Camille; a play in five acts

Act First

Scene: — A room in the house of Camille.

Count de Varville and Nanine Discovered.

Door-bell rings as the curtain rises.

Varville. Some one has rung the bell.

Nanine. Yes, I hear. Valentine will attend to the door.

Varville. Perhaps it is Camille.

Nanine. No, not yet. She said she would return at half-past ten, and it is not ten yet. [Nichette speaks without.'] Ah, it is Madmoiselle Nichette's voice.

Nichette. [Entering.'] Oh, excuse me ! I thought Madmoiselle Camille was here.

Nanine. No, Nichette, she is not in. You wish to see her?

Nichette. I was merely passing the door, and I felt like coming up to say good-night to her. But since she is not here, you will please tell her that I called.

Nanine. Will you wait awhile? She will soon be in.

Nichette. No, thank you! Gustave is at the door. Is she well ?

Nanine. Ah, — always the same.

Nichette. Did she leave with you the little bundle that I requested of her the other day ?

Nanine. Yes ; but you are not going to carry it ?

Nichette. Why not? It is not heavy.

Nanine. You had better let me send it to you, and save you the trouble.

Nichette. I thank you. But nothing is a trouble that I do for Camille. Please tell her that I will do these very nicely, and bring them to her in a few days, and that I left my love for her. Adieu, Nanine ! Adieu, Monsieur! [Uxit.

Varville. Umph ! A very pretty girl ! Who is she ?

Nanine. That is Madmoiselle Nichette.

Varville. Nichette ! That's the name of a cat, not a woman.

Nanine. It is a pet name that Camille gave her. They are very fond of each other. They used to be companions, and worked together in the same room.

Varville. What ! Worked ? Did Camille ever work ?

Nanine. Yes — she was an embroidress.

Varville. Why, I never knew that before.

Nanine. It was your own fault, Monsieur; for Madam has made no secret of it.

Varville. This little puss — puss — what's her name ? Ah ! this Nichette, as you call her, is rather pretty.

Nanine. And more — she is wise.

Varville. Wise! Ah, yes, — well, wise is a good word. But who is this Monsieur Gustave who was waiting for her below ?

Nanine. He is her husband.

Varville. Oh, then he is Monsieur Nichette !

Nanine. That is, he is not her husband yet ; but he will be, and that is the same thing.

Varville. I understand. She is wise as the world goes. But she has a lover.

Nanine. Who loves but her, and who will marry her, and make her a good husband. And take my word for it, she is a good girl, and deserves all the happiness he can bestow upon her.

Varville. So thrives everybody's suit but mine. Nanine, do you think Camille cares any more for me than she used to ? That is, do you think she really loves me ?

CAMILLE.

Nanine. Not the least little bit in the world!

Varville. What ? Pheugh ! [Aside.] A strange way of answering a civil question that girl's got! [To Nanine.'] But it must be said that she has strange taste, or she never could endure the tedious visits of that old Monsieur de Meuriac. They must be very annoying.

Nanine. You would not think so if you could hear how Madam speaks of him. Besides, poor old man, it is the only happiness he has, and he regards her as his own child.

Varville. Oh, yes ! By the way, I heard of that verj pathetic and interesting story ; but unhappily I Gannot believe it.

Nanine. Then listen to me and I will endeavor to convince you. There are many evil things said of Madam, and with truth ; but that is the very reason why things that are not true should not be said. About two years ago, Camille, after a long illness, determined to visit the celebrated waters of Bagneres, to recover, if possible, her health. I accompanied her. Among the invalids at the hotel there was a lovely young girl, the same age as Camille, suffering from the same complaint, and bearing such strong resemblance to her, that wherever they went, they were called the twin sisters. This young girl was Madmoiselle de Meuriac, daughter of the Duke.

Varville. Madmoiselle de Meuriac died.

Nanine. She did.

Varville. Oh, yes ! I have heard this story before; and that the Duke implored Camille to change her course of life, promising that if she would consent to do so, he would charge himself with all her wants, and introduce her to society in which she would be loved and honored. Camille at length consented. This was not two years since; and to-night she is at the opera, the Queen of the Camelias, fifty thousand francs in debt.

