822 
 St 32 
 

 
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 A RED REPUBLICAN. 
 
A RED REPUBLICAN: 
 
 $.it Original grama, 
 
 IN THREE ACTS. 
 
 Dedicated to Lady Barrett Lennard, (For whom it was 
 expressly written,) 
 
 BY 
 
 ANNA C. STEELE. 
 
 DECEMBER, 1874. 
 
 Si vis me flere, dolendum est Primum ipsi tibi. 
 

 
 W. R. KINCi, PRINTKR, WITH AM. 
 
A RED REPUBLICAN 
 
 SCENE. — Versailles and Paris, — Time, 1785-9-90. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONAE. 
 
 THE DAUPHIN OF FRANCE 
 
 THE DUC DE ST. PREUX 
 
 THE VICOMTE ST. LEON 
 
 THE MARQUIS DE LA ROCHE- \ 
 JAQUELEIN ) 
 
 DR. THORNHILL 
 
 JOSEPH MERRYWEATHER ( Eng- } 
 lish Servant to the Due de St. Preux ) 
 
 PAGE TO THE DAUPHIN 
 
 PIERE Li^ROU^E 
 
 MARCELLE (A Woman of Brittany) 
 
 LIZETTE {Foster-sister and Domestic ") 
 to the Due de St. Preux ) 
 
 LADIES OF THE COURT 
 
 MOB, SOLDIERS, &c., &c. ............ 
 
r 
 
 ' 
 
%1Sl 
 
 A RED REPUBLICAN. 
 
 
 r 
 
 c X 
 
 & 
 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — The Garden of the Due de St. Preux's Chateau , 
 near Versailles. House L. Entrance from approach to the 
 House R. ^At backf'Rustic Seats , after the pattern of the 
 old gardens at Sceaux — a gilt Girandole with flowers , fruit , 
 ~6rc. R. a table set with breakfast , &>c., a bundle of un- 
 ope?ied Despatches on table — the seats round the table are house 
 seats , i.e. Louis Quat or ze— formal but richly furnished. 
 
 Lizette, c. Rosette, r. Louise, l. 
 re sitting c. on a rustic seat , making white and pink rose 
 garlands. 
 
 Liz. — Now girls don’t forget what I tell you ; tomorrow 
 is the Duke’s wedding day, and as he mayn’t get the 
 chance of marrying again, we must make the most of it ; 
 you Rosette must strew white roses in the bride’s path — 
 you Louise must hold one end of the garland under which 
 they are to pass, I will hold the other. Being the Duke’s 
 foster-sister he naturally gives me the direction of affairs. 
 
 Ros. — Is the bride beautiful Miss Lizette ? 
 
 Liz. — I do not know, but the dress is superb ; and that 
 is the chief thing — they say it cost 20,000 francs ! 
 
 All. — H ow delightful — how happy she must be ! 
 
 Liz. — Have the villagers got their offerings ready, 
 Louise ? 
 
 Louise. — Well, mam’selle, it takes a long time to save 
 something out of nothing so to speak, but by dint of scold- 
 ing and coaxing, the Duke’s steward got one family to eco- 
 nomise its bread, another its salt, another its fuel, and so 
 on ; and at last squeezed out the worth of a silver salver 
 on which the bride is to put her gloves. 
 
Ros. — And there's such a beautiful inscription on it 
 the Cure has written, about its being a spontaneous mark 
 of esteem and affection. 
 
 Louise. — I t seems strange a Duke can't marry without 
 taxing his dependants to provide ornaments ; if the worth 
 of all the finery lavished at weddings was spent in building 
 a hospital or poor-house, what a grand building it would 
 be ; then indeed the brides' would have priceless jewels — 
 the jewels that we uM shine in grateful hearts and link the 
 donor to heaven by prayers and blessings. 
 
 Liz. — Girls you've been flirting with our English butler, 
 Mr. Merryweather ; when a woman changes her politics 
 there's always a man at the bottom of it — you should not 
 listen to him — he is quite a democrat. 
 
 Enter Joseph . 
 
 ^ - Not I, Miss Lizette — there was no need of ^influence 
 — hunger and cold are your true democrats, — and they 
 monopolise all the eloquence hereabouts. What are you 
 so busy over? 
 
 Liz. — Preparing rose-garland for our master’s wedding ; 
 day, Mr. Joseph. Roses you know are emblematic of 
 love. 
 
 Jos. — You seem to have left out the most striking por- 
 tions of the emblem. 
 
 Liz. — What are they? 
 
 Jos. — The thorns — ( takes up a bundle of letters from the 
 table ) — What a heap of despatches there are for the Duke 
 this morning — have his creditors heard of his impending 
 marriage ? 
 
 Liz. — No, but his sweethearts have ; they are like a 
 country divided by internal dissensions which yet makes 
 common cause against an invader. 
 
 J os. — I suppose the Duke is very much in love, or he'd 
 never sacrifice so many (including himself) to one. 
 
 Liz. — Why should he be in love ? 
 
 J os. — Isn't he going to be married ? 
 
 Liz. — That's nothing to do with it, has it girls ? 
 
 Ros. & Louise. — O h dear , no. 
 
 Liz. — Tell Mr. Joseph what you will marry for. ( To 
 Louise .) 
 
9 
 
 n 
 
 Louise. — The toilette of course. 
 
 Liz. — And you? {To Rosette.) 
 
 Ros. — Oh-h — the cake — I shouldn’t mind how often 
 I married if I got a cake each time. 
 
 Jos. — And you, Miss Lizette — what would induce you 
 to change your state ? 
 
 Liz. — The wish to add to it — I should like to set up a 
 white slave ! as for falling in love, as you call it, decent 
 French couples never fall in love until after marriage. 
 
 Jos. — And not always with the right persons then, eh? 
 that comes of putting off till to-morrow what had better be 
 done to-day. 
 
 Liz. — In France our girls are too well brought up to 
 love before marriage. We are never allowed to see any 
 man alone to whom we are engaged ; we don’t like short 
 contracts, terminable at will, here ; if we lease a plot of 
 ground and a pig — it’s for life. We’re not like your for- 
 ward English girls. 
 
 Jos. — I suppose not, or else you’d be better able to be 
 trusted. 
 
 Liz. — But your girls must find it so very easy to be 
 trustworthy. 
 
 Jos. — Why so, Miss Lizette? 
 
 Liz. — Because the temptation to be otherwise (judging 
 by the specimen I have seen) is so very small — ha, ha. 
 
 Jos. — My heart is large enough for two — and that’s 
 fortunate when one has to deal with a French coquette, 
 who hasn’t any at all. 
 
 Liz. — Havn’tl? Ah, Mr. Joseph, you should hear 
 what my French admirers say. 
 
 Jos. — They had better not say too much ; there have 
 been English little foxes that have spoiled foreign vines 
 before now, Miss Lizette , and I don’t suppose the var- 
 mint have lost their teeth, although they’re not always 
 shewing them like some people. 
 
 Liz. — Girls — Rosette, Louise — we are insulted by this 
 perfidious Englishman ; he has impugned the manners ot 
 our girls, and the courage of our men. How shall we 
 punish him ? 
 
 Louise. — Send him back to England to die of endless 
 colds in the head. 
 
IO 
 
 Ros. — Keep him here and break his heart. 
 
 Liz. — In that case I constitute myself chief executioner ; 
 Joseph Merry weather you hear your doom ! 
 
 Jos. — I answer in the words of the immortal Shake- 
 speare, “ Come on Macduff,” and — ( they twist the rose 
 chains about him , and bandage his eyes,) oh ladies, ladies, 
 consider my dignity,— consider my wig, — consider that 
 my master and his friends are coming into breakfast. 
 
 Liz. — Will you own we are prettier and better than 
 your English girls. 
 
 Jos. — I don't like signing articles of faith with my 
 eyes shut. 
 
 Liz. — Well look at me then. 
 
 Jos. — I’d rather not, I'm afraid I might do what other 
 great heroes have done for their faith. 
 
 Liz. — What is that ? 
 
 Jos. — Lose my head. 
 
 Liz. — Will you own you're no match for a Frenchman. 
 
 Jos. — No, but I'll own I'm nomnatch for any woman, 
 let alone three^j? 
 
 yi^ -Now won't you forgive and forget ? 
 
 Liz. — As a Christian I must, as a woman I won't ; 
 good bye Mr. Joseph, I see the company coming. 
 
 ( He gropes about , the women dodge him.) 
 
 Louise, r.— (Good bye, Cupid.) f 
 
 Ros. l. — Good bye, Stupid. J 
 
 Liz. — Which of the heroes of Poetry do you resemble 
 now, Mr. Joseph? 
 
 Jos. — I feel like “ Love among the Roses.” 
 
 Liz. — You look like Bottom among the fairies. Ha, ha. 
 
 ( Exit.) 
 
 Jos.— You good for nothing minxes ! just let me 
 catch you — ah, do come and take 'em off, there's a darling 
 Lizette# ( sounds of laughter,) Miss Lisette, ah, they're 
 taking me off instead ; ( aside) there she is trying to walk 
 heavily, but she can't deceive me ; I know her dear little 
 tippetty, tappetty shoes. Oh, there you are, forgive 
 me Lisette, you are the most beautiful of your sex, you 
 are the most virtuous. — 
 
 Enter St . Leon . 
 
Jos. — You are^the Devil ! (the bandage falls , and Joseph 
 runs off.) ( 
 
 St. Leon. — M ad, quite mad — all Englishmen are ! 
 Lizette ! 
 
 Re-enter Lizette, r. 
 
 ( He advances — she evades him.) 
 
 St. Leon. — O h I was in hopes you had gone mad too. 
 
 Liz. — You must excuse Joseph, sir, he meant no harm, 
 he took you for me. 
 
 St. Leon. — A nd why can’t you take me for him, — but 
 I suppose the Due de St. Preux wouldn’t admire that, eh? 
 
 Liz. — Don’t misunderstand my position if you please — 
 
 I am the Duke’s servant and foster-sister — I believe I 
 am almost the only woman of the Duke’s acquaintance 
 whom he hasn’t made a fool of ! 
 
 St. Leon. — G ood gad, what a fool you must have 
 made of him then • well, well, all his enjoyment will soon 
 be over — how does he seem — pretty well ? 
 
 Liz. — Quite well. 
 
 St. Leon. — A nd cheerful. 
 
 Liz. — Gay. 
 
 St. Leon. — W ell, this is the last comfortable break- 
 fast I may eat with my poor lost friend for some time ; so 
 I must not cloud it with ill omens, but when it’s all over 
 you’ll see he’ll break down ! 
 
 Liz. — Nay sir, the bride is young, beautiful and rich — 
 why should not my master be happy with, and constant 
 to, Mam’selle De Courcy. 
 
 St. Leon. — I f he’s constant he won’t be happy. Be- 
 sides were she as beautiful as Venus, it must be a dreadful 
 reflection to a man of fashion, to know that he has got 
 something he can never change — never get rid of, how- 
 ever much the gloss is worn off ; for my own part I never 
 met a woman worth such a sacrifice, I despise the whole 
 sex. 
 
 Liz. — Dear me, sir, I’m afraid they’ve treated you ill. 
 
 St. Leon. — O n the contrary, they have adored me ! 
 
 Liz. — Then you are quite right to despise them. 
 
 St. Leon. — A t all events they don’t treat you so ill 
 when you despise them as they do when you love them ; 
 
12 
 
 so I am the right side of that bargain ; but go and tell 
 him that the Vicomte de St. Leon is waiting to offer his 
 condolences and to eat his breakfast. 
 
 Liz. — I do not think the Duke is up yet, sir ; he has 
 had a bad night. 
 
 St. Leon. — 111 ? 
 
 Liz. — No, cards, but I'll go and see. (Goes out 6° returns ) 
 
 St. Leon. — Well, is he getting up ? 
 
 Liz. — He is only getting to the swearing stage at 
 present, Sir ; his valet told him you were waiting, and the 
 
 Duke said you might wait and be made as warm as 
 
 circumstances would permit. 
 
 St. Leon. — I’ll go to him, he'll be grateful to me after- 
 wards for arousing him. Going l. 
 
 Liz. — Do, sir; but beware of the first effusion of his 
 gratitude, he will direct it all towards your head. 
 
 Exit St. Leon. 
 
 These fine Gentlemen spend all their time on themselves, 
 which accounts for their having such a small sense of its 
 value ; ( takes up the bu?idle of letters ,) that's from Lucille, 
 what a goose she is, saying the same thing over and over 
 again, when her having said it once was quite enough to 
 make him tired of her — this other is from a Countess*, 
 she is in as great a rage as if she were a fish-woman, all 
 because he is going to marry ! I'm sure he never minded 
 their being married ? but there's no logic in a woman's 
 love, and no love in my master's logic — hey day — here's 
 a name I don't know — “ Marcelle" — that must be either 
 a very old or very new affair, or I should have seen the 
 name before now — let me think — if she believes in him 
 it's very new ; if she reproaches him, it's very old — well, I 
 don't envy her in either case. Who comes here ? a woman, 
 and a peasant woman by her dress. What does she mean 
 by coming to the grand entrance — Hi, my good woman ; on 
 looking again in spite of her dress she has something of 
 the air of a Lady — dear me, if she's a Lady, I musn't 
 call her “ my good woman." 
 
 Enter Marcelle. 
 
 Liz. — Have you not come to the wrong entrance, 
 Madame ? 
 
*3 
 
 Mar. — I was directed to the Chateau St. Preux, is not 
 this it ? 
 
 Liz. — You are not a visitor, are you? 
 
 Mar. — Nay, I am only a traveller seeking information 
 which I was told I might gain here. 
 
 Liz. — Don't you know, Madame, there are always two 
 staircases to a rich man's house. He sometimes de- 
 means himself by using the back stairs ; but he never 
 permits his inferiors to take advantage of his ! 
 
 Mar. — I beg pardon, I will go another way. 
 
 Liz. — No, no ; stay, my master is occupied with a 
 friend, and there is no one to interrupt us ; have you 
 come far? 
 
 Mar. — From England. 
 
 Liz. — Why that is Mr. MerryweatheFs country ; per- 
 haps you can tell me whether they were talking much 
 about him? he is the Merry weather you know; the Peoples 
 hope and the Democrats demi-god — that’s what he tells 
 me he’s called. 
 
 Mar. — I have not heard his name. 
 
 Liz. — Oh, but perhaps you were not much at Court or 
 in the Parliament House. 
 
 Mar. — No, my life was spent in retirement and study. 
 I only made intimate acquaintance with one Englishman ; 
 a Doctor Thornhill; he was so kind when I was ill. There 
 is no hero like your English doctor, he battles with more 
 than the dangers of the soldier to meet with less reward. 
 
 Liz. — Ah, Madame, but perchance such a man’s heart 
 shines more brightly before Heaven than military deco 
 rations do before men. 
 
 Mar. — He was my good angel ; to him I owe employ- 
 ment, respectability, independence ; there was only one 
 of my ills he could not cure, and that was my unhappiness. 
 
 Liz. — Ah ! a man of course was at the bottom of that. 
 
 Mar. — When I landed in Brittany I lost sight of Dr. 
 Thornhill ; he came to the French Court to try and cure 
 a dying man. I lingered in my native village haunting 
 the burial place of a dead hope. One night I remembered 
 something the Doctor had said about his practice among 
 the Nobles of the Court ; I resolved to follow him to 
 Versailles ; at daybreak next morning I started : — 
 
14 
 
 Liz. — And whom are you seeking among the French 
 Nobles, a friend ? 
 
 Mar. — No, Mam'selle, a lover. 
 
