IVELLIS- 
 
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 COMEDIES BY ALFRED 
 DE MUSSET: TRANS- 
 LATED AND EDITED, WITH 
 AN INTRODUCTION, BY S. L. 
 GWYNN. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 WALTER SCOTT, 24 WARWICK LANE. 
 NEW YORK : 3 EAST HTH STREET.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 FOR FULL LIST of the Volumes in 
 this series, see Catalogue at end of 
 book.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGK 
 
 BARBERINE .... i 
 
 FANTASIO 63 
 
 No TRIFLING WITH LOVE . . . .in 
 
 A DOOR MUST BE EITHER OPEN OR SlIUT . -175
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 ALFRED DE MUSSET was born December u, 1810, 
 and died May 2, 1857. It was as a poet that he 
 desired to be known, and on his poetry his fame 
 rests ; but of the nine volumes which comprise his 
 work, verse fills only two. His plays (of which 
 " Louison " alone, perhaps the least poetic of all, is 
 in metre) fill two more volumes ; the rest is made 
 up of short novels, tales, a few essays in criticism 
 of literature, acting, and painting ; and the famous 
 " Confession of a Child of the Age." 
 
 The history of his life is far from inspiriting. Heine, 
 whom of all writers De Musset most resembles by his 
 lyrical gift and his Ishmaelitish turn of mind, con- 
 densed it into the cruel sentence, " He is a young man 
 who has had a splendid past" But Heine summed 
 up the verdict of criticism with a kindlier epigram, 
 when he said of De Musset that " the Muse of
 
 viii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Comedy kissed him on the lips, but the Muse of 
 Tragedy on the heart." 
 
 The second son of a high official under the first 
 Empire, and descended from an old and good family, 
 Alfred de Musset was born into society's inner circle. 
 He grew into a pretty, fair-haired, nervous boy, 
 precocious in mind, and singularly infantine in 
 character, whose chief delight was to represent scenes 
 out of his " dear ' Arabian Nights.' " 
 
 At eighteen he became a member of Victor Hugo's 
 " Ce'nacle," the centre of Romanticism militant ; and 
 at nineteen published his first volume of poetry, 
 which created a scandal and a sensation easily to 
 be imagined. Society took up the brilliant young 
 author, and petted him as it petted Byron. For four 
 flaming years he was dandy and poet combined, 
 plunging into amorous adventures, gambling, drink- 
 ing, and composing in the intervals Byronic verse 
 with all Byron's facility and something of Byron's 
 disregard for form. Thus began that existence of 
 alternating extremes which De Musset never aban- 
 doned, and which his poetry so plainly reflects. 
 For the display and glitter of such a life he 
 had the love of an imaginative child. In his fits of 
 gloom he would discard his irreproachable costumes, 
 and wrap himself in a huge and ancient ulster, 
 resisting consolation with the protest, "Leave me,
 
 INTRODUCTION. ix 
 
 leave me in my rags and my despair." When he 
 sketches with tragic eloquence, at the opening of 
 his "Confession," a world worn out by the fever of 
 Napoleon's wars, it is in the modern blade coat that 
 he sees the " terrible symbol " of an age in mourning 
 for its lost illusions. 
 
 No doubt in all this there is much of the artist's 
 love of symbolism, with something of the poet's 
 power to see the great in the little, but much too 
 of the child ; and all accounts agree that it was 
 as a child, and a spoiled child, that his friends 
 were obliged to treat him. His monstrous egotism 
 is partly atoned for by its infantine unconsciousness, 
 and his whole character has the charm of a way- 
 ward child. But every spoiled child will cry for 
 the moon sooner or later, and it was De Musset's 
 fate among the rest. The moon he cried for was 
 an ideal love ; and the ideal with De Musset meant 
 simply the unattainable. It is a child's fancy, 
 changing from hour to hour (Fantasio describes it), 
 not the sum of a man's ordered hopes and aspira- 
 tions not a pole-star, but a will-of-the-wisp. The 
 web of his nature is idealism shot with cynicism a 
 cynicism as puerile as his idealism. It is as though, 
 failing to reach the moon, he should determine to 
 make a Cynthia of the first green cheese ; then detect- 
 ing his self-chosen imposture, impart to the world
 
 x INTRODUCTION. 
 
 in eloquent sorrow that all moons were no better 
 than a preparation of sour milk devoid of all light 
 save what their visionary admirers chose to import. 
 None the le*ss, it is worth noting that De Musset, not 
 contented, like a Congreve, with leading the fashion 
 and dragging vanquished ladies after his triumphal 
 car, sighed for a union of souls, and was inspired with 
 his first serious attachment by a woman who appealed 
 first to his intellect 
 
 His liaison with George Sand commenced in the 
 end of 1833 ; the journey to Italy took place in 1834, 
 and the final rupture in 1835. The story of this trip 
 and interrupted union has been shadowed forth by 
 her in " Elle et Lui," published after his death, and 
 by him in the " Confession " written soon after the 
 events. As regards De Musset's part in the affair, 
 both accounts agree in attributing to him the 
 perfect unreasonableness, the light-hearted egotism, 
 and the will to wound at any cost which he has 
 represented in Perdican. But the crash of his 
 ideal, elusory though it was, was a real sorrow 
 to De Musset, as a child's sorrow is real for the 
 child. He came back from Italy an altered man ; 
 none the less, he had profited by the connection. 
 George Sand's robust good sense swept away the 
 Byronic affectations of his adolescence ; and his 
 most famous work in poetry is directly inspired
 
 INTR OD UCTION. xi 
 
 by the memory of this disappointment. In 1835, 
 after two years had passed since the publication 
 of his last poem, De Musset one night shut 
 himself up in his room, lighted with all avail- 
 able candles, and decorated with ferns and flowers. 
 The night thus spent produced the famous " Night 
 of May," where the Muse appears to recall the poet 
 to his allegiance. She bids him, in words too famous 
 to be translated, to find an immortality in the ex- 
 pression of his sorrow, and feed the world on his 
 own heart's blood. " The wound is closed," said the 
 poet to his brother ; " it will never reopen again save 
 poetically" a prediction which he fulfilled (always 
 to accompaniment of candelabra) in the three other 
 " Nights " (August, December, and October), and the 
 no less brilliant poem entitled "Un Souvenir." 
 
 Five years of great literary activity followed. In 
 1830 "A Venetian Night," the first of the comedies, 
 had been played and roundly hissed. Discouraged 
 by this failure, De Musset did not again brave the 
 stage, till in 1 847 " A Caprice " was played with great 
 success. Before the journey to Italy " Fantasio " 
 was published, like almost all its author's work, in 
 the Revue des deux Mondes, then in its infancy. 
 " On ne badine pas avec 1'amour " was the first 
 thing written on his return, and we can trace plainly 
 in Camille some traits of George Sand's masculine
 
 xii IN TR OD UCT2ON. 
 
 nature. It is worth noting that whereas in "Fantasio" 
 and " A Venetian Night" the woman is the slighter 
 character, in almost all the plays of later date it 
 is the man who is capricious and passionate, while 
 reason and fortitude take up their abode with the 
 other sex. 
 
 After 1840, that is to say after the poet had com- 
 pleted his thirtieth year, begins the passage from 
 dissipation to debauchery. Up to 1850 his work, 
 though it shows perhaps increased mastery of style, 
 is slighter in character, and the stream runs scantily 
 and intermittently. The little proverb, " II faut 
 qu'une porte soit ouverte ou ferme," is a delightful 
 production of this period ; while " Carmosine," written 
 in 1850, is perhaps his most delicate and fanciful 
 essay in sentimental comedy. 
 
 In society he was always popular, and never lacked 
 for devoted friends; but after 1850, with declining 
 health he lived on, in the intervals of drunkenness, an 
 amiable and brilliant talker, and the wreck of a genius. 
 
 He had lived through two revolutions in his 
 country, but kept himself always apart from political 
 action an inactivity which is emphasised by the 
 prominent parts played by Hugo and Lamartine. 
 His partial biographer can cite of him no laudable 
 traits except acts of an unreflecting generosity, and a 
 more praiseworthy sympathy with distress ; and a
 
 1NTR OD UCTION, xiii 
 
 literary conscience that saved his Pegasus from job- 
 work. 
 
 Yet the austerity of English opinion (so little 
 revered abroad) ought not to pronounce too hasty a 
 judgment on this incarnation of all that is displeasing 
 in the French character to the average Briton. The 
 picture of a man's character is the history of his 
 actions, unless he be a thinker, when it is the history 
 of his mind ; or a poet, and it is the history of his 
 feelings. De Musset's actions show him as amiable, 
 generous, sympathetic, but a spoilt child, who never 
 learnt self-denial or self-control, fickle, unreliable, 
 even unmanly. Take him as a thinker, and you find 
 that his puerility of ideas is only thrown into relief by 
 the magnificent expression given to sophistical reason- 
 ings or vulgar morality; but study the man behind 
 his works, and you can scarcely fail to prefer the De 
 Musset of 1850 to the De Musset of 1835. 
 
 If we do not know him it is not for want of portraits. 
 He is Fantasio avowedly ; and Fantasio's wildest 
 pranks were hardly more original than their author's. 
 It is the child still playing stories out of the " Arabian 
 Nights" with grown men and women for puppets. 
 When he takes himself seriously he is Perdican ; and 
 Rosemberg is a humorous sketch of his first youth. 
 But in all these earlier plays he loves to represent one 
 side of his character at a time, and even, as in the
 
 xiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 scene between Spark and Fantasio, to contrast in two 
 personages the curious oppositions of which he was 
 conscious in his own nature. This is done on a larger 
 scale in " Les Caprices de Marianne," one of his 
 cleverest pieces, where he is by turns the scoffing 
 Bohemian and the sighing hero. In his " Idyll " he 
 is Albert celebrating pure wedded love ; he is 
 Rodolphe singing the pleasures of change. In the 
 later plays we find his matured character not shown 
 in streaks, but in its dominant aspect The 'Count 
 has all his mannerisms, if we may trust Paul de Musset, 
 but he represents also, like the Troubadour Minuccio 
 in "Carmosine," the poet's ideal portrait of himself, 
 and when the softening of age had added mellowness 
 and worth to his nature. 1 
 
 Throughout all, however, he is the same whether 
 serious or in jest, drunk or sober, sighing or scoffing, 
 always eloquent, witty, and impassioned by turns ; 
 always, and without a moment's exception, always in 
 love. 
 
 It was De Musset who christened himself the 
 " Child of the Age " ; yet in some respects he is 
 curiously little influenced by his surroundings. In 
 politics he is a Liberal, but by sympathy an 
 
 1 In playing these and similar parts in De Musset's plays, Delaunay, 
 the actor, it is said, used to make up into a startling likeness of the 
 author.
 
 INTR OD UCTION. xv 
 
 aristocrat. The religious speculations of his day 
 find an echo in the opening of " Rolla," which 
 expresses the blankness of a world from which Christ 
 had been taken ; but I do not think that theological 
 sorrows sat heavy on De Musset's soul. Yet in his 
 pre-occupation with such a subject he is no doubt a 
 child of the age ; he takes the thoughts and feelings 
 that were in the air, just as did his own Dupont or 
 Durand. But his religious and moral speculations 
 are those of the average Parisian, and only valuable 
 as curiosities. On the contrary, as a poet, and as 
 a writer, he is, in a sense, as nearly original as it is 
 possible to be. 
 
 He was born into the midst of a literary revolution. 
 The Romantic movement had done two great things 
 for literature. It had regenerated its spirit ; it had 
 remoulded its form. It had liberated the vocabulary; 
 it had restored the imagination to its rights. De 
 Musset, like the rest, profited by the freedom others 
 had gained ; but while he shakes himself clear from 
 the grip of a purism which weeded the vocabu- 
 lary, as a gardener weeds out old-fashioned plants, 
 resisting at the same time every attempt to enrich 
 the tongue with new terms, he does not, like 
 Gautier or Hugo, load his pages with unfamiliar 
 words or turns of phrase gleaned out of ancient 
 writers.
 
 xvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Again, while the classical models were as lax with 
 regard to rhyme as they were unbending over the 
 laws of metre, De Vigny and the rest of the Romantics 
 sought to re-establish the old variety of metrical 
 forms along with the disused richness of rhyme. 
 De Musset in his first poems follows their example, 
 but after a short period of discipleship declared 
 revolt Yet though he does not share their idolatry 
 of Ronsard and his " Pleiade," in one or two of his 
 songs (notably Fortunio's in the " Chandelier," Bar- 
 berine's, and the lovely stanzas written in Italy, 
 "A Saint Blaize, a la Zuecca") he has a bird-like 
 simplicity and ease that bring him nearer to the 
 early lyrists of France or England than any other 
 poet of his nation has approached. NJD other French 
 poet of modern times has the note of song so pure 
 and fresh. 
 
 It is by the spirit rather than by the form of his 
 works that De Musset belongs to the Romantic 
 school. The canons of poetry established by the 
 authors of the " Grand Siecle," and formulated by 
 Boileau, made lyrical verse impossible save in the 
 lightest kinds. The proof is, that from Corneille to 
 Andre* Chnier (who perished in the Terror) not 
 a single lyric worth remembering was composed in 
 French. 
 
 Propriety ("the least of all laws and the best
 
 INTR OD UCTION. xvii 
 
 obeyed ") determined that expressions of personal 
 feeling were in bad taste, whether in verse or prose, in 
 a drawing-room or in a library. Lamartine, first in 
 verse as Rousseau in prose, set convention at defiance, 
 and wrote of the subjects natural to lyrical poetry, 
 which is in its essence the expression of strong feel- 
 ing, just as the ballad or the epic is the picture of 
 action. Henceforward there was a new poetry in 
 ^ French, which demanded approval, not of the reason 
 but of the feelings. What is expected of the poet is 
 no longer skill in conforming to a set of rules which 
 claimed the sanction of Horace and Aristotle, as the 
 law of the Pharisees professed to represent the canon 
 of Moses, but temperament, delicacy, and depth of 
 feeling. The poet's art consists in moving, by the 
 quality or power of his emotion, kindred feeling in us. 
 In De Musset's Stanzas to the memory of Malibran, 
 which rank with his finest work, this view of art is set 
 forth with a rare eloquence. He is himself, and he 
 knows it, a poet by temperament, and in virtue of his 
 temperament ; joining to an artist's eye for physical 
 beauty (he drew admirably) a susceptibility almost 
 morbid to all manner of impressions, so that with 
 him the commonest pleasures and pains assume half 
 the intensity of passion. It has been said he 
 imitated Lamartine. True, he holds in common with 
 his predecessor the intense personal character of his 
 
 853
 
 xviii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 work ; but it is so personal as to refute the mere idea 
 of imitation. 
 
 He impresses us indeed rather by the amount than 
 by the quality of his feeling. We give him our 
 sympathy, as it were, in spite of ourselves ; he 
 fascinates rather than attracts us. It is the vice of 
 his method that, while he makes us feel the force of 
 his grief, he does not convince us of the worthiness of 
 its occasion. He has one theme, and only one, 
 though he presents it in all imaginable phases and 
 that theme is Love. I could not understand, he says 
 in his " Confession," that a man could have any other 
 business than to love. It was, he held, the natural 
 state of man to be in love ; but as to what or whom 
 he loves, that is an affair independent of his will. It 
 is like a malady that seizes you and leaves you 
 by no choice of your own. Love carries only one 
 obligation sincerity. It is disloyalty to feign love 
 where love has ceased to exist ; to cease loving 
 would be to shut the heart against its most generous 
 emotion ; but to change from one love to another is 
 as pardonable as it is natural. That is the creed of 
 his "Confession"; and it is in a relation of this nature 
 that he seeks the ideal. 
 
 The truest genius on this view is the power to love 
 greatly ; the true lover is born to his vocation, like 
 a poet or a cook. But De Musset chose to shut his
 
 1NTR OD UCTION. xix 
 
 eyes to the fact that, if genius is inborn, yet it needs 
 effort to employ it ; and effort implies will. Genius, 
 like love, is an imperious master ; but to him love 
 meant self-abandonment, not self-command. This is 
 the heaviest count against De Musset; he corrupted 
 literature with vicious sentiment. He is argumenta- 
 tive, and preaches an inverted Rochefoucauld : vice is 
 only virtue in disguise ; the heresy of sentimentalism. 
 It would be breaking a butterfly on the wheel to 
 reason with his " logic of the heart." There is no 
 possible conclusion to be drawn from his tirades, 
 save that ginger is hot in the mouth. Yet one thing 
 remains. You may deny his premises, you may 
 demur at his conclusions, but you cannot altogether 
 shut your ears against his eloquence. George Sand 
 in her book again and again testifies to this terrible 
 persuasiveness, and he was conscious of it himself; 
 since, though Perdican's rhapsodies break like a wave 
 on Camille's cold logic, yet in defiance of everything 
 it is the man who persuades. 
 
 His eloquence, his passion, and his picturesqueness 
 are of themselves enough to ensure his fame; and it 
 is on these, for instance, that M. Taine grounds his 
 famous panegyric. It is perhaps rather as a humorist 
 that he would appeal most to the average Englishman. 
 Gaiety is what is most natural to De Musset, and it is 
 when he writes gaily that his work is freest from all
 
 xx 1NTR OD UCTION. 
 
 trace of affectation. Unsurpassed in the lighter forms 
 of verse, he has left in his comedies a fantastic world 
 peopled with delightful inhabitants. His longest 
 play, " Lorenzaccio," in spite of fine scenes, is an 
 incoherent mass of lurid horrors ; but throughout 
 most of the comedies gaiety is predominant a 
 gaiety that is tempered with charming pathos, as in 
 " Barberine," and that passes into real tragedy in 
 " On ne badine pas avec 1'amour." He has wit and 
 to spare ; but he has, rarest of all qualities in France, 
 a humour really Shaksperian like the humour of 
 " As you like it," or " The Taming of a Shrew." 
 
 There is something of Shakspeare's prodigality 
 too in these comedies ; the same swallow-like move- 
 ment of the fancy, the same ease of flight ; but 
 there is none of Shakspeare's reserve. Sometimes 
 De Musset seems as if trying to shake off the fetters 
 of language, and make his phrase keep pace with the 
 turns and dartings of actual thought ; to make the 
 words not represent but coincide with the play of the 
 mind. How surprising is the skill that develops all 
 Fantasio's wayward vagaries with insensible transi- 
 tion from one to the other while relating them 
 ingeniously to the plot ! And what delicate tact 
 again that, amid all this wild buffoonery of the 
 intellect, keeps the stage clear of any suspicion of 
 horseplay !
 
 INTRODUCTION. xxi 
 
 As for Barberine, she is certainly a cousin of 
 Portia's. You might read her sermon to Rosemberg 
 after Portia's speech before the Duke, and never think 
 the worse of it. Rosemberg's cynicism and his aunt 
 Beatrix are delightful. One might say of the author 
 as Barberine says of him, " There is not much harm 
 in this boy." 
 
 The little comedy of the Count and the Marquise 
 holds the stage best of all. Nothing in De Musset, 
 who makes his proverbs as he goes along, is fuller of 
 the phrases that stick like burs. One remembers, as 
 one reads it, the author's reply to Scribe when Scribe 
 asked, "How do you manage it? I write with no 
 idea but to amuse the people, and yet I cannot make 
 them laugh as you do." " Ah," said De Musset, " but 
 I write to amuse myself." It would be impossible 
 better to define the artistic spirit 
 
 Except in the farcical pieces, such as " II ne faut 
 jurer de rien," and " On ne saurait penser a tout," 
 these comedies are poetry throughout, just as " Much 
 ado about Nothing " is poetry. But they are written 
 in a style peculiar to them ; a sort of balanced prose 
 which combines the utmost finish of workmanship 
 with an appearance of absolute spontaneity. " No- 
 body but a poet," said Sainte Beuve, "could have 
 written that dainty prose," the despair of a translator. 
 
 Of his other prose works I have not space to treat.
 
 xxii INTR OD UCTION. 
 
 The " Confession " is interesting, though overcharged 
 in style. Occasionally the sublime passes perilously 
 near the side of the ridiculous. Of his tales, his 
 favourite and the best was the story of Titian's son, 
 who, after producing one masterpiece, the portrait 
 of his mistress, abandoned the laborious pursuit of 
 excellence to devote himself wholly to his passion. 
 In depicting this treason to the cause of art, De 
 Musset, then in the plenitude of his powers, not 
 obscurely shadowed forth the inglorious termination 
 of his own magnificent career. 
 
 S. L. GWYNN.
 
 DE MUSSET'S COMEDIES.
 
 BARBERINE. 
 
 COMEDY IN THREE ACTS. 
 08350
 
 Dramatis Persona. 
 
 BEATRIX OF ARAGON (Queen of Himgary}. 
 
 COUNT ULRIC (a Bohemian nobleman}. 
 
 ASTOLPHE DE RosEMBERG (a youn% Hungarian baron}. 
 
 CHEVALIER ULADISLAS (chevalier of fortune}. 
 
 POLACCO (a pedlar}. 
 
 BARBERINE (wife to Ulric}. 
 
 KALEKAIRI (a young Turkish attendant}. 
 
 Courtiers, etc. 
 
 The Scene is laid in Hungary,
 
 BARBERINE. 
 
 A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS. 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 SCENE I. Rosemberg. The Host. 
 
 (A road in front of a hostelry. In the background a Gothic 
 castle, among the mountains?) 
 
 Ros. What ! no lodging for me ! no stable for my 
 horses ! a barn ! a miserable barn ! 
 
 Host. I am extremely sorry, sir. 
 
 Ros. Who are you speaking to, pray ? 
 
 Host. Pardon me, my gay young lord. If it only lay 
 with my inclination, the whole of my poor house should be 
 heartily at your service. But you are not unaware that 
 this hostelry is on the road to Albe Royale, the august 
 abode of our kings, where from time immemorial they have 
 been crowned and buried. 
 
 Ros. I know that well, since I am bound thither. 
 
 Host. Gracious heavens ! you are for the wars ? 
 
 Ros. Address your questions to my grooms, and see to
 
 4 BARBERINE. [Acx I. 
 
 giving me the best room in your rascally hovel, and that 
 without more ado. 
 
 Host. Oh ! my lord, that is impossible. On the first floor 
 there are four Moravian barons, on the second a lady from 
 Transylvania, and on the third, in a little room, a Bohemian 
 count, my lord, with his wife, a great beauty. 
 
 Ros. Turn them out. 
 
 Host. Ah ! my dear lord, you would not wish to be the 
 cause of a poor man's ruin ? Since we have been at war 
 with the Turks, if you only knew the numbers of people 
 that pass through here ! 
 
 Ros. Well, what do these folk matter to me? Tell 
 them I am called Astolphe de Rosemberg. 
 
 Host. That may very likely be so, my lord, but that is 
 no reason 
 
 Ros. You would play at impertinence, I presume. If 
 once I raise my whip 
 
 Host. It is not the action of a man of quality to maltreat 
 decent folk. 
 
 Ros. (threatening him). Ah ! you would chop logic ? I 
 will teach you 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 (The same. Several valets run up. The Chevalier Uladislas 
 comes out of the inn.) 
 
 Chev. (on the doorstep). What is this, gentlemen ? Why, 
 what is the matter ? 
 
 Host. I take you to witness, Sir Knight. This young 
 lord is picking a quarrel with me because my hostelry is full
 
 ACT I.] BARBER2NE. 5 
 
 Ros. I pick a quarrel with you, boor ! Quarrel with a 
 fellow of your sort ? 
 
 Host. A fellow, sir, of whatever sort he be, has always a 
 sort of back, and if any one comes and administers a sort of 
 cut with a stick to him 
 
 Chev. (advancing to the Host). Never vex yourself; don't 
 be frightened; I will set things to rights. (To Rosemberg.') 
 My lord, I give you greeting. You are going to the court 
 of Hungary? 
 
 (Host and valets retire.) 
 
 Ros. Yes, Chevalier; it is my first appearance, and I 
 am in haste to get there. 
 
 Chev. And you complain, as I gather, of finding the 
 road blocked ? / 
 
 Ros. Certainly that does not please me. 
 
 Chev. It is true that this little affair with the unbelievers, 
 which we have on hand, is drawing a monstrous great wave of 
 people to the court. There are few men of spirit who don't 
 want to have a hand in it, and I myself have taken a part. 
 This is what renders us difficult of approach. 
 
 Ros. Oh, as for that, indeed ! I did not mean to stay 
 long in this hotel. It was the rogue's tone that irritated 
 me. 
 
 Chev. If that be so, Lord 
 
 Ros. Rosemberg. 
 
 Chev. Lord Rosemberg, I am called the Chevalier 
 Uladislas. It is not for me to sound my own praises, but 
 the least acquaintance with what is passing in our armies 
 must make my name familiar to you. Yours is not strange
 
 6 BARBERINE. [ACT I. 
 
 to me. I have met Rosembergs at Baden. (Roumberg 
 bows.) So if you are only passing through here 
 
 Ros. Yes. Only stopping for breakfast and to rest my 
 horses. 
 
 Chev. I was at table, and eating an excellent fish from 
 Lake Balaton, when the sound of your voice reached my 
 ears. If you are not afraid of the neighbourhood of my 
 men-at-arms, and an old soldier's company, I bid you 
 heartily welcome to a place at our meal. 
 
 Ros. I gladly accept your offer and count myself highly 
 honoured. 
 
 Chev. Pray step in then, I beg of you. A good dish 
 done to a turn is like a pretty woman ; it won't wait. 
 
 Ros. I know that very well. Plague on it, talking of 
 pretty women (Enter Ulric and Barberine by another 
 door of the inn) it seems to me that there is one 
 
 Chev. You have not bad taste, young man. 
 
 Ros. Without being blind Do you know her ? 
 
 Chev. Do I know her ? Assuredly. She is the wife of 
 a Bohemian nobleman. Come along and you shall hear all 
 about it (They go into the house,} 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Ulric. Barberine, leaning on his arm. 
 
 Barb. So I must leave you here. 
 Ulric. For a short while. I will soon come back. 
 Barb. So I must let you go, and return to that old 
 chateau, where it is so lonely waiting for you.
 
 ACT L] BARBERINE. 7 
 
 Ulric. I am going to see your uncle, dear. Why so 
 sad to-day ? 
 
 Barb. It is you should answer that. You will be back 
 soon, you say. If that is so, I am not sad. But are you 
 not sad yourself? 
 
 Ulric. When the sky is heavy like this, with rain and 
 fog, I never know what to do with myself. 
 
 Barb. My dear lord, I beg a favour of you. 
 
 Ulric. What a winter is preparing for us ! What roads, 
 what weather ! Nature huddles herself together, shivering 
 as if all living things were going to die. 
 
 Barb. I entreat you, in the first place, to listen to me, 
 and in the second place, to grant me a favour. 
 
 Ulric. What would you have, my life? Forgive me. 
 I don't know what is the matter with me to-day. 
 
 Barb. Nor I either : I don't know what is the matter 
 with you ; and the favour you shall - do me, Ulric, is to tell 
 your wife what it is. 
 
 Ulric. Why, good heavens ! I have nothing to tell no 
 secret. 
 
 Barb. I am not a Portia : I will not give myself so 
 much as a pin prick to prove that I am courageous. But 
 you are not a Brutus either, and you have no desire to kill 
 our good king, Mathias Corvin. Listen, we will not have any 
 big words or protestations ; I shall not need to fall on my 
 knees. You have a grief. Come close to me ; here is my 
 hand ; it is the right road to my heart, and your heart will 
 come thither if I call it. 
 
 Wric. As simple as has been your question, so shall my 
 
 254
 
 8 BARBERINE. [Acx I. 
 
 answer be. Your father was not rich ; mine was, but he 
 dissipated his property. Here is the pair of us, married 
 very young; and we are the owners of great titles, and 
 very little else. I vex myself because I have not the 
 means to make you rich and happy, as God made you 
 kind and fair. Our income is so petty; and yet I will 
 not increase it by letting our tenants suffer. They shall 
 never pay in my lifetime more than they paid to my 
 father. I think of taking service under the king and going 
 to court. 
 
 Barb. And indeed it is a good plan. The king 
 never failed to receive a nobleman of merit with 
 favour; and a man like you has never long to wait for 
 fortune. 
 
 Ulric. That is true ; but if I go I must leave you here ; 
 for, in order to have this house, where we are so hard put to 
 it to live, one must be sure of the means to live elsewhere, 
 and I cannot make up my mind to leave you alone. 
 Barb. Why ? 
 
 Ulric. You ask me why, and yet what are you doing 
 now ? Have you not just dragged from me a secret that I 
 had resolved to keep hidden ; and what did you need for 
 that ? A smile. 
 
 Barb. You are jealous ! 
 
 Ulric. No, love, but you are fair ! What will you do if 
 I go away ? Will not all the nobles of the country round 
 come prowling along the roads? And as for me, chasing 
 a shadow far, so far away, shall I not lose my sleep ? Ah, 
 Barberine, out of sight out of mind.
 
 ACT I.] BARBERINE. 9 
 
 Barb. Listen. God is my witness that I would content 
 myself all my life with the old chateau and the little land 
 we have, if it were your pleasure to live there with me. 
 I rise, I go to the kitchen, to the poultry-yard, I get your 
 dinner ready, I go with you to church, I read a page to 
 you, I sew a thread or two, and so fall asleep contented 
 on your heart. 
 
 Vlric. Angel that you are. 
 
 Barb. I am angel, but an angel woman. That is to 
 say, if I had a pair of horses we would drive to church 
 behind them. I should not be sorry if my cap had gold 
 trimming, if my skirts were longer, and if that made the 
 neighbours furious. I assure you that nothing makes us 
 women so buoyant as a dozen ells of velvet trailing at 
 our heels. 
 
 Ulric. Well then ? 
 
 Barb. Well then ? King Mathias cannot fail to receive 
 you well, nor you to make your fortune at his court. I 
 advise you to go there. If I cannot follow you well ! 
 as I gave you my hand a moment ago to ask you for the 
 secret of your heart, so, Ulric, again I give it you, and 
 I swear that I will be faithful to you. 
 
 Ulric. Here is mine. 
 
 Barb. It is only one who loves that can know how 
 much he is loved. Bid them saddle your horse. Go by 
 yourself, and as often as you doubt your wife, think that 
 your wife is sitting at your door, that she is watching the 
 road, and is not doubting you. Come, my friend Ludwig 
 is waiting for us.
 
 io BARBER1NE. [Acx I. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 The Chevalier. Rosemberg. 
 
 Ros. I know nothing pleasanter after a good breakfast 
 than witty company in the open air and a free discussion 
 on women in the proper tone. 
 
 Chev. You have an introduction to the Queen? 
 
 Ros. Yes, I hope for a good reception. 
 (They sit down.} 
 
 Chev. Do not doubt of success and you will have it. 
 During the last war we waged against the Turks under 
 the Voivode of Transylvania, one evening, in a deep forest, 
 I met a girl who had lost her way. 
 
 Ros. What was the name of the forest ? 
 
 Chev. It was a certain forest on the banks of the 
 Caspian Sea. 
 
 Ros. I don't know it, even in books. 
 
 Chev. This poor girl was attacked by three brigands, cased 
 in steel from head to foot, and mounted on excellent horses. 
 
 Ros. How your words interest me ! I am all ears. 
 
 Chev. I sprang to the ground, and drawing my sword, 
 I ordered them to retire. Excuse me the recital of my 
 own praises ; you will understand I was forced to kill 
 them all three. After one of the bloodiest combats 
 
 Ros. Did you receive any wounds ? 
 
 Chev. One of them merely missed, by a hair's-breadth, 
 impaling me with his lance ; but having avoided it, I 
 discharged on his head so violent a blow that he fell stark
 
 ACT I.] BARBERINE. n 
 
 dead. Immediately approaching the girl, I recognised in 
 her a princess, whose name it is impossible for me to reveal. 
 
 Ros. I understand your reasons, and will take care not 
 to press you for it. Discretion is a law for every man 
 who knows the world. 
 
 Chev. The favours with which she distinguished me 
 must remain equally secret. I brought her home and 
 she granted me an assignation for the next day; but the 
 king, her father, having promised her in marriage to the 
 Bashaw of Caramania, it was extremely difficult for us to 
 meet in secret. Independently of sixty eunuchs, who 
 watched over her day and night, she had been entrusted 
 since her infancy to a giant named Moloch. 
 
 Ros. Waiter, bring me a glass of Tokay. 
 
 Chev. You can imagine what the enterprise was ! To 
 penetrate into an unapproachable castle built on a wave- 
 lashed rock and surrounded by such a guard ! Here, my 
 Lord Rosemberg, was the scheme I conceived. Lend me 
 your attention, I beg. 
 
 Ros. Holy Virgin ! my brain is all on fire. 
 
 Chev. I took a boat and gained the open sea. Then, 
 having precipitated myself into the waves, by means of 
 a certain talisman given me by a Bohemian sorcerer who 
 is one of my friends, I was cast up on the shore in all 
 respects like a drowned man. It was at the hour when 
 the giant Moloch was going his rounds on the ramparts ; 
 he found me stretched out upon the sand and carried me 
 into his bed. 
 
 Ros. I guess already ; it is capital.
 
 12 BARBERINE. [ACT I. 
 
 Chev. They lavished attendance upon me. As for me, 
 I was only waiting, with my eyes half-closed, for the 
 moment when I should find myself alone with the giant. 
 Immediately throwing myself upon him, I seized him by 
 the right leg and hurled him into the sea. 
 
 Ros. I shiver ; my heart throbs. 
 
 Chev. I admit I ran some risk, for at the noise of his 
 fall the sixty eunuchs ran up, sabre in hand ; but I had 
 had the time to throw myself back on the bed and appeared 
 to be sound asleep. Far from conceiving any suspicion, 
 they left me in the room with one of the princess's women 
 to watch by me. Then drawing from my breast a phial 
 and a poniard, I commanded this woman to follow me, 
 in the interval while all the eunuchs were at supper. 
 "Take this potion," said I to her, "and mix it cunningly 
 in their wine, or I poniard you on the spot" She obeyed 
 me without venturing to utter a word, and soon, the 
 draught's action having sent the eunuchs to sleep, I was 
 left master of the castle. I went straight to the women's 
 apartments. 
 
 I found them undressed to go to bed ; but not wishing 
 to do them any harm, I contented myself with shutting 
 them up in their rooms and taking charge of the keys, 
 which were to the number of six score. Then all difficulties 
 being removed, I went to the princess's room. Scarcely 
 had I reached the threshold, when I bent one knee to the 
 ground. " Queen of my heart," said I to her in a tone of 
 the profoundest respect. But excuse me, Lord Rosemberg, 
 I am forced to stop ; modesty makes it imperative.
 
 ACT I.] BARBERINE. 13 
 
 Ros. No ! I see ; nothing can resist you. Ah ! how I 
 long to be at court ! But where am I to find these unknown 
 potions, these mysterious talismans, Sir Chevalier ? 
 
 Chev. That is difficult ; nevertheless I will tell you a 
 thing in confidence. Look, if you have money it is the 
 best talisman to be found. 
 
 Ros. Thank heaven ! I don't lack for that My father 
 is the richest nobleman of the country-side. The eve of 
 my departure he gave me a good round sum, and my aunt 
 Beatrix (she was crying) also slipped into my hand a fine 
 purse that she had worked. My horses are in good condi- 
 tion and well-fed, my lackeys well-dressed, and I am not a 
 bad figure myself. 
 
 Chev. Capital ; it is all that is needed. 
 
 Ros. The worst of it is that I know nothing. No, I 
 can learn nothing by heart. My hand shakes at every turn 
 when I am talking to women. 
 
 Chev. Come, empty your glass. To succeed in the 
 world, Lord Rosemberg, remember well these three maxims : 
 See is Know ; Will is Can ; and Dare is Have. 
 
 Ros. I must have that in writing. The words seem to 
 me bold and sonorous. Still, I admit I don't quite under- 
 stand them. 
 
 Chev. If you want, first of all, to please the women, and 
 that is the first thing to be done if you would do anything, 
 observe the profoundest respect towards them. Speak of 
 them all (without exception) as neither more nor less than 
 divinities. You may, it is true, if so it please you, say 
 openly to other men that you do not care a fig for these
 
 i 4 BARBER1NE. [Acx I. 
 
 same women; but only do so in a general manner, and 
 without ever slandering one more than the rest 
 
 When you are seated near a pale blonde (on the end of a 
 sofa), and you see her loll languidly on the cushions, keep 
 at a distance, play with the end of her scarf, and tell her 
 that you have a profound grief. Beside a brunette, if she 
 is lively and merry, try to look like a man of resolution, 
 whisper to her in her ear, and if the tip of your moustache 
 comes near enough to brush her cheek, that is no great 
 harm. But to every woman, as a universal rule, say that 
 she has a pearl enshrined in her heart, and that all ills are 
 nothing, if she lets you press her finger tips. All your 
 ways while about her should be modelled on the polite 
 lackeys, who are covered with gorgeous liveries ; in one 
 word, always distinguish scrupulously these two parts of 
 life : the form and the substance that is the great thing. 
 Thus you will fulfil the first maxim : Seeing is knowing ; 
 and you will pass for a man of experience. 
 
