Chapter 2

Enter _Bertrand_, in agitation, followed by _Longueville_.

_Ber._ Forbear, my lord! to urge me further.--Would you tempt me to insure perdition?--my soul is heavy enough with weight of crimes already.

_Long._ Hypocrite! You, whom I have known in childhood--a villain, even from the cradle--committing crimes as pastimes--has your hand been exercised thus long in blood, to shake with conscience, and desert me now?

_Ber._ I have, indeed, deserved reproaches, but not from your lips, my lord! Remember, for you it was this hand was first defiled with blood--remember, too--

_Long._ Yes, villain! I do remember, that my misplaced bounty once gave you back a forfeit life. Twenty years past, when, as a deserter, you were sentenced, by the regiment under my command, to death, your fate was inevitable, had not I vouchsafed a pardon. Traitor! you, too, had best remember a solemn oath at that same period passed your lips, which bound you, soul and body, to my service ever--unscrupling to perform my pleasures, whether good or ill, and still to hold my secrets fast from earthly ears, though unabsolving priests renounced you on the death-bed.

_Ber._ (_shuddering_) Ay! ay! it was an oath of horror, and if you command, it must be kept. Well, then--the young, the brave, the good, kindhearted Florian--yes--he dies!

_Long._ Then only may your master be esteemed to live.

_Ber._ But whence this hatred to an unoffending youth?--one, whose form delights all eyes, and whose virtues are the theme of every tongue?

_Long._ Fool! that person and those virtues of which you vaunt, are with me his worst offences--they have undone my love and marred my fortunes--the easy heart of Geraldine is captivated by the stripling's specious outside, while his talents and achievements secure him with the uncle undivided favour.

_Bert._ Can nothing but his blood appease your enmity?

_Long._ Nothing--for now my worst suspicions stand confirmed. I have declared to De Valmont my passion for his niece, and the sullen visionary has denied my suit--nay, insolently told me "Geraldine's affections are another's right." --Curses on that minion's head!--'tis for Florian De Valmont's heiress is reserved--and shall I suffer this vile foundling, this child of charity, to lord it over those estates, for which my impatient soul has paid a dreadful earnest! No, by heavens! never!

_Bert._ Fatal avarice! already have we bartered for those curst estates our everlasting peace!--for those did midnight flames surprise the sleep of innocence--for those did the sacrificed Eugenia with her shrieking babe--

_Long._ Wretch! dare not repeat those names! Now, mark me: this night Florian returns a triumpher from his campaign--two of my trusty blood-hounds watch the road to give me timely note of his approach. One only follower attends the youth. In the thick woods 'twixt the chateau and Huningen, an ambush safely laid, may end my rival and my fears forever. In the west avenue, at sunset, I command your presence. Mark me! I command you by your oath. [_Exit._

_Bert._ Miserable man! I am indeed a slave, soul and body--both are in the thrall! I know the fiend I serve. If I attempt to fly, his vengeful agency pursues me to the world's limit. No--my doom is fixed--I must remain the very wretch I am for life--and after life--Oh! let me not think of that!

Enter _Rosabelle_ behind, who taps his shoulder.

_Ros._ Talking to yourself, Mr. Bertrand? that's not polite in a lady's company.

_Bert._ (_starting_) Ah! Rosabelle--good lass!--how art, Rosabelle?

_Ros._ Why, Mr. Bertrand, how pale you look, and your limbs quite tremble--I fear me you are ill.

_Bert._ Oh, no--I am well--quite well--never better.

_Ros._ Then you are out of spirits.

_Bert._ You mistake--I am all happiness--ha! ha!--all joy!

_Ros._ What! because the wars are over, and chevalier Florian returns to us?--'tis a blest hearing, truly--after all the hardships and dangers he has passed to see him once again in safety--

_Bert._ (_involuntarily_) Ah! would to heaven we might!

_Ros._ Can there be any doubt? He reaches the chateau this night--will he not be in safety then?

_Bert._ Yes, yes, with this night every danger certainly will cease.

_Ros._ Bertrand! why do you rub your hand before your eyes?--surely you are weeping.

_Bert._ No, 'tis a momentary pain that--but 'twill leave me soon. At night, Rosabelle, you shall see me jovial--joyous!--we'll dance together, wench--ay, and sing--then--ha! ha! ha!--then who so mirthful, who so mad, as Bertrand. [_Exit._

_Ros._ What new spleen has bewitched the man? he is ever in some sullen mood, with scowling brows, or else in a cross-arm'd fit of melancholy; but I never marked such wildness in his looks and words before.

