Classic Poem

Scene I. — The room at head-quarters . L A R OUSSE , in a morning gown, and with his arm in a sling, is discovered conversing with L OUISE L A Motte , who is veiled in a fall .
La Rousse . Well, to convince you I can speak the truth,
And so deserve a sight of you, I own
I did devise this news of a relapse,
On purpose to bring back those lustrous eyes,
That I might thank them. Would you heal my wounds,
Yet scorn my gratitude? I see the roses
Burn through this morning mist ( touching her veil ); let me remove it;
Do; — let me now; — and worship my Aurora.
Speak up to me at least, and let me hear you.
( Aside .) Any thing, so she will but stop, and argue.
Louise ( aside ). The same light heart, I fear, to nothing fixed.
His sufferings cost me some of the old sighs;
But this rights all; and he shall find it so —
( Aloud .) You knew a cousin of mine once, I believe,
Daughter of General De La Motte, her name —
La Rou . ( eagerly ). Louise! What has become of her?
Where does she live? — I beg your pardon. See,
How any thing concerns me, linked with you
Never mind answering those questions now:
Speak only of yourself. — ( Aside ) Cousin! Louise!
The family voice, by Heaven! only more strong,
And sprightlier too. I recollect her mentioning
A cousin somewhere, a far giddier damsel
Than her sweet self. — Oh, I'm in luck twice over;
Grave and gay, 'faith
Louise . You didn't know her much then,
This same good little cousin of mine? I fear,
She boasted.
La Rou. No, no. A young lady boast!
Nonsense. Daughter of General De La Motte,
Whom Richelieu treated so — Oh, yes, I knew her —
Knew her well — knew her very well — Louise —
Pretty Louise. She had an air of you,
Only less charming.
Louise . Yet they say you loved her.
La Rou. Her! what, Louise?
Louise . Ay, for a day or so.
Yours have been right Auroras, you know, Captain:
Seven to the week! a goddess every day.
La Rou. ( aside ). Captain! come, there 's acquaintanceship in that;
A staunch, familiar, soldier-loving sound;
Sharp through the lips. Ah, these benevolent women!
They're the most loving virtues under heaven;
They take such pity on you, for your sake!
With such a ravishing want of selfishness! —
( Aloud .) Loved her! you don't mean seriously?
Louise . I do;
And so, 'twas thought, you did.
La Rou . To see the talk now!
Really I must say —
Louise . Then you loved her not?
La Rou . Never I liked her — oh, yes; I admired her;
How could I help it, being a cousin of yours?
And doubtless should have loved her, had time served;
But I was ordered home for being sleepless,
I used to study so with an old clergyman. —
Talk now; say something; — you talk charmingly;
Or don't, if you don't like it; — acquiesce; —
That will do; — signify you think as I do,
Just with a breath or so; it's so congenial.
Her chin was just like yours, the family chin,
A little, round, smooth, light, and pleasant chin;
Something 'twixt properness and provocation:
One of those chins one feels as if one handled,
Merely by looking at; it's so suggestive.
Louise . What if I love a graver kind of talk?
La Rou. Graver! the best of all. All best is grave;
All certainty, conclusion, rapture, trust,
And speaking face to face. Let's try how grave,
And trusting we can be. ( Aside .) It's wonderful
How fond these women are of seeing gravity
And gaiety combined!
Louise But there's a grave
Distrust, and fear of speaking face to face.
Suppose you might not like my face?
La Rou. ( aside ). That's it.
Now she is going to show it me. [ Aloud .] Not like it!
What have I done to make you say that? Why,
I love your shape, make, gestures, feelings, thoughts;
And where we like all these, I never found
The face belie them. Marvellous, if it did,
When the sweet soul, dwelling so handsomely,
Looks from those windows of its house — the eyes.
Let me behold it: let me see your soul
With all my soul.
Louise . It has preserved your life,
You tell me.
La Rou. Has it not?
Louise . A life nigh lost
For scorn of a false woman?
La Rou Falsehood being
The thing I hate, especially to you.
Louise . That's excellent. Ecce signum ( she unveils ). How, good Captain!
What! not a word, and to a lady's face?
Not even ask an old friend how she does?
