The Lady of Lyons | Page 6

have no appetite.
Gla. Nor I. Still it is bad travelling on an empty stomach. What have
you got? [Takes and looks over the bill of fare.]
[Shout without.] "Long live the Prince!--Long live the Prince!"
Beau. The Prince!--what Prince is that? I thought we had no princes left
in France.
Land. Ha, ha! the lads always call him Prince. He has just won the prize
in the shooting-match, and they are taking him home in triumph.
Beau. Him! and who's Mr. Him?
Land. Who should he be but the pride of the village, Claude
Melnotte?--Of course you have heard of Claude Melnotte?
Gla. [giving back the bill of fare.] Never had that honor. Soup--ragout

of hare--roast chicken, and, in short, all you have!
Beau. The son of old Alelnotte, the gardener?
Land. Exactly so--a wonderful young man.
Beau. How, wonderful?--Are his cabbages better than other people's
Land. Nay, he don't garden any more; his father left him well off. He's
only a genus.
Gla. A what?
Land. A genus!--a man who can do everything in life except anything
that's useful--that's a genus.
Beau. You raise my curiosity;--proceed.
Land. Well, then, about four years ago, old Melnotte died, and left his
son well to do in the world. We then all observed that a great change
came over young Claude: he took to reading and Latin, and hired a
professor from Lyons, who had so much in his head that he was forced
to wear a great full-bottom wig to cover it. Then he took a
fencing-master, and a dancing-master, and a music-master; and then he
learned to paint; and at last it was said that young Claude was to go to
Paris, and set up for a painter. The lads laughed at him at first; but he is
a stout fellow, is Claude, and as brave as a lion, and soon taught them
to laugh the wrong side of their mouths; and now all the boys swear by
him, and all the girls pray for him.
Beau. A promising youth, certainly! And why do they call him Prince?
Land. Partly because he is at the head of them all, and partly because he
has such a proud way with him, and wears such fine clothes-- and, in
short, looks like a prince.
Beau. And what could have turned the foolish fellow's brain? The
Revolution, I suppose?

Land. Yes--the revolution that turns us all topsy-turvy-- the revolution
of Love.
Beau. Romantic young Corydon! And with whom is he in love?
Land. Why--but it is a secret, gentlemen.
Beau. Oh! certainly.
Land. Why, then, I hear from his mother, good soul! that it is no less a
person than the Beauty of Lyons, Pauline Deschappelles.
Beau. and Glavis. Ha, ha!--Capital!
Land. You may laugh, but it is as true as I stand here.
Beau. And what does the Beauty of Lyons say to his suit?
Land. Lord, sir, she never even condescended to look at him, though
when he was a boy he worked in her father's garden.
Beau. Are you sure of that?
Land. His mother says that Mademoiselle does not know him by sight.
Beau. [taking Glavis aside]. I have hit it,--I have it; here is our revenge!
Here is a prince for our haughty damsel. Do you take me?
Gla. Deuce take me if I do!
Beau. Blockhead!--it's as clear as a map. What if we could make this
elegant clown pass himself off as a foreign prince?-- lend him money,
clothes, equipage for the purpose?--make him propose to
Pauline?--marry Pauline? Would it not be delicious?
Gla. Ha, ha!--Excellent! But how shall we support the necessary
expenses of his highness?
Beau. Pshaw! Revenge is worth a much larger sacrifice than a few

hundred louis;- -as for details, my valet is the trustiest fellow, in the
world, and shall have the appointment of his highness's establishment.
Let's go to him at once, and see if he be really this Admirable Crichton.
Gla. With all my heart;--but the dinner?
Beau. Always thinking of dinner! Hark ye, landlord; how far is it to
young Melnotte's cottage? I should like to see such a prodigy.
Land. Turn down the lane,--then strike across the common,-- and you
will see his mother's cottage.
Beau. True, he lives with his mother.--[Aside.] We will not trust to an
old woman's discretion; better send for him hither. I'll just step in and
write a note. Come, Glavis.
Gla. Yes,--Beauseant, Glavis, and Co., manufacturers of princes,
wholesale and retail,--an uncommonly genteel line of business. But
why so grave?
Beau. You think only of the sport,--I of the revenge. [Exeunt within the
Inn.
SCENE III.
The interior of MELNOTTE'S cottage; flowers placed here and there; a
guitar on an oaken table, with a portfolio, etc.; a picture on an easel,
covered by