Nanine. Which you have kindly offered to pay. Yes, you are right, Mon. de Varville. Madam is gayer now than she

CAMILLE.

ever was before; but no one knows her heart. Ah, sir, you would have pitied her had you seen her efforts to please the world in which the Duke de Meuriac sought to gain her a position. She was so gentle, so child-like, it seemed as if the spirit of the dead girl had left its innocence with her, and blotted out all record of the past. Day by day all who knew her grew to love her. But this was not to last. The Duke was called away. In his absence her story reached the circle in which she moved. From that moment it was closed against her. She was shunned as an adder ; and in their cruel sneers they told her to go back to Paris and wear Camelias. She did return to Paris — met old friends, who gave a warmer welcome to her faults than the better world had given to her virtues. [Boor-bell rings.'] Ah, here she is ! Shall I tell her what you were saying ?

Varville. No, Nanine — you are too amiable to make mischief.

[Enter Camille.~]

Camille. [To Nanine. ~] Order supper. Olimpe and Gaston will be here presently. I met them at the opera. [Exit Nanine. Seeing Varville.^ Ah, you are there !

Varville. Yes, it is my destiny to await you.

Camille. And it is my destiny to find you ever here on my return.

Varville. And it shall continue to be until you forbid me your door.

Camille. Indeed ! am I never to enter this house without finding you here before me ? What have you got to say, now that you are here ?

Varville. You know the only subject of my heart.

Camille. Heart ! I'm sick of that.

Varville. Is it my fault if I love you too well ?

Camille. There it is again ! My good friend, if I were to listen to every man who tells me he loves me, I would not have time to breakfast. For the hundreth time, I repeat, Mon. de Varville, it will not do ! You are losing time. You

CAMILLE.

are ever welcome to enter here — when I go out, and to leave when I enter: but if you will insist on speaking to me of your love, you must not come at all.

Varville. A year ago, at Bagneres, Camille, you thought differently.

Camille. Yes ; but that was a year ago. At Bagneres. A very dull place. I was sick. Things have changed. This is Paris. I am better now.

Varville. Especially, since the Duke de Meuriac has adopted you.

Camille. You are a fool !

Varville. Or, perhaps, since the Count de Giray has been the chosen one.

Camille. Monsieur de Varville, I am at liberty to love whom I please. That is purely my affair — certainly not yours. And if you have nothing else to say, go home. Good night. [He goes up and sits at the fire. She goes to the piano and plays.']

Varville. Bravo ! Bravo !

Camille. Are you not gone yet ?

Varville. No, not yet. I am waiting your better humor. [She coughs.'] You are ill, Camille. What's the matter. Camille. Nothing, I will be better — when you are gone. Varville. Ah, I see my star is not propitious. So, I will say good night. Camille, shall I call to-morrow at one?

Camille. Yes, do. [Aside.] I shall be out from twelve till five.

Varville. Adieu. [Goes up.~\ [Enter Nanine, who announces Mademoiselle Olimpe and Monsieur Gaston, and exits. — Enter Olimpe and Gaston. Camille. Come in, Olimpe, I thought you were never coming to see me any more.

Olimpe. It was all his fault.

Gaston. Yes, all my fault ! It always is, you know. Ah, how are you, Varville ?

Varville. How are you, Gaston ? Glad to see you.

Gaston. You sup with us to-night ; do you not.

Varville. Do I, Camille ?

Camille. 'No — no ! Why, I thought you bid me good night just now.

Varville. So I did ; but I thought you called me back.

Cfaston. Well, my little girl ; how have you been all this time.

Camille. Oh, very well !

Gaston. So much the better. In passing the Cafe de Paris, I ordered some fine oysters and a basket of champagne of a certain brand, which they keep expressly for my use. It is excellent, I assure you ! So vive lajoil— -there will be no scarcity of amusement.

Olimpe. There never is when you are about.

Gaston. Mademoiselle Olimpe, you are a wicked woman.

Olimpe. No wonder, I keep bad company. [To Camille.] Will Prudence be here ?

Camille. Yes, she should be here by this time. [Calls at window.] Prudence.

Olimpe. Oh, Prudence is your neighbor, is she ?

Camille. Yes, she lives just opposite. It is very convenient. When I want her, I have only to open the window and call. [Calls. ~\ Prudence !

Gaston. Who is Madame Prudence ?

Olimpe. She is a milliner, and has but one customer, — Camille.

Gaston. What, Camille, do you wear all her bonnets ?

Camille. Oh, no, — heaven forbid! It is bad enough to have to pay for them. But she is a good, soul, with a heart as light as her purse. [Calls.'] Prudence !

Prudence. [Without.] Here lam.

Camille. Well, here we are waiting for you. Why do you not come.

Prudence-. I cannot just now.

Camille. What detains you ?

Prudence. A young man whom I have not seen for a long time has just stepped in to see me, and I cannot leave him alone.

