A Room, simply furnished—Table, Chairs, Arm Chair, Secretaire, Side Table—Door C.

Madame Vauberger peeps in L.

Madame Vauberger. No; he has not yet returned. [Enters.] Things cannot go on in this manner much longer—I shall have to speak out, and plainly too. And why not? Surely he won't take it ill from me—ah, no. I, who loved his poor mother so, could never—What's this? A purse! empty! And this key, left carelessly lying about; that's a bad sign. [Opens Secretaire.] No, not one solitary sous—his last coin came yesterday to pay me the rent. In the drawer, perhaps—

Dr. Desmarets looks in.

Dr. Desmarets. Hallo! [She starts.] What are you at there?

Mad. V. Me, sir? I was just—I was just—

Des. Poking your nose into that drawer—that what you call just?

Mad. V. I was dusting and putting the things in order, sir.

Des. I'll tell you what, Madame V., you're an extraordinary woman. Yesterday, when I called, you were dusting—half-an-hour ago when I called, you were dusting—and now, when I call again, you're dusting. Where the devil you find so much dust to dust, I can't think.

Mad. V. Ah, sir, look into this drawer.

Des. What for?

Mad. V. Is it not the place where, if one had money, one would naturally keep it?

Des. I suppose so. What of that?

Mad. V. See, sir, it is empty.

Des. What's that to me?

Mad. V. And his purse, also.

Des. What's that to you?

[Goes up and puts hat on table.

Mad. V. [Aside.] I dare not tell him that Manuel is without a meal—starving—I should never be forgiven. His pride would be wounded, and nothing could excuse that.

Des. Well, what are you cogitating about? Looking for something to dust?

Mad. V. I'm thinking of the Marquis, sir.

Des. Well, what of him?

Mad. V. Is it not dreadful? Brought up as he has been—surrounded by every luxury—and now reduced to want even. Oh! it is too hard—too hard!

Des. Well, it's his own fault, isn't it? There was enough left from the wreck of his father's property, to give him a sort of a living, and he must needs go and settle it all upon his little sister Helen.

Mad. V. And for what? To give her the education befitting her rank.

Des. Fudge!

Mad. V. Doctor Desmarets, your're very unfeeling.

Des. Oh, of course, of course. I give him good advice, he rejects it. I withdraw my sympathy, and then I'm unfeeling. If he can't manage better with the little that's left him, egad! he may think himself lucky that he can get his daily meals.

Mad. V. Sir, he can't even—[Aside.] Oh, if I dared—

Des. Can't even what? Send for his coupe, I suppose, or drink Chateau margaux—terrible hardships, truly. When there's nothing else in a man's pocket, he had better put his pride there, and button it up tight.

Mad. V. Some day, sir, we shall find that he has taken poison, or cut his throat.

Des. Ah! and then there'll be nothing to dust.

Mad. V. Monsieur, I repeat it—you're unfeeling. But I, who loved and served his dear mother, whom he so much resembles—

Des. Not a bit—hasn't a look of her. The father, the father all over.

Mad. V. Of course. So you always say, and everybody knows why. You loved the poor Marchioness, offered her your hand, and she preferred the Marquis.

Des. Madame!

Mad. V. I don't care. I will speak my mind. And because she refused you, you have no regard for her son.

Des. Madame!

Mad. V. But if he has his father's face, he has his mother's heart.

Des. Much you know about it.

Mad. V. And who should know if I don't? Havn't I attended him since he was an infant?

Des. Well, and havn't I attended him since he was an infant?

Mad. V. Wasn't I with him during every sickness?

Des. Wasn't I with him too?

Mad. V. Didn't I nurse him?

Des. Didn't I cure him?

Mad. V. Wouldn't I follow him through the world?

Des. Didn't I bring him into it?

Mad. V. Yes, and if things go on at this rate, he won't have much to thank you for.

Des. How do you know? How do you know, you foolish old woman you.

Manuel appears.

