eyes no more look into mine, " Nor veil themselves w hen with too bold a joy " I gazed within their azure depths? shall love, " "With its aurora, tint thy cheek no more? " The low, glad music of thy voice, no more " Sunder those gentle lips, with words that fell " Like blessings on the ears that took them in ? " My Blanche! my other and my better self! *' How weary seems the path I thought to climb " Thy hand in mine, — thy smile to light me on, *' Thy sunny presence to make glad each step! " Alone life's burden must be borne — alone *' The struggling heart crush underneath its weight!" A holy smile yet hovers on thy face. As though the angels, when they summoned thee. One golden glimpse of Paradise revealed. And left that happy print upon thy lip. No, no! thou art not lost — we are not parted! For Heavenward as my tearful eyes I tum, A radiant vision meets them there, and bids Me guard my soul, unsullied by a deed That could divide us in that land of joy! My heart hath but one wish — my life one hope — All time one joy — that of rejoining thee! \Sinks at the head of the couch, and buries his head in his hands. Enter Victor, ushering in the King, l. d. 1 e. [Exit Victor, l. d. King. A secret awe has paralyzed my limbs — I scarcely dare — {approaching the couch, perceives Armand) Ha! what is this! a youth O'erwhclmed with grief, kneeling beside her corse? Scene II.] the peer ANt) The peasant. 33 They said she had no kin. Young man, rise up : What sorrow bows thee thus? Arm. It hes before you ! King. This maiden, surely was no kin of thine? Ar77i. No kin; yet more, far more, than kin could be I Alike, we never knew those tender ties Of kinship, which link man to man — yet all— A father's, mother's, sister's, brother's place, Each in the other's soul had trebly filled ! King. You loved her then? Ar7n. Loved her ? the earliest page In memory's record held but that young love. From boyhood up to youth — from youth to manhood — Each tenderer thought — sublimer aspiration — And purer hope was woven with that love. Our very natures blended as we grew, My spirit, gentleness from her's imbibed. And her's its strength and vigor caught from mine ! Our childish tears upon each other's breast Were ever shed. Our childish laughter rang The changes of its mingling mirth together. And in each other's joy all childhood's blessings Were mirrored — magnified — and multiplied ! King. Tell me thy name? Arm. Armand ! I have no other ! King. Thy parentage? Arm. I know it not; a foundling By strangers reared, I am the people's child ! From them I know not that I spring, yet would Believe so; for I ask no name save that Myself shall win. I bless the generous fate That gave no noble blood to swell my veins. For had I from the hands of accident Nobility received, I could not prove My juster title to that high noblesse No revolutions level and destroy : The true noblesse of genius and of worth. King. Would'st thou not serve thy country? Arm. With my sword Or with my life. — She gave it — should she need it, 'Tis hers ! King. " Well answered. — Dost thou love thy King? 34 ARMAND ; OR, [AcT. III. Arm, *' At least I love all virtues of all men ! " Upon the loftier height the man is placed, ** His virtues more resplendent shine — his vices " More hideous seem — the virtues of my King " Above the virtues of more common men — " I prize for they have wider sphere of good. King. *' Thy speech is something less than frank. Arm. •' I meant " It frankly; I have never yet had cause " To blush for my free thoughts, why should I hide them? King. Thy boldness pleases me ; Armand, to day Thy King saddles for Fontenoye. — Join thou His battle line, and in the warrior ranks, AYhere sure distinction must on valour wait. Upon the beaten foeman's banner write The name thy worth shall win. Arm. My heart leaps up Even at the thought. — My choice had asked no more — To die in battle for my country ! — What Is left me on this earth to live for now ? King. Nay, live, that I may cancel valour's claim With noble meed. Arm. Who then art thou? King. Thy King ! Arm. (kneeling) INIy liege ! King. Aha ! thy words are free, and yet Thy knee can bend, it seems. Arm. When Duty bids My liege, it is as proud to bend, as when To all compulsion it disdains to bow. [Pause. King. Arise, Armand; the King but seldom sees His subjects' hearts unveiled. I value thine Because I trust it. Hence, w ithout delay ; At noon the Captain of my Guard will know My wishes — seek him at that hour thou; When next we meet, be it at Fontenoye ! Arm. My liege, not with my lips, but with my sword My gratitude shall thank thee ! [going, returns. Must I leave Thee, Blanche? But no, I will return to take One last farewell. My liege, at Fontenoye My arm shall prove my words. AtFontcnoye! [E.cit l. 1 e. Scene II.] the peer AND the PEASANT. 