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                          THE STANDARD DRAMA.

                          The Acting Edition.

                              NO. CCXXV.


                            THE ROMANCE OF
                           A POOR YOUNG MAN.

                  A Drama, adapted from the French of
                           OCTAVE FEUILLET,

           BY MESSRS. PIERREPONT EDWARDS AND LESTER WALLACK.

                          TO WHICH ARE ADDED

    A Description of the Costume--Cast of the Characters--Entrances
    and Exits--Relative Positions of the Performers on the Stage, and
    the whole of the Stage Business

    Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1859, by LESTER
    WALLACK, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the
    Southern District of New York.

                               NEW YORK:
                       SAMUEL FRENCH, PUBLISHER,
                    122 NASSAU STREET, (UP STAIRS.)




CHARACTERS REPRESENTED.


    _Manuel, Marquis de Champcey_, Mr. Lester Wallack.

    _Doctor Desmarets,--formerly of the French Army_, Mr. Brougham.

    _M. de Bevannes--a man of the world_, Mr. Walcot.

    _Gaspar Laroque--an aged man, formerly Captain of a Privateer_,
          Mr. Dyott.

    _Alain--a confidential domestic_, Mr. Young.

    _M. Nouret--a Notary_, Mr. Levere.

    _Yvonnet--a Breton Shepherd_, Mr. Baker.

    _Henri_, Mr. Oliver.

    _Louis_, Mr. Coburn.

    _Madame Laroque--Daughter-in-Law to Gaspar_, Mrs. Vernon.

    _Marguerite--her daughter_, Mrs. Hoey.

    _Mlle Helouin--a Governess_,

    _Madame Aubrey--a relative of the Laroque family_,
          Miss Mary Gannon.

  _Louise Vauberger--formerly nurse to Manuel, now keeper of a lodging
          house_, Mrs. Walcot.

  _Christine--a Breton peasant girl_, Miss Fanny Reeves.

  _Guests, Servants, Peasantry, &c., &c._


The events of the Drama take place (during the 1st Act) in Paris,
afterward in the Province of Britanny.

Costumes of the present day.

The Overture, incidental Music, and Choruses composed and arranged by
Mr. Robert Stoepel.




A POOR YOUNG MAN.




TABLEAU I.


    _A Room, simply furnished--Table, Chairs, Arm Chair, Secretaire,
    Side Table--Door C._

    _MADAME VAUBERGER peeps in L._

_Madame Vauberger._ No; he has not yet returned. [_Enters._] Things
cannot go on in this manner much longer--I shall have to speak out, and
plainly too. And why not? Surely he won't take it ill from me--ah, no.
I, who loved his poor mother so, could never--What's this? A purse!
empty! And this key, left carelessly lying about; that's a bad sign.
[_Opens Secretaire._] No, not one solitary sous--his last coin came
yesterday to pay me the rent. In the drawer, perhaps--

    _DR. DESMARETS looks in._

_Dr. Desmarets._ Hallo! [_She starts._] What are you at there?

_Mad. V._ Me, sir? I was just--I was just--

_Des._ Poking your nose into that drawer--that what you call just?

_Mad. V._ I was dusting and putting the things in order, sir.

_Des._ I'll tell you what, Madame V., you're an extraordinary woman.
Yesterday, when I called, you were dusting--half-an-hour ago when I
called, you were dusting--and now, when I call again, you're dusting.
Where the devil you find so much dust to dust, _I_ can't think.

_Mad. V._ Ah, sir, look into this drawer.

_Des._ What for?

_Mad. V._ Is it not the place where, if one had money, one would
naturally keep it?

_Des._ I suppose so. What of that?

_Mad. V._ See, sir, it is empty.

_Des._ What's that to me?

_Mad. V._ And his purse, also.

_Des._ What's that to you?             [_Goes up and puts hat on table._

_Mad. V._ [_Aside._] I dare not tell him that Manuel is without a
meal--starving--I should never be forgiven. His _pride_ would be
wounded, and nothing could excuse that.

_Des._ Well, what are you cogitating about? Looking for something to
dust?

_Mad. V._ I'm thinking of the Marquis, sir.

_Des._ Well, what of him?

_Mad. V._ Is it not dreadful? Brought up as he has been--surrounded by
every luxury--and now reduced to want even. Oh! it is too hard--too
hard!

_Des._ Well, it's his own fault, isn't it? There was enough left from
the wreck of his father's property, to give him a sort of a living, and
he must needs go and settle it all upon his little sister Helen.

