ment. Mar. I tremble, lest his ardent temper should precipitate him into Enter DOMINIQUE, with books under his arm. Mar. You have not been to pay her your respects this morning. (Dominique lays the books on Franval's desk, and places a breakfast-table, chairs, &c.) Fran. Come, let us wait on her. Cheer up, Marianne; all will go well yet. Mar. You are very good, brother. But, you should not have told. [Exeunt Franval and Marianne. [Exit Dominique, who returns immediately Enter MADAME FRANVAL, leaning on FRANVAL's Mad. F. Yes, my son, there are few families in Toulouse, more ancient than our's; and, though but an advocate, I trust that you will shew yourself worthy of the name of Franval. Fran. My employment, madam, is an honour to all who exercise it properly. (They sit; Marianne prepares the breakfast.) Mad. F. The office of seneschal had been, I may say, for ages held by your ancestors; at the death of your father, I was obliged to sell it, and the degradation cuts me to the soul. Fran. Yet, madam, this very circumstance has stimulated me to attain by my own talents that consideration in the world, for which I should other wise, in all probability, have stood indebted merely to accident and prejudice. Enter DOMINIQUE. Dom. A letter for you, madam. (Gives Madame Franval a letter.) The servant waits for an answer. Mad. F. Have you been on those messages? Dom. Yes, madam. Mad. F. (Reading.) "Darlemont!" What oc casion can Darlemont have to write to me? Fran. (With surprise and looking at Marianne.) Darlemont! Mad. F. (Reads.) "Madam, I take the freedom of addressing myself to you, in claim of the most sacred rights"-(To Dominique.) You may leave us. [Exit Dominique.] (Reads.) ́“Sacred rights of a father." What does he mean? (Reads.) "Rights of a father: my son loves your daughter." Indeed! (Reads.) "I met him this moment, and he assures me that his love is returned." (They all rise. Marianne starts. Madame Franval casts a severe look at her.) Fran. (Diverting her attention from Marianne.) Go on, madam; I beseech you, go on. Mad. F. (Reads.) "Be assured their union never can take place." Ha, ha, ha! No, sir; be assured their union never can take place. Mar. What will become of me! Mad. F. (Reads.) "I therefore trust you will forbid him your house; and no longer encourage him to contemn and brave the authority of a father. DARLEMONT." Encourage! I encourage! Insupportable insolence! Fran. Be calm, I beg you, madam. Mad. F. Who told this petty trader, this gentleman of yesterday, that I should dream of an alliance with his mushroom family? What, have his riches made him forget the disparity of our births? Daughter, I cannot believe this of you. I hope, son Franval, after such an insult, you will no longer honour this St. Alme with your notice. As for the father, should he ever-Yes, he shall have an answer. (Sits down to write.) Enter DOMINIQUE. Dom. Sir, a stranger desires to speak with you. Dom. Yes, sir; a very good-looking gentleman Mar. My dreams of happiness are ended. Enter the ABBE DE L'EPEE, introduced by [Exit. De l'E. Could you favour me with a few moments' conversation? Fran. Very willingly. May I take the liberty of asking who Del E. I am from Paris; my name is De l'Epée. Fran. De l'Epée! The instructor of the deaf and dumb? (De l'Epée bows.) Madam-sister—you see before you one who is an honour to human Mad. F. If we have your leave, sir. De l'E. Perhaps, you will think my story tedions; yet I must be particular. Mar. How interesting an appearance! (Aside.) Fran. Pray, proceed. De l'E. (Bowing to the ladies.) This, then, is my business. About eight years ago, a boy, deaf and dumb, found in the dead of night on the Pont Neuf, was brought to me by an officer of the police. From the meanness of his dress, I supposed him of poor parents, and undertook to educate and provide for him. Fran. As I know you have done for many others. De l'E. I soon remarked an uncommon intelligence in his eyes; a well-mannered ease and assurance in his behaviour; and, above all, a strange and sorrowful surprise in his looks, whenever he examined the coarseness of his cloathing. In a word, the more I saw, the more I was convinced, that he had been purposely lost in the streets. I gave a public, full, minute description of the unhappy foundling; but in vain. Few will claim interest in the unfortunate. Fran. Ah! few indeed! De l'E. Placed among my scholars, he profited so well by my lessons, that he was, at last, able to converse with me by