ceive the visiter. The horses, however, run away with her, and by one of those old and convenient accidents which authors have not yet dispensed with, Antony stops them, saves her life, gets injured in the chivalrous enterprise, and is carried by the physician's order to Madame d'Hervey's house. Here he soon finds an opportunity to tell his misfortune, his despair, the passion he feels, and the reasons why he did not declare it sooner-and Adèle, after hearing all this, thinks it safer to make the best of her way after her husband, who is at Frankfort.

She starts, her voyage is nearly over, when she arrives at a little inn, where she is obliged to stop, on account of another convenient accident--a want of post-horses. Here the following scene will explain what takes place.

SCENE VII.

HOSTESS, ADEle.
HOSTESS (from without).

Coming! coming!—(entering.)—Was it madame who called?

I wish to go.

ADELE.

Are the horses returned?

HOSTESS.

They were hardly gone when madame arrived, and I don't expect them before two or three hours. Would madame repose herself?

Where?

ADELE.

HOSTESS.

In this cabinet, there's a bed.

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, madame.

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 1—1—Antony.

Thus ends Act III.

(He carries her into the cabinet.)

Some months have passed away. Antony and his mistress are then at Paris, and Col. d'Hervey still (this is again convenient) remains at Frankfort, where 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 taken 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. Misfortunes, says the proverb, never come singly, and hardly can Adèle have got home, 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.

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

ACT V.

SCENE III.

ANTONY.

Well, thou seest 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 course. 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 for each other 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— seest thou-this is a last adieu, an eternal farewell!

ANTONY.

Well, yes!-go, go.-(He pushes her.)

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 come -take 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 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. What wouldst the a do then?

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 every thing. One bond alone attached me to this world Thou wert that bond-it breaks-I am content to die, but I would 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. . . . Thenwho knows? from pity, perhaps, they'll throw our bodies into the same tomb.

ADELE.

...

Oh! yes! That would be heaven, if my memory could die with me-but if I die thus, the world will say to my child-" Your mother thought to escape shame by death. . . and she died in the arms of the man who had dishonoured her"-and if my poor girl say "No," they will lift up the stone that covers our grave, and say, "There, see them!"

ANTONY.

Oh! we are indeed damned, neither to live nor die !

ADELE.

Yes, yes. I ought to die-I alone-thou seest itGo then, in the name of heaven-go!

ANTONY.

And

Go!... quit thee! ... when he comes... to have had thee, and to have lost thee! . . hell! were he not to kill thee... were he to pardon thee ... To have been guilty of rape, violence, adultery-to have possessed thee-and can I hesitate at a new crime, that is, to keep thee?-What! lose my soul for so little! Satan would laugh. Thou art foolish. No, no! Thou