with Pauline. And you
must know, General Damas, that your fair cousin has at length consented
to reward my long and ardent attachment.

Damas. You!--the devil! Why, she is already married! There is no
divorce!

Beau. True; but this very day she is formally to authorize the necessary
proceedings, this very day she is to sign the contract that is to make
her mine within one week from the day on which her present illegal
marriage is annulled.

Damas. You tell me wonders!--Wonders! No; I believe anything of women!

Beau. I must wish you good morning. [As he is going, enter
DESCHAPPELLES.

M. Deschap. Oh, Beauseant! well met. Let us come to the notary at once.

Damas [to Deschap.]. Why, cousin!

M. Deschap. Damas, welcome to Lyons. Pray call on us; my wife will be
delighted to see you.

Damas. Your wife be-blessed for her condescension! But [taking him
aside] what do I hear? Is it possible that your daughter has consented
to a divorce?--that she will marry Monsieur Beauseant?

M. Deschap. Certainly. What have you to say against it? A gentleman of
birth, fortune, character. We are not so proud as we were; even my wife
has had enough of nobility and princes!

Damas. But Pauline loved that young man so tenderly!

M. Deschap. [taking snuff]. That was two years and a half ago.

Damas. Very true. Poor Melnotte!

M. Deschap. But do not talk of that impostor; I hope he is dead or has
left the country. Nay, even were he in Lyons at this moment, he ought
to rejoice that, in an honorable and suitable alliance, my daughter may
forget her sufferings and his crime.

Damas.--Nay, if it be all settled, I have no more to say. Monsieur
Beauseant informs me that the contract is to be signed this very day.

M. Deschap, It is; at one o'clock precisely. Will you be one of the
witnesses?

Damas. I?--No; that is to say--yes, certainly!--at one o'clock I will
wait on you.

M. Deschap. Till then, adieu--come Beauseant.

[Exeunt BEAUSEANT and DESCHAPELLES

Damas. The man who sets his heart upon a woman
Is a chameleon, and doth feed on air;
From air he takes his colors--holds his life,--
Changes with every wind,--grows lean or fat,
Rosy with hope, or green with jealousy,
Or pallid with despair--just as the gale
Varies from North to South--from heat to cold!
Oh, woman! woman! thou shouldst have few sins
Of thine own to answer for! Thou art the author
Of such a book of follies