ing to account, hussy; it was contrary to my intentions that you were taught the art. HOR. (reads). 'I wish to write to you, and I am much troubled how to begin. I wish you to know my thoughts; but I do not know how to tell them to you, and I distrust my words. I begin to see that I have always been kept in ignorance, and I am therefore afraid I shall write something which may not be right, or say more than I ought. To tell you the truth, I do not know what you have done to me; but I feel vexed to death at what I am made to do against you. It is heartbreaking to be without you, and how dearly I wish I were yours. Perhaps I am wrong to say this; but really I cannot help it, and I could wish it might be right to say it. I have often been told that young men are deceivers, that one should not listen to them, and that all you tell me is but to betray me; but I assure you I have not yet been able to believe that of you: I am so touched by your words that I could not think them false. Tell me truly if they are so; for, you know, since I do not think evil it would be the greatest wrong in the world if you were to deceive me; and I think I should die with grief.'

ARN. Ah! the baggage!

HOR. What do you say ?

ARN. I? nothing. I only coughed.

HOR. Did you ever hear a more tender expression of love? Can you imagine a prettier artlessness, and that in spite of the cursed attentions of an unjust tyrant? Is it not a crying shame, beyond words, wickedly to sully so noble a soul, and to wish to darken the brightness of her mind in ignorance and stupidity. Love has begun to tear aside the veil; and if by the help of some propitious planet I can treat, as I hope, this boorish animal,

Je puis, comme j'espère, à ce franc animal, Ce traître, ce bourreau, ce faquin, ce brutal, ARN. Adieu.

HOR.

ARN.

Comment, si vite?

Il m'est dans la pensée

Venu tout maintenant une affaire pressée. HOR. Mais ne sauriez-vous point, comme on la tient de près,

Qui dans cette maison pourrait avoir accès?
J'en use sans scrupule; et ce n'est pas merveille
Qu'on se puisse, entre amis, servir à la pareille.
Je n'ai plus là dedans que gens pour m'observer;
Et servante et valet, que je viens de trouver,
N'ont jamais, de quelque air que je m'y sois pu
prendre,

Adouci leur rudesse à me vouloir entendre.
J'avais pour de tels coups certaine vieille en main,
D'un génie, à vrai dire, au-dessus de l'humain :
Elle m'a dans l'abord servi de bonne sorte ;

Mais depuis quatre jours la pauvre femme est morte. Ne me pourriez-vous point ouvrir quelque moyen? ARN. Non, vraiment; et sans moi vous en trouverez

bien.

HOR. Adieu donc. Vous voyez ce que je vous confie.

SCÈNE V

ARNOLPHE

Comme il faut devant lui que je me mortifie.
Quelle peine à cacher mon déplaisir cuisant !
Quoi? pour une innocente un esprit si présent!
Elle a feint d'être telle à mes yeux, la traîtresse,
Ou le diable à son âme a soufflé cette adresse.
Enfin me voilà mort par ce funeste écrit.
Je vois qu'il a, le traître, empaumé son esprit,
Qu'à ma suppression il s'est ancré chez elle;
Et c'est mon désespoir et ma peine mortelle.
Je souffre doublement dans le vol de son cœur,

this scoundrel, this clodhopper, this scamp, this brute.

ARN. Good-bye.

HOR. Why such haste?

ARN. I have just remembered some pressing business.

HOR. But do you not know any one who could gain access to that house? She is so closely guarded. I do not scruple to apply to you, for it is only natural friends should help each other in such cases. At present there is no one within there save people who spy on me; and I have just found out that neither maid nor valet, no matter how I try, will abate their rudeness, and be willing to listen to me at all. I used to have an old dame who served me in emergences like these: she was a veritable genius, something more than human, and she served me well at first, but the poor woman died four days ago. Cannot you devise some means of helping me?

ARN. No, really; you will find a way without me.
HOR. Good-bye, then. You see how I trust you.

SCENE V
ARNOLPHE

How I have to stifle my feelings before him! And what anguish it is to hide my consuming grief. That a simple creature should have so ready a wit! She feigned simplicity before my eyes, the deceiver, or the devil has inspired this craftiness into her soul. Alas! that miserable letter will be the death of me. I can see that the villain has stolen away her affections, he has ousted me and taken anchor by her side: oh! the despair and mortal anguish of it! I suffer doubly in the theft of her heart, for

Et l'amour y pâtit aussi bien que l'honneur.
J'enrage de trouver cette place usurpée,
Et j'enrage de voir ma prudence trompée.
Je sais que, pour punir son amour libertin,
Je n'ai qu'à laisser faire à son mauvais destin,
Que je serai vengé d'elle par elle-même ;
Mais il est bien fâcheux de perdre ce qu'on aime.
Ciel! puisque pour un choix j'ai tant philosophé,
Faut-il de ses appas m'être si fort coiffé !
Elle n'a ni parents, ni support, ni richesse;
Elle trahit mes soins, mes bontés, ma tendresse :
Et cependant je l'aime, après ce lâche tour,
Jusqu'à ne me pouvoir passer de cet amour.
Sot, n'as-tu point de honte? Ah! je crève, j'enrage,
Et je souffletterais mille fois mon visage.

Je veux entrer un peu, mais seulement pour voir
Quelle est sa contenance après un trait si noir.
Ciel, faites que mon front soit exempt de disgrâce;
Ou bien, s'il est écrit qu'il faille que j'y passe,
Donnez-moi tout au moins, pour de tels accidens,
La constance qu'on voit à de certaines gens !

FIN DU TROISIÈME ACTE

ACTE IV

SCÈNE I

ARNOLPHE

J'ai peine, je l'avoue, à demeurer en place,
Et de mille soucis mon esprit s'embarrasse,
Pour pouvoir mettre un ordre et dedans et dehors
Qui du godelureau rompe tous les efforts.
De quel œil la traîtresse a soutenu ma vue!
De tout ce qu'elle a fait elle n'est point émue;
Et bien qu'elle me mette à deux doigts du trépas,
On dirait, à la voir, qu'elle n'y touche pas.
Plus en la regardant je la voyais tranquille,

I am

both my love and my honour are wounded. mad to find that place usurped, and mad to see my prudence flouted. I know I have but to leave her to his evil designs, by way of punishment for her fickle love; thus shall I be avenged on her by herself; but it is a very fearful thing to lose what one loves. Heavens! why am I so thoroughly infatuated with her charms, when I chose her with so much care? She has neither relations, nor friends, nor means; she abuses my care, my kindness, my tenderness: and yet I love her, in spite of this mean trick, love her to distraction. Fool, have you no shame? Ah! I shall go mad, go mad, I could slap my face a thousand times. I will go in again, but only to see what she looks like after so black a deed. Heaven grant that my brow may be exempt from dishonour; or if it is decreed that this should befall me, give me at least a full share of that fortitude with which some men endure these affronts.

END OF THE THIRD ACT.

ACT IV

SCENE I

ARNOLPHE

How

Upon my word I can hardly rest anywhere. I am worried by a thousand schemes to baffle that scamp's plans, somehow, inside the house or outside. calmly she met my gaze! She is not at all disturbed by what she has done; and, although she has brought me within a span of the grave, one would say, by the sight of her, that it did not concern her. The more tranquil she looked, the more my anger rose, as I saw her. And the flames of wrath that