" Pretty Louise!" ( laughing ) you might have found an epithet
A little loftier, methinks, considering
The flights your grammar used to take of old,
When you were studying with the clergyman;
But as you had to compliment my cousin,
Why, I must pardon you
La Rou. Judge of my feelings
By my lost speech
Louise . Oh! what you've lost a speech,
Have you? But how then can we judge of it?
Poor man! he has lost his speech! I hope some lad
Has picked it up, to make his first love with
But really you should keep more speeches by you,
Particularly speeches for surprises
It must be very unpleasant for a Captain
To be struck dumb.
La Rou. Nay, if the gravity
You asked me for, yourself, suit not your humour, —
Exquisite humour, finer still than ever —
What if it should appear I was not quite
So unaware — so ignorant of — —
Louise . Oh, don't;
Don't trump up that. I'll take it as a favour.
You really must not think of saying that:
The joke 's too old, dear sir, even for Captains.
Stick to the gravity; it 's so congenial: —
To the poor, dear lost speech: it's so suggestive.
Well, adieu, Captain. Don't relapse again;
Or I shall think your health so more than settled,
That if you say you're dead, I shan't believe it.
La Rou. Another word, for pity. ( Aside ) After all,
She did come to me: did attend me: saw me
Through my delirium. ( Aloud .) I am rightly served
For being ignorant, till this wondrous moment,
How much I loved, and what a prize I lost.
Louise ( interrupting ). Heyday! what wolf and shepherd's boy now!
La Rou. Yet,
Not for my sake, but your own nature's sake,
May I not hope, that when you first came here — —
Louise ( interrupting ). Oh! not at all. Yes, yes, some recollection
Of childish times, and good-will thereupon;
Doubtless, a bit of that. Of course. 'Twere barbarous,
Not to be better pleased to see a friend
Under the doctor's hands, than a mere stranger.
T'other day, for example, I attended
On a dear soul I knew just after you —
A Colonel, a delightful man. He then
Was only Captain, but he 's Colonel now.
I would advise you, by the way, in friendship,
To have your night-cap changed to one like his:
It sits with such an air. Yours, I observed,
Was like a shoemaker's: and this reminds me
Of a poor girl (for our good sisterhood
Disdain to wait on nobody) who says
She loves you, and that you're in love with her;
A tall, big girl
La Rou. Impossible
Louise . She raved
About your walking with a marchioness;
And said you were to marry her, to pay
Her father's bill, a draper. Positively
You should not overlook such twofold luck.
The man himself, in spite of his bill, loves you;
He says you doat so on a suit of clothes;
And she commenced her passion upon hearing you
Giving a list of ladies that adored
Your little finger. See now — why, you blush!
Gracious! a Captain in the Guards, and blush!
Dressed so well too! and in such luck with ladies!
Well, I can't leave his cheeks in better company,
And so I bid him heartily farewell.
La Rou. Hear me. Is there one word or thing on earth,
That I can say or do, to show how truly
Banter like this does shame me?
Louise . Certainly.
" Welcome the coming, speed the going guest,"
Says the good poet. Call the servant, please,
To order me the carriage.
La Rou. Might I beg —
Implore?
Louise . You can retract your word, of course.
La Rou. ( calling ). Batiste! ( Enter Batiste .) The lady's carriage.
Louise . Thanks. Your servant
La Rou. ( walking to and fro ). If ever I loved woman upon earth,
That 's she. I'll prove it too, and face the devil.
Dolt that I was! fool! coxcomb! ay, that 's it:
Courage — the word 's out, — say it again; — a fop,
Upon my soul! a fop: a little boy;
Haven't I sixpence for myself? A school-boy!
And she 's of age first. She 's angry enough
To banter me, however: that 's one comfort.
Now then, Batiste, my coat: — this instant, — gown off —
Tear it — there — never mind the arm — What carriage?
What sort of carriage? whose?
Bat. The old arms, sir.
La Rou. Old arms! whose arms?
Bat. The Countess's.
La Rou. The Countess's!
What Countess?
Bat. Montalais.
La Rou. Death and the devil!
Bat. The Countess, sir, and ma'amselle De La Motte,
The coachman tells me, have been closeted
Twice in the last two hours, and the Chevalier,
Was at the house meantime, but went away.
La Rou. ( meditating ). Schoolfellows — old times — knew — me — them and — oh!
I see it all: no matter: my time 's come.