 Liz. — Ah, you have found out that they don't mean one 
 and the same thing ? but do sit down and tell me some- 
 thing about it. If you had said you had a husband who 
 broke your head I should have thought nothing of it, 
 that is so very common, but a broken heart is always in- 
 teresting. One never knows when it may happen to 
 oneself, (sighs) first, tell me how do you define love ; what 
 is love ? 
 
 Mar. — S omething one feels a great deal too much for 
 some oneymuch too little worth it generally. 
 
 Liz. — And what then is a lover ? 
 
 Mar. — An insatiable creditor who extorts usury for the 
 most trifling loan, and sells you up at last — but I fear 
 I'm intruding here, and — (rises.) 
 
 Liz. — (Pulling her hack) No, no, don't go ; the fact is 
 I'm in love myself, and when that’s the case one must 
 prose to somebody ! and there's no confidant like a 
 woman ; no one but a woman can fathom the unutterable 
 baseness of man ; and that makes her so impartial ; when 
 did you first meet him ? 
 
 Mar. — Five years ago. 
 
 Liz. — And you have remembered him all that time, 
 that's 4 years and 1 1 months too many. What were you 
 doing when you first saw him ? 
 
 Mar. — I was singing a song. 
 
 Liz. — Do you remember what song it was ! — but how 
 stupid — of course you do. If you remember the man, 
 of course you won't forget the song. 
 
 Mar. — It is a proof that I do ; that I have never sung 
 since. 
 
 Liz. — (affected) Poor thing ! and he said he loved you 
 of course ; and you believed him, of course ; and you 
 thought he was preaching a new Gospel, and he was only 
 plagiarising such a very old fable. 
 
 Mar. — Believe him — no, not at first, I did not dare. 
 I was poor, and happiness is so slow in coming to the 
 poor that they may well be half fearful of its rare beauty ; 
 but he said it again and again ; and what could I do but 
 
i5 
 
 learn the story by heart ; then I whispered it to myself, 
 and by degrees it grew into my memory so indissolubly 
 that Death alone can banish it thence. (Rises) At last one 
 day I ran out by myself to the woods that I might cry 
 out, in echo of my joy, “he loves me , he loves me” Such a 
 Sun shone that day as has never shone since ! ; the birds 
 sang with different notes to those they know now. I for- 
 got that Pain, Suffering or Death were, or ever could be. 
 I only knew there were roses in my breast he had gathered, 
 and a memory in my heart he had made immortal. 
 
 Liz. — Well, it never had such an effect on me ; but 
 perhaps had I been brought up in the country I ' should 
 have found it dull enough for anything; but oh, Madame, 
 excuse me for saying it, but no man’s love could have been 
 worth making such a fuss about. 
 
 Mar. — If he be not worthy, the greater love does he 
 need. 
 
 Liz. — But he does not always give value in proportion 
 to his needs. Look at those letters ; they are "all address- 
 ed to my master ; they are unopened you see ; when a 
 man don’t open his letters, it is a sure sign that he idnt in 
 love, and is in debt. 
 
 Mar. — Is your master so much beloved ? 
 
 Liz. — He is adored. 
 
 Mar. — What is his charm ? 
 
 Liz. — Indifference I think ; the sex are so perverse ! 
 
 Mar. — You speak of the sex as it is, vitiated by an 
 artificial existence ; a fine lady does not dislike the ex- 
 citement of opposition ; her lover’s treachery stimulates 
 her vanity, but it cannot quicken that dead nonentity — 
 her heart. In Brittany our love is of another sort ; its 
 glory in success is only to be equalled by its intensity in 
 hate. 
 
 Liz. — Dear me, you don’t mean to say you’d resent a 
 man’s growing a little tired of one subject, as we re all 
 apt to do. 
 
 Mar. — If he were false undesignedly I could forgive 
 him ; if he purposely forsook me, I would bide my hour, 
 and kill him. Oh, I cannot play at love as children do 
 with baubles. I am in earnest or you would not see me 
 here now; give me what help you can, for, if I fail here, I 
 
i6 
 
 must go on while love and life hold together. 
 
 Liz. — What can I do for you ? 
 
 Mar. — There is a young Breton gentleman visiting 
 here called La Rochejjaquelein ; he used to know the 
 man I seek, he may telrrne news of him; let me see him. 
 
 Liz. — What was your sweetheart’s name ? 
 
 Mar. — Alas, he gave me a false one ; at least I suppose 
 so, for I never could hear anything of him at the Chateau 
 where he used to come on shooting expeditions, and my 
 letters have never been answered* 
 
 Liz. — Ah, those poor things, letters (pointing to packet) 
 they will never be read , much less answered. Why don’t you 
 apply to my master the Due de St. Preux ? he knows all 
 the villains — I beg their pardon ; all the Nobles of the 
 Country ; he is not ill natured where himself is not con- 
 cerned, and would give up a friend with the greatest 
 magnanimity in the world. 
 
 Mar. — When and how can I see him ? 
 
 Liz. — This evening he will be alone for a short time 
 while his friends are dressing for a Court ball, which they 
 all mean to attend. Be here at eight o’clock, and I will 
 station you where you cannot fail to get speech of him ; 
 but do not detain him too long, for these great people 
 don’t like to be delayed in their pursuit of pleasure. 
 
 Mar. — How can I thank you ? 
 
 Liz. —Wait until you know whether you are not more 
 inclined to upbraid me; the proverb, “ ignorance is bliss,” 
 was invented for lovers. Even, if you attain your object, 
 are you certain to prize it as highly as you fancy you will? 
 should you know your old love again if he stood 
 before you now ? Could you heart warm to him as of old ? 
 
 Mar. — I will answer you in the words of a beautiful 
 old heathen fable ; a wandering Prince loved and desert- 
 ed a Thracian Princess ; she watched the sea line until 
 hope was dead — then the Gods, in pity, changed her into an 
 almond tree. One winter the lover came back and vainly 
 called her name; they showed him the tree then bare of 
 foliage and blighted by frost, but when he flung his arms 
 about it, the poor sere plant burst into leaf and blossom 
 at the late touch of his heart Exit . 
 
 Liz. — I begin to think that I can’t have valued Joseph 
 
i7 
 
 half enough ; but then he hasn’t deserted me yet ! ! ! 
 Here comes the Duke, I’ll give this Marcelle’s letter a 
 chance by putting it on the top. Poor thing, perhaps she 
 takes it to heart as badly as that unhappy woman who 
 has just gone. (Exit.) 
 
 Enter St. Preux and St. Leon, l. 
 
 St. P. — My dear St. Leon don’t apologise — one’s sweet- 
 heart can’t come too early ; one’s creditor can’t come too 
 late, one’s friend can’t come amiss at any hour. Talking 
 of friends you will meet an ol^ Breton acquaintance pre- 
 sently, Henri De La Roche/Jaquelein ; he is coming up 
 from the country on purpose to attend my nuptials to- 
 morrow. 
 
 St. L. — Ah, some men have such a morbid fancy for 
 witnessing executions ! 
 
 St. P. — But at least you will be glad to see an old 
 friend after so long an absence. 
 
 St. L — No doubt I shall be delighted, but I shan’t 
 know what on earth to say to him. 
 
 St. P. — Abuse some other mutual friend such as my- 
 self, that will soon make you feel eloquent. 
 
 St. L. — But La Roche-Jaquelein is one of those en- 
 thusiastic fools who can see no fault in an old friend 
 such as yourself. 
 
 St. P. — Then do you guard his friendship, St. Leon, as 
 a pearl beyond price ; no one can be in greater want 
 of such a friend ; oh, here he comes, now I shall get an 
 honest greeting. 
 
 St. L. — Now I shall geLmy breakfast. 
 
 Enter De La Roche/) - aquelein, from hack, (l.) 
 
 St. P. — St. Leon, thisls a double pleasure ; it warms 
 my heart to the core to see you both again. 
 
 St. L. — How dy’e do ; the breakfast is getting cold. 
 
 St. P. — I’m very grateful for such a proof of your 
 interest in me — you have had a very long ride. 
 
 De La Roche. — No ride is long when a friend is at 
 the end of it ; I’m quite of old Horace’s opinion : 
 
 Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico. 
 
 But you, St. Preux, can never have been less inclined to 
 admit the supremacy of friendship now that you are ab- 
 
sorbed by the pressing claims of love. 
 
 St. L. — Those are not his most pressing claims. He 
 has exchanged Venus' brazen yoke for Hymen's, be- 
 cause the latter is made of Gold. 
 
 De La Roche. — Don't ask me to believe that my 
 friend would sell himself. 
 
 St. L. — No — I don't quite say that — but I'm sure he 
 would make an accommodation of himself, to circum- 
 stances. (they sit,) 
 
 De La Roche. — I hope that we shall henceforth have 
 you for a neighbour in Brittany. I suppose you will 
 settle in the country ? 
 
 St. P. — My dear fellow, when a lazy carrier excused 
 himself to that sapient Greek — Xenophon — for digging a 
 grave for a wounded soldier he was tired of carrying, with 
 the plea, “ We must all die ! " Xenophon answered, “ Yes, 
 we must all die, but we needn't be buried alive ! " — no, I 
 shall not live in the country ! 
 
 St. L. — You see St. Preux's melancholy state ! he is 
 as dull as a fish, or an Englishman. 
 
 St. P. — Don't abuse the English, St. Leon ; there has 
 been at least one man, one Monarch of their race, for 
 whom I entertain the profoundest respect. 
 
 De La Roche. — You mean King Henry V. of heroic 
 memory ? he who wrote Agincourt in English History, 
 with English arrows for a pen, and alas ! the best blood 
 in France for Ink. 
 
 St. P. — I allude to King Henry VIII., of conjugal 
 memory, he understood Women, and his Countrymen's 
 estimation of them so well, always went straight to the 
 point. 
 
 St. L. — You mean he always sent them to the point — 
 no man better understood the art of cutting an incon- 
 venient acquaintance dead. 
 
 St. P. — Yes, but see how popular he was and his me- 
 thod too ! ! — to the present day it survives (with variations) 
 among the lower classes of the English, and while to 
 knock over a hare is felony, wives and vermin are un- 
 protected by the law. 
 
 St. L. — You would not compare a man's sport with 
 his penance ? — The law-givers' want to knock over the 
 
19 
 
 hares’ themselves, while they are often ridden over rough 
 shod by their wives — its the common law, not of England 
 Only, but of nature, that of reprisals. 
 
 De La Roche. — Do not forget there is an English- 
 man present, that man yonder who officiates as St. Preux’s 
 butler. 
 
 St. P. — What. Joseph Merry weather there, whom I 
 trust so implicitly with my cellar because he doesn’t like 
 French wines ? he is only a servant, and has no business 
 to remember of what country he is ; a slave Jh'st and an 
 Englishman afterwards , that should be his motto. 
 
 De La Rochs. — But we must not forget that we are 
 gentlemen, and good breeding is like the beauty of 
 Helen, — of all countries. 
 
 St. P. — He shall speak for himself, Hi, Joseph, were 
 men murdering their wives as much as usual when you 
 were last at home ? 
 
 Jos. — I didn’t notice any change my Lord Duke — ex- 
 cepting that it was the women seemed fonder than ever ! 
 
 St. P. — Of their husbands ? 
 
 Jos. — Of aggravating them, my Lord — the more a 
 women loves you the worse she aggravates you ! 
 
 St. P. — And does she love the manual punishment 
 you inflict for her sins ? 
 
 Jos. — My Lord, she glories in it ; just try and interfere 
 when a couple are enjoying ’emselves in a snug little row ; 
 try and come between a woman and her two pet black 
 eyes, and see which of the three will get the worst of that 
 quarrel. 
 
 St. P. — That will do Joseph, you have borne testi- 
 mony to your national peculiarities. 
 
 Jos. — Yes, my Lord Duke, and I shall be as proud to 
 do as much for your country any day ; which kicking and 
 scratching is its worst point in rows. 
 
 De La Roche. — When I came to Paris I expected to 
 find the St. Preux I used to know ; the man who rode, 
 wrestled, fenced and made love with the best of us. Do 
 you ride now, St. Preux ? I am quite disheartened to find 
 you so altered, you used to be a man and now you have 
 faded into a fine gentleman. 
 
 St. P. — There are some very fine well-trained hackneys 
 
20 
 
 A^ 
 
 A; 
 
 
 n 
 
 in my stables, I believe. 
 
 I)e La Roche.— H orses turned into automata you 
 mean, machines that some one else has screwed up for 
 you and sets going at a given word. I would make a 
 present of such to the first old invalid lady I knew to be 
 in want of gentle exercise ; give me the horse who lives 
 under you, who shows coi nage which I can praise, strength 
 and speed I can test, temper which I can parjy with (my 
 dear St. Preux, I would not give a straw for either a 
 horse or a woman who didn’t show a little temper) and 
 vice, which I can fight and conquer ; not that a man 
 should be in too great a hurry to find out his wife’s or his 
 horse’s ill-humour, ten to one he gets implicated as having 
 begun the quarrel himself. 
 
 St. L. — Excuse the interruption, are you married ? 
 
 De La Roche. — I have not that pleasure yet. 
 
 St. L. — That’s why you call it a pleasure, you’ll know 
 better bye and bye. 
 
 De La Roche. — Do you speak from experience? 
 
 St. L. — No, but I’ve studied that of other men, from 
 the vantage ground of impartial celibacy, and I tell you 
 my idea of a wife^he can be expressed musically as a 
 bar , architecturally as a ruin, entomologically as a gad fly , 
 agriculturally as a blight, grammatically as a full stop to 
 all one’s pleasures. 
 
 De La Roche. — I’ll tell you what I imagine her to 
 to be ; a musical concord to close a man’s life in har- 
 mony with heaven’s spheres; a pure temple in which he 
 may enshrine his worthiest thoughts ; a butterfly only, 
 inasmuch as she is the emblem of that better part of him, 
 his soul ! a harvest that will live garnered in his heart 
 when earthly grain perish in frost and storm ; and to 
 parallel your simile to the end grammatically, the hyphen 
 that unites two names, two nature’s, two lives in one un- 
 broken link of mutual love and esfeem ! 
 
 St. L. — How. refreshing youth and enthusiasm would 
 be, if they were not so absurd ! — you provincials would 
 believe in anything— Priests* Petticoats and Prime Min- 
 isters ! 
 
 De La Roche. — But even my credulity has its limits, 
 for I put no faith in Pagans, Popinjays or Parisians. 
 
21 
 
 St. L. — Perhaps you would place greater faith in the 
 metal of this sword — ( half draws). 
 
 De La Roche. — It is the only thing about you worth 
 putting faith in ; I should be delighted to test its reality. 
 (draws.) 
 
 St. P. — Hey day, is this the way you cement an old 
 friendship ; put up your swords — are you not aware that, 
 there's nothing in the world worth fighting about ? 
 
 De La Roche. — / am a modest man, and can't put 
 myself first in anything but what concerns my honour ! 
 
 St. L. — The great can afford to be magnanimous, be- 
 sides it would be absurd to pit a valuable life like mine 
 against that of a fossil, a half alive Provincial ; here's my 
 hand. 
 
 De La Roche. — I should have been more honored 
 by your sword, but — here is mine, (they shake hands.) 
 
 St. P. — As it seems impossible to discuss woman 
 even in the abstract, without quarrelling, let us talk about 
 something only one of us is interested in, then we shall 
 agree — tell me about your favourite horse De La Roche- 
 Jaquelein, what is its especial charm. 
 
 De La Roche. — Wickedness — It was only the other day 
 that after he had tried everything he knew, and invent- 
 ed a good deal he did not know that, growing tired of 
 discussion, he ran away with me with as much spirit as 
 though he had been an Irishman and I a beautiful woman. 
 