_Mad. V._ And for what? To give her the education befitting her rank.

_Des._ Fudge!

_Mad. V._ Doctor Desmarets, your're very unfeeling.

_Des._ Oh, of course, of course. I give him good advice, he rejects it.
I withdraw my sympathy, and then I'm unfeeling. If he can't manage
better with the little that's left him, egad! he may think himself lucky
that he can get his daily meals.

_Mad. V._ Sir, he can't even--[_Aside._] Oh, if I dared--

_Des._ Can't even what? Send for his coupe, I suppose, or drink Chateau
margaux--terrible hardships, truly. When there's nothing else in a man's
pocket, he had better put his pride there, and button it up tight.

_Mad. V._ Some day, sir, we shall find that he has taken poison, or cut
his throat.

_Des._ Ah! and then there'll be nothing to dust.

_Mad. V._ Monsieur, I repeat it--you're unfeeling. But I, who loved and
served his dear mother, whom he so much resembles--

_Des._ Not a bit--hasn't a look of her. The father, the father all over.

_Mad. V._ Of course. So you always say, and everybody knows why. You
loved the poor Marchioness, offered her your hand, and she preferred the
Marquis.

_Des._ Madame!

_Mad. V._ I don't care. I _will_ speak my mind. And because she refused
you, you have no regard for her son.

_Des._ Madame!

_Mad. V._ But if he has his father's face, he has his mother's heart.

_Des._ Much you know about it.

_Mad. V._ And who _should_ know if I don't? Havn't I attended him since
he was an infant?

_Des._ Well, and havn't _I_ attended him since he was an infant?

_Mad. V._ Wasn't I with him during every sickness?

_Des._ Wasn't I with him too?

_Mad. V._ Didn't I nurse him?

_Des._ Didn't I cure him?

_Mad. V._ Wouldn't I follow him through the world?

_Des._ Didn't I bring him _into_ it?

_Mad. V._ Yes, and if things go on at this rate, he won't have much to
thank you for.

_Des._ How do _you_ know? How do _you_ know, you foolish old woman you.

    _MANUEL appears._

_Man._ Heyday! the only two friends I have in the world at high words?
What can have caused this?

_Mad. V._ My lord, the Doctor says you--

_Man._ Me! my dear Doctor, you never were quarrelling about so
unimportant a person, surely?

_Des._ No matter for that. But I have some business with the Marquis, if
this very positive old lady will allow me the luxury of an interview
with him--a _private_ interview. Pray, ma'am, _may_ I trespass on your
indulgence?

_Mad. V._ Truly, Doctor, your campaign in the Crimea has improved
neither your manners, or your beauty.                      [_Exit L. H._

_Des._ Confound her impudence! The attack on my manners I could forgive,
but my beauty--that's a tender point.

_Man._ Ah, Doctor, you must pardon her brusque manner. If she's poor in
courtesy, she's rich in a rarer gift--fidelity.

_Des._ Oh! hang her! let her go. And now to your affairs. Your father's
death occurred while I was with the army, in the Crimea. Rumors reached
me there, but I have never heard the full particulars. I would not
willingly revive a painful theme, but as an old friend--

_Man._ Nay, I shall be more satisfied when you know the facts. When you
left France you know what our position was, and what our style of
living.

_Des._ All the luxuries that money could procure--a mansion in Paris, an
ancestral chateau, and a stable that could boast the best blood in
France.

_Man._ Two months after the death of my dear mother, I went to Italy, by
my father's desire, and for several years I traveled through Europe, at
my pleasure. During this time his letters to me were affectionate, but
brief, and never expressed any desire for my return. Two months ago, on
arriving at Marseilles, I found several letters from him awaiting me,
each of them begging me to return home with all possible haste.

_Des._ I remember, it was some time previous to that, that I heard his
name mentioned in connection with some unfortunate speculations in the
stocks.

_Man._ I arrived at night. The ground was white with snow. As I passed
up the avenue--made still darker by the old trees which overshadowed
it--I could hear the frost shaken from the branches, seeming, as it fell
around me, like a warning of bitter tears to come. Hardly had I crossed
the threshold when my father's arms were around me. I could feel his
heart beating against my own, with a force almost painful. He led me to
a sofa, and placed himself directly in front of me, when, as if longing
to reveal something which yet he dared not name, he fixed his eyes on
mine with an expression of supplication, of agony, of shame, wondrous in
a man so haughty and so proud. It was enough! The wrong he had
committed, yet could not confess, I divined full well--God knows how
fully, how freely I forgave it! Suddenly, that look, which never quitted
me, became fixed, rigid. The pressure of his hand on mine became a grip
of iron. He arose--the eyes wandered, the hand relaxed, and he fell dead
at my feet!