 Ros. Go on, I beg of you. I feel a new man, and I 
 bless inwardly the chance that brought me acquainted with 
 you at this inn. 
 
 Chev. Once you have proved to the women that, with 
 the greatest politeness and an infinite deal of respect, you 
 laugh at them in your sleeve, attack the men. I don't 
 mean by that, that you should make a set at them. On the 
 contrary, never seem to concern yourself either with their 
 sayings or doings. Always be polite, but with an air of 
 indifference. " Make yourself a rarity, and you will be 
 loved," is a Turkish proverb. By this means you will gain
 
 ACT I.] BARBER2NE, 15 
 
 a great advantage. Wherever you go, your silence and 
 your listless way will cause people to stare at you when you 
 pass. See that your dress and your surroundings proclaim 
 an extravagant luxury. Keep folks' eyes always on you. 
 Never let it enter your mind to show any doubt of yourself, 
 for then immediately everybody doubts too. Should you 
 by chance have propounded the merest nonsense in the 
 world, stick to it in the teeth of the very devil ; let yourself 
 be knocked on the head sooner than give in. 
 
 Ros. Knocked on the head ? 
 
 Chev. Yes, without a doubt. In short, behave exactly 
 as if the sun and the stars were your private property, and 
 the fairy Morgana had held you at the baptismal font. In 
 this way you will fulfil the second maxim : Will is Can ; and 
 you will pass for a person to be feared. 
 
 Ros. What a gay life awaits me at court, and what a fine 
 thing it is to be a great lord. 
 
 Chev. Once approved by the women and admired by 
 the men, keep a watch on yourself, Lord Rosemberg. If 
 you raise your hand, let your first sword-stroke deal death, 
 as your first glance should inspire love. Life is a terrible 
 pantomime, and gesture has nothing to do with thought or 
 speech. If speech has made you beloved, if thought has 
 made you feared, let the gesture know nothing of it. Be 
 yourself then. Strike like the thunderbolt. Let the world 
 disappear from your eyes; let the spark of life that you 
 received of God isolate itself, and become itself a God : let 
 your will be the eye of the lynx, the nose of the weasel, the 
 warrior's arrow. Forget while you act that there are on earth
 
 1 6 BARBERINE. [ACT I 
 
 other creatures than you and he with whom you have 
 to do. 
 
 So having gracefully elbowed through the crowd that 
 surrounds you, when you have reached the goal and earned 
 success, you can enter the lists again with the same ease 
 and promise yourself fresh successes. It is then that 
 you will reap the fruits of the third maxim : Dare is Have ; 
 and that you will be really experienced, formidable, and 
 powerful. 
 
 Ros, Ah ! good heavens ! If I had known that sooner! 
 You make me think of a certain evening when I was sitting 
 with my aunt Beatrix in the rabbit warren. I felt just what 
 you say. It seemed to me that the world was disappearing, 
 and that we were left alone under the sky. So I begged 
 her to go indoors. It was as dark as pitch. 
 
 Chev. You seem to me still very young, and you are 
 early in the quest for fortune. 
 
 Ros. It is none too early when one's destiny is war. 
 I never saw a Turk in my life ; I fancy they must be like 
 wild beasts. 
 
 Chev. I am sorry that important business prevents my 
 going to court. I should have been curious to see your 
 first appearance there. Meanwhile, if so it please you, I 
 can make you a valuable present that will singularly assist 
 you. 
 
 (Drawing a lit fie book from his pocket.) 
 
 Ros. That little book ? Why, what is it ? 
 
 Chev. It is a marvellous work a collection, concise and 
 yet detailed, of all the stories of love, stratagems, combats,
 
 ACT I.] BARBERINE. if 
 
 and expedients suitable to form a young man and advance 
 him in ladies' graces. 
 
 Ros. And the name of this precious book ? 
 
 Chev. " Sentiments' Safeguard." It is a priceless treasure, 
 and among the tales comprised therein you will find a 
 good number of which I am the hero. Yet I must admit 
 to you that I am not its owner ; it belongs to one of my 
 friends, and I could not part with it unless you gave me 
 ten sequins. 
 
 Ros. Ten sequins is nothing to stick at (Giving them.} 
 Especially after the excellent breakfast to which you so 
 gallantly invited me. 
 
 Chev, Nonsense ! a fish, merely a fish. 
 
 Ros. But it was delicious. Can you believe I shall 
 forget this meeting? It was heaven that brought me on 
 this road. So uncomfortable an inn ! damp sheets, and 
 no curtains ! I should not have stayed an hour, had not I 
 fallen in with you. 
 
 Chev. What would you have ? One must learn to put 
 up with anything. 
 
 Ros. Oh, certainly. My aunt Beatrix would be very 
 uneasy if she knew me to be in a bad inn. But we men 
 pay no attention to these miserable details. Heaven guard 
 you, dear chevalier. My horses are ready, and I leave you. 
 
 Chev, Farewell, till we meet again; don't forget me. 
 If you should have dealings with the Voivode, he is a 
 near relative of mine, and I will remember you. 
 
 Ros. Count me for your very humble servant. 
 (Exeunt.)
 
 i8 
 
 BARBER1NE. 
 
 [Acr II. 
 
 ACT THE SECOND. 
 
 SCENE I. The Queen. Ulric. Several Coiir tiers. 
 (7 he court. A garden?) 
 
 The Queen. Welcome, Count Ulric. The king, our 
 spouse, is at this moment detained far from us by a too 
 long and cruel war, which has cost our youth a rich 
 portion of its noble blood. It is a sad pleasure to see 
 them thus ready still to shed yet more of it; but yet a 
 pleasure it is, and a glory too for us. The scions of 
 Bohemia's and of Hungary's foremost houses have filled 
 our hearts with pride and martial spirit by rallying round 
 the throne. Whatever be a warrior's fate, who is it would 
 dare deplore it ? Not ourself, who am queen, Ulric, nor I 
 who was a daughter of Aragon. I knew your father well, 
 and your young face speaks to me of the past. Therefore 
 live here like the son of a cherished memory. We will 
 speak of you this evening to the chancellor : have patience, 
 it is I who will answer for you to him. Under these 
 auspices you will be received by the king. Since our 
 clarions woke you in your castle, and since from the depths 
 of your seclusion you came in quest of our dangers, we
 
 ACT II.] BARBERINE. 19 
 
 will not let you repent of having been brave and faithful : 
 in pledge of this here is our royal hand. 
 
 (Ulric kisses her hand, then withdraws apart. Exit 
 the Queen.} 
 
 ist Courtier. There is a man better received at his 
 first sight of our queen than we who are thirty years in 
 attendance. 
 
 2nd Courtier. Let us address him and learn who he is. 
 
 ist Courtier. Have you not heard ? He is the Count 
 Ulric, a Bohemian nobleman. He is seeking his fortune, 
 as a young husband who wants money to pay the piper for 
 his wife to dance to. 
 
 2nd Courtier. Do they say his wife is pretty ? 
 
 ist Courtier. Charming; the pearl of Hungary. 
 
 2nd Courtier. What is that other young man tripping 
 past there so hurriedly ? 
 
 ist Courtier. I don't know him. He is one more 
 new-comer. The king's liberality draws this way all the 
 flies who are in quest of a ray of sunshine. 
 (Enter Rosemberg.} 
 
 2nd Courtier. This one seems to me a gay butterfly, a 
 regular wasp, with his striped doublet. My lord, your 
 servants. What brings you into this garden ? 
 
 Ros. (aside). I am questioned on every side, and I 
 don't know if I should answer. All these strange faces 
 and these staring eyes that put one out of countenance 
 confuse me desperately ! (Aloud.} Where is the queen, 
 gentlemen ? I am Astolphe de Rosemberg, and I wish to 
 be brought to her presence.
 
 20 BARBERINE. [Acx II. 
 
 \st Courtier. The queen has just left the palace. If 
 you want to speak to her, wait her passing, and she will 
 return in an hour. 
 
 Ros. The devil ! that is annoying. 
 (He sits down on a bench.} 
 
 2nd Courtier. You are come for the festivities, no 
 doubt ? 
 
 Ros. Are there festivities? What luck! No, gentle- 
 men, I am come to take service in the army. 
 
 \st Courtier. Everybody is doing that at present. 
 
 Ros. Why, yes ! so it seems. Many meddle with it, but 
 few come out of it well. 
 
 znd Courtier. You speak with severity. 
 
 Ros. How many country squires do we see here not 
 worth so much as naming, yet who for all that take upon 
 themselves as if they were great captains? To see them, 
 you would say they need only cross their horses to drive 
 the Turk beyond the Caucasus ; and yet they come out of 
 some hole in Bohemia like hungry rats. 
 
 Ulric (approaching). My lord, I am the Count Ulric, a 
 Bohemian nobleman, and I find a little levity in your 
 words which at your age is pardonable, but which I 
 counsel you to retrench. To be flippant is as great a 
 blemish as to be poor, let me tell you, and let this lesson 
 profit you. 
 
 Ros. (aside). It is my Bohemian of the inn. (Aloud.) 
 To express oneself in general terms is no offence to any 
 one. As for the matter of the lesson, I have given them 
 sometimes, but never took one yet
 
 ACT II.] BARBERINE. 21 
 
 Ulric. These are big words ; and where, pray, do you 
 come from yourself, to be entitled to use them ? 
 
 \st Courtier. Come, my lords, do not let a few words 
 dropped without intention make a ground of quarrel We 
 think it our duty to intervene ; reflect that you are in the 
 queen's precincts. This word alone is enough. 
 
 Ulric. That is true, and I thank you for your timely 
 warning. I should think myself unworthy of the name I 
 bear did I not yield to so just a remonstrance. 
 
 Ros. Let it be as you please; I have nothing to say to 
 this. 
 
 (Exeunt Courtiers. Ulric and Rosemberg remain seated 
 on opposite sides.} 
 
 Ros. (aside). The Chevalier Uladislas advised me always 
 to stick to a thing once uttered. Since I have been at this 
 court that worthy man's words are never out of my head. 
 I don't know what is going on in me ; I feel as if I had a 
 lion's heart. If I am not greatly mistaken I shall make my 
 fortune. 
 
 Ulric (aside). How kindly the queen received me ! and 
 yet I experience a sadness that nothing can overcome. 
 What is Barberine doing now ? Alas ! alas ! Ambition ! 
 Was I not happy in that old castle ? Poor, doubtless, but 
 what then ? O madness ! dreamers that we are ! 
 
 Ros. (aside). It is above all that book I bought which 
 turns my brains upside down. If I open it on going to bed 
 I cannot sleep all night. What surprising tales, what 
 admirable stories ! One hews a whole army to pieces ; 
 another jumps from the top of a belfry into the Caspian
 
 22 BARBERINE. [Acx II. 
 
 Sea without injuring himself; and to think that it is all true 
 all has happened ! One especially dazzles me. (Getting 
 up and reading aloud.} " When the Sultan Bobadil " Ah ! 
 there is some one listening ; it is that Bohemian nobleman. 
 I must make my peace with him. When I picked a quarrel 
 with him I forgot he had a pretty wife. (To Ulric.} You 
 come from Bohemia, my lord ? You must know my uncle, 
 the Baron d'Engelbrecht ? 
 
 Ulric. Very well ; he is one of my neighbours. We 
 hunted together last year. He is connected (distantly, it is 
 true) with my wife's family. 
 
 Ros. You are a connection of my uncle d'Engelbrecht ! 
 Pray let us be acquainted. Is it long since you left home? 
 
 Ulric. I have only been a day here. 
 
 Ros. You seem to say that regretfully. Can you have 
 any reason to look back with sadness? No doubt it is 
 always vexatious to leave one's family, above all when one 
 is married. Your wife is young, since you are, and therefore 
 handsome. There is matter for uneasiness. 
 
 Ulric. Uneasiness is not what galls me. My wife is 
 fair ; but a July sun is not purer in its cloudless sky than 
 the noble heart in her dear breast 
 
 Ros. That is saying a great deal. Save God, who can 
 know a woman's heart? I avow that in your place I should 
 not be at ease. 
 
 Uiric. And why, so please you ? 
 
 Ros. Because I should suspect my wife, unless she were 
 virtue itself. 
 
 Ulric. I believe mine to be.
 
 ACT II.] BARBERINE. 23 
 
 Ros. So you own a phoenix. Is the privilege of our 
 good King Mathias' granting that distinguishes you among 
 all husbands ? 
 
 Ulric. It is not the king who granted me this favour, 
 but God, who is somewhat more than a king. 
 
 Ros. I have not a doubt you are right ; but you know 
 what the philosophers say, with the Latin poet. What 
 lighter than a feather ? dust. Lighter than dust ? wind. 
 Lighter than wind ? woman. Lighter than woman ? 
 nothing. 
 
 Ulric. I am a warrior, not a philosopher, and I do not 
 trouble my head for the poets. All I know is that in point 
 of fact my wife is young, straight, and finely made ; that 
 there is neither needlework nor handiwork that she does 
 not understand better than any one else ; that you could 
 not find in the whole kingdom a squire or a major-domo 
 who can wait at a lord's table with a better grace than she. 
 Add to this that she is as skilful as fearless on horseback or 
 hawking, and at the same time can keep her accounts in as 
 good order as any tradesman. There you have her, my 
 lord; and with all that I would not suspect her should I go 
 ten years without sight of her. 
 
 Ros. This is a surprising portrait. 
 (Enter Polacco.} 
 
 Pol. I kiss your lordships' hands. Good day, my lords. 
 Youth is the mother of health. Ho ! ho ! Thank God for 
 the pleasant faces ! Our lady shield you ! 
 
 Ros. What's the matter, friend ? Whom is your business 
 with? 
 
 855
 
 24 BARBER1NE. [Act II. 
 
 Pol. I kiss your lordships' hands, and offer you my 
 services my little services for the love of God. 
 
 Ulric. Why, are you a beggar ? I did not look to meet 
 one in these alleys. 
 
 Pol. A beggar ! God help us ! A beggar ? I am no 
 beggar. I am an honourable man. My name is Polacco. 
 Polacco is not a beggar. By St. Matthew! beggar is not a 
 word to be applied to Polacco ! 
 
 Ulric. Explain yourself, and do not be annoyed if I ask 
 what you are. 
 
 Pol. Ho, ho 1 No offence ; there is none. Our young 
 gentleman will tell you. Who does not know Polacco ? 
 
 Ulric. I, since I am a new-comer, and know no one. 
 
 Pol. Good, good ; you will come to it like the rest. 
 One is useful in one's time and place each in his little 
 sphere. Folk must not be despised. 
 
 Ulric. What esteem or contempt can I feel for you if 
 you will not tell me what you are ? 
 
 Pol. Hush ! Silence ! The moon rises : there was a 
 cock that crowed. 
 
 Ulric. What mysterious idiocy is this gabble a prelude 
 to ? You talk like delirium incarnate. 
 
 Pol. A mirror, a little mirror. God is God, and the 
 saints are blessed. Here is a little mirror for sale. 
 
 Ulric. A pretty purchase; no bigger than my hand, and 
 stitched into leather. It is a Bohemian wizard's glass; 
 they wear the like of it on their breasts. 
 
 Ros. Look in it. What do you see ? 
 
 Ulric. Nothing, on my word ; not so much as the tip of
 
 ACT II.] BARBERINE. 25 
 
 my nose. It is a magic glass ; it is covered with a myriad 
 of cabalistic signs. 
 
 FoL Live and learn ; learn and live ! 
 
 Ulric. Oh, ho ! I understand what you are. Yes, an 
 honest wizard, by my soul ! Well, what does one see in 
 your glass ? 
 
 Pol. Learn and live ; live and learn. 
 
 Ulric, Really ! Then I think I understand again. If 
 I am not mistaken, this mirror should show the absent. I 
 have seen sometimes some that were given out to be such. 
 Several of my friends carry them in the army. 
 
 Ros. By Jupiter, my lord Ulric, here is an offer that 
 comes pat. You were talking of your wife. This mirror 
 is the very thing for you. And tell me, honest Polacco, 
 can one only see people in it ? Can one not see what they 
 are doing at the same time. 
 
 Pol. White is white ; yellow is gold. Gold is the 
 devil's ; white is God's. 
 
 Ulric. Withdraw, my good friend ; neither his lordship 
 nor I need your services. He is single, and I am not 
 superstitious. 
 
 Ros. No, on my life. Lord Ulric, since you are my 
 kinsman, I will do this for you. I will buy this mirror 
 myself, and we will look in this minute to see if your wife 
 chats with her neighbour. 
 
 Ulric. Withdraw, old sir, I beg of you. 
 
 Ros. No, no 1 He shall not go without our trying this 
 test. How much for your mirror, Polacco ? 
 
 ( Ulric moves away, and walks up and down. )
 
 26 BARBER1NE. [Acx II. 
 
 Pol. Ho, ho ! Every dog his day, my dear lord. All 
 comes to hand, each dog his day. 
 
 Ros. I ask your price ? 
 
 Pol. Refuse and muse ; muse and refuse. 
 
 Ros. I don't muse ; I want to buy your glass. 
 
 Pol. Ho, ho ! Who loses time, time catches ; who 
 loses time 
 
 Ros. I understand you. Stay, here is my purse. You 
 are afraid, no doubt, that you should be seen plying your 
 little calling here in public. 
 
 Pol. (taking the purse). Well said, well said, my dear 
 lord. The walls have eyes, and the trees too. God save 
 the police ; the police are gentlemen. 
 
 Ros. Now you are .to explain us the magical effects of 
 this little glass. 
 
 Pol. My lord, on fixing your eyes attentively on this 
 mirror, you will see a little mist, which little by little clears 
 away. If the attention be redoubled, a vague and undefined 
 form soon begins to come out. Attention again redoubled, 
 the form becomes clear. It shows you the portrait of the 
 absent person of whom you thought on taking the glass. 
 If that person is a woman, and she be faithful to you, the 
 face is white and almost pale. She smiles on you faintly. 
 If the person is only tempted, the face is tinted with a blond 
 yellow, like the gold of a ripe wheat ear. If she is unfaith- 
 ful, it becomes coal black, and immediately a foul smell 
 makes itself perceived. 
 
 Ros. A foul smell, you say ? 
 
 Pol. Yes, as when water is thrown on lighted coals.
 
 ACT II.] BARBERINE. 27 
 
 Ros, It is well. Now take what you want from that 
 purse, and give me back the rest. 
 
 Pol. Who comes shall know; who knows shall come. 
 
 Ros. Do you sell this toy so dear ? 
 
 Pol. Who comes shall see ; who sees shall come. 
 
 Ros. The devil take you and your proverbs ! 
 
 Pol. I kiss hands, hands Who comes shall see 
 
 (Exit.} 
 
 Ros. Now, Lord Ulric, if you are agreeable, it is easy for 
 us to know whether you or I be in the right. 
 
 Ulric. I already answered you : I cannot stand these 
 juggleries. 
 
 Ros. Bah ! You heard as I did that worthy sorcerer's 
 explanation. What does it cost you to put it to the proof? 
 Cast your eye on the mirror, I beg. 
 
 Ulric. Look in it yourself, if so it please you. 
 
 Ros. Yes, by my word ; failing you, it is I that am really 
 to look in it, and think for you of your dear countess, were 
 it only to see appear her charming phantom white or 
 yellow. Stay, I see her already ! 
 
 Ulric. Once for all, sir knight, do not continue in this 
 tone. This is my advice to you. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 The same. Several Courtiers. 
 
 ist Courtier (to Ulric). Count Ulric, the queen is 
 returning directly to the palace. She has ordered us to tell 
 you that your presence will be needed there.
 
 28 BARBERINE. [Acx II. 
 
 Ulric. A thousand thanks, gentlemen ; and I am wholly 
 at her majesty's orders. 
 
 Ros. (still looking in the mirror). Tell me, gentlemen, 
 do you not smell some singular odour ? 
 
 \st Courtier. What kind of odour? 
 
 Ros. Ha ! Like quenched coal. 
 
 Ulric (to Rosemberg). Have you sworn to wear out my 
 patience, then ? 
 
 Ros. Look yourself, Count Ulric ; assuredly that is no 
 white. 
 
 Ulric. Boy, you insult a woman you do not know. 
 
 Ros. That is perhaps because I know others. 
 
 Ulric. Well, then, since mirrors please you, look at 
 yourself in this one. (He draws his sword.) 
 
 fios. Wait ; I am not on guard ! 
 (Draws his sword also.) 
 
 SCENE III. 
 The same. The Queen. All the Court. 
 
 The Queen. What does this mean, young gentlemen ? 
 I did not think it was to water my parterre that Hungarian 
 swords left the scabbard. What is the ground of this 
 quarrel ? 
 
 Ulric. Madam, pardon me. There are insults I cannot 
 endure. It is not I that am offended, it is my honour. 
 
 The Queen. What is the question ? Speak ! 
 
 Ulric. Madam, I left a wife, as fair as virtue's self, shut 
 up in my castle. This young man, whom I do not know,
 
 ACT II.] BARBERINE. 29 
 
 and who does not know my wife, has none the less aimed 
 at her raillery on which he prides himself. I protest at 
 your feet that this very day I refused to draw my sword 
 from respect to the place where I stand. 
 
 The Queen (to Ros.\ You seem very young, my child. 
 What motive can have led you to slander a woman who 
 is unknown to you ? 
 
 Ros. Madam, I did not slander a woman. I expressed 
 my opinion of all women in general, and it is not my 
 fault if I cannot change it. 
 
 The Queen. By my word, I did not think experience 
 wore so fair a beard. 
 
 Ros. Madam, it is just and easily believed that your 
 majesty should defend the virtue of women. I cannot 
 have the same reasons as your majesty to do so. 
 
 The Queen. That is a rash answer. Each indeed may 
 have on this subject what opinion he will ; but what think 
 you, gentlemen ? Is there not a presumptuous and arrogant 
 folly in the pretension to judge all women ? It is a wide 
 plea to uphold, and were I the opposing advocate I, 
 your grey-haired queen, I could cast into the balance 
 some words that you do not know. Why, who has taught 
 a boy like you to despise your nurse ? You are fresh 
 from school, it seems; is this what you read in the blue 
 eyes of the girls who drew water at your village fountain ? 
 Is it so then ? The first word you spelt out on the 
 trembling leaves of a celestial legend was disdain ? You, 
 at your age, feel it ? I am younger than you then, for 
 you make my heart beat. Stay, lay your hand on Count
 
 30 BARBER1NE. [Acx II. 
 
 Ulric's : I know his wife no more than you do, but I am 
 a woman, and I see how his sword quivers still in his 
 hand. I wager you my wedding-ring that his wife is as 
 faithful to him as the Virgin to God ! 
 
 Ulric. Queen, I take up the wager, and stake on it 
 all I possess on earth, if this young man choose to accept it. 
 
 Ros. I am three times as rich as you. 
 
 The Queen. What is your name ? 
 
 Ros. Astolphe de Rosemberg. 
 
 The Queen. What, you are a Rosemberg? I know your 
 father ; he spoke to me of you. Come, come, Count Ulric 
 wagers nothing against you; we will send you back to school. 
 
 Ros. No, your majesty. It shall not be said that I 
 held back, if the Count take up the wager. 
 
 The Queen. And what is your wager ? 
 
 Ros. If he will give me his knightly word that he will 
 write to his wife nothing of what has passed between us, 
 I lay my fortune against his at least up to an equal 
 stake that I will take my way to-morrow to the castle 
 he inhabits, and that this heart of diamond on which he 
 counts so surely will not resist me long. 
 
 Ulric, I take you, and it is too late to unsay your 
 words. You have wagered before the queen, and since 
 her august presence obliged me to lower my sword's point, 
 it is she I will take for second in this honourable duel I 
 propose. 
 
 Ros. I accept, and nothing shall make me unsay it ; 
 but I must have a letter of introduction to procure me a 
 freer approach.
 
 ACT II.] BARBERINE. 31 
 
 Ulric. With all my heart what you please. 
 
 The Queen, I hold myself then as your witness, and as 
 judge of the quarrel. The wager shall be recorded by 
 the king's, my master's, chancellor of justice, and to your 
 words I add mine : that no power in earth shall bend 
 me when the day is over. Go, gentlemen; God protect 
 youl
 
 3 a BARBER1NE. [Acx III. 
 
 ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 SCENE I. Rosemberg. Kalekain. 
 
 (A. room in Barberinfs castle. Several vast windows in an 
 inner court open at the back. Through one of these windows 
 is seen a cell in an old Gothic tower^ its window also open.} 
 
 Ros. So, my pretty child, you were saying that your 
 name was Kalekairi ? 
 
 KaL It was my father's choice. 
 
 Ros. Very good. And your mistress is not to be seen ? 
 
 Kal. She is dressing. She has been dressing a long 
 time. She said she was to be told. 
 
 Ros. Don't be in a hurry, Kalekairi. If I am not 
 mistaken, that is a Turkish or Arabian name at least. 
 
 Kal. Kalekairi came into the world at Trebizond, but 
 she was not born for the mean place she fills. 
 
 Ros. Are you discontented with your lot? Have you 
 to complain of your mistress ? 
 
 Kal. No one complains of her. 
 
 Ros. Tell me frankly. 
 
 KaL What do you call frankly ? 
 
 Ros. Saying what one thinks. 
 
 Kal. When Kalekairi thinks of nothing she says nothing.
 
 ACT III.] BARBERINE, 33 
 
 Ros. Quite right. (Aside.} Here is a little savage who 
 doesn't look too forbidding. (Aloud.} So you like your 
 mistress then ? 
 
 Kal. Everybody likes her. 
 
 Ros. They say she is very pretty. 
 
 Kal. They are right. 
 
 Ros. She is a coquette, I fancy, since she is so long 
 over her toilette. 
 
 Kal. No, she is kind. 
 
 Ros. Then why did you complain of living in this 
 castle ? 
 
 Kal. Because my mother's daughter ought to have 
 many attendants, instead of being one herself. 
 
 Ros. I understand. Some reverse of fortune. 
 
 Kal. The pirates carried me off. 
 
 Ros. The pirates 1 Tell me the story. 
 
 Kal. It is not a story. It makes one cry. Kalekairi 
 never speaks of it. 
 
 Ros. Really? 
 
 Kal. No, not even to my parrot, not even to my dog 
 Mamouth, not even to the rose-tree that is in my room. 
 
 Ros. You are discreet, I see. 
 
 Kal. One must be. 
 
 Ros. That is my opinion. Did you serve your appren- 
 ticeship here ? 
 
 Kal. No, I went to Constantinople, to Smyrna, and to 
 the Pasha's house at Janina. 
 
 Ros. Oho ! Young as you are, you must have some 
 experience of the world.
 
 34 BARBERINE. [Aer III. 
 
 Kal. I always waited upon women. 
 
 Ros. There is no better school. So look now, pretty 
 Kalekairi, if your mistress receives me well, I look forward 
 to spending some time here. If I needed your good offices, 
 would you be disposed to oblige me ? 
 
 Kal. With much pleasure. 
 
 Ros. Well answered. Stay ; as a Turk, you ought to like 
 the colour of sequins. Take this purse, and go and 
 announce me. 
 
 Kal. Why do you give me this ? 
 
 Ros. To make acquaintance. Go and announce me, 
 my dear child. 
 
 Kal. There was no need for the sequins. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Rosemberg alone. Then Barberine, in the turret. 
 
 Ros. There is an odd waiting-maid. What a singular 
 idea it is for this Count Ulric to have his wife guarded by a 
 sort of she-Mameluke ! It cannot be denied that whatever 
 happens to me has something so fantastic about it that it 
 seems almost supernatural. . . . Come, anyhow I have 
 made a good beginning. The attendant is enlisted on my 
 side. As for the mistress, let me see. What means shall I 
 employ there ? Stratagem, force, or love ? Force ! Shame 
 upon it ! It would neither be the part of a man of honour 
 nor fair on the wager. As for love, that might be tried ; 
 but then that is a long business, and I want to conquer like
 
 ACT III.] BARBER2NE. 35 
 
 Caesar. Ah ! I see some one in that turret. It is the 
 Countess herself; I recognise her. She is doing her hair. 
 I even think that she is singing. 
 Barb, (singing). 
 
 Gay cavalier, that ridest to the fray, 
 Whither away 
 So far from here ? 
 
 Seest not how night with darkling fears is rife, 
 And that our life 
 Is but a tear. 
 
 J?os. She does not sing badly, but it seems to me that 
 her song expresses a regret. Yes, something like a memory. 
 Hum ! When I took this bet, I think I acted very hastily. 
 There are moments when one can't answer for oneself. It 
 is like a puff of wind catching in your cloak. Plague on it ! 
 There must be no mistake about the matter. I have a 
 round sum on it. Let me see. Shall I use stratagem ? 
 Barb. (2nd stanza). 
 
 Say you, you credit that a love forsaken, 
 From the heart shaken, 
 Spreads wing to fly ? 
 Ah, well-a-day ! ye seekers after fame, 
 Even your flame 
 Leaps but to die. 
 
 Ros. This song has still the same burden, but what does 
 a song go for? Yes, the more I think of it, the more 
 stratagem seems to me the real way to succeed. Stratagem 
 and love together would work wonders ; but the truth is, I 
 don't know much of strategy. If I were to do like that
 
 36 BARBER2NE. [ACT III. 
 
 Uladislas, when he tricked the giant Moloch; but here is the 
 fault of all these stories. They are charming to listen to, 
 and one doesn't know how to put them in practice. Yester- 
 day, for instance, I was reading the story of a hero of 
 romance, who, in my situation, hid himself for a whole day 
 to get into his mistress's room. Can I hide myself in a 
 chest? I should come out covered with dust, and my 
 clothes would be spoilt. Bah ! I think I have done the 
 right thing. Yes, the best of all stratagems is to give money 
 to the waiting-maid. I will dazzle all the other servants in 
 the same way. Ah, here comes Barberine. Well then, all 
 is settled ; I will employ strategy and love together. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Rosemberg. Barberine. Kalekairi. 
 
 Kal. (she stays in the background). Here is the mistress. 
 
 Barb. My lord, you are welcome. You come from the 
 court, I am told. How is my husband? What is he 
 doing ? Where is he ? At the wars ? Alas, answer me. 
 
 Ros. He is at the wars, madam at least I think so. 
 As for what he is doing, it seems easy to tell ; to look at 
 you is to be certain. Who can have seen you and forget 
 you ? He is thinking of you, Countess, no doubt ; and far 
 though he be from you, his fate merits envy rather than pity 
 if you on your part are thinking of him. Here is a letter 
 he entrusted to me. 
 
 Barb, (reading). " He is a young knight of the greatest 
 merit, and belongs to one of the noblest families of the two
 
 ACT III.] BARBERINE. 37 
 
 kingdoms. Receive him as a friend." I will read you no 
 more; we are rich only in goodwill, but we will do our 
 best to temper the poverty of your reception. 
 
 Ros. I left my horses and my grooms somewhere over 
 there. In view of my birth and my fortune, I cannot travel 
 without a considerable following. But I do not want to 
 inconvenience you with this train. 
 
 Barb. Pardon me, my husband would be vexed with me 
 if I did not insist upon it. We will send and tell them to 
 come here. 
 
 Ros. What thanks can I offer for so favourable a recep- 
 tion ? That white hand deigned to signal from the top of 
 these turrets for the gate to be opened to me, and these 
 bright eyes do not contradict it, noble Countess. They 
 open to me also the gate of an hospitable heart. Give me 
 your leave to go myself and give directions to my suite, and 
 I will return to you; I have a few orders to give. (Aside.) 
 Courage, and a full pocket. I want to take the air of the 
 neighbourhood a little. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Barberine. Kalekairi. 
 
 Barb. What do you think of this young man, my dear ? 
 Kal. Kalekairi does not like him at all. 
 Barb. He displeases you ! Why so ? It seems to me 
 he is not bad-looking. 
 
 (Sitting down.) 
 Kal. Certainly !
 
 38 BARBERINE. [ACT III. 
 
 Barb. What is it that shocks you then ? He does not 
 express himself ill a little courtier-like ; but that is the 
 fault of his youth, and he brings good news. 
 
 Kal. I don't think so. 
 
 Barb. What, you don't believe it ! Here is my husband's 
 letter full of tenderness for me and friendship for his 
 ambassador. 
 
 (Kalekairi shakes her head.} 
 
 Why, what has this Monsieur de Rosemberg done to you? 
 
 Kal. He has given gold to Kalekairi. 
 
 Barb, (laughing}. Is that what has offended you ? Well, 
 you have only to give it back ! 
 
 Kal. I am a slave. ' 
 
 Barb. Not here. You are my companion and my friend. 
 
 Kal. If the gold were given back he would distrust. 
 
 Barb. What do you mean ? Explain yourself. You 
 treat him as a conspirator. 
 
 Kal. Kalekairi had done nothing for him ; she had not 
 opened the door; she had not settled a room; she had 
 not even prepared a meal. He wanted to deceive Kalekairi. 
 
 Barb. But Kalekairi is very quick to take offence. Did 
 he try to make love to you ? 
 
 Kal. Oh, no ! 
 
 Barb. Well then, what is there so surprising ? He is a 
 new-comer at the chateau. Is it not natural enough he 
 should seek to gain some goodwill here ? Besides, he is 
 rich, as it seems, and rather pleased it should be known ; it 
 is a grand seigneur's little way. 
 
 Kal. He does not know Count Ulric.
 
 ACT III.] BARBERINE. 39 
 
 Barb. What, does not know him ? 
 
 Kal. No. He spoke to L'Uscoque the porter, and 
 asked him if he liked his master. He asked me, too, if I 
 liked you. He does not know us. 
 
 Barb. What a crazy girl ! So these are the fine proofs 
 that cause you suspicions about him ! And what great 
 crime do you think he is plotting, pray ? 
 
 Kal. When I was at Janina a Christian came who loved 
 my mistress. He too gave much gold to the slaves, and he 
 was cut into pieces. 
 
 Barb. Pity on us, how you go to work ! Look at this 
 little lioness ! And you imagine apparently that this young 
 man is come to try and make a conquest of me ? Is not 
 that at the bottom of your thoughts ? 
 (Kalekairi signs in the affirmative.) 
 
 Well then, my dear, be free from anxiety. You may 
 drop your fright and your little methods, which are a trifle 
 too Asiatic. I do not fancy that a stranger will come and 
 speak to me of love at the first encounter. But suppose it 
 
 to be so, you may rest assured Here is our guest ; 
 
 you will leave us alone. Let us step aside a little. (Aside.) 
 None the less, it would be droll if she were right. 
 (They retire to the back of the stage.) 
 
 SCENE V. 
 The same. Rosemberg. 
 
 Ros. (thinking himself alone). I think that my plan is 
 settled now. In Uladislas's little book there is the history 
 
 856
 
 46 BARBERINE. [Acr III. 
 
 of a certain lachimo who lays a wager exactly like mine 
 with Leonatus Postumus, son-in-law to the King of Great 
 Britain. This lachimo secretly introduces himself into the 
 fair Imogen's chamber in her absence, and takes down on 
 his tablet an exact description of the chamber here such 
 and such a door, there a window so, the staircase runs thus. 
 He notes the pettiest details, just as if he were a general 
 making his preparations for a campaign. I will imitate this 
 lachimo. 
 
 Barb, (aside). He looks as if he were thinking over 
 something. 
 
 Kal. (also aside]. Don't doubt it. Perhaps he is a 
 Turkish spy. 
 
 Ros. L'Uscoque, the porter, took my money. I will 
 
 slip by stealth into Barberine's room, and there Yes, 
 
 what shall I do if I fall in with her there ? Hum ! it is 
 embarrassing and dangerous. 
 
 Kal. Do you see how he ponders ? 
 
 Ros. Well ! I will plead my cause, for heaven keep me 
 from offending her; it would be dishonour to myself. 
 But in all novels, and even in ballads, what do the most 
 perfect lovers do but gain an entrance thus to the lady of 
 their thoughts, when they can. It is always more convenient, 
 and one is less interrupted. Ah, there is the fair Countess. 
 Suppose I tried first of all some phrases of gallantry, just in 
 a casual way? Let us see what she has to say on this 
 text; that can do no harm, for after all, if I were lucky 
 enough to win her favour, that would dispense with 
 strategy; and it is that stratagem which perplexes me.
 
 ACT III.] BARBERINE. 41 
 
 (Aloud.} Pardon me, Countess, for so long an absence 
 from you ; my train is considerable, and one must get things 
 in some order. 
 