I'll be a man; go here, go there; do everything —
( To Batiste ) Quick, you fool. Ah! ( He cries out with pain ).
Never mind, man. This lady
Trembled, you say, to see me in the swoon?
Bat. Ay, sir.
La Rou. And bathed my temples?
Bat. Till the surgeon
Took you in hand.
La Rou. And she helped him?
Bat. Ask him, sir.
He said, she felt like nerves, yet helped like bones.
La Rou. By all the — curse the arm — There — that'll do —
Hat — never mind which Gloves. If people call,
Say I'm in bed — any thing — the devil — an angel!
Scene II. — A room, with a sword and hat on one of the chairs, and with trunks prepared for travelling . D E T ORCY discovered in a military undress, sitting at a table with books, a decanter of water, &c., and holding a letter .

De Tor. Lest she should think my acquiescence angry,
And my departure dumb from sullenness,
Here have I taken, in a few calm words,
My leave as fits a gentleman. And now,
One more uneasy slumber, and at dawn
I pass the cold blind windows of the house
In which herself will be locked up in sleep,
Careless of who goes by. — I did her wrong,
For want of reading by a juster light
Th' unequal measure of ingenuousness
Demanded of her sex by jealous men.
What flatterers — pah! the term itself 's a flattery —
What mean, ungenerous parasites and sycophants
Of our own selves we are! How we strut on,
For half a life, perhaps a whole life, taking
Our vanities for virtues, wills for deeds,
And our contemptuous measurements of others
For standards, in ourselves, of loftiest worth!
She 's gone, that might have been possessed; — she's gone,
That should have been excused and comforted; —
She 's gone, that would have loved and worshipped me,
Had my own truth lent happy strength to hers.
And yet she too, all nobly as she rose
In that pure fire against an erring judge,
Erred in the excess of her own angry scorn.
She saw not, in the judge himself, the dupe
Of custom and despair; saw not, that men,
As well as those they wrong, are the sad heirs
Of taught mistake and forced self-ignorance,
Wearing such masks of ingrained sophistry
To their own souls, as need the fiercest hands
Of pain and grief to tear them up, and show
Poor flesh and blood its mutual human looks.
Too harshly therefore spoke those her last words:
Too harshly even for harshness harsher far;
In the discharge of which repented wrong
I pay with dumb obedience and bowed heart,
Answering no censure, and admitting all.
Thus in the burden of one pang, one misery,
Made of all pangs to come, I sum and show
The love I would have spread o'er all her life
In folding gold, in bright caressing joy;
And so we too are quits; — and now I'll be
The man I was, and turning from such thoughts,
Resume my studies for this northern field.
What can this mean, so late, and jangling thus?

Enter L A R OUSSE in a military undress, with his arm in a sling, and a good deal the worse for drinking .

La Rousse . Noble De Torcy, pardon me. I ask
Ten thousand pardons; millions; or as many
As may be proper to excuse a man
For coming at this very odd, blinking hour,
To say he has been a fool. I fear, I've broken
Your servant's head; but the dull dog refused
To take me for a penitent; and truly
The fact is, I must say, 'tis difficult
To become perfect all at once. There's wine
And woman in me, noblest of chevaliers;
And if the first makes me somewhat erroneous,
The latter, oh! the latter, shall right all.
De Tor. ( in great anger ). Why must I be a party to your wine,
Or women either? What do you do here?
And why remain a moment, when I ask?
La Rou. Noble —
De Tor. Ridiculous! Pierre, there —
La Rou. Stop; nonsense —
Hear what I have to say. Louise La Motte —
De Tor. Louise La What ! . . . Stay away, Pierre I'll call you.
La Rou. Louise La Motte , not What . ( Aside .) How very absurd.
Sounds any name like hers which isn't hers, —
Isn't the lovely thing! ( Aloud .) Louise La Motte,
Or De La Motte, — ma'am'selle — you know Louise —
Tell me but where she is, or in what house
Her friend the Countess hides her own sweet face,
Ere you and she — oh, you — well, — take possession
Of the old Count's new house, and —
De Tor. What do you mean, sir?
Explain yourself this instant, or by Heaven —
La Rou. That 's it. " By Heaven" is where I wish to be;
By lovely De La Motte. Tell me what Eden Street,
What Paradise Row, contains that heaven on earth.
