example, then, of the comedies which delight a French audience, and as enabling us to appreciate their character, suppose we give an analysis of this celebrated play.

At the opening, we find the Vicomte André de la Rivonnière suffering from the pains of an ill-regulated household. He is on the point of joining his father, the Count, at Dieppe, but is detained by a succession of visitors. The first is a Madame Godefroy, to whom the Count made love in his younger days, and who, though strictly virtuous, has no objection to marry him now that she is a widow. To this his son gladly accedes, for his father is a terrible old rake, though fifty, as we have seen, and he would like to see him settled down. Next enters an old battered roué, one De Tournas, who lives by borrowing money of his friends, and on the reputation of the fortune he had devoured in his youth. To them is added Albertine, a gay lady, who has held André in her silken nets ere now, and pays him a visit. But André is summoned away to meet a bill his prodigal father had drawn on him, and the lady is left with De Tournas, to whom she expounds her philosophy in the following

manner:

Albertine. Talking of Lorédan, I am, perhaps, the only person who offered him a helping hand upon his discomfiture. I took him fifteen thousand francs. He was a very honest fellow, and refused them. I expected that he would, but still I did my duty.

De Tournas. Fifteen thousand francs. Exactly one year's interest of his fortune. Well! and then?

Albertine. When he had not a halfpenny left, after paying his debts, instead of marrying, which he might easily have done, because he is a handsome fellow and of good family, he found a situation of six thousand francs a year on a foreign railway. He is very well, and quite happy.

De Tournas. And he possesses your esteem?

The

Albertine. Yes, he does, and, mind, everybody is not so fortunate. men who ruin themselves for us are fools, that I grant; but there are some honest men among them, who remain so afterwards, and that is not easy. After that, it is quite unnecessary for us to exchange disagreeable remarks, eh? Wolves don't devour one another, and I know you.

By her philosophy the lady has contrived to save thirty thousand francs a year, and intends to retire as soon as she has increased it to forty thousand. She then proposes to sell all her jewels and cashmeres, and live charily, her only occupation being to love, which she has not hitherto found the time to do. During the conversation the couple are joined by the Count, whose inflammable old heart is touched by the charms of the lady, and a very leste interchange of sallies goes on, which proves that M. Dumas has graduated with honours in the Rue Bréda. When the lady has departed, André reappears on the scene, and reads his father a high moral lesson on his extravagance. At length, André offers his father forty thousand francs a year if he will make over to him his estates, but does not tell him that he is entirely ruined, and that the money comes out of his own pocket, being exactly one-half his fortune. These matters satisfactorily settled, the prodigal papa imparts the great secret which has brought him to Paris: he is madly in love with Hélène de Brignan, a young lady he has met at Dieppe, to whom André is secretly attached. He, however, subdues his own feelings, and agrees to go courting for his father.

In the second act we find ourselves at Dieppe, where M. de Lorédan and the Comte de Naton converse generally about matters connected with the fair sex. The former gentleman is a misanthropist pour cause, and expresses his feelings in the following outburst:

What I blame Albertine for is her saving propensities: you have to do with an economical woman, the most dangerous of the breed. However, this amphibious race, half Aspasia, half Harpagon, is a recent product of our progressive folly in love affairs. Formerly, these demoiselles were born in a garret, and died, no matter where. That served them as an excuse beforehand, and as a pardon afterwards. Gaiety, carelessness, and prodigality accompanied them along the road, sometimes even love: they were ever reckless, often goodhearted, sometimes devoted. If a man ruined himself it was with them, and not for them. Now-a-days you ruin yourself sorrowfully, without a smile, as if compelled to do so. These ladies are no longer living beings, but machines moved by mysterious and invisible wheels, like a steam-mill. When they have seized a little finger, unless you have the presence of mind and courage to sacrifice it at once, you pass under the millstones, and even the smallest grain has to offer its contingent of flour to this incessantly revolving mill. These ladies keep a book of receipts and expenses like a grocer, and if a young and simple lover ransacks their drawers to find a rival's letters, he comes across a quire of paper ruled in double columns, on one side of which he reads, "Received of M. X., a thousand francs;" on the other, Pot-herbs, a penny.”

The gentlemen are soon joined by the Count, who keeps the ball moving, and holds a fiery dissertation on the absence of old women from the world. He says that young men are entirely to blame for this, as they only ask of women that they should be pretty. Formerly, ladies accepted old age as a necessity, and exchanged love for friendship, beauty for esprit, youth for grace, and gallantry for good humour. Their salons were thronged by young men who desired to form themselves, and they kept up a certain control over fashionable society. Now-a-days, women, both old and young, seek factitious charms in rouge and false locks, and you are disgusted at seeing grandmothers aping the younger generation, and contending with them for their lovers. Still, this laudator temporis acti is not true to his theory, for he has selected a young girl for his future wife. Desirous, however, of hearing her real sentiments when his son is pressing the father's suit, the Count hits on the old expedient of overhearing the conversation from an adjoining room. It is thus that Hélène expresses her views about marriage to her aunt, when André has retired from the attack:

Listen, my dear aunt: I reflect sometimes-often, even; and, since we are on this point, I will tell you the result of my reflections, especially as I find them to-day to be more rational than I fancied. After passing their sixteenth year-and you know it as well as I do, for you have not long passed that ageall girls, rich or poor, voluntarily or unconsciously, are engaged with one subject -marriage. That is the great curiosity, the grand mystery. What will this husband be like? Where is he? We begin at first by imagining him tall, handsome, romantic, with his eyes raised to heaven; he overturns mountains in order to reach us. Then we enter the world, and, alas! we have scarce compared the husband dreamed of with the possible husband, than our poor ideal falls to pieces. Some then go to the contrary extreme, and, believing that they cannot obtain from destiny what they ambitioned, only ask of marriage the noise, pleasure, and excitement of the world; others sincerely consult their nature, their tastes, and say to themselves that there are eternal conditions of happiness, like the light of the sun; it is youth, faith, the intelligence of good;

VOL. XLVII.

D

it is the love of children for their parents, of the wife for her husband, of the mother for her babes. With this conviction the young girl should find, if not the poetic chevalier she has dreamed, at least a young, loyal, and good man, who, feeling in her as in himself the sentiment of good, will say to her: "I esteem you, I love you, as my wife. Let us join; not to couple our escutcheons and our fortunes, but to love sincerely, to endure together the joys and griefs of this world; to be a force and an example." Well, my dear aunt, the day I have found this man-all the better if he belong to my caste, but no matter if he does not-I will marry him; for the important thing, look you, is not to be noble, is not to be rich-it is to be happy.

This simple confession of faith overpowers the old Count, and he recognises that his son possesses all the qualities Hélène demands. He therefore joins their hands, and all begin weeping, after the French fashion, the Aunt confessing that she had forgotten how to cry; but the Count reminds her that tears are always where there are children.

In the third act we find Hélène and André married, and the Count living with them. The old gentleman is very proud of his new daughter, and has taken her about to balls and parties during his son's absence on business. The latter is about to speak his mind to the Count, when he is summoned away by a visitor. This is a married lady whom André had known previously to marriage, and who insisted on seeing him again for the last time. He is in a most awkward dilemma for fear Hélène should find it out, but the Count takes the affair on himself in a most paternal manner, and gets rid of the lady by engaging her to express her feelings by writing to André, under cover to himself. At this moment De Tournas comes to trouble the Count's felicity by telling him the cancans afloat in society, and informs him that it is currently reported that André is jealous of his attentions to Hélène. The Count cannot believe it; but De Tournas tells him to try his son's feelings by saying he is about to travel for a year, and see how he takes the news. In his embarrassment the Count seeks advice of Madame Godefroy, who happens to come in. Read the following passage, put in the mouth of an honnête femme, and then form an opinion of modern Parisian society from M. Dumas's point of view:

Cer

Oh, my opinion is that people who know you cannot make any mistake; but those and they are the majority-who have only heard of your luxury, prodigality, and amours, are ready to accept the most ridiculous reports about you. Now, opinion is made by the majority, and there is no middle term. According to it, when a man has assumed certain habits he is capable of anything. tainly, it is original and amusing to make a son a friend, a comrade, a witness of all your actions; but on one condition, that all your actions must be examples to him, if not, they will become his excuses on the day that he thinks proper to behave badly. Are you quite sure that all your doings could, and ought, to be known by your son? If you are, you deceive yourself, my friend. Follow opinion since your youth, listen to its flatteries, its hesitations, its decision. Do you know that young Count Fernand de la Rivonnière, who has just arrived at Paris with his wife? He is charming. He has a lovely boy; they are happy, and they deserve it. Madame de la Rivonnière is dead. What, that adorable lady? What a misfortune! The husband is inconsolable, poor young man! All the women sympathise with him. At the end of two years he reappears in the world. Ah! he is consoling himself; still, he cannot weep all his life. What parties he gives !-what splendid horses!-what a well-appointed house! He must be rich, then? Oh, a fourfold millionnaire. Oh, oh, that is a large sum; he is devouring his capital a little. He is said to be the lover of the Baroness

-, of the Duchess de

de of the Countess deHis son is fifteen years of age. Have you seen him? His father takes him everywhere; he is wrong he is right. He must take care; the young man has a mistress. Ah, ah! a ballet girl. What does his father say? Oh, he finds it quite natural. How could a father, who has enjoyed life, prevent his son doing so? A good dog shows his breed. You know that the La Rivonnières are ruined, or nearly so? That was to be expected; but the father is going to marry Mlle. de Brignac. Is it possible? It is certain. Have you heard the news? It is the son who has married Mlle. de Brignac, and the father arranged matters. And the father? Oh, he lives with the young people, and is quite steady. Nonsense! there is something behind the cards. He steady! it is impossible. He is in love, you may be sure. With whom? With Mlle. de Brignac. But she is his son's wife. No matter. Oh! you do not know him; he is a libertine, a debauchee. Well, perhaps it is so; he takes his daughter-in-law to balls and theatres while his son is absent. He allows no one to approach her he is jealous-he is loading her with presents-ruining himself for her: it is scandalous! Well, then, he is his daughter-in-law's lover?-perhaps was so before, who knows, eh?