Man. Heyday! the only two friends I have in the world at high words? What can have caused this?

Mad. V. My lord, the Doctor says you—

Man. Me! my dear Doctor, you never were quarrelling about so unimportant a person, surely?

Des. No matter for that. But I have some business with the Marquis, if this very positive old lady will allow me the luxury of an interview with him—a private interview. Pray, ma'am, may I trespass on your indulgence?

Mad. V. Truly, Doctor, your campaign in the Crimea has improved neither your manners, or your beauty.

[Exit L. H.

Des. Confound her impudence! The attack on my manners I could forgive, but my beauty—that's a tender point.

Man. Ah, Doctor, you must pardon her brusque manner. If she's poor in courtesy, she's rich in a rarer gift—fidelity.

Des. Oh! hang her! let her go. And now to your affairs. Your father's death occurred while I was with the army, in the Crimea. Rumors reached me there, but I have never heard the full particulars. I would not willingly revive a painful theme, but as an old friend—

Man. Nay, I shall be more satisfied when you know the facts. When you left France you know what our position was, and what our style of living.

Des. All the luxuries that money could procure—a mansion in Paris, an ancestral chateau, and a stable that could boast the best blood in France.

Man. Two months after the death of my dear mother, I went to Italy, by my father's desire, and for several years I traveled through Europe, at my pleasure. During this time his letters to me were affectionate, but brief, and never expressed any desire for my return. Two months ago, on arriving at Marseilles, I found several letters from him awaiting me, each of them begging me to return home with all possible haste.

Des. I remember, it was some time previous to that, that I heard his name mentioned in connection with some unfortunate speculations in the stocks.

Man. I arrived at night. The ground was white with snow. As I passed up the avenue—made still darker by the old trees which overshadowed it—I could hear the frost shaken from the branches, seeming, as it fell around me, like a warning of bitter tears to come. Hardly had I crossed the threshold when my father's arms were around me. I could feel his heart beating against my own, with a force almost painful. He led me to a sofa, and placed himself directly in front of me, when, as if longing to reveal something which yet he dared not name, he fixed his eyes on mine with an expression of supplication, of agony, of shame, wondrous in a man so haughty and so proud. It was enough! The wrong he had committed, yet could not confess, I divined full well—God knows how fully, how freely I forgave it! Suddenly, that look, which never quitted me, became fixed, rigid. The pressure of his hand on mine became a grip of iron. He arose—the eyes wandered, the hand relaxed, and he fell dead at my feet!

Des. [After a pause.] Well, well, it is a sad history, for he left utter ruin for your portion. But come, you must not look back. "Forward" must be the watchword now. Mr. Faveau, your family lawyer, tells me that the little that remained to you, after paying your father's debts, you have appropriated to making a fine lady of your sister.

Man. To educate her, doctor.

Des. Well, well, same thing; so that you, yourself, have literally nothing to speak of—hardly enough to give you bread.

Man. Hardly.

Des. Under these circumstances you will perhaps be disposed to the favorable consideration of a proposal I have to make?

Man. Name it, sir, for at present, I confess I have formed no plans of my own. I was so little prepared to find myself quite a beggar. Were I alone in the world, I would become a soldier. But my sister, that would involve prolonged absence from her—perhaps an early death. My darling—I cannot endure the thought of knowing her compelled to suffer the privations, the labor, and the dangers of poverty. She is happy at her school, and young enough to remain there for some years to come. If I could but find some occupation by which, even were I obliged to impose the severest restraints upon myself, it would be possible to save enough for her marriage portion, I should be more than content.

Des. An employment to suit a man of your rank—

Man. Oh, my dear Doctor—rank—

Des. Well, well, of your education, then, is not easily found. Now, mark what I am going to say, and consider it well, before you come to a hasty conclusion. There is, among my patients, a retired merchant, one who has been able, by indefatigable industry in trade, to amass a very handsome fortune. His daughter, an only a child, and of course, the father's darling, has, by chance, become acquainted with the state of your affairs. Now, I have reason to know, (being on very confidential terms with them.) I say I have reason to know that this girl, ambitious, handsome, rich, and accomplished, would be happy to share your title. I have the father's consent, and only await the word from you to—

Man. Dr. Desmarets, my name is neither for sale, or to let.