35 King, (approaching the couch, and gazing at Blanche) How potent is the sight of thee, O death! In quelHng ruder passions. Had she lived I should have crushed this man, her lover, like A worm beneath my foot ! Bereft of Blanche, His woe, is mine — and sympathy would seem To level me half-way to him, or raise Him to half-fellowship with me ! \^goes to couch. How passing fair ! The hand of death itself Hath only robed her in new loveliness ! Enter Richelieu, l. 1 e. {after advancing a step in the room, he starts at beholding the King. Rich, (aside) His Majesty ! great heaven, how came he hither ? The hour of her reviving must be near. Nay, at this very moment animation May to her dormant form return. — All's lost Unless — Your Majesty — [approaching him. King. Ah ! Richelieu, look ! Rich. This vain indulgence of your sorrow, sire, Is to yourself injurious. King. Richelieu — no — Look — death itself hath lost its wonted terrors, Touching her beauty but to borrow it ! Heath, did I say ? It doth not seem like death ! Rich, (inuch agitated) Not seem like death ? I pray your Majesty, Permit me, sire — let me conduct you hence. ¥ King. Not yet — not yet. Rich. I do implore you, sire — Ki?ig. How came the scythe to mow this lily down So soon — so suddenly — so timelessly ! How know I, but the same unholy means That robbed me of the beauteous Chateauroux, Again have snatched away the thing I loved ? If 'twere so, my rage — Rich. Nay, good my liege, Poison had left its blackening trace. King. True, true, It could not be. Oh, holy Powers! what's this? Her lifeless hand — is it the v^'armth of niiue 36 aRxMANd; or, [Act III. That lends it thus a heat unnatural? No death-like ice is here — 'tis scarcely cold ! Ilick. Confusion! she revives! (aside) My liege, my liege. These cheating phantasies — Your fevered brain — Pardon — but you must hence ! King. Surely a tinge Of faintest rose is spreading o'er her cheek I Rich. Sire, for the love of Heaven — King. Saw you not that? Her spotless drapery stirs — her bosom heaves — Rich. [^passing between the King and Blanche so as to j)r event his seeing her. There is no warmth — no tint of red — no breath — It was the air that dallied with her robe ! She's dead ! Your reason, sire — pardon this force Which love emboldens me to use. — I fear To see your reason by these phantasies Unsettled ! King. Ay, it is, or will be soon ! I cannot think her dead. — I saw her move — Look ! look ! she breathes ! Rich. Nay, sire, j-our reason wanders. \Jiurries him to the door King. I cannot leave her thus. — But one last look ! [^turning bach. Rich. My liege, not for the universe — not one ! [Exit, forcing out the King, l. 1 e. Blan. (gradually reviving) They part — they leave me — further, further still They softly float, — dimmer and dimmer grow The bright celestial forms. — Sing on, sing on. — Close not my cars to those seraphic strains \ They cease — the angel visions fade — all's hushed ! [gating roioid her surprised. 'Tis our own cottaore ! all the rest has vanished ! o The tuneful voices — and the flitting shapes, Where are they ? Flowers upon my brow — spring flowers Within my hand ? Ah ! I remember now, 'Twas ]May-day — 1 was chosen queen — we danced, And then — Armand — in Armand's arms I swooned ! Where is he ? (rising.) I am weary — and how feeble ! Could I but see Armand! where lingers he ? Scene II.] tIIE PEER AND THE PEASANT. 37 Enter Richelieu, l. 1 e. Monsieur Antoine— Monsieur — but no — what was't They told me ? all my thoughts are so confused^ — These flowers recall— 'Tis May-day, is it not ? liich. It was so yesterday. May-day is past ! Blan. 'Tis strange ! how could the hours so swiftly fly? Did they not tell me you were now a Duke ? Rich. The Duke of Richeheu, and 'tis even so ! Blan. Ah ! were it any other Duke — Bich. Enough ! Your lips should be the last to breathe my name In other tone than that of reverent love ! With calmness hear me — four and twenty hours, Nay more, you've lain upon that couch in sleep So silent and profound that all but I And Dame Babette believe you dead ! Blan. \turnmg and gazing in astonishment at the couch, ^^c. Dead! dead! Rich. Aye, dead ! and dead to all but us You must remain, for reasons that demand And justify the harmless cheat ! Blan. No cheat Is harmless, and — Rich. Of that not thou, but I Am judge. All is prepared