 Barb. Nothing truer; and I beg you will be good 
 enough to consider yourself perfectly free in this house. 
 You understand that a friend of my husband's cannot be 
 a stranger for us. (To Kalekairi^) Go, Kalekairi ; go, my 
 dear, and don't be afraid. 
 (Exit Kalekairi?) 
 
 Ros. You fill me with gratitude. To tell you the truth, 
 I only feared in coming to your house that I might be 
 troublesome ; and I should run a great risk of becoming so 
 were I to let my heart speak. 
 
 Barb, (aside). His heart speak ! What language ! 
 (Aloud.} Rest assured, Lord Rosemberg, that you do not 
 inconvenience me at all, for the liberty I offer you is very 
 necessary for myself, and I grant it you to avail myself of 
 the same. 
 
 Ros. That is understood. I know the claims of society, 
 and I am aware of the duties your rank brings with it. A 
 chatelaine is queen in her own house, and you, madam, are 
 twice queen, by descent and beauty. 
 
 Barb. That is not it The fact is that we are at present 
 busy with the vintage. 
 
 Ros. Yes, indeed, as I passed I saw troops of peasants 
 on these hills. It is a sort of festival, and you no doubt 
 receive on this occasion the homage of your vassals. They 
 must be happy, since they belong to you. 
 
 Barb. Yes, but they are a great worry. I have to
 
 42 BARBERINE. [Acx III. 
 
 spend all day in the fields to get in the maize and the 
 late hay. 
 
 Ros. (aside). If she answers me in this strain, the talk 
 will not be very poetic. 
 
 Barb, (aside). If he persists in his compliments it may 
 be amusing. 
 
 Ros. Countess, I avow that one thing surprises me. It 
 is not to see a noble lady watch over the care of her 
 domains, but I should have thought she would have watched 
 from a greater distance. 
 
 Barb. I understand. You are from the court, and the 
 beauties of Albe Royale do not take their gilt shoes for 
 walks in the grass. 
 
 Ros. That is true, madam ; and do you not think that 
 this life, all made up of pleasures, festivities, enchantments, 
 and magnificence, is an admirable thing indeed? With- 
 out wishing to slander the rustic virtues, is not a pretty 
 woman's right place there in that brilliant sphere. Look 
 in your glass, Countess. Is not a pretty woman 
 creation's masterpiece, and are not all the world's riches 
 made to surround her, and, were it possible, to embellish 
 her. 
 
 Barb. Yes, no doubt that can give pleasure. Your 
 fine ladies only see this poor world from their palfrey's 
 back, or if their foot rest on earth there is a cloth of 
 velvet underneath it. 
 
 Ros. Oh, not always ! My aunt Beatrix goes into the 
 fields like you too. 
 
 Barb. Ah ! your aunt is a good housekeeper.
 
 ACT III.] BARBERINE. 43 
 
 Ros. Yes, and very stingy except to me, for she would 
 give me the cap off her head. 
 
 Barb. Really ? 
 
 Ros. Oh, certainly ; nearly all the jewels I wear come 
 from her. 
 
 Barb, (aside). There is not much harm in this boy. 
 (Aloud.} I like good housekeepers greatly, seeing that I 
 myself set up to be one. There, you see the proof of it. 
 
 Ros. What is that? God forgive me, a spindle and 
 distaff. 
 
 Barb. These are my weapons. 
 
 Ros, Is it possible ? What ! you practise this old trade 
 of our grandmothers? You plunge these beautiful hands 
 into this wisp of tow ? 
 
 Barb. I try to give them as little rest as may be. Does 
 not your aunt spin ? 
 
 Ros. But my aunt is old, madam ; it is only old women 
 that spin. 
 
 Barb. Indeed ! are you quite sure of that ? I don't 
 believe it should be so. Do you not know this old 
 maxim that work is a prayer? That was said long ago. 
 Well ! if the two things are alike, and to God's eyes 
 they may be, is it not just that the harder task should 
 be the lot of the young? Is it not when our hands are 
 gay and brisk and full of activity that they should turn 
 the spindle? And when age and fatigue one day force 
 them to stop, is not then the time for them to be clasped 
 in prayer, leaving the rest to the Supreme Goodness ? 
 Believe me, Lord Rosemberg, never speak evil of our
 
 44 BARBER1NE. [Acx III. 
 
 distaffs, nor even of our needles; I repeat, these are our 
 weapons. It is true that you men wear more glorious 
 arms, but these have their worth too ; here is my lance 
 and my sword. 
 
 (Showing the spindle and distaff,} 
 
 Ros. (aside}. The sermon is not badly turned, but I 
 am still far from my wager. Let us make one attempt to 
 get back to it. (Aloud?) What is said so well, madam, 
 cannot be gainsaid. But weapon for weapon, you will 
 allow me to prefer ours. 
 
 Barb, You love combats then, I see ? 
 
 Ros. Can you ask it of a nobleman? Save war and 
 love, what business has he in the world ? 
 
 Jiarb, You have begun early. Do explain one thing 
 for me. I have never been able to understand how a man 
 covered with iron can manage with ease a horse that is 
 also caparisoned in steel from head to foot. That noise 
 of old iron must be deafening, and you must feel as if 
 you were in a prison. 
 
 Ros. (aside], I think she is trying to put me to the 
 rout. (Aloud?) A good knight fears nothing if he wears 
 his lady's colours. 
 
 Barb. You are brave, it seems. Are you very much 
 in love with your aunt ? 
 
 Ros. With all my heart, in the way of friendship, of 
 course ; for as to love, that is another thing. 
 
 Barb. One does not feel love for one's aunt ? 
 
 Ros. I could not feel it for any one at all, with the 
 exception of one single person.
 
 ACT III.] BARBERINE. 45 
 
 Barb. You have lost your heart. 
 
 Ros. Yes, madam, not long ago, but for all my life. 
 
 Barb. For a certainty it is some girl you mean to marry. 
 
 Ros. Alas, madam, it is impossible. She is young and 
 beautiful, it is true, and she has all the qualities that can 
 make the happiness of a husband ; but this happiness is 
 not in store for me her hand is another's. 
 
 Barb. That is annoying you must get well of it 
 
 Ros. Alas, madam, I must die of it. 
 
 Barb. Bah ! at your age ! 
 
 Ros. What ! at my age ! Are you so much older than 
 I am then ? 
 
 Barb. Much. I am reasonable. 
 
 Ros. I was too till I saw her. Ah, if you knew who she 
 was ! If I dared to pronounce her name before 
 
 Barb. Do I know her ? 
 
 Ros. Yes, madam. And since my secret has half 
 escaped me, I would entrust it to you completely if you 
 promised not to punish me for it. 
 
 Barb. Punish you! On what account? I have nothing 
 to say to it, I presume. 
 
 Ros. More than you think, madam ; and if I dared 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 The same. Kalekairi. 
 
 Ros. (aside). Plague on the little savage! It had cost 
 me such trouble to get so far
 
 46 BARBERINE. [ACT III. 
 
 Kal. L'Uscoque the porter came to tell me that there 
 were a great many carts on the road. 
 
 Barb. What is it ? 
 
 Kal. It is for your ear only. 
 
 Barb. Come nearer. 
 
 Ros. (aside). What a mystery ! Vegetables again ! This 
 is a dreadfully middle-class chatelaine. 
 
 KaL (whispering to her mistress). There are not any 
 carts at all. Rosemberg has given L'Uscoque the porter 
 a great deal of gold again. 
 
 Barb, (in a whisper}. Why ? and on what pretext ? 
 
 Kal. (also whispering). He asked to be secretly brought 
 into the mistress's room. 
 
 Barb, (in a whisper). My room, do you say ? Are you 
 sure? 
 
 Kal. (also whispering). L'Uscoque did not want to say 
 anything, but Kalekairi made him drunk, and he told her all. 
 
 Barb, (looking at Rosemberg). Indeed, this is incredible ! 
 
 Ros. (aside). Why, what a curious look she is casting on 
 me! 
 
 Barb, (still looking). Is it possible? This young man, 
 a trifle braggadocio it is true, but at bottom of a gentle 
 nature enough, and seemingly This is very strange. 
 
 Kal. (in a whisper). L'Uscoque says now, that if the 
 mistress chooses, he will hide behind the gate with Ludwig 
 the gardener. They will take a pitchfork apiece, and when 
 he comes 
 
 Barb, (laughing). No, thank you. You always come 
 back to your expeditious method.
 
 ACT III.] BARBERINE. 47 
 
 Kal. Rosemberg has many armed servants. 
 
 Barb. Yes, and we are lone women, or almost lone, in 
 this house in the depths of a little desert. But I will tell 
 you a very simple thing. There is a guardian, my dear, 
 which defends a woman's honour better than all a seraglio's 
 ramparts or all a sultan's mutes, and that guardian is 
 herself. Go, and yet don't be far off. Listen ! When I 
 
 sign to you through this window 
 
 (She whispers in her ear.) 
 
 Kal. It shall be done. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 Barberine. Rosemberg. 
 
 Barb. Well, my lord, what are you thinking of? 
 
 Ros. I was waiting to learn if I was to withdraw. 
 
 Barb. Were you not just going to make me a confi- 
 dence. That little girl came in at the wrong moment. 
 
 Ros. Oh, yes. 
 
 Barb. Well then, go on. 
 
 Ros. I no longer have the courage, madam. I don't 
 know how I dared 
 
 Barb. And you dare no longer. You were telling me, 
 I think, that you felt love for a woman who is married to 
 one of your friends. 
 
 Ros. One of my friends. I did not say that. 
 
 Barb. I thought I heard you. But are you sure I 
 understood you wrongly?
 
 48 BARBERINE. [Acr III. 
 
 Ros. (aside). What does she mean? Those terrible 
 eyes of hers seem to me singularly soft at present 
 
 Barb. Well ! you don't reply ? 
 
 Ros. Ah, madam ! If you have penetrated my 
 thoughts 
 
 Barb. Is that a reason not to utter them ? 
 
 Ros. No, I see you have guessed my secret Those 
 bright eyes have read in my heart, which betrayed me in 
 spite of myself. I can no longer hide from you a feeling 
 stronger than my reason, overpowering even my respect for 
 you. Learn then, Countess, at once my pain and my folly. 
 Since the first day I saw you I have wandered round this 
 castle among these desert mountains ! The army, the 
 court, are no longer anything for me ! I left all the 
 moment I could find a pretext to bring me into your 
 presence, were it only for an instant I love you, adore 
 you ! That is my secret, madam. Was I wrong to entreat 
 you not to punish me for it ? 
 {He falls on one knee.) 
 
 Barb, (aside). For his age he does not lie badly. 
 (Aloud.) You felt, you say, the fear of being punished ; 
 had you no fear of offending me ? 
 
 Ros. (rising). In what respect can love be an offence ? 
 Against whom is it an offence to love ? 
 
 Barb. Against God, who forbids it. 
 
 Ros. No, Barberine ! Since God made beauty, how can he 
 have forbidden us to love it ? It is his most perfect image. 
 
 Barb. But if beauty is God's image, is not the holy faith 
 sworn at his altar a possession far more precious? Did
 
 ACT III.] BARBERINE. 49 
 
 he content himself with creating? and has he not ex- 
 tended, father-like, his hand over his celestial work to 
 defend and protect ? 
 
 Ros. No. When I am thus at your side, when my 
 hand trembles at the touch of yours, when your eyes rest on 
 me with that bewildering glance no, Barberine, it is impos- 
 sible ; no, God does not forbid love. Alas ! no reproaches, 
 j 
 
 Barb. That you should think me pretty, and tell me so, 
 does not displease me greatly. But what use in saying more ? 
 Count Ulric is your friend. 
 
 Ros. What do I know ? What can I answer ? What 
 can I remember at your side ? 
 
 Barb. What ! if I consented to listen to you, neither 
 friendship, nor the fear of God, nor the trust of an honour- 
 able man who sends you to me, nor any consideration, can 
 make you hesitate ? 
 
 Ros. No, on my soul ; nothing in the world. You are 
 so beautiful, Barberine ! Your eyes are so soft, your smile 
 is happiness itself. 
 
 Barb. I told you all that does not displease me. But why 
 take my hand like this ? O heavens ! it seems to me that, 
 were I a man, I would die rather than speak of love to a 
 friend's wife. 
 
 Ros. And I, for my part, would rather die than cease to 
 speak of love to you. 
 
 Barb. Truly ! On your honour, is that your mind ? 
 (She makes a sign out of window.) 
 
 Ros. On my soul, on my honour.
 
 50 BARBER1NE. [ACT III. 
 
 Barb. You would betray a friend with a light heart. 
 
 (A bell is heard ring.) 
 
 There is the bell that tells me to go downstairs. 
 Jtos. O heavens ! you leave me thus ? 
 Barb. What am I to say to you ? Here is Kalekairi. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 The same. Kalekairi. 
 
 Ros. This Croat, this Transylvanian again. 
 
 Kal. The farmers say they are waiting. 
 
 Barb. I am coming. 
 
 Ros. (whispering Barberine}. What ? without a word ? 
 without a look to tell me my fate ? 
 
 Barb. I think you are a great enchanter, for it is impos- 
 sible to cherish a spite against you. My farmers are going 
 to sit down to table : wait for me a moment. I made my 
 escape from them, and I return. Come, Kalekairi, come. 
 
 Kal. Kalekairi does not want dinner. 
 
 Ros. (aside). She wants to stay, the little Ethiopian ! 
 (Aloud.} What, mademoiselle, you are not hungry ? 
 
 Kal. No, I don't want to. They have stuck a bell 
 up at the top of a great tower; when that machine rings 
 Kalekairi must eat. But Kalekairi does not want to eat : 
 Kalekairi has no appetite. 
 
 Barb, (beseechingly}. Come, child, you shall do as you 
 wish, but I want you. (Aside.} I believe really that she 
 would be capable of keeping an eye on me myself.
 
 ACT III.] BARBERINE. 51 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 Rosemberg solus. 
 
 Ros. She will return. She tells me to await her, while 
 she goes to send her household out of the way. Can she 
 convey to me more clearly that I have found favour with 
 her ? What do I say ? Is it not an avowal that she loves 
 me ? Is it not the most delightful assignation ? Parbleu ! 
 I was a great simpleton to rack my brains and spend my 
 money to imitate that ass of an lachimo. It is much 
 need indeed to go and hide oneself when one has only to 
 appear and conquer. It is true I had no reasonable expec- 
 tation of so quickly winning a hearing. O Fortune, what 
 munificence ! No, I never expected it. That proud 
 countess that rich stake all won in so short a time. 
 How well that dear Uladislas knew! So I am to hear 
 her speak to me of love, for it will be her turn now 
 she, Barberine, oh beauty, oh ineffable joy! I cannot rest, 
 yet I need a little patience. (Sits down.} Really, this 
 frailty of women is a great misfortune. Won so soon ! Do 
 I love her ? No, I don't love her. For shame ! To 
 betray like this a husband so upright and so truthful, to 
 yield to a stranger's first amorous glance. What can you 
 do with such a creature? Stay here indeed! I have 
 other fish to fry. Who will resist me now? Already I 
 see myself arriving at the Court, and crossing the long 
 galleries with a careless step. The courtiers make way in 
 silence, the women whisper. The rich stake lies on the
 
 52 BARBERINE. [Acx III. 
 
 table, and the Queen has a smile on her lips. Rosemberg, 
 what a haul ! Yet, what a thing is luck ! When I think 
 of what is happening to me, it seems a dream. No, there 
 is nothing like boldness. I think I hear a noise. Some 
 one is coming up the stairs. Nearer and nearer, coming 
 stealthily up. Ah, how my heart beats ! 
 
 (The windows close, and the noise of several bolts is 
 heard outside.'] 
 
 What does this mean? I am locked in. The door is 
 being bolted outside. No doubt it is some precaution of 
 Barberine's. She is afraid that some servant might come 
 in here during dinner. She will have sent her waiting- 
 maid to shut the door upon me, until she can make her 
 escape. If she did not come ! If some unforeseen obstacle 
 
 appeared ! Well, she would let me know But who is 
 
 walking like that in the corridor? Some one is coming 
 here. It is Barberine, I recognise her step. Silence. 
 We mustn't look the schoolboy here. I want to command 
 my face. He to whom such things happen ought not to 
 
 show surprise at them 
 
 (A wicket opens in the wall,} 
 
 Barb, (outside, speaking through the wicket). My Lord 
 Rosemberg, as you are only come here to commit a theft, 
 the most odious theft, and the most deserving of chastise^ 
 ment, the theft of a woman's honour, and as it is just that 
 the punishment should be proportioned to the crime, you 
 are imprisoned here as a thief. No harm shall be done to 
 you, and your retainers shall continue to be well treated. 
 If you wish to eat and drink, there is nothing for it but to
 
 ACT III.] BARBERINE. 53 
 
 do as those old women whom you do not like ; that is to 
 say, to spin. You have, as you know, a spindle and distaff 
 there; you may rest assured that your rations will be 
 scrupulously increased or diminished according to the 
 quantity of thread that you spin. 
 (She shuts the wicket.") 
 
 Ros. Am I dreaming ? Ho, Barberine ! Ho, Jean ! 
 Ho, Albert ! What does this mean ? The door is as firm 
 as a wall. It is fastened with iron bars : the windows are 
 barred, and the wicket is no bigger than my cap. Ho, 
 there somebody ; open ! open ! open ! open ! It is I, 
 Rosemberg. I am shut up here. Open, who will open to 
 me ? Is there any one here ? I beg that you will open to 
 me, if you please. Ho, you there, warder ; open to me, 
 sir, I beg you ! I will make signs from the window. Hi, 
 friend, come and open for me! He does not hear me. 
 Open ! open ! I am shut up. This room is on the first 
 storey. But what is this ? will no one open to me ? 
 
 Barb, (opening the wicket]. My lord, these cries are of 
 no use. It is beginning to get late. If you wish to sup, 
 it is time to set about spinning. 
 (She shuts the wicket?) 
 
 Ros. Ah, well ! it is a joke. Little rogue ! she wants to 
 rouse my spirit by this malicious freak. I shall be let 
 out in a quarter of an hour. I am a great fool to trouble 
 my head about it. Yes, not a doubt of it ; it is just a 
 trick; but it seems to me rather too bad. And all this 
 might make me cut an absurd figure. Hum ! to shut me 
 up in a turret. Is a man of my rank to be treated with so
 
 54 BARBERINE. [ACT III. 
 
 little respect ? Fool that I am ! This proves she loves me. 
 She would not treat one with such freedom if she had not 
 the sweetest recompense in store ; that is clear. Perhaps 
 it is to try my mettle ; and my looks are watched. To dis- 
 concert them a little I must begin singing quite gaily. 
 (Singing). 
 
 When the moorcock see 
 
 Sportsmen on the hill, 
 
 Hurrah by valley ! 
 
 Hurrah by rill ! 
 
 Hurrah for the gun 
 
 That is safe to kill- 
 Hurrah ! fill up, lads, 
 
 Hurrah, lads, fill ! 
 
 Kal. (opening the wickef). The mistress says that since 
 you are not spinning, you will doubtless do without supper, 
 and she thinks you are not hungry. So I wish you a good- 
 night. 
 
 (Shuts the wicket?) 
 
 Ros. Kalekairi! Listen to me, do! Do listen ! Come 
 and keep me company a little while. Can I be caught in a 
 trap ? This looks serious. To pass the night here supper- 
 less ; and it just happens that I am horribly hungry. How 
 long shall I be left here ? Certainly this is serious. Death 
 and furies ! Blood and thunder ! Accursed Barberine ! 
 Infamous, wretched assassin ! Curse upon you ! unlucky 
 dog that I am ! they will wall up the door. I shall be left 
 to die of hunger. It is Count Ulric's vengeance ! Alas, 
 alas ! have pity on me ! Count Ulric wishes my death, that
 
 ACT IILJ BARBERINE. 55 
 
 is certain ; and his wife executes his orders. Mercy, mercy, 
 I am dead I am lost ! Never again shall I see my father, 
 my poor aunt Beatrix. Alas ! ah heavens ! alas ; it is all 
 over with me 1 Barberine ! Madame the Countess ! 
 Dear Mademoiselle Kalekairi ! O rage ; fire and flames ! 
 Oh, if ever I get out, they shall all perish by my hand. I 
 will accuse them before the queen herself for assassins and 
 poisoners. Ah God, ah heaven, have pity on me ! 
 
 Barb, (opening the wickef). My lord, before going to bed 
 I come to learn if you have been spinning. 
 
 Ros. I am no spinster ! No, I have not spun. I do not 
 spin ; I am no spinster. Ah, Barberine, you shall pay for 
 this. 
 
 Barb. My lord, when you have spun, you may tell the 
 soldier who is mounting guard at your door. 
 
 Ros. Do not go away, Countess. In heaven's name, 
 listen to me ! 
 
 Barb. Spin, spin. 
 
 Ros. No, 'sdeath, zounds, I won't. I will break this 
 distaff. No, I would sooner die. 
 
 Barb. Good-bye, my lord. 
 
 Ros, One word more ; do not go. 
 
 Barb. What do you want ? 
 
 Ros. But Countess in truth I don't know how to 
 spin. How would you have me spin ? 
 
 Barb. Learn. 
 
 (She shuts the wicket?) 
 
 Ros. No ! never will I spin : not if the sky were to fall 
 and crush me. What a refinement of cruelty; there was 
 
 857
 
 56 BARBERINE. [Acr III. 
 
 this Barberine in deshabille. She is going to get into 
 bed; almost undressed, with her net on, and a hundred 
 times prettier than ever. Ah, night is coming. In an hour 
 hence it will no longer be light (ffe sits down.) So it is 
 decided; there is no doubt left that not only am I in prison, 
 but I am to be degraded by the lowest of tasks. If I do not 
 spin, my death is certain. Hunger spurs me cruelly. It 
 is six hours since I ate. Not a crumb since breakfast. 
 Wretched Uladislas ! may you die of hunger for your advice. 
 What the devil did I come here for? What put such a 
 thing into my head ? Much had I to do with this Count 
 Ulric and his prude of a countess. A pretty journey this ! 
 I had money, horses, and all was for the best. I might 
 have amused myself at court. A plague on the under- 
 taking. I shall have lost my patrimony, and I shall have 
 learnt to spin. The light is waning more and more, and 
 my hunger increases in proportion. Shall I be reduced to 
 spin. No, a thousand times no ! I would sooner die of 
 hunger as a nobleman. The devil ! Truly if I do not spin 
 it will soon be too late ! (ffe rises.) How is this distaff 
 made? What infernal machine is this? I understand 
 nothing about it. How does one set about it? I shall 
 break everything. How complicated it is ! Oh, heavens ! 
 I remember now she is looking at me. Most assuredly I 
 will not spin. 
 
 A Voice outside. Who goes there ? 
 (The curfew sounds.) 
 
 Ros. The curfew sounds. Barberine will be going to bed. 
 The lights are beginning to show. The mules pass along
 
 ACT III.] BARBERINE. 57 
 
 the road, and the cattle are coming back from the fields. 
 Oh, heavens ! to spend the night thus ! here in this prison, 
 without fire, light, or supper; cold and hunger! Ho, 
 there, friend ! Is there not a soldier on guard ? 
 
 Barb, (opening the wicket). Well ? 
 
 Ros. I am spinning, Countess, I am spinning. Send 
 me some supper. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 Rosemberg. Kalekairi. 
 
 Kal. (coming in with two dishes). Here is supper. 
 There are cucumbers and a lettuce salad. 
 
 Ros. Much obliged, indeed ! You played the spy and 
 now you are turnkey, wretched little Arab that you are! 
 Why did you take my sequins ? 
 
 Kal. (laying the purse on the table). Now I can give you 
 them back. 
 
 Ros. Bah ! money is no use to me in prison. 
 (Trumpets heard to sound.) 
 
 Who is that arriving? What noise is this? I hear a 
 clatter of horses in the court. 
 
 Kal. It is the queen coming here. 
 
 Ros. The Queen, do you say ? 
 
 Kal. And Count Ulric as well. 
 
 Ros. Count Ulric ! The Queen ! Ah ! I am undone ! 
 Kalekairi, get me out of this ! 
 
 Kal. No, you must stay here.
 
 58 BARBERINE. [Acx III. 
 
 Ros. I will give you as many sequins as you like ; but 
 for pity's sake let me out. Tell your guard to let me pass. 
 
 Kal. No. Why did you come ? 
 
 Ros. Ah ! you may well ask. Where is the Countess ? 
 I want to ask her pardon, or rather to accuse her. Yes, 
 accuse her before the Queen herself; for people cannot 
 be shut up in this way. Where is your mistress ? 
 
 Kal. On the doorstep, ready to receive the Queen. 
 
 Ros. And what the deuce is the Queen come here for ? 
 
 Kal. Kalekairi had written. 
 
 Ros. To the Queen ? 
 
 Kal. No; to Count Ulric. 
 
 Ros. And what about ? 
 
 Kal. For them to come here. 
 
 Ros. And find me in this cavern ? 
 
 Kal. No. When Kalekairi wrote she did not know you 
 would be made spin. 
 
 Ros. Ah ! So it was the Countess herself who was 
 inspired with this charming idea. 
 
 Kal. Yes ; and the Countess did not know that Kale- 
 kairi had written, for the Countess had written too. 
 
 Ros. She wrote too ! Very kind of her. 
 
 Kal. Yes ; while you were shouting so loud. She used 
 to go and look, and then come back. But Kalekairi had 
 written long before. Kalekairi had written as soon as you 
 spoke to her. 
 
 Ros. So there was first you and then the Countess ! 
 Two denunciations in place of one! Nothing could be 
 better. I was in good hands. Bewitched by two she-devils !
 
 ACT III.] BARBERINE. 59 
 
 The Sentinel (on the doorstep}. My lord, you are free. 
 The Queen is coming. 
 
 Ros. That is very lucky. Good-bye, Kalekairi! Tell 
 your mistress from me that I will not forgive her while I 
 live. And as for you may all your salads 
 
 Kal. It is very wrong of you, for my mistress said she 
 thought you very nice. Yes, and that you could not fail to 
 win the hearts of many ladies at court, but that this house 
 was not the right place. 
 
 Ros. Really ! She said so ? Well ! Kalekairi, I think 
 I forgive her. And as for you if you choose to be 
 discreet 
 
 KaL Oh, no ! 
 
 Ros. What ! You were boasting this morning 
 
 Kal. It was to know more this evening. Here is the 
 Queen, with all of them. 
 
 Ros. Ah ! I am caught 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 The same. The Queen. Ulric. Barberine. Courtiers, etc. 
 
 The Queen (to Barberine). Yes, Countess, we have been 
 pleased to come ourself and visit you. 
 
 Barb. Madame, our poor house is not worthy to receive 
 you. 
 
 The Queen. I count it an honour to be received here. 
 (To Rosemberg.) Well, Rosemberg, and your wager? 
 
 Ros. Is lost, Madame, as you see. 
 
 Kal. Yes ; lost with a vengeance.
 
 60 BARBERINE. [ACT III. 
 
 The Queen. Are you pleased with your journey ? What 
 do you think of this castle ? I hope you will not forget the 
 hospitality it affords. 
 
 Jtos. I shall not fail to remember it, Madame, whenever 
 I am guilty of a folly. 
 
 Kal. (aside to JRos.) That will be often. 
 
 The Queen. It is a pity that this one should cost you 
 somewhat dear. 
 
 Barb. Madame, if your majesty will deign to grant me 
 a favour, I will ask your consent to let this wager be 
 forgotten. 
 
 Ulric. I also ask it If I had doubted of my wife's 
 faith, I might profit by this wager, and be paid for my 
 anxiety ; but in all fairness I have gained nothing. Here is 
 the only reward I care for. 
 
 (He takes his wife's hand.) 
 
 Ros. By my patron saint, here is a true man 
 
 Kal. (aside to Ros.\ You are cured, are you not? 
 
 The Queen. If so it pleases you, I am content ; but our 
 royal word is pledged, and we cannot forget that we stood 
 witness to your quarrel. Therefore, Rosemberg, you shall 
 pay I 
 
 Ros. Madame, the money is all ready. 
 
 Kal. What will your aunt Beatrix say ? 
 
 The Queen. But you understand, Count Ulric, that if 
 our justice ordains that the value of the wager should be 
 handed to you, our power does not go so far as to constrain 
 you to accept it. Therefore, Rosemberg, in this matter you 
 shall make your suit to the Countess.
 
 ACT III.] BARBER1NE. 61 
 
 Ros. With all my heart, Madame; and were it 
 possible 
 
 The Queen. One moment. We have learnt the success 
 of this adventure from the lips of the Countess herself. 
 But these gentlemen do not know it, and it is right they 
 should be informed, as they assisted like ourselves at the 
 outset of the enterprise. Here are two letters which tell of 
 it. Rosemberg, you shall read them to us. 
 
 Barb. Ah, Madame 
 
 The Queen. Are you so generous ? Well, I will read 
 them myself. First, here is one addressed to the Count, 
 which is not long, for it only contains one word " Come." 
 Signed, " Kalekairi." Who wrote this ? 
 
 KaL It was I, Madame 
 
 The Queen. You said little, and said well : that is a rare 
 art. Now, gentlemen, here is the other: "My very dear 
 and honoured husband, We have just had a visit at the 
 chateau from the young Baron de Rosemberg, who said he 
 was your friend, and sent by you. Though a woman 
 generally and rightly keeps a secret of this nature, yet 
 I will tell you that he has spoken to me of love. I hope 
 that, at my instance and request, you will take no 
 vengeance for this, and will conceive no hatred against 
 him. He is a young man of good family, and has no 
 harm at all in him. He only needed to know how to 
 spin, and that I am going to teach him. If you 
 chance to see his father at court, tell him not to be uneasy. 
 He is in our great hall on the first floor, where he has a 
 spindle and distaff, and is spinning, or will spin. You will
 
 6a BARBERINE. [ACT III. 
 
 think it extraordinary that I have chosen this occupation 
 for him ; but as I perceived that while possessing good 
 qualities he only lacked reflection, I thought it best to teach 
 him this trade, which will permit him to reflect at his ease, 
 whilst at the same time it may enable him to earn his living. 
 You know that your great hall is closed with very solid bars. 
 I told him to wait for me there, and I shut him in. There 
 is a very convenient wicket in the wall, by which his food 
 shall be passed to him, so that I do not doubt that he will 
 leave here with much profit to himself; and if in the course 
 of his life there should befall him some misfortune, he will 
 congratulate himself on having in his hands a sure means of 
 livelihood for the rest of his days. I send you greeting, love, 
 and an embrace. BARBERINE." 
 
 If you laugh at this letter, my lords, God keep your wives 
 out of harm's way. Nothing is so grave a matter as honour. 
 Count Ulric, until to-morrow we will remain your guests; 
 and we purpose it should be known that we have made this 
 journey, followed by our whole court, to let all see that the 
 home which shelters an honourable woman is ground as 
 holy as the Church, and that kings leave their palaces for 
 the houses which are God's. 
 
 THE END OF BARBERINE.
 
 FANTASIO. 
 
 COMEDY IN TWO ACTS. 
 (PUBLISHED IN 1833 ; ACTED IN 1866.)
 
 Dramatis Persona. 
 
 THE KING OF BAVARIA. 
 
 THE PRINCE OF MANTUA. 
 
 MARINONI (his aide-de-camp}. 
 
 RUTTEN (secretary to the King). 
 
 FANTASIO, "| 
 
 SPARK, 
 
 HARTMAN, \youngmenofthetown. 
 
 FACIO, 
 
 Officers, pages, etc. 
 
 ELSBETH, daughter of the King of Bavaric. 
 
 The Governess of Elsbeth. 
 
 The Scene is at Munich.
 
 FANTASIO. 
 
 A COMEDY IN TWO ACTS. 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 SCENE I. The Court. 
 
 The King surrounded by his Courtiers. Rutten. 
 
 The King. My friends, it is already long since I 
 announced to you the betrothal of my dear Elsbeth to 
 the Prince of Mantua. To-day I announce to you the 
 arrival of the Prince. This evening perhaps, to-morrow 
 at latest, he will be in this palace. Let this be a day 
 of rejoicing for everybody. Let the prisons be thrown 
 open, and let the people pass the night in amusements. 
 Rutten, where is my daughter ? 
 (The Courtiers retire.) 
 
 Rut. Sire, she is in the park with her governess. 
 
 King. Why is it I have not seen her yet to-day? 
 Is she sad or merry over this marriage that we are 
 preparing ?
 
 66 FANTASIO. [ACT I. 
 
 Rut. It seemed to me that the Princess's countenance 
 was clouded with some melancholy. What girl is there 
 who does not dream the day before her nuptials ? She 
 was distressed about the death of St Jean. 
 
 King. Can you believe it ? The death of my 
 jester, a court buffoon, hunchbacked and almost 
 blind 
 
 Rut. The Princess liked him. 
 
 King. Tell me, Rutten ; you have seen the Prince. 
 What kind of man is he ? Alas, I am giving him the most 
 precious thing I have in the world, and I know nothing 
 of him. 
 
 Rut. My stay at Mantua was very short. 
 
 King. Speak frankly. Through what eyes, if not through 
 yours, can I see truth ? 
 
 Rut. Truly, your majesty, I can say nothing about the 
 noble prince's mind and character. 
 
 King. Stands it so? A courtier like you hesitates. 
 What a cloud of praises would already have filled the 
 air of this room, how many hyperboles and flattering 
 metaphors, if the prince who to-morrow will be my son- 
 in-law had seemed to you worthy of the title ! Can I be 
 mistaken, my friend ? Can I have chosen ill ? 
 
 Rut. Sire, the Prince passes for being the best of 
 kings. Policy is a subtle spider's web, in which struggles 
 many a poor mangled fly 
 
 King. I will sacrifice my daughter's happiness to no 
 interest ! 
 
 (Exeunt.}
 
 ACT I.] FANTASIO. 67 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A street. Spark, Hartman, and Facio drinking round 
 a table. 
 
 Hart. Since this is the Princess's wedding-day, let us 
 drink, let us smoke, and let us try to make a noise. 
 
 Facio. It would not be a bad thing to mix with all 
 this crowd of people who are tramping the streets, and 
 then snuff a few torches on honest burghers' heads. 
 
 Spark. Come, come, let us smoke quietly. 
 
 Hart. I will do nothing quietly. If I had to turn 
 bell-clapper and hang myself up in the big church bell, I 
 must be chiming on a feast day. Now where the devil is 
 Fantasio ? 
 
 Spark. Let's wait for him ; don't let us do anything 
 without him. 
 
 Facio. Bah, he will find us out in any case. He is 
 busy fuddling himself in some hole of the Rue Basse. 
 Holloa, ho, one last cup ! 
 (Raising his glass.) 
 
 An Officer (entering). Gentlemen, I come to beg you 
 to be good enough to move further away, if you do not 
 wish to be disturbed in your gaiety here. 
 
 Hart. Why, captain? 
 
 Officer. The Princess is this moment on the terrace you 
 see yonder, and you will easily understand that it is not 
 fitting that your shouts should reach her. (Exit.) 
 
 Facio. This is intolerable.
 
 68 FANTASIO. [Acx I. 
 
 Spark. Why can't we laugh elsewhere as well as 
 here? 
 
 Hart. Who is there to say we shall be allowed to laugh 
 elsewhere? You will see that a green-coated rascal will 
 spring up out of every street in the town to beg us go and 
 laugh in the moon. 
 
 (Enter Marinoni, covered with a cloak.) 
 
 Spark. The Princess has never done an act of despotism 
 in her life, God save her. If she does not want laughing, 
 that is because she is sad, or because she is singing ; let us 
 leave her in quiet 
 
 Facio. Humph ! yonder is a hood that has got wind of 
 some news. This quidnunc wants to accost us. 
 
 Mar. (approaching). I am a foreigner, gentlemen ; what 
 is the occasion of this festivity ? 
 
 Spark. Princess Elsbeth is being married. 
 
 Mar. Ah, ah ! she is a fine woman, as I suppose ? 
 
 Hart. You have said it just as you are a fine man. 
 
 Mar. Loved by her people, if I may venture the 
 remark, for it seems to me that the whole place is 
 illuminated. 
 
 Hart. You are not mistaken, honest stranger ; all these 
 lighted torches you see are, as you wisely remarked, nothing 
 else than an illumination. 
 
 Mar. I meant by that to inquire if the Princess is the 
 cause of these signs of joy ? 
 
 Hart. The sole cause, mighty rhetorician. We might 
 all marry in a body and there would be no sort of joy in 
 this thankless town.
 
 ACT I.] FANTASIO. 69 
 
 Mar. Happy the princess who knows how to make 
 herself loved by her people. 
 
 Hart. Lighted torches do not make the happiness of 
 a people, my primitive friend ; that does not hinder the 
 aforesaid princess from being as fanciful as a mock 
 shepherdess. 
 