Des. Humph! Do you know, my lord, that you bear a remarkable resemblance to your poor mother?

Man. You must be mistaken, sir. I have always been told that I was more like my father.

Des. Not a bit! The mother, the mother, sir, in every feature. But, bless me, it's near eleven o'clock and I have a most particular appointment. As you decline considering the proposal I have made, we must think of something else. Au revoir. [Aside.] The mother—eyes, nose, mouth. What the devil made that stupid old woman say he was like his father?

[Exit C.

Man. He's a kind man, though a little eccentric, and apart from his professional duty, seems actuated by a sincere desire to serve me, and yet—and yet I could not bring myself to ask his charity. Hunger—starvation—are not, then, mere empty words. Oh! if I do sin in my pride, I am punished, for I suffer much. This is the second day without food. Why, after all, I could go into any Restaurant and dine, for I am well enough known. I could say I had forgotten my purse—have done so without scruple in happier times, but then I had the means to pay, and now—no, no, my sister, not for life, not even for thee, will I descend to lie and cheat. How weak I am; this comes too soon upon my long sickness. If I could but sleep and so forget my agony. And there are human creatures who suffer every day as I do now. My sister, my little sister, I seem to see thy dear face looking down upon me, and bidding me be comforted. [Music.] Thou, at least, shall never suffer. But for those who hear their cries of hunger repeated from the mouths of starving little ones, well, well, God comfort them; I will not re—Oh—holy—charity—for—those—who—my sister—my—

Man. Eh—who's that? Ah, me! What are you doing, Madame?

Mad. V. Did you not order dinner, my lord?

Man. Certainly not.

Mad. V. Why they told me—

Man. Then they were mistaken. It's for some of the other lodgers.

Mad. V. But there's no other lodgers on this floor, and I really cannot think what—

Man. At any rate, it is not for me. Take it away.

Mad. V. [After slowly taking off cloth.] My lord has probably dined?

Man. Probably.

Mad. V. Dear me, dear me, what a pity. A good dinner spoiled, wasted. Really, if you had not dined, my lord, it would so oblige me if—

Man. Will you go or not? [She is dejectedly going, when Manuel calls.] Louise, I understand, and I thank you, but I am not well to-day. I have no desire to eat.

[He turns away. Madame Vauberger quietly comes back and gently places the dinner on the table.

Mad. V. Ah, my Lord, if you knew how you wound my heart. Come now, you shall pay me for the dinner—there—you shall put the money into my hand the moment you have it. But indeed, indeed, if you were to give me a hundred thousand francs, it would not cause me half the pleasure that I should feel in seeing you eat my poor little dinner. Oh, surely, surely, you can comprehend that.

Man. I do, Louise, I do—and as I can't give you the hundred thousand francs, why, I'll eat your dinner.

Mad. V. No; will you?

Man. Louise, your hand. Don't be alarmed, I'm not going to put money into it.

[She timidly gives her hand.

Mad. V. Oh! thank you, thank you, my lord, a thousand times. Now, I'll leave you to your dinner. Ah! how good of you to accept my poor gift. You have a noble heart.

[Exit C.

Man. And a monstrous appetite. My kind, faithful Louise. Well, well, let us to dinner, since dinner there is. Come, come, here's life for another day or so, at least, and that's something.

Doctor and Madame Vauberger heard without.

Des. Nonsense, nonsense; I don't believe a word of it.

Mad. V. I tell you sir, 'tis true; you might have seen it.

Des. [Entering.] But, confound it, woman—I didn't see it, and it was your business to tell me.

Mad. V. It wasn't.

Des. It was.

Man. What's the matter now?

