TIME. The Terro.

SCENE. Paris. Study of PAUL KAUVAR’S apartment.

The decorating is in the classic style of the painter David. Old-fashioned escritoire with chair. Folding doors across corner up stage. Window, with table beneath it. Fireplace, with picture of PAUL KAUVAR over it, and fire on andirons. Doors at the right and left of stage.

At the Rise of Curtain_, NANETTE crosses to fireplace and shovels ashes into a pail. POTIN is heard outside, singing, in loud and discordant tones, “La Marseillaise."

NANETTE.

[Starting up angrily.]

There’s that lazy man of mine, singing, while I work.

[Crosses to folding doors, flings them open and shouts roughly.]

Dodolphe! Dodolphe Potin!

POTIN.

[Meekly, outside.]

Aye, aye!

NANETTE.

I want you!

POTIN.

[Outside.]

Aye, aye!

NANETTE.

Hurry up! Do you hear?

POTIN.

[Appearing.]

I could hear your sweet voice if I were deaf as Justice.

NANETTE.

Fool! Justice is blind, not deaf.

POTIN.

True! That’s why you always get the better of me, dear. Justice listens too much and looks too little.

NANETTE.

Bah!

[Pointing to pail.]

Take that rubbish to the cellar.

POTIN.

[Crosses, lifts pail, and looks into it.]

Ashes! Heigho! Every fire has its ashes.

NANETTE.

Aye and the fire that warms a man’s home may burn his house down! Mark you that, Citizen.

POTIN.

Oh, I see! You mean a wife, who should be a comfort, often proves a curse.

NANETTE.

I mean, Citizen Potin, that in days of revolution, husbands are easily suppressed.

POTIN.

[Starting.]

Take care! A word against the Revolution is treason and sure death.

NANETTE.

Bah! Better death, than a life of terror like that in France to-day.

POTIN.

[Terrified.]

Good heavens, Nanette! Fewer words than these have guillotined our betters! Can you never hold your tongue?

NANETTE.

Never! while I have a truth to tell.

POTIN.

Tell the truth! Good Lord, that’s fatal.

NANETTE.

Aye, for in these noble days of liberty we are only free to lie.

POTIN.

[Turning away in disgust.]

Damn it! I must run or be ruined.

[Starts to go, but, in passing window, recoils with a cry of dismay.]

Sacristie! See! See there!

[Points out of window.

NANETTE.

[Contemptuously looking out of window.]

What now?

POTIN.

There goes the Phantom!

NANETTE.

[Starting.]

The dumb girl of the guillotine!

POTIN.

Who glides like a phantom through the streets, without home, friend, or occupation.

NANETTE.

[With horror.]

Except to stand by the scaffold, and count the heads that fall from the guillotine.

POTIN.

They say that calamity overtakes everyone she follows: that it’s disaster to stand in her way, and sure death to notice her.

NANETTE.

Aye, even those who think themselves too great to believe in God, have faith in the fatal power of this pale child. My God! look there!

POTIN.

Good Lord! It’s Mademoiselle Diane! She’s crossing the street in front of the Phantom.

NANETTE.

Aye! Go. Hurry Mademoiselle here, before she has a chance to heed this messenger of misery.

POTIN.

[Going hurriedly.]

Goddess of Reason, save us all!

[Exit.

NANETTE.

Goddess of Reason! A fine deity for days as mad as these:

[Crossing to mantel and looking at KAUVAR’S picture.]

Ah, Citizen Kauvar! Patriot! Revolutionist! Bold son of Liberty, as you are! You’d love this age of terror less if it brought death to Mademoiselle Diane. Yes, I’ve watched ye, sturdy citizen, and in spite of your stern devotion to the Republic, I suspect you carry another idol in your heart.

DIANE

[Outside, laughing.]

All right, Citizen, I’ll not forget; though the poor crazed girl is not half as harmful as her saner neighbours.

NANETTE.

Ah! Here she comes Diane Leblanc, a ray of sunlight in this prison men call Paris.

DIANE.

[Entering with flowers.]

Ah, Nanette! Quick! Water and a vase. See!

NANETTE.

What flowers?