 St. P. — Reversing- my system exactly ; I run away 
 with them first and grew tired of them afterwards — 
 where did your ride stop ? 
 
 De La Roche. — On the edg-e of a cliff/jyhen it came 
 to smelling- the salt water and hearing- ^the hiss of the 
 waves in the whirlwind of speed in which I seemed 
 moving-, I thought it time to make it up with my nag, 
 which I did by bitting him hard, naturally he was sur- 
 prised and indignant, and stopped to kick — oh, he is the 
 most delightful horse in the world. 
 
 St. L. — The moral is, if ^you want to succeed with 
 women or horses, take them by surprise first and bit 
 them hard afterwards, but it wouldn't succeed with me ; 
 for I am never surprised at anything, never, not even at 
 my own success. 
 
 
22 
 
 De La Roche. — My dear St. Leon, I did not dream 
 of comparing you to a horse or to any other domestic 
 and useful animal, but tell me more of my old friend 
 here — does he wrestle now ? 
 
 St. L. — Yes, in the spirit, with his creditors. 
 
 De La Roche. — D oes he love? 
 
 St. L. — Himself devoutly. 
 
 De La Roche. — D oes a man of society only take an 
 interest in himself? 
 
 St. L. — There isn’t any time in society for taking an 
 interest in anyone else. 
 
 De La Roche. — There, you give the explanation of 
 revolutions and the apology of rebels ? 
 
 St. P. — Rebels, there are no such things, why should 
 there be ; are not we all pretty comfortable barring 
 ennui; certainly j, I have been at death’s door from the 
 effect^ of boredom ! 
 
 St. L. — He must get the English doctor to prescribe 
 for you ; he comes from a country where men bore their 
 friends, but never themselves; they are so vulgarly 
 active. 
 
 St. P. — Oh, by the way, yes — I asked Doctor Thorn- 
 hill to visit me here to-day, he saved my life once, so I 
 feel myself obliged to ask him to dinner now and then. 
 
 St. L. — That rough brusque islander coming ? I 
 would have put on an extra cloak had I known; I always 
 feel when in an Englishman’s presence, as if in that of an 
 east wind. ( shivers affectedly.') 
 
 Enter Thornhill . 
 
 Dr. T. — The east wind did you say, certainly it is 
 fatal to exotics. Talking of exotics, how is my patient 
 to day ? 
 
 St. P. — Oh, doctor I’m wretchedly ill. 
 
 Dr. T. — Umph, let’s see, you are young. 
 
 St. P. — For a Frenchman, yes. 
 
 Dr. T. — True, a Frenchman is never young. 
 
 St. P. — And never old. 
 
 Dr. T. — What is your worst symptom ? 
 
 St. P. — Fatigue. 
 
 Dr, T. — How did it first show itself? 
 
23 
 
 St. P. — Well, after Pd tried every liquor under the 
 sun and got equally drunk on them all ; after Pd told 
 the same lie to some fifty different women ; after I’d 
 fought a dozen duels with wearisome success, at last 
 everything began to pall on me, isn’t it sad ! 
 
 Dr. T. — It is, indeed, pitiable ! 
 
 St. P. — The fact is, 1 did everything too well ; drank 
 too well, loved too well, fought too well — for my part I 
 can’t think how La Roche^Jaquelein there, who lives in v_ 
 the country where they dTTno thing well, except stagnate, 
 can support existence. 
 
 De La Roche. — Perhaps you’ve never tried my re- 
 ceipt against stagnation. 
 
 St. P. — Have you one 'l pray let me have a copy of it. 
 
 De La Roche. — Serve the King ; guard my honour ; 
 love a woman. I find that to practice these three virtues 
 keeps me very actively employed. 
 
 St. P. — Oh, thank you — well, yes, perhaps you’ll be 
 kind enough to give it to my valet, he practises all my 
 virtues for me. 
 
 St. L. — He must have quite a sinecure. 
 
 St. P. — Then you may be sure he don’t deserve it. 
 
 It is part of the condition of siqecures that the holders’ 
 should not do so.^La Roche-Jaquelein will you attend 
 the court fete witn us 1 
 
 De La Roche. — Not I ! I have a parade to attend, 
 one or two Vendeans like myself are forming a corps 
 that we may be able, if called upon to serve the King/ 
 in a more substantial form, than by bowing to him at his 
 court balls. I have already secured some of the best 
 youngsters of the court, who would die for his Majesty, 
 but who won’t go to the Provinces to be trained ; so we 
 meet near Versailles every half year, and are inspected 
 by an old follower of Turenne’s. After all its something 
 to be prepared, even for a chance of being useful — will 
 you join us St. Leon '? 
 
 St. L. — Me — be useful — thank you, no. I know too 
 well what is due to my station. 
 
 De La Roche. — At least come and see us parade, it 
 will soon be over, the drum will beat to quarters, and 
 we shall all chorusing the retreat. 
 
24 
 
 ( Song , La Retraite.) 
 
 But, understand, the retreat is a song- we only sing- be- 
 fore our friends; for our enemies we shall have a different 
 tune — the tune which is followed by the silence of death, 
 that of the advance. ( exeunt omnes.) 
 
 Lizette and Joseph enter and clear away some of the break- 
 fast appanage . 
 
 - Liz. — What is the matter, Monsieur Merryweather ? 
 f f u Jos. — I don’t know, unless (sjghs) I have got an affec- 
 tion of the heart ! 
 
 Liz. — Dear me, is that a melancholy complaint? 
 
 Jos. — Shocking, unless you’re sure of your girl, which 
 you never are until you have ceased to care to be so. 
 
 Liz. — Have you often suffered from it ? 
 
 Jos. — Often, and each time worse than the last. 
 
 Liz. — How does it show yourself, in you ? 
 
 Jos. — Makes me look like a fool to one person, and 
 act like a brute to everyone else ; but I don’t care to 
 talk about it Miss Lizette, they say talking of the tooth- 
 ache is sure to bring it on. 
 
 Liz. — But, perhaps, I might find a cure. 
 
 Jos. — Thank ye, Miss, but I’m afraid I couldn’t afford 
 the fee. 
 
 Liz. — What is that ? 
 
 Jos. — Matrimony. 
 
 Liz. — Don’t you ever mean to marry, Mr Joe ? 
 
 Jos. — Not until I can help it Miss ; but I’m afraid the 
 women will be one too many for me some day ; a wife 
 might interfere with my missions. 
 
 Liz. — Your what ? 
 
 Jos. — My mission — I’ve two of them you know ; one 
 is to fall in love with every pretty girl I meet, that’s 
 what I call an involuntary mission and comes of itself ; 
 the other is a patriotic purpose ; the redemption of my 
 enslaved countrymen; to that , when I was at home, I de- 
 voted all my eloquence, all my time, and a good deal of 
 my savings. The eloquence went to prove that all men 
 are equal, and that I ought to have a servant to wait on 
 me, instead of acting as such. The savings went in beer 
 and baccy to the other patriots, who used to cheer my 
 
25 
 
 speeches. Oh, Miss, I wish you could have heard the 
 uproarious ‘ Ear/ ‘ Ear’s/ they shook the roof of the 
 Black Lion, when I said “ Down with taxes ; down with 
 William Pitt ; down with the King- ! ” 
 
 Liz. And did they down with him % 
 
 Jos. Why no, they did’nt. He came in procession 
 throug-h the town the next day, and the very rascals 
 who had promised to give all their energies and lives to 
 undermining the throne, accepted a contract to build 
 some remarkably strong oak chairs for one of the Roy- 
 al Palaces ; they didn’t even put in the nails wrong side 
 upwards. 
 
 Liz. What excuse did they make ? 
 
 Jos. They said they didn’t believe the King was a 
 bad sort of chap after all ; but the real fact was I had no 
 more cash left for beer and pipes, so I had to condescend 
 to hunt out an old master of mine, one of the pampered 
 aristocrats of my country who debase their menials by 
 enervating Kindness, and ask him for a character. I told 
 him I had reasons to wish to live abroad ; he little guessed 
 he was ex-patriating a second Oliver Cromwell. He asked 
 me in that insulting civil way of his, if it was Love or 
 Law I was running away from, and then gave me a re- 
 commendation to the Duke here, and here I am — but 
 ere long, perhaps, Joseph Merryweather may doff the 
 menial plush for the Imperial purple. 
 
 Liz. Oh, Mr. Jo. I’m sure the liveries are very, very 
 becoming. 
 
 Jos. They are ! but I must sacrifice personal advan- 
 tages to public interest, and the sacrifice may be more 
 imminent than you imagine, Miss Lizette. I could tell 
 you a secret, if you weren’t a woman. I would tell you 
 a secret, but then it wouldn’t be one any longer. 
 
 Liz, But if I weren’t a woman you wouldn’t want to 
 tell it to me. Mr. Joseph, you might tell me a little, a 
 very little corner of it. 
 
 Jos. Hist — well — there’s going to be a rising. 
 
 Liz. Of the moon you mean; she will soon be at the 
 full. 
 
 Jos. This is no case of moonshine, and there’s more 
 than one man in it. I daren’t say any more just now, 
 
26 
 
 but if ever any trouble conW to this country, don't 
 forget you can have a friend and a home in mine. 
 
 Liz. If any misfortune should ever come to this 
 country, Mr. Joe, I should not take that moment to 
 forget that it is my home. 
 
 Jos. Lizette, before we part, let me feel that we are 
 one in this great undertaking. Swear to unite with us 
 to break the bonds of the oppressed and the heads of 
 the oppressors. 
 
 
 ft 
 
 Liz. Well, Mr. Joe, I’ve been brought up on the 
 estate. My mother was nurse to the Duke ; he has 
 always been kind to me, and I shouldn't like to have his 
 head broken until I saw what sort of one the next comer 
 might have. You see, I have been in service here all 
 my life. 
 
 Jos. In service — there’s a term to be applied to a 
 human being, who has equal rights with any other 
 human being. The Duke ought not to have made^a 
 servant of you at all. 
 
 Liz. Law ! Mr, Joe, do you think he ought to have 
 made a Duchess of me ! ! ! ! 
 
 Jos. (severely ) A sister ! he ought to have made a 
 sister of you, Miss Lizette ! 
 
 Liz. He couldn’t do that, Joe, you know, for he was 
 an only child, and no one could ever say anything against 
 that sainted old man, his father, the late Duke. 
 
 Jos, The very word servant means servus, a serf or 
 slave. When I started patriotism, Miss Lizette, I 
 learned a little latin — a little goes a long way with 
 patriots/ you see, they don’t quite know what it means, 
 and they don’t know what they mean themselves, and so 
 it's all what you French call on a cord. 
 
 Liz, Well, Mr. Joe, to please you, I have no objection 
 to vowing destruction to tyrants and dukes in general, 
 with the exception of those I’ve known myself in parti- 
 cular. 
 
 Jos. Let us swear (with hand in hand, which will be 
 pleasant as well as effective). Let us swear never to 
 hold any terms with the domineerial race, but to take 
 every opportunity of thwarting and destroying its 
 
27 
 
 authority! ( Together ) Agreed. Down with dukes 
 
 and despots ; down with 
 
 Enter St. Preux C.; comes down calling “Joe, Lizette.” 
 
 Liz. Jos. ( together ). Yes, sir — certainly, sir — what 
 did you please to want — yes my, my Lord — Pm sure, I 
 beg ten thousand pardon, your Grace. 
 
 St. P. I am sure you require no pardon. I hope I do 
 not grudge any domestics their harmless confidences 
 with each other ; you have not found me a harsh 
 master, have you, my foster-sister ? 
 
 Liz. In justice to myself, I must say I made an excep- 
 tion in your favour. 
 
 Jos Oh yes, she owned your Grace was the best of 
 the bunch. 
 
 St. P. ( surprised ). Why, has there been any cause of 
 complaint against me ? 
 
 Liz. Not on my side, I assure you, sir. 
 
 Jos. And I have no personal objection to my Lord 
 Duke. 
 
 St. P. I am glad you are all happy and satisfied — 
 for my part, I never believe in all the absurd exaggera- 
 tions that abound concerning the discontent of the lower 
 classes. The people on my estate always take off their 
 hats to me. — What more do I want ? 
 
 Jos. No, I dare say your Grace requires nothing more. 
 {aside) Lizette, you’ll see that those who took off their 
 hats th^ lowest will be the most eager to take off their 
 patroiTsdieads. 
 
 St. P. Joseph, my shoe buckle is unfastened — kneel 
 down and put it right ( seats himself hesitating), 
 
 Jos. What a position for Joseph Merry weather, the 
 people’s Joseph. Oh that all aristocracy had but one 
 foot, and I could tread on its corns ! 
 
 St. P. Now, then, make haste. I’m afraid your 
 knees are growing stiff, Joseph. ( Pokes him with his 
 sword). 
 
 Jos. {going down rapidly). Directly, my Lord Duke, 
 it shall be done directly. Will your Grace kindly put 
 away that nasty thing. I’ve an hereditary objection to 
 swords. My mother didn’t like ’em before I was born. 
 
28 
 
 St. P. Lizette, fasten this bow on my coat lappet. 
 You have no hereditary objection to bows, have you ? 
 
 Liz. No, sir, I’ve a natural affinity to them. 
 
 Jos. ( aside to her as she kneels). Lizette, Is this 
 “ thwarting his authority 
 
 Liz. {aside). Joseph, is this “defying his mandates 
 
 St. P. Now, you may go to your respective duties, 
 and be careful they are fulfilled properly. A good 
 servant should have no interest next his master’s. 
 Joseph, see that my court wig rs properly dressed. 
 
 Jos. 0^ • that it were the head/§. P., eh ? 
 
 Jos. Directly, sir, directly ( running off — 
 
 St. P. (to Lizette). And see that my lace ruffles are 
 in order for me to wear. 
 
 Liz. {aside). Oh ! that I could wear ’em myself, 
 
 VGft. R, eh? 
 
 ' Liz. You shall have them at once, my Lord Duke. 
 
 Lizette a?id Joseph meet at hack of Stage. 
 
 Jos. Lizette. 
 
 Liz. Joseph. 
 
 Jos. Let’s swear it again when we get outside. 
 
 Liz. If you don’t think he will hear. ( Exeunt .) 
 
 St. P. What willing devils those servants of mine 
 are ! nearly 8 o’clock ! it is time for me to go and dress — 
 heigho — when any crisis affects the life of an English- 
 c y T))1} man, he eats a dinner to ac co mmodat e it ; a Frenchman 
 '^^pder similar circumstances makes an oration or an epi- 
 ^am^for variety^ I’ll try my hand at an epitaph, “ Here 
 lies r rancois de St. Preux, whose lies were only equalled 
 by the credulity of womankind.” Oh, well, I’ve done 
 with women now, for a wife is an institution be t t or than a 
 *2* -^^Tvoman ; in my case, she’s an asylum for the indigent. I 
 dare say I shall like her, for she’s pretty enough ; had 
 she only been any other man’s wife I could have adored 
 her ! I was very nearly in love once with a sweetheart of 
 my own ( Marcelle enters at hack ) and there’s no telling 
 what follies I might not have committed ; fortunately we 
 were parted, and as we shall never meet again I can 
 afford to feel a little sentimental about her, especially as 
 I’m going to marry another woman ! 
 
29 
 
 (Marcelle speaks from back of stage , “ Francois ” in a 
 hushed , suppressed voice). 
 
 St. P. Who speaks my Christian name so glibly ? 
 
 Mar. A woman who has called no other man by his 
 since she last saw you ; Francois, it is I, it is Marcelle. 
 
 St. P. (stupified) Marcelle ! 
 
