SCENE I.
Reading edition
Madelon's Apartment.
La Gloire and Madelon discovered. Madelon seated at a Table covered with Eatables, Wines, &c. La Gloire standing near the Table.
La Gloire. Blessings on her heart, how cleverly she feeds! the meat goes as naturally into her little mouth, as if it had been used to the road all the time of the famine: though, Heaven knows, 'tis a path that has, lately, been little frequented.
Madelon. A votre santé, mon ami;—your health, La Gloire.
[Drinks.
La Gloire. Nay, I'll answer thee in that, though bumpers were Englishmen, and went against my French stomach. [Takes Wine.] Heaven bless thee, my poor Madelon! May a woman never tumble into the mire of distress; and, if she is in, ill befall him that won't help her clean out again.
[Drinks.
Madelon. There; enough.
[Comes from Table.
La Gloire. So: one kiss for a bonne bouche.—[Kisses her.]—Dost love me the better for this feast, now, Madelon?
Madelon. No, truly, not a jot. I love you e'en as well before dinner as after.
La Gloire. What a jewel is regular affection!—to love, equally, through the week, maigre days, and all! I cannot but own a full meal makes an improvement in the warmth of my feelings. I can eat and drink myself into a glow of tenderness, that fasting can never come up to. And what hast thou done in my absence, Madelon?
Madelon. Little, La Gloire, but grieve with the rest. I have thought on you; gone to confession in the morning; seemed happy, in the day, to cheer my poor old father:—but my heart was bursting, La Gloire:—and, at night, by myself, I looked at this little cross you gave me, and cried.
La Gloire. [Smothering his Tears.] Madelon, I,—I—I want another draught of burgundy.
[Drinks.
Madelon. Once, indeed,—I thought it was hard,—Father Antony enjoined me penance, for thinking so much about you.
La Gloire. An old——What, by putting peas in your shoes, as usual?
Madelon. Yes; but, as it happened, I escaped.
La Gloire. Ay, marry! how?
Madelon. Why, as the famine pressed, the holy fathers had boiled all our punishments, in puddings for the convent; and there was not a penitential pea left in the town.
La Gloire. O, gluttony! to deprive the innocent of their hard, dry penances, and apply them, soft, to their own offending stomachs! I never could abide these pampered friars. They are the pot-bellied children of the Pope, nursed at the bosom of old mother church; and plaguy chubby boys they are. One convent of them, in a town, breeds a famine sooner than an English blockade. But, what says thy father within, here, Madelon, to our marriage?
Madelon. Truly, he has no objection, but in respect to your being a soldier.
La Gloire. Sacre bleu! object to my carrying arms! my glory! my pride!
Madelon. Pr'ythee, now, 'tis not for that.
La Gloire. Degrade my profession!—my—look ye, Madelon; I love thee with all my heart—with an honest soldier's heart—else I could tell your father, that a citizen could never get on in the world, without a soldier to do his journey-work:—and your soldier, look ye—'sblood! it makes me fret like a hot day's march!—your soldier, in all nations, when he is rusted down to your quiet citizen, and so sets up at home for himself, is in double respect, for having served such an honourable apprenticeship.
Madelon. Nay, now, La Gloire, my father meant not——
La Gloire. Marry, I would tell your father this to his teeth; which, were it not for my captain and me—two soldiers, mark you me—might not, haply, have been so soon set a going.
Madelon. Ungenerous! I could not have spoken such cutting words to you, La Gloire.—My poor father only meant, that the wars might separate us. But I had a remedy for that, too, for all your unkindness.
La Gloire. Pish!—remedy?—well—psha!—what was the remedy, Madelon?
Madelon. Why, I could have followed you to the camp.
La Gloire. And wouldst thou follow me then?
Madelon. Ay, surely, La Gloire: I could follow him I love all over the world.
La Gloire. And bear the fatigue of a campaign, Madelon?