[Brings vase.

DIANE.

Yes, they bloom even in this reign of terror.

[Putting flowers in vase.]

But you see these fragile beauties are sinless, and therefore know no fear. Is my father in his room?

NANETTE.

No. He went away an hour ago.

DIANE.

Gone an hour, and not returned? That makes me anxious! Is Citizen
Kauvar at home?

NANETTE.

Not yet! He’s been away all night.

DIANE.

Good heavens! Nanette can anything have happened?

NANETTE.

Yes, what happens every day. Innocence is slaughtered!

DIANE.

But he Citizen Kauvar ?

NANETTE.

Has doubtless fought all night to stop the useless flow of noble blood.

DIANE.

Yes, he is brave, merciful.

NANETTE.

Ah! He was one of the fiercest champions of Freedom when the people first arose; but now I think he’d give his life to still the tempest he did so much to rouse.

DIANE.

He will return sad and worn; we must do our best to cheer him when he comes.

NANETTE.

One look one smile of yours will banish every thought of sorrow from his tired brain.

DIANE.

Hush, Nanette; you must not talk like that.

A VOICE.

[Outside.]

Nanette! Diane!

NANETTE.

[Startled.]

What’s that?

DIANE.

[Frightened.]

My father!

DUKE.

[Entering wildly.]

My child! Diane! Where is she?

DIANE.

[Rushing to him.]

Here! Safe in your dear arms!

DUKE.

[Embracing her.]

Thank God!

[Turning to NANETTE.]

My good Nanette, leave us alone awhile.

NANETTE.

[Going.]

All right, Citizen.

DUKE.

And warn us when anyone is coming.

NANETTE.

[At the door.]

Don’t fear! I’ll stand good guard.

[Exit.

DIANE.

Father, why are you so moved?

DUKE.

But now, the mob seized some poor young girl they found without protection in the street. I heard of this and fearing for your life, I hurried here in awful agony of mind. Ah! Diane, this dread of peril to you is worse than the worst of deaths to me.

DIANE.

Take heart, dear father! Does not Paul Kauvar, strong and true, stand between us and danger!

DUKE.

Yes; but ’tis hard that I, a peer of France, should owe my daughter’s life to a peasant’s son a workman!

DIANE.

A, workman with a brush so potent that the noblest born do honour to his art. What would have been our fate but for his devotion?

DUKE.

He’s a plebeian a Republican! The sense of my obligation to him the enemy of my race is almost unendurable. Ah, but for you I should long since have braved the scaffold and buried humiliation in the grave.

NANETTE.

[Hurrying in.]

Take care! A committee from the Section is on its way upstairs.

DIANE.

[In fear.]

A committee coming here? How strange!

NANETTE.

No, not strange! Treachery is at every door. They are coming. Quick! To your work!

[The DUKE sits at the desk and pretends to write. DIANE sits at table and takes up sewing. NANETTE dusts. Knock is heard outside. NANETTE answers roughly.]

Come in!

Enter GOUROC, POTIN, GOUJON and two SANS CULOTTES.

GOUROC.

Health and fraternity, Citizens! We come for Paul Kauvar, President of our Section.

NANETTE.

[Gruffly.]

He’s not at home.

GOUROC.

Ah, indeed!

[Sitting.]

Then we will await him here.

[All sit in silence.

NANETTE.

[Aside, in irritation.]

Oh, the impudence of these men! How my nails ache to get at their ugly faces! [Crossing.]

How often have I told you that this apartment is not a public office?

POTIN.

But, my precious angel

NANETTE.

Bah! Religion is abolished, and angels are suppressed! I wish friends were too!

POTIN.

[Laughing.]

Talk of the rack! What is it to a woman’s tongue?

NANETTE.

What know you of a woman’s tongue?

POTIN.

Enough to damn me, if knowledge were a crime.

NANETTE.

[To GOUROC.]

Come, Citizen, there’s no use waiting. President Kauvar don’t do business at home; you’ve no rights here.

GOUROC.

[Rising sternly.]

The patriot has unlimited rights, woman. He may dare all violate all, in his zeal for the Republic.

NANETTE.

