h! here they
are.

_Enter_ MELNOTTE _and_ PAULINE

WIDOW. Oh, my boy--the pride of my heart!--welcome, welcome. I beg
pardon, ma'am, but I do love him so!

PAULINE. Good woman, I really--why, Prince, what is this?--does the old
lady know you? Oh, I guess you have done her some service. Another proof
of your kind heart; is it not?

MEL. Of my kind heart, ay!

PAULINE. So you know the Prince?

WIDOW. Know him, madam? Ah, I begin to fear it is you who know him not!

PAULINE. Can we stay here, my lord? I think there's something very wild
about her.

MEL. Madam, I--no, I cannot tell her; what a coward is a man who has
lost his honor! Speak to her--speak to her--[_to his mother_] tell her
that--O Heaven, that I were dead!

PAULINE. How confused he looks!--this strange place!--this woman--what
can it mean?--I half suspect--who are you, madam?--who are you? can't
you speak? are you struck dumb?

WIDOW. Claude, you have not deceived her? Ah, shame upon you! I thought
that, before you went to the altar, she was to have known all.

PAULINE. All! what! My blood freezes in my veins!

WIDOW. Poor lady--dare I tell her, Claude? Know you not, then, madam,
that this young man is of poor though honest parents? Know you not that
you are wedded to my son, Claude Melnotte?

PAULINE. Your son! hold--hold! do not speak to me. [_Approaches_
MELNOTTE.] Is this a jest? is it? I know it is, only speak--one
word--one look--one smile. I cannot believe--I who loved thee so--I
cannot believe that thou art such a--no, I will not wrong thee by a
harsh word! Speak.

MEL. Leave us. [_To_ WIDOW.] Have pity on her, on me; leave us!

WIDOW. Oh, Claude, that I should live to see thee bowed by shame! thee
of whom I was so proud! [_Exit._

PAULINE. Her son--her son!

MEL. Now, lady, hear me.

PAULINE. Hear thee!
Ay, speak--her son! have fiends a parent? speak,
That thou mayst silence curses--speak!

MEL. No, curse me;
Thy curse would blast me less than thy forgiveness.

PAULINE [_laughing wildly_]. This is thy palace, where "the
perfumed light
Steals through the mist of alabaster lamps,
And every air is heavy with the sighs
Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes,
And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth
I' the midst of roses!--Dost thou like the picture?"
This is my brida