Puslapio vaizdai
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time is lost-the husband arrives-is at the chamber doorthreatens to burst it open-the guilty woman begs for death at the hand of her destroyer-he stabs her-Colonel d'Hervey bursts in, exclaiming

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Infamy! what do I see? Adèle !——

Antony. Dead!-yes, dead!-(Throws the dagger at the feet of D'Hervey)-she resisted and I killed her!'

And with this magnanimous device for saving the poor lady's reputation, the play concludes-as if all the previous events and notorious scandal could be patched up by such an atrocious, yet ridiculous pretence.

TERESA Soon followed (February, 1832) in the same direction, but with a greater stride. Adèle's case was a simple adultery and a murder. Teresa is a double adultery, a double murder, with a spice of incest. We know not how to repeat such a story; yet we feel it our duty to do so, to exhibit the moral fruits of revolution, and to awaken English, and, we hope, Christian feeling to what is passing in that country, which we seem to have taken for our model.

Colonel Delaunay, a French officer, to whom the Restoration would not give even the cross of the legion of honour, has married a young wife, Teresa, at Naples, whom he brings home to his house, where he had already an amiable daughter, Amelia, little younger than his wife, whom he destines for Arthur de Savigny, whom he had known at Naples, who had preceded him to Paris, and who is already the acknowledged lover and beloved of Amelia. Unfortunately, Teresa and Arthur had become acquainted at Naples-he had saved her from some serious accident love had ensued-but he had returned home, and it was forgotten: —they now meet, and it is revived. Arthur, not yet lost to all decency and honour, resolves to break off his marriage, to obtain diplomatic service, and escape from the temptation of dishonouring his friend. Teresa combats that idea-she shows him, that such a sudden rupture will bring on an éclaircissement, which must ruin her with her husband-that if he stays and marries Amelia, his passion for Teresa will subside; that they will be platonic friends, &c. &c. He consents-he stays-he marries Amelia, and-and-wrongs her-dishonours his father-in-law! Amelia perceives at last that her husband is unhappy-estranged—she sees him go to a certain bureau, where he carefully locks up some letters-she suspects some intrigue-she happens to have a key that opens the bureau-she is tempted to abstract a packet, which she places, unopened, in the hands of her father-he finds in them the proofs of the double guilt of his wife and his son-inlaw. He cannot repress his rage, though he conceals the cause

he,

he, on the first burst of passion, picks a quarrel with Arthur, and provokes him to a duel: but thinks better of it-it would promulgate and increase the scandal-he begs Arthur's pardon; and hastens the departure of him and Amelia for a foreign mission, to which the young man had been just appointed. Teresa, on finding that her husband has discovered the intrigue, and that Arthur has abandoned her- le lache'-calls in a footman, who had followed her from Italy, and says

• Paulo, when we left Italy, you must have thought that, isolated in a foreign land, you might fall into one of those misfortunes which cannot be survived.

Paul. Yes; I thought you might die.

Ter. And against such a misfortune you have no doubt a resource? Paul. I have two.

Ter. What?

Paul. This poison and this dagger!'

Quid plura ?—she takes the poison, and the footman, who turns out to have been profoundly but respectfully enamoured of his mistress, stabs himself. The poison is slower than the poniardTeresa just lives to hear of Paulo's death-she takes no notice of it; but while the assistants are busy about his body, she says to Delaunay,

'Make haste and forgive me while they don't see you-forgive me, and tell them, if you please, that have cursed me.

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Delaunay. My forgiveness and blessing be upon you, poor woman; and God will not be more severe than I am.

Ter. Perhaps !'

[She dies. And with this peut-être ends this most moral and profitable entertainment.