Well, then, dare my dusting.

[Strikes brush into her hand and sends dust all over GOUROC.]

GOUROC.

[Moving off, sputtering.]

Who is this, Citizen Potin?

POTIN.

[Proudly.]

My wife, Citizen Gouroc.

GOUROC.

Who taught her manners?

POTIN.

The Goddess of Liberty, a rough and ready teacher.

GOUROC.

Who teaches with sharp tools.

NANETTE.

Aye tools so sharp they often cut the fools that use them. Mark that.

GOUROC.

[Crossing to DIANE.]

You are the wife of President Kauvar, I suppose?

[DIANE starts up and stares. The DUKE rises and advances with stern hauteur. At sight of GOUROC, he starts, and surveys him with amazement.]

Well, old man, are you mad, or do you know me?

DUKE.

[Significantly.]

I think we have met before.

GOUROC.

Yes, and may meet again. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Citizen Gouroc, of the Jacobin Club, and one of the Public Accusers of the Revolutionary Tribunal.

[DIANE draws close to NANETTE.]

Now, who are you?

DUKE.

I am George Leblanc, private secretary to Paul Kauvar.

GOUROC.

Ah, indeed! His private secretary? Then I can do my business with you. It is said that two aristocrats in disguise are lurking about this house.

[All start.]

I must communicate with you in secret, Citizen.

[Turning to DIANE.]

Are you the daughter of this old man?

DIANE.

I am his daughter, Diane Leblanc.

GOUROC.

You remain.

[To SANS CULOTTES.]

You, Comrades, wait across the street;

[Exeunt SANS CULOTTES.]

and you, Citizen Potin, take your wife, leave the room, and wait within call. You understand?

POTIN.

I do, Citizen. When the Republic commands, I obey.

[Exit, with NANETTE.

GOUROC.

[Bowing with great politeness.]

Monsieur lé Duc de Beaumont.

[DIANE starts.]

DUKE.

[Turning with contempt.]

Monsieur lé Marquis de Vaux.

DIANE

[Amazed.]

This the Marquis de Vaux?

GOUROC.

You are surprised to see me in this garb. I am equally surprised to find you the guests of Citizen Kauvar, President of the Republican Section of Fraternity.

DUKE.

Not quite as strange as discovering the dainty Marquis de Vaux a
Public Accuser and the servile slave of the guillotine.

GOUROC.

Reserve your contempt till you understand the meaning of my presence here. I come to warn you against your host.

DIANE.

[Haughtily.]

How, sir! You suspect the loyalty of Monsieur Kauvar?

GOUROC.

What if he has trapped you here only to betray you?

DIANE.

That’s impossible, sir! Monsieur Kauvar is the soul of honour and devotion.

DUKE.

Besides, his head is surety for ours. The discovery that he had sheltered us would entail his own death.

GOUROC.

Precisely! And what if the sense of that danger had prompted a denunciation, while there still was some merit in it?

[The DUKE starts. DIANE turns aside with scorn.]

One thing is certain: an anonymous denunciation of you, describing your disguise and your retreat, has been made to our club.

DIANE.

[Clasping her father.]

What! Discovered and denounced?

GOUROC.

As Public Accuser, the denunciation fell first into my hands. I have risked my life by withholding it from the Tribunal until your safety is assured.

DUKE.

[Giving GOUROC his hand.]

Pardon, Marquis, that I did not realize before the motives of your course.

GOUROC.

Grant me, then, the privilege of saving you.

DUKE.

We will. You belong to our own race; we may trust you.

GOUROC.

Then prepare for sudden and secret flight.

DIANE.

[Starting.]

Flight! Where can we be safer than under our present host’s protection?

GOUROC.

Under mine, Mademoiselle. Kauvar is a man of the people. To him such words as loyalty, truth and honour are but empty puffs of air.

DIANE.

[Proudly and passionately.]

On whose lips is there meaning purer, or prouder, than on Paul Kauvar’s?

DUKE.

[With haughty surprise.]

Mademoiselle! When you speak so warmly, you forget the distance that separates you from one of his rank.

[Cries in the distance of “To the Guillotine!” with the roll of muffled drums.

