Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 3).djvu/264

 (Shows key.) How lucky! isn't it? (She runs to door R.U.E., and opens it with key.) Now, sir, walk into prison, if you please.

(at the door R.).—My own little oom! and in such perfect order. My books, my maps—everything in its place.

.—Just as it didn't use to be.

(to ).—Do you hear this spiteful old Noel? Why, I do believe he has had my geometrical drawings all framed and hung around the walls.

(pretends to look in).—Dear me! So he has! Go and admire them. (she pushes in and locks door R.U.E.)

(outside).—You don't mean to say I'm to be locked in?

.—Make haste to get him some luncheon, Noel, that's a duck! Oh, what fun we shall have! And how jolly it is not to cry any more, and not to wear this horrid black dress. I shall put on my tarletan dress this very evening, and wear those tea roses in my hair. I could almost dance for joy. Tra-la-la! (dances)

.—Mamzelle Blanche, you shouldn't dance about in that way. Suppose Madame were to come in now!

.—Oh, there's no danger. And if I didn't do something I should explode; I'm sure I should. To think he is there, and so handsome, too!

.—That he is. Almost as handsome as Master Lucien, isn't he?

.—Noel, it's very spiteful of you to tease me. You're a wicked old man.

.—I'm so happy, I can't help teasing you a bit. It's my way of dancing, you know. But now we must be serious, and devise some means of breaking this glorious news to your mamma.

.—Oh, I don't give the matter a thought. All I fear is that I shall not look miserable enough; I couldn't do it.

.—You certainly haven't a very sorry appearance just now.

.—And you look as happy as a bridegroom.

.—A nice pair we are.

.—Your eyes alone are sure to betray us. You don't know how they shine.

.—Do they, though? Then I'll keep winking, so that it shan't be noticed. (Crosses to window L.) Ah! there they come, across the lawn. (Going) Remember, Mamzelle Blanche, this is the dangerous moment.

.—You don't mean to leave me alone with her?

.—But I do, though. I could never conceal my feelings. It takes a woman to dissimulate, you know.

(alone).—Noel ! Come back, you silly old man! Poor mamma! What if I throw my arms around her neck, and tell her the happy truth at once ? No, no: that would never do. It would kill her.

(Approaching) Are you any better, mamma? I fear you have walked too far, and have fatigued yourself.

.—Your stroll on the beach this morning did you good, dear. I can almost fancy I see you smile. (Looks at her steadfastly.) I don't know why, but it seems to me you have a strange expression of the eyes.

(confused).—I, mamma?

.—Yes, dear. They appear brighter than usual, as if some pleasure had happened to you.

.—Dear mamma, how well you guess everything!

.—Ah! what has occurred, then?

(aside).—Oh, such an idea! I will risk it, at all hazards. It may pave the way, and can do no harm, I'm sure.

.—Sit down here, love, and tell me what has given you pleasure.

(sitting on the stool at feet). Well, mamma, I am both pleased and vexed.

.—At what?

.—Why, to think that such great joy can fall to the lot of people who don't deserve it, whilst you, dear mamma, so gentle, so good, are plunged in sorrow.

.—Alas, my child! it is the will of Providence, and we have no right to envy the happiness of others. But to whom do you allude?

.—Why, to that unfeeling creature, Widow Gervaise, who forced her son to go to sea two years ago, to prevent him from marrying the girl of his choice, just because she was poor.

(anxiously)—Well, dear, well?

.—You know, mamma, the young man was supposed to have perished in the Amphitrite.