Mel. Hold, lady! No, not slave! Despair is free! I will not tell thee of the throes--the struggles The anguish--the remorse: No, let it pass! And let me come to such most poor atonement Yet in my power. Pauline! [Approaching her with great emotion, and about to take her hand. Pauline. No, touch me not! I know my fate. You are, by law, my tyrant; And I--O Heaven!--a peasant's wife! I'll work Toil--drudge--do what thou wilt--but touch me not; Let my wrongs make me sacred! Mel. Do not fear me. Thou dost not know me, madam: at the altar My vengeance ceased--my guilty oath expired! Henceforth, no image of some marble saint, Niched in cathedral aisles, is hallow'd more From the rude hand of sacrilegious wrong. I am thy husband--nay, thou need'st not shudder; Here, at thy feet, I lay a husband's rights. A marriage thus unholy--unfulfill'd-- A bond of fraud--is, by the laws of France, Made void and null. To-night sleep--sleep in peace. To-morrow, pure and virgin as this morn I bore thee, bathed in blushes, from the shrine, Thy father's arms shall take thee to thy home. The law shall do thee justice, and restore Thy right to bless another with thy love. And when thou art happy, and hast half forgot Him who so loved--so wrong'd thee, think at least Heaven left some remnant of the angel still In that poor peasant's nature! 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.