DIANE.

[In solemn voice.]

Nay, father, listen! Do we need more to remind us of the nearness of the protected to the protector?

[The DUKE listens with bowed head. GOUROC goes to window.

DUKE.

[To GOUROC, as drums draw near.]

Is it the patrol?

GOUROC.

[Solemnly.]

No. Tis the guard of the death-cart, with to-day’s load for the guillotine.

DIANE.

[Hiding her face.]

This constant agitation is torture.

GOUROC.

You can easily escape it, Mademoiselle. Accept the refuge I offer you.

DUKE.

We will, Marquis, at once. Come to my room, and we will complete our plans.

[To DIANE.]

My child, prepare to leave this house to-night, in haste and in secret.

[Exit with GOUROC.

DIANE.

Fly from this house to-night? No! I will not go! And yet I must, or tell my father the secret I have kept from him so long.

PAUL.

[Outside.]

I am not at home to anyone. I will not brook intrusion here.

NANETTE.

[Outside.]

I’ll keep out all I can.

DIANE.

Paul is coming! How can I tell him we must part?

[PAUL enters. DIANE turns quickly toward him.

PAUL.

[Absorbed in documents he is carrying. Crossing slowly to desk, he lays the papers down and, turning, sees DIANE.]

Diane! Thank heaven you’re alone!

[DIANE checks him by a warning gesture; crosses quickly to the door, listens a moment, then slowly approaches PAUL, looking back anxiously.]

Have you no word of welcome for a very weary friend?

DIANE.

[Throwing herself with nervous impetuosity into his arms.]

Ah, Paul! God bless and keep you!

PAUL.

God blessed me beyond measure, when he made your heart my own.

DIANE.

[Leading him with nervous intensity to a chair.]

Sit here sit here!

[She sits beside him.]

Let me look at your face, and listen to your voice, while I can while
I can!

PAUL.

How strangely you say this!

DIANE.

Do you remember the old days before this reign of terror darkened all our lives the sunny room in my father’s chateau, where you taught me to paint the flowers we had gathered oh! so gaily! from the quaintest corners of the garden?

PAUL.

Ah! those were ideal days. You, almost a child a girl just blooming into womanhood, like those rosebuds in your hair.

DIANE.

Oh, how happy I was! So happy, earth seemed heaven! So happy, sorrow seemed almost a myth! I little dreamed that I would ever drink the bitterest dregs of that black cup. The Revolution rushed upon us and then, oh then!

[Hides her face on PAUL’S breast.

PAUL.

Then we parted, I thought forever.

DIANE.

You came no longer. The sunshine lost its smile the flowers faded.

PAUL.

And yet, amidst the fearful tumult of these distracted times, we met once more.

DIANE.

[Starting up.]

Oh, my God! That meeting! I see the frightful scene again! My father there before me old helpless, dragged from his own house by a horde of brutal beasts. I, shrieking, fighting vainly at his side amidst their mocking laughs and jeers. Ah! I can hear them now yes, and high above their hideous jests, rings out a clarion voice ’tis yours silencing this crowd of curs! With what sublime audacity you claim my father as your cousin, saving him and me, by the coolness of your courage! Paul, from that hour you were more than man to me; you were a God, a hero, my father’s Saviour!

PAUL.

[Rising.]

Better than all that now your lover guardian husband.

[Embraces her, then staggers.

DIANE.

Paul what is it?

PAUL.

Nothing, fatigue from last night’s bitter work.

[DIANE brings wine and offers it. He puts it away.]

No one kiss from you will give me more strength than all the wine in
France.

[She kisses him.

DIANE.

Heaven knows you need more than human strength.

PAUL.

Aye, Titan strength, to stem the tide of madness that overflows the mind of France! Ah, Diane! if it were not for your dear love, I fear my mind would falter at the task before me.

DIANE.

Oh, Paul! Why undertake this task? Why not fly to peace in other lands?

PAUL.

Fly! Desert France in the hour of her agony? In the awful travail which gives birth to a new and nobler era for mankind? No, no! I love you more than life, but my Country ah, that is mother, sister, wife, and child!

DIANE

But Paul

PAUL.