De Tor. ( aside ). This fellow, what with my contempt for him,
And the ascendancy which that name gives him
Over my stupid self, will drive me mad.
( Aloud .) Out with your business, sir, or quit me instantly.
La Rou. Well, I'm not orderly; stay, pardon me ( Looking at the table .)
There 's a strange out of the way physician here
I see. ( He pours a glass of water from the decanter, and drinks it .)
Water 's the thing. Virtue the first.
De Tor. ( aside ). Of all the impertinent drunken vagabonds —
La Rou. ( finishing another glass of water )
I beg your pardon; but you see, this arm
You gave me; 'tisn't quite so strong again
As haste would have it; so coming along
In search of that wild little dove of yours,
And finding my head giddy, I stopped short
And took a little of my friend champagne
To steady it. 'Twould go off in a minute,
Even without the water; for there 's sense,
For all his folly, in my friend champagne;
He doesn't stay long, when he isn't wanted.
De Tor What would I give, that all his friends resembled him!
Well, sir, my time is precious, and I may not
Have the displeasure of your stay much longer.
What is this mummery? Do you want more winging?
La Rou. Come, come, I was abrupt; I'm sober now.
I came to say, first, that I beg your pardon,
Yours and the Countess's, for all that — whiz!
Accept it, pray, and don't spoil good intentions.
Lay my repentance at her feet. She never
Loved the damned ninny that you see before you;
Never was loved by the Jack fop himself;
He was in love already, and didn't know it;
Ay, with his lost, his lovely, great Louise,
Stanchest of scornful little glorious souls.
Why do you start and stare so, you who know
What a sweet soul she is?
De Tor. How, sir? know what?
La Rou. Know what? why all about my saint Louise,
A saint, blithe as a sinner, and stanch as leeches.
Oh, you're a lucky dog to live so near her —
What would I give — But hold! — I shall forget —
The next thing I must beg you to accept
Is this infernal sum of money. ( Feeling his pockets for it )
De Tor. Money!
Is the man drunk, or mad, or damned, or what?
La Rou. I was afraid I had lost it.
Not accept —
No, no — acceptance! — nonsense — reacceptance,
That's the word, man — repayment of the ransom;
There should have been no ransom, my dear friend;
The peace was signed eight hours before we took you;
Only the Cardinal kept it to himself
To raise the price of treason. ( Aside. ) That's a lie —
My last — I swear it to her lovely soul —
But the poor devil's poorer than myself:
He pushes, not the wine, but water-bottle!
De Tor. ( aside ). Is it the truth? There's something strange and frank
In the dog's face; and yet — Louise La Motte —
What the devil is it? And what am I to do?
La Rou. ( finishing another glass of water ).
Adieu, champagne. Noble De Torcy, listen.
You are a lover and a gentleman,
Friend of the Countess, therefore know her friend,
Daughter of General De La Motte. By Heaven,
And heaven on earth, in which I now believe,
By faces of first loves, and balms in wounds,
And all that's sweet and sudden in the world,
I've been a fool, an ass, noble chevalier,
And by your help would fain be thought to know it.
She whom I speak of, honoured this same fop
(I speak it to her glory, and the shame
Of the dull beast) by loving some good soul
She took for him, these five long years ago;
And now she treats the blockhead with disdain,
For knowing not his luck. Oh, take your stick there,
Take your stick, man, and break it on the head
Of this dull puppy-dog of twenty-five,
For that was his age then, and he's no older;
Or if a kindlier mode of schooling please you,
Give me your hand, as you have faith in love,
And own me for a new boy
De Tor. ( giving it ) For a man.
He that to bravery of the blood, can add
Valour of soul enough to own a fault,
Nay, to confess that he has yet to learn,
May write himself, I hope, a man of men;
Else in the old school of adversity
Griefs would give no degrees; and that were dismal.
But you o'errate me, Captain; — oh, you do.
I, too, have faults to own; fopperies and follies;
Ay, and have lost myself with her I love
La Rou. You! What, with her for whom you fought so well?
It isn't possible.
De Tor. 'Tis very certain.
La Rou. Not for those letters which I lied about?
De Tor. Yes; for I didn't read them.
La Rou. Ah, the devil!
That came of taking me too much on trust,
And yet believing there was no trust in me.
What you thought billets-doux , were blames and banters.
