The Lady of Lyons; Or, Love and Pride. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон
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Now you are cured, Claude!
Mel. tearing the letter. So do I scatter her image to the winds—I will stop her in the open streets—I will insult her—I will beat her menial ruffians—I will—[Turns suddenly to Widow.] Mother, am I humpbacked—deformed—hideous? Widow. You!
Mel. A coward—a thief—a liar?
Widow. You!
Mel. Or a dull fool—a vain, drivelling, brainless idiot? Widow. No, no. Mel. What am I then—worse than all these? Why, I am a peasant! What has a peasant to do with love? Vain revolutions, why lavish your cruelty on the great? Oh that we—we, the hewers of wood and drawers of water—had been swept away, so that the proud might learn what the world would be without us! [Knock at the door.
Enter Servant from the Inn.
Servant. A letter for Citizen Melnotte.
Mel. A letter! from her perhaps—who sent thee?
Servant. Why, Monsieur—I mean Citizen—Beauseant, who stops to dine at the Golden Lion, on his way to his chateau.
Mel. Beauseant!—[Reads].
“Young man, I know thy secret—thou lovest above thy station: if thou hast wit, courage, and discretion, I can secure to thee the realization of thy most sanguine hopes; and the sole condition I ask in return is, that thou shalt be steadfast to thine own ends. I shall demand from thee a solemn oath to marry her whom thou lovest; to bear her to thine home on thy wedding night. I am serious—if thou wouldst learn more, lose not a moment, but follow the bearer of this letter to thy friend and patron,—CHARLES BEAUSEANT.”
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