 Mar. Yet though your unspoken name has been in 
 my thoughts so long, I hardly dare echo it now; you have 
 cheated me so often, you have answered me in my 
 dreams ; you have called me in lonely roads ; you have 
 haunted me with illusions, and now I feel as ^though re- 
 ality itself were mania. Speak to me Francois, call my 
 name with love in your tone that I may feel that life and 
 light are coming back to my numbed heart. 
 
 St. P. Marcelle, do not ask me to speak to you, 
 when silence is the best mercy I can show you. 
 
 Mar. Mercy ! yes, I can believe in mercy now. A 
 Paean is rising in my heart — I feel as if my thanksgiving 
 would thrill the angels — Heaven is kind — Heaven be 
 praised, for I am saved, now you are found. 
 
 St. P. ( aside ) What can I say to her — why will wo- 
 men feel so much. Marcelle, it is so long since I saw 
 you that you must not be surprised. 
 
 Mar. Long ! ah, love, if the time seemed long to you, 
 time for me was annihilated. I feel as if I had been dead 
 all these years' and was suddenly reanimated by a soul — 
 something full of infinite pain and extacy — but why did 
 you kill me for so long a time, Francois ? and oh, the 
 agony of the first days of death and loss ; I was strong 
 and bright then ; I could weep ; could clench my hands, 
 could sob. out your name in my sleep — then my eyes 
 grew dim with watching the road ; my hands dropped and 
 even my footsteps ceased to wear a path in the weary 
 woodland where last we met. 
 
 St. P. Would that we had never met. 
 
 Mar. You can say that — ah, you have forgotten how 
 happy we were — you think I am reproaching you for the 
 past — oh, my love, all reproach dies in the divine mo- 
 ment of re-union— they mocked me, Francois — you 
 remember Jeanette, whom I hated because you called 
 
l- Cf rt iULas t 
 
 her pretty — how she smiled as time went on and you came 
 no more. “ Aha, you have lost your fine sweetheart/' she 
 cried — “look ! it is spring ! bird calls to bird-y^2fik^=fow- 
 -e«4e23nes — but Marcelle is alone” I struck her in the face 
 because her words were true, and then I hid my own 
 and despaired. 
 
 St. P. Marcelle, I cannot atone, forgive me ; and — 
 
 Mar. Hush, all is atoned — oh, mine own, I have got 
 you again — my soul is come back to its body, and I'm 
 the happiest woman alive ; oh, so happy, so happy ( throws 
 herself on his neck.) 
 
 St. P. (gravely) You did not hear all I wished to say, 
 my poor Marcelle ; I said forgive me — I must add, for- 
 get me ! 
 
 Mar. Are you turned to stone that your words are so 
 cold ; you were kinder in my dreams, for then you always 
 smiled a welcome to my outstretched arms. 
 
 St. P. Consider — when a man adjures a woman to 
 forget their past, does it not mean that, for them, there 
 can be no future ? 
 
 Mar. And what but death can part us now — I have 
 prayed to die — but to-day I feel as if an age would be 
 too short to taste my joy in. 
 
 St. P. Law, which is nearly as strong as death, can 
 part us. 
 
 Mar. What question of law can arise between us ? — 
 Love shall be the sole adjudicator between you and me — 
 we will love with the glow of our youth — the force of our 
 prime, and when age has left us with no more chai£j^%r 
 grace in ourselves ; love shall still make us beautiful to 
 each other — why do you not speak, Francois P 
 ^ St. P. Perhaps because it is difficult to resign all that 
 might have been to all that must be — farewell, (going, she 
 clings to him ). 
 
 Mar. No — oh, no — you shall not go — what, is that 
 terrible time coming over again — those pale, sickly hours 
 of our severance — what do you mean ? — I do not, ( pause ) 
 I dare not understand you 1 
 
 Enter Joseph , r. ( La RochelJ aquelein, St. Leon , Lizette 
 and Thornhul, from back.) 
 
3 * 
 
 Jos* If you please, my Lord Duke* I— beg your par- 
 don, Fm sure, my Lord Duke — didn't know you had 
 company, (aside) (I see it's never too late not to mend) 
 but a message has come from the Duchess as is to be, 
 and she wants to see you immediately. 
 
 St. L. (aside, Not much too soon I should say.) (to 
 Dr. Thornhill) Quite a case of Ariadne and Theseus, eh ? 
 
 Dr. T. My only regret for not having lived in The- 
 seus's time is, that I missed the pleasure of kicking that 
 gentleman. 
 
 St. L. Ariadne wouldn't have thanked you for that ; 
 women like to do all the punishing themselves — besides, 
 there was Bacchus, you know, (advances jauntily to Mar - 
 celle) “ Let me be your Bacchus, Madame ?" 
 
 (Marcelle puts him aside , and says , in a concentrated dull voice, 
 “ Who is it who has sent for you, Francois ?" 
 
 Jos. His Lordship's Bride, ma'am ; she is a little — um 
 — out of sorts. 
 
 St. L. Don't alarm yourself, St. Preux, she's only 
 ill — in her temper ; because the family jewels you promised 
 to send her haven't arrived— says she can't and won't be 
 married without them. 
 
 Mar. Whose is this bride of whom are you all talk- 
 ing ? (walks up to the group) Which of you gentlemen 
 is about to be married ? (they look at St. Preux — he 
 looks down , she follows the direction of their eyes). 
 
 Mar. You i 
 
 Dr. T. My dear, you had better come away. 
 
 Mar. Is it you?— say it isn't true, Francois — say it 
 isn't true — say it with your own lips, and let me curse them 
 for liars — what is this they say you are about to do ? 
 
 St. P. They say what is truth. I am about to marry 
 a lady of rank, equal to — of fortune more than my own — 
 we are to be married to-morrow. 
 
 Mar. Oh, oh, do you love her ? 
 
 St. P. I shall marry her. 
 
 Mar. You must not, shall not marry her — it must be 
 broken off — gentlemen, tell him that a noble must not be 
 less than his name — that a Christian cannot forsake a poor 
 wretch whose only earthly hope is in him ? 
 
 I 
 
3 * 
 
 St. P. You ask me — a gentleman and a Peer of 
 France — to break his plighted word ! 
 
 Mar. I have no reason to think you would find it 
 difficult to do so. 
 
 St. P. I have never broken my word — at least not to 
 my equals. 
 
 Mar. I see — gentlemen have two words of honour — 
 one incorruptible for the equal who can enforce its obser- 
 vance — the other corrupt and worthless, pledged only to 
 the helpless and unprotected — excuse my ignorance gen- 
 tlemen, I am of what is called the lower class, I have 
 been used to trust to the plain yea and nay of the poor- 
 I have risen in the social scale, I know now what it is to 
 have been loved by a Duke and lied to by a villain ! 
 
 St. P. (annoyed) Madame, there was more force in 
 your grief than in your anger. 
 
 Mar. But more truth in my anger ! But see I am 
 not angry — I am calm — only very helpless, very sorrowful 
 — pity my helplessness— reward my constancy — tell your 
 bride that you cannot marry her, for you are mine ! 
 
 St. L. Impossible, Madame ; think what people 
 would say. 
 
 La Roche. Think of the bride, Madame. 
 
 Liz. Think of the^rousseau — oh, it’s quite impossible. 
 
 ^ St. P. I cannot, /Marcelle j you prolong a painful 
 scene in vain — your friend I shall always be, (takes her 
 hands , she tears them away) if you will let me — I acknow- 
 ledge that I gave you my heart — but that was long since. 
 To-day, the gift would not be worth your having, even if 
 I could renew it — now will you say farewell kindly and — 
 go ? 
 
 Mar. (cowers away from his outstretched hand) Oh, 
 that I had died — had died before I knew this hour — be- 
 fore I saw him again — at least I loved my dreams, at 
 least I nursed my hope ; now all is lost ! lost ! ! lost ! ! ! 
 
 Dr. T. You will not wait for him to repeat his dis- 
 missal, Marcelle ? Save yourself from further insult, and 
 go — as he says. 
 
 Mar. Yes, I will go — as he says — but I shall return — 
 remember that, Francois. 
 
33 
 
 St. P. You will be welcome, Madame, if you are then 
 resigned to the force of circumstances. 
 
 Mar. Shall I be welcome ? we shall see — I call you 
 all and Heaven, which is above all, to witness that I, who 
 found my way to this man through my great love, will 
 never cease to dog him with great hate — my injury is one 
 of many ; the hate of a whole people smoulders under 
 your feet — some touch more reckless than the rest — some 
 firebrand of wrong, hurled by a wanton hand, will make 
 all France a hideous conflagration — then the proud heads 
 will go down with the humble — then will the Palace be 
 levelled lower than the peat-hut — then women who have 
 have loved and lost, as I have loved and lost, will have 
 their revenge — then the souls you have made black shall 
 throw their shadows over yours — the lives you have made 
 hard shall grind yours to powder — I shall return — be sure 
 of that, and on that day I shall remember this ! 
 
 St. Preux. Marcelle. Thornhill. 
 
 De La Roche. St Leon. 
 
 Joseph. Lizette. 
 
 Curtain. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — The Dauphin s schoolroom at Versailles . The 
 room is hung with maps and furnished with globes , 
 books labelled “ Royal Roads to Learning” dec . 
 
 Lizette discovered arranging books and papers . 
 
 Liz. I came in the hope of meeting Monsieur Merry- 
 weather by accident, and Pve waited here at least an 
 hour on purpose ( looks at clock), that clock says I’ve 
 only waited ten minutes, that clock is too slow ; besides 
 when one is in love or going to be hanged, an hour or 
 ten minutes seems equally painful. Here he comes. I 
 hope I shan’t show him how glad I am to see him again. 
 
34 
 
 My grandmother used to say no properly behaved girl 
 is ever glad to see her lover ! — I’m afraid I shall never 
 be properly behaved. 
 
 Enter Joseph. 
 
 Jos. What my Lizette — but I must remember my 
 mission, and not feel too much. 
 
 Liz. What my Jose — but I must remember my grand- 
 mother, and not show too much. 
 
 Jos. How nice she looks. Blow the mission ; Lizette. 
 
 Liz. Sir. ; C/^^ 
 
 Jos. She must love me — she’s so cursedly disagree- 
 able. I wish I could think of something new and strik- 
 ing to say. 
 
 Liz. I wish I could think of something to say — one 
 looks so foolish when one’s dumb — besides it’s so out of 
 character with a woman 
 
 Jos. Now for an inspiration. Miss Lizette, it’s — it’s, I 
 feel that it’s — it’s. 
 
 Liz. Yes, you feel that it’s — it’s. 
 
 Jos. Fine weather for the time of year, isn’t it, Miss ? 
 
 Liz. Rather too> cold, don’t you think ? I prefer it a 
 little warmer myself. 
 
 Jos. Don’t you hear what the ring doves are saying, 
 Miss Lizette? they say — at least he says — do — oo — 
 do — ooo — do, ooo. 
 
 Liz. And don’t you know what my cat Minette says, 
 Mr. Joseph ? Sha-want — sha-want — sha-want. 
 
 Jos. Here comes the Dauphin, just my luck ; some- 
 body always does interrupt me just when I’m beginning 
 to know what to say. 
 
 Liz. Mr. Joseph, when things are worth saying they 
 come of themselves ; but tell me, are you as great a 
 democrat as ever ? 
 
 Jos. Greater than ever since I came to court — didn’t^/ 
 St. Preux get me appointed pugilistic Professor-in-Chief 
 to H. R. H. the Dauphin. Don’t they do their best to 
 degrade me by luxury ? If I weren’t a patriot, I might 
 have so far forgotten myself as to be grateful, but I 
 know what is due to my principles. 
 
35 
 
 Liz. And I know what is due to my Prince — T too 
 have been promoted by the Duke’s influence. I am 
 pocket handkerchief holder of the second rank to H.R.H. 
 the Dauphin — and although I am a court domestic, I 
 never keep the royal nose waiting more than ten minutes 
 at the most. 
 
 Jos. There is a strange variance in our duties, Lizefte ; 
 my office is to afflict, yours is to console the royal pro- 
 boscis ! it’s allegorical of our differing politics ; and who is 
 that who is walking backwards before the Dauphin ? 
 
 Liz. Don’t you remember the Vicomte St. Leon. 
 The Duke got him promoted too. 
 
 Jos. What wholesale jobbery. I must say these 
 aristocrats do it handsomely when they once begin to 
 corrupt. I couldn’t do it better myself; but we will 
 repay them. 
 
 Liz. Then I hope it will be in their own coin, but you 
 must not be seen here until you’re sent for. 
 
 Jos. But I’m just beginning to feel so very eloquent. 
 
 Liz. Go. 
 
 Jos. And so, very. 
 
 Liz. Go, I tell you. 
 
 Jos. And so very sure you love me/ — — 
 
 Liz. I swear I d^n't. ilow did you find it out ? 
 
 Jos. Any one could have seen it with half an eye. 
 
 Enter The Dauphin, accompanied by a Page , preceded by 
 
 St. Leon, who bows towards him and produces a large 
 
 Map. 
 
 St. Leo. Will your R.H. please to cast your eyes on this 
 nice easy map ? 
 
 Dau. I can’t, I’m so tired ( reclines languidly on a 
 couch and plays at cup and ball. Page and Lizette station 
 themselves behind him. 
 
 Liz. Poor fellow, of course he is ; there’s nothing so 
 fatiguing as doing nothing all day. 
 
 St. Leo. Your Royal Highness perceives that this 
 globe represents the w r orld, and is round; do you 
 know what makes Dund ? 
 
 Exit. 
 
36 
 
 Dau. Yes, love. 
 
 St. Leo. Your Royal Highness has mastered the first 
 rudiments of physical science. With regard to this map, 
 your royal parents insist that you should be perfect in 
 geography — at the same time I have directions on no 
 account to over fatigue your Royal Highness by urging 
 you to persevere jper haps if your Royal Highness’sPage 
 would be sufficient. 
 
 " r?l< a { \ Page. That is the map of Europe. That large space 
 ( j pointing to the Map) is France. Those smaller specks 
 represent the use of the civilised world. 
 
 Dau. Of course — I know that. 
 
 
 
 St. Leo. Admirably learnt indeed, what precocity ! 
 what genius ! Pray remember to say exactly the same 
 thing to your royal parents when they see you to-day, 
 and enquire of your progress. 
 
 Dau. And I shall be King of France. 
 
 St. L. But you needn’t remember to repeat that , your 
 royal papa might think you were in a hurry. 
 
 Dau. But papa is no King, I heard mamma say so. 
 When they brought him back from Paris, the other day, 
 and he wore the national tricolour, she said he was a 
 Plebeian. — Now a Plebeian isn’t a king — is he ? 
 
 St. L. Well, no — but sometimes a king may be a 
 Plebeian. There’s a vulgar monarch over the water 
 who eats his own mutton, and is constant to his own wife. 
 A real king should live on his subjects’ mutton, and be 
 constant to their wives ! 
 
 Enter Joseph dressed in a plain dark court suit . He has 
 
 a bag with him containing boxing-gloves . 
 
 St. L. And what do you teach ? 
 
 Jos. Dumb eloquence in the English language, my 
 Lord. ( produces gloves .) 
 
 Jos. Is your Royal Highness ready to take your 
 English lesson ? 
 
 St. L. Hey, day, Joseph, since when have you turned 
 Professor ? 
 
 Jos. Since the aristocrats became so ignorant, my 
 Lord Viscount. 
 
St. L. What barbarity ; but, of course, you do not 
 touch the Dauphin. 
 
 Dau. Oh, no ; I always win, don’t I, Joseph ? 
 
 Jos. I flatter myself, sire, that I haven’t lived at Court 
 for nothing-. 
 