Camille. Then bring him along. Quick ! Quick ! Ugh ! how cold it is ! Mon. de Varville, do pray, put some wood on that fire, I am frozen here. Make yourself useful, for you are not agreeable. [ Varville fixes fire.]

[Enter Nannie, who announces Monsieur Armand Duval and Madame Duverney.]

Camille . Bid them enter, [Exit Nanine.

Enter Armand and Prudence,

Prudence. My dear Camille, allow me to present to you Monsieur Armand Duval.

Camille. Must I rise ?

Armand. No, Madam ; it is not necessary. [Goes and speaks to others.']

Camtlle. [To Prudence.] Who is your friend?

Prudence. The man of all Paris who loves you the most.

Camille. Indeed! Tell Nanine to place another knife and fork upon the supper table ; for I dare say that love will never take away his appetite.

Prudence. Camille, I am serious. That young man loves you almost to madness.

Camille. Yes ! But he will not go mad.

[Olimpe presents Armand to Gaston.]

Gaston. Duval ! Oh, yes ; I heard that name before. Are you any relation to Monsieur Duval, that gruff, crusty old gentleman, who was sometime Receiver-General at Tours ?

Armand. Oh, yes ! He is my father. Do you know him?

Gaston. I have had that pleasure. I met him at the house of the Baroness de Nersay. Also your mother, Madam Duval, who was a very beautiful and charming lady.

Armand. Alas, sir ! she has been dead for three years.

Gaston. Pardon me, sir ! I was not aware of it, or I should not have recalled her memory.

Armand. Oh, sir ! you can never offend by reminding me

CAMILLE.

of my mother ; for next to possessing affections so beautiful and pure as hers, is the remembrance of them when they are beyond our reach.

G-aston. You are an only child.

Armand. Oh, no ! I have a dear sister. [They go up.] Camille. [To Prudence.'] I begin to like your friend. Prudence. I guessed it would be so ; and so I told him before we came.

Camille. And did he really tell you he loves me ? Prudence. To be sure he did, and more ; I knew it long ago. But you laugh so at the idea of love, that I did not dare to say so.

Olimpe. What are you two whispering about there ? Camille. Listen and you shall know. Monsieur de Varville, will you ever cease that noise ?

Varville. Noise ! Why you told me to play all the time. Camille. That was when I was alone with you ; but I need no pastime now.

Prudence. Well, as I was saying, for two years you have been his only thought. You may remember when you were ill a year ago, before you went to Bagneres, that during the three months you were confined to bed, you were told a young man called every day to learn how you were ; but never left his name.

Camille. Oh, I remember.

Prudence. It was he.

Camille. Monsieur DuvaL Armand. Madam ?

Camille. Bo you know what they are telling me here : — that when I was ill a year ago, you called each day to learn how I was.

Armand. It is true madam.

Camille. Ah, Monsieur Varville, do you hear that ? Varville. Why I haven't known you a whole year. Camille. And Monsieur Duval has known me just five minutes. \_N~anine and servants bring in supper table.] Prudence. That's right, Nanine, you're a sensible girl.

CAMILLE.

I certainly should have died with hunger if that table had not appeared.

Varville. Adieu, Camille, I am going.

Camille. I don't believe you.

Varville. You may, for I am off.

Camille. When shall I see you again ?

Varville. Whenever you please.

Camille. Well, that is the most agreeable thing you have said to night. Adieu ! [Exit Varville.']

Olimpe. Adieu, Monsieur de Varville ; don't forget your promise.

Gaston. Here, save your politeness; you will want it presently.

Camille. Now, my friends, to supper. Come, be seated. Armand you will sit next to me. [They sit at table]

Prudence. Well, Camille, I think you treat that poor Count de Varville very badly.

Camille. Poor ! You would not think him poor if you heard him counting over his revenue.

Olimpe. I wish he would count some of it over to me.

Gaston. Are you not satisfed, madam, with your present choice ?

Olimpe. Well, I ought to be, after that beautiful present you made me the other day. Camille, you connot guess what he gave me on my birth-day.

Camille. No, what was it ?

Olimpe. A carriage.

Camille A carriage ! I am sure that was a very handsome present.

Olimpe. But I have no horses ; and he wont buy me any.

Camille. Never mind — they will follow. Keep the carriage.

Olimpe. Alas ! it is only a candy one.

Gaston. My dear girl, if you desire to prove the sincerity of your affections, love me for myself alone.

Olimpe. There's a modest request.

Prudence. What is that dish?

Gaston. Partridges.

