# A Series of Plays in which it is attempted to delineate The Stronger Passions of the Mind, Volume Three/The Siege Act 2

ACT II.
SCENE I.—A Room in the Castle. Enter Walter Baurchel and Dartz, by opposite sides.
Walt. Ha! my good friend, punctual to a wish. You have got your head stored, I hope, with a good plot.
Dart. I am at least more in the humour for it than I was. I have found his conceit and arrogance more intolerable than I imagined. I have touched him in the weak part too, and find him vulnerable.
Walt. Well, but the plot.
Dart. I have discovered also a trait of villainy in him, that would prick me on to the charge, were I sluggish as a tortoise.
Walt. So much the better. Now for the plot.
Dart. As I passed just now through the little green copse near the postern, a beautiful girl crossed my way, and in tears.
Walt. Tut! she has crossed thy wits too.
Dart. Have patience! she'll be useful.—I questioned her gently.
Walt. Aye, gently enough I doubt not.
Dart. And find she is sister to that shrewd little fellow, the Count's page: that her affections have been gained and betrayed by Valdemere; and she is now hovering about the castle, ​for an opportunity of upbraiding him, or in the vain hope, perhaps, of moving his pity.
Walt. She has moved thy pity at least; what has all this to do with our plot?
Dart. A great deal: I am telling you before hand what we shall have to work upon: a plot cannot, any more than a coat, be made without materials.
Walt. Well, but shew me thy pattern first, and talk of the buttons and buckram afterwards.
Dart. Be it so then, since you are so impatient. There is a friend of mine stationed about a league hence with his regiment; where he is to wait till he is joined by another detachment of the army, as the enemy, it is feared, may penetrate to these parts, and overrun the country. I mean to go to him immediately; make him privy to our design, and engage him to send a party of his soldiers to make a sham attack upon the castle at midnight, when we shall all be assembled at this fanciful banquet in the grotto.
Walt. (nodding his head.) Good.
Dart. Valdemere then, as the gallant soldier he affects to be, and the favoured admirer too of the lady, must of course take upon himself the defence of her castle.
Walt. (nodding again.) Very good.
Dart. This will quell his presumption, I trust; and expose him to Livia for the very paltry being that he is.
​ Walt. Aye, so far good; you'll make some furtherance to the plot out of this.
Dart. Some furtherance to the plot! Why this is the plot itself.
Walt. The plot itself! Any simple man in the country might have devised as much as this comes to.
Dart. It does not please you then because it is not intricate. But don't despise it entirely; though the outline is simple, tricks and contrivances to work up the mind of our victim to the state that is suited to our purpose, will enrich it as we proceed; and the Page I have mentioned, provoked by the wrongs of his sister, will be our subtle and diligent agent. Nay, should we draw Valdemere into great disgrace, we may bribe him, by concealing his dishonour, to marry the poor girl he has wronged.
Walt. Ha! this indeed is something like a plot.—And Antonio's marriage with Livia, how is that to be fastened to the end of it?
Dart. Nay, I have no certain hook, I confess, to hang that upon. It must depend on the Baron; for unless he declare Antonio his heir, he will never venture to propose himself as a match for the well-dowried Livia. But we shall manage matters ill, if we cannot draw the Baron into our scheme.
Walt. Then a fig for your plot! It is as bare of invention as the palm of my hand.
Dart. This is always the case with those who lack invention themselves: they are never ​pleased with that of any other person, if it be not bristled over with contrivances like a hedgehog. And I must be allowed to say, Mr. Walter Baurchel, that he who racks his brains for your service, works for a thankless master.
Walt. He works for an honest one, then.
Dart. Away with the honesty that cannot afford a few civil words to a friend, who is doing his best to oblige you! As much duplicity as this amounts to, would not much contaminate your virtue.
Walt. Well, well, I am wrong, perhaps, but thou art as testy as myself.
Dart. Because I won't bear your untoward humour. Some people find every body testy who approaches them, and marvel at their own bad luck.—But no more of this: let us think of our friend. Does the Baron believe what you told him of Hovelberg's appointment with the Countess?
Walt. He makes a show of not believing it, but I think he has his own suspicions at bottom; for his valet tells me, he has sent to desire Hovelberg to speak with him as soon as he arrives.
Dart. Here comes De Bertrand; I hear his steps.
Walt. Is he returned to the castle?