Well, but it proved me an unthinking ass,
And you a scrupulous gentleman. It did.
De Tor. But there were other letters; letters written
By my own self.
La Rou. Well —
De Tor. Given me in exchange
For yours.
La Rou. For mine?
De Tor. Yes, and with justice;
For they were written some four years ago
To — whom would you suppose?
La Rou. Some other charmer.
Oh! this is good. I like you all the better:
Fear you perhaps a little less; but not
A jot the less admire: nay, ten times more;
And love you twenty.
De Tor. But suppose the lady
Were the last person you would take her for?
La Rou. Well, so much the more fun. Astonishment
And love combined, eh? Some sweet little saint,
Grave, and locked up to every soul but you
No? — well, what signifies? The rogue's a woman,
And last or first, I take that to be every thing
Name her; name, name. Amaze me, if you can.
The toast for our next meeting. Out with it:
Shout to the stars
De Tor. What say you to — " Louise"?
La Rou. Louise!
De Tor. Louise. The surname, De la Motte.
La Rou. Charlotte, you mean. The cousin.
De Tor. No; Louise.
The cousin was no cousin for one like her.
La Rou. You jest.
De Tor. Jest! Why? Is that a name to jest on?
La Rou. No, 'faith, and that's the reason why you jest,
And why I do not choose to hear the jesting.
De Tor. Stuff, man! Hear, and rejoice.
La Rou. To be twice thwarted;
To be twice crossed, and mocked, and made a fool,
And in the second mockery to be made
A million times more fool than in the first;
This is what all the women upon earth
Shall turn me not from punishing.
De Tor. They will.
Two words will; one will. Hear me out, I say.
La Rou. Why should I hear you out?
De Tor. For your own sake.
La Rou. For my own sake! What, lest I stumble again
On your old toasting-fork? Don't count on that.
De Tor. My sword is at a woman's feet; lay yours
At such another's.
La Rou. Out with your riddle then;
What is't? I'll hear. She loved you, and then laughed at you,
Or you both laughed at me. Is that it?
De Tor. No.
She neither laughed at me, nor loved me ever.
And though you hardly merit to be told it,
After this wilful tempest of your words,
Yet for a penance which I owe, and pitying
Wounds which my own heart aches with, hear now this: —
You , vain or modest, Captain De la Rousse,
As you stand there, looking not very wise,
You were the reason why my suit was nought.
La Rou. Nonsense — you laugh — you dream it — you don't say it;
You wouldn't swear it — can't be sure of it
De Tor. I say it, swear it, and am sure of it.
For she, as only such a heart as hers,
Brave with all goodness and true self-respect,
Could own it, did; though never till this hour
Knew I the name of —
La Rou. The prodigious fool,
Fop, dolt, and horrible brute-beast she honoured.
Oh, my dear friend!
But, having loved her once,
How could you cease to love her?
De Tor. How could you?
Well, well, you didn't cease; but the truth is,
I did but think I loved; you know what that is;
And so, at last, we both of us love only
Where only we loved ever.
La Rou. Hear him! hear him!
Hear him, oh all ye gods of love and wonder,
Who thus have brought together and perplexed
Four souls that ought to speed as merrily
As people in quartettes, or in a dance.
Oh, but they will — they must. The Countess loves you
Better than ever. — She can't help it, man.
( Aside. ) She shall, somehow or other, if I cry
Fire for't, and make her hear me at the window.
( Aloud. ) That risking of one's blood in woman's cause
Leaves a warm light in their sweet cosy souls
To read their sighs by these fine, cold, spring evenings.
De Tor. Nothing has shown it. Risking of one's blood
She counts but risking others' peace of mind;
Duellists, fools; and one that kills his man,
A ghastly knave hung round with blood and tears.
La Rou. Ah, she may say so; but —
De Tor. Conceive me rightly.
She has renounced me, Captain De la Rousse,
Solemnly, and for ever. I have reasons,
Which I will tell you when we meet again,
Why I must not contest this her free judgement;
Therefore I quit at once both France and her.
La Rou. And love?
De Tor. And love? Oh, no. Love goes with me,
Bearing the double burthen of the thoughts
That still love her, and all the thoughts, now dead,
With which she once loved me.
