Scene I
Phœbus, Viscount de Gif, M. de Morlaix, M. de Chevreuse, and many other friends of Phœbus, seated at tables, are drinking, and singing; afterward Don Claude Frollo
CHORUS.
Be propitious and well-inclined,
Our Lady of Saint Lo,
To him who only water hates
Of all things here below!
PHŒBUS.
Give to the brave
In every place
A well-filled cellar,
A pretty face.
Happy fellow!
Help him hold
Dainty women,
Wine that’s old.
If a beauty
Of cold mien
Be unwilling,
’Tis sometimes seen,
He jokes with her
With merry winks,
Then he sings,
Then he drinks!
The day goes by.
Or drunk or not,
He soon embraces
His Toinotte;
Then ferocious
He goes to bed
In a cannon’s mouth,
And sleeps like lead!
And his soul,
Which often seems
To mix up women
With his dreams,
Is contented if the wind,
With its come and go,
Rocks the canvas of his tent
Gently to and fro!
CHORUS.
Be propitious and well inclined,
Our Lady of Saint Lo!
To him who only water hates
Of all things here below.
[Enter Claude Frollo, who seats himself at a table at some distance from Phœbus, and appears at first to observe nothing that passes around him.
VISCOUNT DE GIF (to Phœbus).
That pretty gypsy,
What are you doing with her?
[Claude Frollo makes a movement of attention.
PHŒBUS.
To-night, in an hour,
I have a meeting with her.
ALL.
Truly?
PHŒBUS.
Truly!
[The agitation of Claude Frollo increases.
VISCOUNT DE GIF.
In one hour?
PHŒBUS.
In one moment!
Oh, love! supremest rapture!
To feel one heart holds two!
To own the woman that one loves—
Be slave and conqueror too!
To have her soul; to have her charms,
Her song which fills with bliss;
To see her sweet eyes wet with tears,
To dry them with a kiss.
[While he sings, the others drink and strike their glasses.
CHORUS.
’Tis a rapture supreme,
Whatever one thinks,
To drink to one’s love,
And to love what one drinks!
PHŒBUS.
Friends, the prettiest of all,
A grace divine,
Oh, wonder, ecstasy!
Friends, she is mine!
CLAUDE FROLLO (aside).
I bind myself to hell;
Misfortune on you dwell!
PHŒBUS.
Pleasure awaits us;
Exhaust without remorse
The better part of life,
Love’s precious intercourse!
What matter if one dies,
When joy has passed away,
I’d give a century for an hour,
Eternity for a day.
[The curfew rings; the friends of Phœbus arise from the table, replace their swords, their caps, their cloaks, and prepare to depart.
CHORUS.
Phœbus, the hour is come;
It is the curfew-bell:
Hurry to your beloved;
God’s blessing on you dwell!
PHŒBUS.
At last the hour is come;
It is the curfew-bell.
I go to my beloved;
God’s blessing on her dwell!
[The friends of Phœbus go out.