for flight — this hour You will be borne to a far-distant home. Blan. My lord, I own I have been used to bow With reverence to your words. — I knew you then But as an humble citizen, the friend And guardian of a child, who had, alas ! No guardian else but heaven ! I loved you — I obeyed you — for, my lord, you never asked What in obeying I obeyed not heaven ! I know you now as — Richelieu ! And your first Request should make me shrink from you ! My lord. You bid me stoop to falsehood — I refuse ! Rich. No more — thy words as little move my will As winds the rocks. Prepare thou to obey ! Blan. Not that command which in my conscience finds No quick response. I know your power, my lord, I also know the strength of a resolve 38 ARMAND; OR, [ACT III. "Which mine own heart approves. Nay — spare your threats — They fright me not — I never learnt to fear ! Rich. Learn then my right to claim and to enforce Compliance to my wish — it is the right Of a determined /«^/ier o'er a child ! Blan. A father? Rich. This very day completes the weary round Of twenty years, since from her friends and kin Thy mother fled. — In secret we were wed. Two years she lived unknown, — and died the hour Thy infant head was pillowed on her breast! My child ! the sins of Richelieu are not few, *' And every eye is quick to magnify, " And every voice is loud to trumpet them." Yet one — one ray of virtue, like a beam Of sunshine stealing in a lazar-house. Amongst them dwells ; it is his love for thee I Blan. {throwing herself in his arms) My father ! Rich. Ah, though Richelieu claims that title, — Richelieu from whom so late you trembling shrank, My child, thou wilt not banish from thy lips That tender name. Man. ^Q, father! it is not For me, even were I not thy child, to judge thee. But Armand, dear Armand, knows he not tliis? Rich. Armand is henceforth nought to Richelieu's daughter. Rlan. My father, oh! my father, leave me still My poverty — leave me my humble state — Take hack a father's name — a father's love^ For lack of which, the first warm tears that scorched My infant eyes were shed ; — but rob me not Of Armand. Hark! it is his step. He comes. \as she is springing to meet him Riciiki.iku siezes her. Rich. Hush! not a word. This folly must end here. Ar7n. (without) Babctte! Babette! ''tis I. Blan. Armand ! Armand ! Rich. Obey my will, — this way with me — no cry ! [Jiurrijing her to her chamber, u. Resistance would be useless. — Girl, bethink thee, It is thy^aMer that commands. \at the last words Scene II.] the peer and the peasant. 39 he releases her arm, Blanche bows her head and passes before him. Exeunt r. 1 e. Enter Arm and, l. Arm. One more Farewell, — the last, and all is over ! Gone! — Why have they borne her hence? It was the sole Sad pleasure which I craved, but once again To look upon her. — It is better thus. I would not be unmanned anew! Blan. (in a faint voice within) Armand ! Arm. It was her voice 1 Oh, Heaven ! the voice of Blanche 1 Angelic spirit, didst thou breathe my name ? Or is it thou — vain torturer. Fancy — thou — Her voice ! henceforth each wind that sweeps the earth Will waft it to my ear — rock, wood, and glen Repeat the sound, and all melodious tones Those well-known accents imitate ! "Her form " Will paint itself upon the empty air, " The fleecy clouds will take no other shape, *' xlnd all things beauteous in that mould divine " Seem cast." My thoughts will madden me 1 and yet I cannot tear myself away. Each dear Familiar object, by her touch so hallowed — The casement where she watched till I should come — Yon couch where last she lay in dreamless slumber — And these — (gathering up the flowers which Blanche has dropped. these flowers that in unconscious sweetness Bloomed in her deatli-co.ld hand, and that shall now W^ither upon my breast as she has withered. But dwell there as she dwells in spite of death. All, all, with blended voices, strangely real. Would seem to bid me stay 1 would chain me here, As though with cords invisible they bound Me still to hope and her ! Away ! away ! My nature grows too soft. Farewell for aye My early dreams — farewell ray ideal world. Peopled by joy and hope — farewell for ever I \Exit l. 1 e. (as he rushes out, the door q/" Blanche's chain-- ber opens, and she breaks from Richelieu, who is endeavouring to withhold her. 40 armand; or, [Act III. Blan. Armand, come back. 