signs, rapid almost as thought itself. One day, as we were passing the high court of justice, a judge alighted from his carriage. The sight gave Theodore (for so I called him) an emotion, violent and instant. The tears ran down his cheeks in torrents, while he explained to me, that, when a child, a man, who often wore similar robes of purple and ermine, had been accustomed to caress, and take him in his arms. Observe another time, a grand funeral passed us in the streets; I watched the various changes in his colour, and learned that he had himself, long ago, followed the coffin of the very person, by whom he had been thus fondly caressed. I could not be mistaken. I concluded, that he was probably the orphan heir of some chief magistrate, purposely turned adrift in a strange and populous city; defrauded, robbed, and even fortunate to have escaped with life. Mar. Poor youth! De l'E. These strong presumptions redoubled all my hope and zeal. Theodore grew every day more and more interesting. He confirmed to me many circumstances of his story. Yet, how proceed in his behalf? He had never beard his father's name, he neither knew his family, nor the place of his birth. Well, sir, some months ago, as we went through the Barriere d'Enfer, observing a carriage stopped and examined, the recollection suddenly struck him, that this was the very gate through which he entered Paris, and that the chaise, in which he travelled with two persons, whom he well remembered, had, in this very spot, been thus visited. I see I see it in your eyes-you anticipate my firm persuasion, that he came from some city in the south of France, of which, in all likelihood, his father had been the chief magistrate. Fran. For heaven's sake, sir, go on! De l'E. Finding all my researches ineffectual, I resolved at last to take my pupil with me, and traverse, in person, and on foot, the whole of the south of France. We embraced each other, invoked the protection of heaven, and set forward. After a journey, long, fatiguing, almost hopeless, we this morning, blessed be the Divine Providence! an rived at the gates of Toulouse. · Fran. Good heavens! De l'E. He knew the place, he seized my hand, uttered wild cries of joy, and led me quickly, here and there, through various quarters of the city. At length, we arrived at this square; he stopped, pointed to the mansion opposite your door, shrieked, and senseless dropped into my arms. Fran. The palace of Harancour? De l'E. Yes; and from the inquiries I have already made, I am convinced that my poor boy is the lawful heir of that family; and that his inheritance has been seized by his guardian and maternal uncle-Darlemont. Mad. F. I don't doubt it. O, the wretch! (She rises.) Del E. To you, sir, I have been directed; to your talents; to your virtue: and to you, in the names of justice and humanity, I now address myself for aid. Earth, heaven, and all the blessings it can promise, will second my petition. O, let the voice of irresistible truth be raised in his behalf! Let not a noble orphan, denied the precious bounties of nature, and quickened by these privations into ten-fold sensibility-let him not, I conjure you, let him not fall the victim of the ambitious and the base. Fran. Sir, could I have listened to a tale like this unmoved, I were unworthy the form and name of man. (To Mad. F.) If ever I were truly proud of my profession, madam, it is at this moment, when I am called upon to assault the powerful, and defend the helpless. (To De E.) Sir, the faculties of life, body, and soul, while I possess them, shall be employed to serve him. Mad. F. Thank heaven! I shall see him reduced to his original insignificance at last. Mar. Ah! poor St. Alme! BrotherFran. I don't forget St. Alme. Sir, I must now aoquaint you, that this Darlemont is the father of my dearest friend. Delicacy, duty, require me to try persuasion, gentleness, and every milder method; should these fail with him, I shall be driven to expose his guilt, and publicly compel him to restore the rights, which I have cause to fear, he has so unnaturally usurped. Where is your pupil? De FE. I left him at our lodgings; and his anxiety, no doubt, makes my absence seem long. Fran. Dear sir, why didn't you bring him with you? Mar. How impatient I am to see him! Fran. Let me beg that you will use us like old friends, and accept apartments here. De TE. I am afraid Mad. F. Not, I hope, to do us pleasure and an honour? De l'E. It is impossible to resist such goodness. Madam, I