Prudence. Give me some of them,

Gaston. A wing, you mean.

Prudence. Monsieur Gaston, you are a boy.

Gaston. You must forgive me, I was not aware that ladies ' appetites grew with their age.

Prudence. Age ! And what age do you suppose I am ?

Gaston. I do not know. Indeed I never studied ancient history. But' you do not look more than forty, upon my honor.

Prudence. Forty ! Thirty-six, if you please.

Gaston. Forty and thirty-six. Seventy — well, it does look more like that, I confess.

Prudence. Camille, will you speak to Monsieur Gaston ? He is doing all he can to take away my appetite. And what are you doing there ? You are not eating at all. Hand me some oysters, dear, and fill up Monsieur Duval's glass.

Camille. Good! Let us fill to my health, Armand !

All To the health of Camille !

Camille. Gaston you have not helped Olimpe.

Gaston. Haven't I though ?

Prudence. Come sit by me. I'll help you. Gaston has no idea of how to administer to a delicate appetite.

Gaston. Madam Prudence, have you ever had your throat examined !

Olimpe. Don't heed him, Madam Duverney. He is thinking of Amanda's throat, and the time she caught cold in the yellow carriage.

Camille. Oh, by the way, yes ! What was that about the yellow carriage ? Do let me hear it.

Gaston. My dear, will you come sit by me ? I'll mix a salad for you.

Prudence. No, thank you, she is better here. Will you have another bird, my dear ?

Gaston. That old woman must have a cast-iron stomach.

OAMILLE. 15

Prudence. What do you have supper for, if it is not to eat?

Olimpe. Why, you see Prudence, sometimes persons have suppers prepared for them that they do not eat ; and sometimes persons go to great expense to have a supper served up in elegant style, a little out of town, and invite a beautiful girl to sup with them ; and when they call to accompany her, they arrive just in time to see her drive off to the supper with another, and in the very yellow carriage they had bought for her !

Gaston. Mademoiselle Olimpe, that was a very stupid story.

Olimpe. But the sequel is very interesting. Shall I tell it?

All — (except Gaston.) Yes! yes! the sequel.

Camille. Let us drink to the hero of the yellow carriage.

All. To the hero of the yellow carriage !

Gaston. I'll drink, if it's only for the sake of the wine. Down goes the yellow carriage.

Camille. Now for a dance. Clear away the table.

Prudence. I have not finished yet.

Camille. A polka ! A polka.

f They dance. Camille grows sick.']

Gaston. What's the matter, Camille ?

Camille. Nothing ! That cough again. That's all.

Armand. You are ill, madam !

Prudence. Give her something to eat.

Camille. A glass of water, please. I will be better soon. It is nothing. See, I am well already. Monsieur Duval, and you, Gaston, step into the other room, and before you have your segars lit, I will be with you. [Aside to the ladies.] Go with them. I am not well.

Prudence. Yes, let us leave her. She is better alone when these attacks arrive. [J_sz<ie.] It is always the way. Just as we are enjoying ourselves, on comes that cough again, and all our fun is over.

[Exeunt Gaston, Prudence and Olimpe.

Armand. [Aside, ,] Poor girl !

Camille. How pale I am ! Ah !

Armand. Well, Mademoiselle, how do you feel now ?

Camille. Ah, Monsieur Armand, is it you ? Better, thank you. I have grown used to these of late.

Armand. You are killing yourself. I would I had the right to save you from yourself.

Camille. It is too late. Why, what's the matter with you?

Armand. You have made me ill.

Camille. Don't be foolish. Pray go into the next room, and enjoy yourself with the others. See, they do not heed me.

Armand. Ah, Camille, let me be your nurse — your doctor. I will guard you like a brother — shield you from this feverish existence, which is bringing you to your grave — surround you with a thousand little cares that will make you in love with life — then when you are strong and well, and can enjoy it, I will be as your guiding star, and lead your thoughts to find content in a home more worthy of you.

Camille. Monsieur Duval, if you would not offend me, let us change this subject. Do not deceive yourself — you cannot deceive me. You are not speaking to the cherished daughter of society ; but to a woman of the world — friendless, fearless — loved by those whose vanity she gratifies — despised by those who ought to pity her.

Armand. Camille, have you a heart ?

Camille. Why do you ask ?

Armand. Because, if you have, you could not make so light a matter of my words.

Camille. Are you really serious ?

Armand. Very serious.

Camille. Prudence told me you were sentimental.

Armand. Prudence could not tell you how I love you.

Camille. And you still think you love me ?