Dart. Yes; I forgot to tell you so, you were in such a hurry for your plot.
Walt. Silly fellow! he cannot stay away from his capricious mistress, though the first glance of her eye sinks him to a poltron at once.
Enter Antonio.
Ant. (to Walt.) Good morning, gentle Kinsman;—but methinks you are not very glad to see me; these are not looks of welcome.
Walt. Thou art one of those that trouble me.
Ant. I am of a pretty numerous class of beings then, from the kitten that gnaws at your shoestring, to the Baron, who spoils your best pen in writing love-verses to his mistress.
Walt. Well; and they would torment any man. Love-verses! with such an old painted hypocrite for the object of them!
Ant. His first love, you know; his Delia.
Walt. His Delia! His delusion. Is there such a thing as witchcraft in the world? I believe in good earnest there is. Her dominion over him is a mystery: a more than Egyptian blindness.
Ant. Nay, you have yourself in a good degree to blame for it, my good Sir. Had you encouraged his humour, harmless as it is; bestowing some praise on his verses, and less abuse on the too youthful cut of his peruke, she could never have taken possession of him as she has done.
Walt. Praise his verses, and not abuse his peruke! it had been beyond the self-denial of a saint.
Dart. And had you—
Walt. (to Dart.) One assailant at a time, if you please.
​ Dart. Excuse me, Sir; I must needs say, had you even paid a little attention to the Countess herself, when she first renewed her intimacy with the Baron, she would have been less anxious, perhaps, to estrange him from his old friends.
Walt. Attention to her! I could not have done it to gain myself, like Mahomet, the entrance to the seventh heaven. I must tell people plainly what I think of them, though I should hang for it.
Dart. Had you said starve for it, you had named the fate that more commonly attends plain speaking.
Ant. And in telling people disagreeable truths to gratify your own humour too, are you surprised, my good Sir, that they should not be edified thereby?
Walt. (to Ant.) What, young Soldier, you are become a plain speaker too.
Ant. Just to shew you, Sir, how agreeable it is.
Walt. Ha, ha, ha! Well; thou hast the better of me now. Would thou could'st prate as briskly to thy mistress! that would do more for thee in one hour than all thy bashful tenderness in a year.
Ant. I might—I should indeed—I defend not my weakness.—You promised on this point to spare me.
Walt. Aye, the very sound of her name quells ​thy spirit, and makes thee hesitate and stammer like a culprit. It is provoking.
Dart. You profess a violent detestation of conceit, my shrewd Sir; where, then, is your indulgence for modesty?
Walt. You mistake the matter, Dartz. Your friend there, has as good a conceit of himself as any man: he is not modest, but bashful; a weakness too that only besets him in the presence of his mistress. By this good fist of mine! it provokes me almost to the cudgelling of such an unaccountable ninny. But I would cudgel thee, and serve thee too, De Bertrand. Take courage; we have a plot in our heads to make a man of thee at last.
Dart. (aside, pulling Walt. by the sleeve.) Say not a word of the plot: his sense of honour is so delicate, he would recoil at it.
Ant. A plot did you say?
Walt. Aye, a kind of a plot;—that is to say—What kind of a plot is it, Dartz?
Dart. Have you forgot your own scheme for cheating the virtuoso, when your cabinet of antiquities comes to the hammer?
Walt. By my fay! this memory of mine is not worth a pinch of tobacco. (Seeing Ant. look at his watch.) Art thou going any where?
Ant. No;—I did think—I believe I shall take a turn on the terrace.
Dart. (to Ant.) I understand you: take a turn in the cabinet of paintings rather; that will suit your purpose better.
​ Ant. May I presume to go there?
Walt. Presume, simpleton! That impudent puppy of a Count lords it in her dressing-room. Go thy ways! (pushing him off the stage with slight anger. Exit Antonio.) That fellow provokes me; yet there is something in him that goes so near my heart: he is more akin to me than his blood entitles him to be: he is like a part of myself.
Dart. Not the least like it. Now that you have taught us to speak plainly, I must needs say, were he at all like yourself, you would disinherit him in the course of a month.
Walt. You are right, perhaps. But, alas! he would not be much the poorer for being disinherited by me. O that old fool of a brother! I could flog him for his poetry.
Dart. Have patience, and we may find a better way of dealing with him. If we could persuade him to disguise himself like a diamond merchant, and accompany Hovelberg when he visits the Countess, he would be convinced of the true nature of her regard for him.