 Mar. Indeed ; fanciful, you said. 
 
 Hart. I said so, dear incognito I employed that word. 
 (Afarinoni bows and withdraws.} 
 
 Facio. Who the deuce is this fellow after with his 
 Italian jargon ? There he is leaving us to get into talk 
 with another group. He savours plaguey strong of the spy. 
 
 Hart. He savours of nothing at all ; he is as stupid as 
 you please. 
 
 Spark. Here comes Fantasio. 
 
 Hart. Why, what's the matter with him? He struts 
 and jets like a justice of the peace. Either I am greatly 
 mistaken or some mad prank is ripening in his brain. 
 
 Facio. Well, friend, what shall we make of this lovely 
 evening ? 
 
 Fant. (entering). Anything, absolutely anything except 
 a new novel. 
 
 Facio. I was saying that we must plunge into this 
 rabble and have a little sport 
 
 Fant. The great thing would be to get cardboard noses 
 and squibs. 
 
 Hart. Take girls by the waist, pull the tails of the 
 burghers' wigs, and break the lanterns. Come, let's be 
 off, the word is said. 
 
 858
 
 70 FANTASIO. [ACT I. 
 
 Fant. Once on a time there was a King of Persia 
 
 Hart. Come on, Fantasio. 
 
 Fant. I'm not for you, I'm not for you. 
 
 Hart. Why? 
 
 Fant. Give me a glass of that. 
 (Drinking.') 
 
 Hart. You have the month of May on your cheeks. 
 
 Fant. That's true; and January in my heart. My head 
 is like an old grate without fire; nothing but wind and 
 ashes in it. Ouf! (Sitting down.} What a plague it is 
 that everybody should be amusing themselves! I would 
 like this great heavy sky to be a huge cotton nightcap, to 
 cover up this silly town and its silly inhabitants to the 
 very ears. Come, for pity's sake let me hear some worn-out 
 pun something really hackneyed. 
 
 Hart. Why? 
 
 Fant. To make me laugh. I can laugh no more at 
 folks' inventions ; perhaps I shall laugh at what I know. 
 
 Hart. You seem to me a thought misanthropic and 
 given to melancholy. 
 
 Fant. Not at all ; it is only that I am coming from my 
 mistress. 
 
 Facto. Yes or no are you for our party ? 
 
 Fant. I am for your party if you are for mine ; let us 
 stay here a little, talking of one thing or other, looking at 
 our new clothes. 
 
 Facio. No, by my word. If you are tired of standing, 
 I am tired of sitting ; I must exert myself in the open air. 
 
 Fant. I don't feel like exertion. I am going to smoke
 
 ACT L] FANTASIO. 7* 
 
 under these chestnuts with honest Spark here, who will keep 
 me company won't you, Spark ? 
 
 Spark. As you please. 
 
 Hart. In that case, good-bye. We are going to see the 
 sport. 
 
 (Exeunt Hartman and Fatio. Fantasia sits dmvn with 
 Spark.} 
 
 Fant. How miserably that sunset is done! Nature is 
 wretched this evening. Just look at the valley down 
 there and these four or five sorry clouds climbing up the 
 mountain. I used to do landscapes like that when I was 
 twelve years old, on the back of my school copy-books. 
 
 Spark. What good tobacco ! What good beer ! 
 
 Fant. I must certainly be boring you, Spark. 
 
 Spark. No. Why so ? 
 
 Fant. You bore me horribly. Does it not worry you 
 to see yourself every day with the same face ? What the 
 devil are Hartman and Facio going to do at those sports ? 
 
 Spark. They are two active lads that can't stay quiet. 
 
 Fant. Are not the "Arabian Nights" an admirable thing ? 
 Oh Spark, my dear Spark, if you would transport me to 
 China ! If I could only get out of my skin for an hour or 
 two ! If I could be that gentleman passing ! 
 
 Spark. That seems to me fairly difficult. 
 
 Fant. That gentleman passing is delightful. Look, what 
 fine silk breeches ; what fine red flowers on his vest ! His 
 trinkets of his watch-chain dance on his belly, balancing 
 the coat skirts that flutter about his calves. I am sure 
 that man has a thousand ideas in his head that are perfectly
 
 72 FANTASIO. [Acx I. 
 
 strange to me : his essence is peculiar to him. Alas ! 
 what men say to each other is all alike; the ideas they 
 exchange are nearly always the same in every conversation ; 
 but in the interior of those isolated machines what folds 
 there are, what secret compartments ! What each man 
 carries in him is an entire universe an unknown world 
 that is born and dies in silence. What solitudes are all 
 these human bodies ! 
 
 Spark. Can't you drink, you idle dog, instead of racking 
 your brains ? 
 
 Fant. Just one thing has amused me in the last three 
 days; that is, that my creditors have got a warrant out 
 against me, and that, if I set foot in my house, four tipstaves 
 will appear to take me by the nape of the neck. 
 
 Spark. Really that is very cheerful Where will you 
 sleep this evening ? 
 
 Fant. With the first girl I meet. Fancy that my 
 furniture is being sold to-morrow morning. We'll buy in 
 some of it, won't we ? 
 
 Spark. Are you short of money, Henry ? Will you have 
 my purse ? 
 
 Fant. Imbecile ! If I had no money I should not have 
 debts. I have a fancy to take a chorus girl for mistress. 
 
 Spark. That will bore you to extinction. 
 
 Fant. Not at all ; my imagination will be full of pirou- 
 ettes and white satin shoes ; there will be a glove of 
 mine on the balcony rail from the first of January to St. 
 Sylvester, and I will hum clarionet solos in my dreams, 
 till I die at last of an indigestion of strawberries, in the
 
 ACT L] FANTASIO. 73 
 
 arms of ray well-beloved. Do you notice one thing, 
 Spark you and I have no position ; we exercise no 
 profession ? 
 
 Spark. Is that what is depressing you ? 
 
 Fant. There is no such thing as a melancholy fencing- 
 master. 
 
 Spark. To my apprehension, you seem to have tried 
 everything and found all wanting. 
 
 Fant. Ah ! to have tried everything, my friend, one 
 must have travelled far. 
 
 Spark. Well then ? 
 
 Fant. Well then ? Where would you have me go ? 
 Look at this dingy old town ; there is not a square, a 
 street, an alley, I have not prowled over thirty times ; 
 there is not a pavement I have not dragged my worn-out 
 heels across, not a house where I don't know who is the 
 girl or the old woman whose stupid head is eternally in 
 relief at the window ; I can't take a step without walking 
 on yesterday's trail. Well, my dear friend, this town is 
 nothing to my brain. All its nooks are a hundred times 
 more familiar ; all the streets and all the holes of my 
 imagination a hundred times more worn out ; I have 
 strolled through that dilapidated brain, its sole inhabitant, 
 in a hundred times more directions ; I have fuddled 
 myself in all its publics ; I have rolled through it like 
 an absolute monarch in a gilded chariot ; I have ambled 
 through it like an honest burgher on a quiet mule, and 
 now I don't so much as dare enter there burglar-wise, with 
 a dark lantern in my hand.
 
 74 FANTASIO. [Acr I. 
 
 Spark. I cannot understand this perpetual working at 
 yourself : now, when I smoke, for instance, my thought 
 turns into tobacco smoke ; when I drink, it turns into 
 Spanish wine or Flemish beer ; when I kiss my mistress's 
 hand, it enters by the tips of her taper ringers to spread 
 itself in electric currents through her whole being ; the 
 scent of a flower will set my mind at work, and the 
 meanest object in the whole volume of universal nature 
 is enough to change me to a bee winging my way hither 
 and thither with a pleasure that is always fresh. 
 
 Fant. To put it briefly, you are fit to be a fisherman. 
 
 Spark. I am fit for anything if it amuses me. 
 
 Fant. Even to catch the moon in your teeth ? 
 
 Spark. That would not amuse me. 
 
 Fant. Ah, ah! How do you know? To catch the 
 moon in your teeth is not a thing to be despised. Let's go 
 and play trente et quarante. 
 
 Spark. No indeed 
 
 Fant. Why? 
 
 Spark. Because we should lose our money. 
 
 Fant. Ah ! good heavens ! what is this idea ? You are 
 at a loss to find something to harass your soul. Wretch ! 
 So you can only see the seamy side. Lose our money ! 
 Why, have you no faith in God, no hope left in your heart ? 
 Are you a frightful atheist, fit to wither my heart and rob 
 me of all my beliefs me, full of sap and youth as I am ? 
 (He begins dancing?) 
 
 Spark. Upon my word, there are certain moments when 
 I would not swear you were not mad.
 
 ACT I.] FANTASIO. 75 
 
 Fant. (still dancing). Give me a bell, a bell of glass ! 
 
 Spark. A bell for what ? 
 
 Fant. Has not Jean Paul said that a man absorbed in 
 a great thought is like a diver under his bell in the midst 
 of vast ocean ? I have no bell, Spark, no bell ; and I dance 
 like Jesus Christ on the vast ocean. 
 
 Spark. Turn journalist or literary man, Henry; it is 
 the most efficacious means left us to counteract misan- 
 thropy and deaden imagination. 
 
 Fant. Oh ! I wish I could lose my heart to a lobster 
 in mustard sauce, to a grisette, or a class of minerals. 
 Spark, let's try to build a house together. 
 
 Spark. Why don't you write down all your dreams ? 
 They would make a nice collection. 
 
 Fant. A sonnet is better than a long poem, and a glass 
 of wine is better than a sonnet. (Drinks.} 
 
 Spark. Why don't you travel ? Go to Italy. 
 
 Fant. I have been there. 
 
 Spark. Well, don't you think that a fine country ? 
 
 Fant. There are a quantity of flies there as big as 
 cockchafers that sting you all night. 
 
 Spark. Go to France. 
 
 Fant. There's no good Rhine wine in Paris. 
 
 Spark. Go to England. 
 
 Fant. I am there. Have the English a country of 
 their own ? I had as soon see them here as at home. 
 
 Spark. Go to the devil then. 
 
 Fant. Oh ! if only there were a devil in heaven : if 
 there were a hell, how gladly I would blow out my
 
 76 FANTASIO. [Acr I. 
 
 brains to go and see it all. What a wretched thing 
 man is ! Not to be able so much as to jump, through a 
 window without breaking his legs ! to be obliged to play the 
 violin ten years to become a decent musician ! to learn in 
 order to be a doctor or a groom ! to learn before he can 
 make an omelette ! Look, Spark, fancies come on me to sit 
 down on a parapet and watch the river flowing, and fall to 
 counting one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, and so on to 
 the day of my death. 
 
 Spark. This talk of yours would make many a man 
 laugh ; it makes me shudder ; it is the history of the whole 
 century. Eternity is a great eyry whence all the ages like 
 young eaglets have in their turn taken wing to cross heaven 
 and vanish. Ours has in its turn reached the nest's edge ; 
 but its pinions have been clipped, and it waits for death, 
 looking out upon the space into which it cannot wing its 
 way. 
 
 Fant. (singing) ~ 
 " Life of my life, say you : nay, soul, say, of my soul, 
 
 For soul it hath no ending, and life is but a day." 
 Do you know a diviner song than that, Spark ? It is 
 Portuguese. That song never came into my head without 
 making me want to love some one. 
 
 Spark. Whom, for instance? 
 
 Fant. Whom? I have not an idea some lovely girl 
 like the women Mieris draws, all swelling curves, something 
 soft as the west wind, pale as the moonbeams ; something 
 pensive as the little inn girls you see in Dutch pictures, who 
 hand the stirrup-cup to a jack-booted wayfarer sitting
 
 ACT I.J FANTAS2O. 77 
 
 straight as a stake on his tall white horse. Ah, the stirrup- 
 cup, what a beautiful thing ! A young woman on her 
 doorstep, the lighted fire seen at the back of her room, 
 supper ready, children sleeping ; all the repose of a life 
 of peace and quiet in one corner of the picture ; and there, 
 the man still panting but firm in his saddle, with twenty 
 leagues ridden and thirty to ride; a mouthful of brandy 
 and good-bye. The night is dark that way, the weather 
 threatening, the forest perilous; one moment the kind 
 woman's eyes follow him, then as she turns in again to her 
 fire she drops the glorious alms-gift of the poor : " God 
 protect him." 
 
 Spark. Henry, if you were in love you would be the 
 happiest man alive. 
 
 Fant. Love exists no longer, my dear friend. His 
 foster-mother, Religion, has her breasts hanging like an old 
 purse, with a great penny-piece in the heel of it. Love is 
 a host that must be broken in twain at the foot of an altar 
 to be swallowed in a mutual kiss ; there is no altar left, 
 there is no love left Long live nature ; there is still wine. 
 (Drinks.} 
 
 Spark. You will get drunk. 
 
 Fant. I will get drunk ; you have said it. 
 
 Spark. It is a little late for that. 
 
 Fant. What do you call late ? is noon late ? is midnight 
 early ? Where do you put the day ? Spark, I beg of you, 
 let us stay. Let us drink, chat, analyse, reason unreason, 
 talk politics ; let us devise governmental combinations ; let 
 us catch all the cockchafers that pass round this candle and
 
 78 F A NT A SI O. [ACT I. 
 
 put them in our pockets. Do you know that steam cannons 
 are a fine thing in the way of philanthropy ? 
 
 Spark. How do you mean ? 
 
 Fant. There was once on a time a king who was very 
 wise, and very, very happy 
 
 Spark. What next ? 
 
 Fant. The only thing wanting to his happiness was to 
 have children. He caused public prayers to be offered in 
 all the mosques 
 
 Spark. What are you driving at ? 
 
 Fant. I am thinking of my beloved "Arabian Nights." 
 That is how they all begin. Stop, Spark, I am tipsy. I 
 must do something or other. Tra la, tra la. Come, let's 
 get up. 
 
 (A funeral passes. ) ' 
 
 Hallo! honest men, who is that you are burying? This 
 is not the proper hour for burying. 
 
 The Bearers. We are burying St. Jean. 
 
 Fant. Saint Jean dead ? the king's jester dead ? Who 
 has got his place? the Lord Chief-Justice ? 
 
 The Bearers. His place is vacant ; you may take it if you 
 choose. 
 
 (Exeunt.} 
 
 Spark. There is an impertinence you fairly brought on 
 yourself. What were you thinking of to stop these people ? 
 
 Fant. There is no impertinence. It is a friend's advice 
 that this man gave me, and I am going to follow it on the 
 spot. 
 
 Spark. You are going to turn court jester.
 
 ACT I.] FANTASIO. 79 
 
 Fant. This very night, if they will have me. Since I 
 cannot sleep at home, I wish to give myself the sight of the 
 royal comedy that is to be played to-morrow, and that from 
 the king's own box. 
 
 Spark. How clever ! you will be recognised, and the 
 lackeys will turn you out of doors. Are you not the late 
 queen's godchild? 
 
 Fant. What a fool ! I will put on a hump and red wig, 
 like what Saint Jean wore, and no one will recognise me, 
 not if I had three dozen godmothers at my heels. 
 (Knocking at a shop.) 
 
 Ho ! honest man, open to me, if you are not out ; you 
 and your wife and your puppies. 
 
 A Tailor (opening the shop}. What does your lordship 
 desire ? 
 
 Fant. Are you not the court tailor ? 
 
 Tailor. At your service. 
 
 Fant. Was it you who used to make Saint Jean's 
 clothes ? 
 
 Tailor. Yes, sir. 
 
 Fant. You knew him ? You know which side his hump 
 was, how he curled his moustache, and what sort of wig he 
 wore ? 
 
 Tailor. Ho, ho I you are pleased to be merry, sir. 
 
 Fant. Man, I would not be merry : go into your back 
 shop ; and if you do not wish to be poisoned to-morrow in 
 your coffee, meditate how to be silent as the grave about all 
 that shall pass here. 
 
 (Exit with Tailor. Spark follows?)
 
 8o FANTASIO. [ACT I. 
 
 SCENE III. An inn on the road to Munich. 
 Enter the Prince of Mantua and Marinoni. 
 
 Prince. Well, Colonel ? 
 
 Mar. Your highness? 
 
 Prince. Well, Marinoni ? 
 
 Mar. Melancholic, fanciful, a madcap, submissive to 
 her father, a great lover of green peas. 
 
 Prince. Write that down ; I never understand a thing 
 clearly unless I have it in a sloping hand. 
 
 Mar. (writing). Melancho 
 
 Prince. Write under your breath. Since dinner I have 
 been dreaming of an important project. 
 
 Mar. Your highness, there is what you desire. 
 
 Prince. Good; I appoint you my intimate friend; I know 
 no better writing than yours in all my kingdom. Sit down 
 a little distance off. So you think, my friend, that the 
 character of my future spouse, the princess, is secretly 
 known to you ? 
 
 Mar. Yes, your highness ; I have traversed the sur- 
 roundings of the palace, and these tablets contain 
 the chief heads of the different conversations in which 
 I joined. 
 
 Prince (viewing himself}. It seems to me that I am 
 powdered like a man of the lowest class. 
 
 Mar. The coat is splendid. 
 
 Prince. What would you say, Marinoni, if you saw your 
 master don a plain olive frock-coat?
 
 ACT I.] FANTASIO. 81 
 
 Mar. His highness mocks my credulity. 
 
 Prince. No, Colonel. Learn that your master is the 
 most romantic of men. 
 
 Mar. Romantic, your highness ? 
 
 Prince. Yes, my friend (I granted you this title), the 
 important project that I meditate is one unheard of in my 
 family. I propose to arrive at the king, my father-in-law's 
 court, in the garb of a plain aide-de-camp; it is not enough 
 to have sent a man of my household to collect public 
 rumours concerning the future Princess of Mantua (and 
 that man, Marinoni, is yourself) ; I wish further to observe 
 with my own eyes. 
 
 Mar. Is this true, your highness ? 
 
 Prince. Do not stand aghast. A man like me should 
 have as intimate friend none but a vast and enterprising 
 spirit. 
 
 Mar. One thing alone seems to me to oppose your 
 highness's design. 
 
 Prince. What ? 
 
 Mar. The idea of such a masquerade could only belong 
 to the glorious prince who rules us. But if my gracious 
 sovereign is confounded with the staff, to whom will the 
 King of Bavaria do the honours of a splendid banquet 
 which is to take place in the great gallery ? 
 
 Prince. You are right; if I disguised myself some one 
 must take my place. That is impossible, Marinoni; I had 
 not thought of that ! 
 
 Mar. Why impossible, your highness? 
 
 Prince. I may certainly lower the princely dignity as far
 
 82 F ANT A SI O. [ACT I. 
 
 as the rank of colonel ; but how can you think that I would 
 consent to elevate to my rank any man, be he who he may ? 
 Besides, do you think that my future father-in-law would 
 forgive me ? 
 
 Mar, The king passes for a man of much sense and wit, 
 with an agreeable humour. 
 
 Prince. Oh! it is not without reluctance that I give up 
 my project. To penetrate into this new court without 
 pomp or noise, to observe everything, to approach the 
 princess under an assumed name, perhaps to win her hand ! 
 Oh ! I grow dizzy ! it is impossible. Marinoni, my friend, 
 try on my state dress ; I cannot resist it. 
 
 Mar. (bowing low). Your highness ! 
 
 Prince. Do you think future ages will soon forget such 
 a circumstance ? 
 
 Mar. Never, my gracious prince ! 
 
 Prince. Come and try on my coat 
 (Exeunt.)
 
 ACT II.] FANTASIO. 83 
 
 ACT THE SECOND. 
 
 SCENE I. Garden of the King of Bavaria. 
 
 Enter Elsbeth and Jier Governess. 
 
 Gov. My poor eyes have wept for him, wept a torrent 
 of rain. 
 
 Elsb. You are so kind. I loved Saint Jean too; he 
 was so witty. He was no common jester. 
 
 Gov. To think that he departed, poor fellow, the very 
 day before your betrothal. He who spoke, dinner and 
 supper, of nothing but you as long as the day lasted. Such 
 a lively, merry fellow too, that he made ugliness lovable, 
 and that eyes in their own despite could not choose but 
 follow him. 
 
 Elsb. Don't talk to me of my marriage ; that is a worse 
 mishap yet. 
 
 Gov. Don't you know that the Prince of Mantua comes 
 to-day ? Folk say he is an Amadis. 
 
 Elsb. What is that you say, my dear? He is horrible 
 and idiotic, and everybody here knows that already. 
 
 Gov. Really; I had been told he was an Amadis. 
 
 Elsb. I did not ask for an Amadis, my dear; but it
 
 84 FAMTAS2O. [ACT II. 
 
 is a cruel thing sometimes to be nothing but a king's 
 daughter. My father is the best of men ; the marriage he 
 is arranging assures the peace of his kingdom ; he will find 
 his recompense in a people's blessing ; but as for me, alas ! 
 I shall have his, and that is all 
 
 Gov. How sadly you speak ! 
 
 Elsb. If I refused the prince, war would soon be set 
 on foot once more ; it is a pity these treaties of peace are 
 always signed with tears. I wish I could be a strong- 
 minded woman, and resign myself to wed the first-comer 
 when policy demands it. To be the mother of a people 
 may console high hearts but not weak brains. I am 
 only a poor dreamer; perhaps the blame lies with your 
 romances, for you have one always in your pocket. 
 
 Gov. Mercy ! never speak of it. 
 
 Elsb, I have small skill of life and many dreams. 
 
 Gov. If the Prince of Mantua is such as you say, God 
 will not let this affair be concluded, I am certain. 
 
 Elsb. You think so ! God leaves men to themselves, 
 my poor friend, and scarcely heeds our prayers more than 
 the bleatings of a sheep. 
 
 Gov. I am sure if you refused the prince, your father 
 would put no constraint on you. 
 
 Elsb. Certainly he would not constrain me, and that is 
 why I sacrifice myself. Would you have me go to my 
 father and bid him forget his word, and with one stroke of 
 the pen erase his honourable name from a contract that 
 makes thousands happy. What matter that it makes one 
 woman wretched ? I let my good father be a good king.
 
 ACT II.] FANTASIO. 85 
 
 Gov. Ee! Ee! (Cries.} 
 
 Elsb. Don't cry over it, my kind girl; you might 
 perhaps make me cry myself; and a royal betrothed must 
 not have red eyes. Don't afflict yourself over all this. 
 After all I shall be a queen, perhaps that is amusing ; per- 
 haps I shall acquire a taste for my jewels how can I tell ? 
 for my coaches and my new court. Happily marriage brings 
 a princess something else besides a husband. Perhaps I 
 shall find happiness folded away under my trousseau. 
 
 Gov. You are a perfect paschal lamb. 
 
 Elsb. Come, my dear, let us begin anyhow by laughing 
 at this ; we shall be free to cry when the time comes 
 for tears. They say the Prince of Mantua is the most 
 laughable creature in the world. 
 
 Gov. If Saint Jean were here ! 
 
 Elsb. Ah, Saint Jean ! Saint Jean ! 
 
 Gov. You were very fond of him, my child ! 
 
 Elsb. It is odd ; his wit bound me to him with imper- 
 ceptible threads that seemed to come from my heart ; his 
 perpetual mockery of my romantic ideas delighted me 
 beyond measure. Whilst I can scarcely tolerate many a 
 person who is just of my own way of thinking, I don't 
 know what it was about him ; something in his eyes, in his 
 motions, in the way he took his snuff. He was a strange 
 man ; as he spoke to me delicious pictures passed before 
 my eyes ; his speech gave life, as if by enchantment, to the 
 unlikeliest things. 
 
 Gov. He was a real Triboulet 
 
 Elsb. I don't know about that ; but he was a gem of wit 
 
 859
 
 86 FANTASIO. [Acx II. 
 
 Gov. Here is a hurry-scurry of pages. I think the 
 Prince will not be long in making his appearance; you 
 should go back to the palace to dress. 
 
 Elsb. I entreat of you, leave me another quarter of an 
 hour. Go and get ready what I need. Alas ! my dear, I 
 have little time left for dreams now. 
 
 Gov. Good heavens ! is it possible that this marriage 
 should be accomplished if you dislike it ; a father sacrifice 
 his daughter I The king would be a perfect Jephtha if he 
 did that 
 
 Elsb. Don't speak evil of my father. Go, dear, and 
 look me out what I want. 
 (Exit Governess.} 
 
 Elsb. (alone}. It seems to me there is some one behind 
 those shrubs. Is it the ghost of my poor jester that I see 
 sitting in the meadow among the corn-flowers ? Answer 
 me ; who are you ? What are you about there pulling those 
 flowers ? 
 
 (She advances towards the mound.} 
 
 Fant. (sitting, dressed as a jester^ hump and wig). I am 
 an honest flower-picker, who wishes good-day to your fair 
 face. 
 
 Elsb. What is the meaning of this accoutrement? Who 
 are you that you should come and travesty a man I loved 
 with that great wig of yours ? Are you apprenticed to 
 buffoonery ? 
 
 Fant. So please your most serene highness, I am the 
 king's new jester; the major-domo has accorded me a 
 favourable reception. Since yesterday evening the scullions
 
 ACT II.] FANTAS1O. 87 
 
 have become my patrons; and I am modestly picking 
 flowers till the wit comes to me. 
 
 Elsb. It seems to me highly questionable whether that 
 is a flower you will ever pluck 
 
 Fant. Why ? wit may visit a man who is old just as it 
 might a girl. Sometimes it is so nice a matter to tell a 
 witty sally from a piece of flat stupidity. Speak plenty; 
 there you have the main point : the worst shot may hit the 
 bull's-eye with a pistol if he fires seven hundred and eighty 
 rounds a minute, just as well as the most skilful marksman 
 who only fires his one or two well aimed. I only ask 
 to be fed suitably to the girth of my belly, and I will 
 watch my shadow in the sunlight to see if my wig is 
 growing. 
 
 Elsb. So that here you are, clad in Saint Jean's cast-offs. 
 You do well to speak of your shadow : so long as you wear 
 the costume, it will always, I believe, be liker him than 
 you are. 
 
 Fant. At this moment I am composing an elegy that 
 will decide my fate. 
 
 Elsb. In what sort? 
 
 Fant. It will prove clearly that I am the head man of 
 the universe, or else indeed it will be worth nothing. I am 
 busy turning the universe upside down to get it into an 
 acrostic. Moon, sun, and stars fight for a place in my 
 rhymes, like schoolboys at the entry of a melodrama 
 playhouse. 
 
 Elsb. Poor fellow ! what a business you have taken in 
 hand to be witty at so much an hour ! Have you no arms
 
 88 FANTASIO. [Acr II. 
 
 or legs, and would you not do better to plough and harrow 
 earth than your own brain ? 
 
 Fant. Poor child ! what a business you have taken in 
 hand to marry a fool you never saw ! Have you no head 
 or heart, and would you not do better to sell your dresses 
 than sell your body ? 
 
 Elsb, This is bold, sir new-comer. 
 
 Fant. What do you call this flower, pray ? 
 
 Elsb. A tulip. What are you for proving ? 
 
 Fant. A red tulip or a blue tulip ? 
 
 Elsb. Blue as it appears to me. 
 
 Fant. Not a bit of it ; it is a red tulip. 
 
 Elsb. Do you want to put a new-fashioned coat on an 
 old adage ? You do not need that, to tell me that about 
 tastes and colours there is no disputing. 
 
 Fant. I am not disputing : I tell you this tulip is a red 
 tulip, and yet I allow it is blue. 
 
 Elsb. How do you settle that ? 
 
 Fant. Like your marriage. What man under the sun 
 can say whether he was born blue or red : the very tulips 
 know nothing of it: gardeners and lawyers make such 
 extraordinary grafts that apples turn pumpkins, and that 
 thistles leave the ass's mouth to be drowned in sauce on a 
 bishop's silver plate. This tulip you see no doubt expected 
 to be red ; but it was married ; it is quite surprised at being 
 blue; this is how the whole world is metamorphosed under 
 the hands of man; and poor my lady nature must laugh 
 in her own face heartily from time to time when she 
 surveys in her lakes and her seas this eternal masquerade of
 
 ACT II.] FANTAS1O. 89 
 
 hers. Do you believe that was how the rose smelt in 
 Moses' paradise ? It only smelt of green hay. The 
 rose is a daughter of civilisation; a marchioness just like 
 you or I. 
 
 Elsb. The hawthorn's pale flower may turn to a rose, 
 and a thistle to an artichoke; but one flower cannot be 
 made into another : so what matter to nature ? You cannot 
 change her; you beautify her or you kill. The meanest 
 violet would die rather than yield if some one wanted, 
 through artificial means, to alter its form by one stamen. 
 
 Fant. That is why I think more of a violet than of a 
 king's daughter. 
 
 Elsb. There are certain things which even jesters have 
 no right to mock at : bear that in mind. If you listened to 
 my conversation with my governess, mind your ears. 
 
 Fant. Not my ears, but my tongue. You miss the 
 sense ; your words have the wrong sense. 
 
 Elsb. Pun me no puns, if you would earn your money, 
 and avoid comparing me to tulips if you don't want to earn 
 something else. 
 
 Fant. Who knows? a pun consoles many griefs, and 
 playing with words is as good a way as any other to play 
 with thoughts, actions, and creatures. All in this world 
 below is one great joke, and it is as hard to read the looks 
 of a child of four years old as to construe the rubbish of 
 three modern melodramas. 
 
 Elsb. You seem to me to look out on the world through 
 a somewhat changing prism. 
 
 Fant. We all have our spectacles, but no one can tell to
 
 90 FAN T A SI O. [Acr II. 
 
 a shade the colour of the glass. Who can tell me to a 
 nicely whether I am happy or unhappy, good or bad, sad or 
 merry, dull or witty ? 
 
 Elsb. You are ugly at least ; so much is certain. 
 
 Fant. Not surer than your beauty. Here comes your 
 father with your future husband. Who can say whether 
 you will marry him ? 
 (Exit.} 
 
 Elsb. Since I cannot avoid the interview with the 
 Prince of Mantua, I shall do as well to go to meet him. 
 
 (Enter the King, Marinoni in Prince's costume, and the 
 Prince dressed as aide-de-camp^) 
 
 King. Prince, here is my daughter. Pardon her 
 gardening dress. Here, you are under the roof of a citizen 
 who governs other citizens, and our etiquette is as indulgent 
 toward ourselves as toward them. 
 
 Mar. Allow me to kiss this charming hand, madam, if 
 it be not too great a favour for my lips. 
 
 Princess. Your highness will excuse me if I go into the 
 palace. I shall see your highness, I presume, in a more 
 fitting manner at to-night's leve"e. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Prince. The Princess is right ; here is a divine modesty. 
 
 King (to Marinoni). Who is this aide-de-camp, pray, 
 who dogs you like your shadow? It is intolerable to me to 
 hear him vent an inept remark at whatever we say. Send 
 him away, I beg. 
 
 (Marinoni whispers the Prince). 
 
 Prince. It is very adroit on your part to have persuaded
 
 ACT II.] FANTASIO. 91 
 
 him to dismiss me. I will try to meet the Princess, and 
 drop a few delicate words to her without seeming to mes.n 
 anything. 
 (Exit.} 
 
 King. That aide-de-camp is an imbecile, my friend 
 What use can the fellow be ? 
 
 Mar. Hum ! hum ! Let us push on a few steps farther, 
 by your Majesty's leave. I think I see a perfectly charming 
 summer-house in this thicket. 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 SCENE II. Another part of tJie garden. 
 Enter the Prince. 
 
 Prince. My disguise suits me to admiration. I observe 
 and I win hearts. So far all runs to the measure of my 
 wishes. The father seems to me a great king, though a little 
 unconventional, and it would surprise me if I have not found 
 favour with him from the very first. I see the Princess 
 returning to the palace. Chance favours me strangely. 
 (Enter Elsbeth ; the Prince approaches her.} Your highness, 
 permit a loyal servant of your future spouse to offer you the 
 congratulations that overflow at sight of you from his 
 humble and devoted heart. Happy are the great ones of 
 earth ; they can wed with you, not I. That is an absolute 
 impossibility for me. I am of obscure birth ; all my wealth 
 is a name the foeman dreads ; a heart pure and unspotted 
 beats under this poor uniform. I am a poor soldier, riddled 
 from head to foot with bullets. I have not a ducat. I am
 
 92 FANTASIO. [Acx II. 
 
 a solitary and an exile from my native land, as I am from 
 my country in heaven, that is from the paradise of my 
 dreams. I have no woman's heart to press to mine. I am 
 accursed and silent. 
 
 Elsb. What would you have with me, my dear sir ? Are 
 you mad, or are you asking for alms ? 
 
 Prince. How hard a task it would be to find words to 
 express my feelings ! I saw you passing, unaccompanied, 
 in this garden path ; I thought it my duty to throw myself at 
 your feet, and offer you my company as far as the postern. 
 
 Elsb. I am obliged to you. Do me the service to leave 
 me undisturbed. (Exit.) 
 
 Prince (sol.). Can I have been wrong to accost her? 
 Nevertheless, it was necessary, since I entertain the project 
 of seducing her under my assumed garb. Yes, I did well to 
 accost her. Nevertheless, she answered me in a disagreeable 
 manner. Perhaps I ought not to have pressed her so 
 hotly. Yet it was absolutely necessary, since her marriage 
 is all but settled, and since I am to step into my deputy 
 Marinoni's shoes. I was right to be so hot with her. But 
 the answer mislikes me. Can she have a false, hard heart ? 
 It would be well to sound the matter dexterously. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 SCENE III. An ante-chamber. 
 Fantasia lying on a carpet. 
 
 Fant. What a delicious life is this jester's ! I was tipsy 
 yesterday, I think, when I assumed this costume, and
 
 ACT II. ] FANTASIO. 93 
 
 presented myself at the palace ; but upon my word, never did 
 sound reason inspire me with an idea that was worth this act 
 of folly. I make my appearance, and here I am accepted, 
 petted, put on the books, and, better still, forgotten. I 
 come and go in this palace as if I had lived in it all my life. 
 I met the king a moment ago ; he had not so much as the 
 curiosity to look at me. His jester being dead, they told 
 him, " Sire, here is another ! " It is admirable. Thank God, 
 there is my mind at rest ; I can play all the pranks possible 
 without a word said to prevent me, I am one of the King 
 of Bavaria's domestic animals, and if I choose, so long as 
 I keep my hump and my wig, they will let me live between 
 a spaniel and a guinea-fowl, till the day of my death. 
 Meanwhile, my creditors may break their noses against my 
 door at their leisure. I am just as much in safety here, 
 under this wig, as I should be in the West Indies. 
 
 Is not that the Princess I see through this glass in the 
 next room ? She is putting a few touches to her wedding 
 veil ; two long tears are trickling down her cheeks ; look, 
 there is one detaching itself and falling on her breast like a 
 pearl. Poor child : I overheard her talk with the governess 
 this morning ; on my faith it was by accident ; I was sitting 
 on the turf without any purpose but to sleep. Now there 
 she is crying, and never suspecting that I see her again. 
 Ah ! were I a student of rhetoric, how profound would be 
 my reflections on this crowned misery, this poor ewe lamb, 
 round whose neck they are tying a pink ribbon to lead her to 
 the slaughter-house ! That little girl is romantic, no doubt : 
 it is a cruel trial to her to wed a man she does not know.
 
 94 FANTASIO. [Acx II. 
 
 Yet she sacrifices herself in silence. How capricious 
 fortune is ! needs must I get drunk, meet Saint Jean's 
 funeral, assume his garb and his place, play in short the 
 maddest trick that ever was played, just to come and 
 through this glass see falling the only two tears perhaps 
 that the child will shed on her unhappy wedding veil. 
 (Exit.} 
 
 SCENE IV. A garden walk. 
 The Prince. Marinoni. 
 
 Prince. You are no better than a fool, Colonel 
 
 Mar. Your highness labours under a most painful error 
 in regard to me. 
 
 Prince. You are an arch blockhead. Could you not 
 prevent that ? I entrust to you the greatest project which 
 has been conceived these God knows how many years, and 
 you, my best friend, my most loyal servant, pile up blunder 
 upon blunder. No, no ; it is all very fine talking that is 
 in no way to be forgiven. 
 
 Mar. How could I prevent your highness from drawing 
 down upon yourself the inconveniences which are the 
 necessary consequence of the part you are supposed to 
 play ? You order me to take your name and behave like a 
 real Prince of Mantua. Can I prevent the King of Bavaria 
 from offering an affront to my aide-de-camp? You were 
 wrong to interfere in our business. 
 
 Prince. I should like to see an upstart like you take upon 
 himself to give me orders.
 
 ACT II.] FANTASIO. 95 
 
 Mar. Reflect, your highness, that nevertheless I must 
 be the prince or must be the aide-de-camp. It is by your 
 order I act. 
 
 Prince. Tell me before the whole court that I am an 
 impertinent fellow because I wanted to kiss the Princess's 
 hand ! I am ready to declare war upon him and return to 
 my States, to put myself at the head of my armies. 
 