Hush, sweetheart, you must not make the struggle harder! The infant age is threatened with miscarriage! The torch of Liberty, which should light mankind to progress, if left in madmen’s hands, kindles that blaze of Anarchy whose only end is ashes.

DIANE.

[Suddenly starting.]

Hush! Listen! What is that?

PAUL.

[After listening.]

Nothing, foolish child.

[He is about to embrace her.

DIANE.

[Turning sadly away.]

Nay, we are too rash! We forget the dangers that environ us.

PAUL.

Would we could forget the weak concealment that makes cowards of us both! Oh, that something would happen to make us end this living lie!

DIANE.

[Solemnly.]

Perhaps that something has happened, Paul. We have been warned that we’re no longer safe beneath this roof.

PAUL.

[Amazed.]

Warned! By whom?

DIANE.

What matter by whom? Enough that we’ve been told the Civil Guard may search the house this very day.

PAUL.

[With sudden resolution.]

I am glad of it. Thank fate that something forces us to tell your father you are mine.

DIANE.

Nay, Paul I cannot, dare not tell him that!

PAUL.

Then leave the task to me.

DIANE.

’Twould be but to win his curse. You little dream the deathless pride that’s rooted in his heart! To wrench out that pride would break the heart that holds it.

PAUL.

[Bitterly.]

Then let it break! I, too, am proud, Diane, proud as all are proud to be who owe their manhood to their God and not to the favour of a king! If your father scorns the sacred work of heaven’s hand, then he is only fit for scorn himself.

DIANE.

Oh, Paul! Be charitable!

PAUL.

Charitable! To what? Your father’s pride in the race from which he springs the race whose iron rule for centuries stamped shame on honest labour crowned infamy with honour made gods of profligates and dogs of workingmen ruining their wives insulting their mothers debasing their daughters, and sowing the seeds of madness in their veins? Ah, Diane! when I face your father, ’tis not your husband who should blush for his race.

DIANE.

My father’s race is mine. I forgot its glories, and atoned its wrongs in marrying you! But I love, revere, my father still, and have hoped each day that he would come to love you for your saving care of me and grow content to take you as a son.

PAUL.

Who knows perhaps he will.

DIANE.

[Sadly.]

Ah, no! The more you do for me, the more his pride revolts, till now I dare not tell him of our marriage.

PAUL.

Diane listen. The time has come when you must choose between us. I staked my life in saving yours, and his! He loves but little if he hesitates to keep the precious life I saved unmarred by sorrow.

DIANE. Well, then, so be it! Have your will! But oh, seek first his blessing for our love, before you tell him of our secret marriage.

PAUL.

My love for you will teach me tenderness for him. Go now and send him here.

[Kissing her.]

Courage! All may yet be well.

[Exit DIANE. PAUL sits at desk wearily.]

Hateful humiliation! to stoop in pleading for that already mine! But patience, Paul Kauvar; he is the father of the woman you adore.

DUKE.

[Entering and advancing to PAUL.]

One word before we part, good friend. I thought to leave this house without farewell, but I cannot be so cruel. I have learned that this is no longer a safe retreat. I am forced to seek one safer.

PAUL.

And where will you find one, Monsieur?

DUKE. I shall best serve you by keeping that a secret.

PAUL.

And does your daughter go with you?

DUKE.

Could you think that I would leave her here?

PAUL.

Certainly, Monsieur. If to stay seemed less perilous than to go. Why not let me replace you for awhile?

DUKE.

You guard my daughter here alone?

PAUL.

In my character of cousin to Diane Leblanc, gossip has already united us by even a closer tie.

DUKE.

To my infinite annoyance, sir.

PAUL.

Monsieur lé Duc, in times like these, Madame Kauvar would be far safer than Mademoiselle de Beaumont.

DUKE.

[With quiet hauteur.]

There are some means of safety forbidden to my rank, sir. Pardon me if I must say that what you suggest is one of them.

PAUL.

What if I dared to love your daughter, to hope that you would grant me the right to guard her as my wife?

DUKE.

Seriously?

PAUL.

Seriously!

DUKE.

[Shrugging his shoulders.]