Walt. An excellent thought! This is just what was wanting to make our plot really like a plot.
Dart. I'm glad it pleases you at last. Before I leave the castle to negociate with my friend for his myrmidons, I'll find out the Baron, and endeavour to persuade him.
Walt. Heaven prosper thee! but return, ere thou goest, and let me know the result.
​ Dart. Depend upon it. [Exeunt severally.
SCENE II.
A Room hung with Paintings, and enriched with Carving and Ornaments, &c. Enter Valdemere and Antonio.
Vald. Here are some good paintings, De Bertrand; if you have any taste for the art, they will please you. This Guido on the left is a divine thing. The Magdalen in Count Orrinberg's collection was considered as superior to it; but I always maintained this to be the best painting of the two, and the world have at last adopted my opinion. I have always decidedly thought—but you are not looking at it. Is there any thing in that door to arrest your attention? The carving on it is but indifferent.
Ant. I thought I heard footsteps. She's coming.
Vald. Pooh! she won't be here this half hour; so you need not yet take alarm, as if an enemy were advancing upon you.
Ant. You connect the idea of alarm with an enemy; would I had firmness to face what I love! You are a happy man, Valdemere, and a bold one too, most assuredly: what would not I give for a little of your happy self-possession.
Vald. Aye, it is an article of some value: he who can't possess himself, must not expect to possess his mistress.
​ Ant. A very specious maxim this from a young fellow's mouth, with the manliness of well-curled whiskers to support it: yet I have seen the embarrassment of a diffident character plead its own cause more effectually than the eloquence of a brazen-browed barrister. At least I have always felt it have more power over me.
Val. That is natural enough: it is a common selfish sympathy: one thief pities another when the rope is round his neck. Feeling for others is the consequence of our own imperfections; this is a known truth.
Ant. Establish it if you can, Valdemere, for it will go well nigh to prove you immaculate.
Vald. How far soever I may be from that degree of perfection, jealousy at least is not one of my faults, since I have introduced a rival into the apartments of my mistress, where he had not the courage to venture alone, and am also pointing out to him what he has not discovered for himself, that her picture is now before his eyes. (Pointing to a picture.)
Ant. (looking up to it eagerly.) It is somewhat like.
Vald. She sat for it at my request: no one else could prevail on her. The painter knew my taste in these matters, and has taken wonderful pains with it.
Ant. (sighing.) You have indeed been honoured.
Vald. He has made the eyes to look upon you with such expression.
​ Ant. Think you so? To me he appears to have failed in this respect; or perhaps it is because any semblance of eyes which I can thus stedfastly look upon, are not to me the eyes of Livia.
Vald. I did not suspect you of being so fastidious.
Ant. Not so neither: but had they been turned on some other object instead of the spectator, one should then have seen them as one is accustomed to see them.
Vald. Yes, speaking for your single self, this may be true. I beg leave to dissent.
Ant. Yet surely you will agree, that the direct thrilling glance, from eyes of such vivid expression, cannot possibly be imitated, and ought not by a skilful painter to be attempted.
Enter Livia behind them.
Vald. Perhaps you are right: you talk like a connoisseur on the subject.
Liv. I come in good time then; for connoisseur or not, to hear De Bertrand talk at all is a very lucky adventure. You have wronged us much, Baron, to keep us so long ignorant of your taste for the fine arts.
Ant. (embarrassed.) Madam, I am much honoured. I am very little—(mumbling words in a confused way that are not heard.) I am very much obliged to you.
Liv. You are grateful for slight obligations. But you are looking at my picture I see, which was painted two years ago at the request of a ​good old uncle of mine; pray give me your opinion of it.
Ant. It appears—it is very charming. It is —that is, I suppose, it is very finely painted.
Liv. It is reckoned so: and it certainly does more than justice to the original. (Ant. hesitates as if he would speak, but remains silent.) You are of my opinion, I perceive, or at least too well bred to contradict me. Confess it freely; you are of my opinion.
Ant. O entirely, Madam.
Liv. You flatter me exceedingly.
Ant. I meant it in simple sincerity.
Liv. O, sincere enough I doubt not.
Vald. And surely you will not question its simplicity.
Liv. (to Vald., turning from Ant. with pity and contempt) Don't let us be too hard upon him. Pray look at that picture of my great aunt, who was a celebrated beauty.
