ADELE.

Your cabinet does not shut.

HOSTESS.

The two doors of this room shut inside.

ADELE.

True, I need not be alarmed here.

HOSTESS (bringing a light into the cabinet).

What could Madame be alarmed at?

ADELE.

This is silly.-(Hostess goes out of the cabinet.)—Come, for Heaven's sake, and tell me as soon as the horses are returned.

HOSTESS.

The very instant, Madam.

ADELE (going into the cabinet).

No accident can happen in this hotel?

HOSTESS.

None. If Madame wishes it, I will order some one to sit up.

ADELE (at the entry of the cabinet).

No, no-indeed-excuse me-leave me.

(She goes into the cabinet and shuts the door.) (ANTONY appears on the balcony behind the window, breaks a glass, pushes his arm through, opens the window, enters quickly, and bolts the door which the Hostess just went out at.)

ADELE (coming out of the cabinet).

A noise-a man-oh!

ANTONY.

Silence!-(taking her in his arms and putting a handkerchief to her mouth)—It 's I—I—Antony.

Thus ends Act III.

(He carries her into the cabinet.)

Some months have passed away. Antony and his mistress are at Paris, and Col. d'Hervey still (this is again convenient) remains at Frankfort, whither Antony has sent a faithful servant, who is to watch over the movements of the unfortunate husband, and ride to Paris with the news, if he should take it into his head to return.

You are now carried to a ball *- and here Adèle gets insulted by a lady for her supposed weakness in favour of Antony: the weakness, as yet, is only supposed. Antony consoles his mistress for this insult, which one does not quite see why she received, since her friend, the hostess, and queen of the ball, has already changed her lover two or three times during the piece. But misfortunes never come singly, and hardly can Adèle have got home, after this insult, when the servant who had been stationed at Frankfort arrives, and announces that Col. d'Hervey will be at Paris almost as soon as himself.

*Act IV.

Antony hurries to his mistress's house, and endeavours to persuade her to elope with him immediately.

course.

ACT V.

SCENE III.

ANTONY.

Well, thou see'st! remaining here, there is no hope in heaven... Listen, I am free-my fortune will follow me ; -besides, if it failed, I could supply it easily. A carriage is below. Listen and consider, there is no other If a heart devoted-if the whole existence of a man cast at thy feet, suffice thee, say 'Yes.' Italy, England, Germany, offer us an asylum. I tear thee from thy family, from thy country: well, I will be to thee family-country. A change of name will disguise us from the world. No one will know who we were till we are dead. We'll live alone-thou shalt be my fortune, my God, my life. I'll have no will but thine, no happiness but thine. Come, come, we are enough to each

other to enable us to forget the world.

ADELE.

Yes, yes-but one word to Clara.

ANTONY.

We have not a minute to lose.

ADELE.

My child, my daughter-I must embrace my girl— see'st thou this is a last adieu, an eternal farewell!

ANTONY.

What ails thee?

ADELE.

My daughter!-leave my daughter!-my daughter, who will be reproached one day with the crime of her mother, who will still live, perhaps, though not for her. My girl! my poor child! who will expect to be presented to the world as innocent, and who will be presented to it as dishonoured as her mother, and dishonoured by her mother's fault.

Is it not so? A blot once fallen upon a name is not effaced-it eats into it-it preys upon it-it destroys it. Oh my daughter, my daughter!

ANTONY.

Well!-we'll take her with us: let her come with us. But yesterday, I should have thought it impossible to love her--the daughter of another-of thee. Well! she shall be my daughter, my adopted child. But cometake her then ; every instant is death. What dost thou consider about?-he is coming, he is coming!—he is yonder!

ADELE.

Wretch that I am become! Where am I? and where hast thou conducted me? and all this in three months! An honourable man confides his name to me-places his happiness in me-trusts his daughter to me! I adore her. -She is his hope, his old age, the being in whom he hopes to survive. Thou comest-it is but three months. My smothered love awakes-I dishonour the name intrusted

VOL. II.

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to me--I destroy the happiness reposed on me; and this is not all-no, this is not enough-I carry away from him the daughter of his heart. I disinherit his old days of his child's caresses, and in exchange of his love I give him shame, sorrow, solitude! Tell me, Antony, is not this infamy?

Antony proposes they should die together— "Blessed be God," he says,—

Blessed be God who made my life for unity! Blessed be God that I can quit life without drawing a tear from eyes that love me. Blessed be God for having allowed me, in the age of hope, to have known and been fatigued with everything . . . One bond alone attached me to this world. . . Thou wert that bond-it breaks-I am content to die, but I would die with thee I wish the last beatings of our hearts to respond―our last sighs to mingle. Dost thou understand? . . A death as soft as sleep —a death happier than our life. Then-who knows? from pity, perhaps, they'll throw our bodies into the same tomb.

Oh! yes!

ADELE.

...

...

That would be heaven, if my memory could die with me - but if I die thus, the world will