La Rou. ( aside ). And this, forsooth,
Is all my precious work! — Oh, I shan't bear it,
Whatever he may do The double burden
Of him and me is a little too much for me,
And I shall lay it without further ceremony
At her own door: — tell some infernal lie,
And bring her back to him. What shall it be?
O haste, O night! — wits — wits — ( aloud ). When do you go?
De Tor. Besides, I did her wrong. You see this letter,
And have been wondering at this dress of mine.
They mean, that I have joined the troops for Flanders,
And that I march with them at dawn. The letter
Is a farewell, which the good people here
Will give her when I'm gone.
La Rou. Shall I give it her?
No, no, I see ( returning it ); I beg your pardon —
( Aside. ) No. 19 — that's it — Vineyard — ( aloud ). What now?
To-night? to-day? some five or six hours hence?
De Tor. Surely. The morning-wind itself will call me,
Blowing in gold. The trumpets pass the door.
La Rou. ( preparing to go ). I keep you up.
De Tor. No, I shall not lie down
For a good hour, and then but in my clothes.
La Rou. ( impatiently ). Good-bye
De Tor. Don't go.
La Rou. Yes.
De Tor. Not on my account —
I swear to you —
La Rou. If things here don't go right with me,
I'll follow you to Flanders, and eat Spaniards.
But there's a debt I have to pay a friend,
Whom, if I don't see instantly —
De Tor. You'll break
The porter's head. What says my own? What, Pierre?
La Rou. Hush! It's all right. The dog was half asleep,
When he insisted upon having his head broke;
And I'm so late I'll owe him for the plaster.
Stay where you are.
De Tor. No, no; I'll let you out.
Scene III. — A drawing-room, with wax-lights on the table, nearly burnt out. The C OUNTESS and L OUISE , both in evening dresses,-are discovered, conversing and embroidering

Countess ( sighing ). Suppose we change our theme.
Louise . With all my heart.
What think you of these flowers, that I have finished
For the poor widow?
Countess . They are beautiful;
And so is the whole trail. 'Tis like sweet thoughts,
Loving and clinging to a bed of sorrow.
Louise . That was my fancy. Flowers cannot but please,
They seem such pure good nature on the part
Of Nature's self.
Countess . Even when poisonous?
Louise . Yes, when we come to know them; for the poison
Is, itself, medicine for some great need.
Countess . You make me feel as mournful music does;
I mean, as if no beauty could exist
But for some mourning; some dark ground to set
The diamonds of delight in. By the way,
Have you observed that there's a sort of talk
In music; something that appears to mean
More than we give its lovely tongue the credit of, —
Positive argument, and chains of reasoning?
Louise . Often. De Torcy used to love an air
I played on the spinnet, that seemed to question,
Answer, and question, and so run the round
Of some sweet logic; every link of it
Being so drawn from, so deduced, from t'other,
That at the close you felt as much convinced
Of some fine truth, although you knew not what,
As though an angel had been talking it.
'Twas called the Lover's Plea, and came from Rome.
Countess . I've heard De L'Orme play it upon the flute. —
But why bring back De Torcy?
Louise . Why De L'Orme?
Countess . See what the candles tell us. We sit here,
Talking and babbling, and should be in bed.
What can that mean?
Louise . 'Tis very late.
Countess . So loud too!
After the Sister's fashion!
Louise . Should I go?
Countess . I wouldn't pain you by advising not;
But people must be told that you design
To cast your feathers and take nest with me;
Else bird-calls may grow dangerous.
What is this?

Enter a Servant followed by L A R OUSSE .

Servant . Madam, the strangest gentleman —
La Rou. By no means
These ladies know me very well — Oh Countess,
Oh Mad'moiselle La Motte, exquisite friends, —
Admirable, amiable, adorable women,
Be pleased to utter not a syllable,
Till you have heard me speak. Not for myself;
I'm nobody; or rather, I'm a rascal,
Jack pudding, fool, and fop; but for a gentleman
Worthy your pity and your instant help.
My only merit is that he has pardoned me;
And this emboldens me to ask, not only
Pardon from you, which, with eternal shame,
And infinite self-abasement, on my knees —
Though I don't kneel — horrible haste not letting me —
I do, desperately, ask, — but faith, belief,
E'en in La Rousse's words, when I inform you
That if you don't assist, — I mean you , madam —
This poor unfortunate gentleman, this instant,
With your good word, your testimony, knowledge
Of his good name, and who in fact, he is —
That being the question with the magistrate —
I wouldn't give a rush for his existence
A fortnight longer. ( Aside. ) That's the gravest lie
I ever uttered; but these worthy souls
Will make us do it!