Vald. (gazing with affected admiration at Livia's picture.) I have no eyes for any other beauty than what I now gaze upon.
Liv. And do you indeed admire this picture so much?
Vald. The faintest resemblance of its fair original is fascinating. Yet, methinks, the painter should have represented it as looking on some other object than the spectator.
Liv. Why so?
Vald. The direct thrilling glance, from eyes of such vivid expression, cannot possibly be imitated, and ought not to have been attempted.
​ Ant. (aside.) My own words in the coxcomb's mouth!
Liv. This is an objection proceeding from genuine sensibility: yet you never mentioned it before.
Vald. Perhaps I am too fastidious; but any eyes that I can thus stedfastly look upon, are not to me the eyes of Livia.
Liv. Ah! these are in truth the words of a too partial friend.
Vald. Words from the heart, divine Livia, will tell from whence they came. (They both walk to the bottom of the stage, speaking in dumb-shew, while Ant. remains in the front.)
Ant. (aside.) With my own words he woos her, and before my face too: matchless impudence!—And such a man as this pleases Livia!—He whispers in her ear, and she smiles.—My heart sickens at it: I'll look no more, lest I become envious and revengeful, and hateful to myself.—O Nature! hast thou made me of such poor stuff as this?
Vald. (turning round from the bottom of the stage.) Ha! De Bertrand, are you declaiming? Some speech of a tragedy, I suppose, from the vehemence of your gesture. Pray let Livia hear you: she is partial, you know, to every thing you do, and finds every exhibition you make before her particularly amusing.
Ant. (sternly.) Come nearer to me, Sir; the first part of my speech is for your private ear.—Come nearer.
Liv. Pray go to him: by the tone of his voice he personates some tyrant, and must be obeyed. ​ Ant. Yes, Sir, I must be obeyed. (Vald. shuffles up to him unwillingly, and Ant. speaks in his ear.) Take no more impertinent liberties with me in this Lady's presence, or be prepared to justify them elsewhere. [Exit, looking at Vald. sternly, who remains silent.
Liv. (advancing to the front.) What is the matter, Count?
Vald. Nothing—nothing at all.
Liv. Nay, something unpleasant has passed between you.
Vald. I believe I did wrong: I should have treated him more gently. But the strangeness of his behaviour obliged me to use threatening words, upon which he withdrew, and chose not to understand them.
Liv. How ill one judges then by dumb-shew of what passes at a distance.
Vald. I am always calm on these occasions, while he assumes the fierceness of a boaster.
Liv. But you will not call him out for such a trifle?
Vald. Not for the world, divine creature, if it give you uneasiness.
Liv. How gentle you are! The brave are always so.
Vald. How can I be otherwise with such an angel to prompt me? No, the braggard may live in safety for me; I will not harm one hair of his head.
Liv. I thank you, dear Valdemere! and now, to recompense your goodness, I'll shew the beautiful gem I promised you: follow me.
​ Vald. Yes, bewitching maid! to the world's end, to the bottom of the ocean, to the cannon's brazen mouth, I would follow thee.[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
The Countess's Dressing-room. She enters from an inner Chamber, with a small Shagreen Case in her hand, followed by Jeanetta, carrying a Casket, which she sets upon a Table.
Countess. Jeanetta, let me take a last look of those dear things before I part with them for ever.
Jean. I'm sure, my Lady, they are so handsome, and you look so handsome when you wear them, it would go to my heart to part with them.
Countess. But my dear boy must have money, Jeanetta, and I have been expensive myself. (Opens the casket, and looks at the jewels.) My diamonds, my pearls, my rubies, my darlings! for the sake of a still greater darling I must part with you all.
Jean. But if I might presume to speak, my Lady, don't you indulge the young Count too much in extravagance?
Countess. O no, Jeanetta; I doat upon him: it is this amiable weakness of character which all the world remarks and admires in me. And he loves me entirely too; he would sacrifice his life for my sake.
Jean. He'll sacrifice nothing else, however; for he never gives up the smallest convenience of his own to oblige you.
Countess. Small things are of no consequence: he would give up for me, I am confident, the ​thing most dear to his heart: and for him—to see him lord of this castle and its domains, and occupying in society the brilliant place that becomes him, I would—what would I not sacrifice!
Jean. Were he to live on the fortune he has, and marry where he is attached, he might perhaps be happier.
Countess. Happier! Were he mean enough to be happy so—contemptible thought!—I would see him in his grave rather. But no more of this: have you seen Hovelberg? You say he is waiting below.