obey. (De l'E. and Fran, talk together.) Mad, F. Come, Marianne, we'll go and prepare for our young guest. Yes, yes, you shall have an answer my son shall be your correspondent. Come, Marianne. [Exit. Mar. Brother, remember your friend. Your servant, sir. (To De l'E.) [Exit. Fran. Yes, sir; we shall have great difficulties to encounter in our way: the wealth and influence of Darlemont are formidable; his temper daring, haughty, and obstinate. Yet, in the First Presi dent, we have so upright and wise a judge to hear us, that, if truth and justice are on our side, our triumph is certain. De TE. I rely entirely on you. Let the result of our inquiry be what it may, to have done my duty, will be my consolation; and to have known you, sir, my recompense. [Exeunt. Pie. He had such a wild look, when you turned away from him in the street just now. Do, good sir, pardon my boldness; do take this wedding into a little consideration. Dar. Silence! Who were they you were chattering with so busily in the square, about an hour ago? Pie. In the square? O! they were strangers. Dar. How came they to examine, and point at this house so often? Pie. I don't know, sir; but one of them asked me whose that fine house was, and I said it had been the palace of Harancour. Dar. You said? Pie. Yes, sir; but that now it belonged to- Pie. I beg your pardon, sir; if I had been a babbler, I should have staid with them; but, no; I got away as fast as I could, that they might ask me no questions about you, sir. Dar. About me! And why should you fear any questions being asked about me? Pie. I'm sure, I don't know, sir. Dar. Don't know! Tell me this moment, who put that thought into your head? Pie. Upon my life, sir, you frighten me out of my wits! Why, sir, it was Dar. Who, who was it? Pie. It was you yourself, sir, who ordered me not to talk of you, nor your affairs, to anybody. Dar. Well; and pray, what passed between them? Pie. They kept that to themselves. They seemed to me to talk by signs. Dar. By sigus! Why talk by signs? Pie. I can't tell, sir; only I guess that the young gentleman was dumb. Dar. Dumb? Pie. He surely was; at least I thought so. [sir. Pie. No, indeed; you'll find it true, I believe, Dar. Impossible. Was it the youth, do you say, that was dumb. Pie. Yes, sir, the boy; and I was the more sorry for him some how, because he is so very likeDar. Like whom? Pie. So very like that picture of the young Count. And so Dar. And so! And what so? Officious fool! isn't the boy dead? Pie. So I have heard, sir. Dar. Heard, reptile! Do you dare to doubt, sir? Pie. I, sir? No. Only this morning Dupré said that, perhaps, he was still alive. Dar. When did he say so? Pie. While we were looking at the picture. Dar. Flames devour the picture! (Aside.) Let that picture be removed into my apartment. Pie. Yes, shr. So I thought, if it should happen to be him, it might turn out to be a lucky discovery. My master, thinks I Dar. Go; send them to remove that picture. Pie. Yes, sir. It's very odd, all this. [Exù. Dar. Here I am countermined again. That picture I had painted at the moment of our departure, in order to impress an opinion of my affection for this boy, and so prevent suspicion. My very precautions work towards my detection.-Like the picture!-Dumb! No, no; it can't be. And yet— Enter DUPRE, abruptly, having a paper in his hand. Now, sir; who sent for you? What want you here? Dup. Sir, sir, you waste your anger on me: you have laid a crime on my soul, that annihilates the duties and distance of my calling: I cast off the servant, and assume the man. Dar. What is it you mean by this insolence? Dup. First, sir, please to take back the annuity you have sent me. Dar. (Snatching the paper.) Take back! Is it not yet sufficient? I thought it beyond your hopes. Your conscience knows its price. Dup. No, sir; you wrong me; 'twas when I had no conscience, that I had a price. Dar. Liar! You come to practise on me. You tattler! Gossip of sworn secrets! Perjurer-Go point, and pretend to start at pictures-pernicious dotard! Conscience! 'Tis false! No; 'tis to wring my purse, you act remorse, and feign this pity for a thing; who, say the best, was but an idiot-an automaton. Dup. Of me, sir, think what you will; I have deserved it; but in behalf of that injured youth, I must retort the falsehood. Dar. You? Dup. I.