Armand. Camille, I cannot jest. This is the most serious moment of my life. My destiny is in your hands. You are young, lovely, loveable. The world in which you live is at your feet — -smiles when you smile — is gay when you are gay. But does it weep with you, and in your sad and silent hours, does it hover around you with its care, and cheer you with its love ? No ! No ! Then leave this tainted sphere. It is not worthy of you. Listen to the voice of one who truly loves you. Give me leave to find your heart, and teach it how to throb anew — to make it my shrine, my sanctuary, my home.

Camille. Are you sure you would take good care of it ?

Armand. Trust me.

Camille. For how long ?

Armand. Forever.

Camille. How long has this lasted ?

Armand. For two years.

Camille. How came it you never told me of this before ?

Armand. I never knew you until now.

Camille. You could very easily have made my acquaintance. When I was ill, and you came each day to inquire after me, why did you not ask to see me ?

Armand. Pardon me !

Camille. Why, you loved me then ?

Armand. Yes, too well to take a liberty I would not allow another to take in the house of the woman I respected.

Camille. So you really think you love me ?

Armand. When you shall give me the right to say so, you will one day learn how well.

Camille. It were better never told,

Armand. And why ?

Camille* Because it can result in but one of two things. First, that I will not believe it ; or, believing it, cause you to wish I never had. I am but a sorrowful companion, at the best. Always sick, impatient, nervous, fretful — or, if gay, a gaiety more terrible than tears — expensive, too — a revenue of thirty thousand francs, and always in debt. This may do for the dear old Duke, who loves me as his child, has plenty of money, and no one to spend it. It would not do for you. Now we'll talk sense. Give me your hand. Let us join the others, and I'll light your segar.

Armand. Excuse me, Camille. Enter if you will : but allow me to remain.

Camille. What's the matter?

Armand. Pardon me. I am not well.

Camille. Shall I prescribe for you?

Armand. Speak.

Camille. Go home and go to bed. Dream all night of some dear girl, more worthy of your love than I. If indeed you love me, you have wronged yourself. You are too good to be deceived. You love too well to be unloved. But love wisely. Choose from a holier sphere than this the woman you would love. Then seal that love upon the altar. Take her to your bosom fresh with a parent's blessing ; or, if she have none, let her merit that of heaven !

Armand. Camille, have you ever loved ?

Camille. Never.

Armand. Thanks ! Thanks ! If you but knew how I have sought to learn what you have told me in that little word — how I have followed in your path — how I have cherished for six months a little button which fell from your glove

Camille. I would not believe it. I have heard these tales before.

Armand. You are right. I know not what I say. I am a fool! Yes, laugh ! I deserve it all. Good night.

Camille. Armand !

Armand. Did you call ?

Camille. Let us not part in anger.

Armand. Anger ! Oh, Camille, if you could read my heart !

Camille. Then let us make it up. Come and see me often. We will speak of this again.

Armand. Ah, still you laugh.

Camille. Speak, Armand ; I am not laughing now.

Armand. Will you be loved ?

Camille. For how long ?

Armand. For eternity !

Camille. Alas ! my life may yet be happy — it cannot be long — and short as it may be, it may outlive your promise.

Armand. Now, who is melancholy ?

Camille. Not I. The weight that chained me to her throne 's removed, and all around breathes ecstacy ! But it grows late, and you must away.

Armand. When shall I see you again ?

Camille. [Giving him a camelia.] When this little flower is faded, bring it back to me again.

Armand. Ah, Camille, you have made me blessed.

Camille. It is a strange flower, Armand — pale, scentless, cold ; but sensitive as purity itself. Cherish it, and its beauty will excel the loveliest flower that grows ; but wound it with a single touch, you never can recal its bloom, or wipe away the stain. Take it, and remember me. Now go.

Armand. Adieu ! [Exit.]

Camille. He loves me. There is a new found meaning in those simple words that never fall upon my ears before.

[Comille goes to piano and plays. Singing and revelry is heard in adjoining room. Prudence, Olimpe and Gaston enter dressed fantastically in each other' 's hats and bonnets.]

Camille. What on earth have you been doing ?

Prudence. We have been amusing ourselves in honor of the new alliance.

Gaston. Yes, I am to be bride.

Prudence. No ! Bridesmaid, you mean.

Gaston. [Mimicking a lady]. If I can't be bride, I shan't be anything else, I assure you.

Olimpe. Now let's rehearse the bridal dance.

Gaston. Oh, yes ! A dance ! A dance ! Camille, play for us !

[Camille plays on Piano. Fantastic dance.]

[end of act.]