 Liz. Stop ! His Royal Highness is about to sneeze ! 
 The Royal precedent must be observed — it follows that 
 we must all sneeze. The pag-e is paid the lowest, con- 
 sequently he must sneeze the loudest. Now Professor 
 Merryweather, you may proceed. 
 
 After a short round , during which the Dauphin leads off , 
 and the Page counters every return blow , the Dauphin flings 
 down the gloves. 
 
 All. Bravo ! your Royal Highness ! 
 
 St. L. What spirit — what courage ; I am g-lad I’m 
 not his Royal Highness’s enemy. 
 
 Liz. And I am glad I’m not his Royal Highness’s 
 page. 
 
 St. L. Will your Royal Highness essay Father 
 Rubric’s rapid race to Latin, or Herr 
 
 ranee put into a Pea-pod.” 
 
 The Dau. I won’t learn anything 
 
 chess with Lizette. 
 
 Liz. Oh, your Royal Highness, consider my place 
 is to hold the royal handkerchief to your more royal 
 nose, it is impossible I can be guilty of such a neglect of 
 my office. 
 
 Dau. I’ll play chess with Lizette. 
 
 St. L. Your Royal Highness is aware that a breach 
 of etiquette is the one fault strictly forbidden by your 
 royal parents and tutors. 
 
 Dau. That’s just why I want to do it. 
 
 St. L. And that your poor page here must be pun- 
 ished severely for your disobedience. 
 
 Dau. Oh, he’s used to it. 
 
 Jos. (to Lizette) what do they punish the plebeian for 
 the Prince’s sins ? 
 
 Liz. (aside) What else are plebeians for ? 
 
 Jos. They are finding out their uses, Miss Lizette. I 
 only hope you mayn’t find out their abuses. 
 
 lous guide to German, or Professor 
 
38 
 
 Lizette and the Dauphin play ; Joseph and the page retire 
 to back a?id look on, 
 
 St. Leon {to page and Joseph aside). Now then, 
 when the Dauphin plays a good move, applaud ; when 
 he plays a bad one, applaud doubly ; then he won’t find 
 it out, and will be pleased with himself and you. 
 
 E?iter the Due de St. Preux. 
 
 St. P. I was searching for you, St. Leon ; but this is 
 the last place I expected to find you in. 
 
 St. L. Are you not aware that I have been promoted 
 to the sinecure of General Instructor of H.R.H. the 
 Dauphin. 
 
 St. P. That is why I made sure I should not find you 
 in his vicinity. 
 
 St. L. You underrate my zeal and abilities ; {to the 
 Dauphin) will Your Royal Highness deign to inform 
 Monsieur le Due de St. Preux why it was I, above all the 
 Court was selected, for the office of General Instructor. 
 
 Dau. Because you were certain not to be able to teach 
 me anything. 
 
 St. L. And do I fulfil my duties to Your Royal High- 
 ness satisfaction. 
 
 Dau. Admirably ; but I have learnt something in 
 spite of you. 
 
 St. P. Your Royal Highness is a Phoenix. You have 
 really learned something, tell us what it is ? 
 
 Dau. That when a king wears the colours of his 
 people, he ceases to be king. 
 
 Jos. Nay, Your Dauphinship, read the lesson back- 
 ward, The year that a king adopts his people's cause 
 is the first of his reign. 
 
 St. P. Joseph, you talk of what you don’t understand. 
 The masses here are nettles, and if not crushed, will 
 inflame the realm. 
 
 Jos. In our country, my Lord, if nettles overrun a soil, 
 we blame the former - owner. 
 
 St. P. St. Leon, matters are really growing serious. 
 You know that we, of the Queen’s faction, have done all 
 in our power to ignore the existence of the third estate. 
 We have locked them out of all their places of rendez- 
 
39 
 
 vous. We suggested to their delegates that they might 
 have to approach the King only on their knees, accord- 
 ing to old precedents. “ What? if the king commands it,’* 
 said I. 
 
 St. L. And what answered the proud provincials. 
 
 St. P. The President Bailly answered, “ What ? if 
 twenty-five million of men forbid it? ” 
 
 Jos. Bravo, Bailly ! 
 
 St. L. What insolence. 
 
 Jos. Yes, and its greatest insolence is its truth. 
 
 St. P. Of course we shall put down these upstarts ; 
 but it will take some days yet, owing to the King’s 
 absurd objection to fire on the people. 
 
 Dau. The people — what’s that ? 
 
 Jos. Twenty-five millions of human beings, your Royal 
 Highness, multiplied to double their strength by despair, 
 
 Dau. That move checks the king. 
 
 St. P. The Archbishop of Paris was compelled to seek 
 Sanctuary yesterday. 
 
 Dau. Bishop to Castle’s Square. 
 
 St. P. The malcontents have spread a rumour that 
 the soldiery are disaffected. 
 
 Dau. Now I have lost my knight. 
 
 St. P. The Queen gives a Royal fete to-night. She 
 is determined not to encourage the small faction opposed 
 to us, by taking their discontent seriously. 
 
 Jos. Twenty-five millions a small faction ! Oh Lor’ ! 
 
 St. P. We are determined not to yield one jot of our 
 position — we will not tax the nobles — we will not resign 
 our manorial rights. 
 
 Dau. What are our rights ? 
 
 Jos. The people wrongs ! 
 
 Liz. Their wrongs are all they’ve got, your Royal 
 Highness, so don’t grudge them to them. 
 
 Dau. Now I’ve lost my queen, I won’t play any more. 
 ( Comes down . They make way for him , and bow as he 
 moves out.) 
 
 Dau. Gentlemen, is there going to be a storm ? I heard 
 an odd noise in the court-yard. 
 
 St. L. ( looking out) It’s only some women, your Royal 
 Highness, crying out that they are hungry. 
 
40 
 
 Dau. Hunger ? — What’s that ? 
 
 Jos. It’s what’s making the twenty-five million “ inso- 
 lent,” 
 
 Dau. Poor things ; then I suppose it hurts them. I’ll 
 go and fling them out all my toys and sweetmeats. Exit . 
 
 St. P. The ball has begup — I hear the music of the 
 minuet ( music of Gavotte Heard), come St. Leon. Let 
 the emissaries of the mob find us dancing to the tune of 
 their menaces. 
 
 Jos. {stops him) My Lord Duke, for the sake of “ Auld 
 Lang$yne,” those happy days of perquisites and pecula- 
 tion unlimited, permit me to give you a warning ; the 
 danger is greater and nearer than you think. 
 
 St. P. The nearer the danger, the lighter my heart — 
 Don’t concern yourself for me, Joseph, I shall dance, but 
 it will be with one hand on this, {touching his rapier .) 
 
 Jos. At least, order a guard to be set around your 
 house, remember it is only a little way off the palace. 
 
 St. P. True, my wife and son. I will go at once and 
 ask for one or two of the Royal Bodyguard — for their 
 protection. Exit . 
 
 Jos. And you, sir, if you have anything you hold 
 precious — next^your life — seek some protection for it. 
 
 St. L. True, my cellar. I will at once go and ask 
 for a great number of the Royal Bodyguard — for my 
 liquor’s sake. Exit . 
 
 Jos. Hip, hip hurrah ! Vive liberty, equality and all 
 the rest of it. Lizette,^ congratulate me, I am a made 
 man — I may say a ready-made man ! 
 
 Liz. I don’t see any difference in you, Mr. Joseph. 
 
 Jos. Not see any difference. Why, look at my new 
 hat ? You may say, u What’s in a hat,” as Shakespeare 
 says. 
 
 Liz. “ Your head ! — a trifle light as air,” as Shake- 
 speare says. You see, Mr. Joseph, I have profited by 
 your instruction ! 
 
 Jos. Just enough to turn it against me ; how like a 
 woman ! But never mind, Miss Lizette, I am in such 
 good spirits, I could forgive you anything, even for mar- 
 rying me. 
 
41 
 
 Liz. I could do better. I could forgive you for mar- 
 rying anyone else. 
 
 Jos. Why will a woman always have the last word ? 
 
 Liz Out of revenge on Adam, who had the first. 
 
 Jos. Talking of Adam, do you know what I am now. 
 I am a Sans Culotte . 
 
 Liz. A what ? 
 
 Jos. A S-a-n-s C-u 
 
 Liz. Hush-h. I don’t think you can have looked out 
 that word in the dictionary, Mr. Joseph. 
 
 Jos. I’ve only got my Manuel de-v o y a g e ? whicn tells 
 you how to ask for everything you don’t want, in three 
 languages ( looks over a book) ; how to ask for a barber, 
 a bookseller, a tailor 
 
 Liz. Of course, they've nothing to do with it. I’ll show 
 you where to find it in the dictionary with my eyes shut 
 tight ; and since when have you adopted this style of 
 new garment ? 
 
 Jos. It’s the reward of patriotism, Lizette. 
 
 Liz. Make the most of it, for, scanty as it is, it’s all 
 the reward you’re likely to get. 
 
 Jos. You’re mistaken. All men are to share, and 
 share alike, and I’m to have a sinecure ; Liberty, Frater- 
 nity, Equality — that’s our motto. 
 
 Liz. Well, Joseph, your motto shall be my motto. 
 
 Jos. A motto is a thing that goes round a seal. Let’s 
 seal the compact, Lizette. ^ 
 
 Enter Piere La Roj/0e. 
 
 Piere. Humph ! — Is this a time for trifling, citizen ? 
 
 Jos. I was only just — only teaching this young woman 
 the principles of civil freedom. 
 
 Piere. Yes, I see. — Here’s a letter. 
 
 Jos. For whom? 
 
 Piere. Marcelle — Ain’t she here, disguised as an 
 aristocrat — A very good disguise too. Danton gave her 
 the jewels and nature a heart as hard as that of any 
 noble among them. She will open the palace doors 
 to us. 
 
 Jos. But there’ll be no blood shed — will there? 
 
 Piere. Nothing w T orth mentioning ; but be sure of this 
 — if you show yourself, that worst of enemies, a false 
 
 A 
 
42 
 
 friend, your's shall be the first blood shed, and if you draw 
 back now , it shall be with a knife inside you. Exits . 
 
 Liz. Hey day, Mr. Joseph, is this another phase of 
 civil freedom ? 
 
 Enter St. Leon hurriedly . 
 
 St. L. Lizette, come to my assistance, or I am lost. 
 I was bidden to tread a measure with majesty itself, and 
 just when the Blue eye of Austria beamed on me, it 
 beamed also on a black on my nose — the patch that 
 should have been on my chin had got rubbed the wrong 
 way. Pull it right. Lizette, and accept this proof of my 
 gratitude. ( gives her a gold piece and a salute . Joseph 
 twitches her .) 
 
 Liz. Nay, Mr. Joseph, this is only fraternity, you know. 
 
 St. L. I will reward you even yet more munificently, 
 Lizette. Come this way, and I will give you — what do 
 think? Why, a place from whence you can see me dancing, 
 
 Jos. (aside) Lizette, I forbid you to go. Attentions 
 to you, from one of his rank are insults. 
 
 Liz. But we are all equal now — this is equality. 
 
 Jos. You shan’t go, I tell you ! 
 
 Liz. But I will ! — and this is Liberty ! Exit , laughing . 
 
 Jos. Fraternity, equality, and liberty are all very well 
 in their way, but if this is the way they’re going to be 
 
 applied, blow me if I don’t turn a d d aristocrat (calls 
 
 after her.) Lizette, darling hussy, come back, or I’ll never 
 see you again, never ! She won’t — then I’ll — I’ll follow 
 her at once, and see what she’s up to ! (stuffs his 
 red cap into his pocket and steeds out , wearing St. Leons 
 dress hat.) 
 
 Enter Marcelle and St. Preux. 
 
 St. P. I have \brought you here, my fair unknown, 
 because it is the siudy and therefore the least frequented 
 room in the house, (they sit down.) 
 
 Mar. So you tell me you have never loved. 
 
 St. P. Never — until now ! 
 
 Mar. You can say that ? 
 
 St. P. I can swear it ! 
 
 Mar. And without blushing ! ! ! You must have sworn 
 it very often to have attained such fluency. 
 
43 
 
 St. P. Nay, madam, true passion is always fluent. 
 
 Mar. Yes, when it is at it’s zenith, but as our aquaint- 
 ance only commenced — let me see — how long- ago ? 
 
 St. P. About half an hour since — which seemed, alas, 
 but so many minutes ! 
 
 Mar. But granted that you being, as you say, so 
 unsophisticated and inexperienced in the tender pas- 
 sion, are able to feel more in half an hour, than an adept 
 could in half his life. Still, we cannot be supposed to be 
 very far gone in the ever- new, ever-old story, ca 
 
 St. P. There are some versions of that story of which 
 a single glimpse is sufficient to make one long to read 
 to the end. (I flatter myself that’s prettily said.) 
 
 Mar. Well, but when it is finished, I fear you might 
 begin another version ! Some readers are insatiable of 
 novelty. No, no, Monsieur, it is evident that you are a 
 proficient in what you call “ Love but the wisest man 
 that ever lived can learn something from the silliest 
 woman that ever talked, in that particular accomplish- 
 ment. For one thing, you are too wise . Remember 
 that Brutus won an Empire by looking what every true 
 lover looks in the early stage of his complaint ; 
 
 St. P. And that is 
 
 Mar. A Fool ! 
 
 St. P. I’m beginning to feel like one, if that is any- 
 thing towards it. Well, Madam, what other symptoms 
 should true Love show ! 
 
 Mar. True Love stutters when he is most true. You 
 are most eloquennt when most mendacious. True Love 
 stumbles, doesn’t know what to do with his hands and 
 feet, looks awkward and feels — Hiving Ynn mm/A wifV» 
 
 True Love thinks all the world 
 
 and for that reason all womankind are sacred to him. 
 You love all womenkind, and, therefore, no one of them 
 is sacred to you. 
 
 St. P. But, my dear Madam, don’t you think that this 
 true love of yours is a mnch overrated quality ? What 
 is the good of it ? People who feel it (or who fancy they 
 do) are generally very uncomfortable, very cross, very 
 
 Love. 
 
 ease, look like an aristocrat 
 
44 
 
 rude, very ill-bred. 'Nothing satisfies them. They’re 
 like the English on their travels — paying through the 
 nose for the most trifling accommodation, and always 
 grumbling at it ! 
 
 Mar. Yes, but when you compare a lady to a story 
 that is to be read, she likes to think that her story is to 
 be the “ story without an end.” Now, there is no end 
 for true love, for the story he begins here, he continues 
 in Heaven. But let us leave this subject until it is 
 capable of being discussed with more animation. Give 
 me some proof of your sincerity, such as confession. 
 Tell me somewhat of your past. 
 
 St. P. {aside) When a father questions his son of the 
 past, he is thinking of his debts ; when a woman does so, 
 she is inquisitive about his love affairs. Well, Madam, I 
 assure you, I always mean to be constant when I begin. 
 
 Mar. I fear yours are means to an end — and to a 
 speedy end. What about that story of you and the 
 Marquise de Valcourt ? 
 
 St. P. The Marquise — who — which — oh, I remember 
 — to be sure, yes— a charming woman, she was all soul, 
 and insisted on my hearing three masses a day — I shot 
 her husband — I’m sure that was a perfect proof of devo- 
 tion — for I got a pistol wound, and made her the fashion. 
 
 Mar. What of Lucille St. Foix? 
 
 St. P. Oh ! Lucille was charming, too — quite irresist- 
 able,but ended in being unbearable — it’s a way they have ! 
 
 Mar. What of Claire ? 
 