This is another of the many insanities of the times.

PAUL.

[Haughtily.]

Suppose I had reason to believe that your daughter would consent?

DUKE.

[Sternly.]

One moment, Monsieur! Your first proposition involves but madness, your last implies dishonour.

PAUL.

[Indignantly.]

Dishonour!

[Checking himself.]

Monsieur, honesty is honoured now, even though it be not allied to an empty title. Tis not a crest, but character, that measures manhood in this modern age. Therefore I do not fear to tell you

[DUKE turns quickly. PAUL hesitates.]

that I love your daughter.

DUKE.

[With terrible contempt.]

And you take this time to declare it! When you have burdened me with obligations that leave me powerless at your feet? when I must see in the demand for the daughter’s hand, a possible bargain for the father’s life.

[PAUL turns fiercely. The DUKE checks him.]

No more, sir! Happily I have two securities against dishonour: my child’s sense of what is due to herself my own scorn of life purchased at such a price.

PAUL.

Perhaps your daughter may not deem the protection of my name so great a degradation as yourself. Dare you put her to the test?

DUKE.

What test can you propose?

PAUL.

[Seating himself at desk and writing.]

Here is a pass procured at the risk of my life. I fill it out for George Leblanc. It will convey you, alone, safely beyond our borders. Here is another. I make this out for George Leblanc and Diane his daughter. This will enable both of you to escape. These passes have the signatures of the chief of police; I countersign them, thus a double surety for you, a double risk for me. Now, Monsieur, either one of these passes is yours, as your daughter may decide, if you will offer her the choice of remaining under my protection, or of leaving France with you.

DUKE.

[Striking a bell.]

The choice is at her will.

[Enter NANETTE.]

Send my daughter here at once.

[Exit NANETTE.

PAUL.

One word, Monsieur. These passes are at stake, and my life as well. I promise to be bound by the decision of your daughter. If she decides to remain, you promise to go and leave her here with me?

DUKE. I promise this on one condition. I pledge my honour to put the alternative fairly before her. You must pledge yours to use no word to influence her choice.

PAUL.

I pledge myself to silence.

DIANE.

[Entering pale and anxious.]

You sent for me, Father?

DUKE.

I did. Listen, child. I am about to leave France. By my side there is peril here is safety. Answer frankly: will you follow me, or remain here under the protection of Monsieur Kauvar?

DIANE.

[Aside.]

What can this mean? He could not ask this if he knew the truth.

[Aloud.]

Father, I do not understand. What shall I say?

DUKE.

What your heart prompts, child.

[Turning away.]

Nay, do not hesitate; I will not influence your choice even with a look.

DIANE.

If I shrink from danger, if I stay here, what becomes of you?

DUKE.

I go alone.

DIANE.

Alone to meet your peril? Then, by the bond of a daughter’s duty, my place is at my father’s side.

[PAUL staggers. The DUKE retires quietly to desk. DIANE speaks aside to PAUL.]

Remember he is old, with none but me to comfort his last days.

PAUL.

[With stern self-control.]

Monsieur, the double pass for George Leblanc and Diane his daughter has been fairly won.

[Hands the pass to the DUKE, bows coldly, and leaves the room without a look at DIANE, who falls into a chair and hides her face.

DUKE.

[Looking suspiciously at DIANE.]

Could there be warrant for his strange presumption? If so, this separation is none too soon.

[Enter GOUROC.]

Ah, Marquis, congratulate us. We are now released from all need of burdening even you. See! Here is a pass which opens the doors of our prison. We fly to-night to Vendée, where we hope you may soon rejoin us, and our cousin Rochejacquelein.

GOUROC.

[Aside.]

The devil!

[Aloud.]

You are fortunate, Duke. Alas that I cannot go with you!

DUKE.

Well, come, Diane; time flies. We must prepare for our escape.

[Going with DIANE.]

Au revoir, Marquis.

GOUROC.

Au revoir, Monsieur lé Duc, and bon voyage, Mademoiselle de Beaumont.

[Exeunt the DUKE and DIANE. GOUROC changes to a fierce and hurried manner.]

