University of Virginia Library

Scene III.

A Cabinet.
The Queen-Mother; Denise dressing her hair; Tavannes.
Den.
Disait amour, voyant rire madame,
Qui me baisait dessous mes yeux un jour;
La rose est plus que fleur et moins que femme,
Disait amour.
Disait amour; m'est peine éclose en âme;
Dieu veuille, hélas! qu'elle me baise un jour.
Ayez merci, car je souffre, madame,
Disait amour.

Ca.
Set the gold higher. So, my lord Tavannes,
You have no answer of the king?

Tav.
Not I;
The devil would give over such hard work,
I doubt, as you put me to.

Ca.
Ah well, well,
I thank you for it. Tie the next more loose,
You prick my forehead through the hair, Denise.
Strange, my lord marshal, I show less grey spots
Than gold thread in it, surely. Five years hence,
These girls will put a speckled silver on,
Because the queen's hair turns to dust-colour.
Eh, will not you, Denise?

Den.
If I wear white,
Gold must be out of purchase; I'll get gold
Or wear my head shorn flat, and vex no combs.

Ca.
You put sweet powders in your own too much;
There, stoop down—you may kiss me if you will—
I smell the spice and orris-root in it.
Fie, this will cheat your face, my poor Denise;
This will bleach out the colours of your blood,
And leave the hair half old. See you, lord marshal,
This girl's was never soft and thick like mine:
Mine was so good to feel once, I know well
Kings would have spent their lips in kissing it.

Tav.
I have poor judgment of girls' hair and cheeks;
Most women doubtless have some gold and red
Somewhere to handle, and for less or more
I care not greatly.

Ca.
Yea, I do well think once
I had such eyes as time did sleep in them,
And age forbear the purple at their lids;
And my mouth's curve has been a gracious thing
For kisses to fall near: none will say now
That this was once. I may remember me
That Scotswoman did fleer at my grey face;
I marvel not what sort of hair she has.

Den.
The Queen of Scots lived gently in repute;
She has much wrong.

Ca.
Put not your judgment to't;
The peril that enrings her place about
Is her own whetting. I do something praise,
Yet hardly from the outside of my heart,
Our sister England; were I set like her,
I might look so.

Tav.
Yea so? mere heretic?

Ca.
Beseech you, pardon me; I am all shame
That I so far misuse your holiness.
I know as you are sharp in continence
So are you hard in faith. Mark this, Denise,
These swording-men are holier things than we;
These would put no kiss on, these would not praise
A girl's hair—

Tav.
Madam, do you jape at me?

Ca.
Scarce let the wine turn in their veins to blood;
Strangle the knowledge and the note of sense,
Deny that worth; these eat no grosser meat
Than the cleanest water we dip fingers in;
Endure beyond the very touch of man,
Have none so soft use of the lip as makes it
Affect the natural way. Sir, is this true?

Tav.
Why, if men said you had more teeth than hairs
They would just lie; and if they call me that
They lie a something harder.

Ca.
Fie, my lord!
Your good wit to a woman's? will you say
The dog licks where it bit you, if I say
Forgive, Sir Gaspard, and be friends with me?
Come, if I make you sit by me, fair knight,
And say the king had never half the wit
To choose you for his marshal? Ten years back,
And maybe clap some other tens on that,
I mind me well, sir, how you came up here
To serve at Paris; we had a right king then,
King Francis, with his close black beard and eyes
Near half as royal as your own, I think.
A fair page were you, and had yellow hair
That was all burnt since into brown; your cheek
Had felt no weather pinch it or sun bite,
It was so red then: but you fought well, sir,
Always fought well; it was good game to see
Your hand that swung round, getting weight to throw,
Feeling for room to strike; Gaspard, by God
I would have paid gold coin to turn a man
And get me bone to handle the good steel
And nerves to fight with; but I doubt me, soon
I should have had the dust to roll into,
Though I were made six men to fight with you.
Yet my arm ached for want of spears to smite—
Eh? when you ran down that Montgommery
That slew my lord with his side-prick i' the eye?
Yea surely; you were my best knight, De Saulx.

Tav.
Madam—

Ca.
Nay, Gaspard, when I lie of you
Then let your bit rasp at the mouth of me;
I speak poor truth; why, this Denise of mine
Would give time up and turn her gold hair grey
To have seen out the season we two saw.

Den.
I would not; (aside to Cath.)
my lord marshal is too lean
To be a fair man.

Ca.
So, your glove for his?
We shall have larger passages of war
Except I look to it. Pray you, Denise,
Fetch me my glove—my spice-box—anything;
I will not trust you with my lord; make in.
[Exit Denise.
How like you her?

Tav.
A costly piece of white;
Such perfumed heads can bear no weight inside
I think, with all that waste of gold to bear
Plaited each way; their roots do choke the brain.

Ca.
There your sense errs; though she be tender-made,
Yet is there so much heart in her as could
Wear danger out of patience. It is my son I fear
Much more than I doubt her: the king my son
Flutters not overmuch his female times
With love enough to hurt, but turns and takes,
Wears and lets go; yet if she springe him once,
Click, quoth the gin; and there we trap him. See,
This medicine I make out for him is sweet,
More soft to handle than a poppy's bud,
And pleasant as a scented mouth to kiss.

Tav.
Yea, I do see.

Ca.
Now at this turn of time
He is not perfect; and I have a mean
To bring him to our use. My lord of Guise—

Tav.
Doth he make part of it?

Ca.
Fear you not him;
He is the blazon patched upon our cloth
To keep the pattern's gold. For the king's self,
I have half possessed him of the deeds to be,
And he hath nothing blenched.

Tav.
But, to this girl—
What way serves her in this?

Ca.
Being ignorant,
She does the better work; for her own sake
Trails him my way, assures herself the king
Would pluck the reddest secret from his heart
To show her, as you take the reddest rose
To smell at, if the colour go by scent;
That's all her certainty. What foot is there?

Tav.
The king, and hastily.

Ca.
Keep you by me;
I know his cause. Let him come in.

Enter the King.
Ch.
Fair mother,
Good morrow come upon your majesty.

Ca.
The morrow grows upon good night, fair son;
That will salute me soon with sleep; you see
I keep not well.

Ch.
Ah, pale by God though, pale!
I'm sorry—sir, good morrow—hurt at heart.
Hear you my news? The admiral is hurt,
Touched in the side—I lie now, not the side,
But his arm hurt—I know not verily,
But he is some way wounded.

Ca.
I am sorry
No goodness walks more clear. Sir, think you not
That for a colour—say a colour, now—

Ch.
I doubt you do not mean to visit him?

Ca.
But I do mean; and if your leave hold out
We'll bid the Guise with us.

Ch.
Have your best way:
Write me content thereof.

Ca.
I thank you, sir.
Lord marshal, you shall pray the Guise for us.

Tav.
Madam, I shall; God keep your grace's health.

[Exeunt.