Countess . What is all this, sir?
And who is it you speak of?
La Rou. The Chevalier —
Noble De Torcy; who has had, it seems,
The misery to offend you; which he mourns,
With such a desperate sorrow, that he willingly
Suffers these people to confound him, madam,
With a wild fool, a cousin, who has slain
A rival shamefully — committed murder: —
Murder; — and so here's the Chevalier, madam,
Locked in his room with twenty men about him,
All watching him with their infernal eyes
To see he does not kill himself. I left him
Handcuffed and manacled — Oh, Ma'm'selle La Motte! —
And owning, with a kind of savage joy,
That he possessed not in the whole vile town, —
Town, mind — not country — that's a different matter —
One single friend to speak to his good name.
Countess . But he has, sir. That cannot be He has.
I know at least of one: for —
La Rou. What, the man
He had some money of, for something? He,
Heav'n bless you, is the very man that's gone,
And left him thus to settle for them both.
Countess ( aside to Louise ). Good heavens! the ransom!
La Rou. ( aside ). That's well guessed, however
( Aloud. ) And the worst is (for I am bound to own it,)
He would not let me come to speak to you:
At least, he utterly forbade it; told me,
That he should die with shame, and hate and loathe me,
He loves you so, but thinks you so above
His late mistake and present misery
So that unless you do a thing not pleasing
To your own self, however good for him,
My folly will have slain him. Oh, the day!
Countess ( aside to L OUISE ). What think you?
Louise ( pointing underhand to L A R OUSSE ). What is 't possible to think,
'Twixt doubts of him , and the strange look of truth?
Countess ( to L A R OUSSE ). Couldn't I send? or couldn't some authority
Be sent to me?
La Rou. Yes, when too late. Ten minutes
May see the charge made out, the prisoner gone,
And —
Countess . Money, sir — I am ashamed, but money —
La Rou. Might have done much — oh, yes — bribes — poor Chevalier!
How he blushed up to the eyes when they were hinted —
Then sighed, and vowed, and I believe him too,
He wouldn't have given a franc to save his going
To twenty deaths. But pardon me; — Time, time,
Time's every thing; and though while I stay here,
I cannot be quite wretched, yet, alas!
I must go back alone, if you won't trust me.
Nay, as to that, don't trust me. Let your servants
Come with us, every one of them, all armed,
And cut me into pieces at his door,
If you don't settle it all in twenty seconds,
And so return. (C OUNTESS and L OUISE confer .) Let them but come together
And — ( aloud, and bowing to the C OUNTESS , as if taking his leave ) Your unhappy servant
Countess . Stay: we'll go, sir
Bid, if you please, my servants get the carriage,
And we'll attend you
La Rou. Will you? Then by all
The hopes I raise, what if my own should fall!

Scene THE LAST . — The apartment of D E T ORCY , who is discovered reading .

De Torcy ( closing the book ). I cannot do it. Every page I read,
I have to read again; and then, for nothing.
Strange, that the eyes and mind, which needs must act
In concert, should in very concert part,
The eyes retaining mind enough to know
Each word they take into their conscious orbs,
While yet the mind, which is the consciousness,
Not only knows not what it tells the eyes,
But is absorbed and absent, far away,
In thought as foreign to the page it reads
As tongues unknown, or starlight to broad day.
I read of armies, and I think of her;
I read of foreign plains, of trenches, ramparts,
Marches and countermarches, watching fires,
And mornings opening upon endless hosts,
And all the while am in a little room,
Gazing on her exalted angry face,
And hating my own soul for wounding hers.
Speed, speed, mad, foolish hours, and let me feel
The bustling of the world once more about me,
Waking into the crowd and common lot.
What more than heavenly vision, — for 'tis earth's
Most blessed spectacle to earthly eyes, —
Comes — for it cannot come ungraciously —
To raise and to forgive a mourning soul!
Moves it you thus? What must it do with me?
A second vision too, worthy the first,
Is with it, doubling both my shame and joy,
Because she knows all truly and with kindness
What is the matter, that my love stands thus,
Gazing and dumb?