[_Geraldine_ speaks without.

_Ger._ Rosabelle.

_Ros._ Here, my lady, in the hall.

Enter _Geraldine_.

_Ger._ Girl! I have cause to chide you; my toilette must be changed--you have dressed me vilely--here! remove these knots--I hate their fashion.

_Ros._ Yet they are the same your ladyship commended yesterday.

_Ger._ Then 'tis the colour of my robe offends me--these ornaments are a false match to it--either all the mirrors in the house have warped since yesterday, or never did I look so ill before.

_Ros._ Now, in my poor judgment, you rarely have looked better.

_Ger._ Out! fool; you have no judgment.

_Ros._ Well, fool or not, there's one upon the road who holds faith with me, or I'm a heretic. Your charms will shine bright enough, lady, to dazzle a soldier's eye.

_Ger._ Ah! no, Rosabelle--you would deceive your mistress. Florian returns not as he left us; his travelled eyes have gazed on beauties of the polished court--and now he will despise the wild untutored Geraldine.

_Ros._ Will he? Let him beware he shows not his contempt before me. What! my own beautiful and high-born mistress; the greatest heiress in all Alsace; to be despised by a foundling, picked up in a forest, and reared upon her uncle's charity?

_Ger._ Hush!--the mystery of my Florian's birth is his misfortune, but cannot be his reproach. Our countrymen may dispute his title to command, but our enemies have confessed his power to conquer; and trust me, girl, the brave man's laurel blooms with as fresh an honour in the poor peasant's cap as when it circles princely brows; nay, Justice deems it of a nobler growth, for Flattery often twines the laurel round a coronet, but Truth alone bestows it on the unknown head.

_Ros._ I confess the Chevalier is a proper gallant for any woman. Ay, and so is the Chevalier's man. I warrant me, that knave, L'Eclair, when he returns, will follow me about, wheedling and whining, to recollect certain promises. Well, well, let but the soldiers return with whole hearts from the war, and your ladyship and myself know how to reward fidelity. In sooth, the chateau has been but a doleful residence in their absence; the count never suffered his dwelling to be a merry one; but of late his strange humours have so increased, that the household might as well have lodged in purgatory.

_Ger._ Hold! I must not hear my uncle's name pronounced with levity. An angel at his birth, mingled the divine spirit with less than human frailty; but fiends have since defaced the noble work with more than human trials. That fatal night, when the fierce Huguenots fired his castle, and buried both his wife and infant in the blazing ruin; that night of horrors has to his shocked and shrinking fancy still been ever present; there still it broods--settled, perpetual and alone! Ah! Rosabelle! the petulancies of misfortune claim our pity, not resentment. My dear uncle is a recluse, but not a misanthrope; he rejects the society of mankind, yet is he solicitous for their happiness; and while his own heart breaks in silence under a weight of undivided sorrows, does he not seek incessantly to alleviate the burthen of his complaining brethren?

_Ros._ I know the count has an excellent heart; but surely his temper has its flaws.

_Ger._ And shall we deem the sun that cheers the season less gracious in its course, because a cloud at intervals may hide or chill its beams? (_A bell rings_). Hark! 'tis the bell of his chamber. Perhaps he will admit me now; for four days past I have applied at the door in vain. Ah me!--these constant growing maladies sometimes make me tremble for his life. Girl! if from the turret-top at distance you espy the hastening travellers, turn, swift as thought, and call me to partake your watch! [_Exit._

_Ros._ If they arrive before sun-set, I'm sure I shall know L'Eclair a mile off by the saucy toss of his head: before that rogue went on the campaign, he certainly extorted some awkward kind of promises from me. As a woman of honour, I'm afraid it must be kept; I don't want a husband--oh! no, positively--to be sure, winter is coming on, my chamber faces the north, and when the nights are long, and dark, and cold, when the wind blusters, and the hail patters at the casement, then a solitary woman is apt to have strange fancies, and sometimes to wish that--well, well, my promise must be kept at all events.

SONG.--_Rosabelle._

Oh! come away! my soldier boy, From war to peace incline thee; Thy laurel, Time shall ne'er destroy. But Love with roses twine thee. Come, come away, Love chides thy stay, Oh! prithee come my soldier!

Let fife and drum preserve their place, While softer sounds delight thee; The fiddle shall our wedding grace, But _horns_ shall never fright thee. Come, come away, Love chides thy stay, Oh! prithee come my soldier!

[Exit.