The poor Count tries the test, and his suspicions are confirmed by the coolness with which André receives the news of his approaching departure.

With the fourth act we find that, instead of the Count leaving Paris, André and Hélène have proceeded to Italy. The old Count is leading a deplorable life. Albertine is openly living with him in the paternal mansion. The first scene is an admirable satire on the "traviati." De Naton has returned to Albertine's side, and she treats him with the most consummate indifference, of which he naturally complains. Here is a specimen of the scene:

De Naton. So you never loved me?
Albertine. Never, my friend.

De Naton. And yet you said so.

Albertine. That I loved you, oh yes. Women say such things, but they mean nothing. A woman only loves a man whom she recognises as superior to others and to herself, either in mind, heart, or character; but men like you, my dear De Naton-you need not deceive yourself-can be found everywhere. One is the photograph of the other, and Nature takes as many copies as she likes, without any fatigue.

De Naton. But I loved you.

Albertine. No; you came to see me, like other men came. A man belonging to a certain class must have it in his power to say, at a certain hour, while passing his hand through his hair: "I am going to Titine or Loulou!" You can no longer visit Titine, so go to Loulou; it will be precisely the same thing. When you have carried this game on for ten years, you will be ruined; but you will have a nickname in your turn, and you will be called "Bibi." Come, that is the best thing you can do; and if you profit by the lesson, you have no cause of complaint. Fifty thousand francs! It was not dear.

So soon as De Naton has departed, enters De Tournas, who has become the âme damnée of Albertine. She employs him as her spy on the Count, whom she entertains a design of marrying; but she is greatly vexed to hear of André's return to France, for she fears his power over his father. Hence she persuades the Count to leave Paris with her, and he has agreed to do so, when André makes his appearance. He commits the folly of threatening to withdraw the allowance he makes his father, and they part after a stormy scene, in which the Count behaves with much dignity. Just at this time arrives M. de Prailles, husband of

the mysterious lady who had visited André after his marriage. He has found a letter addressed to the Count among her papers, and determines to deliver it himself, so as to obtain satisfaction. The Count takes the intrigue on himself, for fear of any harm befalling his son, and they agree to meet the next morning.

The fifth act plays at an hotel at Fontainebleau, where André and Hélène are residing. The Count joins them here, and tells his son that he has left Albertine for ever, and is about to quit the country. He is a ruined man, and throws himself on his son's generosity. At the same time they come to a perfect explanation on the subject of André's supposed jealousy of his father, and all promises a return of happiness, were it not for the impending duel, of which the Count does not breathe a word to his son. After a while Albertine arrives to make her conditions, now that the Count has left her entirely, and the scene between her and André is so characteristic that we cannot refrain from quoting it:

Albertine (raising her veil). It is I.

André. You here!

Albertine. Is it not an hotel-neutral ground, consequently? And besides, it is not the first time you have received me. However, to pacify your conscience, we have business which does not concern you personally. It is not Mademoiselle Albertine, shortly, whom you now receive, but Madame de la Borde, propriétaire and holder of a bill of exchange.

André. Bill of exchange?

Albertine. Yes; here it is, for forty thousand francs, accepted by the Count de la Rivonnière.

André. Ah! he told me of it. Then we owe you forty thousand francs? Plus the commission ?

Albertine. Of course.

André. Suppose we say fifty thousand?

Albertine. That will do admirably. Then there is a certain necklace.

André. Here it is. I was requested to hand it you.

Albertine. I do not care for it: it is a toy for a lady of the world. I am not rich enough to wear on my neck a sum representing a thousand francs a year. André. Then you value it at twenty thousand francs ?

Albertine. Yes.

André. Then that makes seventy thousand francs. Is that all?

Albertine. Yes! I have only to hand you the keys of the cellars and linenclosets. You will see in what condition the house is.

André. Did my father write to you?

Albertine. Yes, sometimes.

André. Where are the letters ?

Albertine. Here. I was going to give them to you.

André (tearing them up). Twenty thousand francs for the keys and the letters! Is that enough?

Albertine. More than sufficient.

André. One cannot pay too much for the happiness of regaining a father.
Albertine. Here is your little bit of paper.

André. And here an order on my solicitor.

Albertine, having thus made a capital thing of it, retires to marry De Tournas, while André is thrown into a frightful state of alarm by hearing that his father is fighting a duel for him. Fortunately the old gentleman soon returns, having had the satisfaction of shooting M. de Prailles through the arm-a very proper lesson for husbands who are so imbecile as to interfere with their wives' little distractions. The curtain falls with