Jean. Yes, Madam, and a friend with him; an Armenian Jew-merchant, who will, he says, go halves in his purchases, and enable him to give you a better price for the jewels, as he is himself rather low in cash at present.
Countess. Well, I'll object to neither Jew nor Infidel that puts money into my pocket. (Holding up a ruby necklace.) This should fetch something considerable.
Jean. O la, Madam! you won't part with that surely; your neck is like alabaster under it. Did you but know how they admired you at Prince Dormach's the last time you wore it.—I would sell the very gown from my back ere I parted with it.
Countess. So they admired me at Prince Dormach's then?
Jean. O dear, my Lady! the Prince's valet told me, though two young beauties from ​Brussels were there, nobody spoke of any one but you.
Countess. Well, to please thee then, I'll keep it.
Jean. La! here is a little emerald ring, my Lady; those brokers will despise such a trifle, and give you a mere nothing for it.—La! who would think it? it fits my finger to a hair. It must be a mort too large for your delicate hand.
Countess. Keep it for thyself, then, since it fits thee. He was a great fool who gave it me, and had it made of that awkward size.
Jean. I thank you, my Lady: I wish you would give me every thing in this precious casket that has not been the gift of a sage.
Countess. Thou art right, child. It would put many a hundred louis-d'ors into thy pocket, and leave scarcely a marvedi for myself. A rich Knight of Malta gave me these (holding up a string of pearls.) whose bandy legs were tricked out most delicately in fine-clocked hose of the nicest and richest embroidery. Rest his soul! I made as much of those legs as the hosier did.
Jean. I doubt it not, Madam, and deserved what you earned full as well.
Countess. (looking again at her pearls.) There is not a flaw in any one of them.
Jean. Aye, commend me to such legs! had they been straighter, the pearls had been worse.
Countess. This amber box with brilliants I had from an old croaking Marquis, who pestered ​every music room in the principality to the day of his death, with notes that would have frightened a peacock. As long as he sang, poor man! I considered myself as having a salary on the musical establishment at the rate of two hundred ducats per month.
Jean. Aye; God send that all the old Marquises in these parts would croak for us at this rate.
Countess. I have no reason to complain: my present friend bleeds as freely as any of his predecessors.
Jean. So he should, my lady. Such nonsense as he writes ought not to be praised for a trifle. I would not do it, I'm sure.
Countess. Dost thou ever praise then for profit?
Jean. To be honest with you, Madam, I have done it, as who has not? But never since I entered your Ladyship's service; for why should you reward me for praising you, when all the world does it for nothing?—No, no, my Lady; you are too wise for that.
Countess. There is somebody at the door.
Jean. It is Hovelberg.
Countess. Open then, but let nobody else in.
(Jean. opens the door, and Hovelberg enters, followed by Baron Baurchel, disguised as an Armenian Jew.)
Countess. I am happy to see you, dear Hovelberg; and this gentleman also, (curtesying to the Bar.) I know it is only a friend, whom we ​may trust, that you would introduce to me on the present occasion.
Hov. To be sure, Madam: a friend we may depend on. (Drawing Countess aside, and speaking in her ear.) A man of few words: better to do in this quarter than this. (Pointing first to his pocket, and then to his head.) And that is a good man, you know, to be well with.
Countess. O the best stuff in the world for making a friend of. (Returning to the Bar.) Sir, I have the highest regard and esteem for you.
Bar. (in a feigned voice.) On vatch account, Madam?
Countess. O good Sir! on every account.
Bar. You lov'sh not my religion?
Countess. I respect and reverence it profoundly.
Bar. You lov'sh not my pershon?
Countess. It is interesting. and engaging, most assuredly.
Bar. No body telsh me sho before!
Countess. Because the world is full of envious people, who will not tell you truths that are agreeable.
Bar. (nodding assent.) Now I understant.
Countess. Yes, dear Sir; you must do so; your understanding is unquestionable. (Looking archly to Hovel.) And now, gentlemen, do me the honour to be seated, and examine these jewels attentively.
Hov. We would rather stand if you'll permit us.
​ Countess. (aside to Hovel., while the Baron examines the jewels.) My dear Hovelberg, be liberal: for the sum I want is a large one, and those jewels would procure it for me any where; only, regarding you as my friend, I give you the first offer.—But your friend, methinks, examines every thing with great curiosity.