 Mar. Do remember, your highness, that this sorry 
 compliment was addressed to the aide-de-camp and not to 
 the prince. Do you claim to be respected in that disguise ? 
 
 Prince. That will do. Give me back my coat. 
 
 Mar. (taking of the coat}. If my sovereign makes a point 
 of it, I am ready to die for him. 
 
 Prince. Upon my word, I don't know what conclusion to 
 come to. On the one hand I am furious at what happens to 
 me, and on the other I am miserable at giving up my plan. 
 The Princess appears to reply not with indifference to the 
 double meanings with which I unremittingly pursue her. 
 Already I have gone so far two or three times as to whisper her 
 things you would not believe. Come, let us think it all over. 
 
 Mar. (holding the coat.} What shall I do, your highness? 
 
 Prince. Put it on, put it on ; and let us go into the 
 palace. 
 
 (Exeunt.} 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Princess Elslcth. The King. 
 
 King. Daughter, you must give a frank answer to my 
 question : do you dislike this marriage ?
 
 96 FANTAS2O. [Acr II. 
 
 Elsb. It is for you, sire, to answer it yourself. I like it 
 if you like it; I dislike it if you dislike it. 
 
 King. The Prince appeared to me to be a common- 
 place man, of whom it is hard to find anything to say. His 
 aide-de-camp's silliness is the only thing that damages him 
 in my opinion. As for himself, he is perhaps a kind prince, 
 but he is not a man of breeding. There is nothing in him 
 that attracts me or repels me. What can I say to you on this 
 subject? The hearts of women have secrets that I cannot 
 know : sometimes they make such strange heroes for them- 
 selves ; they seize so oddly upon one or two sides in the 
 nature of the man presented to them, that it is impossible to 
 judge for them, when one is not guided by some obvious point. 
 Tell me plainly then what you think of your betrothed. 
 
 Elsb. I think that he is Prince of Mantua, and that war 
 will begin again to-morrow between you and him if I do 
 not marry him. 
 
 King. That is certain, my child. 
 
 Elsb. I think accordingly that I will marry him, and 
 that the war will be ended. 
 
 King. May the blessings of my people give thanks 
 on thy father's behalf ! Ah, my sweet daughter ! I should 
 be happy in this alliance, but I would fain not see that sad- 
 ness in these fair blue eyes give the lie to their resignation. 
 Reflect a few days yet. 
 
 (Exit. Enter Fantasia?) 
 
 Elsb. There you are, poor lad ! How do you like your 
 life here ? 
 . Fant. As a bird its freedom.
 
 ACT II.] FANTASIO. 97 
 
 Elsb. You might have answered better, as a bird its 
 cage. This palace is a fine cage enough, yet it is one. 
 
 Fant. The dimensions of a palace or a room do not 
 make man more or less free. The body moves where it 
 can : imagination sometimes spreads its wings as wide 
 as heaven in a dungeon scarce bigger than my hand. 
 
 Elsb. So you are a happy fool then ? 
 
 Fant. Very happy. I hold conversation with the 
 puppies and the scullions. There is a cur only so high 
 in the kitchen who said charming things to me. 
 
 Elsb. In what language ? 
 
 Fant. In the purest style. He would not make a single 
 mistake in grammar in the space of a year. 
 
 Elsb. Could I hear a few words in this style ? 
 
 Fant. By my word, I would not have you to; it is a 
 tongue that is peculiar to him. It is only curs that speak 
 it; the trees and the very ears of wheat know it too; but 
 king's daughters don't know it. When is your wedding to be ? 
 
 Elsb. In a few days it will be all over. 
 
 Fant. That is to say, it will all be begun. I mean to 
 offer you a present from my own hand. 
 
 Elsb. What present ? You make me anxious. 
 
 Fant. I mean to offer for your acceptance a pretty little 
 stuffed canary bird, that sings like a nightingale. 
 
 Elsb. How can he sing if he is stuffed ? 
 
 Fant. It sings to perfection. 
 
 Elsb. Oh my word, you show a rare persistence in your 
 mockery of me. 
 
 Fant. Not at all. My canary has a little musical-box
 
 98 FANTASIO. [Acx II. 
 
 in his stomach. You touch gently a little spring under the 
 left claw, and he sings all the new operas exactly like 
 Mademoiselle Grisi. 
 
 Elsb. It is an invention of your brain, doubtless ? 
 
 Fant. By no means. It is a court canary: there are 
 plenty of very well-brought-up little girls who work in 
 precisely the same manner. They have a little spring 
 under their left arm a nice little spring of fine diamond, 
 like a dandy's watch. The tutor or governess sets the 
 spring working, and immediately you see the lips open 
 with the most gracious smile. A charming cascade of 
 honeyed words issues with the softest murmuring, and all 
 the social decencies like light-foot nymphs forthwith fall 
 a-tripping on tiptoe round the marvellous fountain. The 
 aspirant opens dumbfoundered eyes ; the company whisper 
 indulgently ; and the father, filled with a secret satisfaction, 
 proudly contemplates his golden shoe-buckles. 
 
 Elsb. You seem to recur willingly to certain subjects. 
 Tell me, fool, what can the poor young women have done 
 to you to make you satirise them so light-heartedly? 
 Cannot regard for any duty find favour in your eyes ? 
 
 Fant. I have a deal of respect for ugliness. That is 
 why I respect myself so profoundly. 
 
 Elsb. You seem sometimes to know more than your 
 words say. Where do you come from then, and who are 
 you, that you who have been here but one day can already 
 fathom mysteries which princes themselves will never 
 suspect ? Are your follies aimed at me, or are you talking 
 at random ?
 
 ACT II.] FANTAS1O. 99 
 
 Fant. I am talking at random. Random and I are old 
 friends. 
 
 Elsb. Indeed ! He seems to have told you what you 
 had no business to know. I am ready to believe that you 
 spy upon my actions and my words. 
 
 Fant. Heaven knows ! What matter is it to you ? 
 
 Elsb. More than you can fancy. A moment ago in this 
 room, while I was putting on my veil, I suddenly heard a 
 step behind the tapestry. I am greatly mistaken if the step 
 was not yours. 
 
 Fant. Be sure that that will always be between me and 
 your pocket-handkerchief. I am no more indiscreet than 
 inquisitive. What pleasure could your vexations give me ? 
 What vexation could your pleasures give me? You are 
 this ; I am that. You are young ; and I am old. Fair ; 
 and I am ugly. Rich ; and I am poor. You see plainly 
 that we have nothing in common. What does it matter to 
 you that chance on his grand highway has made two wheels 
 cross that do not follow the same rut, and which cannot 
 mark the same dust ? Is it my fault if, while I slept, one 
 of your tears fell on my cheek ? 
 
 Elsb. You speak to me in the guise of a man I loved. 
 That is why I listen to you in my own despite. My eyes 
 think they see Saint Jean ; but perhaps you are only a 
 spy. 
 
 Fant. What good would that do me ? Suppose it were 
 true that your marriage cost you a few tears ; suppose that 
 I had learnt the fact by chance, what should I gain by 
 going to blab of it ? No one would give me a pistole for
 
 TOO FANTASIO. {ACT II. 
 
 the news ; and no one would put you in the Black Hole. 
 I understand very well that it must be a great bore to marry 
 the Prince of Mantua ; but, after all, it is not I who under- 
 took it. To-morrow, or the day after, you will be off to 
 Mantua with your wedding-dress, and I. shall be here still 
 on this stool in my old hose. Why would you have me bear 
 you a grudge ? I have no reason to desire your death. 
 You never lent me money. 
 
 Elsb. But if chance made you see what I would have 
 hidden, should I not turn you out of doors for fear of a 
 fresh accident ? 
 
 Font. Do you mean to compare me to a tragedy 
 confidant? and are you afraid that I should follow your 
 shadow declaiming? Do not send me away, I beg. I 
 amuse myself excellently here. Stay; there is your 
 governess coming up with a pocket-full of mysteries. The 
 proof that I will not eavesdrop is, that I am off to the 
 pantry to eat a plover's wing, which the major-domo set 
 apart for his wife. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Gov. (entering). Do you know a terrible thing, my dear 
 Elsbeth ? 
 
 Elsb. What do you mean ? You are trembling all over. 
 
 Gov. The Prince is not the Prince, nor the aide-de-camp 
 either. It is a perfect fairy tale. 
 
 Elsb. What is this comedy of errors ? 
 
 Gov. Hush, hush ! It is one of the Prince's own 
 officers who has just told me. The Prince of Mantua is a 
 regular Alma Viva. He is in disguise, and hidden among
 
 ACT II.] FANTASJO. 101 
 
 his aides-de-camp. No doubt he sought to see you, 
 and make acquaintance in fairy fashion. He is in 
 disguise, worthy gentleman. He is disguised like Lindor. 
 The man who was presented to you as your future husband 
 is only an aide-de-camp named Marinoni. 
 
 Elsb, This is impossible ! 
 
 Gov. It is certain a thousand times certain. The 
 worthy man is disguised ; it is impossible to recognise him. 
 It is an extraordinary thing. 
 
 Elsb. You have this from an officer, you say ? 
 
 Gov. From an officer of the Prince. You can question 
 him yourself. 
 
 Elsb. And he did not show you the true Prince of 
 Mantua among the aides-de-camp ? 
 
 Gov. Consider that he was trembling himself, poor man, 
 at the things he was telling me. He only entrusted me 
 with his secret because he wishes to be agreeable to you, 
 and because he knew I would let you know. As for 
 Marinoni, that is positive ; but for what concerns the real 
 Prince, he did not point him out. 
 
 Elsb. If that were true, it would give me some matter 
 for thought. Come, bring this officer to me. 
 (Enter a Page.} 
 
 Gov. What is the matter, Flamel ? You appear out of 
 breath. 
 
 Page. Ah, madam ! it is enough to kill one with 
 laughing. I dare not speak before your highness. 
 
 Elsb. Speak out ; what more news is there ? 
 
 Page. At the moment when the Prince of Mantua was 
 
 860
 
 102 FANTASIO. [Acx II. 
 
 entering the court on horseback at the head of his staff", 
 his wig was carried up into the sky and disappeared on a 
 sudden. 
 
 Elsb. What is this all about ? What idiocy ! 
 
 Page. Madam, I wish I may die if it is not the truth. 
 The wig was carried up into the air at the point of a hook. 
 We found it in the pantry beside a broken bottle ; no one 
 knows who played this trick. But the Duke is no less 
 furious for that, and he has sworn that unless the author 
 of the prank is punished with death he will declare war on 
 the king, your father, and spread blood and fire everywhere. 
 
 Elsb. Come and hear the whole story, dear. My 
 gravity begins to forsake me. 
 (Enter another Page.) 
 
 Elsb. Well what news ? 
 
 Page. Madam, the king's jester is in prison ; it was he 
 who pulled off the Prince's wig. 
 
 Elsb. The jester in prison ? and by the Prince's orders ? 
 
 Page. Yes, your highness. 
 
 Elsb. Come, mother dear, I must speak. 
 (Exit with Governess.) 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 The Prince. Marinoni. 
 
 Prince. No, no; let me unmask. It is time I should 
 burst upon them. It shall not be allowed to pass thus. 
 Blood and fire ! a royal wig at the end of a hook and line. 
 Are we among barbarians in the deserts of Siberia? Is
 
 ACT II.] FANTAS1O. 103 
 
 there still any civilisation or decency left under the sun? 
 I foam with rage ; my eyes are starting out of my head. 
 
 Mar. You ruin all by this violence. 
 
 Prince. This father too, this King of Bavaria, this 
 monarch, exalted in all last year's almanacs ! this man 
 whose exterior is so seemly, who expresses himself in 
 such measured terms, and then falls a-laughing at the 
 sight of his son-in-law's wig flying in the air! For, after 
 all, I admit it was your wig, Marinoni, that was pulled 
 off; but still, was it not the wig of the Prince of Mantua, 
 since it is he folk think they see in you? When I think 
 that had it been I myself in flesh and blood, my wig 
 
 would perhaps Ah ! there is a providence. When 
 
 God suddenly sent me the notion to travesty myself; 
 when that lightning-flash traversed my thoughts, "I must 
 travesty myself," this fatal event was foreseen by destiny. 
 He it is who saved from the most unendurable affront 
 the head that rules my peoples. But, by heaven ! all shall 
 be known. This treason against my dignity has been too 
 long. Since the majesties, human and divine, are pitilessly 
 violated and mangled; since the ideas of good and evil 
 exist no longer among mankind ; since the king of several 
 thousands of human beings bursts into laughter like a 
 groom at sight of a wig, Marinoni, give me back my 
 coat. 
 
 Mar. (taking off the coat}. If my sovereign commands, 
 I am ready to suffer a thousand tortures for him. 
 
 Prince. I know your devotion. Come, I am going to 
 tell the king my mind in proper terms.
 
 104 FANTASIO. [ACT II. 
 
 Mar. You refuse the Princess's hand? yet she ogled 
 you unmistakably all through dinner. 
 
 Prince. You think so? I am lost in an abyss of per- 
 plexities. Come, anyhow, let us go to the king. 
 
 Mar. (holding the coaf). What am I to do, your highness ? 
 
 Prince. Put it on again for a moment. You shall return 
 it to me directly; they will be far more petrified if they 
 hear me take the tone that befits me in this dark-coloured 
 morning coat. 
 
 SCENE VII. A prison. 
 Fantasio (sol.). 
 
 Fant. I don't know whether there is a providence, but it 
 is amusing to believe in one. Nevertheless, here was a poor 
 little princess going to be forced into a marriage with a 
 provincial square-toes, on whose head chance had dropped 
 a crown, like the tortoise that the eagle. let fall on ^Eschylus. 
 All preparations were made, tapers lit, bridegroom 
 powdered, and the poor little girl's confession made. She 
 had dried the two charming tears I saw fall this morning. 
 Nothing was wanting but two or three priestly mummeries 
 to formally accomplish the misfortune of her life. In all 
 this was involved the fortune of two kingdoms, the tran- 
 quillity of two peoples ; and needs must I have the fancy to 
 disguise myself as a hunchb'ack, to come and fuddle myself 
 again in our good king's buttery, and fish up at the end of 
 a string his dear ally's wig. Upon my word, when I am 
 drunk I believe there is something superhuman about me.
 
 ACT II.] FANTASJO. 105 
 
 Here is the marriage off, and the whole question reopened. 
 The Prince of Mantua has demanded my head in exchange 
 for his wig. The King of Bavaria considered the penalty a 
 trifle severe, and only agreed to imprison me. The Prince 
 of Mantua, thanks be to God, is such a dolt that he would 
 rather be chopped in pieces than yield an inch. So the 
 Princess remains single, at least for this bout. If there is 
 not in that the subject for an epic poem in twelve cantos, 
 I am no judge. Pope and Boileau have written admirable 
 verses on subjects far less important. Oh, were I a poet ! 
 How I would paint the scene of that wig fluttering in 
 the wind ! But the man who is capable of such exploits 
 disdains to write of them. So posterity must do without it. 
 (He falls asleep. Enter Elsbeth and her governess, 
 lamp in hand.) 
 
 Elsb. He is asleep. Close the door gently. 
 
 Gov. Look, there is not a doubt about it. He has 
 taken off his false wig, and his deformity has disappeared 
 along with it. Look at him, such as he is, such as his people 
 behold him on his triumphal car. It is the noble Prince 
 of Mantua. 
 
 Elsb. Yes, it is he. Then my curiosity is satisfied. 
 I wanted to see his countenance, that is all. Let me bend 
 over him. (Taking the lamp.) Psyche, beware of your 
 drop of oil. 
 
 Gov. He is as beautiful as a" god. 
 
 Elsb. Why did you give me so many romances and 
 fairy tales to read ? Why did you sow my poor thoughts 
 so thick with strange, mysterious flowers ?
 
 106 FANTASIO. [Acr II. 
 
 Gov. How you palpitate, a tip-toe on your little feet ! 
 
 Elsb. He is waking. Let us be off. 
 
 Fant. (waking). Is it a dream? I have hold of the 
 hem of a white dress. 
 
 Elsb. Loose me, let me go 
 
 Fant. You, Princess ? If it is the pardon of the king's 
 jester that you bring me so divinely, let me put on my 
 hump and my wig. It is the work of a moment. 
 
 Gov. Ah, prince, how -ill it becomes you to receive 
 us thus ! Do not resume that garb ; we know all 
 
 Fant. Prince ? Where do you see one ? 
 
 Gov. What use in dissembling? 
 
 Fant. I do not dissemble the least in the world. What 
 chance makes you call me prince ? 
 
 Gov. I know my duty towards your highness. 
 
 Fant. Madam, I entreat you to explain me this good 
 lady's words. Is there really some whimsical mistake, or 
 am I the object of a joke ? 
 
 Elsb. Why a^c when you yourself are the mocker ? 
 
 Fant. Do# chance to be a prince then? Can there 
 be some doubt cast on my mother's honour ? 
 
 Elsb. Who are you, if you are not the Prince of Mantua ? 
 
 Fant. My name is Fantasio. I am a burgher of Munich. 
 (Shows a letter.} 
 
 Elsb. A burgher of Munich? And why are you dis- 
 guised ? What are you doing here ? 
 
 Fant. Madam, I entreat your pardon. 
 (Falling on his knees.} 
 
 Elsb. What is the meaning of this ? Rise, and leave
 
 ACT II.] FANTAS2O. 107 
 
 this place ! I remit in your favour a punishment that 
 perhaps it may be you deserve. What prompted this 
 action of yours ? 
 
 Fant, I cannot tell the motive that led me here. 
 
 Elsb. You cannot tell ? and yet I will know it. 
 
 Fant. Pardon me, I dare not avow it. 
 
 Gov. Let us go, Elsbeth : do not expose yourself to 
 hear words unworthy of your ears. This man is either a 
 thief or an impertinent fellow, who will speak to you of love. 
 
 Elsb. I will know the reason that caused you to assume 
 this garb. 
 
 Fant. I entreat of you, spare me. 
 
 Elsb. No, no ! Speak, or I close this door on you for 
 ten years. 
 
 Fant. Madam, I am head over ears in debt ; my credi- 
 tors have got a warrant out against me. At this very 
 moment my furniture is sold, and were I not in this prison 
 I should be in another. I was to be arrested yesterday at 
 nightfall. Not knowing where to pass the night, nor how 
 to avoid the bailiffs' pursuit, I conceived the idea of don- 
 ning this costume, and seeking refuge at the king's feet. If 
 you restore me to liberty I shall be taken by the shoulder. 
 My uncle is a miser, who lives on potatoes and radishes, 
 and leaves me to die of hunger in all the public-houses of 
 the kingdom. Since you must know it, I owe twenty thou- 
 sand crowns. 
 
 Elsb. Is all this true ? 
 
 Fant. If I lie, may I pay them. 
 (A noise of horse is heard.)
 
 io8 FANTASIO. [Acx II. 
 
 Gov. There are horses passing ; it is the king in person. 
 If I could signal to a page. (Calling out of window.) Ho ! 
 Flamel, where are you going ? 
 
 Page (outside). The Prince of Mantua is going to 
 depart 
 
 Gov. The Prince of Mantua ? 
 
 Page. Yes ; war is declared. There was a terrible scene 
 between him and the king before all the court, and the 
 Princess's marriage is broken off. 
 
 Elsb. Do you hear that, Monsieur Fantasio ? You have 
 put a stop to my marriage. 
 
 Gov. Great heavens ! The Prince of Mantua is going, 
 and I shall not have seen him. 
 
 Elsb. If war is declared, how sad ! 
 
 Fant. Sad, you call it, your highness? Would you 
 sooner have a husband who makes his wig a casus belli 1 } 
 Well, madam, if war is declared, we shall know what to do 
 with our hands. The loungers of our promenades will put 
 on their uniforms. I myself will take my shot-gun, if it is 
 not sold yet. We shall go for a tour in Italy, and if ever 
 you enter Mantua, it shall be as a real Queen, without need 
 of other candles than our swords. 
 
 Elsb. Fantasio, will you stay as my father's jester. I 
 will pay your twenty thousand crowns. 
 
 Fant. I should accept with all my heart; but on my 
 word, if I were forced to it, I would jump out of window to 
 make my escape one of these days. 
 
 Elsb. Why ? You see Saint Jean is dead ; a jester is an 
 absolute necessity
 
 ACT II.] FANTASIO. 109 
 
 Fant. I prefer that trade to any other; but I cannot 
 work at any trade. If you think that I deserve twenty 
 thousand crowns for ridding you of the Prince of Mantua, 
 give them me, and don't pay my debts. A gentleman 
 without debts could not show his face anywhere. It never 
 entered my mind to be out of debt. 
 
 Elsb. Very well, you shall have them; but take the 
 keys of my garden. The day you are weary of being 
 hunted by your creditors, come and hide among the corn- 
 flowers, where I found you this morning. Be careful to 
 bring your wig and your motley coat. Never appear before 
 me without this counterfeit figure and these silver bells, for 
 it was so you won my favour. You shall turn into my 
 jester again for such time as shall please you, and then you 
 shall go about your business. Now you may be off; the 
 door is open. 
 
 Gov. Is it possible that the Prince of Mantua should be 
 gone without my seeing him ! 
 
 END OF FANTASIO.
 
 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE 
 
 (ON NE BADINE PAS AVEC L'AMOUBX 
 
 COMEDY IN THREE ACTS. 
 (PUBLISHED IN 1854; ACIED IN 1861.)
 
 Dramatis Persona. 
 
 THE BARON. 
 PERDICAN (his son). 
 MASTER BLAZIUS (Perdicaifs tutor}. 
 MASTER BRIDAINE (parish priest). 
 CAMILLE (the Baron's niece). 
 DAME PLUCHE (her governess}. 
 ROSETTE (foster-sister of Camille). 
 Peasants, Servants, etc.
 
 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 
 
 A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS. 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 SCENE I. A Village Green before the Chateau. 
 
 The Chorus. Gently rocked on his prancing mule, 
 Master Blazius advances through the blossoming corn- 
 flowers ; his clothes are new, his writing-case hangs by his 
 side. Like a chubby baby on a pillow, he rolls about on 
 top of his protuberant belly, and with his eyes half shut 
 mumbles a paternoster into his double chin. Welcome, 
 Master Blazius; you come for the vintage time in the 
 semblance of an ancient amphora. 
 
 Master Blazius. Let those who wish to learn an 
 important piece of news first of all bring me here a glass 
 of new wine. 
 
 Chorus. Here is our biggest bowl : drink, Master 
 Blazius ; the wine is good ; you shall speak afterwards. 
 
 Blaz. You are to know, my children, that young Per- 
 dican, our seigneur's son, has just attained his majority,
 
 ii4 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [ACT I. 
 
 and that he has taken his doctor's degree at Paris. This 
 very day he comes home to the chateau with his mouth 
 full of such fine flowery phrases, that three-quarters of 
 the time you don't know how to answer him. His charm- 
 ing person is just all one golden book; he cannot see a 
 blade of grass on the ground without giving you the 
 Latin name for it; and when it blows or when it rains 
 he tells you plainly the reason why. You will open your 
 eyes as wide as the gate there to see him unroll one of 
 the scrolls he has illuminated in ink of all colours, all 
 with his own hands, and not a word said to anybody. 
 In short, he is a polished diamond from top to toe, and 
 that is the message I am bringing to my lord the baron. 
 You perceive that does some credit to me, who have 
 been his tutor since he was four years old; so now, my 
 good friends, bring a chair and let me just get off this 
 mule without breaking my neck ; the beast is a trifle 
 restive, and I should not be sorry to drink another drop 
 before going in. 
 
 Chorus. Drink, Master Blazius, and recover your wits. 
 We saw little Perdican born, and once you said, he is 
 coming, we did not need to hear such a long story about 
 him. May we find the child in the grown man's heart ! 
 
 Blaz. On my word the bowl is empty ; I did not 
 think I had drunk it all. Good-bye ! As I trotted along 
 the road I got ready two or three unpretending phrases 
 that will please my lord ; I will go and pull the bell. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Chorus. Sorely jolted on her panting ass, Dame Pluche
 
 ACT I.] j\ \O TRIFLING WITH LOVE 115 
 
 mounts the hill. Her frightened groom belabours the 
 poor animal with all his might, while it shakes its head 
 with a thistle in its jaws. Her long lean legs jerk with 
 anger, whilst her bony hands string off her beads. Good- 
 day to you, Dame Pluche; you come like the fever with 
 the wind that yellows the woods. 
 
 Dame Pluche. A glass of water, you rabble ; a glass of 
 water and a little vinegar. 
 
 Chorus. Where do you come from, Pluche, my darling ? 
 Your false hair is covered with dust ; there's a wig spoilt ; 
 and your chaste gown is tucked up to your venerable 
 garters. 
 
 Pluche. Know, boors, that the fair Camille, your 
 master's niece, arrives at the chateau to-day. She left 
 the convent by my lord's express orders to come and enter 
 on possession of her mother's rich estate, in due time and 
 place, as meet is to be done. Her education, thank God, 
 is finished, and those who see her will have the fortune 
 to inhale the fragrance of a glorious flower of goodness 
 and piety. Never was there anything so pure, so lamblike, 
 so dovelike, as that dear novice ; the Lord God of heaven 
 be her guide : Amen. Stand aside, you rabble ; I fancy 
 my legs are swollen. 
 
 Chorus. Smooth yourself down, honest Pluche, and 
 when you pray to God ask for rain ; our corn is as dry as 
 your shanks. 
 
 Pluche. You have brought me water in a bowl that 
 smells of the kitchen. Give me a hand to help me down. 
 
 You are a pack of ill-mannered boobies. (Exit.) 
 
 861
 
 n6 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [Acr I. 
 
 Chorus. Let us put on our Sunday best, and wait till 
 the Baron sends for us. Either I am greatly mistaken, or 
 there is some jolly merry-making toward to-day. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 The Baron's Drawing-Room. 
 
 Enter tJte Baron, Master Bridaine, and Master Blazius. 
 
 The Baron. Master Bridaine, you are my friend: let 
 me introduce Master Blazius, my son's tutor. My son 
 yesterday, at eight minutes past twelve, noon, was exactly 
 twenty-one years old. He has taken his degree, and 
 passed in four subjects. Master Blazius, I introduce 
 to you Master Bridaine, priest of the parish, and my 
 friend. 
 
 Blaz. (bowing). Passed in four subjects, your lordship : 
 literature, philosophy, Roman law, canon law. 
 
 Baron. Go to your room, my dear Blazius ; my son 
 will not be long in appearing. Arrange your dress a little, 
 and return when the bell rings. 
 (Exit Master Blazius?) 
 
 Brid. Shall I tell you what I am thinking, my lord ? 
 Your son's tutor smells strong of wine. 
 
 Baron. It is impossible ! 
 
 Brid. I am as sure as I am alive. He spoke to me 
 very close just now. He smells fearfully of wine. 
 
 Baron. No more of this. I repeat, it is impossible. 
 (Enter Dame Pluche.)
 
 ACT L] NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 117 
 
 There you are, good Dame Pluche ! My niece is with 
 you, no doubt ? 
 
 Pluche. She is following me, my lord. I preceded her 
 by a few steps. 
 
 Baron. Master Bridaine, you are my friend. I present 
 to you Dame Pluche, my niece's governess. My niece, 
 yesterday at seven o'clock P.M., attained the age of eighteen 
 years. She is leaving the best convent in France. Dame 
 Pluche, I present to you Master Bridaine, priest of the 
 parish, and my friend. 
 
 Pluche (bowing). The best convent in France, my lord ; 
 and, I may add, the best Christian in the convent. 
 
 Baron. Go, Dame Pluche, and repair the disorder you 
 are in. My niece will be here shortly, I hope. Be ready 
 at the dinner-hour. 
 
 (Exit Dame Pluche^) 
 
 Brid. That old lady seems full of unction. 
 
 Baron. Full of unction and compunction, Master 
 Bridaine. Her virtue is unassailable. 
 
 Brid. But the tutor smells of wine. I am absolutely 
 certain of it. 
 
 Baron. Master Bridaine, there are moments when I 
 doubt your friendship. Are you setting yourself to con- 
 tradict me ? Not a word more on that matter. I have 
 formed the project of marrying my son to my niece. They 
 are a couple made for one another. Their education has 
 stood me in six thousand crowns. 
 
 Brid. It will be necessary to obtain a dispensation. 
 
 Baron. I have it, Bridaine ; it is in my study on my
 
 n8 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [Acx I. 
 
 table. Oh, my friend, let me tell you now that I am full 
 of joy. You know I have always detested solitude. 
 Nevertheless, the position I occupy and the seriousness of 
 my character compel me to reside in this chateau for three 
 months every summer and winter. It is impossible to 
 ensure the happiness of men in general, and one's vassals in 
 particular, without sometimes giving one's valet the stern 
 order to admit no one. How austere and irksome is the 
 statesman's retirement ! and what pleasure may I not hope 
 to find in mitigating, by the presence of my wedded children, 
 the melancholy gloom to which I have been inevitably a 
 prey since the king saw fit to appoint me collector ! 
 
 Brid. Will the marriage be performed here or at Paris ? 
 
 Baron. That is just what I expected, Bridaine. I 
 was certain you would ask that. Well, then, my friend 
 what would you say if those very hands yes, Bridaine, your 
 own hands don't look at them so deprecatingly were 
 destined solemnly to bless the happy realisation of my 
 dearest dreams ? Eh ? 
 
 Brid. I am silent ; gratitude seals my lips. 
 
 Baron. Look out of this window; don't you see my 
 servants crowding to the gate. My two children are 
 arriving at the same moment : it is the happiest combina- 
 tion. I have arranged things in such a way that all is fore- 
 seen ; my niece will be introduced by this door on the left, 
 my son by the door on the right What do you say to that? 
 It will be the greatest delight to me to see how they will 
 address one another, and what they will say. Six thousand 
 crowns is no trifle, there's no mistake about that Besides,
 
 ACT I] NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 119 
 
 the children loved each other tenderly from the cradle. 
 Bridaine, I have an idea 
 
 Brid. What? 
 
 Baron. During dinner, without seeming to mean any- 
 thing by it you understand, my friend ? while emptying 
 some merry glass you know Latin, Bridaine ? 
 
 Brid. Ita adepol, by Jove, I should think so. 
 
 Baron. I should be very pleased to see you put the 
 lad through his paces discreetly of course before his 
 cousin : that can't fail to produce a good effect. Make him 
 speak a little Latin ; not precisely during dinner, that would 
 spoil our appetites, and as for me, I don't understand a 
 word of it : but at dessert, do you see ? 
 
 Brid. If you don't understand a word of it, my lord, 
 probably your niece is in the same plight. 
 
 Baron. All the more reason. Would you have a woman 
 admire what she understands ? Where were you brought 
 up, Bridaine? That is a lamentable piece of reasoning. 
 
 Brid. I don't know much about women ; but it seems to 
 me difficult to admire what one does not understand. 
 
 Baron. Ah, Bridaine, I know them ; I know the 
 charming indefinable creatures ! Be convinced that they 
 love to have dust in their eyes, and the faster one throws, 
 the wider they strain them to catch more. 
 
 (Enter on one side Perdican, Camille on the other.} 
 
 Good-day, children ; good-day, my dear Camille, and 
 you, my dear Perdican : kiss me and kiss each other. 
 
 Perd. Good-day, father, and you, my darling sister. 
 How delightful ; how happy I am !
 
 120 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [Acx I. 
 
 Cam. How do you do, father ? and you, cousin ? 
 
 Perd. How tall you are, Camille, and beautiful as the 
 day! 
 
 Baron. When did you leave Paris, Perdican ? 
 
 Perd. Wednesday, I think or Tuesday. Why, you are 
 transformed into a woman ! So I am a man, am I ? It 
 seems only yesterday I saw you only so high. 
 
 Baron. You must both be tired; it is a long journey, 
 and the day is hot. 
 
 Perd. Oh dear no ! Look how pretty Camille is, father. 
 
 Baron. Come, Camille, give your cousin a kiss. 
 
 Cam. Pardon me. 
 
 Baron. A compliment is worth a kiss. Give her a kiss, 
 Perdican. 
 
 Perd. If my cousin draws back when I hold out my 
 hand, I will say to you in my turn : Pardon me. Love may 
 steal a kiss, friendship never. 
 
 Cam. Neither friendship nor love should accept any- 
 thing but what they can give back. 
 
 Baron (to Master Bridaine). This is an ill-omened 
 beginning, eh ? 
 
 Brid. (to the Baron). Too much modesty is a 
 fault, no doubt ; but marriage does away with a deal of 
 scruples. 
 
 Baron (to Master Bridaine). I am shocked I am hurt. 
 That answer displeased me. Pardon me ! Did you see 
 that she made a show of crossing herself ? Come here, 
 and let me speak to you. It pains me to the last degree. 
 This moment, that was to be so sweet, is wholly spoilt for
 
 ACT I.] NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 121 
 
 me. I am vexed, annoyed. The devil take it ; it is a 
 regular bad business. 
 
 Brid. Say a few words to them ; look at them turning 
 their backs on each other. 
 
 Baron. Well, children, what in the world are you 
 thinking of? What are you doing there, Camille, in front 
 of that tapestry ? 
 
 Cam. (looking at a picture). That is a fine portrait, 
 uncle. Is it not a great-aunt of ours ? 
 
 Baron. Yes, my child, it is your great-grandmother or, 
 at least, your great-grandfather's sister; for the dear lady 
 never contributed except, I believe, in prayers to the 
 augmentation of the family. She was a pious woman, upon 
 my honour. 
 
 Cam. Oh yes, a saint. She is my great-aunt Isabel. 
 How that nun's dress becomes her ! 
 
 Baron. And you, Perdican, what are you about before 
 that flower-pot? 
 
 Perd. That's a charming flower, father. It is a heliotrope. 
 
 Baron. Are you joking ? It is no bigger than a fly. 
 
 Perd. That little flower no bigger than a fly is worth 
 having all the same. 
 
 Brid. No doubt the doctor is right. Ask him what sex 
 or what class it belongs to, of what elements it consists, 
 whence it gets its sap and its colour : he will throw 
 you into ecstasies with a description of the phenomena 
 of yonder sprig, from its root to its flower. 
 
 Perd. I don't know so much about it, your reverence. 
 I think it smells good, that is all.
 
 122 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [Acx I. 
 
 SCENE III. Before the Chateau. 
 Enter the Chorus. 
 
 Chorus. Several things amuse me and excite my 
 curiosity. Come, friends, sit down under this walnut tree. 
 Two formidable eaters are this moment present at the 
 chateau Master Bridaine and Master Blazius. Have you 
 not noticed this that when two men, closely alike, equally 
 fat, equally sottish, with the same vices and the same 
 passions, come to a meeting by some chance, it follows 
 of necessity that they shall either adore or abominate each 
 other? For the same reason that opposites attract, that 
 a tall lean man will like a short round one, that fair people 
 court the dark, and vice versa, I foresee a secret struggle 
 between the tutor and the priest. Both are armed with 
 equal impudence, each has a barrel for a belly ; they are 
 not only gluttons, but epicures ; both will quarrel at table 
 for quality as well as quantity. If the fish is small, what 
 is to be done ? And in any case a carp's tongue cannot 
 be divided, and a carp cannot have two tongues. 
 
 Then both are chatterers ; but if the worst should come 
 to the worst, they can talk at once and neither listen to the 
 other. Already Master Bridaine has wanted to put several 
 pedantic questions to young Perdican, and the tutor 
 scowled. It is distasteful to him that his pupil should 
 appear to be examined by any one but himself. Again, 
 one is as ignorant as the other. Again, they are priests, 
 the pair of them : one will parade his benefice, the other
 
 ACT I] NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 123 
 
 will plume himself on the tutorship. Master Blazius is 
 the son's confessor, Master Bridaine the father's. I see 
 them already, elbows on the table, cheeks inflamed, eyes 
 starting out of their heads, shaking their double chins in 
 a paroxysm of hatred. They eye each other from head 
 to foot ; they begin the battle with petty skirmishes ; soon 
 war is declared ; shots are exchanged ; volleys of pedantry 
 cross in mid-air ; and, to cap all, between them frets Dame 
 Pluche, repulsing them on either side with her sharp-pointed 
 elbows. 
 
 Now that dinner is over, the chateau gate is opened. 
 The company are coming out; let us step aside out of 
 the way. 
 
 (Exeunt. Enter the Baron and Dame Pluche.) 
 
 Baron. Venerable Pluche, I am pained. 
 
 Pluche. Is it possible, my lord ? 
 