But M. Dumas's last production, played in the beginning of this year, exceeds Teresa, as much as Teresa surpassed Antony, and exceeds it, we are sorry to say, both in atrocity and in success -vires acquirit eundo. It is called ANGELA. M. Alfred d'Alvimar, a man now (i. e. in 1830) of about thirty-three years of age, found himself, in 1819, when he was twenty-three, completely ruined. He had had a considerable inheritance; but everything failed with him; he is reduced to beggary, and the world, which had flattered his prosperity, rejects and scorns his adversity; his temper is soured-he becomes an outcast, an adventurer, an infideland resolves to repay himself for the loss of his fortune and his character, by the pleasures and the profits out of which he may be able to swindle society. He thinks that, with this object, the ladies are the best speculation. He had attached himself to Ernestine, Marquise de Rieux, who had some court credit under the old dynasty; but the Three Days surprise them at a watering

place,

place, where they passed, to save appearances, for brother and sister. The lady's husband emigrates-one would have thought very conveniently-with Charles X., but the calculating D'Alvimar sees that Madame de Rieux can be of no more use to him, and, after a disgusting scene, in which these two personages blazon with mutual impudence-the lady her adultery, and the gentleman the sordid motives of his pretended attachment—the Marquise, indignant at such low-minded treachery, returns to Paris. D'Alvimar had already taken notice of a young person, Angela, and her aunt the daughter and sister-in-law of one of the old Buonapartist officers-and he calculates, that this family is likely to have some interest under the new dynasty. These ladies lodge in the house of the physician of the place, Dr. Muller; who has a son, Henry-of the same profession-the perfect opposite of Alfred-moral, generous, &c.; but what could such a simpleton do against D'Alvimar? On the departure of Madame de Rieux, Angela and her aunt remove to the Marquise's lodgings-D'Alvimar has a secret key. We see, on the stage, poor Angela, in her new apartment, about to retire to rest: she is already half undressed: she passes into the closet where her bed is: D'Alvimar (almost a repetition of Antony) admits himself by the secret key-and Angela is undone. Angela's mother, the Countess Gaston, is expected next morning: she is the person who is to have credit at the new court. D'Alvimar, of course, prepares to make himself agreeable to her, and is confident that, after what has passed, she cannot refuse him her daughter. He proceeds out of the town, along the road by which she is to arrive, to meet this lady (whom he never saw). As is usual in such cases, an accident supervenes ; D'Alvimar saves the life of his intended mother-in-law; and they arrive at their lodgings already old acquaintances. This looks fortunate for poor Angela; but, alas! the mother is only thirtyone-still young and handsome, and, before D'Alvimar can ask for her daughter, almost offers herself. D'Alvimar seizes the favourable opportunity, and sets off for Paris with the countess, persuading poor Angela that he is still soliciting the maternal consent to their union. Eight months elapse. The interest of Madame Gaston procures for D'Alvimar the promise of a mission; (the same device already employed in Teresa ;) but the price of this favour is, that she, a woman of character, should receive, at a ball she is about to give, Madame de Varsay, the mistress of the minister. [M. Dumas, one of the men of the Three Days, seems very well acquainted with the practices of the government of the new dynasty.] At this ball, Madame de Varsay appears, and turns out to be D'Alvimar's old friend, Madame de Rieux, who from jealousy or spite, has made it the condition of