 St. P. Claire had an equinoctical nature — no one 
 could expect a man to live with a hurricane ; and then she 
 had a trick of stabbing her rivals, which tended to 
 diminish my popularity with your adorable sex. — One 
 lucky — I mean luckless — day, she stormed herself into 
 the river, and I gave her a monument in proportion to 
 the greatness of my relief — I mean grief. 
 
 Mar. And what of Marcelle ? 
 
 St. P. Eh ? — what name did you say ? 
 
 Mar. Marcelle ! — Is the name so uncommon ? 
 
 St. P No, but the feeling is uncommon, with which in 
 my mind, that name is associated — why I nearly loved 
 her once. 
 
45 
 
 Mar. (. scornfully ) Marcelle is grateful for the admis- 
 sion — I mean she, no doubt, would be charmed to know 
 that in return for her utter devotion, you loved her nearly ^ 
 — but it is something that one name, at least, awakens 
 some regret. 
 
 St. P. More than regret — remorse ! it is as the name 
 of one long dead, which, suddenly spoken strikes awe 
 into the frivolous hours of the living. 
 
 Mar. You loved her then ! 
 
 St. P. At any rate I thought I did, and that’s a greater 
 compliment than I’ve paid any woman since. 
 
 Mar. And yet you deserted her ! 
 
 St. P. Not intentionally, but my father interfered, and 
 the country got very dull, and there were a good many 
 royal fetes to attend — you know a man cant break his 
 engagements. Yes — yes,itwasall for the best — it is better 
 as it is ! 
 
 Mar. No l 
 St. P. Eh ? 
 
 Mar. No 1 A thousand times, no ! At least not better 
 for her. What did she do ? 
 
 St. P. Got over it, I suppose — as I did ; — I have 
 reason to believe she took longer to do so. 
 
 Mar. Who can say when a woman survives, or merely 
 suppresses her passion. 
 
 St. P. If she feel it she probably shows it — you know 
 the proverb — love and fire cannot be hidden. 
 
 Mar. But the love may turn to fire, and then turn on 
 its cause. 
 
 St. P. One can but act for the best. 
 
 Mar. Such is the perfection of a man’s selfish philoso- 
 phy that I believe that after Jason had got over those 
 little affairs with Medea and Creusa, he consoled him- 
 self with another and wealthier bride, and that self- 
 soothing platitude “ It’s all for the best.” From your 
 point of view, all a woman’s suffering is for a man’s 
 “ best ” — you are always ready to weigh the possible 
 inconveniences any woman might oocasion you with 
 some petty advantage you desire from her loss. 
 
 St. P. 0ne- often thought Alkestis made a great mis- 
 take in coming back again ! 
 
 S' 
 
 t 
 
4 6 
 
 IfVU^Ut 
 
 V 
 
 
 Mar. ( rising ). Do you mean to insult me Monsieur 
 by ( recovers herself ) — by tread mg’ on my gown. 
 
 Enter St. Leon, Thornhill, De la Roche- Jaquelein, 
 the Marquise de Roselit, Madame de Comez, La Comtesse 
 
 DE V IELLKRROCHE, &C. 
 
 St. Leo. Ha! ha; Is it not absurd, St. Preux ? I 
 have just been giving- these ladies a shock — it is said 
 there is an uninvited guest here. A woman of low 
 degree has effected an entrance to the palace, and is 
 gomg^the festivities. 
 
 Madame de Comez. Is it not dreadful to think that I 
 nearly touched the creature? 
 
 Madame de Vielleroche. And that I saluted her, in 
 the dance. Pah ! 
 
 Madame de Roselit. And I spoke to her — taking her 
 for the Comte d’ Artois favourite, and she is only a com- 
 mon peasant woman after all. 
 
 De la Roche. Is there anything against her ? 
 
 St. L. Nothing that I know of morally. 
 
 De La Roche. It seems she is an uncommon woman. 
 
 Enter Joseph, 
 
 Jos. I have a letter to deliver from a member of the 
 National Assembly, formerly called the Third Estate ; 
 nty directions are to give it into the hands of Marcelle. 
 
 St. Preux. Where is 
 
 De La Roche. Who is > Marcelle ? 
 
 St. Leon. What is J 
 
 Mar. I will tell you — she is the firebrand of disaffection 
 — she is the life and soul of the communistic party— she is 
 the ideal of a politician ; pitiless and unscrupulous ; sheps 
 the mouth-piece of starvation and despairs a woman of 
 the people who bss been wronged by your order, -afid— 
 who will presently be avenged by her own. 
 
 Mme. de Rose. Pray have her found and turned out of 
 the place ; I feel as frightened as though a black beetle 
 were crawling about the path. 
 
 Mar. ( unmasking ) You have not far to seek — I am she. 
 
 All. Marcelle ! 
 
 Mar. (to St. Preux ) And you did not recognise me ? 
 
 St. P. No ; but I was certain it was some one who 
 loved me — you were so very bitter. 
 
47 
 
 Mar. Francois, when we last met, my heart was soft 
 with the memory of the past. Now, I have a past to 
 look back on, which is so black, that its shadow is thrown 
 over the future of all connected with me. Faith, 
 honour, hope — you murdered them all. And now even 
 love is dead, and I only live by the flame and nourish- 
 ment of my hate. 
 
 St. P. It’s a matter of no consequence one way or the 
 other, but you must excuse my not believing* you. When 
 a woman speaks that word love, it is because she yet 
 feels it. 
 
 Mar. I have told you that I hate you. 
 
 St. P. Love or hate, it’s all the same with a woman! 
 
 Mar. I hate, and I warn you. 
 
 St. P. Ag*ainst whom ? 
 
 Mar. Ag*ainst myself. Oh, you smile. Wait, wait — 
 that smile may cost you dear. I will set ag*ainst it the 
 years of bitter tears, of sickly hope, of black despair. 
 I will weigh them in the balance when / am the arbiter 
 of your fate. Your smile against my agony. If, of all 
 your evil life you repent nought else, be sure of this, 
 you shall repent. 
 
 St. P. You talk wildly 
 
 Mar. I feel wildly, and you, poor painted fools of the 
 Court, listen to my voice, for it is one of myriads. This 
 man trifled with me, and it is dangerous to trifle with a 
 woman ; but to trifle with a people is fatal. It is the 
 monkey playing with the tiger. It is the children of a 
 nation that learns its lessons ; and the men of to-day were 
 children when they starved under your infamous taxes^ 
 k When the whole air of our beautiful France reeked witn 
 our miseries and your sins— you have starved our bodies 
 and destroyed our souls. We believe only in vileness and 
 corruption — thanks to your example. We have lost our 
 own sense of virtue in contemplating your infamy. Ah, 
 gentlemen, when you were grinding us under foot, why 
 did you not guess that you were undermining your own 
 foothold ? 
 
 St. Leon. Really, madame, you seem terribly in earnest 
 — now I haven’t been in earnest for years ! 
 
 • Mar. Then, Monsieur, you have lived too long. 
 
48 
 
 St. Leo. Really she is quite uncivil. I don't envy St. 
 Preux his conquest — some sportsmen have a fancy for 
 savage prey — tigresses, and the like. I prefer the tame 
 domestic bird which you can delude by feeding it on one 
 day, while you prepare to shoot it on the next. 
 
 Dr. Thor. Do not mind her, gentlemen. She is ill — 
 Jtk Mad^ She does not mean what she says. Marcelle, 
 
 ^ come away. A few hours of rest and peace will restore 
 
 you. 
 
 Mar. Rest — peace. No — I leave those words in the 
 
 past, in the old sunny paths of Brittany {suddenly to St. 
 Preux). Francois, do you remember that path ? ( he 
 shakes his head). 
 
 Mar. ( impatiently ) Oh, you cannot forget it ; the fallen 
 tree in the corner — the primroses that grew in tufts 
 between the branches — you have some beautiful flowers 
 here, but I like primroses best; so did you then, 
 Francois ; you said you thought the angels wore them 
 in their hair. 
 
 St. P. Yes, but I don’t believe in angels now. — St. 
 Leon it is time for us to attend Her Majesty, she holds a 
 Court, ere the festivities end, to allow her/oyal subjects to 
 make their adieux. 
 
 St. Leo. Wouldn’t miss it for the universe. 
 
 Dr. Thor. It is well that you are so devoted to your 
 Queen, she may require it, if what Marcelle says be 
 correct, you may even be called on to die for her. 
 
 St. Leo. I will do better ; I will live for her. As for 
 devotion, we Frenchmen have sufficient confidence in 
 ourselves to leave all the devotion to the other sex — 
 they can provide enough for both. It is bat- the poor 
 Queen who couldn't do without me. 
 
 Dr. Thor, Indeed, what is your vocation. 
 
 St. Leo. To educate the B unformed and uninformed debu- 
 tantes to bow and curtsey properly. Good heavens, sir, 
 do you think that any monarchy could exist if its heads 
 were outraged by such extraordinary genuflexions as 
 the bourgeoisie practice. I have been to England. I 
 have seen your village children make their 'obeisances — 
 it was as if a flock of ducks waddled past, and then sud- 
 
49 
 
 denly dived ! Such a sight would have killed a French- 
 woman. 
 
 Dr. Thorn, [drily). Don’t trouble yourself. You 
 must earn the gratitude of the poor before they can ac- 
 knowledge it. 
 
 St. Leo. It is the privilege of us aristocrats to earn 
 nothing. Come, ladies. 
 
 Each takes a hand of the ladies , and turn up the stage. 
 Marcelle , who has heen watching from the centre , comes 
 down. 
 
 Mar. It is the signal — hark ! The Queen will hold 
 no court to-day. 
 
 All. How l 
 
 Mar. Do you not hear that noise ? Ha ! you have 
 only known the sound of the footsteps of the poor, when 
 they trudged for you in the loneliness of labour and 
 want. You did not guess how terrible the wooden 
 shoes could be when they crowded together — how omi- 
 nous the thunder of their march when they seek the 
 tyrants who will now be their victims. Monsieur, [to 
 Thornhill ) you have shewn me much kindness. Take 
 my advice by way of re-payment — go back home at 
 once. 
 
 Dr. Thor. To Paris. 
 
 Mar. No, no. As soon throw yourself into the lake 
 of fire. Go back to your own country where law and 
 order yet guard English homes and English lives. 
 Where you respect the living and reverence the dead. 
 
 I too have visited England like Monsieur here, but I 
 noticed something more than the awkwardness of a few 
 rustics. I noticed the grace of the union, of theis- great 
 J powet^ Heaven, love and law. Go back to your 
 churches where men’s faces still dare to look upwards ! ^ , 
 
 to your law, self-imposed, and therefore ungrudgingly 
 obeyed. You have a minister who has made boyhood 
 famous, and the name of William Pitt old in the future. 
 
 You have a monarch whose sympathy is as large as the 
 people’s sorrow, and whose hand is ever stretched out, 
 not to smite, but to console. Go, leave us to carnage 
 and anarchy, ^the mob are as wild brutes escaped, 
 in the darkness of night, from bars of oppression and rods ' ) 
 
 A 
 
of fire ; and, in the tumult, they see neither the face of 
 heaven, nor that of friends. 
 
 St. P. She is right, the courtyard is bristling with 
 pikes, I must go to my wife. 
 
 La Roche. And I to my Sovereign. 
 
 Mar. Siep-^hem. Too late, too late, Monsieur ; the 
 Queen is safe for the present — her guards have died to 
 enable her to escape to the king’s apartments. Listen ! 
 At last the people’s voices have reached royalty, and 
 they reach it in the form of a death knell. Francois, 
 your house is destroyed. Your wife and child are being 
 taken prisoners to Paris. , 
 
 St. P. I will follow. I will release them ; friend, do 
 you rejoice in my torture. 
 
 Mar. Ha, ha, ha. 1 see you really can feel — perhaps 
 at last you understand what I felt when we parted ; your 
 misery is as great, your helplessness as complete now 
 as mine were then ; I promised you that I would return 
 Francois, and that on this day I would remember that. 
 Do you see those flames yonder — they seem to burn 
 fierce joy into my heart, for they represent all that is 
 left of your house. I am avenged, and at last I can sing 
 once more. 
 
 ( Puis on a red cap , seizes a tricolour flag , both passed to 
 her through the window , a7id sings the “ Marseillaise 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE i. — A corridor in Marcelle’s House. Joseph 
 discovered sorting her letters. 
 
 Marcelle’s door l. Entrance R. 
 
 Jos. Here's a lot of them — invitations to cut off peo- 
 ple’s heads seem to come as thickly to Marcelle, as 
 assignations used to my master — a short life and a merry 
 one seems the motto in France just now — the worst of it 
 is, one’s own head feels quite shaky from sympathy. 
 
SI 
 
 Enter Pierre Lar os se, he places his hand on Joseph who stares . 
 
 Pier. Citizen- — Fve got a job for you ; the committee 
 of public safety are anxious to test your sincerity — they 
 therefore demand as a proof of it, that you officiate as 
 executioner to one of the worst of your former tyrants. 
 
 Jos. Not Lizette ! 
 
 Pier. No, not Lizette yet : The order refers to the 
 
 aristocrat known as the Vicomte St. Leon, he is to be 
 your first experiment — if you succeed well you may be 
 rewarded by a permanent appointment — if you flinch, or 
 show any signs of distaste to your duty, you will have to 
 take his place — in that case I shall have the pleasure of 
 officiating. 
 
 Jos. Don't mention it ; wouldn't give you the trouble 
 for the world — not that I have ever decapitated anything 
 before, excepting corks. 
 
 Pier. You'll find this nearly as light work — your sub- 
 ject is coming this way now. 
 
 Jos. ( looking off) So he is, does he know what is going 
 to happen to him ? 
 
 Pier. Hasn't an idea of it — he fancies he has made 
 an impression on Marcelle, and that he is therefore safe — 
 he is coming now to seek her. 
 
 Jos. Poor fellow, I mean — villainous aristocrat, I think .1 
 I'll go, I'd rather not face him — I'm no hypocrite, and I 
 don't care to take off my hat to a gentleman whose head 
 I have to perform a similar operation on. 
 
 Pier, (stopping him) On the contrary, you had best 
 see him and break it to him gently. 
 
 Jos. How can one break such a thing gently. 
 
 Pier. Well, he must know it sooner or later, and it 
 would be an act of kindness to prepare him — remember 
 it's your task or mine — I should make nothing of such a 
 trifle, good-day citizen — I promise you / won't flinch if 
 they give me the job — perhaps, in case of accidents, I'd 
 better say “ au revoir" ( exit.) 
 
 Jos. Axe-i-dents — indeed — oh dear ! Now I've always 
 prided myself on my manners, and my lofty method of 
 announcing an earl, has often made him ashamed that he 
 wasn't a Duke — but this sort of announcement I've no 
 
52 
 
 experience in, and it’s difficult to tell a man you mean to 
 take his head without seeming to be taking a liberty. How 
 am I to combine the sternness of the Patriot with the ur- 
 banity of the British Butler ? I must quench the Butler 
 with the Brutusoyhen Pm declaiming against these aristo- 
 crats at a safe distance from theny I feel like a tradesman 
 disposing of soiled stock at a sacrifice, and could knock 
 off any amount of them — when Pm alongside of them, 
 the Butler gets uppermost, and I can’t help resuming my 
 traditional servility. But I must harden myself to my 
 task. Citizen ( roughly to St. Leon, who enters jauntily). 
 
 St. Leo. Oh, is that you, friend Joseph ! 
 
 Jos. Friend — really he speaks very nicely, and just as 
 I had insulted him, by callling him “ Citizen,” too ! But 
 I mustn’t be civil — I must remember that I’m a Patriot — 
 yes, Citizen ! ? 
 
 St* Leo. Could you get me such a thing as a glass of 
 wine ? 
 