 Baron. Yes, Pluche, possible. I had calculated for a 
 long time past I had even set it down in black and white 
 on my tablets that this day was to be the most enjoyable 
 of my life. Yes, my good madam, the most enjoyable. 
 You are not unaware that my plan was to marry my son 
 to my niece. It was decided, arranged I had mentioned 
 it to Bridaine and I see, I fancy I see, that these children 
 speak to each other with coolness; they have not said a 
 word to each other. 
 
 Pluche. There they come, my lord. Are they advised 
 of your projects ? 
 
 Baron. I dropped a few hints to each of them in 
 private. I think it would be well, since they are thrown
 
 124 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [ACT I. 
 
 together now, that we should sit down under this propitious 
 shade and leave them to themselves for a moment. 
 
 (He withdraws with Dame Pluche. Enter Camille 
 and Perdican.} 
 
 Perd. Do you know, Camille, it was not a bit nice of 
 you to refuse me a kiss ? 
 
 Cam. I am always like that ; it is my way. 
 
 Perd. Will you take my arm for a stroll in the 
 village ? 
 
 Cam. No, I'm tired. 
 
 Perd. Would it not please you to see the meadow 
 again ? Do you remember our boating excursions ? 
 Come, we will go down as far as the mill; I'll take the 
 oars, and you the tiller. 
 
 Cam. I don't feel the least inclined for it. 
 
 Perd. You cut me to the heart. What ! not one 
 remembrance, Camille? Not a heart-throb for our child- 
 hood, for all those kind, sweet past days, so full of 
 delightful sillinesses? You won't come and see the path 
 we used to go by to the farm ? 
 
 Cam. No, not this evening. 
 
 Perd. Not this evening ! but when ? Our whole life 
 lies there. 
 
 Cam. I am not young enough to amuse myself with 
 my dolls, nor old enough to love the past. 
 
 Perd. What do you mean by that ? 
 
 Cam. I mean that recollections of childhood are not 
 to my taste. 
 
 Perd. They bore you ?
 
 ACT I.] NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 125 
 
 Cam. Yes, they bore me. 
 
 Perd. Poor child ; I am sincerely sorry for you. 
 (Exit in opposite directions^] 
 
 Baron (entering with Dame Pluche). You see and you 
 hear, my excellent Pluche. I expected the softest harmony; 
 and I feel as if I were attending a concert where the violin 
 is playing "My heart it sighs," while the flute plays "Long 
 live King Henry." Think of the frightful discord such a 
 combination would produce ! Yet that is what is going 
 on in my heart. 
 
 Pluche. I must admit it is impossible for me to blame 
 Camille, and to my mind nothing is in worse taste than 
 boating excursions. 
 
 Baron. Are you serious ? 
 
 Pluche. My lord, a young lady who respects herself 
 does not risk herself on pieces of water. 
 
 Baron. But remark, pray Dame Pluche, that her cousin 
 is to marry her, and that thenceforward 
 
 Pluche. The proprieties forbid steering; and it is 
 indelicate to leave terra-firma alone with a young man. 
 
 Baron. But I repeat I tell you 
 
 Pluche. That is my opinion 
 
 Baron. Are you mad ? Really you would make me 
 
 say There are certain expressions that I do not 
 
 choose that are repugnant to me. You make me want 
 
 Really, if I did not control myself Pluche, you 
 
 are a dolt I don't know what to think of you. 
 (Exit.}
 
 126 NO TRIPLING WITH LOVE. [Acr I. 
 
 SCENE IV. A village green. 
 The Chorus. Perdican. 
 
 Perd. Good-day, friends ; do you know me? 
 
 Chorus. My lord, you are like a child we loved dearly. 
 
 Perd. Was it not you who took me on your back to 
 cross the streams of your meadows, who danced me on 
 your knees, who took me up behind you on your sturdy 
 horses, who crowded closer sometimes round your tables 
 to make room for me at the farm supper ? 
 
 Chorus. We remember, my lord. You were certainly 
 the naughtiest rogue and the finest boy on earth. 
 
 Perd. Why do you not kiss me then, instead of saluting 
 me like a stranger ? 
 
 Chorus. God bless you, child of our hearts. Each of 
 us would like to take you in his arms ; but we are old, my 
 lord, and you are a man. 
 
 Perd. Yes, it is ten years since I saw you ; and in a 
 single day all beneath the sun changes. I have grown 
 some feet towards heaven; you have bowed some inches 
 towards the grave. Your heads have whitened, your steps 
 grown slower; you can no longer lift from the ground 
 your child of long ago. So it is my turn now to be your 
 father father of you who were fathers to me. 
 
 Chorus. Your return is a happier day than your birth. 
 It is sweeter to recover what we love than to embrace a 
 new-born babe. 
 
 Perd. So this is my dear valley : my walnut trees, my
 
 ACT I.] NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 127 
 
 green paths, my little fountain. Here are my past days 
 still full of life ; here is the mysterious world of my child- 
 hood's dreams. Home, ah home ! incomprehensible 
 word. Can man be born just for a single corner of the 
 earth, there to build his nest, and there to live his day. 
 
 Chorus^. We hear you are a learned man, my lord. 
 
 Perd. Yes, I hear that too. Knowledge is a fine thing, 
 lads. These trees and this meadow find a voice to teach 
 the finest knowledge of all how to forget what one knows. 
 
 Chorus. There has been many a change during your 
 absence. Girls are married, boys are gone to the army. 
 
 Perd. You shall tell me all about it. I expect a deal 
 of news; but to tell the truth, I don't care to hear it 
 yet. How small this pool is; formerly it seemed im- 
 mense. I had carried away an ocean and forests in my 
 mind : I come back to find a drop of water and blades of 
 grass. But who can that girl be, singing at her lattice 
 behind those trees ? 
 
 Chorus. It is Rosette, your cousin Camille's foster- 
 sister. 
 
 Perd. (stepping forward). Come down quick, Rosette, 
 and come here. 
 
 Rosette (entering). Yes, my lord. 
 
 Perd. You saw me from your window, and you did not 
 come, you wicked girl ! Give me that hand of yours, quick 
 now, and those cheeks to be kissed. 
 
 Ros. Yes, my lord. 
 
 Perd. Are you married, little one ? They told me so. 
 
 Ros. Oh, no !
 
 128 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [Acx I. 
 
 Perd. Why ? There isn't a prettier girl than you in the 
 village. We'll find you a match, child. 
 
 Chorus. My lord, she wants to die a maid. 
 
 Perd. Is that true, Rosette ? 
 
 Ros. Oh, no ! 
 
 Perd. Your sister Camille is come! Have you seen 
 her? 
 
 Ros. She has not come this way yet 
 
 Perd. Be off quick, and put on your new dress, and 
 come to supper at the chateau. 
 
 SCENE V. A large room. 
 Enter the Baron and Master Blazius. 
 
 Blaz. A word in your ear, my lord. The priest of your 
 parish is a drunkard. 
 
 Baron. Shame ! it is impossible. 
 
 Blaz. I am certain of it. He drank three bottles of 
 wine at dinner. 
 
 Baron. That is excessive. 
 
 Blaz. And on leaving table he trampled on the flower- 
 beds. 
 
 Baron. On the beds. You confound me. This is very 
 strange. Drink three bottles of wine at dinner and trample 
 on the flower-beds. Incomprehensible ! And why did he 
 not keep to the path ? 
 
 Blaz. Because he walked crooked. 
 
 Baron (aside). I begin to think Bridaine was right. 
 This fellow Blazius smells shockingly of wine.
 
 ACT L] NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 129 
 
 Blaz. Besides, he ate enormously ; his utterance was 
 thick. 
 
 Baron. Indeed I remarked that myself. 
 
 Blaz. He delivered himself of a few Latin phrases; 
 they were so many blunders. My lord, he is a depraved 
 character. 
 
 Baron (aside). Ugh ! The odour of this fellow Blazius 
 is past bearing. Understand, Mr. Tutor, that I am engaged 
 with something very different from this, and that I don't 
 concern myself with what is eaten or what is drunk here. I 
 am not a major-domo. 
 
 Blaz. Please God, I will never displease you, my lord. 
 Your wine is good. 
 
 Baron. There is good wine in my cellars. 
 (Enter Master Bridaine.} 
 
 Brid. My lord, your son is out there on the green with 
 all the ragamuffins of the village at his heels. 
 
 Baron. It is impossible. 
 
 Brid. I saw it with my own eyes. He was picking up 
 pebbles to make ducks and drakes. 
 
 Baron. Ducks and drakes ! My brain begins to reel. 
 Here are all my ideas turning upside down. Bridaine, 
 the report you bring me is absurd. It is unheard 
 of that a Doctor of Laws should make ducks and 
 drakes. 
 
 Brid. Go to the window, my lord ; you will see with 
 your own eyes. 
 
 Baron (aside). Good heavens ! Blazius was right. 
 Bridaine walks crooked.
 
 130 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [ACT I. 
 
 Brid. Look, my lord, there he is beside the pond. He 
 has his arm round a peasant girl. 
 
 Baron. A peasant girl ! Does my son come here to 
 debauch my vassals ? His arm round a peasant ! and all 
 the brats in the village round. I feel myself taking leave of 
 my senses. 
 
 Brid. That calls for retribution. 
 
 Baron. All is lost irretrievably lost. I am lost 
 Bridaine staggers, Blazius reeks of wine, and my son 
 seduces all the girls in the village while playing ducks and 
 drakes. 
 
 (Exit.)
 
 ACT II.] NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 131 
 
 ACT THE SECOND. 
 
 SCENE I. A Garden. 
 Enter Master Blazius and Perdican. 
 
 Blaz. My lord, your father is in despair. 
 
 Perd. Why so ? 
 
 Blaz. You are aware that he had formed a plan of 
 uniting you to your cousin Camille. 
 
 Perd. Well, I ask no better ! 
 
 Blaz. Nevertheless, the Baron thinks he perceives an 
 incompatibility in your characters. 
 
 Perd. That is unlucky. I can't remodel mine. 
 
 Blaz. Will you allow this to make the match im- 
 possible ? 
 
 Perd. I tell you once more I ask no better than to 
 marry Camille. Go and find the Baron and tell him so. 
 
 Blaz. My lord, I withdraw ; here comes your cousin. 
 (Exit. Enter Camille.) 
 
 Perd. Up already, cousin ? I stick to what I said 
 yesterday ; you are ever so pretty ! 
 
 Cam. Let us be serious, Perdican. Your father wants 
 
 to make a match between us. I don't know what you 
 
 862
 
 132 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [Acr II. 
 
 think of it, but I consider it right to forewarn you that 
 I have made up my mind on the matter. 
 
 Perd. The worse for me, if you dislike me. 
 
 Cam. No more than any one else ; I don't intend to 
 marry. There is nothing in that to wound your pride ! 
 
 Perd. I don't deal in pride : I care for neither its joys 
 nor its pains. 
 
 Cam. I came here to enter on possession of my 
 mother's property ; to-morrow I go back to my convent 
 
 Perd. Well, you play fair. Shake hands and let us be 
 good friends ! 
 
 Cam. I don't like demonstrations. 
 
 Perd. (taking her hand}. Give me your hand, Camille, 
 I beg of you. What do you fear of me ? You don't 
 choose that we should be married. Very well ! don't let us 
 marry. Is that a reason for hating one another ? Are we 
 not brother and sister? When your mother enjoined 
 this marriage in her will, she wished that our friendship 
 should be unending, that is all she wished. Why marry? 
 there is your hand, there is mine, and to keep them united 
 thus to our last sigh, do you think we need a priest ? We 
 need none but God. 
 
 Cam. I am very glad my refusal leaves you uncon- 
 cerned. 
 
 Perd. I am not unconcerned, Camille. Your love 
 would have given me life, but your friendship shall console 
 me for the lack of it. Don't leave the chateau to-morrow. 
 Yesterday you refused to stroll round the garden with me, 
 because you saw in me a husband you would not accept.
 
 ACT II.] NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 133 
 
 Stay here a few days ; let me hope that our past life is not 
 dead for ever in your heart. 
 
 Cam. I am bound to leave. 
 
 Perd. Why ? 
 
 Cam. That is my secret. 
 
 Perd. Do you love another ? 
 
 Cam. No ; but I will go. 
 
 Perd. Is it irrevocable ? 
 
 Cam. Yes, irrevocable. 
 
 Perd. Well ! adieu. I should have liked to sit with you 
 under the chestnuts in the little wood, and chat like kind 
 friends for an hour or two. But if you don't care for that, 
 let us say no more. Good-bye, my child. 
 (Exit. Enter Dame Plucked) 
 
 Cam. Is all ready, Dame Pluche ? Shall we start 
 to-morrow ? Has my guardian finished his accounts ? 
 
 Pluche. Yes, dear unspotted dove. The Baron called 
 me dolt yesterday, and I am delighted to go. 
 
 Cam. Stay; here is a line you will take to Lord Perdican, 
 before dinner, from me. 
 
 Pluche. O Lord of heaven ! is it possible ? You writing 
 a note to a man 
 
 Cam. Am I not to be his wife ? Surely I may write to 
 my fiance*. 
 
 Pluche. Lord Perdican has just left this spot. What 
 can you have to write ? Your fiancd ; heaven have pity on 
 us ! Can it be true that you are forgetting Jesus ? 
 
 Cam. Do what I tell you, and make all ready for my 
 departure. ( Exeunt. )
 
 134 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [ ACT II. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The dining-room; servants laying the table. 
 Enter Master Bridaine. 
 
 Brid. Yes, it is a certainty, they will give him the place 
 of honour again to-day. This chair on the Baron's right that 
 I have filled so long will be the tutor's prize. Wretch that 
 I am ! A mechanical ass, a brazen drunkard gets me 
 banished to the lower end of the table. The butler will 
 pour for him the first glass of malaga, and when the dishes 
 reach me they will be half cold ; all the tit-bits will be 
 gobbled up; not a cabbage nor a carrot left round the 
 partridges. Holy Catholic Church ! To give him that 
 place yesterday well that was intelligible. He had just 
 arrived, and was sitting down to that table for the first time 
 since many a long year. Heavens, how he guzzled ! No, 
 he will leave me nothing but bones and chicken's claws. I 
 will not endure this affront. Farewell, venerable arm-chair 
 in which many and many a time I have thrown myself 
 back stuffed with juicy dishes ! Farewell, sealed bottles ; 
 farewell matchless savour of venison done to a turn ! 
 Farewell, splendid board, noble dining-hall; I shall say 
 grace here no longer. I return to my vicarage ; they shall 
 not see me confounded among the mob of guests ; and, like 
 Caesar, I will rather be first in the village than second in 
 Rome.
 
 ACT II.] NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 135 
 
 SCENE III. A field in front oj a cottage. 
 Enter Rosette and Perdican. 
 
 Perd. Since your mother is out, come for a bit of a 
 walk. 
 
 Ros. Do you think all these kisses do me any 
 good? 
 
 Perd. What harm do you see in them ? I would kiss 
 you before your mother. Are you not Camille's sister? 
 Am I not your brother just as I am hers ? 
 
 Ros. Words are words, and kisses are kisses. I am no 
 better than a fool, and I find it out too, as soon as I have 
 something to say. Fine ladies know what it means if you 
 kiss their right hand, or if you kiss the left. Their fathers 
 kiss them on the forehead ; their mothers on the cheeks ; 
 and their lovers on the lips. Now everybody kisses me on 
 both cheeks, and that vexes me. 
 
 Perd. How pretty you are, child ! 
 
 Ros. All the same, you must not be angry with me for 
 that. How sad you seem this morning ! So your marriage 
 is broken off? 
 
 Perd. The peasants of your village remember they loved 
 me ; the dogs in the poultry yard and the trees in the wood 
 remember it too ; but Camille does not remember. And 
 your marriage, Rosette when is it to be ? 
 
 Ros. Don't let us talk of that, if you please? Talk 
 of the weather, of the flowers here, of your horses, of my 
 caps.
 
 136 NO TRIPLING WITH LOVE. [Acx II. 
 
 Perd. Of whatever you please, of whatever can cross 
 your lips without robbing them of that heavenly smile. 
 
 (He kisses her.} 
 
 I?os. You respect my smile, but you don't spare my lips 
 much, it seems to me. Why, do look ; there is a drop of 
 rain fallen on my hand, and yet the sky is clear. 
 Perd. Forgive me. 
 
 IZos. What have I done to make you weep ? 
 (Exeunt.) 
 
 SCENE IV. The Chateau. 
 Enter Master Blazius and the Baron. 
 
 Blaz. My lord, I have a strange thing to tell you. 
 A few minutes ago I chanced to be in the pantry - 
 I mean in the gallery; what should I be doing in the 
 pantry? Well, I was in the gallery. I had happened to 
 find a decanter I mean a jug of water. How was I to 
 find a decanter in the gallery? Well, I was just drinking 
 a drop of wine I mean a glass of water to pass the time, 
 and I was looking out of the window between two flower 
 vases that seemed to me to be in a modern style, though 
 they are copied from the Etruscan. 
 
 Baron. What an intolerable manner of talking you 
 have adopted, Blazius ! Your speeches are inexplicable. 
 
 Blaz. Listen to me, my lord; lend me a moment's 
 attention. Well, I was looking out of the window. In 
 heaven's name, don't grow impatient. It concerns the 
 honour of the family.
 
 ACT II.] NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 137 
 
 Baron. The family ! This is incomprehensible. The 
 honour of the family, Blazius? Do you know there are 
 thirty-seven males of us, and nearly as many females, in 
 Paris and in the country? 
 
 Blaz. Allow me to continue. Whilst I was drinking 
 a drop of wine I mean a glass of water to hasten tardy 
 digestion, would you believe I saw Dame Pluche passing 
 under the window out of breath ? 
 
 Baron. Why out of breath, Blazius ? That is unwonted. 
 
 Blaz. And beside her, red with anger, your niece 
 Camille. 
 
 Baron. Who red with anger my niece or Dame 
 Pluche ? 
 
 Blaz. Your niece, my lord. 
 
 Baron. My niece red with anger? It is unheard of! 
 And how do you know it was with anger ? She might have 
 been red for a thousand reasons. No doubt she had been 
 chasing butterflies in my flower-garden. 
 
 Blaz. I can't be positive about that that may be ; but 
 she was exclaiming with vigour, " Go ! Find him. Do as 
 you are bid ! You are a fool ! I will have it ! " And she 
 rapped with her fan the elbow of Dame Pluche, who gave a 
 jump in the clover at each exclamation. 
 
 Baron. In the clover! And what did the governess 
 reply to my niece's vagaries ; for such conduct merits that 
 description. 
 
 Blaz. The governess replied : " I will not go ! I did 
 not find him. He is making love to the villagers, to goose 
 girls. I am too old to begin to carry love-letters. Thank
 
 138 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [ACT II. 
 
 God, I have kept my hands clean up till now." And while 
 she spoke she was crumpling up in her ringers a scrap of 
 paper folded in four. 
 
 Baron. I don't understand at all ; my ideas are becom- 
 ing totally confused. What reason could Dame Pluche 
 have for crumpling a paper folded in four, while she gave 
 jumps in the clover? I cannot lend credence to such 
 enormities. 
 
 Blaz. Don't you clearly understand, my lord, what that 
 indicated ? 
 
 Baron. No, upon my honour, my friend ; no, I don't 
 understand a word of it, good or bad. All this seems to 
 be a piece of ill-regulated conduct, but equally devoid of 
 motive and excuse. 
 
 Blaz. It means that your niece has a clandestine 
 correspondence. 
 
 Baron. What are you saying ? Do you reflect who you 
 are speaking of? Weigh your words, Abbe ! 
 
 Blaz. I might weigh them in the heavenly scales that 
 are to weigh my soul at the last judgment, without finding a 
 single syllable of them that does not ring true. Your niece 
 has a clandestine correspondence. 
 
 Baron. But reflect, my friend, that it is impossible. 
 
 Blaz. Why should she have entrusted a letter to her 
 governess ? Why should she have exclaimed, " Find 
 him ! " while the other sulked and petted ? 
 
 Baron. And to whom was this letter addressed ? 
 
 Blaz. That is exactly the question the hie jacet lepus. 
 To whom was this letter addressed ? To a man who is
 
 [ACT II. NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 139 
 
 making love to a goose girl. Now a man who publicly courts 
 a goose girl may be evidently suspected of being himself 
 born to herd geese. Nevertheless, it is impossible that your 
 niece, with the education she has received, should be 
 captivated by such a man. That is what I tell you, and that 
 is why, saving your presence, I don't understand a word of 
 it any more than you. 
 
 Baron. Good heavens ! My niece declared to me this 
 morning that she refused her cousin Perdican's hand. 
 Can she be in love with a goose-herd? Step into my 
 study. Since yesterday I have experienced such violent 
 shocks that I cannot collect my ideas. 
 (Exeunt.'} 
 
 SCENE V. A fountain in a wood. 
 Enter Perdican, reading a note. 
 
 Perd. " Be at the little fountain at noon." What does 
 that mean ? Such coldness ; so positive and cruel a 
 refusal ; such unfeeling pride ; and, to crown all, a rendez- 
 vous. If it is to talk business, why choose such a spot? 
 Is it a piece of coquetry ? This morning, as I walked with 
 Rosette, I heard a stir in the brushwood. I thought it was 
 a doe's tread. Is there some plot in this ? 
 (Enter Camille.} 
 
 Cam. Good day, cousin. I thought, rightly or wrongly, 
 that you left me sadly this morning. You took my hand 
 in spite of me. I come to ask you to give me yours. 
 I refused you a kiss here it is for you. (Kissing him.')
 
 140 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [Acx II. 
 
 Now then, you said you would like to have a friendly chat 
 with me. Sit down then, and let us talk. (She sits 
 down.} 
 
 Perd. Was it a dream, or do I dream again now? 
 
 Cam. You thought it odd to get a note from me, did 
 you not ? I am changeable ; but you said one thing this 
 morning that was very true : " Since we part, let us part 
 good friends." You do not know the reason of my leaving, 
 and I am come here to tell it you. I am going to take the 
 veil. 
 
 Perd. Is it possible? Is it you, Camille, that I see 
 reflected in this fountain, sitting on the daisies, as in the old 
 days? 
 
 Cam. Yes, Perdican, it is I. I am come to live over 
 again one half-hour of the past life. I seemed to you rude 
 and haughty. That is easily understood ; I have renounced 
 the world. Yet, before I leave it, I should like to hear 
 your opinion. Do you think I am right to turn nun ? 
 
 Perd. Don't question me on the subject, for I shall 
 never turn monk. 
 
 Cam. In the ten years almost that we have lived 
 separated from each other you have begun the experience 
 of life. I know the man you are ; and a heart and brain 
 like yours must have learnt much in a little while. Tell me, 
 have you had mistresses ? 
 
 Perd. Why so ? 
 
 Cam. Answer me, I beg of you, without bashfulness 
 and without affectation. 
 
 Perd. I have had.
 
 ACT II.] NO TRIPLING WITH LOVE. 141 
 
 Cam. Did you love them ? 
 
 Perd. With all my heart. 
 
 Cam. Where are they now ? Do you know ? 
 
 Perd. These are odd questions, upon my word. What 
 would you have me say ? I am neither their husband nor 
 their brother. They went where it pleased them. 
 
 Cam. There must needs have been one you preferred 
 to all others. How long did you love the one you loved 
 best? 
 
 Perd. You're a queer girl. Do you want to turn father 
 confessor ? 
 
 Cam. I ask of you as a favour to answer me sincerely. 
 You are far from a libertine, and I believe that your heart 
 is honest. You must have inspired love, for you are worth 
 it ; and you would not have abandoned yourself to a whim. 
 Answer me, I beg. 
 
 Perd. On my honour, I don't remember. 
 
 Cam. Do you know a man who has loved only one 
 woman ? 
 
 Perd. There are such, certainly. 
 
 Cam. Is he one of your friends ? Tell me his name. 
 
 Perd. I have no name to tell you ; but I believe there 
 are men capable of loving once, and once only. 
 
 Cam. How often can an honourable man love ? 
 
 Perd. Do you want to make me repeat a litany, or are 
 you repeating a catechism yourself? 
 
 Cam. I want to get information, and to learn whether 
 I do right or wrong to take the veil. If I married you, 
 would you not be bound to answer all my questions frankly,
 
 142 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [Acx II. 
 
 and lay your heart bare for me to see ? I have a great regard 
 for you, and I count you superior by nature and education 
 to many other men. I am sorry you have forgotten the things 
 I question you about Perhaps if I knew you better I should 
 grow bolder. 
 
 Perd. What are you driving at? Go on. I will 
 answer. 
 
 Cam. Answer my first question then. Am I right to 
 stay in the convent ? 
 
 Perd. No ! 
 
 Cam. Then I should do better to marry you ? 
 
 Perd. Yes. 
 
 Cam. If the priest of your parish breathed on a glass of 
 water, and told you it was a glass of wine, would you drink 
 it as such ? 
 
 Perd. No ! 
 
 Cam. If the priest of your parish breathed on you, and 
 told me that you would love all your life, should I do right 
 to believe him ? 
 
 Perd. Yes, and no. 
 
 Cam. What would you advise me to do the day I saw 
 you loved me no longer ? 
 
 Perd. To take a lover. 
 
 Cam. What shall I do next the day my lover loves me 
 no longer ? 
 
 Perd. Take another. 
 
 Cam. How long will that go on ? 
 
 Perd. Till your hairs are grey, and then mine will be 
 white.
 
 ACT II.] NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 143 
 
 Cam. Do you know what the cloisters are, Perdican ? 
 Did you ever sit a whole day long on the bench of a 
 nunnery ? 
 
 Perd. Yes, I have. 
 
 Cam. I have for friend a sister, thirty years old, who at 
 fifteen had an income of five hundred thousand crowns. 
 She is the most beautiful and the noblest creature that 
 ever walked on earth. She was a peeress of the parliament, 
 and had for husband one of the most distinguished men 
 in France. Not one of the faculties that ennoble humanity 
 had been left uncultivated in her, and like a sapling of 
 some choice stock all her buds had branched. Love and 
 happiness will never set their crown of flowers on a fairer 
 forehead. Her husband deceived her; she loved another 
 man, and she is dying of despair. 
 
 Perd. That is possible. 
 
 Cam. We share the same cell, and I have passed whole 
 nights in talking of her sorrows. They have almost become 
 mine : that is strange, is it not ? I don't quite know how 
 it comes to pass. When she spoke to me of her marriage, 
 when she painted the intoxication of the first days, and 
 then the tranquillity of the rest, and how at last the whole 
 had taken wings and flown ; how in the evening she sat 
 down at the chimney corner, and he by the window, 
 without a word said between them ; how their love had 
 languished, and how every effort to draw close again only 
 ended in quarrels ; how little by little a strange figure came 
 and placed itself between them, and glided in amid their 
 sufferings; it was still myself that I saw acting while she
 
 144 WO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [Acr II. 
 
 spoke. When she said, "There I was happy," my heart 
 leapt; when she added, "There I wept," my tears flowed. 
 But fancy a thing stranger still. I ended by creating an 
 imaginary life for myself. It lasted four years. It is needless 
 to tell by how many reflected lights, how many doublings 
 on myself all this came about. What I wanted to tell you 
 as a curiosity is that all Louise's tales, all the phantoms of 
 my dreams, bore your likeness. 
 
 Perd. My likeness mine ? 
 
 Cam. Yes and that is natural; you were the only 
 man I had known. In all truth I loved you, Perdican. 
 
 Perd. How old are you, Camille ? 
 
 Cam. Eighteen. 
 
 Perd. Go on, go on ; I am listening. 
 
 Cam. There are two hundred women in our convent. 
 A small number of these women will never know life ; all 
 the rest are waiting for death. More than one of them left 
 the convent as I leave it to-day, virgin and full of hopes. 
 They returned after a little while old and blasted. Every 
 day some of them die in our dormitories, and every day 
 fresh ones come to take the place of the dead on the hair 
 mattresses. Strangers who visit us admire the calm and 
 order of the house ; they look attentively at the whiteness 
 of our veils ; but they ask themselves why we lower them 
 over our eyes. What do you think of these women, 
 Perdican ? Are they wrong or are they right ? 
 
 Perd. I cannot tell. 
 
 Cam. There were some of them who counselled me 
 to remain unmarried. I am glad to be able to consult
 
 ACT II.] NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 145 
 
 you. Do you believe these women would have done 
 better to take a lover, and counsel me to do the same ? 
 
 Perd. I cannot tell. 
 
 Cam. You promised to answer me. 
 
 Perd. I am absolved, as a matter of course, from the 
 promise. I do not believe it is you who are speaking. 
 
 Cam. That may be; there must be great absurdities 
 in all my ideas. It may well be that I have learnt by 
 rote, that I am only an ill-taught parrot. In the gallery 
 there is a little picture that represents a monk bending 
 over a missal; through the gloomy bars of his cell slides 
 a feeble ray of sunlight, and you catch sight of an Italian 
 inn, in front of which dances a goatherd. Which of these 
 two men has more of your esteem ? 
 
 Perd. Neither one nor the other, and both. They are 
 two men of flesh and blood ; there is one that reads and one 
 that dances ; I see nothing else in it. You are right to 
 turn nun. 
 
 Cam. A minute ago you told me no. 
 
 Perd. Did I say no ? That is possible. 
 
 Cam. So you advise me to do it ? 
 
 Perd. So you believe in nothing ? 
 
 Cam. Lift your head, Perdican. Who is the man that 
 believes in nothing ? 
 
 Perd. (rising). Here is one : I do not believe in immortal 
 life. My darling sister, the nuns have given you their 
 experience, but believe me it is not yours ; you will not die 
 without loving. 
 
 Cam. I want to love, but I do not want to suffer. I
 
 146 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [ACT II. 
 
 want to love with an undying love, and to swear vows that 
 are not broken. Here is my lover. 
 (Showing her crucifix?) 
 
 Perd. That lover does not exclude others. 
 
 Cam. For me, at least, he shall exclude them. Do not 
 smile, Perdican. It is ten years since I saw you, and I go 
 to-morrow. In ten years more, if we meet again, we will 
 again speak of this. I did not wish your memory to picture 
 me as a cold statue ; for lack of feeling leads to the point I 
 have reached. Listen to me. Return to life ; and so long 
 as you are happy, so long as you love as men can love on 
 earth, forget your sister Camille ; but if ever it chances to 
 you to be forgotten, or yourself to forget ; if the angel of 
 hope abandons you when you are alone, with emptiness in 
 your heart, think of me, who shall be praying for you. 
 
 Perd. You are a proud creature ; take care of yourself. 
 
 Cam. Why ? 
 
 Perd. You are eighteen, and you do not believe in love. 
 
 Cam. Do you believe in it, you who speak to me? 
 There you are, bending beside me knees that have worn 
 themselves on the carpets of your mistresses, whose very 
 names you forget. You have wept tears of joy and tears 
 of despair ; but you knew that the spring water was more 
 constant than your tears, and would be always there to 
 wash your swollen eyelids. You follow your vocation of 
 young man, and you smile when one speaks to you of 
 women's lives blasted; you do not believe that love can 
 kill, since you have loved and live. What is the world then ? 
 It seems to me that you must cordially despise the women
 
 ACT ![.] NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 147 
 
 who take you as you are, and who dismiss their last lover to 
 draw you to their arms with another's kisses on their lips. 
 A moment ago I was asking you if you had loved. You 
 answered me like a traveller whom one might ask had he 
 been in Italy or in Germany, and who should say, " Yes, I 
 have been there ; " then should think of going to Switzer- 
 land or the first country you may name. Is your love a 
 coinage then, that it can pass like this from hand to hand 
 till the day of death? No, not even a coin; for the 
 tiniest gold piece is better than you, and whatever hand it 
 may pass to, still keeps its stamp. 
 
 Perd. How beautiful you are, Camille, when your eyes 
 grow bright ! 
 
 Cam. Yes, I am beautiful; I know it. Compliment- 
 mongers will teach me nothing new. The chill nun who cuts 
 my hair off will perhaps turn pale at her work of mutilation ; 
 but it shall not change into rings and chains to go the 
 round of the boudoirs. Not a strand of it shall be missing 
 from my head when the steel passes there. I ask only one 
 snap of the scissors, and when the consecrating priest 
 draws on my finger the gold ring of my heavenly spouse, the 
 tress of hair I give him may serve him for a cloak. 
 
 Perd. Upon my word, you are angry. 
 
 Cam. I did wrong to speak ; my whole life is on my 
 lips. Oh, Perdican, do not scoff; it is all deathly sad. 
 
 Perd. Poor child, I let you speak, and I have a good 
 mind to answer you one word. You speak to me of a nun 
 who appears to me to have a disastrous influence upon you. 
 
 You say that she has been deceived, that she herself has 
 
 863
 
 14& NO TRIPLING WITH LOVE. [Acx II. 
 
 been false, and that she is in despair. Are you sure that if 
 her husband or her lover came back, and stretched his hand 
 to her through the grating of the convent parlour, she would 
 not give him hers ? 
 
 Cam. What do you say ? I did not understand. 
 
 Perd. Are you sure that if her husband or her lover 
 came, and bade her suffer again, she would answer, No ? 
 
 Cam. I believe it. 
 
 Perd. There are two hundred women in your convent, 
 and most of them have in the recesses of their hearts deep 
 wounds. They have made you touch them, and they have 
 dyed your maiden thoughts with drops of their blood. 
 They have lived, have they not ? and they have shown you 
 shudderingly their life's road. You have crossed yourself 
 before their scars as you would before the wounds of Jesus. 
 They have made a place for you in their doleful processions, 
 and you press closer to these fleshless bodies with a 
 religious dread when you see a man pass. Are you sure 
 that if the man passing were he who deceived them, 
 he for whom they weep and suffer, he whom they curse as 
 they pray to God are you sure that at sight of him they 
 would not burst their fetters to fly to their past misfortunes, 
 and to press their bleeding breasts against the poniard that 
 scarred them ? Oh, child ! do you know the dreams of these 
 women who tell you not to dream ? Do you know what 
 name they murmur when the sighs issuing from their lips 
 shake the sacramental host as it is offered to them ? These 
 women who sit down by you with swaying heads to pour 
 into your ear the poison of their tarnished age, who clang
 
 ACT II.] NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 149 
 
 among the ruins of your youth the tocsin of their despair, 
 and strike into your crimson blood the chill of their tombs, 
 do you know who they are ? 
 
 Cam. You frighten me. Anger is gaining upon you too. 
 
 Perd. Do you know what nuns are, unhappy girl ? Do 
 they, who represent to you men's love as a lie, know that 
 there is a worse thing still the lie of a divine love ? Do 
 they know that they commit a crime when they come 
 whispering to a maiden woman's talk ? Ah ! how they have 
 schooled you ! How clearly I divined all this when you 
 stopped before the portrait of our old aunt ! You wanted 
 to go without pressing my hand ; you would not revisit this 
 wood, nor this poor little fountain that looks at us bathed in 
 tears ; you were a renegade to the days of your childhood, 
 and the mask of plaster the nuns have placed on your 
 cheeks refused me a brother's kiss. But your heart beat ; 
 it forgot its lesson, for it has not learnt to read, and you 
 returned to sit on this turf where now we are. Well, 
 Camille, these women said well. They put you in the right 
 path. It may cost me my life's happiness, but tell them 
 from me heaven is not for them. 
 
 Cam. Nor for me, is it ? 
 
 Perd. Farewell, Camille. Return to your convent ; and 
 when they tell you one of their hideous stories that have 
 poisoned your nature, give them the answer : All men are 
 liars, fickle, chatterers, hypocrites, proud or cowardly, des- 
 picable, sensual ; all women faithless, tricky, vain, inquisi- 
 tive, and depraved. The world is only a bottomless cesspool, 
 where the most shapeless sea-beasts climb and writhe on
 
 150 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [ACT II. 
 
 mountains of slime. But there is in the world a thing 
 holy and sublime the union of two of these beings, im- 
 perfect and frightful as they are. One is often deceived in 
 love, often wounded, often unhappy ; but one loves, and on 
 the brink of the grave one turns to look back and says : I 
 have suffered often, sometimes I have been mistaken, but I 
 have loved. It is I who have lived, and not a spurious 
 being bred of my pride and my sorrow. 
 (Exit.}
 
 ACT TIL] NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 151 
 
 ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 SCENE I. The front of the Chateau. 
 
 Enter the Baron and Master Blazius. 
 
 Baron. Independently of your drunkenness, you are 
 a worthless fellow, Master Blazius. My servants see 
 you enter the pantry furtively ; and when you are accused 
 of having stolen my wine, in the most pitiable manner 
 you think to justify yourself by accusing my niece of a 
 clandestine correspondence. 
 
 Blaz. But, my lord, pray remember 
 
 Baron. Leave the house, abbe, and never appear before 
 me again. It is unreasonable to act as you do, and my 
 self-respect constrains me never to pardon you as long as I 
 live. 
 