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his appointment, that he should set out in three days. This is embarrassing it would defeat the marriage with Madame Gaston; and D'Alvimar, in an affectation of love and generosity, renounces the appointment. But, alas! in the midst of this gay confusion, a servant comes in to announce that Miss Angela is arrived, and insists on seeing him. The case is urgent-the consequences of the nocturnal interview, nine months before, are pressing-a doctor must be had: luckily Henry Muller had been invited to the countess's ball: D'Alvimar makes him a half-confidence, bandages his eyes, conducts him roundabout to the sick lady's chamber, of whom he knows no more than that she has added another citizen to La jeune France. Our readers may pause, and ask whether this is possible? We doubt whether we ought to proceed; but, for the reasons already given, we—not without hesitation-venture. The fourth act opens with the fourth day after this event, and discovers Angela on a couch, and, as may be easily supposed, with every appearance of suffering; her mother is by her sideshe sees that Angela is ill in mind as well as body, but is unable to discover the cause of either malady. She resolves to call in medical advice, and again Henry Muller is summoned. The appearance of the young lady-the coincidence of the time-the disposition of the apartment-convince the sagacious young doctor that he knows the truth of the affair. He presses his patient for a confession-and obtains it. He then insists she shall communicate all to her mother-she consents. The countess re-enters, but, not suspecting what is about to transpire, she anticipates her daughter's confidence by making her own. She announces, without naming the person, her own intended marriage. She receives her daughter's congratulations and now the excitement of the audience was at the highest pitch, as to how the ladies were to get out of this embarrassing situation. At last Angela throws herself on her knees before her mother, and exclaims, If I had my child here, I would lay it at your feet;' and this extraordinary and disgusting scene was received with inconceivable transports of applause. The catastrophe approaches. D'Alvimar, for a moment, is inclined to do justice to Angela-but a change of ministry leads him to fear the loss of his mission, and he resolves to give up both mother and daughter-is about to get into his travelling carriagewhen Muller again appears. Indignation on his part, violence on the other, render a duel inevitable. Henry has the choice of arms: enfeebled by a long illness, he is unequal to the ordinary methods of proceeding-he proposes that, of a case of pistols, one only should be loaded; and that, care being taken that neither should know which had the fatal weapon, the muzzles should be placed against each other's heart, and the triggers

pulled!

pulled! D'Alvimar accepts this rational proposal:-he has the choice. 'Take care what you choose,' says Muller, it is the judgment of God.' D'Alvimar chooses his pistol-the parties retire behind the scenes-one explosion only is heard a moment after Muller enters, marries Angela, adopts the child to save her reputation, and ends the play by announcing to Angela that she has not much to thank him for, as he expects to die within the year of a pulmonary consumption! It is impossible to describe the sensation that this piece created throughout, but particularly the last incident of the judgment of God.' The exhibition itself was bad enough, but we confess, that the worst sign of all seems to be that some critics, who affect to belong to the Royalist and Christian party, applaud this impious and ridiculous appeal to the judgment of God as a sentiment religieux.' They are quite delighted to find that M. Alexandre Dumas, whom they had hitherto looked upon as little better than one of the wicked,' has gotten into the right way—and they exhort him to persevere in thus serving the cause of morality and religion.' We suspect that these gentlemen are pseudo-royalists, and not better Christians than critics. But, in the state into which the July Revolution has thrown France, it is one of the worst symptoms that there is a party of democrats of the worst kind, who call themselves Royalists-and of freethinkers, who endeavour to pass off for Christians.

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The next drama we have to mention is the TOUR DE NESLE, the production, as appears on the title-page, of Messrs. Gaillardet and *** which asterisks mean, we are informed, M. Dumas. However that may be, it is assuredly of his school; and, even after what we have seen, cannot, we think, fail to astonish our readers. On the south bank of the Seine, near the end of the present Pont des Arts, stood over the river an old castle, called La Tour de Nesle. It was to the south bank what the Louvre was on the north. There was a popular fable, that a certain queen-which means a very uncertain queen-employed this tower as a place of rendezvous with her lovers; and that, effectually to keep her secret, she used to cause the favourite of the night to be thrown, next morning, from the windows of the castle, to find a silent death in the river below: and the tradition added, that of a long series of lovers, one only called Buridanhad escaped. On this fable the drama is founded; and the lady chosen by the authors, as the ogress of the castle, is Marguerite of Burgundy, first wife of Louis X. But, as Mr. Puff thought that if one morning-gun were good, three must be proportionably better -so they have given Marguerite two associates, in the persons of her sisters Blanche and Jeanne, wives of the brothers of Louis X. A young man, called Philippe Daulnay, having a brother, Gaultier,

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