Mel. Hush!--No word against her! Why should she keep, through years and silent absence, The holy tablets of her virgin faith True to a traitor's name! Oh, blame her not; It were a sharper grief to think her worthless Than to be what I am! To-day,--to-day! They, said "To-day!" This day, so wildly welcomed-- This clay, my soul had singled out of time And mark'd for bliss! This day! oh, could I see her, See her once more unknown; but hear her voice. So that one echo of its music might Make ruin less appalling in its silence. Damas. Easily done! Come with me to her house; Your dress--your cloak--moustache--the bronzed hues Of time and toil--the name you bear--belief In your absence, all will ward away suspicion. Keep in the shade. Ay, I would have you come There may be hope? Pauline is yet so young, They may have forced her to these second bridals Out of mistaken love. Mel. No, bid me hope not! Bid me not hope! I could not bear again To fall from such a heaven! One gleam of sunshine, And the ice breaks and I am lost! Oh, Damas, There's no such thing as courage in a man; The veriest slave that ever crawl'd from danger Might spurn me now. When first I lost her, Damas, I bore it, did I not? I still had hope, And now I--I-- [Bursts into an agony of grief. Damas. What, comrade! all the women That ever smiled destruction on brave hearts Were not worth tears like these! Mel. 'Tis past--forget it. I am prepared; life has no further ills! The cloud has broken in that stormy rain, And on the waste I stand, alone with Heaven. Damas. His very face is changed; a breaking heart Does its work soon!--Come, Melnotte, rouse thyself: One effort more. Again thou'lt see her. Mel. See her! There is a passion in that simple sentence That shivers all the pride and power of reason Into a chaos! Damas. Time wanes; come, ere yet It be too late. Mel. Terrible words--"Too late!" Lead on. One last look more, and then-- Damas. Forget her! Mel. Forget her! yes--For death remembers not. [Exeunt. SCENE II. A room in the house of MONSIEUR DESCHAPPELLES; PAULINE seated in great dejection. Pauline. It is so, then. I must be false to Love, Or sacrifice a father! Oh, my Claude, My lover, and my husband! Have I lived To pray that thou mayest find some fairer boon Than the deep faith of this devoted heart-- Nourish'd till now--now broken? Enter MONSIEUR DESCHAPPELLES. M. Deschap. My dear child, How shall I thank--how bless thee? Thou hast saved, I will not say my fortune--I could bear Reverse, and shrink not--but that prouder wealth Which merchants value most--my name, my credit-- The hard--won honors of a toilsome life:-- These thou hast saved, my child!