Love, sir, hath no sting. What was the slight of a poor powerless girl To the deep wrong of this most vile revenge? Oh, how I loved this man!--a serf!--a slave!
Mel. Hold, lady! No, not slave! Despair is free! I will not tell thee of the throes--the struggles The anguish--the remorse: No, let it pass! And let me come to such most poor atonement Yet in my power. Pauline!
(Approaching her with great emotion, and about to take her hand.
Pauline. No, touch me not! I know my fate. You are, by law, my tyrant; And I--O Heaven!--a peasant's wife! I'll work Toil--drudge--do what thou wilt--but touch me not; Let my wrongs make me sacred!
Mel. Do not fear me. Thou dost not know me, madam: at the altar My vengeance ceased--my guilty oath expired! Henceforth, no image of some marble saint, Niched in cathedral aisles, is hallow'd more From the rude hand of sacrilegious wrong. I am thy husband--nay, thou need'st not shudder; Here, at thy feet, I lay a husband's rights. A marriage thus unholy--unfulfill'd-- A bond of fraud--is, by the laws of France, Made void and null. To-night sleep--sleep in peace. To-morrow, pure and virgin as this morn I bore thee, bathed in blushes, from the shrine, Thy father's arms shall take thee to thy home. The law shall do thee justice, and restore Thy right to bless another with thy love. And when thou art happy, and hast half forgot Him who so loved--so wrong'd thee, think at least Heaven left some remnant of the angel still In that poor peasant's nature!
Ho! my mother! [Enter Widow.
Conduct this lady--(she is not my wife; She is our guest,--our honor'd guest, my mother)-- To the poor chamber, where the sleep of virtue, Never, beneath my father's honest roof, Ev'n villains dared to mar! Now, lady, now, I think thou wilt believe me. Go, my mother!
Widow. She is not thy wife!
Mel. Hush, hush! for mercy's sake! Speak not, but go.
[Widow ascends the stairs; PAULINE follows weeping--turns to look back.
Mel. [sinking down]. All angels bless and guard her!
ACT IV.--SCENE I.
The cottage as before--MELNOTTE seated before a table--writing implements, etc.- -(Day breaking.)
Mel. Hush, hush!--she sleeps at last!--thank Heaven, for a while she forgets even that I live! Her sobs, which have gone to my heart the whole, long, desolate night, have ceased!--all calm--all still! I will go now; I will send this letter to Pauline's father: when he arrives, I will place in his hands my own consent to the divorce, and then, O France! my country! accept among thy protectors, thy defenders--the peasant's Son! Our country is less proud than custom, and does not refuse the blood, the heart, the right hand of the poor man.
Enter Widow.
Widow. My son, thou hast acted ill; but sin brings its own punishment. In the hour of thy remorse, it is not for a mother to reproach thee.
Mel. What is past is past. There is a future left to all men, who have the virtue to repent, and the energy to atone. Thou shalt be proud of thy son yet. Meanwhile, remember this poor lady has been grievously injured. For the sake of thy son's conscience, respect, honor, bear with her. If she weep, console--if she chide, be silent. 'Tis but a little while more--I shall send an express fast as horse can speed to her father. Farewell! I shall return shortly.
Widow. It is the only course left to thee--thou wert led astray, but thou art not hardened. Thy heart is right still, as ever it was when, in thy most ambitious hopes thou wert never ashamed of thy poor mother.
Mel. Ashamed of thee; No, if I yet endure, yet live, yet hope,-- it is only because I would not die till I have redeemed the noble heritage I have lost--the heritage I took unstained from thee and my dead father--a proud conscience and an honest name. I shall win them back yet--heaven bless you! [Exit.
Widow. My dear Claude! How my heart bleeds for him.
[PAULINE looks down from above, and after a pause descends
Pauline. Not here!--he spares me that pain at least: so far he is considerate--yet the place seems still more desolate without him. Oh, that I could hate him--the gardener's son!-- and yet how nobly he--no--no--no I will not be so mean a thing as to forgive him!
Widow. Good morning, madam; I would have waited on you if I had known you were stirring.
Pauline. It is no matter, ma'am--your son's wife ought to wait on herself.
Widow. My son's wife--let not that thought vex you, madam--he tells me that you will have your divorce. And I hope I shall live to see him smile again. There are maidens in this village, young and fair, madam, who may yet console him.
Pauline. I dare say--they are very welcome--and when the divorce is got-- he will marry again. I am sure I hope so. [Weeps.
Widow. He could have married the richest girl in the province, if he had pleased it; but his head was turned, poor child! he could think of nothing but you. [Weeps.
Pauline. Don't weep, mother.
Widow. Ah, he has behaved very ill, I know, but love is so headstrong in the young.