Gaspar. They promise thee the same greeting they gave me, if thou wilt pass that way. Shall we endure this, Claude? Mel. [wringing GASPAR's hand]. Forgive me, the fault was mine, I have brought this on thee; I will not forget it; thou shalt be avenged! The heartless insolence! Gaspar. Thou art moved, Melnotte; think not of me; I would go through fire and water to serve thee; but,--a blow! It is not the bruise that galls,--it is the blush, Melnotte. Mel. Say, what message?--How insulted!--Wherefore?--What the offence? Gaspar. Did you not write to Pauline Deschappelles, the daughter of the rich merchant? Mel. Well? Gaspar. And are you not a peasant--a gardener's son?--that was the offence. Sleep on it, Melnotte. Blows to a French citizen, blows! [Exit. Widow. Now you are cured, Claude! Mel. tearing the letter. So do I scatter her image to the winds--I will stop her in the open streets--I will insult her--I will beat her menial ruffians--I will--[Turns suddenly to Widow.] Mother, am I humpbacked--deformed--hideous? Widow. You! Mel. A coward--a thief--a liar? Widow. You! Mel. Or a dull fool--a vain, drivelling, brainless idiot? Widow. No, no. Mel. What am I then--worse than all these? Why, I am a peasant! What has a peasant to do with love? Vain revolutions, why lavish your cruelty on the great? Oh that we--we, the hewers of wood and drawers of water--had been swept away, so that the proud might learn what the world would be without us! [Knock at the door. Enter Servant from the Inn. Servant. A letter for Citizen Melnotte. Mel. A letter! from her perhaps--who sent thee? Servant. Why, Monsieur--I mean Citizen--Beauseant, who stops to dine at the Golden Lion, on his way to his chateau. Mel. Beauseant!--[Reads]. "Young man, I know thy secret--thou lovest above thy station: if thou hast wit, courage, and discretion, I can secure to thee the realization of thy most sanguine hopes; and the sole condition I ask in return is, that thou shalt be steadfast to thine own ends. I shall demand from thee a solemn oath to marry her whom thou lovest; to bear her to thine home on thy wedding night. I am serious--if thou wouldst learn more, lose not a moment, but follow the bearer of this letter to thy friend and patron,--CHARLES BEAUSEANT." Mel. Can I believe my eyes? Are our own passions the sorcerers that raise up for us spirits of good or evil? I will go instantly. Widow. What is this, Claude? Mel. "Marry her whom thou lovest,"--"bear her to thine own home."-- Oh, revenge and love; which of you is the stronger?--[Gazing on the picture.] Sweet face, thou smilest on me from the canvas: weak fool that I am, do I then love her still? No, it is the vision of my own romance that I have worshipped: it is the reality to which I bring scorn for scorn. Adieu, mother: I will return anon. My brain reels--the earth swims before me.--[Looks again at the letter.] No, it is not a mockery; I do not dream! [Exit. ACT II.--SCENE I.