Madelon. Any thing with you, La Gloire. I warrant us, we should be happy enough. Ay, and I could be useful too. I could pack your knapsack; sing canzonets with you, to make us merry on a day's march; mix in the soldier's dance upon occasion; and, at sun-set, I would dress up our little tent, as neat as any captain's in the field: then, at supper, La Gloire, we should be as cheerful!——
La Gloire. Now could I cut my tongue out for what I have said!—Cuff me; slap my face, Madelon; then kiss me, and forgive me: and, if ever I bestride my great war-horse again, and let him run away with me, and trample over the heart of my best friends, I wish he may kick me off, and break my neck in a ditch for my pains.—But—what—ha! ha!—what should we do with our children, Madelon?
Madelon. Ah! mon Dieu! I had forgot that:—but if your endeavours be honest, La Gloire, Providence will take care of them, I warrant you.
DUETT. LA GLOIRE AND MADELON.
Madelon. Could you to battle march away, And leave me here complaining? I'm sure 'twould break my heart to stay, When you are gone campaigning. Ah! non, non, non! Pauvre Madelon Could never quit her rover: Ah! non, non, non! Pauvre Madelon Would go with you all the world over. La Gloire. No, no, my love! ah! do not grieve; A soldier true you'll find me: I could not have the heart to leave My little girl behind me. Ah! non, non, non! Pauvre Madelon Should never quit her rover: Ah! non, non, non! Pauvre Madelon Should go with me all the world over. Both. Then let the world jog as it will, Let hollow friends forsake us, We both shall be as happy still As war and love can make us. Ah! non, non, non! Pauvre Madelon Shall never quit her rover: Ah! non, non, non,! Pauvre Madelon Shall go with {you/me} all the world over.
La Gloire. By the mass, Madelon, such a wife as thou wilt be, would make a man, after another campaign,—for another I must have, to satisfy the cravings of my appetite,—go nigh to forswear the wars.
Madelon. Ah, La Gloire! would it were so! but the sound of a trumpet will ever lead thee after it.
La Gloire. Tut—a trumpet!—thy voice, Madelon, will drown it.
Madelon. Ah, La Gloire!
[Shaking her Head.
La Gloire. Nay, then, I am the veriest poltroon, if I think the sound of a trumpet would move me any more than—[A Parley is sounded from the Walls.]—Eh!—gad—oh!—ecod there's a bustle! a parley from the walls; which may end in a skirmish, or a battle—or a—I'll be with you again in the chopping off of a head.
Madelon. Nay, now, La Gloire, I thought the sound of a trumpet——
La Gloire. A trumpet—simpleton!—that was a—gad I—wasn't it a drum?—Adieu, Madelon! I'll be back again ere—[Parley.]——March! —Charge!—Huzza!
[Draws his Sword, and exit.
Madelon. Well-a-day! a soldier's wife must have a fearful time on't. Yet do I love La Gloire; he is so kind, so tender!—and he has, simply, the best leg in the army. Heigho!—It must feel very odd to sleep in a tent:—a camp must be ever in alarms, and soldiers always ready for surprise.—Dame Toinette, who married a corporal, ere I was born, told me, that, for one whole campaign, her husband went to bed in his boots.
SONG.—MADELON.
Little thinks the townsman's wife, While at home she tarries, What must be the lass's life, Who a soldier marries. Now with weary marching spent, Dancing now before the tent, Lira, lira, lira, lira, lira la, With her jolly soldier. In the camp, at night, she lies, Wind and weather scorning, Only grieved her love must rise, And quit her in the morning; But the doubtful skirmish done, Blithe she sings at set of sun; Lira, lira, lira, lira, lira la, With her jolly soldier. Should the captain of her dear Use his vain endeavour, Whisp'ring nonsense in her ear, Two fond hearts to sever, At his passion she will scoff; Laughing, thus, she'll put him off,— Lira, lira, lira, lira, lira la, For her jolly soldier.
[Exit.