Ah! Not so fast, dear Duke! You’re not out of France yet. This sudden flight destroys all my plans. Again this girl, the heiress of ten millions, will get beyond my reach. No! death, dishonour nothing shall snatch her from me now! Aye, but how to prevent it?

[Reflecting.]

The Duke has not many years to live, and in these ticklish times old men’s days are easily shortened. He dead, his daughter’s at my mercy.

[With sudden triumph.]

I have it! I see the way to place her wholly in my grip! A brilliant move and easy to execute! Kauvar knows nothing of my rank!

[Rings bell, goes to desk and begins to look at papers.]

Yes, these are what I need to guarantee my triumph!

[Enter POTIN.]

Have you any blank warrants?

POTIN.

I have! I keep them always handy, especially for the petticoat sex.

[Giving them.]

I say, Comrade, I hope it’s a she-man this time, for there’s nothing like this [Making sign across throat] to stop the wag of a woman’s tongue.

GOUROC.

Go. Remain in the ante-room. I may want you to summon a guard.

POTIN.

[Going.]

All right, Citizen! I’m always ready at the call of the Republic.

[Exit.

GOUROC.

Good! Now to secure my victory! But where can I find Kauvar?

[Starts for door. KAUVAR enters, absorbed in thought, without seeing GOUROC, who watches him.]

He’s just in time! Fate conspires with me for success.

[PAUL seats himself at desk and buries his face in his arms. GOUROC goes over quietly and touches him on the shoulder.

PAUL.

[Starting up in dismay]

You here, Gouroc!

GOUROC.

I am, old friend, though you seem scarce glad to see me.

PAUL.

Pardon, Comrade; you find me at a moment when my mind’s absorbed with many cares.

GOUROC.

I understand; in times like these perplexity pursues the patriot. I would not now intrude, dear friend, if duty did not force me.

PAUL.

[With sudden suspicion.]

Duty! And what duty can bring you here?

GOUROC. I have important warrants for your signature.

PAUL.

[Sitting again, with a sigh of relief.]

Another time. I cannot sign them now.

GOUROC.

[Firmly.]

Friend, the business of the Republic is sacred; it cannot be postponed.

PAUL.

[Wearily.]

Well, well! What are these warrants?

[Takes up pen carelessly.

GOUROC.

[Calling off papers, as he gives them to PAUL to sign.]

Warrants for the arrest of Catherine Cler

[PAUL signs.]

Maxime Berton

[PAUL signs.]

Marie Legrand

[PAUL signs.]

And this blank warrant for a suspected party, whose name that fool Potin has registered so badly that I must get him to decipher it before I can fill it in.

[PAUL signs mechanically.]

[Aside.]

Tis done! And she is mine!

[Aloud.]

Shall you be at the club to-night, friend?

PAUL.

[Shortly.]

No!

[Night comes on.

GOUROC.

What excuse shall I offer the fraternity?

PAUL.

Say I am busy busy [Striking his breast.] breaking the heart of a traitor to France!

GOUROC.

[Going.]

A welcome message. I sha’n’t forget it.

[Exit.

PAUL.

Wife gone! Home desolated! Naught left but the haunting memory of joy forever lost! Ah, I am weary, heart-broken helpless!

[He sinks into the chair at desk, and buries his face in his arms. Slowly the light dims to darkness. At back, the stage is transformed into a TABLEAU OF KAUVAR’S DREAM OF ANARCHY.

Mysterious music accompanies the Dream, which consists of a tableau of the guillotine in the Place de la Revolution, in Paris, by moonlight.

Here is seen the scaffold, with its ghastly paraphernalia, surrounded by ferocious_ SANS CULOTTES, and GENS D’ARMES. Amidst them is an old hag.

The death-cart, with its load of victims, is seen in the foreground the entrance to the garden with the palace of the Tuilleries in the background.

The_ HEADSMAN stands ready, near the knife of the guillotine.

From the death-cart_ DIANE glides on and slowly goes up the scaffold steps.

As she reaches the top, she is seized roughly by the_ HEADSMAN.

At this moment PAUL starts with a cry of agony from his chair and at his shriek, the whole Tableau of the Dream instantly disappears.

