Marcel is at the head of all; he directs all; there is a secret pleasure in his eye, which none can understand.

One would say that to-day he triumphs; he insists on arranging the marriage, and it is he who gives to his rival the feast and the ball--his money flows liberally, his purse is open--all is profusion; but there is no rejoicing--no singing--no smiling.
The bridegroom is on the brink of the grave--his rival guides him thither, though he looks so gay--the day declines--all hearts sink with fear and pity--they would fain save Pascal, but it is too late: there they all stand motionless--but more as if at a burial than a wedding.
Fascinated by love, the pair have sacrificed all; though the gulf yawns for them, they have no ears, no eyes, but for each other; as they pass along, hand-in-hand, the happiness of loving has absorbed all other feeling.
It is night.
A female suddenly appears: she clings round the neck of Pascal.--"My son, leave her, leave your bride--I have seen the wise woman--the sieve has turned--your death is certain--sulphur fills the bridal chamber--Pascal, enter not in--you are lost if you remain; and I, who loved you thus, what will become of me when you are gone ?" Pascal's tears flowed, but he held still firmer his bride's hand within his own.

The mother fell at his feet.
"Ungrateful son! I will never leave you! if you persist, you shall pass over my body before you enter the fatal house.

A wife, then, is all-in-all--a mother nothing! Oh! miserable that I am!" Tears flowed from every eye.--"Marcel," said the bridegroom, "love masters me; should evil befal me, take charge of my mother." "This is too much!" cried the soldier; "I cannot bear your mother's grief.

Oh, Pascal! be blest--be content--be fearless--Franconnette is free! she is not sold to the evil one.