-Though speech and hearing were denied him, yet nature recompensed him with a mind that glowed with intelligence, and a heart that ran over with benevolence. And you, sir-is your heart so deadened by the injuries you have done him, that you forget it was this idiot saved the life of that most excellent young man, your only son. Did not Julio-regardless of danger to himself, and thoughtful only for St. Alme-when the fierce wolf had fastened on his throat, did he not bravely rend asunder his bloody jaws, receiving in his own arm a wound, so deep and dangerous, that the scar could never be effaced? Dar. Silence, I charge you! Dup. When I call to mind his infancy, his pretty looks, his fond kisses, when I have borne him in my arms-and think how I yielded, weak and wicked as I was! to your temptations, and abandoned him to perish-poor helpless babe!—in a wide unpitying world, I could call for curses on my bead, proclaim my guilt, and take delight in the abhorrence and punishment, which men enraged, and the just laws, would pursue me to destruction! Dar. Hence, raving visionary! The serpent that stung the friend that fostered him, paid with his life the forfeit of his ingratitude. (Puts his hand on his sword.) Coward, beware! Shall my honour stand in danger from your treachery? Dup. Treachery has never entered my mind. Julio is gone, and the crime cannot be repaired; yet, the sincere repentance of a servant might claim respect from that master, who, after a blameless life of forty years, had seduced him to villany. Dar. Villany! Dup. My part was impious villany: what your's was-ask of the vexing thoughts that nightly take watch on the pillow of the wicked. Dar. Urge me no further. Lectured by my slave! a worm that crawls at the mercy of my foot! Because I have forborne, presumest thou that I dare not strike? Hence! Here, take thy recompense: (offering him the paper) be thankful, and obedient; guard thy lips, or Dup. No; vile as you think me, my silence is not to be bought; my sins shall not be pensioned. Hitherto you are safe. Don't let your insult drive me to disclose you. Dar. Here, here; and have done. (Offering him the paper.) Dup. You are deceived. I was bribed, not by your gold, but by the wild vanity of sharing your confidence, your familiarity; and becoming, instead of him you call your slave, your friend. Dar. Such you might have been. Dup. No: there can be no friendship in guilt'tis my doom to live in dread of you, and of my own reflections-'tis your's, to know that your honour and life are in the keeping of a man stung in conscience, distracted in mind; and by yourself rendered a wretch, infamous, and never more to be trusted. [Exit. Dar. Indeed! Do you grow so fast on us? Prevention or treachery-his life or mine. And shall I hesitate? A single blow will give me peace. Whither am I going? Peace! No, no, 'tis false; peace dwells only with innocence; yet to be ledexposed-a public malefactor-help heaven! shield me from the phrenzy of these thoughts! [Exit. SCENE II.-Franval's Study, as before. Enter MARIANNE. Mar. Where can Dominique loiter all this while? When I told him, too, how anxiously I should wait for his return! My dear father valued his honest simplicity of heart; and he has lived among us so long, and so familiarly indulged, that he treats me with as little ceremony, as if he were guiding me in my leading-strings again. Ah! poor fellow! here he comes, quite out of breath. I beg his pardon Enter DOMINIQUE. Well, my good, dear Dominique, have you seen St. Alme? Dom. I was coming to tell you, ma'am. No, ma'am, he has not been at home since. Mar. Unlucky! Never did I wish so earnestly to see him. Dom. Lord, Lord, what a pity! Where is he? Where can he be? Ha, ha, ha! If he did but know how you are fretting about him, he'd fly on the wings of lo Mar. (Interrupting him.) I had forgot-Did you go to the poor widow? Dom. Yes, true, ma'am; and gave her your present. Ha, ha! poor Claudine! She kissed the crowns because they had touched your hand; and blessed your sweet name a thousand and a thousand times. Mar. Surely, you didn't tell her that it came from me? Dom. Lord, ma'am! I couldn't help it. To be sure, nobody, though I say it myself, can keep a secret better than I can; but, then-ha, ha! poor soul!