PAUL.

[Starting up wildly.]

No, no! My life for hers! My life for hers!

[Waking, as the Dream disappears, he looks about dazed and bewildered; then bursts into hysterical laughter.]

A dream! Thank God, a dream! Only a horrible dream!

[Suddenly stops short in horror.]

How dark and still the house is. My God! Something has
happened! What is it?

[Shrieks with terror.]

Diane! Diane!

NANETTE.

[Entering with lamp.]

What’s the matter?

PAUL.

Diane Mademoiselle Diane, where is she?

DIANE.

[Appearing, dressed to go away.]

Here!

PAUL.

[Makes a spontaneous movement toward her, then checks himself and turns to NANETTE.]

Leave us!

[NANETTE goes silently away. PAUL speaks to DIANE hoarsely.]

Where are you going?

DIANE.

I am going to do my duty follow the father who would die without my care.

PAUL.

[After a pause.]

Yes, I remember now. You are right. You will be safer out of
France. The dream! The dream!

DIANE.

What dream?

PAUL.

No matter! I am resigned now! Yes, resigned resigned resigned!

[Sinks sobbing into chair.

DIANE.

No, no, Paul! I cannot endure this! I will stay! I will stay!

PAUL.

[Starting up.]

No! You must not! I dare not keep you here. I fear the worst!

DIANE.

What do you mean?

PAUL.

Don’t ask me. I do not know myself. But you when you are gone you will not forget me?

DIANE.

Not while memory lasts!

PAUL.

And I perhaps I some day shall be free to seek you.

DIANE.

God grant that day is near!

PAUL.

And we when we meet again, will you find courage to acknowledge who I am?

DIANE.

Nay if you desire it I’ll prove my deathless love before I go. I’ll tell my father all.

PAUL.

No, never! Never till I’ve won a name that even your proud father is forced to honour. Meantime, I ask but this your love and trust, while I have life to strive.

DIANE.

You shall have it! Yes, through sunshine and shadow, I will love and trust you to the end.

[They embrace.

DUKE.

[Outside.]

Nanette, the coach is ready: be quick, bear our baggage to the door.

[PAUL and DIANE separate quickly. Entering, the DUKE glances suspiciously at the two, then advances to PAUL.]

Paul Kauvar, let us not part in bitterness. I owe you much; I grieve to see you suffer. Courage! Believe me, I never honoured you as I do now.

[Extends his hand. PAUL turns away.]

Will you not take my hand?

PAUL.

No, Monsieur. Not until you think it worthy to guide and guard your daughter, as my wife.

DUKE.

[Starts haughtily, then turns to DIANE.]

Come, child! Tis time that we were gone.

DIANE.

[Crossing and extending her hand to PAUL.]

Farewell!

PAUL.

[Taking her hand, speaks aside to her.]

Remember, love and trust.

DIANE.

Forever!

[PAUL kisses her hand. She comes slowly to her father, keeping her eyes in anguish on PAUL.

[The DUKE leads her toward the folding doors which are suddenly thrown open, disclosing a platoon of GUARDS. DIANE shrieks, the DUKE starts back, PAUL turns in horror. TABOOZE advances into the room.

TABOOZE.

In the name of the Republic, I arrest Honore Albert Maxime, heretofore Duc de Beaumont.

DIANE.

[Clasping the DUKE.]

Father!

PAUL.

[Sternly.]

What does this mean? Whose name is on that warrant?

TABOOZE.

[With surprise.]

Why, your own, Citizen.

[PAUL recoils, stunned.

DUKE.

What! Betrayed by you?

DIANE.

No, no! It is not true!

[Snatching the paper, looking, then with a cry.]

Great heaven! It is! His name and hand!

[She sinks down in despair.

PAUL.

[Passionately, to the DUKE.]

I betray you! I, Paul Kauvar. Tis false!

[To DIANE.]

You at least will not believe this lie.

DUKE.

[Interposing.]

Silence! Better death to her than the pollution of another word from you!

PAUL.

But my God! You do not know. She is

DIANE.

[Starting up wildly.]

Stop! I forbid you to say more!

CURTAIN.