CLAVIGO : A TRAGEDY; 319 



Scene changes to Guilbert's House. 



Sophia Guilbert, Maria Beaumarchais, and Don Buenco. 

 Buen. You have had a restless night? 



Sop. I told her she would last evening. She had such an ungovernable 

 flow of spirits, and chattered till eleven o'clock ; then she became over- 

 heated, could not sleep, and now sighs and weeps incessantly. 



Mar. Alas ! my brother is not come ! He should have been here two 

 days ago. 



Sop. Have patience he will soon come. 



Mar. (Rising.) How eager 1 am to see this brother, my judge and 

 my deliverer. I scarcely remember him. 



Sop. Oh ! I can imagine him well. At thirteen he was a fiery, sincere, 

 brave boy as ever lived. 



Mar. A noble, great soul. You have read his letter. He writes as 

 though he participated my wretchedness. Every syllable is engraven on 

 my heart. " If you are guilty," he writes, " then expect no mercy ; but 

 added to your misery you shall feel the weight of a brother's scorn arid a 

 father's curse. If you are innocent, O ! then, ample vengeance, all burning 

 vengeance on the betrayer !" I tremble at his coming. I tremble not on 

 my own account, I stand before God in my innocence. You must, my 

 friend ! 1 know not what I wish 1 O Clavigo. 



Sop. You are a heedless girl ! You will fret yourself to death. 



Mar. I will be calm ! I will not even weep. I think I have no more 

 tears to shed ! and why should I weep, unless with sorrow that I embitter 

 your life ? For, in reality, what cause have I to complain ? I enjoyed 

 much pleasure while our friend lived. Clavigo's love to me was infinite 

 happiness, perhaps more than my love was to him ; and now what re- 

 mains? What gratification remains for me? What gratification for a 

 girl should he break his heart with'remorse 



Buen. For God's sake, Mademoiselle ! 



Mar. Can he feel the same now he no longer loves me? Ah ! why am 

 I not more worthy his love ? But he should pity me ! pity the poor girl 

 to whom he has made himself so indispensable who must now drag out a 

 wretched existence without him. Pity ! I would not be pitied by a man. 



Sop. Would I could induce you to despise him the worthless, hateful 

 fellow ! 



Mar. No, sister, worthless he is not. And should I then despise whom 

 I hate? Hate! yes, often do I hate him often when the Spanish spirit 

 comes upon me. Even now, oh, even now, as we met him, his look 

 inspired me with the sincerest love ! But, when I returned home and 

 remembered his conduct, and the cold, unmoved glance he cast upon me 

 while at the side of his glittering Donna, then I became in heart a Spanish 

 woman I grasped my dagger, grew envenomed, and disguised myself. 

 You are amazed, Buenco ! 'T is all imaginary. 



Sop. Foolish girl ! 



Mar. My imagination conducted me into his presence I saw him at the 

 feet of his new beloved, lavishing all the professions of devotion and hu- 

 mility, with which he poisoned my soul. I aimed my dagger at the heart 

 of the betrayer ! Ah, Buenco ! At once the good-natured French girl 

 became herself again, who knows no love potions nor dagger for revenge. 

 We are deficient in these. We have vaudevilles to lecture our lovers, fans 

 to chastise them, and, if they become false tell me, sister, what do they do 

 in France when lovers prove untrue. 



Sop. They execrate them. 



Mar. And 



Sop. And let them go. 



Mar. Go ! then why should I not let Clavigo go ? If that is the custom 