 (Exit. Master Blazius follows. Enter Ferdican.} 
 
 Perd. I should like to know if I am in love. On 
 the one hand, there is that fashion of questioning me, a 
 trifle cavalier for a girl of eighteen. On the other, the 
 ideas that these nuns have stuffed into her head will not be 
 set right without trouble. Besides, she is to go to-day. 
 Confound it ! I love her ; there's not a doubt of it. After 
 all, who knows? Perhaps she was repeating a lesson;
 
 152 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [Acr III. 
 
 and besides, it is clear she does not trouble her head about 
 me. On the other hand again, her prettiness is all very 
 well ; but that does not alter the fact that she has much too 
 decided a manner and too curt a tone. My only plan is to 
 think no more of it. It is plain I don't love her. There is 
 no doubt she is pretty ; but why can I not put yesterday's 
 talk out of my head? Upon my word, my wits were 
 wandering all last night. Now where am I going? Ah, 
 I am going to the village. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 SCENE II. A road. 
 Enter Master Bridaine. 
 
 Brid. What are they doing now? Alas ! there is twelve 
 o'clock. They are at table. What are they eating? What 
 are they not eating ? I saw the cook cross the village with 
 a huge turkey. The scullion carried the truffles, with a 
 basket of grapes. 
 
 (Enter Master Blazius.) 
 
 Blaz. Oh, unforeseen disgrace ! here I am turned out 
 of the chateau, and, by consequence, from the dinner-table. 
 I shall never drink the wine in the pantry again. 
 
 Brid. I shall never see the dishes smoke again. Never 
 again before the blaze of that noble heartk shall I warm my 
 capacious belly. 
 
 Blaz. Why did a fatal curiosity prompt me to listen to 
 the conversation between Dame Pluche and the niece? 
 Why did I report all I saw to the Baron ?
 
 ACT III.] NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 153 
 
 Brid. Why did an idle pride remove me from that 
 honourable dinner when I was so kindly welcomed? 
 What mattered to me the seat on the right or seat on the 
 left? 
 
 Blaz. Alas ! I was tipsy, it must be admitted, when 
 I committed this folly. 
 
 Brid. Aias ! the wine had mounted to my head when I 
 was guilty of this rashness. 
 
 Blaz, Yonder is the Vicar, I think. 
 
 Brid. It is the tutor in person. 
 
 Blaz. Oh ! oh ! Vicar, what are you doing here ? 
 
 Brid. I ? I am going to dinner. Are you not coming ? 
 
 Blaz. Alas, Master Bridaine, intercede for me ; the 
 Baron has dismissed me. I falsely accused Miss Camille 
 of having a clandestine correspondence ; and yet, God is my 
 witness that I saw, or thought I saw, Dame Pluche in the 
 clover. I am ruined, Vicar. 
 
 Brid. What do you tell me ? 
 
 Blaz. Alas ! alas ! the truth. I am in utter disgrace for 
 stealing a bottle. 
 
 Brid. What has this talk of stolen bottles to do, sir, 
 with a clover patch and correspondence ? 
 
 Blaz. I entreat you to plead my cause. I am honour- 
 able, my Lord Bridaine. O worshipful Lord Bridaine, I 
 am yours to command. 
 
 Brid. O fortune ! is it a dream ? Shall I then be 
 seated on yon blessed chair? 
 
 Blaz. I shall be grateful to you would you hear my 
 story and kindly excuse me, your worship, my dear Vicar.
 
 154 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [ACT III. 
 
 Brid. That is impossible, sir ; it has struck twelve, and 
 I am off to dinner. If the Baron complains of you, that 
 is your business. I don't intercede for a sot. (Aside.) 
 Quick, fly to the gate : swell, my stomach. 
 (Exit running.) 
 
 Blaz. (alone). Wretched Pluche ! it is you shall pay for 
 them all ; yes, it is you are the cause of my ruin, shameless 
 woman, vile go-between, it is to you I owe my disgrace. 
 Holy university of Paris ! I am called sot ! I am undone 
 if I don't get hold of a letter, and if I don't prove to the 
 Baron that his niece has a correspondence. I saw her 
 writing at her desk this morning. Patience ! here comes 
 news ! (Pass Dame Pluche carrying a letter.} Pluche, 
 give me that letter. 
 
 Pluche. What is the meaning of this? It is a letter 
 of my mistress's that I am going to post in the village. 
 
 Blaz. Give it to me, or you are a dead woman. 
 
 Pluche. I dead! Dead? 
 
 Blaz. Yes, dead, Pluche ; give me that paper. 
 ( They fight. Enter Perdican. ) 
 
 Perd. What is this? What are you about, Blazius? 
 Why are you molesting this woman ? 
 
 Pluche. Give me back the letter. He took it from me, 
 my lord. Justice ! 
 
 Blaz. She is a go-bjtween, my lord. That letter is a 
 billet-doux. 
 
 Pluche. It is a letter of Camille's, my lord your fiancee's. 
 
 Blaz. It is a billet-doux to a goose-herd. 
 
 Pluche. You lie, Abbe. Let me tell you that.
 
 ACT III] NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 155 
 
 Perd. Give me that letter. I understand nothing about 
 your quarrel ; but as Camille's fiance, I claim the right to 
 read it. (Reads.} "To Sister Louise, at the Convent 
 
 of ." Leave me, Dame Pluche; you are a worthy 
 
 woman, and Master Blazius is a fool. Go to dinner; I 
 undertake to put this letter in the post. 
 
 (Exeunt Master Blazius and Dame Pluche?) 
 
 Perd. (alone). That it is a crime to open a letter I know 
 too well to be guilty of it. What can Camille be saying 
 to this sister ? Am I in love after all ? What empire has 
 this strange girl gained over me that the line of writing 
 on this address should make my hand shake? That's odd; 
 Blazius in his struggle with Dame Pluche has burst the 
 seal. Is it a crime to unfold it? No matter, I will put 
 everything just as it was. (Opens the letter and reads.} 
 " I am leaving to-day, my dear, and all has happened as I 
 had foreseen. It is a terrible thing ; but that poor young 
 man has a dagger in his heart ; he will never be consoled 
 for having lost me. Yet I have done everything in the 
 world to disgust him with me. God will pardon me for 
 having reduced him to despair by my refusal. Alas! my 
 dear, what could I do? Pray for me; we shall meet again 
 to-morrow, and for ever. Yours with my whole soul 
 CAMILLE." Is it possible? that is how Camille writes! 
 that is how she speaks of me ! I in despair at her refusal ! 
 Oh ! Good heavens, if that were true it would be easily 
 seen ; what shame could there be in loving? She does 
 everything in the world, she says, to disgust me, and I 
 have a dagger in my heart. What reason can she have
 
 156 JVO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [ ACT III. 
 
 to invent such a romance? Is it then true the thought 
 that I had to-night ? Oh women ! This poor Camille has 
 great piety perhaps. With a willing heart she gives herself 
 to God, but she has resolved and decreed that she would 
 leave me in despair. That was settled between the two 
 friends before she left the convent. It was decided that 
 Camille was going to see her cousin again, that they would 
 wish her to marry him, that she would refuse, and that the 
 cousin would be in despair. It is so interesting for a young 
 girl to sacrifice to God the happiness of a cousin ! No, no, 
 Camille, I do not love you, I am not in despair, I have not 
 a dagger in my heart, and I will prove it to you. Yes, 
 before you leave this you shall know that I love another. 
 Here, my good man ! (Enter a Peasant.} Go to the 
 chateau ; tell them in the kitchen to send a servant to take 
 this note to Mademoiselle Camille. 
 (He writes.} 
 
 Peasant. Yes, my lord. 
 (He goes out.} 
 
 Perd. Now for the other. Ah ! I am in despair. 
 Here ! Rosette, Rosette ! 
 (Pie knocks at a door.} 
 
 Ros. (opening it}. Is it you, my lord? Come in, my 
 mother is here. 
 
 Perd. Put on your prettiest cap, Rosette, and come with 
 me. 
 
 Ros. Where ? 
 
 Perd. I will tell you. Ask leave of your mother, but 
 make haste.
 
 ACT III.] AO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 157 
 
 Ros. Yes, my lord. 
 (She goes into the house.) 
 
 Perd. I have asked Camille for another rendezvous, and 
 I am sure she will come ; but, by heaven, she will not find 
 what she expects there. I mean to make love to Rosette 
 before Camille herself. 
 
 SCENE III. 7 he little wood. 
 Enter Camille and the Peasant. 
 
 Peas. I'm going to the chateau with a letter for you, 
 miss. Must I give it to you, or must I leave it in the 
 kitchen, as Lord Perdican told me ? 
 
 Cam. Give it me. 
 
 Peas. If you would rather I took it to the chateau, it 
 isn't worth while waiting here. 
 
 Cam. Give it me, I tell you. 
 
 Peas. As you please. (Gives the letter.) 
 
 Cam. Stop. There's for your trouble. 
 
 Peas. Much obliged. I may go, mayn't I ? 
 
 Cam. If you like. 
 
 Peas. I am going, I am going. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Cam. (reading). Perdican asks me to say good-bye to 
 him before leaving, near the little fountain where I brought 
 him yesterday. What can he have to say to me ? Why, 
 here is the fountain, and I am on the spot. Ought I to 
 grant this second rendezvous ? Ah ! (Hides behind a tree.) 
 There is Perdican coming this way with my foster-sister. I
 
 158 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [Act III. 
 
 suppose he will leave her. I am glad that I shan't seem to 
 be the first to arrive. 
 
 (Enter Perdican and Rosette, and sit down.} 
 Cam. (hidden, aside}. What is the meaning of this ? 
 He is making her sit down beside him. Does he ask me 
 for a rendezvous to come there and talk with another girl ? 
 I am curious to know what he says to her. 
 
 Perd. (a/oud, so that Camille hears). I love you, 
 Rosette. You alone, out of all the world, have forgotten 
 nothing of our good days that are past. You are the only 
 one who remembers the life that is no more. Share my 
 new life. Give me your heart, sweet child. There is the 
 pledge of our love. 
 
 (Putting his chain on her neck.} 
 Ros. Are you giving me your gold chain ? 
 Perd. Now look at this ring. Stand up and let us come 
 near the fountain. Do you see us both in the spring lean- 
 ing on each other? Do you see your lovely eyes near 
 mine, your hand in mine ? Watch how all that is blotted 
 out. (Throwing his ring into the water.} Look how our 
 image has disappeared. There it is coming back little by 
 little. The troubled water regains its tranquillity. It 
 trembles still. Great black rings float over its surface. 
 Patience. We are reappearing. Already I can make out 
 again your arms entwined in mine. One minute more and 
 there will not be a wrinkle left in your pretty face. Look ! 
 It was a ring that Camille gave me. 
 
 Cam. (aside}. He has thrown my ring into the 
 water.
 
 ACT III.] NO TRIFLING W1TFT LOVE. 159 
 
 Perd. Do you know what love is, Rosette ? Listen ! 
 the wind is hushed ; the morning rain runs pearling over 
 the parched leaves that the sun revives. By the light of 
 heaven, by this sun we see, I love you ! You will have 
 me, will you not ? No one has tarnished your youth ! 
 no one has distilled into your crimson blood the dregs 
 of jaded veins ! You do not want to turn nun ? There you 
 stand, young and fair, in a young man's arms. O Rosette, 
 Rosette, do you know what love is ? 
 
 Ros. Alas, Doctor, I will love you as best I can. 
 
 Perd. Yes, as best you can ; and that will be better, 
 doctor though I am, and peasant though you are, than 
 these pale statues can love, fashioned by nuns, their heads 
 where their hearts should be, who leave the cloisters to 
 come and spread through life the dank atmosphere of their 
 cells. You know nothing; you could not read in a book 
 the prayer that your mother taught you as she learnt it 
 from her mother. You do not even understand the sense 
 of the words you repeat when you kneel at your bedside ; 
 but you understand that you are praying, and that is all 
 God wants. 
 
 Ros. How you speak, my lord ! 
 
 Perd. You cannot read ; but you can tell what these 
 woods and meadows say, their warm rivers and fair harvest- 
 covered fields, and all this nature radiant with youth. You 
 recognise all these thousands of brothers and me as one of 
 them. Rise up ; you shall be my wife, and together we 
 shall strike root into the vital currents of the almighty 
 world.
 
 160 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [ACT III. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Enter the Chorus. 
 
 Chorus. Certainly there is something strange going 
 on at the chateau. Camille has refused to marry Perdican. 
 She is to return to the convent she came from. But I think 
 his lordship, her cousin, has consoled himself with Rosette. 
 Alas ! the poor girl does not know the risk she runs in 
 listening to the speeches of a gallant young nobleman. 
 (Enter Dame Pluche.) 
 
 Pluche. Quick ! quick ! saddle my ass. 
 
 Chorus. Will you pass away like a beautiful dream, 
 venerable lady ? Are you going to bestride anew so soon 
 that poor beast who is so sad to bear your weight ? 
 
 Pluche. Thank God, my sweet rabble, I shall not die 
 here! 
 
 C/iorus. Die far from here, Pluche, my darling ; die un- 
 known in some unwholesome cavern. We will pray for 
 your worshipful resurrection. 
 
 Pluche. Here comes my mistress. (To Camille, who 
 enters^) Dear Camille, all is ready for our start; the Baron 
 has rendered his account, and they have pack-saddled my 
 ass. 
 
 Cam. Go to the devil, you and your ass too ! I shall 
 not start to-day. (Exit.) 
 
 Chorus. What can this mean ? Dame Pluche is pale 
 with anger ; her false hair tries to stand on end, her chest 
 whistles, and her fingers stretch out convulsively. 
 
 Pluche. Lord God of heaven ! Camille swore ! (Exit.)
 
 ACT III.] NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. i6t 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Enter the Baron and Master Bridaine. 
 
 Brid. My lord, I must speak to you in private. Your 
 son is making love to a village girl 
 
 Baron. It is absurd, my friend. 
 
 Brid. I distinctly saw him passing in the heather with 
 her on his arm. He was bending his head to her ear and 
 promising to marry her. 
 
 Baron. This is monstrous. 
 
 Brid. You may be convinced of it He made her a 
 considerable present that the girl showed her mother. 
 
 Baron. Heavens, Bridaine, considerable ? In what 
 way considerable ? 
 
 Brid. In weight and importance. It was the gold chain 
 he used to wear in his cap. 
 
 Baron. Let us step into my study. I don't know what 
 to think of it. 
 {Exeunt. ) 
 
 SCENE VI. Camillas room. 
 Enter Camiile and Dame Pluche. 
 
 Cam. He look my letter, you say ? 
 
 Pluche. Yes, my child ; he undertook to put it in the 
 post. 
 
 Cam. Go to the drawing-room, Dame Pluche, and do 
 me the kindness to tell Perdican that I expect him here. 
 (Exit Dame P.'uche.} He read my letter, that is a certainty.
 
 1 62 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [ACT III. 
 
 His scene in the wood was a retaliation, like his love for 
 Rosette. He wished to prove to me that he loved another 
 girl, and to play at unconcern in spite of his vexation. 
 Could he be in love with me by any chance ? (She lifts the 
 tapestry.') Are you there, Rosette ? 
 
 Ros. (entering). Yes ; may I come in ? 
 
 Cam. Listen to me, my child. Is not Lord Perdican 
 making love to you ? 
 
 Ros. Alas ! yes. 
 
 Cam. What do you think of what he said to you this 
 morning ? 
 
 Ros. This morning ? Where ? 
 
 Cam. Don't play the hypocrite. This morning at the 
 fountain in the little wood. 
 
 Ros. You saw me there ? 
 
 Cam. Poor innocent ! No, I did not see you. He 
 made you fine speeches, did he not ? I would wager he 
 promised to marry you. 
 
 Ros. How do you know that? 
 
 Cam. What matter how ? I know it. Do you believe 
 in his promises, Rosette? 
 
 Ros. Why, how could I help it ? He deceive me ? 
 why should he ? 
 
 Cam. Perdican will not marry you, my child. 
 
 Ros. Alas ! I can't tell. 
 
 Cam. You are in love with him, poor girl. He will not 
 marry you ; and for proof, you shall have it. Go in again 
 behind this curtain. You need only keep your ears open, 
 and come when I call you. (Exit Rosette?)
 
 ACT III.] NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 163 
 
 Cam. (sol.). Can it be that I who thought I was doing 
 an act of vengeance, am doing an act of humanity ? The 
 poor girl's heart is caught. (Enter Perdican.) Good 
 morning, cousin ; sit you down. 
 
 Ferd. What a toilette, Camille ? Whose scalp are you 
 after ? 
 
 Cam. Yours perhaps. I am sorry I could not come to 
 the rendezvous you asked for ; had you anything to say to 
 me? 
 
 Perd. (aside). A good-sized fib that, on my life, for a 
 spotless lamb. I saw her listening to the conversation 
 behind a tree. (Aloud!) I have nothing to say to you but 
 a farewell, Camille. I thought you were starting ; yet your 
 horse is in the stable, and you do not look as if you were 
 dressed for travelling. 
 
 Cam. I like discussion. I am not very sure that I did 
 not want to quarrel with you again. 
 
 Perd. What is the use in quarrelling when it is 
 impossible to make it up ? The pleasure of disputes is in 
 making peace. 
 
 Cam. Are you convinced that I don't wish to make it ? 
 
 Perd. Don't laugh at me ; I am no match for you there. 
 
 Cam. I should like a flirtation. I don't know whether 
 it is that I have a new dress on, but I want to amuse 
 myself. You proposed going to the village ; let us go. I'm 
 ready ; let us take the boat. I want to picnic on the grass, 
 or to take a stroll in the forest. Will it be moonlight this 
 evening ? That's odd; you have not the ring I gave you on 
 
 your finger. 
 
 864
 
 164 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE, [ACT III. 
 
 Perd. I have lost it. 
 
 Cam. Then that is why I found it. There, Perdican; 
 here it is for you. 
 
 Perd. Is it possible ? Where did you find it ? 
 
 Cam. You are looking to see if my hands are wet, are 
 you not? Indeed, I spoilt my convent dress to get this 
 little child's plaything out of the fountain. That is why I 
 have put on another, and I tell you it has changed me. 
 Come, put that on your finger. 
 
 Perd. You got this ring out of the water, Camille, at the 
 risk of falling in yourself. Is this a dream ? There it is. 
 It is you who are putting it on my finger. Ah, Camille, 
 why do you give it me back, this sad pledge of a happiness 
 that exists no longer ? Speak, coquette ; speak, rash girl. 
 Why do you go ? Why do you stay ? Why do you change 
 aspect and colour from hour to hour, like the stone of this 
 ring at every ray of the sun ? 
 
 Cam. Do you know the heart of women, Perdican ? 
 Are you sure of their inconstancy ? and do you know whether 
 they really change in thought when they change in words 
 sometimes? Some say no. Undoubtedly we often have 
 to play a part, often lie. You see I am frank. But are 
 you sure that the whole woman lies when her tongue lies ? 
 Have you reflected well on the nature of this weak and 
 passionate being, on the sternness with which she is judged, 
 and on the rules that are imposed on her? And who 
 knows whether, forced by the world into deceit, this little 
 brainless being's head may not take a pleasure in it, and lie 
 sometimes for pastime or for folly, as she does for necessity?
 
 ACT III.] NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 165 
 
 Perd. I understand nothing of all this, and I never 
 lie. I love you, Camille. That is all I know. 
 
 Cam. You say that you love me, and that you never 
 lie 
 
 Perd. Never. 
 
 Cam. Yet here is one who says that that sometimes 
 happens to you. (She raises the tapestry. Rosette is seen 
 in the distance fainting on a chair.} What answer will 
 you make to this child, Perdican, when she demands an 
 account of your words ? If you never lie, how comes it 
 then that she fainted on hearing you tell me that you 
 love me ? I leave you with her. Try to restore her. 
 (She attempts to leave.} 
 
 Perd. One moment, Camille. Listen to me. 
 
 Cam. What would you tell me ? It is to Rosette you 
 should speak. I do not love you. I did not go out of 
 spite and fetch this unhappy child from the shelter of 
 her cottage, to make a bait and a plaything of her. I did 
 not rashly repeat before her burning words addressed to 
 another woman. I did not feign to hurl to the winds for 
 her sake the remembrance of a cherished friendship. I 
 did not put my chain on her neck. I did not tell her I 
 would marry her. 
 
 Perd. Listen to me, listen to me. 
 
 Cam. Did you not smile a moment ago when I told 
 you I had not been able to go to the fountain? Well. 
 Yes, I was there, and I heard all. But God is my witness, 
 I would not care to have spoken as you spoke there. What 
 will you do with that girl yonder, now when she comes
 
 166 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [Acx III. 
 
 with your passionate kisses on her lips and shows you, 
 weeping, the wound you have dealt her ? You wished to 
 be revenged on me did you not ? and to punish me for 
 a letter written to my convent. You wished to loose, at 
 whatever cost, any shaft that could reach me, and you 
 counted it as nothing to pierce this child with your poisoned 
 arrow, provided it struck me behind her. I had boasted 
 of having inspired some love in you, of leaving you some 
 regret for me. So that wounded you in your noble pride ! 
 Well, learn it from my lips. You love me do you 
 hear ? but you will marry that girl, or you are nothing but 
 a coward. 
 
 Perd. Yes, I will marry her. 
 
 Cam. And you will do well. 
 
 Perd. Right well, and far better than if I married you 
 yourself. Why so hot, Camille? This child has fainted. 
 We shall easily restore her. A flask of vinegar is all that 
 needs. You wished to prove to me that I had lied once 
 in my life. That is possible, but I think you are bold to 
 determine at what moment. Come, help me to aid 
 Rosette. 
 
 (Exeunt.} 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 The Baron and Camille. 
 
 Baron. If that takes place, I shall run mad. 
 Cam. Use your authority. 
 
 Baron. I shall run mad, and I shall refuse my consent, 
 that's certain.
 
 ACT III.] NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 167 
 
 Cam. You ought to speak to him, and make him hear 
 reason. 
 
 Baron. This will throw me into despair for the whole 
 carnival, and I shall not appear once at court. It is a 
 disproportioned marriage. Nobody ever heard of marrying 
 one's cousin's foster-sister ; that passes all kinds of bounds. 
 
 Cam. Send for him, and tell him flatly that you don't 
 like the marriage. Believe me, it is a piece of madness, 
 and he will not resist. 
 
 Baron. I shall be in black this winter, be assured of 
 that. 
 
 Cam. But speak to him, in heaven's name. This is a 
 freak of his ; perhaps it is too late already; if he has spoken 
 of it, he will carry it out. 
 
 Baron. I am going to shut myself up, that I may 
 abandon myself to my sorrow. Tell him, if he asks for 
 me, that I have shut myself up, and that I am abandoning 
 myself to my sorrow at seeing him wed a nameless girl. 
 (Exit.} 
 
 Cam. Shall I not find a man of sense here? Upon 
 my word, when you look for one, the solitude becomes 
 appalling. (Enter Perdican.} Well, cousin, and when is 
 the wedding to be ? 
 
 Perd. As soon as possible ; I have mentioned it already 
 to the notary, the priest, and all the peasants. 
 
 Cam. You really think, then, that you will marry 
 Rosette ? 
 
 Perd. Assuredly. 
 
 Cam. What will your father say ?
 
 1 68 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [ACT III. 
 
 Perd. Whatever he pleases; I choose to marry this 
 girl ; it is an idea for which I am indebted to you, and I 
 stand to it Need I repeat to you the hackneyed common- 
 places about my birth and hers ? She is young and pretty, 
 and she loves me ; it is more than one needs to be trebly 
 happy. Whether she have brains or no, I might have found 
 worse. People will raise an outcry, and a laugh ; I wash 
 my hands of them. 
 
 Cam. There is nothing laughable in it; you do very 
 well to marry her. But I am sorry for you on one account : 
 people will say you married her out of spite. 
 
 Perd. You sorry for that ? Oh, no ! 
 
 Cam. Yes, I am really sorry for it It injures a young 
 man to be unable to resist a moment's annoyance. 
 
 Perd. Be sorry then ; for my part, it's all one to me. 
 
 Cam. But you don't mean it ; she is nobody. 
 
 Perd. She will be somebody then, when she is my wife. 
 
 Cam. You will tire of her before the notary has put on 
 his best coat and his shoes, to come here ; your gorge will 
 rise at the wedding breakfast, and the evening of the 
 ceremony you will have her hands and feet cut off, as they 
 do in the "Arabian Nights," because she smells of ragotit. 
 
 Perd. No such thing, you will see. You do not know 
 me. When a woman is gentle and affectionate, fresh, kind, 
 and beautiful, I am capable of contenting myself with that ; 
 yes, upon my word, even to the length of not caring to 
 know if she speaks Latin. 
 
 Cam. It is a pity there was so much money spent on 
 teaching it to you : it is three thousand crowns lost.
 
 ACT III.] NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. i6g 
 
 Perd. Yes ; they would have done better to give it to 
 the poor. 
 
 Cam. You will take charge of it, for the poor in spirit, 
 at least. 
 
 Perd. And they will give me in exchange the kingdom 
 of heaven, for it is their's, 
 
 Cam. How long will this sport last ? 
 
 Perd. What sport ? 
 
 Cam. Your marriage with Rosette. 
 
 Perd. A very little while : God has not made man a 
 lasting piece of work : thirty or forty years at the most 
 
 Cam. I look forward to dancing at your wedding. 
 
 Perd. Listen to me, Camille, this tone of raillery is out 
 of season. 
 
 Cam. I like it too well to leave it. 
 
 Perd. Then I leave you, for I have enough of you for 
 the moment. 
 
 Cam. Are you going to your bride's home ? 
 
 Perd. Yes, this instant. 
 
 Cam. Give me your arm ; I am going there too. 
 (Enfer Rosette.} 
 
 Perd. Here you are, my child. Come, I want to present 
 you to my father. 
 
 Ros. (kneeling down). My lord, I am come to ask a 
 favour of you. All the village folk I spoke to this 
 morning told me that you loved your cousin, and that you 
 only made love to me to amuse both of you ; I am 
 laughed at as I pass, and I shall not be able to find a 
 husband in the country, now that I have been the laughing-
 
 170 NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. [Acx III. 
 
 stock of the neighbourhood. Allow me to give you the neck- 
 lace you gave me, and to live in peace with my mother. 
 
 Cam. You are a good girl, Rosette ; keep the necklace. 
 It is I who give it you, and my cousin will take mine in its 
 place. As for a husband, don't trouble your head for that ; 
 I undertake to find one for you. 
 
 Perd. Certainly there is no difficulty about that. Come, 
 Rosette, come and let me take you to my father. 
 
 Cam. Why? It is useless. 
 
 Perd. Yes, you are right; my father would receive us 
 ill; we must let the first moment of his surprise pass by. 
 Come with me ; we will go back to the green. A good 
 joke indeed that it should be said I don't love you, when I 
 am marrying you. By Jove, we will silence them. 
 (Exit with Rosette} 
 
 Cam. What can be happening in me ? He takes her 
 away with a very tranquil air. That is odd; my head 
 seems to be swimming. Could he marry her in good 
 earnest ? Ho ! Dame Pluche, Dame Pluche ! Is no one 
 here? (Enter a Footman.') Run after Lord Perdican; 
 make haste, and tell him to come up here again, I want 
 to speak to him. (Exit Footman?) What in the world is 
 all this ? I can bear no more; my feet refuse to support me. 
 (Re-enter Perdican.} 
 
 Perd. You asked for me, Camille. 
 
 Cam. No no 
 
 Perd. Truly you are pale ; what have you to say to 
 me ? You recalled me to speak to me. 
 
 Cam. No no O Lord God ! (Exit}
 
 ACT III. NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 171 
 
 LAST SCENE. 
 
 An Oratory. 
 
 Enter Camille. She throws herself at the foot of the altar. 
 
 Cam. Have you abandoned me, O my God? You 
 know when I came here I had promised to be faithful to 
 you. When I refused to become the bride of another than 
 you, I thought I spoke in singleness of heart, before you 
 and before my conscience. You know it, O my Father ! 
 Do not reject me now. Ah, why do you make truth itself 
 a liar ? Why am I so weak ? Ah, unhappy girl that I am ; 
 I can pray no more ! 
 (Enter Perdican.) 
 
 Perd. Pride, most fatal of men's counsellors, why didst 
 thou come between this girl and me ? Yonder is she, pale 
 and affrighted, pressing on the unfeeling stone her heart and 
 her face. She might have loved me. We were born for 
 one another. Wherefore earnest thou on our lips, O Pride, 
 when our hands were about to join ? 
 
 Cam. Who followed me? Who speaks beneath this 
 vault ? Is it you, Perdican ? 
 
 Ferd. Blind fools that we are; we love each other. 
 What were we dreaming, Camille ? What vain words, what 
 wretched follies passed between us like a pestilent wind ? 
 Which wished to deceive the other? Alas, this life is in 
 itself so sad a dream ; why should we confound it further 
 with fancies of our own? Oh, my God, happiness is a 
 pearl so rare in this ocean of a world. Thou, Heavenly
 
 172 NO TRIPLING WITH LOVE. [Acr III. 
 
 Fisherman, hadst given it us ; Thou hadst fetched it for us 
 from the depths of the abyss, this priceless jewel ; and we, 
 like spoiled children that we are, made a plaything of it. 
 The green path that led us towards each other sloped so 
 gently, such flowery shrubs surrounded it, it merged in so 
 calm a horizon and vanity, light talking, and anger must 
 cast their shapeless rocks on this celestial way, which would 
 have brought us to thee in a kiss. We must do wrong, 
 for we are of mankind. O blind fools ! We love each 
 other ! 
 
 Cam. Yes, we love each other, Perdican. Let me feel 
 it on your heart. The God who looks down on us will not 
 be offended. It is by His will that I love you. He has 
 known it these fifteen years. 
 
 Perd. Dear one, you are mine. 
 
 (He kisses ker. A great cry is heard from behind the ( 
 altar.} 
 
 Cam. It is my foster-sister's voice. 
 
 Perd. How does she come here ? I had left her on the 
 staircase when you sent to bring me back. She must have 
 followed me unperceived. 
 
 Cam. Come out into the gallery; the cry was from there. 
 
 Perd. What is this I feel? I think my hands are 
 covered with blood. 
 
 Cam. The poor child must have spied on us. She has 
 fainted again. Come, let us bring her help. Alas ! it is 
 all cruel 
 
 Perd. No, truly, I will not go in. I feel a deadly chill 
 that paralyses me. Go you, Camille, and try to restore her.
 
 ACT III.] NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. 173 
 
 (Exit Camille.} I beseech of you, my God, do not make 
 me a murderer. You see what is happening. We are two 
 senseless children. We played with life and death, but our 
 hearts are pure. Do not kill Rosette, O righteous God ! 
 I will find her a husband ; I will repair my fault. She is 
 young ; she will be happy. Do not do that, O God ! You 
 may yet bless four of your children. (Enter Camille.} 
 Well, Camille, what is it ? 
 
 Cam. She is dead. Farewell, Perdican !
 
 DOOR MUST BE EITHER 
 OPEN OR SHUT. 
 
 PROVERB IN ONE ACT. 
 
 (PUBLISHED IN 1845; ACTED IN 1848.)
 
 Dramatis Personce. 
 
 THE COUNT. | THE MARQUISE. 
 
 Scene Paris,
 
 A DOOR MUST BE EITHER 
 OPEN OR SHUT. 
 
 A. PROVERB IN ONE ACT. 
 
 SCENE. Paris. 
 
 (The Marquise is seated on a sofa near the fire em- 
 broidering. Enter the Count; he bows.} 
 
 Count. I don't know when I shall get over my stupidity, 
 but my memory is shocking. I can't possibly take upon 
 me to remember your day; and whenever I want to see 
 you, it is sure to be a Tuesday. 
 
 Mar. Have you anything to say to me ? 
 
 Count. No ; but suppose I had, I could not say it. 
 It is only a chance that you are by yourself, and within 
 the next quarter of an hour you are sure to have a mob 
 of intimate friends in here : they will put me to flight, I 
 warn you. 
 
 Mar. It is true that to-day is my day, and I don't quite 
 know why I have one. It's a fashion; but there is a 
 reason for it all the same. Our mothers left their doors 
 
 865
 
 1 78 A DOOR MUST 
 
 open : good society was not numerous, and only meant for 
 each circle a batch of bores that one accepted as a matter 
 of duty. Nowadays, when you are at home, you are at 
 home to all Paris ; and all Paris nowadays is in real 
 earnest the whole of Paris, town and suburbs. When one 
 is at home one's house is a street. A remedy had to be 
 found, and, accordingly, everybody has their day. It is 
 the only way to see as little as possible of each other, 
 and when you say, "I am at home on Tuesdays," it is clearly 
 just as if you said, "Leave me in peace on the other 
 days " 
 
 Count. That makes it all the worse for me to come 
 to-day, since you allow me to see you in the week 
 
 Mar Make up your mind and sit down there. If you 
 are in a good temper, you may talk ; if not, warm yourself. 
 I don't expect a great many people to-day, and you shall 
 watch the slides change in my little magic-lantern. But 
 what's the matter with you ? You seem 
 
 Count. What ? 
 
 Mar. I would not say the word for the world. 
 
 Count. Well, indeed, then I will admit it. Before I 
 came in I was a little 
 
 Mar. What ? It is my turn now to ask. 
 
 Count. Will you be angry if I tell you? 
 
 Mar. There is a ball this evening, where I want to look 
 my best, so I shall not lose my temper all day. 
 
 Count. Well, I was a little bored. I don't know what's 
 the matter with me : it's a fashionable affliction like your 
 days. I've been wretched since twelve o'clock, paid four
 
 EITHER OPEN OR SHUT. 179 
 
 visits, and found no one in. I was to dine somewhere : 
 excused myself without any reason. There is nothing to 
 go to this evening. I went out in a bitter frost, saw nothing 
 but red noses and blue cheeks. I don't know what to do. 
 I am as stupid as a magazine article. 
 
 Mar. I can say the same for myself. I am bored to 
 extinction. It is the weather, no doubt. 
 
 Count. The fact is, cold is abominable. Winter is an 
 ailment. Fools see the pavement clean and the sky clear, 
 and when a good sharp wind nips their ears they call that a 
 fine frost It is like talking of a fine inflammation of the 
 lungs. Many thanks for fineries of that sort. 
 
 Mar. I go further than you. It seems to me that I get 
 my dulness not so much' from the air out of doors, cold 
 though it is, as from the air other people breathe. Perhaps 
 it is that we are growing old. I am beginning to be thirty, 
 and I am losing my talent for existence. 
 
 Count. It is a talent I never had, and what scares me is 
 that I am picking it up. As one ages, one turns fogey or 
 fool, and I am desperately afraid of dying a wiseacre. 
 
 Mar. Ring for them to put a log on the fire. Your 
 idea freezes me. 
 
 (A ring heard outside.") 
 
 Count. It is not worth while. There is a ring at the 
 door, and your procession is arriving. 
 
 Mar. Let us see who will carry the flag ; and, above all, 
 do your best to stay. 
 
 Count. No ; decidedly I am off. 
 
 Mar. Where are you going?
 
 i8o A DOOR MUST BE 
 
 Count. I haven't an idea. (He rises, bows, and opens 
 the door.} Adieu, Madame, till Thursday evening. 
 
 Mar. Why Thursday ? 
 
 Count. Is it not your day at the opera ? I will go and 
 pay you a little visit. 
 
 Mar. I don't want you ; you are too cross. Besides, I 
 am taking M. Camus. 
 
 Count. M. Camus, your country neighbour ? 
 
 Mar. Yes. He sold me apples and hay with great 
 gallantry, and I want to return his civility. 
 
 Count. Now, that is just your way. The most weari- 
 some creature ! He should be fed on his own wares. And 
 by the way, do you know what the world says ? 
 
 Mar. No. But no one is coming. Who rang 
 there ? 
 
 Count (looking out of window). No one. A little girl, I 
 think, with a band-box something or other a washer- 
 woman. She is there in the court, talking to your 
 servants. 
 
 Mar. You call that something or other ! That's polite 
 of you. It is my bonnet. Well, what are they saying 
 about me and M. Camus ? Do shut that door. There's a 
 terrible draught. 
 
 Count. People are saying- that you are thinking of 
 marrying again, and that M. Camus is a millionaire, and 
 that he comes very often to your house. 
 
 Mar. Really ! Is that all ? And you tell me that to 
 my face ? 
 
 Count. I tell it you because people are talking of it.
 
 EITHER OPEN OR SHUT. 181 
 
 Mar. That is a pretty reason. Do I repeat to you all 
 the world says of you ? 
 
 Count. Of me, Madame? What do they say, if you 
 please, that will not bear repeating ? 
 
 Mar. But you see, anything will bear repeating, since 
 you tell me that I am on the eve of being announced as 
 Madame Camus. The story about you is at least as 
 serious, for, unfortunately, it appears that it is true. 
 