Hov. Yes, poor man! he likes to appear as knowing as he can: this is but natural, you know, when one is deficient in the upper department.—But he'll pay like a prince, if you flatter and amuse him.
Bar. Vasht fine stones! Vasht pretty ornaments! (To Countess.) You dishposhe of all deshe?
Countess. Yes, every thing.
Bar. Dere be gifsh here, no doubt, from de dear friensh.
Hov. Or some favoured lover, perhaps.
Countess. (sighing affectedly.) Perhaps so; but I must part with them all.
Bar. (aside to Hov.) Nay, she has some tenderness for me: put her not to too severe a trial.
Hov. (aside.) We shall see.
Bar. (returning to Countess.) You be woman; and all womansh have de affections for some one lover or frient.
Countess. O how good and amiable and considerate you are! I have indeed a heart formed for tenderness.
​ Bar. (drawing Hovel. aside again.) She does love me, Hovelberg; tempt her not with an extravagant price for the picture.
Hov. (aside.) I'll take a better way of managing it. (Returning to the Countess.) My friend desires me to say, Madam, that, if there is any thing here you particularly value, he'll advance you money upon it, which you may repay at your leisure, and you shall preserve it.
Countess. (to Baron.) How generous you are, my dear Sir! Yes; there is one thing I would keep.
Bar. (eagerly.) One ting—dere be one ting: tish picture, perhaps.
Countess. This ruby necklace.
Bar. You sell tish picture, den?
Countess. To be sure, if you'll purchase it.
Hov. The diamonds are valuable, indeed; but you will not sell the painting?
Countess. That will depend on the price you offer for it.
Hov. Being a portrait, it is of no value at all, but to those who have a regard for the original.
Jean. And what part of the world do they live in, Mr. Hovelberg? Can you find them out any where?
Countess. Nay, peace, Jeanetta.—As a portrait, indeed, it is of no value to any body, but, as a characteristic old head, it should fetch a good price. (Shewing it to Baron.) Observe, my dear Sir, that air of conceit and absurdity ​over the whole figure: to those who have a taste for the whimsical and ridiculous, it would be invaluable. Don't you perceive it?
Bar. Not very sure.
Countess. Not sure! Look at it again. See how the eyes are turned languishingly aside, as if he were repeating, "Dear gentle idol of a heart too fond." (Mimicking the Baron's natural voice.)
Hov. Ha, ha, ha! Your mimickry is excellent, Countess. Is it not, Friend Johnadab?
Bar. O, vasht comical.
Hov. (aside to him.) She has a good talent.
Bar. (aside.) Shrewd witch! The words of my last sonnet, indeed; but I did not repeat them so.
Hov. (aloud.) Though you are an admirable mimick, Madam, my Friend Johnadab does not think your imitation of the Baron entirely correct.
Countess. (alarmed.) He knows the Baron then; I have been very imprudent.—But pray don't suppose I meant any disrespect to the worthy Baron, whom I esteem very much.
Bar. O vasht much!
Hov. Be not uneasy, Madam; my friend will be secret, and loves a joke mightily.
Countess. I'll trust, then, to his honour: and since he does not like my imitation of the Baron, he shall have it from one who does it better than I. Jeanetta, amuse this worthy gentleman by repeating the Baron's last sonnet.
​ Jean. Nay, my Lady, you make me do it so often, I'm tired of taking him off.
Countess. Do as you are bid, child.
Jean. "Dear gentle idol of a heart too fond, "Why doth that eye of sweetest sympathy—"
Hov. Ha, ha, ha! Excellent!
Bar. (off his guard.) By Heaven, this is too bad! Your servants taught to turn me into ridicule!
Countess. (starting.) How's this? Mercy on me!
Hov. Be not alarmed, Countess; I thought he would surprise you. My friend is the best mimick in Europe.
Countess. I can scarcely recover my surprise. (To Baron) My dear Sir, I cannot praise you enough. You have a wonderful talent. The Baron's own mouth could not utter his voice more perfectly than yours.
Bar. (pulling off his cap and beard.) No, Madam, not easily. (Jean. shrieks out, and the Countess stands in stupid amazement.) This disguise, Madam, has procured for me a specimen of the amiable dispositions of a heart formed for tenderness, with a sample of your talents for mimickry into the bargain; and so I wish you good day, with thanks for my morning's amusement.
