 | Collected poems |  |
49
THE BALLAD À-LA-MODE
Scene.—A Boudoir Louis-Quinze, painted with Cupids shooting at Butterflies.
The Countess. The Baron (her cousin and suitor)
The Countess
(looking up from her work).
Baron, you doze.
The Baron
(closing his book).
I, Madame? No.
I wait your order—Stay or Go.
The Countess.
Which means, I think, that Go or Stay
Affects you nothing, either way.
The Baron.
Excuse me,—by your favour graced,
My inclinations are effaced.
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Or much the same. How keen you grow!
You must be reading Marivaux.
The Baron.
Nay,—'twas a song of Sainte-Aulaire.
It is but just to the octogenarian Marquis, whom the Duchess of Maine surnamed her “vieux berger,” to say that he is guiltless of the song here ascribed to him. For it, and for the similar pieces in these Proverbs, I am alone responsible. In the Secrets of the Heart, however, I have, without attempting to revive the persons, borrowed the names of the charming heroines of À quoi rêvent les Jeunes Filles.
The Countess.
Then read me one. We've time to spare
If I can catch the clock-face there,
'Tis barely eight.
The Baron.
What shall it be,—
A tale of woe, or perfidy?
The Countess.
Not woes, I beg. I doubt your woes:
But perfidy, of course, one knows.
The Baron
(reads).
“‘Ah, Phillis! cruel Phillis!
(I heard a Shepherd say,)
You hold me with your Eyes, and yet
You bid me—Go my Way!’
(I heard a Shepherd say,)
You hold me with your Eyes, and yet
You bid me—Go my Way!’
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“‘Ah, Colin! foolish Colin!
(The Maiden answered so,)
If that be All, the Ill is small,
I close them—You may go!’
(The Maiden answered so,)
If that be All, the Ill is small,
I close them—You may go!’
“But when her Eyes she opened,
(Although the Sun it shone,)
She found the Shepherd had not stirred—
‘Because the Light was gone!’
(Although the Sun it shone,)
She found the Shepherd had not stirred—
‘Because the Light was gone!’
“Ah, Cupid! wanton Cupid!
'Twas ever thus your Way:
When Maids would bid you ply your Wings,
You find Excuse to stay!”
'Twas ever thus your Way:
When Maids would bid you ply your Wings,
You find Excuse to stay!”
The Countess.
Famous! He earned whate'er he got:—
But there's some sequel, is there not?
The Baron
(turning the page).
I think not.—No. Unless 'tis this:
My fate is far more hard than his;—
In fact, your Eyes—
The Countess.
Now, that's a breach!
Your bond is—not to make a speech.
And we must start—so call Justine.
I know exactly what you mean!—
Give me your arm—
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If, in return,
Countess, I could your hand but earn!
The Countess.
I thought as much. This comes, you see,
Of sentiment, and Arcady,
Where vows are hung on every tree. . . .
The Baron
(offering his arm, with a low bow).
And no one dreams—of Perfidy.
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