'Tis Blanche. She hves! Rich. My child ! Hold, I command thee ! Blan. Call me not thy child ! Oh ! what to me are nature's chance-knit ties To those that with rude hand thou sunderest now? It is the spirit's purer, strouger bonds Through life — through death — to all eternity Unchanging, holy, indestructible, — That join my soul to Armand ! Part us not I My father — Oh, my father, part us not. [^falls at the feet q/* Richelieu. Quick curtain. END OF ACT III. Scene I.] THE PEER AND THE PEASANT. 41 ACT IV. SCENE I. Room in an Hotel in Paris. Babette and Jaqueline. Bah. Well, here we are in Paris again. Out of that old gloomy convent at last ! Jaq. Only to think of Mam'selle Blanche managing to get us all free, though she did take five years about it. Now how did she contrive to do that 1 Bab. By talldng, child ; it was all done by talking. Ah ! she has a tongue could wheedle an angel out of its wings ; though, for my part, I think it best to be silent. Jaq. Why would she come to Paris? Pm sure I wouldn't have. Bah. That's her affair. You know she will have her own way, and does with us all just what she pleases. She heard that the King was holding his court in Paris, and thought that her father, the Duke de Richelieu — Oh, dear, to think that the father of our little Blanche should be a Duke ! what an honor, though he did shut her up in a convent, and made all the villagers believe that she was dead — well, she thought the Duke, her father, must be in Paris too, so she chose to come here. And do you know that Blanche has written twice to the Duke and told him where we are. Jaq. Perhaps the letters won't reach him ! I hope they won't. Bah. Won't they though ? One of them will reach him sure enough, for whom do you think I gave it to this very morning ? — But no matter, I shan't say anything about it. Jaq. Well don't, mother, for its all one, if the letter is sure to reach him. That's the very way to make her tell all about it. \aside. Bah. Reach him ? Why, Monsieur Le Sage said he'd put it in the Duke's own hands. I came upon our old friend, Le Sage, all of a sudden, just in front of this very house. And how glad the good man was to see me ! so I told him all our adventures. 4:2 armand; or, [Act IV. Jaq. What! You told him everything ? Bab. That is, I told him nothing. He asked me an hundred questions — but I never talk, so I said nothing. Jaq. Ilark ! There is a knoek. Bab. Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! it is the Duke himself. "What shall I do ? My neck grows so stiff again, just as it always does when I think of him. Jaq. Nonsense, mother — don't be afraid of him — I wouldn't. And I'm sure he can't alarm Mam'sclle Blanche very easily. Bab. That's true, send her here, for I shall never have courage to face him. Jaq. But I would! so would Mam'selle Blanche; you'll see how quietly she'll look at him. I'll warrant he'll be glad enough to look away — just wait till she comes! [_Exit Ja QUE LINE, R. 1 E. Enter Duke of Richelieu, l. 1 e., Babette curtsies very low and looks much frightened. Rich. So! it is indeed you, and you are here in Paris, in spite of all my precautions. Bab. Well I believe it is I, 3^our eminence — and I be- lieve I am here — but it was all Mam'selle Blanche; you see, your highness, she can do what she pleases with everybody. I hope you won't blame me, for indeed — Rich. Enough of this — how does Blanche? Bab. Ah, very badly indeed — she pines for Armand night and day — but I forget, your highness does not know who Armand is. Rich. Know him? I would to heaven I knew him not! The peasant-colonel! Vilhers' aid de camp! The king's new favorite! fortune's chosen minion! No battle but Distinction and Success, Like unseen genii, wait upon his steps; Upon the field he saved his monarch's life. And when the king, too weakly generous. Would have ennobled him, the nameless peasant Refused in scorn all title save the one His sword had won him. — Let him rise awhile; The higher pinnacle, the greater fall! Bab. O dear, O dear! what will Mam'selle Blanche say to all this? Rich. Blanche say? Dare thou to breathe a single word Scene I.] the PEER AND THE PEASANT. 