Ah! trust me, uncle! such a destiny is
beyond the reach of fortune's malice; 'tis the anti-type of heaven.

_De Val._ (_Grasping her hand suddenly, convulsed with agitation._) 'Tis
the distracting mockery of hell that cheats us with an hour's ecstatic
dream to torture us eternally: girl! girl! wouldst thou find happiness,
die! seek it in the grave, only in the grave--a watchful fiend destroys
it upon earth! Prat'st thou of love? Connubial and parental love? Ah!
dear-lov'd objects of my soul! what are ye now--ashes, ashes, darkly
scattering to the midnight winds. God! the flames yet blaze--here,
here--my brain's on fire! [_Rushes out._

_Ger._ Uncle! listen to your Geraldine! --Ah! ingrate that I am! the
vulture that gnaws his generous heart, had slumbered for a moment, and I
have waked it to renew its cruelty! my fault was unawares, yet I could
chide it like a crime; my mounting spirits fall from their giddy height
at once. Oh! uncle! noble, suffering uncle! would that my tears could
wash away the recollection of my words. [_Weeps._

_De Valmont_ suddenly returns and embraces _Geraldine_.

_De Val._ Geraldine! dear child, forgive me! my violence has terrified
your gentle nature. I would not pain you, love, for worlds; but I am not
always master of myself, and my passions will sometimes break forth
rebellious to my reason; pity and forgive the infirmities of grief.

_Ger._ Ah! Sir. (_Attempts to kneel._)

_De Val._ (_Preventing her, and kissing her forehead._) Bless you, my
good and innocent child; nay, do not speak to me, my happiness is lost
forever, but I can pray for yours. Bless you, my child! bless you ever.
[_Breaks from her, and exit.

_Ger._ My happiness! ah! if the exalted virtues of a soul like yours, my
uncle, despair of the capricious boon, how shall the undeserving
Geraldine presume to hope?

Enter _Rosabelle_.

_Ros._ Oh! my lady, such news, he's arrived, he's in the hall.

_Ger._ My Florian?

_Ros._ No, lady, not your Florian, but my L'Eclair, not quite so great a
hero as his master to be sure, but yet a real, proper, mettlesome
soldier every inch; he looks about him among the men so fierce and so
warlike; then with the women, he's so impudent, and so audacious;--oh!
he's a special fellow.

_L'Eclair_ speaks without.

_L'Ec._ Here's a set of rascals! no discipline? no subordination in the
house! eh! look to the baggage, curry down my charger! hem! ha!

Enter _L'Eclair_.