-she begged, and prayed, and laughed, and cried: ha, ha! I reckon she'll be here in a minute to thank you. Mar. I can't see her, Dominique. I'm too much disturbed. I'm not-It was very wrong, indeed. Dom. Well, then, she sha'n't come. And yet, why should you be so ashamed of doing good? I'm sure, virtue should have somebody to shew it a little countenance now-a-days. Ah, poor Claudine! times are sadly changed with her since her good man, Blaise, was porter at the palace of Harancour. She wanted for nothing then. Ah! when Count died, his uncle, Darlemont, turned away all the old servants; and, but for the charity of bis son, I believe, some of them might have starved, poor things! He has been very good to Claudine, too, and would have done more, but for fear of his father. Mar. Yes; the father is unlike the son. Dom. Unlike! The one is as proud as the-and the other as mild as a May morning. O, he'd make an admirable master for one, he would; an excellent head of a family; and, above all, a most charming spouse. Don't you think so, ma'am? Mar. Yes; believe the woman of his choiceDom. That's done. His choice is made. Mar. I've heard he's to be married to the great heiress, the President's daughter. Dom. So have I. Mar. Have you? Dom. Yes. Ha, ha, ha! But he won't have her. Mar. Dominique! Dom. Lord, ma'am! you know very well, he loves somebody else. Mar. (Much agitated.) Are the apartments ready for our two guests? Dom. I can do that in a minute, ma'am. Yes, yes, he Mar. Go, go; make haste; they are expected instantly. Go. Dom. Well, well, I'm gone. (Aside.) No, never can make her own it. Ah! you cunning little hypocrite! Ha, ha! a girl in love is for all the world like the moon in a cloudy night; now out, now in: this moment clear as the day; and the next you're all in the dark again. [Exit. Mar. One would think that this old man took a pleasure in tormenting me. If this scholar of De l'Epée's should prove to be Count Julio, and recover the possessions he has been deprived of, St. Alme would then be only the equal of my fortune, and his father no longer, perhaps, see any distance between us. Ah! flattering Hope, you are too forward. SONG. [Written by M. G. LEWIS, Esq.] Golden gifts from Fortune's store; Fortune cannot offer more. Firm the God of hearts would hold; Love with Interest's chains of gold. Light and blooming like himself. Ah, me! Why is St. Alme out of the way? He must be prepared for this discovery-and yet, my mother!-Should Darlemont be softened, will she consent? Enter MADAME FRANVAL and FRANVAL. Mad. F. Don't tell me, son; don't tell me. This is my opinion-to hesitate to deliver up this usurper to the vengeance of the laws; to wink at such enormities-is to become an accomplice in them. Fran. You will allow us first to prove them on him, madam. Besides, can I forget, that he is the father of my friend? (Madame Franval turns away in great displeasure.) Has Dominique been to St. Alme? (To Marianne.) Mar. Yes; but he hadn't been at home. Mad, F. (Comes down between them.) And to tell Fran. Ought we to make him responsible for his father's faults? Mar. Which he is so far from sharing, that he will devote his life to atone them. (Madame Franval gives her a look of disapprobation.) One need only look in his face, to be sure of it. Mad. F. Oh! had the Seneschal been living now! Fran. If only Darlemont were concerned, madam, I should, without regret, tear away his specious visor, and expose him bare-faced; such, however, are the prejudices of the world, that I cannot publish the guilt of the parent without reflecting the disgrace of his actions on his blame less son. Mad. F. What, then, he is to escape after all? Fran. Here's somebody coming. My dear madam Mar. Good mother- Enter DE L'EPEE, introducing THEODORE. De l'E. In obedience to your kind commands, I present to you my adopted child, my Theodore. This, sir, is the orphan, whose story you bave heard, and whose wrongs you will redress. (Theodore, having saluted them with great vivacity, fixes his eyes on Franval.) Mar. How intelligent and animated a look! Mad. F. The perfect image of his late father! Del E. (Earnestly.) Do you say so, madam? Mad. F. I see his father in him, at his age, as if he stood before me. (Theodore, to whom De l'Epée is attentive, points to Franval; lays the fore-finger of his right hand on his forehead, and assumes an expression of genius; then darts his arm forward with force, grandeur, &c.) De l'E. Ay! he tells me, that he reads in your countenance the certainty of triumphing, and confounding his oppressor. Fran. Yes; I have given him my promise, and will perform it. (Theodore having touched his lips with a look of regret, seizes the hand of Franval; holds it to his heart; and, with his other hand, beats quickly and often on the bosom of Franval.) De l'E. Ah! that he could speak his gratitude! But, by the