Representative Plays by American Dramatists: 1856-1911: Paul Kauvar; or, Anarchy | Page 8

no word of welcome for a very weary friend?
DIANE.
[Throwing herself with nervous impetuosity into his arms.]
Ah, Paul! God bless and keep you!
PAUL.
God blessed me beyond measure, when he made your heart my own.
DIANE.
[Leading him with nervous intensity to a chair.]
Sit here--sit here!
[She sits beside him.]
Let me look at your face, and listen to your voice, while I can--while I can!
PAUL.
How strangely you say this!
DIANE.
Do you remember the old days--before this reign of terror darkened all our lives--the sunny room in my father's chateau, where you taught me to paint the flowers we had gathered--oh! so gaily!--from the quaintest corners of the garden?
PAUL.
Ah! those were ideal days.--You, almost a child--a girl just blooming into womanhood, like those rosebuds in your hair.
DIANE.
Oh, how happy I was!--So happy, earth seemed heaven! So happy, sorrow seemed almost a myth!--I little dreamed that I would ever drink the bitterest dregs of that black cup.--The Revolution rushed upon us--and then, oh then!--
[Hides her face on PAUL'S breast.
PAUL.
Then we parted, I thought forever.
DIANE.
You came no longer. The sunshine lost its smile--the flowers faded.
PAUL.
And yet, amidst the fearful tumult of these distracted times, we met once more.
DIANE.
[Starting up.]
Oh, my God! That meeting! I see the frightful scene again! My father there before me--old--helpless, dragged from his own house by a horde of brutal beasts.--I, shrieking, fighting vainly at his side--amidst their mocking laughs and jeers. Ah! I can hear them now--yes, and high above their hideous jests, rings out a clarion voice--'tis yours--silencing this crowd of curs!--With what sublime audacity you claim my father as your cousin, saving him and me, by the coolness of your courage!--Paul, from that hour you were more than man to me; you were a God, a hero, my father's Saviour!
PAUL.
[Rising.]
Better than all that now--your lover--guardian--husband.
[_Embraces her, then staggers_.
DIANE.
Paul--what is it?
PAUL.
Nothing,--fatigue from last night's bitter work.
[DIANE _brings wine and offers it. He puts it away_.]
No--one kiss from you will give me more strength than all the wine in France.
[She kisses him.
DIANE.
Heaven knows you need more than human strength.
PAUL.
Aye, Titan strength, to stem the tide of madness that overflows the mind of France! Ah, Diane! if it were not for your dear love, I fear my mind would falter at the task before me.
DIANE.
Oh, Paul! Why undertake this task?--Why not fly to peace in other lands?
PAUL.
Fly!--Desert France in the hour of her agony?--In the awful travail which gives birth to a new and nobler era for mankind?--No, no! I love you more than life, but my Country--ah, that is mother, sister, wife, and child!
DIANE
But Paul--
PAUL.
Hush, sweetheart, you must not make the struggle harder! The infant age is threatened with miscarriage!--The torch of Liberty, which should light mankind to progress, if left in madmen's hands, kindles that blaze of Anarchy whose only end is ashes.
DIANE.
[Suddenly starting.]
Hush! Listen! What is that?
PAUL.
[After listening.]
Nothing, foolish child.
[He is about to embrace her.
DIANE.
[Turning sadly away.]
Nay, we are too rash! We forget the dangers that environ us.
PAUL.
Would we could forget the weak concealment that makes cowards of us both!--Oh, that something would happen to make us end this living lie!
DIANE.
[Solemnly.]
Perhaps that something has happened, Paul. We have been warned that we're no longer safe beneath this roof.
PAUL.
[Amazed.]
Warned!--By whom?
DIANE.
What matter by whom?--Enough that we've been told the Civil Guard may search the house this very day.
PAUL.
[With sudden resolution.]
I am glad of it. Thank fate that something forces us to tell your father you are mine.
DIANE.
Nay, Paul--I cannot, dare not tell him that!
PAUL.
Then leave the task to me.
DIANE.
'Twould be but to win his curse. You little dream the deathless pride that's rooted in his heart! To wrench out that pride would break the heart that holds it.
PAUL.
[Bitterly.]
Then let it break! I, too, am proud, Diane, proud as all are proud to be who owe their manhood to their God and not to the favour of a king!--If your father scorns the sacred work of heaven's hand, then he is only fit for scorn himself.
DIANE.
Oh, Paul! Be charitable!
PAUL.
Charitable! To what?--Your father's pride in the race from which he springs--the race whose iron rule for centuries stamped shame on honest labour--crowned infamy with honour--made gods of profligates and dogs of workingmen--ruining their wives--insulting their mothers--debasing their daughters, and sowing the seeds of madness in their veins?--Ah, Diane! when I face your father, 'tis not your husband who should blush for his race.
DIANE.
My father's race is mine.--I forgot its glories, and atoned its wrongs in marrying you!--But I love, revere, my father still, and have hoped each day that he would come to love you for your saving care of me--and grow content to take you as a son.
PAUL.
Who knows--perhaps he will.
DIANE.
[Sadly.]
Ah, no! The more you do for me, the more his pride revolts, till now I dare not tell him of our marriage.
PAUL.
Diane--listen. The time has come when you must choose between us. I staked