43 Of that my thoughtless folly has revealed, And in a dungeon's, not a convent's, walls, Shall your next tale he told, (crosses r.) She's here, retire! [Exit Babette, l. 1 E.; enter Jaque- LiNE, who exits with Babette. Enter Blanche, r. Blan. My lord Duke ! [Pauses and looks at him. Nay, my father ! can I choose But call thee by that name ? though in thy face Too little of a father's fondness greets me ! Rich. Yield thou the meet obedience of a child, And all a father's fondness will requite it I Blan. Command thou what a child's pure heart must leap To execute, and I will yield a child's Obedience, with the meekness of a child. Rich. What I have done was for thy surest good. Ay ! for thy soiiVs best good ! Blan. My soul's best good ! Was't for my soul's best good my tongue should mock The consecrated altar with a lie? Was't for my soul's best good my lips should breath A vow my heart refused ? the holy oath Which gave the thought, the hope, the love to heaven, W4iich were no longer mine to give ! Rich. Daughter! Thy will opposed to mine is powerless ! Blan. My father, tempt me not to evil — think Before you act! young blood is warm — young heads Are rash — young hearts, convulsed like mine, are stubborn ! When love — the soul's first love and last — the love No absence changes, and which time and sorrow Chastise to strengthen — is too fiercely curbed. Its passion breaks all other ties — defies All chances and all perils — leaps all barriers. That hold or part it from its idol — or Dragged by a chain too mighty to the earth. The iron eats its slow and silent way Into the soul — and then — we die — my father ! Rich. I know thy sex too well, girl, at its tears Or wrath to change my purpose, — woman's grief Is wind and rain one summer hour will end. Blan. And canst thou thus the name of woman scorn, D 2 44 armand; or, [Act IV. Her holy mission lightly look upon ; Nor think that thy first sighs were soothed hy her? Thy first tears kissed away by woman's lips — Thy first prayer taught thee at a woman's knee — Thy childhood's blessings shower'd from woman's hand — • Thy manhood brightened by her watching smile — . Thj age must in her tenderness find prop — And life's last murmurs may perchance burst forth Where they began — upon a woman's breast? Rich. I nor deny her virtues, nor her power To gild them with her tongue. But one word more Of Armand. Woman may be constant — when Was man? what wouldst thou think? how wouldst thou act If Armand's troth w^ere plighted to another? Blan. Another ? Armand love and Armand wed Another? No ! the present could not thus Belie the past! Yet is it true he thought — Still thinks me dead ; but death could only part. Not disunite us ! Armand love another — Oh wretch ! to wrong his memory with the thought ! Armand has not forgotten me — 'tis false ! Tell me 'tis false ! and for the life you give Me back, I'll bless thee more than for the life I had at first from thee ! Rich. In calmer tone One question I would have thee answer — listen. If I could give thee proof unquestionable, Would'st thou the cloister seek of thy free will? Blan. I would. Rich. Swear that thou wilt ! Blan. There needs no oath. I know not falsehood, father. Rich. I believe thee. To night I will return — remember thou Thy words — to night! Exit l. I.e. Blan. Armand ! was it for this For five long years I hoped — for this I bore With patient trust the ills fate heaped upon me ! For this I would not wrong thee by a doubt ! All— all — for this — this hour of agony ! [Sinks weeping upon a couch, and after a pause rises calnilg. Scene I.] the peer and the peasant. 45 Let me not murmur at thy high decrees, All-wise, all-watching, and all-guarding Heaven ! I know no withered leaflet falls to earth — No blade of grass bursts from its sheath of green ; — No grain of sand is swallowed by the wave — Unnoted by that ruling Providence That guides the universe, yet stoops to clothe The flower with beauty ! And from seeming ills Works out our truest, most enduring good ! " Oh ! then while grass, and sand, and leaf are cared for, " How shall a mortal doubt thy guardianship!'^ Then break not heart! the will of Heaven be thine! Enter Jaqueline, l. 1 e. Jaq. Oh! Mademoiselle Blanche! there's such a hand- some young man waiting to speak to you — he has a letter to deliver, and he says, he will only give it into your own hands — I hope you'll see him — I'm sure I would! Blan. A letter, and for me, yes, let him enter? Jaq. Oh ! I'm so glad you will see him — that's just what I would have done — and he's such a charming little creature. [Exit l. 1 e. Blan. "Whence should he come? I have no friends in Paris. Ent^r Jaqueline with Victor, l. 1 e. Jaq. Oh ! the beautiful little fellow ! I hope she'll listen to him! I know I would! [Exit l. 1 e. Vic. Most lovely recluse, pardon our intrusion, and pardon us, that we rejoice in this opportunity of performing our mission with becoming privacy. Blan. I think you have a letter for me. Sir ? Vic. We have a letter to deliver and a reply to learn. Blan. Wiirt please you. Sir, to let me see the letter ? Vic. We intend to do so forthwith — but haste is most uncourtierlike — and you perceive that loe are of the Court ! Blan. I should like much to see the letter. Sir. Vic. It never yet has been our study to gainsay the wishes of the *' illusive sex," of which our judgment now pronounces you the fairest, and your impatience thus we gratify. [very pompously pi'esents letter. Blan. (reading aside.) One who would serve you — one who learnt hy chance Your history, writes these lines — petnls unseen Are thread ning you — the King alone can save yoxi ! 