 Count. What can it be ? You frighten me. 
 
 Mar. One more proof that the world is right. 
 
 Count. Explain yourself, I beg. 
 
 Mar. Oh, on no account. It is your own affair 
 
 Count (sitting down again). I implore you, Marquise. 
 I ask it as a favour. You are the person in all the world 
 whose opinion I value most. 
 
 Mar. One of the persons, you mean. 
 
 Count. No, Madame, I say the person she whose 
 esteem, whose opinion 
 
 Mar. Good heavens, you are going to turn a phrase. 
 
 Count. Not at all. If you see nothing, evidently it is 
 because you will not see. 
 
 Mar. See what ? 
 
 Count. You can't but understand 
 
 Mar. I only understand what people tell me, and even 
 then I am hard of hearing. 
 
 Count. You laugh at everything; but, candidly, could 
 it be possible, that after seeing you for a whole year, with 
 your wit, your beauty, your grace 
 
 Mar. But, good heavens! this is worse than a phrase;
 
 1 8 2 A DOOR MUST BE 
 
 it is a declaration. Warn me at least. Is it a declaration 
 or a New Year's compliment ? 
 
 Count. And suppose it were a declaration ? 
 
 Mar. Oh, I don't want it this morning. I told you 
 I was going to a ball ; I run the risk of hearing some this 
 evening, and my health won't stand that sort of thing 
 twice a day. 
 
 Count. Truly you are discouraging, and I shall be 
 heartily delighted when your turn comes to be caught 
 
 Mar. I shall be delighted myself. I swear to you, 
 there are instants when I would give large sums to have 
 even a little vexation. Why, that's how I felt while my 
 hair was being done, only just a few minutes ago. I was 
 sighing as if my heart would break, from despair at having 
 nothing to think of 
 
 Count. Laugh away, laugh away ; your turn will come. 
 
 Mar. Very possibly : we are all mortal. If I am 
 reasonable, whose fault is that ? I assure you, I don't try 
 to prevent it. 
 
 Count. So you don't choose to be made love to ? 
 
 Mar. No. I am very good-natured ; but as for love- 
 making, it is quite too stupid. Come now, you who have 
 common sense, tell me what does this mean : making love 
 to a woman ? 
 
 Count. It means that the woman in question pleases 
 you, and that you like to tell her so. 
 
 Mar. Very well ; but what about the woman ? Does 
 it please her to please you ? For instance, you think me 
 pretty, let us suppose, and it amuses you to let me know
 
 EITHER OPEN OR SHUT. 183 
 
 this. Well ! what next ? what does that prove ? Is it a 
 reason for me to love you ? I imagine that if any one 
 pleases me, that is not because I am pretty. What does 
 he gain by these compliments? A pretty way, truly, to 
 make a woman fall in love with you to come and plant 
 yourself in front of her with an eyeglass, look her over from 
 head to foot, as if she were a doll in a shop window, and 
 say to her very condescendingly: "Madame, I think you 
 charming." Add to that a few stale phrases, a waltz and a 
 bouquet, and that is what they call making love to a 
 woman. For shame ! How can a man of brains take any 
 pleasure in these sillinesses? It puts me into a passion 
 when I think of it. 
 
 Count. Still there is nothing to get angry about. 
 
 Mar. On my word, there is. You must credit a woman 
 with a very empty head and a great stock of stupidity to 
 imagine that you can mix a charm for her out of such 
 ingredients. Do you believe it is very diverting to pass one's 
 life in the midst of a deluge of insipidities, and to have one's 
 ears full of nonsense from morning to evening. Really, it 
 seems to me that if I were a man, and saw a pretty woman, 
 I should say to myself: " Here is a poor creature who is sure 
 to be stifled with compliments." I should spare her; I should 
 have pity on her; and if I wanted to find favour, I would do 
 her the honour to talk to her of something else than her un- 
 happy face. But no, it is always " You are pretty," and then 
 " You are pretty," and then " Pretty " again. Why, good 
 heavens ! we know it well enough. Shall I tell you the truth? 
 you men of fashion are nothing but confectioners in disguise.
 
 i8 4 A DOOR MUST BE 
 
 Count. Well, Madame, you are charming, take it as you 
 will. There's anothing ring. Good-bye ; I am off. 
 
 Mar. Wait now ; I wanted to tell you I forget what 
 it was. Ah ! do you pass Frossin's by any chance in your 
 wanderings ? 
 
 Count. It will not be by chance, Madame, if I can be of 
 any use to you. 
 
 Mar. Another compliment. Heavens, how you bore 
 me ! It is a ring I have broken. Of course I could simply 
 send it, but I must explain to you. (Taking the ring off her 
 finger?) There, do you see, it is the setting. There is a little 
 point here, you see, don't you ? That used to open at the 
 side, here. I knocked it against something this morning, 
 and the spring got broken. 
 
 Count. Why, Marquise, without wanting to be indis- 
 creet there was hair in it ! 
 
 Mar. Very possibly. What are you laughing at ? 
 
 Count. I am not laughing the least bit in the world. 
 
 Mar. You are an impertinent creature; it is my 
 husband's hair. But I hear no one. Who was it rang 
 again there? 
 
 Count (looking out of window). Another little girl, and 
 another band-box. One more bonnet, I presume. By the 
 way, after all this, you owe me a confidence. 
 
 Mar. Do shut that door ; you are freezing me. 
 
 Count. I'm just going. But you promise to repeat what 
 was said to you about me, don't you, Marquise ? 
 
 Mar. Come to the ball this evening, and we will have 
 a talk.
 
 EITHER OPEN OR SHUT. 185 
 
 Count. Parbleu ! Yes ; talk in a ball-room ! A nice 
 spot for conversation, with trombone accompaniment and a 
 clatter of glasses of eau sucrke. Some one walks on your 
 toe, some one else shoves your elbow, while a powdered 
 lacquey stuffs an ice into your pocket. I put it to you, is 
 that the place ? 
 
 Mar. Will you go or stay ? I tell you again, you are 
 giving me a cold. Since no one is coming, what drives you 
 away ? 
 
 Count (shutting the door and sitting down again). The 
 fact is, do what I can, I feel in such bad humour that I am 
 really afraid of wearing out your patience. Decidedly I 
 must leave off coming to your house 
 
 Mar. That is polite. And what has put that into your 
 head? 
 
 Count. I don't know, but I bore you. You told me so 
 yourself a moment ago, and I am quite conscious of it. 
 What could be more natural ? It is that unlucky lodging 
 I have there opposite. I can't go out without looking at 
 your windows, and I walk in here mechanically without 
 reflecting what I come for. 
 
 Mar. If I told you, you were boring me this morning, 
 that was because it is unusual. Seriously, you would pain 
 me. I take great pleasure in seeing you 
 
 Count. You? Not a bit Do you know what I am 
 going to do ? I am going back to Italy. 
 
 Mar. Ah ! And how will that suit mademoiselle? 
 
 Count. Mademoiselle who, please ? 
 
 Mar. Mademoiselle somebody. The young lady who
 
 1 86 A DOOR MUST BE 
 
 is your protegee. What do I know of your ballet-girls' 
 names ? 
 
 Count. Ah ! So that is the fine story they have been 
 telling you about me? 
 
 Mar. Precisely. Do you deny it ? 
 
 Count. It is a pack of rubbish. 
 
 Mar. It is unfortunate 'that you were very distinctly 
 seen at the play in the company of a certain pink hat with 
 flowers that only bloom at the opera. You haunt the 
 side-scenes, my neighbour ; all the world knows that. 
 
 Count. Like your marriage with M. Camus. 
 
 Mar. You still harp on that. 
 
 Count. Well, why not ? 
 
 Mar. M. Camus is a very worthy man. He is a 
 millionaire several times over. His age, though it is 
 venerable enough, is exactly right for a husband. I am 
 a widow. He is a bachelor. He looks very well when 
 he has his gloves on. 
 
 Count. And a nightcap. That is sure to suit him. 
 
 Mar. Will you be good enough to stop, please? Do 
 people mention such things ? 
 
 Count. Why yes, to any one who may see them. 
 
 Mar. Apparently it is those young ladies who teach 
 you your pretty manners. 
 
 Count (getting up and taking his hat}. Stop, Marquise, 
 I must say good-bye. You would make me say something 
 improper. 
 
 Mar. What excessive delicacy ! 
 
 Count. No, but really you are too cruel; it is bad
 
 EITHER OPEN OR SHUT. 187 
 
 enough to forbid me loving you, without accusing me of 
 loving some one else. 
 
 Mar. Better and better. What a tragic tone ! I forbade 
 you to love me ? 
 
 Count. Certainly ; or to speak to you of it, at least. 
 
 Mar. Well, I give you leave. Let us hear your eloquence. 
 
 Count. If you meant that 
 
 Mar. What does that matter to you, provided I say it. 
 
 Count. It matters this much, that even in joke some one 
 here might very probably run a risk. 
 
 Mar. Oh, oh ! Grave perils, monsieur ? 
 
 Count. Perhaps, Madame. But unfortunately the dan- 
 ger would be only for me. 
 
 Mar. When one is afraid, one doesn't play at courage. 
 Well, let me hear. You say nothing ? You threaten me. 
 I expose myself to your attack, and you don't stir. I was 
 expecting at least to see you fling yourself at my feet like 
 Roderigo or M. Camus himself. In your place, he would 
 be there already. 
 
 Count. So it amuses you greatly to laugh at us poor 
 folks ? 
 
 Mar. And so it surprises you extremely that any one 
 should dare to brave you to your face ? 
 
 Count. Take care. If you are brave, I have been a 
 hussar, let me tell you, Madame, and that not so very long 
 ago. 
 
 Mar. Really! Very well then ; by all means. A hussar 
 proposal ought to be curious. I never saw one in all my 
 life. Should you like me to call my lady's-maid ? I
 
 1 88 A DOOR MUST BE 
 
 presume she will be able to take her part. You shall give 
 me a performance. (Bell heard. ) 
 
 Count, That jingle again. Good-bye, then, Marquise. 
 At all events, I won't let you off so. (He opens the door.} 
 
 Mar. Till this evening, is it not? But what is that 
 noise I hear ? 
 
 Count (looking out of the window]. It is a change in the 
 weather. It is raining and hailing as hard as you please. 
 There is a third bonnet coming for you, and I am greatly 
 afraid there will be a cold inside it. 
 
 Mar. But is that din thunder? In the middle of 
 January ? How about the almanacs? 
 
 Count. No, it is only a hurricane, a kind of waterspout 
 passing 
 
 Mar. It is frightful. But do shut the door. You can't 
 go out in this weather. What can cause such a thing ? 
 
 Count (shutting the door). Madame, it is the anger of 
 heaven chastising panes of glass, umbrellas, ladies' ankles, 
 and the chimney-pots. 
 
 Mar. And my horses out ! 
 
 Count. They are in no danger, unless something falls on 
 their heads. 
 
 Mar. Oh, laugh away. It is your turn. I am a very 
 neat person, Monsieur. I don't like my horses splashed. 
 It is beyond belief. A moment ago there was the loveliest 
 sky you could see 
 
 Count. You may safely reckon, I can tell you, that with 
 this hail you won't have any one here. There is one of your 
 days wasted
 
 EITHER OPEN OR SHUT. 189 
 
 Mar. Not at all, since you came. Do put down your 
 hat. It fidgets me. 
 
 Count. A compliment, Madame. Take care. You, 
 who profess to hate them, might have yours taken for truth. 
 
 Mar. But I tell you so, and it is quite true. You give 
 me great pleasure by coming to see me. 
 
 Count (sitting down again near tJie Marquise). Then let 
 me love you. 
 
 Mar. But I tell you also, I am quite willing. It doesn't 
 annoy me the least bit in the world. 
 
 Count. Then let me speak of it to you. 
 
 Mar. Hussar fashion, you mean ? 
 
 Count. No, Madame. Be assured that even in default 
 of heart I have enough good sense to respect you. But 
 it seems to me that one has certainly a right without 
 offending a person one respects 
 
 Mar. To wait till the rain is over, you mean. You 
 came in here a moment ago without knowing why. You 
 told me so yourself. You were bored, you didn't know 
 what to do, you might have passed for being tolerably 
 sulky. If you had found three people here, any three, no 
 matter who, you would be there by the corner of the fire, 
 at the present moment, talking literature or railroads, after 
 which you would go and dine. So it is because I was 
 alone that you think yourself bound all on a sudden, yes, 
 bound in honour to make love to me ; this same eternal, 
 intolerable lovemaking, that is so useless, so ridiculous, and 
 so hackneyed an affair. Why, what have I done to you? 
 Suppose a visitor comes in here, you will be witty, perhaps ;
 
 i go A DOOR MUST BE 
 
 but I am alone, and there you are more commonplace than 
 an old couplet out of a comic opera, and in a moment you 
 broach your subject ; and if I chose to listen to you, you 
 would administer a declaration to me you would recite 
 your love. Do you know what men look like under those 
 circumstances? Like those poor hissed authors who have 
 always a manuscript in their pockets, some unpublished 
 and unplayable tragedy, and pull out this to batter your 
 ears with it as soon as you are left alone with them for a 
 quarter of an hour. 
 
 Count. So you tell me that I don't displease you. I 
 reply that I love you, and there is an end of it to your 
 mind. 
 
 Mar. You love me no more than the Grand Turk. 
 
 Count. Oh, come now, that is too much. Listen to 
 me for a single moment, and if you don't believe me 
 sincere 
 
 Mar. No, no, and no again ! Good heavens ! do you 
 think I don't know what you could tell me ? I have the 
 highest opinion of your studies ; but do you think, because 
 you are an educated man, that I have read nothing. 
 Listen ! I used to know a clever man who had bought 
 somewhere or other a collection of fifty letters, not badly 
 composed, very neatly written love-letters of course. 
 These fifty letters were graduated, so as to compose a 
 sort of little novel in which all situations were foreseen, 
 There were some for declarations, some for moods of 
 spleen or hope, for the moments of hypocrisy when one 
 falls back on friendship, for quarrels, for despairs, for fits
 
 EITHER OPEN OR SHUT. 191 
 
 of jealousy, for sulkiness, even for rainy days like this. 
 I have read these letters. The author professed, in a 
 sort of preface, to have employed them on his own account, 
 and never to have found a woman who resisted beyond 
 the thirty-third number. Well! I resisted the whole 
 collection. I ask you whether I am well read or no, and 
 whether you flatter yourself you could have anything new 
 to teach me. 
 
 Count. You have cloyed your palate, Marquise. You 
 are jaded 
 
 Mar, Insults ? I prefer them ; they are less insipid than 
 your sugar-plums. 
 
 Count. Yes, the plain truth is you are jaded. 
 
 Mar. You think so. Well ! not a bit of it ! 
 
 Count. Jaded as an old Englishwoman with fourteen 
 children. 
 
 Mar. As the feather that dances on my hat. So you 
 imagine that it is a deep science to know you all by heart 
 Why, there is no study needed to learn that lesson ; simply 
 you have to be left to yourselves. Stop and think ; it is 
 a very simple calculation. Men chivalrous enough to 
 respect our poor ears and never lapse into sugar-plums are 
 extremely rare. Again, it cannot be disputed that in the 
 sorry moments when you try to lie in an attempt to 
 phrase, you are all as like one another as a row of cards. 
 Happily for us, heaven's justice has placed at your dis- 
 posal a very limited vocabulary. You have only one 
 tune among you, as they say, so that the mere hearing 
 of the same phrases, the mere repetition of the same
 
 192 A DOOR MUST BE 
 
 words, and the same studied gestures, the same tender 
 looks, the mere spectacle of all these different faces which 
 may in themselves be more or less passable, but at these 
 fatal moments all assume the same humbly victorious 
 expression, is enough to work our salvation by laughter, or 
 at least by sheer weariness. If I had a daughter, and if I 
 wished to guard her against what are called dangerous 
 advances, I should take good care not to forbid her to 
 listen to her partners' pastorals. I would simply tell her : 
 " Do not listen to one only, listen to them all Don't shut 
 the book, don't mark the page : leave it open, let these 
 gentlemen play their little farces to you. If by ill-luck 
 there is one that pleases you, don't resist the feeling. Only 
 wait; there will come another, identically the same, who 
 will disgust you with the pair of them. You are fifteen, let 
 me say. Well, my child, that will go on so till thirty, and it 
 will be always the same thing." There is the history and 
 the science I know; do you call this being jaded ? 
 
 Count. Horribly so, if what you say is true; and it 
 seems to me so far from natural that the doubt might be 
 allowed. 
 
 Mar. What matter to me whether you believe or no ? 
 
 Count. Better still. Is it really possible? What, you, 
 at your age, despise love ? The words of a man who loves 
 you affect you like a trashy novel. His looks, gestures, 
 sentiments, seem like a comedy to you. You pride yourself 
 on candour, and you see nothing but lies in the rest of the 
 world. But where do you come from, Marquise ? who is it 
 has given you these maxims of yours ?
 
 EITHER OPEN OR SHUT. 193 
 
 Mar. I have come a long way, neighbour mine. 
 
 Count. Yes, from your nurse. Women fancy they know 
 everything in the world. They know nothing at all. I put 
 the question to yourself what experience can you have ? 
 That of the traveller who had seen a red-haired woman at 
 his inn, and set himself to note in his journal: "The 
 women have red hair in this country." 
 
 Mar. I begged you to put a log on the fire. 
 
 Count (putting on the log). That a woman should be a 
 prude is conceivable; that she should say No, should stop her 
 ears, should hate love, is possible ; but to deny its existence, 
 that is a pretty joke. You discourage a poor devil by telling 
 him, "I know what you are going to tell me." But has he 
 not the right to reply, " Yes, madame, you know perhaps ; 
 and I too know what men say when they love ; but when I 
 speak to you I forget it." There is nothing new under the 
 sun. But I say in my turn, " What does that prove ? " 
 
 Mar. Come, at least, this is better; you are talking 
 capitally; it is the next thing to a book. 
 
 Count. Yes, I am talking ; and I am assuring you that 
 if you are such as it is your pleasure to seem, I pity you 
 most sincerely. 
 
 Mar. Don't let me check you ; make yourself at home. 
 
 Count. There is nothing in that to wound you. If you 
 have the right to attack us, may we not reasonably defend 
 ourselves ? When you compare us to hissed authors, what 
 is the stone you think you are throwing ? Why, heaven 
 help us ! if love is a comedy 
 
 Mar. The fire is burning badly ; that log is crooked. 
 
 866
 
 194 A DOOR MUST BE 
 
 Count (arranging the fire). If love is a comedy, that 
 world-old comedy, hissed or not, is still, after all is said and 
 done, the least poor performance that has been invented. 
 The parts are hackneyed, I admit ; but if the play were 
 worthless the whole universe would not know it by heart ; 
 and I am wrong to call it old. Is that old which is 
 immortal ? 
 
 Mar. Monsieur, this is poetry. 
 
 Count. No, Madame ; but these stale speeches, this 
 balderdash that bores you, these compliments, declarations, 
 and all the doting nonsense are excellent old things, con- 
 ventional if you like, wearisome if you like, sometimes 
 ridiculous, but all of them accompaniments to another 
 thing which is always young. 
 
 Mar. You are getting confused. What is it that is 
 always old, and what is it that is always young? 
 
 Count. Love. 
 
 Mar. Monsieur, this is eloquence. 
 
 Count. No, Madame. I mean this: That love is 
 eternally young, and that the ways of expressing it are, and 
 will remain, eternally old. The worn-out formulas, the 
 iterations, those tags of novels, that issue from your heart, 
 you cannot say why, and all this pomp and circumstance, 
 are just a procession of old chamberlains, old diplomats, old 
 ministers, just the chatter of a king's ante-chamber ; all these 
 pass, but the king never dies. Love is dead, long live Love. 
 
 Mar. Love ? 
 
 Count. Love. And even suppose one were merely 
 fancying
 
 EITHER OPEN OR SHUT. 195 
 
 Mar. Give me the fire-screen there. 
 
 Count. This one ? 
 
 Mar. No ; the brocaded one. Your fire is putting out 
 my eyes now. 
 
 Count (handing the screen to the Marquise). Even sup- 
 pose it were merely fancy that one is in love, is not that a 
 charming thing ? 
 
 Mar. But I tell you it is always the same thing. 
 
 Count. And always new, as the song says. Why, what 
 would you have us invent ? Apparently you must be loved 
 in Hebrew ! That Venus there on your clock is also the 
 same thing always ; is she less beautiful for that, pray ? If 
 you are like your grandmother, are you the less pretty for 
 that? 
 
 Mar. That's right, there is the chorus; pretty. Give 
 me the cushion that is by you. 
 
 Count (taking the cushion and holding it in his hand}. 
 That Venus is made to be beautiful, to be loved and 
 admired, that does not bore her in the least. If the 
 splendid figure Milo conceived ever had a living model, 
 assuredly that great strapping wench had more lovers than 
 she needed, and let herself be loved like any one else, like 
 her cousin Astarte, like Aspasia, and Manon Lescaut. 
 
 Mar. Monsieur, this is mythology. 
 
 Count (still holding the cushion). No, Madame, I cannot 
 say how painful to me is the sight of this fashionable 
 indifference, this mocking, disdainful coldness, this air 
 of experience that reduces everything to nothing, in a 
 young woman. You are not the first in whom I meet it;
 
 196 A DOOR MUST BE 
 
 it is a disease that is going the round of the drawing- 
 rooms. People turn aside, or yawn like you at this 
 moment, and say that love is a thing not to be talked of. 
 Then why do you wear lace ? What is that tuft of feathers 
 doing in your head ? 
 
 Mar. And what is that cushion doing in your hand? 
 I asked you for it to put under my feet. 
 
 Count. Well then, there it is, and there am I too, and 
 whether you will or no, I will make you a declaration, as 
 old as the streets, and as stupid as a goose, for I am furious 
 with you. 
 
 (He puts the cushion on the ground before the Marquise, 
 
 and kneels down on if.) 
 
 Mar. Will you do me the favour to remove yourself 
 from there, if you please ? 
 
 Count. No ; you must listen to me first 
 Mar. You won't get up ? 
 
 Count. No, no, and no again, as you said a moment 
 ago, unless you consent to hear me. 
 
 Mar. I have the honour to wish you a good morning. 
 (Rising,) 
 
 Count (still on his knees'). Marquise, in heaven's name, 
 this is too cruel. You will madden me. You drive me to 
 despair. 
 
 Mar. You will recover at the Cafd de Paris. 
 
 Count (in the same position). No, upon my honour. I 
 
 speak from my heart. I will admit as much as you please 
 
 that I came in here without any purpose. I only meant to 
 
 pay you a passing visit ; witness this door, that I opened three
 
 EITHER OPEN OR SHUT. 197 
 
 times to go. The conversation we have just had, your 
 raillery, your very coldness, drew me on further perhaps 
 than was right ; but it is not to-day only, it is since the first 
 day I saw you that I have loved you, that I have adored 
 you. There is no exaggeration in the words I use. 
 Yes, for more than a year I have adored you. I have 
 dreamed 
 
 Mar. Adieu ! 
 
 (Exit the Marquise, leaving the door open.") 
 
 Count (left alone, remains a moment longer on his knees, 
 then rises and says:) It is a positive fact that that door 
 is icy. (He is going out, and sees the Marquise?) 
 
 Count. Ah, Marquise, you are laughing at me. 
 
 Mar. (leaning against the half -open door). So you have 
 found your feet. 
 
 Count. Yes ; and I am going, never to see you again. 
 
 Mar. Come to the ball this evening. I am keeping 
 a valse for you. 
 
 Count. I will never, never see you again. I am in 
 despair ; I am lost. 
 
 Mar. What is the matter with you ? 
 
 Count. I am lost. I love you like a child. I swear to 
 you, on all that is most sacred in the world 
 
 Mar. Adieu ! (She is going out.) 
 
 Count. It is for me to leave, Madame. Stay, I beg of 
 you. I feel how much I have to suffer 
 
 Mar. (in a serious tone). Let us make an end now, 
 Monsieur. What do you want with me ? 
 
 Count. Why, Madame, I wish, I should desire
 
 198 A DOOR MUST BE 
 
 Mar. What ? For, in short, you wear out my patience. 
 Do you imagine that I am going to be your mistress, and 
 succeed to your pink bonnets? I warn you that an idea of 
 that kind does more than displease me. It is revolting. 
 
 Count. You, Marquise ? Great heavens ! if it were 
 possible, it would be my whole life I would lay at your feet 
 It should be my name, my property, my honour itself, that 
 I should wish to entrust to you. I, to confound you for 
 a single instant, I do not merely say with those creatures 
 of whom you only speak to vex me, but with any woman in 
 the world : could you really suppose it ? Do you believe 
 me so devoid of sense ? Has my levity or my folly gone so 
 far then as to make you doubt my respect ? Can you, who 
 were telling me a moment ago that you took some pleasure 
 in seeing me, felt perhaps some friendship for me ; is it not 
 true, Marquise? Can you think that a man whom you 
 have thus distinguished, whom you have found worthy of 
 so precious and so sweet an indulgence, would not know 
 your worth ? Why, am I blind, or mad ? You my 
 mistress? No, but my wife. 
 
 Mar. Oh ! very well. If you had told me that on 
 arriving we should not have quarrelled. So you want to 
 marry me ? , 
 
 Count. Why, undoubtedly ! I am dying to. I never 
 dared to tell you, but for this last year I have been thinking 
 of nothing else. I would give my life-blood to be allowed 
 the faintest hope. 
 
 Mar. Wait now. You are richer than I. 
 
 Count. Oh, dear no, I don't think so. And what does
 
 EITHER OPEN OR SHUT. 199 
 
 that matter to you ? I entreat of you, don't let us talk of 
 these things. Your smile at this moment makes me shiver 
 with hope and fear. One word, for pity's sake. My life 
 is in your hands. 
 
 Mar. I am going to tell you two proverbs. The first 
 is, Never play at cross purposes. Consequently, we will 
 talk it over. 
 
 Count. Then what I have dared to tell you does not 
 displease you ? 
 
 Mar. Oh no ! Here is my second proverb : A door 
 must be either open or shut Now for three-quarters of an 
 hour here has this door, thanks to you, been neither one 
 nor the other, and the room is perfectly icy. Consequence 
 again you are going to give me your arm to take me to 
 dine at my mother's. After that you will go to Frossin's. 
 
 Count. Frossin's, Madame ? For what reason ? 
 
 Mar. My ring. 
 
 Count. Ah, that is true ! I had forgotten all about it. 
 Well then, your ring, Marquise. 
 
 Mar. Marquise, you say. Well then, on my ring there 
 happens to be in the setting a little Marquise's coronet, and 
 as that may be used for a seal, tell me, Count, what do you 
 think? Perhaps the strawberry leaves will have to be 
 taken off. There, I am going to put on my bonnet. 
 
 Count. You overwhelm me with joy. How am I to 
 express ? 
 
 Mar. But do shut that unhappy door. This room will 
 never be fit to live in a;ain.
 
 THE WALTER SCOTT PRESS, NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNF.
 
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 7 PROSE WRITINGS OF HEINE. WITH INTRODUCTION 
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 28 REYNOLDS'S DISCOURSES. WITH INTRODUCTION 
 
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 29 PAPERS OF STEELE AND ADDISON. EDITED BY 
 
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 42 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Edited, with Preface, by Ernest Rhys. 
 
 43 POLITICAL ORATIONS, FROM WENTWORTH TO 
 
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 44 THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. BY 
 
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 5 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. BY OLIVER 
 Wendell Holmes. 
 
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 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
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 Selected, with Introduction, by Charles Sayle. 
 
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 a Note by Ernest Rhys. 
 
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 Lewes's Essay on Aristotle prefixed. 
 
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 with an Introduction, by Ernest Rhys. 
 
 62 BALZAC'S SHORTER STORIES. TRANSLATED BY 
 
 William Wilson and the Count Stenbock. 
 
 L, 63 COMEDIES OF DE MUSSET. EDITED, 
 Introductory Note, by S. L. Gwynn. 
 
 WITH AN 
 
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 with an Introduction, by Dr. J. W. Williams. 
 
 London : WALTER SCOTT, LIMITED, 24 Warwick Lane.
 
 THE SCOTT LIBRARY-continued. 
 
 65 SHERIDAN'S PLAYS. EDITED, WITH AN INTRO- 
 
 duction, by Rudolf Dircks. 
 
 66 OUR VILLAGE. BY MISS MITFORD. EDITED, WITH 
 
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 67 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK, AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 By Charles Dickens. With Introduction by Frank T. Marzials. 
 
 68 TALES FROM WONDERLAND. BY RUDOLPH 
 
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 Edited, with an Introduction, by Elizabeth Lee. 
 
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 with an Introduction, by Major-General Patrick Maxwell. 
 
 76 SELECTIONS FROM SYDNEY SMITH. EDITED, WITH 
 
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 77 THE NEW SPIRIT. BY HAVELOCK ELLIS. 
 
 78 THE BOOK OF MARVELLOUS ADVENTURES. FROM 
 
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 No. 1, forms the complete " Morte d'Arthur."] 
 
 79 ESSAYS AND APHORISMS. BY SIR ARTHUR HELPS. 
 
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 Thackeray. Edited by F. T. Marzials. 
 
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 A Complete Bibliography to each Volume, by J. P. ANDERSON, 
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 LIFE OF ADAM SMITH. By R. B. HALDANE, M.P. 
 
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 GEORGE DOUGLAS, BART. (Illustrated.) 
 
 ENGLISH FAIRY AND FOLK TALES. Edited by 
 E. SIDNEY HARTLAND. (Illustrated.) 
 
 IRISH FAIRY AND FOLK TALES. Edited and 
 
 Selected by W. B. YEATS. (Illustrated.) 
 DRAMATIC ESSAYS. Edited by WILLIAM ARCHER 
 
 and ROBERT W. LOWE. 3 Vols. 
 
 The First Series contains the criticisms of LEIGH HUNT. 
 The Second Series contains the criticisms of WILLIAM HAZLITT. 
 The Third Series contains hitherto uncollected criticisms by JOHN 
 FORSTER, GEORGE HENRY LEWES, and others. 
 
 IBSEN'S PROSE DRAMAS Edited by WM. ARCHER. 
 VOL. I. "A DOLL'S HOUSE," "THE LEAGUE OF 
 
 YOUTH," and "THE PILLARS OF SOCIETY." 
 VOL. II. "GHOSTS," "AN ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE," 
 
 and " THE WILD DUCK." With an Introductory Note. 
 VOL. III. "LADY INGER OF OSTRAT," "THE VIKINGS 
 
 AT HELGELAND," "THE PRETENDERS." 
 VOL. IV. "EMPEROR AND GALILEAN." With an 
 
 Introductory Note by WILLIAM ARCHER. 
 VOL. V. "ROSMERSHOLM," "THE LADY FROM THE 
 
 SEA," " HEDDA GABLER." 
 
 London: WALTER SCOTT, LIMITED, 24 Warwick Lane,
 
 THE CANTERBURY POETS. 
 
 EDITED BY WILLIAM SHARP. IN i/- MONTHLY VOLUMES. 
 
 Cloth, Red Edges - Is. 
 Cloth, Uncut Edges - Is. 
 
 Red Roan, Gilt Edges, 2s. 6J. 
 Pad. Morocco, Gilt Edges, 5s. 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN YEAR By the Rev. John Keble. 
 
 COLERIDGE Edited by Joseph Skipsey. 
 
 LONGFELLOW Edited by Eva Hope. 
 
 CAMPBELL Edited by John Hogben. 
 
 SHELLEY Edited by Joseph Skipsey. 
 
 WORDSWORTH Edited by A. J. Symington. 
 
 BLAKE Edited by Joseph Skipsey. 
 
 WHITTIER Edited by Eva Hope. 
 
 POE Edited by Joseph Skipsey. 
 
 CHATTERTON Edited by John Richmond. 
 
 BURNS. Poems Edited by Joseph Skipsey. 
 
 BURNS. Songs E.lited by Joseph Skipsey. 
 
 MARLOWE Edited by Percy E. Pinkerton. 
 
 KEATS Edited by John Hojrben. 
 
 HERBERT Edited by Ernest Rhys. 
 
 HUGO Translated by Dean Carrington. 
 
 COWPER Edited by Eva Hope. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S POEMS, Etc Edited by William Sharp. 
 
 EMERSON Edited by Walter Lewin. 
 
 SONNETS OF THIS CENTURY Edited by William Sharp. 
 
 WHITMAN Edited by Ernest Rhys. 
 
 SCOTT. Marmion, etc Edited by Wi Ham sharp. 
 
 SCOTT. Lady of the Lake, etc. Edited by William Sharp. 
 
 PRAED Edited by Frederick Cooper. 
 
 HOGG Edited by his Daughter, Mrs. Garden. 
 
 GOLDSMITH Edited by William Tirelmck. 
 
 LO Vfl LETTERS. Etc By Eric Mackay. 
 
 SPENSER Edited by Hon. Roden Noel. 
 
 CHILDREN OF THE POETS Edited by Eric S. Robertson. 
 
 JONSON Edited by J. Addington Symonds. 
 
 BYRON (2 Vols.) Edited by Mathilde Blind. 
 
 THE SONNETS OF EUROPE Edited by S. Waddington. 
 
 RAMSAY Edited by J. Logie Robertson. 
 
 DOBELL Edited by Mrs. Dobell. 
 
 London: WALTER SCOTT, LIMITED, 2i Warwick Lane.
 
 THE CANTERBURY POETS-continued. 
 
 
 DAYS OP THE YEAR With Introduction by William Sharp 
 
 POPE Edited by John Hogben! 
 
 HEINE Edited by Mrs. Kroeker. 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER Edited by John S. Fletcher. 
 
 BOWLES, LAMB, &c Edited by William Tirebuck. 
 
 EARLY ENGLISH POETRY Edited by H. Macaulay Fitzgibbon. 
 
 SKA MUSIC Edited by Mrs Sharp. 
 
 HERRICK Edited by truest Khya. 
 
 BALLADES AND RONDEAUS Edited by J.Glees.m White. 
 
 IRISH MINSTRELSY Edited by H. Halliday sparling. 
 
 MILTON'S PARADISE LOST Edited by J. Bradshaw, M.A., LL.D. 
 
 JACOBITE BALLADS Edited by G. S. Macquoid. 
 
 AUSTRALIAN BALLADS Edited by I). B. W. Sladen, B. A. 
 
 MOORE Edited by John Dorrian. 
 
 BORDER BALLADS Edited by Graham R. Tomson. 
 
 SONG-TIDE By Philip Bouike Marston. 
 
 ODES OF HORACE Translations by Sir Stephen de Vere, Bt. 
 
 OSSIAN Edited by Gei <rge Eyre-Todd. 
 
 ELFIN MUSIC Edited by Arthur Edward Waite. 
 
 SOUTHEY Edited by Sidney R, Thompson. 
 
 CHAUCER Edited by Frederick Noel Paton. 
 
 POEMS OF WILD LIFE Edited by Charles G. D. Roberts, M.A. 
 
 PARADISE REGAINED Edited by J. Bradshaw, M. A., LL.D. 
 
 CR ABBE Edited by E. Lamplough. 
 
 DORA GREENWELL Edited by William Dorling. 
 
 FAUST Edited by Elizabeth Craigmyle. 
 
 AMERICAN SONNETS Edi ted by William Sharp. 
 
 LANDOR'S POEMS Edited by Ernest Radford. 
 
 GREEK ANTHOLOGY Edited by Graham R. Tomson. 
 
 HUNT AND HOOD Edited by J. Harwood Panting. 
 
 HUMOROUS POEMS Edited by Ralph H Came. 
 
 LYTTON'S PLAYS Edited by R. Farquharson Sharp. 
 
 G --EAT ODS Edited by William Sharp. 
 
 MEREDITH'S POEMS Edited by M. Bethain- Ed wards. 
 
 PAINTER-POETS Edited by Kineton Parkes. 
 
 WOMEN POETS Edited by Mrs. Sharp. 
 
 LOViS LYRICS Edited by Percy Huli.urd. 
 
 A . El< 1C A -, T HUMOROUS VERSE Edited by James Barr. 
 
 MIN R SCOTCH LYRICS Edited by Sir George Dou-las. 
 
 CAVALIER LYRISTS Edited by Will H. Dirck*. 
 
 GEKMAN BALLADS Edited by Elizabeth Cnii K iiiyle. 
 
 SONGS OF BERANGER Translated by William Toynbee. 
 
 Hu^ UDEN NOEL'S POEMS. With an Introduction by R. Buchanan. 
 BONGS OF FREEDOM. Selected, with an Introduction, by H. S. ->alt. 
 CAN.x>iA_N POEMS AND LAYS .... Edited by W. D. Lighthall, M.A. 
 
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