The Lady of Lyons | Page 7

a curtain; fencing foils crossed over the mantelpiece; an
attempt at refinement in site of the homeliness of the furniture, etc.; a
staircase to the right conducts to the upper story.
[Shout without]. "Long live Claude Melnotte!" "Long live the Prince!"
The Widow Mel. Hark!--there's my dear son;--carried off the prize, I'm
sure; and now he'll want to treat them all.
Claude Mel. [opening the door]. What! you will not come in, my
friends! Well, well,there's a trifle to make merry elsewhere. Good day
to you all,--good day!

[Shout]. "Hurrah! Long live Prince Claude!"
Enter CLAUDE MELNOTTE, with a rifle in his hand.
Mel. Give me joy, dear mother!--I've won the prize!--never missed one
shot! Is it not handsome, this gun?
Widow. Humph!--Well, what is it worth, Claude?
Mel. Worth! What is a riband worth to a soldier? Worth! everything!
Glory is priceless!
Widow. Leave glory to great folks. Ah! Claude, Claude, castles in the
air cost a vast deal to keep up! How is all this to end? What good does
it do thee to learn Latin, and sing songs, and play on the guitar, and
fence, and dance, and paint pictures? All very fine; but what does it
bring in?
Mel. Wealth! wealth, my mother! Wealth to the mind--wealth to the
heart-- high thoughts--bright dreams--the hope of fame--the ambition to
be worthier to love Pauline.
Widow. My poor son!--The young lady will never think of thee.
Mel. Do the stars think of us? Yet if the prisoner see them shine into his
dungeon, wouldst thou bid him turn away from their lustre? Even so
from this low cell, poverty, I lift my eyes to Pauline and forget my
chains.--[Goes to the picture and draws aside the curtain.]
See, this is her image--painted from memory. Oh, how the canvas
wrongs her!--[Takes up the brush and throws it aside.] I shall never be
a painter! I can paint no likeness but one, and that is above all art. I
would turn soldier--France needs soldiers! But to leave the air that
Pauline breathes! What is the hour?-- so late? I will tell thee a secret,
mother. Thou knowest that for the last six weeks I have sent every day
the rarest flowers to Pauline?--she wears them. I have seen them on her
breast. Ah, and then the whole universe seemed filled with odors! I
have now grown more bold--I have poured my worship into poetry-- I

have sent the verses to Pauline--I have signed them with my own name.
My messenger ought to--be back by this time. I bade him wait for the
answer.
Widow. And what answer do you expect, Claude?
Mel. That which the Queen of Navarre sent to the poor
troubadour:--"Let me see the Oracle that can tell nations I am
beautiful!" She will admit me. I shall hear her speak--I shall meet her
eyes-- I shall read upon her cheek the sweet thoughts that translate
themselves into blushes. Then--then, oh, then--she may forget that I am
the peasant's son!.
Widow. Nay, if she will but hear thee talk, Claude?
Mel. I foresee it all. She will tell me that desert is the true rank. She
will give me a badge--a flower--a glove! Oh rapture! I shall join the
armies of the republic--I shall rise-- I shall win a name that beauty will
not blush to hear. I shall return with the right to say to her--"See, how
love does not level the proud, but raise the--humble!" Oh, how my
heart swells within me!--Oh, what glorious prophets of the future are
youth and hope!
[Knock at the door.]
Widow. Come in.
Enter GASPAR.
Mel. Welcome, Gaspar, welcome. Where is the letter? Why do you turn
away, man? where is the letter? [GASPAR gives him one.] This! This
is mine, the one I intrusted to thee. Didst thou not leave it?
Gaspar. Yes, I left it.
Mel. My own verses returned to me. Nothing else!
Gaspar. Thou wilt be proud to hear how thy messenger was honored.
For thy sake, Melnotte, I have borne that which no Frenchman can bear

without disgrace.
Mel. Disgrace, Gaspar! Disgrace?
Gaspar. I gave thy letter to the porter, who passed it from lackey to
lackey till it reached the lady it was meant for.
Mel. It reached her, then; you are sure of that! It reached her,--well,
well!
Gaspar. It reached her, and was returned to me with blows. Dost hear,
Melnotte? with blows! Death! are we slaves still, that we are to be thus
dealt with, we peasants?
Mel. With blows? No, Gaspar, no; not blows!
Gaspar. I could show thee the marks if it were not so deep a shame to
bear them. The lackey who tossed thy letter into the mire swore that his
lady and her mother never were so insulted. What