 | St. Clement's Eve |  |
Scene I.
—A Hall in the Palace of the Archbishop of Sens.The Provost of Paris and Robert the Hermit.
Provost.
His Grace has not yet risen; his health is weak;
But from his chaplain we shall hear anon
Whether it please him, when the Council meets,
To call you in. I doubt not that he will.
Robert.
My call is from a greater than his Grace,
Whom both obey.
Provost.
Meantime 'tis fit you know
What face we wear at Paris.
Robert.
France elsewhere
Bleeds from a thousand wounds. Each step I took
In my long journey hither, brought in sight
Old scars and new. What face the town puts on
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To learn from pious men.
Provost.
Slowly the King
Picks up the fragments of his shatter'd mind,
And as the daylight on his reason dawns
Beholds his kingdom a bewilder'd wreck
Tost to and fro by factions, rent and riven
By these two rival Dukes; his brother first,
And next his cousin, seizing sovran sway,
And each so using it as makes good men
Hope something from a change. When Orleans rules
With dance and song a light and dissolute grace
Doth something gild misgovernment; whilst they
Who hear him, 'twixt a revel and a masque,
Give audience to some Doctor of the Church,
Grave as the Doctor's self and gracious more,
Cannot but marvel that a man so sage,
And for his years so learned, should misuse
The gifts of God and be his country's curse.
Then comes that other Duke, revengeful, rough,
Imperious and cruel; and they who winced
Beneath his cousin's handling, wonder now
That they were not content. You'll see them both;
For when the King's physicians gave him leave
To sit in council, he bade both attend,
Thinking to put their discords into tune;
Wherein when Jove and Saturn meet and kiss
There's hope he may prevail.
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On either head
A vial will I empty.
Provost.
Well—so—well—
But if I err not, the Archbishop's Grace
Would gladly know the purport and the drift
Of that you shall discourse.
Robert.
It may not be.
Say to his Grace I know it not myself.
Whate'er God puts it in my heart to say
That will I speak; but counsel will I none
With mortal man.
Provost.
The courage of the tongue
Is truly, like the courage of the hand,
Discreetly used, a prizeable possession;
But what befits the presence of a King
Is boldness temper'd with some touch of fear.
Robert.
There where I stand in presence of my King,
There stand I, too, in presence of my God.
Fearing my God I come before my King
With reverence, as is meet, but not with fear.
Provost.
Well, for the King, poor gentleman, no speech
How bold soe'er and telling bitter truth
Would meet a frown from him. His brother shares
The sweetness of his nature. Other clay,
Dug from some miry slough or sulphurous bog,
With many a vein of mineral poison mix'd,
Went to the making of Duke Jean-Sans-Peur.
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When captives by the hundred were hewn down
'Twas not rich ransom only spared the Duke.
'Twas that a dying Dervish prophesied
More Christian blood should by his mean be shed
Than e'er by Bajazet with all his hosts.
Therefore it was to France he sent him back
With gifts,—and what were they? 'twas bowstrings made
Of human entrails.
Robert.
Choice the offering! Yea,
Fit bounty of fit patron to fit friend.
Provost.
Good Robert, neither thine nor yet that voice,
Were it again on earth, which sober'd Saul,
Can mitigate Duke John, or heal the strife
Which from these quarrelsome cousins breathes abroad
War, pestilence and famine. Hope it not.
Once by his Grace of Bourbon's intercession
Peace was patch'd up and injuries forgiven.
Well, some three months was wonderful accord;
Then came black looks, and then “To arms, to arms!”
The sole sick hope of France is in the King.
Awhile his malady remits, and joy
Lights up the land; then darkness re-descends.
Give but to him stability of health
And all were well. Alas! it will not be.
Robert.
Whence came the chastisement the mercy may.
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Whence came the chastisement we know; but how
And wherefore, was a mystery for long years
And diversely discoursed. Urban of Rome
Did nothing doubt 'twas that the King had own'd
Clement of Avignon; whilst Clement knew
'Twas that he fought not to the death 'gainst Urban;
His doctors said 'twas that he ceased their drugs;
All doctors else, that he had sometime ta'en them;
The people deem'd it in its first assault
A judgment for the imposts and the aids,
But seeing these have doubled since, they fell
From this belief, and as he was a boy
When first afflicted, were it this, they said,
His Council should go mad and not himself.
Thus error is but transient, truth prevails
Sure as day follows night, and now none doubts,
What to wise men was patent from the first,
That 'tis the work of sorcerers, men accursed
And slaves of Satan, and by him suborn'd
Upon this Christian Kingdom to bring down
Disaster and dismay, and snare the souls
Of thousands daily shedding brothers' blood.
But who they be, these sorcerers, there's the doubt;
Not few have been impeach'd and hang'd or burnt;
But no success ensuing, the charge, 'tis deem'd,
Was fashion'd in excess of godly zeal
Which Satan misdirected; thus the quest
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And there be now arrived two monks from Eu
Who know to search out sorceries. Much hope
Is squander'd on these monks, but for myself
I like them not; they ride in coats of mail
And waste the night in riot and debauch.
Still if they know their art, far be it from me
To question of their lives.
Robert.
If these be evil
Their art is not of God, nor aught avails
For counterworking Satan. Let them troop.
I will not suffer them.
Provost.
Nay, but we must.
'Tis partly herein to advise the King
The Council meets to-day.
Enter the Archbishop's Chaplain.
Well, worthy friend,
What saith his Grace?
Chaplain.
Good Hermit, come this way.
His Grace hath wrapp'd him hastily in his gown
And said his hours and waits you in his closet.
He's favourably minded, and he says
He knows not if your mission be divine,
But were it human only, he were loth
To let good words be lost. Please you, this way.
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