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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.bly 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. Don't weep, madam.

Pauline. So, as you were saying--go on.

Widow. Oh, I cannot excuse him, ma'am--he was not in his right senses.

Pauline. But he always--always [sobbing] loved--loved me then?

Widow. He thought of nothing else. See here--he learnt to paint that he might take your likeness [uncovers the picture]. But that's all over now--I trust you have cured him of his folly;--but, dear heart, you have had no breakfast!

Pauline. I can't take anything--don't trouble yourself.

Widow. Nay, madam, be persuaded; a little coffee will refresh you. Our milk and eggs are excellent. I will get out Claude's coffee-cup--It is of real Sevres; he saved up all his money to buy it three years ago, because the name of Pauline was inscribed on it.

Pauline. Three years ago! Poor Claude!--Thank you; I think I will have some coffee. Oh! if he were but a poor gentleman, even a merchant: but a gardener's son--and what a home!--Oh no,--it is too dreadful!

They seat themselves at the table, BEAUSEANT opens the lattice and looks in.

Beau. So--so--the coast is clear! I saw Claude in the lane--I shall have an excellent opportunity. [Shuts the lattice and knocks at the door.

Pauline. [starting]. Can it be my father?--he has not sent for--him yet? No, he cannot be in such a hurry to get rid of me.

Widow. It is not time for your father to arrive yet; it must be some neighbor.

Pauline. Don't admit any one.

[Widow opens the door, BEAUSEANT pushes her aside and enters. Ha!

Heavens! that hateful Beauseant! This is indeed bitter!

Beau. Good morning, madam! O widow, your son begs you will have the goodness to go to him in the village he wants to speak to you on particular business; you'll find him at the inn, or the grocer's shop, or the baker's, or at some other friend's of your family--make haste.

Pauline. Don't leave me, mother!--don't leave me.

Beau. [with great respect]. Be not alarmed, madam. Believe me your friend--your servant.

Pauline. Sir, I have no fear of you, even in this house! Go, madam, if your son wishes it; I will not contradict his commands whilst, at least he has still the right to be obeyed.

Widow. I don't understand this; however, I sha'n't be long gone. [Exit.

Pauline. Sir, I divine the object of your visit--you wish to exult in the humiliation of one who humbled you. Be it so; I am prepared to endure all--even your presence!

Beau. You mistake me, madam--Pauline, you mistake me! I come to lay my fortune at your feet. You must already be disenchanted with this impostor; these walls are not worthy to be hallowed by your beauty!

Shall that form be clasped in the arms of a base-born peasant? Beloved, beautiful Pauline! fly with me--my carriage waits without--I will bear you to a home more meet for your reception. Wealth, luxury, station--all shall yet be yours. I forget your past disdain--I remember only your beauty and my unconquerable love!

Pauline. Sir! leave this house--it is humble: but a husband's roof, however lowly, is, in the eyes of G.o.d and man, the temple of a wife's honor! Know that I would rather starve--yes--with him who has betrayed me, than accept your lawful hand, even were you the prince whose name he bore.--Go.

Beau. What! is not your pride humbled yet?

Pauline. Sir, what was pride in prosperity in affliction becomes virtue.