ACT II, SCENE I

CHARACTERS: Pauline Deschappelles, the beautiful daughter and heiress of an aspiring merchant of Lyons, France; Claude Melnotte, the gardener's son, madly in love with Pauline.

Pauline aspires to an alliance with some prince or nobleman. Melnotte in the hope of winning her uses his small inheritance in educating himself and becomes an accomplished scholar, a skillful musician, a poet, and an artist. He pours forth his worship in a poem, but his suit is rejected and he is subjected to violent insult. Stung to remorse he enters into a plot to personate a prince, woo her in that guise, and take her as a bride to his mother's cottage on their wedding night. And, in the faint hope of winning her as a prince and keeping her love as an untitled man after he has revealed his identity, Melnotte enters into a binding compact.

Scene: The garden of M. Deschappelles' house at Lyons.

_Enter_ MELNOTTE _as the Prince of Como, leading_ PAULINE

MEL. You can be proud of your connection with one who owes his position to merit--not birth.

PAULINE. Why, yes; but still--

MEL. Still what, Pauline?

PAULINE. There is something glorious in the heritage of command. A man who has ancestors is like a representative of the past.

MEL. True; but, like other representatives, nine times out of ten he is a silent member. Ah, Pauline! not to the past, but to the future, looks true nobility, and finds its blazon in posterity.

PAULINE. You say this to please me, who have no ancestors; but you, prince, must be proud of so illustrious a race!

MEL. No, no! I would not, were I fifty times a prince, be a pensioner on the dead! I honor birth and ancestry when they are regarded as the incentives to exertion, not the title-deeds to sloth! I honor the laurels that overshadow the graves of our fathers--it is our fathers I emulate, when I desire that beneath the evergreen I myself have planted my own ashes may repose! Dearest! couldst thou but see with my eyes!

PAULINE. I cannot forego pride when I look on thee, and think that thou lovest me. Sweet Prince, tell me again of thy palace by the lake of Como; it is so pleasant to hear of thy splendors since thou didst swear to me that they would be desolate without Pauline; and when thou describest them, it is with a mocking lip and a noble scorn, as if custom had made thee disdain greatness.

MEL. Nay, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst have me paint The home to which, could love fulfill its prayers, This hand would lead thee, listen! A deep vale Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world; Near a clear lake, margin'd by fruits of gold And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies, As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows, As I would have thy fate!

PAULINE. My own dear love!

MEL. A palace lifting to eternal summer Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower Of coolest foliage, musical with birds, Whose songs should syllable thy name! At noon We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder Why Earth could be unhappy, while the Heavens Still left us youth and love! We'd have no friends That were not lovers; no ambition, save To excel them all in love; we'd read no books That were not tales of love--that we might smile To think how poorly eloquence of words Translates the poetry of hearts like ours! And when night came, amidst the breathless Heavens We'd guess what star should be our home when love Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light Stole through the mist of alabaster lamps, And every air was heavy with the sighs Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes, And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth I' the midst of roses!--Dost thou like the picture?

PAULINE. Oh, as the bee upon the flower, I hang Upon the honey of thy eloquent tongue! Am I not blest? And if I love too wildly, Who would not love thee like Pauline?

MEL. Oh, false one! It is the prince thou lovest, not the man; If in the stead of luxury, pomp, and power, I had painted poverty, and toil, and care, Thou hadst found no honey on my tongue; Pauline, That is not love.

PAULINE. Thou wrong'st me, cruel Prince! At first, in truth, I might not have been won, Save through the weakness of a flatter'd pride; But now--oh! trust me--couldst thou fall from power And sink--

MEL. As low as that poor gardener's son Who dared to lift his eyes to thee?

PAULINE. Even then, Methinks thou wouldst be only made more dear By the sweet thought that I could prove how deep Is woman's love! We are like the insects, caught By the poor glittering of a garish flame; But, oh, the wings once scorch'd, the brightest star Lures us no more; and by the fatal light We cling till death!

MEL. Angel! [_Aside._] O conscience! conscience! It must not be--her love hath grown a torture Worse than her hate. I will at once to Beauseant, And--ha! he comes. Sweet love, one moment leave me. I have business with these gentlemen--I--I Will forthwith join you.

PAULINE. I obey, sweet Prince. [_Exit separately._