 Jos. Wine, sir? yes-sir. {aside After all I can afford 
 to pour out a glass of wine for a gentleman whom I shall 
 soon leave with nothing to pour it down in !) 
 
 St. Leo. I understand that Marcelle has taken you 
 and Lizette under her care. Now my object in calling 
 here is to ask her to do as much for me. You know I had 
 the discernment to appreciate her charms at a very early 
 stage of our acquaintance ; I offered to be her Bacchus ; 
 ( helping himself to the wine.) 
 
 Jos. I’ve always heard that Bacchus supplied his own 
 wine ! 
 
 St. Leo. My friend, he did not live in the times of 
 Liberty, Fraternity and Equality — Liberty, Fraternity and 
 Equality have got at my cellar, and have left nothing but 
 empty bottles. Have you heard what they mean to do 
 with my poor friend, St. Preux ? 
 
 Jos. St. Preux? Yes-sir; they’ll cut off his head to- 
 morrow, sir ! 
 
 St. Leo. Will they, really ; (excellent wine this). — 
 Well, well, he was a good sort of man. 
 
 Jos. We met with worse aristocrats. 
 
 St. Leo. But full of faults ! 
 
53 
 
 Jos. It's hardly worth while reckoning/up, if he’s going 
 to end them all tomorrow. /v 
 
 St. Leo No, only it’s a comfort to think of his faults. 
 Under the circumstances, it might have been worse — they 
 might have selected a worthier victim, and found more 
 difficulty in absolving themselves for the crime ! 
 
 Jos. Yes, they might have took my head or yours — 
 (aside) they gave me the choice, and of two evils I chose 
 the least. 
 
 St. Leo. You don’t mean to say they have thought 
 of injuring you. Why, you are of their own party ! 
 
 Jos. Yes, sir ; and there’s nothing like one’s own wife, 
 or one’s own party, for finding out one’s weakest points, 
 and aggravating them accordingly. My party found out 
 that I had no taste for pulling down houses or cutting off 
 heads. 
 
 St. Leo. Then why become a republican ? 
 
 Jos. I was a republican in England, sir ; but that’s 
 very different — you see I knew that the king and the laws 
 were quite safe there, so I didn’t care how much I talked 
 against ’em ; in fact my notion of being a republican was 
 to keep a Public on funds provided by appreciative Co- 
 patriots, or by timid ministerial agents ; but I never wished 
 to “ wade through slaughter” to my Public ! The sight 
 of blood makes me feel sick. My party found that out, 
 and it sealed my doom. 
 
 St. Leo. What, my poor fellow, your doom is sealed 
 and you’ve got to suffer too ! 
 
 Jos. Well, I sha’n’t like the job. 
 
 St. Leo. No, of course not — and yet, Joseph, there 
 are consolations to be found even in your situation ! 
 
 Jos. Yes. I might be in somebody else’s situation; 
 but I’m glad you can take it in this way. It will make it 
 easier to me. 
 
 St. Leo. I flatter myself I can exhibit philosophic for- 
 titude whenever a friend needs it, Joseph ; and in spite of 
 your originally humble station in life, I look on your pre- 
 sent position as one that exalts you. 
 
 Jos. Of course it’s an honour one way, but I fear it 
 may be awkward — you see I’ve no experience. 
 
 St. Leo. No, of course not — a man can die but once. 
 
54 
 
 Jos. No ; but he may be a long time doing it, and 
 that would be painful to all parties. 
 
 St. Leo. Then I can only exhort you to remember 
 the examples of stoicism set you by the martyrs of all ge- 
 nerations. Think of the benefit it may prove to your 
 country ! your being in such a terrible position will bring 
 home to your fellow radicals the horrors of thi$ political 
 immorality I 
 
 Jos. Well, sir, to do ’em justice there isn’t one of ’em 
 would fancy the job — but what’s the good of my making 
 a fuss about it. 
 
 St. Leo. None, the slightest I should say ; and as 
 you may not have an opportunity of doing me any service 
 again. 
 
 Jos. No, sir, I shall never do for you again after to- 
 morrow. 
 
 St. Leo. I wish you’d tie the bow of my cravat^e for 
 me — I’m about to see Marcelle, and I must look my best. 
 
 Jos. Yes-sir — you’ve a nice small throat, sir. 
 
 St. Leo. So the ladies say — it’s contour always makes 
 a great impression. 
 
 J os. Ah, it’s my turn to make an impression now ! 
 
 St. Leo. Well Joseph, I commiserate you, and if it 
 will console you to have my forgiveness for any little 
 wrong done me in the matter of corked wine or cold ra- 
 gouts, let it console you to know that I forgive you fully 
 and freely. 
 
 Jos. You’re sure of that. 
 
 St. Leo. Yes, on my honour. 
 
 Jos. You’ll forgive me everything? 
 
 St. Leo. Everything. 
 
 Jos. This will give me strength to perform my duty. 
 
 St. Leo. I’m glad of that ; whatever is worth doing 
 at all is worth doing well. 
 
 Jos. I will do it as well as I can ; but I am very sorry 
 for you — especially now you’re so affable — I never thought 
 to live to hear Joseph Merryweather called “ friend ” by 
 a Vicomte — it makes me more unwilling to exterminate 
 the solitary specimen that has done it. 
 
 St. Leo. You exterminate ? why isn’t it you who are 
 going to be killed ? 
 
55 
 
 Jos. No, it’s I who am going to kill. 
 
 St. Leo. Kill what — who ? 
 
 Jos. Why you, to be sure ! didn't you understand 
 that ? how dull of you ! 
 
 St. Leo. I was in hope — I mean I thought that it 
 was you who were to suffer — it's impossible it can be 
 true— sacrifice me ! a St. Leon — my head would be an 
 irreparable loss to France. 
 
 Jos. Such heads as yours have been a loss to France 
 long enough, and now she is determined to get some 
 amusement out of 'em, at least my Lord Yicomte that's 
 the patriotic view of it. 
 
 St. Leo. It can't — it sha'n't be true. 
 
 Jos. Calm yourself, remember there are consolations 
 to be found, even by one in your position. 
 
 St. Leo. Yes, by my friends — no, doubt^iot by me — 
 I can never, never be consoled for the loss of myself, 
 never ! I never loved any one half so much ! or so long. 
 
 Jos. But recall the examples of stoicism. 
 
 St. Leo. Examples of fiddlesticks. 
 
 Jos. You recalled them easily enough just now. 
 
 St. Leo. But that was for you — as for you vile mur- 
 derer who seek to imbrue your hands in innocent blood. 
 
 Jos. Innocent fiddlesticks. 
 
 St. Leo. Let me see Marcelle — let me at once clench 
 the effect I produced on that estimable woman. 
 
 Jos. She is enjoying herself down at the conciergerie, 
 looking over the last convoy of prisoners brought in for 
 execution ! 
 
 St. Leo. Horrible wretch — I mean divine heroine — 
 but she will see me when she returns ? 
 
 Jos. Well, she has so many applications — if she en- 
 tertained them all, she would have to provide half France 
 with sticking plaster for the neck. 
 
 St. Leo. At least if — if — that awful event should 
 occur, and you are the hideous — I mean innocent instru- 
 ment, promise, me you'll delay the proceedings as long as 
 possible — the ladies are sure to get up a petition for me ! 
 
 Jos. If you were a desperate criminal whose talent 
 lay in wife murder, I've no doubt but that they would ; 
 but I'm afraid you ain't wicked enough to be spared. 
 
 A 
 
56 
 
 St. Leo. Oh, but I'll be wickeder. 
 
 Jos. Yes, what is worth doing at all, is worth doing 
 well, as you said — HI remember your advice when I come 
 to draw the fatal bolt. 
 
 (St. Leon moves hastily towards entrance door , Joseph 
 stops him.) 
 
 Jos. You needn’t bolt — I’m not going to begin yet — 
 your cravat has come untied, let me fasten it tighter for 
 you. b tftc' 
 
 St. Leo. (shrinking) Ugh — no I thankfl prefer it 
 loose, mine is a very sensitive skin — keep your hands off, 
 I won’t wait for Marcelle now, I’ll call again, (going) 
 
 Jos. ( following him) You know you said you forgave 
 me. 
 
 St. Leo. I’m d d if I will, (exit.) 
 
 Jos. How ungrateful some people are — I’m sure I 
 put it as civilly as I could — If he objects so much in an- 
 ticipation, what will he do in fact; really it’s horrid work — 
 I’ve half a mind — I’ve a whole mind to throw up the job — 
 I will too — I’ll get passports from Marcelle for me and 
 Lizette, and we’ll run away to England to-night. If there 
 are not many Patriots there, there are a vast of Publics 
 which is nearly the same, only pleasanter ! There, secure in 
 the serene enjoyment of a popular monarchy, just laws, 
 and ancient constitution we’ll luxuriate in theoretical 
 democracy at a safe distance from its practical and very 
 unpleasant effects — me carve off a human head ! never — 
 but if the fates and Lizette are propitious, I’ll carve my 
 Christmas beef for Mrs. Merryweather this winter in Eng- 
 land, and, as the years go on, if the fates and Lizette are 
 propitious, I’ll carve Christmas beef for an indefinite 
 number of little Merry weather s’ — the theoretical demo- 
 crats of the future, exit (l.) 
 
 Act III. Scene II. — A cell in the Conciergerie — Time, 
 evening — gradually changing to moonlight — window to r.h. 
 door c. small stone jug , a piece of black bread , chair, a 
 pallet L. H., and on it St. Preux, discovered heavily chained 
 and asleep. 
 
 St. P. (awaking, calls) Jacques, Charles ! what lazy 
 rascals those valets of mine are not to bring the hot wa- 
 
57 
 
 ter ; (seeing jug) halloa — umph ! it seems what water 
 there is, is cold and very little of it — decidedly the Re- 
 public doesn’t wash — Hi, gaoler, what’s that for? ( pointing 
 to jug.) 
 
 Enter Pierre Larosse , c. 
 
 Pier, (grujfly) To drink, fool. 
 
 St. P. It smells very harmless — a little too harmless ; 
 my good friend, I’ve tried every novelty in the world ex- 
 cepting that of drinking water in its native impurity, and 
 I’m afraid it would give me a cold inside — couldn’t 
 you ? eh ? (Pierre shakes his head ; St. Preux drops a 
 gold piece in the jug) you’d give even a canary bird a 
 rusty nail to prevent its having the pip — pray let it taste 
 better when you come back — and what’s this ? (holding 
 up the bread.) 
 
 Pier. Your breakfast. 
 
 St. P. Why, I wouldn’t insult my dog by offering it 
 to him, and he wouldn’t eat it if I did ! 
 
 Pier. I dare say not, but wdve had no better break- 
 fast for years past. The grand nobles took care of their 
 dogs, and never noticed that starvation was making us 
 feel like wolves. 
 
 St. P. It’s nothing to me what you feel. 
 
 Pier. No, and that's why you’re here — ho, ho. 
 
 St. P. But I be 
 
 Pier. Hush, you know what you be now, but you 
 don’t know what you may not be to-morrow. 
 
 St. P. (jlinging aside the crust) Well then, I’ll leave 
 that as a legacy to the Republicx^wolves, having sharp 
 teeth may be able to bite it. / 
 
 Pier. Ah, you should have worked for it, then it 
 would have tasted sweet. 
 
 St. P. Have you got such a thing as a barber in this 
 um — establishment, my chin feels so uncomfortable. 
 
 Pier. Don’t trouble about that, it won’t be for long. 
 
 St. P. I beg your pardon, my beard grows uncom- 
 monly long if it isn’t shaved — doesn’t the Republic ever 
 shave ? 
 
 Pier. No, but it’s very fond of hairdressers, one they 
 chiefly employ will cut your hair soon ! 
 
St. P. The devil he will. 
 
 Pier. No, the headsman — he will — he makes one job 
 of it, you know ! he is the leader of fashion now — he has 
 put down perukes and long hair, and only patronises 
 crops — he likes to see the shape of the throat. 
 
 St. P. That’s a very handsome bunch of keys, might 
 I ask what object they serve ? 
 
 Pier. To lock up the enemies of the Republic ; those 
 villains who seek to evade fraternal legislation and to en- 
 slave the Republic, which is a free institution. 
 
 St. P. So it seems — makes a little too free sometimes, 
 I think — one comfort is, it seems to have a large number 
 of enemies — I hope all of them are not going to experi- 
 ence the last extremity of fraternal equity — are many of 
 us condemned ? , 
 
 Pier. Dozens. f 
 
 L / - St. P. Is there no chance for i^gTo^sucJr. 
 
 < ^ ^ t Pier. Well, I should be very sorry tc/hold shares in 
 / their insurance companies ; ha, ha. 
 
 St. P. Any — any one of — my name ? 
 
 Pier. Well, I’ve got a memorandum some where in 
 my pocket ( pulls out a very long roll). 
 
 St. P. One would think that you had got my tailor 
 as well as my hairdresser waiting for me to settle my ac- 
 count — but the question is, am I in that list or not ? 
 
 Pier. Oh, you’re sure to be there — the question is, do 
 you come among the S’s or the P’s ? 
 
 St. P. The Republic won’t wash — probably the Re- 
 public can’t spell, try the P’s. 
 
 Pier. There you are, isn’t the name beautifully written — 
 I did that — I was educated on your estate by the Cure, 
 and this is the first good use I’ve been able to put it to. 
 
 St. P. Ah, h, h — yes — a signal proof of my folly in 
 fostering a nettle to sting my foot. 
 
 Pier. You’ll be in what you call “good society” — all 
 the noblest names in France are bere — it’s as long as a 
 list of guests at a Royal Court, only it’s a court, ho, ho, 
 of death ! 
 
 St. P. My man, I’ll give you the weight of these 
 chains in gold if you will contrive to blot my name out 
 of that list for the space of another week. 
 
59 
 
 Pier. So you’re afraid (St. P. raises his hand ) ah, 
 keep back will you, or I’ll call the guard. 
 
 St. P. Call the guard to one man — well do, I am noi 
 afraid to die ; but I do fear to die before I have learnt 
 some intelligence about those whom my death will leave 
 widowed and orphaned. 
 
 Pier. Your bribe is of no avail; I have not power to 
 help you — but still, if you like to hand me such few valu- 
 ables as may be left about you, I’ll give you a more valu- 
 able hint. 
 
 St. P. Take them, (pulls out money, chain, snuffbox , 
 ring, 6°c.) There is my wife’s portrait in that box — my 
 boy’s hair in that locket — but you’ll allow me to take out 
 their contents ? 
 
 Pier. Of course — they're not worth anything — but 
 thatxross ! 
 
 St. P. That cross, I concealed before I was taken 
 prisoner by the fraternity ; it is the cross of St. Louis, the 
 highest order a French monarch can confer on a noble of 
 his realm, and rather than see it defiled by the unclean 
 touch of his majesty’s unclean enemies, I would trample 
 it to fragments thus, thinking it less dishonoured by a 
 gentleman’s heel than a sans-culottes hand. 
 
 Pier. The sans-culottes hands are too busy about 
 gentlemen’s necks just now to care about other trinkets — 
 but here is my hint ; you know Marcelle — get speech of 
 her — she is the queen of our revels, she is the adored of 
 Danton ; she can if she will play with heads just as you 
 may have once played with hearts — she can save you if 
 she likes, only I don’t know why she should like, and it’s 
 hardly worth while to trouble her about such a trifle — 
 however, I’ll let her know, but don’t buoy yourself up by 
 hope, she’s very busy just now — it’s our season for enjoy- 
 ment you know — ho, ho ! 
 
 St. P. Well, you seem to make the most of it. 
 