Louise . Conceive us rightly, sir;
We have been lured here on a false pretence,
And she's in doubt whether yourself are true
De Tor. What false pretence? True! Then am I wronged
In turn, and do delightedly forgive her,
And must be twice believed; for I'm as true
As hurts in hopeless wounds, or balm in bliss.
No? — Nothing then? No meaning? — Chance! " Pretence!"
What's the pretence? Where was it? When? Whose making?
Oh God! was it this fool's? this drunkard's? Tell me —
La Rou ( pointing to the table ). That letter there, I trust —
De Tor. ( furiously, and as if going to strike him ). Leave it alone.
Countess ( loudly ). Touch him not
De Tor. Never — Never, while you forbid me;
Never, because you have forbidden me.
But is it true? Did he? Did the disastrous
And despicable — — Stay — There is a remedy —
Mademoiselle La Motte, be pleased to open
The door beside you; for my hands —
The joy
That came I know not how, or why, unwillingly,
Is free to go. No hand, no voice, no breath
Shall come 'twixt her and world-wide liberty.
Not a word, fellow. Don't be seen. Don't dare
So low, as to vex one that cannot fell you.
Don't look at him. You have no right to look
Upon the tears and anguish of a man.
Leave me, La Rousse. I can believe you meant
Not ill, but this new misery —
Countess . De Torcy!
De Tor. ( starting round ). Who is it? Are my senses leaving me,
Or has she come again?
Countess ( who has opened her arms ). With all her heart.
La Rou. ( aside and coming out of them ). I've done it though.
Couldn't you imitate
Your generous friend, and be, and make all happy?
Come, dear Louise; think of old times; consider
How I have risked the loss e'en of yourself,
Partly for friendship's sake, but most for love's;
Ay, to convince you how in very falsehood
Truth had the worship still of poor De L'Orme.
Come, let me seize this moment of all moments,
Giv'n me by friends who love and honour you.
Oh, let me speak. Do, do. Hear me but speak.
Louise . Do you not speak? Well, sir, speak on, and briefly.
La Rou. Dearest Louise — Well, well, — Ma'am'selle La Motte —
Come — I've been foolish, ignorant, undeserving;
Worthy your laughter, painful to my own;
But as I've loved you ever, and you only,
If I have loved at all, and as I now —
Louise ( pointing to the floor ). Stay — there's a pin.
La Rou. A what?
Louise . A pin! ( Stooping to pick it up ) Gold pin.
Is 't yours?
La Rou. I've done.
Louise ( aside ). The tears are in his eyes
La Rou. Be yet so kind, as when our friends return,
Not to expose me to the show of failure;
Not quite at once, nor without some regret
'Tis the last spark of vanity within me;
Tread it out gently
Louise . Fear not their return,
Take for my answer, this. ( She gives him her hand .)
La Rou. Your hand!
Louise . Myself.
The Countess spoke for you; your friendship spoke;
Your tears, yourself have spoken; and Louise.
I do believe you love me
La Rou. That says all.
I thought I was undone, and I'm in heaven.
You're my good spirit.
Louise . Oh, and you were mine.
Yes; when you loved me first, I teased your mirth
With fond self-reference and foolish tears,
Because you were no graver. 'Twas a vanity
Wanting rebuke on my side; and you gave it me.
La Rou. I was a stupid fool, and you're an angel.
Countess ( returning with D E T ORCY ). What's that?
Louise . Oh, nothing. Only I'm an angel.
De Tor. So you are — both; — and heaven 's a lodging-house.
Countess . Oh, but take care we're not avenging angels.
Louise ( aside ). Excellent, that. ( Aloud .) The Captain De La Rousse
Permits me to unite his fate with mine,
Dear Countess Montalais. My captor, madam.
Countess ( in affected surprise ). Captor! La Rousse! why that's my friend De L'Orme.
I know him well, a writer of epistles,
Which must be trumpeted on pain of death.
Louise ( to the Countess with pretended rage ). You have no right to use a captain thus,
Honour him as you may.
Countess ( to L OUISE in the same manner ). Nor shall you lose him,
Kind as you are.
Louise ( furiously ). We'll all be happy.
Countess ( with the same fury ). I look for it.
All . Ah! ha! ha!
Louise . We laugh, that we may set old fancies free.
Countess . But not the less adore sincerity.