_Des._ [_After a pause._] Well, well, it is a sad history, for he left
utter ruin for your portion. But come, you must not look back. "Forward"
must be the watchword now. Mr. Faveau, your family lawyer, tells me that
the little that remained to you, after paying your father's debts, you
have appropriated to making a fine lady of your sister.

_Man._ To educate her, doctor.

_Des._ Well, well, same thing; so that you, yourself, have literally
nothing to speak of--hardly enough to give you bread.

_Man._ Hardly.

_Des._ Under these circumstances you will perhaps be disposed to the
favorable consideration of a proposal I have to make?

_Man._ Name it, sir, for at present, I confess I have formed no plans of
my own. I was so little prepared to find myself quite a beggar. Were I
alone in the world, I would become a soldier. But my sister, that would
involve prolonged absence from her--perhaps an early death. My
darling--I cannot endure the thought of knowing her compelled to suffer
the privations, the labor, and the dangers of poverty. She is happy at
her school, and young enough to remain there for some years to come. If
I could but find some occupation by which, even were I obliged to impose
the severest restraints upon myself, it would be possible to save enough
for her marriage portion, I should be more than content.

_Des._ An employment to suit a man of your rank--

_Man._ Oh, my dear Doctor--rank--

_Des._ Well, well, of your _education_, then, is not easily found. Now,
mark what I am going to say, and consider it well, before you come to a
hasty conclusion. There is, among my patients, a retired merchant, one
who has been able, by indefatigable industry in trade, to amass a very
handsome fortune. His daughter, an only a child, and of course, the
father's darling, has, by chance, become acquainted with the state of
your affairs. Now, I have reason to know, (being on very confidential
terms with them.) I say I have reason to know that this girl, ambitious,
handsome, rich, and accomplished, would be happy to share your title. I
have the father's consent, and only await the word from you to--

_Man._ Dr. Desmarets, my name is neither for sale, or to let.

_Des._ Humph! Do you know, my lord, that you bear a remarkable
resemblance to your poor mother?

_Man._ You must be mistaken, sir. I have always been told that I was
more like my father.

_Des._ Not a bit! The mother, the mother, sir, in every feature. But,
bless me, it's near eleven o'clock and I have a most particular
appointment. As you decline considering the proposal I have made, we
must think of something else. Au revoir. [_Aside._] The mother--eyes,
nose, mouth. What the devil made that stupid old woman say he was like
his father?                                                   [_Exit C._

_Man._ He's a kind man, though a little eccentric, and apart from his
professional duty, seems actuated by a sincere desire to serve me, and
yet--and yet I could not bring myself to ask his charity.
Hunger--starvation--are not, then, mere empty words. Oh! if I do sin in
my pride, I am punished, for I suffer much. This is the second day
without food. Why, after all, I could go into any Restaurant and dine,
for I am well enough known. I could say I had forgotten my purse--have
done so without scruple in happier times, but _then_ I had the means to
pay, and now--no, no, my sister, not for life, not even for _thee_, will
I descend to lie and cheat. How weak I am; this comes too soon upon my
long sickness. If I could but sleep and so forget my agony. And there
are human creatures who suffer every day as I do now. My sister, my
little sister, I seem to see thy dear face looking down upon me, and
bidding me be comforted. [_Music._] Thou, at least, shall never suffer.
But for those who hear their cries of hunger repeated from the mouths of
starving little ones, well, well, God comfort them; I will not
re--Oh--holy--charity--for--those--who--my sister--my--

    _MANUEL gradually falls asleep. MADAME VAUBERGER enters with a
    Tray containing a dish or two with eatables, a plate, &c. She
    watches MANUEL carefully while she deposits the Tray on the
    chimney-piece and lays a cloth on the table. MANUEL awakes as she
    goes back to the chimney-piece for tray._

_Man._ Eh--who's that? Ah, me! What are you doing, Madame?

_Mad. V._  Did you not order dinner, my lord?

_Man._ Certainly not.

_Mad. V._ Why they told me--

_Man._ Then they were mistaken. It's for some of the other lodgers.

_Mad. V._ But there's no other lodgers on this floor, and I really
cannot think what--

_Man._ At any rate, it is not for me. Take it away.

_Mad. V._ [_After