 Pier. Yes, I like seeing you here — such as you have 
 kept France in gaol long enough ; now the trappers are 
 trapped. I hope you’ll have a good night, you may not 
 have many more of them, so you had better make the 
 most of it. 
 
 A 
 
->■ 
 
 6o 
 
 St. P. (sehs) It cannot be so near as he says — I feel 
 so well, so strong (goes to window) I can only see house- 
 tops and a few inches of sky, but I think I never appre- 
 ciated a view so much in my life ! There goes a bird — 
 going home to roost I dare say, to think that I should 
 have come to envy a sparrow ! a month ago I should 
 ^ have shot it (how this arm hur ts). I don’t think I’ll ever 
 shoot or cage anything again ~ (if I get the chan ce'). I begin 
 j _ to feel rather faint and sick, I wonder why ? perhaps I’m 
 hungry ! I did not think novelty could be so disagreeable, 
 I wonder what became of that crust ( looks about ) I really 
 don’t believe I could touch it, but — good Heavens, I 
 hope he hasn’t taken it away ! no, here it is ( eats raven- 
 ously). It isn’t so very bad after all, nevertheless, if I ever 
 get free again, all the poor on my estate shall have white 
 bread, and as much as they like of it — so I am to appeal 
 to Marcelle, appeal to a tigress to forego the taste of 
 blood — appeal to a woman whom you have forgotten to 
 love ! well, it is her turn now, and she may forget to save 
 one. Ah me, if one could but treat the past as one does 
 a pledged trinket, and take it out of pawn to futurity 
 some of us might be redeemed yet. 
 
 He sits l. h. head bent and hands clasped , Marcelle ap- 
 pears, door , c. Marcelle enters ( behind him) from c. 
 
 Mar. Pale, chained and sad, that is well — he will think 
 of me now ; he forgot my love, he will not forget my 
 revenge. I have worked for this, I have rejoiced ; I do 
 rejoice, and yet — the blows I have dealt seem to rebound 
 on me and strike me to the heart. ( coldly ) I am here citi- 
 zen, you wished to see me ? 
 
 St. P. Ah, it is you, I thought — I hoped you would 
 come. 
 
 Mar. On what did you base your hope ? 
 
 St. P. You have kept tryst with me ere now, Marcelle. 
 
 Mar. And you have forgotten to do so ere now — 
 perhaps you’ll remember this assignation better than 
 those of yore ; chains and prison walls appeal more for- 
 cibly to the memory than primroses and wood walks. I 
 lost my heart then, you will lose your head now, and we 
 are quits. 
 
 n 
 
St. P* And is the nightmare, revenge, sweeter than the 
 day-dream of love, Marcelle ? are you satiated with my 
 sufferings, do they make you happier h 
 
 Mar. Yes , a hundred times yes ; for they make us one 
 again. I have been alone in my agony for ten weary 
 years ; now my destroyer shares it, and I am no longer 
 desolate. 
 
 St. P. I at least did not design the evil I wrought 
 you — I could not help loving you, but your hate has been 
 systematic, you have robbed me of all — King, country, 
 home, wife and children — all are gone. 
 
 Mar. And did you not rob me of anything ? when 
 you dethroned a soul from hope was your deed less than 
 treason — when you fired it to madness was it less than 
 arson — when you left it a black ruin was it less than 
 murder. 
 
 St. P. I did all I could to atone — I would have 
 given — 
 
 Mar. Hush ! do not dare to speak of any compensa- 
 tion unworthy the all I gave you ; if you can give me 
 back my joy in the sun — the song in my thoughts that 
 kept tune with the spring birds — the conscience that 
 made me feel heaven in my heart, and reverence myself 
 for the feeling — then I will admit that you can give me 
 compensation. 
 
 St. P. You women take these things too seriously. 
 How could I have done otherwise ? I was responsible to 
 my name, my position, my class, for the woman I select- 
 ed to participate in them. 
 
 Mar. And were you true to your responsibilities as a 
 lover, a friend, a human being, when you cast me aside 
 like a weed on the roadway ? did you forget that he who 
 creates the weed is the judge of its destroyer ? 
 
 St. P. Forgive me, Marcelle — for a woman’s reason — 
 not because I deserve, but because I so much need for- 
 giveness. ( putting out his hand.) 
 
 Mar. I cannot forgive because I cannot forget ( she 
 puts aside his hand, he winces ). Oh, you are wounded, oh, 
 Francois, does it hurt you much ? 
 
62 
 
 V 
 
 
 St. P. It is nothing — and I killed the rascal who in- 
 flicted it — that's one comfort ; if they had given me a 
 little more time I would have . _ 
 
 Mar. Repented — oh, Francois say that you repent 
 of all. — 
 
 St. P. I would have killed them all and repented 
 afterwards. 
 
 Mar. You have but little time left, in which to de- 
 stroy others or yourself, your doom is sealed, Francois ; 
 the life which has worked so much sorrow ! the wealth 
 which rarely worked good, are alike confiscated ; by to- 
 morrow night all that remains of you will be a scarcely 
 remembered name. 
 
 St. P. So soon (sits, covers face with hands . ) 
 
 Mar. Yes, it seems strange does it not — to-day you 
 fear, you think, you hope, in fire you live — you hear the 
 clank of your fetters, even that sound is sweeter than 
 none — you can look at me, you who first awoke the divi- 
 nity of love in my face, and who have branded it with the 
 cruelty of despair — but cruel as I seem, I do not laugh 
 with the savage levity of the mob that will press around 
 you to-morrow to see how an aristocrat meets life's last 
 in dignity. 
 
 St. P. Your allies the mob, are very strong no doubt ; 
 they can strip the Duke of his possessions — they can 
 destroy the man, but they are as impotent to degrade the 
 gentleman as they are powerless to imitate him ! 
 
 Mar. You speak proudly. 
 
 St. P. Pride is the one heritage of my patrimony 
 which your friends cannot reach ! you say by to-morrow 
 night I shall only survive in name — but it will be in my 
 own name , understand; many sins have blackened the fame 
 of St. Preux, but never has it been blanched by the dis- 
 graceful pallor of a white feather ! 
 
 Mar. Your blood is noble, but is it not also human — 
 have you no thought of your wife and child ? Ah, when in 
 the dreams of your last sleep this night, you see 
 their piteous eyes — when you feel their cheeks wet with 
 tears against your own — when you hold out your arms 
 with a giant effort to rescue them from insult and death, 
 and awake to find this vacant blackness — these heavy 
 
 
63 
 
 chains — will not your spirit break then — will you not 
 gnash your teeth to think that I, Marcelle, your and their 
 bitterest enemy have seen this day the faces you will never 
 see again. 
 
 St. P. You have seen them — then they live, they are 
 safe — huzzah, {flinging himself at Marcelle’ s feet) oh, 
 bless you, Marcelle, for those words — oh, blessed face 
 which has seen theirs ! Marcelle, say it again — tell me of 
 them, and I will worship you as never woman was wor- 
 shipped before. 
 
 Mar. ( dreamily ) There was a man knelt to me once, 
 for what did he pray — a flower that was on my breast — 
 for my heart — my honour — my life — I conceded all, and 
 so I am here, an outcast and a murderess — Francois, in 
 my youth I could not say no to you — now I will not say 
 yes. 
 
 St. P. Marcelle, for the love of heaven . 
 
 Mar. The heaven of which you have made me despair. 
 
 St. P. For the sake of the love we bore each other 
 once. 
 
 Mar. Fool to use that word “once” to a woman 
 whose love is eternal ! 
 
 St. P. Is it eternal ? then love me to the end, and 
 comfort me now ! look Marcelle, I am alone, helpless — 
 no other can give me a tender look, a loving word — you 
 who cherished me when I was happy, rich powerful, you — 
 a woma rdcannot desert me now in my hour of need, in X D 
 the shadow of death ; I concede all that you can ask — 
 
 I own I treated you infamously, I will even own I de- 
 served all my fate — surely it should console any woman 
 to hear that she was always right and he always wrong — 
 what more can I say ? 
 
 Mar. Less, would have pleaded your cause better. 
 
 Oh, Francois, cannot you guess that the next sweetest 
 speech to I love you now, is “ I loved you then.” 
 
 St. P. I gave you my first, and that is a man’s best 
 love ; I know now how little the gift was worth, but at 
 least it represented all the worth that there was in me ; 
 can you not forgive me, Marcelle, for having once loved 
 you too well ? 
 
 A 
 
6 4 
 
 
 Mar. Yes, but never for having ceased to do so ! 
 death however cancels all debts, and my debt of revenge 
 is nearly void — adieu, Francois, (music.) 
 
 St. P. Marcelle, you will tell me of my son — (she 
 pauses) you will tell me of her — of my wife? 
 
 Mar. No more ! I do not taunt your agony with a 
 smile as you once did mine — but neither will I brighten 
 it with consolation. 
 
 St. P. For pity sake ! 
 
 Mar. No, you have made my heart as a lurid fire 
 y > a jf c c which seatters every tender thought you would fain fos- 
 ter there. 
 
 St. P. At least give her a message from me ? 
 
 Mar. I will — I will tell her that your first love and 
 your last thought were mine . ( curtain ) 
 
 Music to close of curtain. 
 
 K 
 
 A corridor in Marcelle’s house , a window R. l. Entrance to 
 room l. Exit from corridor r. She is pale and haggard — 
 she carries a rosary , she is all in white with a scarlet ribbon 
 in her hair, rich white silk skirt and a white brumous. 
 
 Mar. I have slept and I have dreamed ( shudders ) a 
 terrible dream, I dreamt that it was all over, and that I 
 could no longer say “ Forgive me, Francois,” to living 
 ears — then the dream changed — he smiled and came 
 towards me, in the wood where we met, but it was dark; 
 there was no sun in that wood, and I tried to call him, 
 but my lips were set fastAvith all the life of my past love 
 throbbing hotly in my breast^ I leapt forward to clasp 
 his hands, and £o, they were 7 cold ! cold ! ! cold ! ! ! I 
 scorned his agony — I mocked his best and purest 
 thoughts — that best which sorrow can sometimes create 
 on the ruins of joy. I fancied I was avenging myself — 
 but in my dream I knew that he was avenged on me — 
 now that he stands face to face with eternal light, how 
 far off all the dark turbulence of love and anger must 
 seem to him — yet if I saved him to what end would it be? 
 He would live blessed in the love of his children and his 
 wife , while ( throws aside the cross and beads ) no ! he shall 
 die — aha, it is she who murders him, not I, she thrusts 
 herself between me and every gleam of mercy, for I 
 
65 
 
 thought of mercy. In the cool pause between day and 
 night, when earth seems to be hushed that heaven may 
 listen, then the conscience trembles as though reborn in 
 the pure breast of a child, and my wrong waxes less 
 and my sin greater ; ( softly ) it is then, too, I remember 
 how dear he was — it is then I hear the whistle of the 
 thrush in a past summer, and feel the sunbeams in which 
 the peasants go to mass up the hill side, striking on 
 his down bent head while he whispers “ love me, Mar- 
 celle ; love me always ! ” Hark, what noise is that I 
 ah, it is the guillotine ! ! they are erecting it for him — for 
 my lover — ( goes to window ) there it is standing out black 
 against God’s bright worlds’ of stars, and by to-mor- 
 row’s light it will be beaten against by a raging crowd; 
 the soldiery will guard, the mob will insult their victim — 
 but he will be tranquil I know, quiet as one whose 
 race is proud and whose hope is over ; but if he hear a 
 child’s voice laughing in the crowd that will make him 
 wince, for he knows not how he leaves his own^Aha — So 
 you will remember me then Francois ! But yet if so, re- 
 member to pity me, for my fate is harder than yours — 
 you will die, but I shall survive — survive to recal you 
 like this — pale — stern, drawing near the hideous doom 
 / have secured to you. “ Love me always, Marcelle” — 
 was it he who spoke thus ? kneeling at my feet — he who 
 is to kneel there under the executioner’s hands ! HE 
 SHALL NOT TOUCH HIM— After all he is a gentle- 
 man and he was my lover ; if he could but die with his 
 face set brightly against his foe, or with loving arms 
 about him, soothing the bitterness of the death grip, but 
 to perish by foul hands — to be cast out like carrion to 
 the darkness — never — never — the love that destroyed 
 me shall save him yet ( clock strikes ), there is not much 
 time ; in two hours he must be free, and I occupy his 
 place — he will escape — he will be blithe as a lark wing- 
 ing its way heavenward, and the hand he wounded will 
 have opened his prison and pointed out the beacon of 
 home and safety. ( music ). For him there will be warm 
 welcomes, and perchance length of happy days — while 
 for me ? — Ah well, for me there will at least be — forget- 
 fulness. (gets her cloak , and returns to snatch up her beads 
 
 A 
 
66 
 
 and cross.) Time shortens — I have none left in which to 
 say farewell to my few friends, and but little in which to 
 pray and repent. Perchance the present will absolve 
 the past, and when I mount the scaffold to face death, 
 knowing- that he for whom I die is journeying- as swiftly 
 as his heart can speed him to another woman. In that 
 supreme moment Heaven may forgive the sin — for the 
 sake of the sacrifice, (exit). 
 
 Scene III. — Outside a door of the Conciergerie , 
 a mob is crowded round it. Soldiers protect the entrance. 
 Cries of “ Where is the prisoner V y “ Bring- out the 
 aristocrat V' 
 
 Pierre Larosse unlocks the door. 
 
 Pier. But where is Marcelle, citizens ? Why is 
 she not here to enjoy her triumph ? This man 
 was her especial enemy, (cries of “ Bring him out, 
 bring him out “ To death with him. ,, ) 
 
 Pier. Ah, well, she’s sure to be here directly — hate 
 gives a woman wings. 
 
 Opens the door , Marcelle appears cloaked , and a hood 
 over her face. 
 
 Mar.' And Love fetters a woman with shackles. You 
 asked for Marcelle — I am here, Pierre LcTRosse. 
 
 Cries of “ But where is the prisoner ? ” <r Where is the 
 accused aristocrat ?” 
 
 Mar. Escaped, far beyond your reach by this time — 
 safe in the heaven of re-union with his wife and child. 
 
 Pier. And by your means — is it Marcelle, who has 
 betrayed herself and her people ? 
 
 ( Cries and yells of u Down with Marcelle; to death with 
 the traitoress. The crowd make a rush at her — the soldiers 
 form a guard round her.” 
 
 Pier. Marcelle, you are lost. What fiend possessed 
 you, that you should have made this sacrifice ? 
 
 Mar. My friend — I think you misunderstand the im- 
 pelling influence — it is one’s good angel who prompts 
 self-sacrifice. 
 
6 7 
 
 Pier. The cowardly wretch, to let you take his 
 place. 
 
 Mar. Not so — he would have been here now had I 
 not sworn that my life was safe — that you would not, 
 could not hurt me ! 
 
 Pier. But you will die, Marcelle. 
 
 Mar. And do you think that will hurt me 1 The 
 only consolation for my past life, I find in the manner of 
 my death. I loved and I hated that man — that was the 
 earthly part of me — I saved him, and that was divine. 
 Do not trust the sophist's of science, who would fain 
 substitute a cold illiberalTight, for the ineffable glow 
 which comes from Heaven. If but one of man’s nobler 
 qualities existed, it would defy doubt and baffle scepti- 
 cism. From the moment I forgave, I regained my hope 
 of forgiveness. My friends, farewell — I go to a blood- 
 less Republic — Forgive me, if you think I wronged you 
 when I redeemed myself by a love strong enough to 
 purify its baser elements ; a love yet greater even than 
 its wrongs, and fearless even unto death. 
 
 Curtain. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
W. R. KING, PRINTER, WITH AM, ESSEX. 
 

 
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