throbbings of his heart, he bids you learn, that your goodness to him will live there for ever. These are his true expressions. Fran. Are you then so perfectly comprehensible to each other! Mad. F. Are your signs so minutely accurate? De l'E. As speech itself. Mar. And does he understand every thing you desire to express? De l'E. You shall have proof of it this moment. (De l'Epée taps Theodore on the shoulder, to make him observe, rubs his forehead, then points to Marianne, and writes a line or two with his finger on the palm of his left hand. Theodore nods to De l'Epée; runs to Franval's table; sits down, snatches up a pen, and shews that he is ready to write.) Now, madam, make what inquiry you please of him, he will copy it down from my action, and immediately give you his reply. He waits for you. Mar. (With timidity.) I really don't know what to Fran. Anything-anything. Mad. F. Ay, ay, child; the first thing that comes into your head. Mar. (After a moment's reflection.) In your opinion, De l'E. Speak slowly, and repeat the question, as if you were dictating to him yourself. (Theodore expresses that he attends to De l'Epée's signs.) Mar. In your opinion, De l'E. (Makes a sign, Theodore writes.) De l'E. (Makes a sign, Theodore writes.) De l'E. (Makes a sign, Theodore writes.-De l'E. takes the paper from the table, and shews it to Franval.) You see he has written the question distinctly. (De l'Epée returns the paper to Theodore, who for a moment sits motionless and meditating.) Mar. He seems a little at a loss. De l'E. I don't wonder at it; it's a delicate question. (Theodore starts from his reverie; looks affectionately at De l'Epée; wipes his eyes, and writes with the utmost rapidity.) Fran. Look, look! what fire sparkles in his eyes! What animation in every turn! I dare promise you, this will be the answer of a feeling heart, and an enlightened mind. (Theodore starts up; presents the paper to Marianne; and desires her to read it to the company. Madame Franval and Franval look over Marianne as she reads; Theodore runs to De l'Epée, and looks at him with fond curiosity.) Mar. (Reads.) "In your opinion, who is the greatest genius that France has ever produced?" Mad. F. Ay; what does he say to that? Mar. (Reads.) "Science would decide for D'Alembert, and Nature say, Buffon; Wit and Taste present Voltaire; and Sentiment pleads for Rousseau; but Genius and Humanity cry out for De l'Epée; and him I call the best and greatest of human creatures." (Marianne drops the paper, and retires to a chair in tears. Theodore throws himself into De l'Epée's arms. M. Franval and Franval look at each other in astonishment.) De l'E. (With an emotion which he strives to repress.) You must excuse him; 'tis a great mistake; but a very, very pardonable one. Fran. (Takes up the paper, and examines it.) I can hardly credit what I see. Mad. F. What do you think of this Darlemont now? (Theodore and Madame Franval go to Marianne.) Fran. This decision discovers an extent of acquirements, and shews a purity of taste, that-(To De l'Epée.) What study, what pains, must it have cost you to accomplish such effects! De l'E. To tell you what it has cost me, were impossible; but the bare thought of prompting to the forgetfulness of nature; of calling forth the faculties of mind; this one persuasion gives strength, courage, and perseverance, to accomplish miracles. If the labourious husbandman, when he views a rich harvest waving over the lands he has fertilized, experiences a pleasure proportioned to his toils; judge what are my sensations, when, surrounded by my pupils, I watch them gradually emerging from the night that overshadows them, and see them dazzled at the widening dawn of opening Deity, till the full blaze of perfect intellect informs their souls to hope and adoration. This is to newcreate our brethren. What transport to bring man acquainted with himself! Enjoyments, I own, there may be, more splendid, more alluring; but I am sure, that, in the wide round of our capacities, none will be found more true. Fran. They are the just reward of such benevolence; and if my efforts―(Claudine and Dominique without.) Dom. Come back, come back! I tell you, Claudine, you can't see her. Clau. I tell you I must and will see her, if I search the whole house after her. (Theodore, Ma dame Franval, and Marianne come forward.) Enter CLAUDINE, followed by Dominique. Clau. (To Madame Franval.) I beg pardon for being so bold Dom. (To Marianne.) She slipped by, the back |