Des. Matter enough! That stupid woman—

Man. Doctor, will you do me the pleasure to dine with me?

Des. My lord, you have done wrong.

Man. Indeed!

Des. For you have wounded a friend. You have been cruel.

Man. Cruel!

Des. For you have made an old man blush.

Man. I!

Des. Yes, you! why was I left in ignorance? How could you, Manuel? why didn't you. Damn it, sir? how dare you starve without letting me know?

Man. Sir, I could not—

Des. My poor boy; there, there, eat your dinner; I've news for you.

Man. News!

Des. Yes; eat your dinner.

Man. But I want to listen.

Des. Well, you don't listen with your mouth, I suppose. Eat your dinner.

Man. But—

Des. Devil a word you'll get out of me, if you don't eat your dinner.

Man. Well, well.

[Eats.

Des. Good! You remember I told you I had an appointment?

Man. Yes.

Des. Don't talk—eat! [Manuel eats.] That appointment concerned you. [Manuel nods.] I think I've found employment for you.

Man. Eh?

[Pauses with a bit on his fork.

Des. In with it. [Manuel puts it in his mouth.] Good! You are aware, of course, that my practice and my residence is in the country. I merely came to Paris on your account. [Manuel lets go his fork to shake hands with the Doctor, who puts the fork into his hand again.] Well, among the families with whom I am most intimate, there is one, in particular, of great wealth and importance. The name is Laroque. The family have had for some years past, a managing man, a steward, who never was worth much. Indeed, the only real service he has ever rendered them, he has just performed.

Man. Ran away?

Des. No, died. The moment I heard of this, I wrote to Madame Laroque, asking his situation for a friend of mine. On leaving you, I went to the post office, and found a letter awaiting me, with the full consent of the family to my request. To be sure the position for a man of your rank—

Man. My rank, under present circumstances, is a mockery. I shall, in future, take simply my Christian name of Manuel.

Des. I have only mentioned you in my letters as Monsieur Manuel, anticipating that such would be your wish. You will have your own apartments in a pavilion near the Chateau. Your salary will be so regulated that you will be enabled to lay by a portion for your sister. Now, the only question remaining is, will this suit you?

Man. Admirably! My dear, kind friend, how shall I sufficiently thank you?

Des. Eat your dinner.

Man. But am I fitted for the position?

Des. Pretty well. You've learned one great requisite.

Man. What's that?

Des. Economy. As to the rest, the duties are simple enough. And now I'll give you some notion of the people you are going to meet. There are, in the Chateau, without counting visitors, five persons. First, Monsieur Laroque, celebrated at the beginning of the present century as a famous privateer Captain. Hence his large fortune. He is now a feeble old man, mind and memory a good deal the worse for wear. Then there is Madame Laroque, his daughter-in-law, a Creole—

Man. A Creole?

Des. Yes, young gentleman, an elderly Creole, with some eccentricities to be sure, but a good heart. Thirdly, there is Mademoiselle Marguerite, her daughter, much younger—

Man. That's singular.

Des. Eat your dinner. She is proud, somewhat romantic, a little thoughtless,—

Man. And her disposition?

Des. Sweet. Fourthly, Madame Aubrey, a widow, a sort of second cousin, old maidish, talky—

Man. Disposition?

Des. Sour. Fifthly, Mademoiselle Helouin—Governess. Young, good looking.

Man. Disposition?

Des. Doubtful. And that completes the catalogue.

Man. Delightful! Two good dispositions out of five. The proportion is enormous!

Des. I'm glad you look at things so hopefully. When will you be ready to accompany me to the Chateau?

Man. To-morrow—to-day.

Des. To-morrow will do. I shall be here for you early.

[Going.

Man. I shall be ready.

Des. [Runs against Madame V. who is coming in.] Confound it, woman, take care!

Mad. V. Why, Doctor, you ran against me.

Des. I didn't!

Mad. V. You did!

Man. What's the matter now?

Des. Eat your dinner!

END OF TABLEAU I.