46 ARMAND; or, [Act IV. Consent to meet the par/e ivho brings yon this — At sunset at the TuiUeries eastern gate. It is the custom of his Majesty To walk within his garden at that hour, The page ivill bring you to his presence — all The rest lies with yourself. — A Friend. The King Yes, he alone can save me from the cloister, Can give me back to Armand — Armand — whom I still think, true ! young Sir, I pray you thank The writer of these lines — I'll do his bidding. Vic. We congratulate you on this wise decision, and with regret must now take our hasty leave. [Exit bowing very low, l. 1 e. Blan. All thanks to thee, kind Heaven ! for once again My path is clear! the King, the King, shall guard me! [Exit L. H. 1 E. SCENE II. Garden of the TuiUeries, at sunset. Enter KiyiG followed by Victor, l. u. e. King. Well, boy, what would' st thou from our bounty now? Vic. My Liege, the boon I crave — [trumpet ivithout. King. What trumpet's that? Vic. News from the seat of war, methinks; the bearer — King. Armand himself! Enter Armand hastily, l. u. e., Jcneels to the Ktng, and presents dispatches. Arm. Pardon, my gracious Liege, That I appear thus hastily before thee! Good tidings should have wings, to race the wind. Another victory! King. Which could not wait For form thou think' st? Armand, our favor gives thee A license few would dare to use ! (to Victor) Retire! [Exit Victor, l. u. e. (reading despatches) Brave news — most glorious news! my gallant soldier! The victory was thine — the INIarshal, says so — It earns thee once again the rank and title Thou hast refused before ! Arm, My Liege, my sword Scene II.] the PEER AND THE PEASANT. A7 Hath won me all I covet or deserve ! I would not that your favor — but my deeds Should of my fortunes be the artizan! King. But wherefore, Armand, wilt thou coldly spurn "What others as their dearest birth-right prize? Arm. " And why, the trappings and the adjuncts vain " With which the great enshroud themselves, to awe " A gaping multitude, should I not scorn? " Free thought — free will — the birth-right true of all — " Manhood, the universal heritage — " For them, nor for a million times their worth, *' I would not barter!" King. *' Must thou scorn for this," The rank and name which proud posterity Might carve upon some lofty monument? Arm. I ask no monument, save that which lives Within the bosoms of my fellow men ! No epitaph, save that which love inscribes Upon their memories; no chronicle, Save that the annals of my country show; Which, if I serve it, will enroll my name Upon the page of honored history, where, Alone, I could be proud to see it blazoned ! King. Well, be it so; and yet one wish I have Thou need'st must grant, De Rohan's daughter loves thee; She's fair and rich, and virtuous. Seek her hand. Nor be a courtier since thou likest it not, Yet hold an honored station in our court. Arm. My liege, I cannot wed — once hath my heart In all the glow of its first warmth been given ! Years have rolled by since Blanche hath pass'd away — In life's arena I have stood alone — And wrestled on — and welcomed each new day That led me closer to the grave — that porch Which opens on the palace of my joy! King. Beware! our patience is not made of stulEf Too lasting — try it not beyond its strength — Marry De Rohan's daughter! 'Tis thy King Commands! Aj^m. My gracious liege, no King can tear The land-marks from the honest path of Truth. Marry! call'st thou that marriage which but joins 48 armand; or, [Act IV. Two hands with iron honds? that yokes, but not Unites, two hearts whose pulses never beat In unison? The legal crime that mocks The very name of marriage — that invades — Profanes — destroys its inner holiness? No! 'tis the spirit that alone can wed, When with spontaneous joy it seeks and finds, And with its kindred spirit blends itself! My liege, there is no other marriage tie! [Enter Victor with Blanche veiled, and jAQ,vi:i.iyi E/ollowinX //7 d BCB.Qftjn9 "80 L.3 1560 JAN 9 1931 CIRCULATION DEPr LD 21-100m-9,'47(A57028l6)476 Gaylamount Pamphlet Binder G«ylord Bros., Inc. Stockton, Calif. '. M. Reg. U.S.Pat. Off. l-X^Lf^ilClQUO, ^ iv!5tJ853 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY ■^^^