Countess. (recovering herself.) Ha, ha, ha! You understand mumming very well, Baron, but I still better. I acted my part well.
​ Bar. Better than well, Madam: it was the counter-part of my enacting the Baron.
Jean. Indeed, dear Baron, the Countess knew it was you, and so did I too. Indeed, indeed, we did. I'm sure it is a very good joke: I wonder we don't laugh more at it than we do.
Bar. Be quiet, subordinate imp of this arch tempter! My thraldom is at an end; and all the jewels in that shameful heap were not too great a price for such emancipation. (Bowing very low to Countess.) Adieu! most amiable, most sentimental, most disinterested of women! [Exit.
Countess. Hovelberg, you have betrayed me.
Hov. How so, Madam? You told me yourself you were the most sincere woman in the world; the Baron doubted your regard for him; how could I then dissuade him from putting it to the proof, unless I had doubted your word, Madam? an insult you could never have pardoned.
Countess. What, you laugh at me, too, you villian! (Exit Hovel.) Oh! I am ruined, derided, and betrayed! (Throws herself into a chair, covering her face with her hand, while Jeanetta endeavours to comfort her.)
Jean. Be not so cast down, my Lady, there are more than one rich fool in the world, and you have a good knack at finding them out.
Countess. O, that I should have been so unguarded! That I should never have suspected!
​ Jean. Aye, with his vasht this, and his vasht that: it was, as he said, vasht comical that we did not.
Countess. Bring not his detested words again to my ears; I can't endure the sound of them.
Enter Valdemere.
Vald. Well, Madam, you can answer my demands now, I hope: Hovelberg has been with you. Money, money, my dear mother! (Holding out his hand.) There is a fair broad palm to receive it; and here (kissing her hand coaxingly.) is a sweet little hand to bestow it.
Countess. (pushing him away sternly.) Thy inconsiderate prodigality has been most disastrous. Had'st thou been less thoughtless, less profuse—a small portion of prudence and economy would have made us independent of every dotard's humour.
Vald. Notable virtues indeed, Madam; but where was I to learn them, pray? Did you ever before recommend them to me, by either precept or example? Prudence! Economy! What has befallen you? I'm sure there is something wrong when such words come from your lips.—Ha! in tears, too! Hovelberg has brought no money then?
Countess. No, no, barbarian! He has ruined me.
Vald. How so?
Countess. I cannot tell thee: it would suffocate me.
​ Jean. La, Count! My Lady may well call him barbarian. He brought the old Baron with him to purchase the jewels, disguised like an Armenian Jew; and when bargaining with her for his own picture, my Lady said something of the original not much to his liking, and so the old fool tore off his disguise, and bounced out of the room in a great passion.
Vald. By my faith, this is unlucky! I depended on touching 500 louis d'ors immediately.
Countess. Thinking only of yourself still, when you may well guess how I am distressed.—I shall never again find such a liberal old cully as he.
Vald. Yes, you will, mother: more readily than I shall find the 500 louis.—I owe half that sum to Count Pugstoff, for losses at the billiard table; all the velvet and embroidery, the defunct suits of two passing years, haunt me wherever I go, in the form of unmannerly taylors: and, besides all this, there is a sweet pretty Arabian in the stables of Huckston, my jockey, that I am dying to be master of.—By my faith, it is very hard! Had you no suspicion? How came you to be so much off your guard?
Countess. I believe it was fated to be so, and therefore I was blinded for the moment. I dreamt last night that I had but one tooth in my head, and it dropped on the ground at my feet. This, it is said, betokens the loss of a friend by death, and I trembled for thee, my child; but ​now, too surely, my dream is explained and accomplished.
Vald. And, methinks, you would have preferred the first interpretation.
Countess. Ah! ungrateful boy! You know too well how I have doated on you.
Vald. I do know too well: it has done me little good, I fear.
Countess. It has done me little good, I'm sure, since this is all the gratitude thou hast. I should never, but for thee, have become the flatterer of those I despise, to amass those odious jewels.
Vald. Ha! the jewels are still here then! I shall have my louis' still. Thank you, dear mother, that you did not part with them, at least. (Kissing her hand hastily, and running to the table.) I'll soon dispose of them all.
Countess. (running after him.) No, no! not so fast, Valdemere: thou wilt not take them all. Haste thee, Jeanetta, and save some of them.
(They all scramble round the table for the jewels, and the scene closes.)