University of Virginia Library

ACT III

Scene I

Paris. The Terrace of Les Tourelles. Under the moon, women and chevaliers, moving in groups, are seen for a moment, and disappear, a few of their words only being heard.
Voices.
A baby-bride!—
The other,
Our Marguerite de Valois with the long,
Black glances of the King, a lovely woman!—
Yet all the chivalry of France, a-ha,
For La Vieille and her sixty years!
Spring, throw it to the moon!—
Let autumn rule,
And sapless days, ma mie!—
Throw to the moon
All colours bold and flourishing! This tourney
Is as the end of tourneys, dedicate
To snow and to black melancholy.—
Hush!
The omens, hush!
Our Court has ever flourished black and white,
And it will flourish black and white to-morrow;
And there an end.
Hush, hush, the stars will hear.
But we of youth and summer, let us dance,
If stars wake up or sleep.—
Pierre, a dance!
Rosette, Rosette!

[They go out, leaving Brusquet alone.
Brusquet
(sitting central on the parapet).

They are
so busy; but they must take a little rest in sleep;
the rest must come. . . . So busy for their graves!
So busy, they need no fooling, when they most
need the fool.

To further end of the Terrace enter Catherine de Médicis and Nostradamus
Catherine.

But now, but now . . .

Nostradamus.

Madam, the naked stars can reveal
to us nothing.

Catherine.

It is from them you have learnt? . . .

Nostradamus.

In their hour, in the hour of secrecy.
Do you bring a priest to the Bible? The Huguenots
stare at Scripture: the faithful believe the
interpreters.

Catherine.

O Nostradamus, I believe. Help me,
help me! Have you seen deeper from your tower
by Les Halles? Have you seen further? You
interpret woe! Help me! I cannot lose him.

Nostradamus.

You cannot! Then persuade his
Mistress to entreat . . .

Catherine.

These things, if they are fated—shall a
mistress snap the threads of destiny? My
prayers—are they not stronger?

Nostradamus.
Look at her!

Diane, in white and silver, enters at the other end of the terrace
Catherine.
Nostradamus,
She is toying with the fool. . . . Go to your tower!
Watch till the wandering stars are lost, and all
The bristled sparks gone out. In ambuscade
Of yonder turret I will wait my moment
To plead with Madam, for his sake, his life.

[Nostradamus goes out, Catherine moves back into darker shade.
Brusquet
(as Diane looks up at the stars).
O Lady Moon,
Do you consult the stars?

Diane.
That were mere fooling.
The moon lays back the stars.
Pace with me, rogue!
I love the wind! This South blows through my blood!
It is all rustling—and the Milky Way. . . .
How full of silent mischief are the stars!
Brusquet, there is no place for you to-night.

Brusquet.
No place for folly here, yet you intrude!
I go to bed.

Diane.
The palace rooms
Are full of groaning, of discomfiture,
And I would keep my buoyancy of spirit
To strengthen Cæsar.
[Caressing Brusquet.
Fool, my Brusquet, feign
News of a comet, a dropt star, a signal
Of import to the King. Creep to his chamber,
And bid him meet me where the fountain plashes
A screen to those dark windows full of ears.

Brusquet
(ruefully).
A Cupid, la!
Motley between the lovers. . . . Our morose
And angry sovereign turns me out of doors:
You reinstate me—you!

Diane.
Brusquet, I stay
Here through the night until the King arrives.

[The fool goes off, then turns back.
Brusquet.
Will it not savour parting, and discourage
King Amadis, if you so solemnly
Encounter him? They say the moon shines ill
On mariners and those that watch in arms.

Diane
(again looking up exultantly).
The King shall hear the music of the spheres,
And all the stars in tune. . . .
[Exit Brusquet.
No prophecy
Of things to be, nor who shall fall or rise!
I have a peace deep as I read the gold
Of my name's letters in the Book of Life:
And I must give this peace
To my beloved, must give it to the King.
[She turns at a movement over the grass. Catherine is at her side and lays her arms and head on Diane's shoulder.
My Queen!

Catherine.
Belovèd Counsellor!

Diane
(as they embrace).
You seek me?
A while ago
I caught you bribing the astrologer.
What worlds 'twixt him and me! All prophecy,
Deep where it wells, is voice of that which is.

Catherine.
Our King will die to morrow in the lists. . . .
Do you not feel it? You will lose him, Madam.
Dissuade him from the folly
Of this most fatal thing. . . . He will not see me,
He laughs me off. But you have felt the presage!
[Diane looks away beyond Catherine.
Madam, there are some hours
Fated as death. . . . I catch upon the air
The exhalation of a fatal hour. . . .
Do you not feel it? In my hour of childbirth
I trusted you; your courage
Gave France an heir: now you must save her King.
[She grasps Diane's hands.
Madam, you do not love him. . . .
Have you not felt the presage? But I love him;
I cannot see him die. What can I offer
Of gold, of jewels, of fair signories?

Diane.
His wife, you offer bribes? What jewel have you
That you can offer me? What fair possession?

Catherine.
But if to-morrow he should perish, what
Would be your recompense? Then you would learn
Your truer titles.
[In a soft whisper.
I should rouse the Court
To hiss you from my widowhood.

Diane
(taking Catherine's face in her hands).
Pray for him
Night-long, alone, and in our Lady's Chapel;
Night-long and in the dark.
Go from me now!
I am gravely superstitious.
To your prayer!
The King rides forth to-morrow, on a horse
Or white or red, I know not: but he rides. . . .
Oh, on Le Turc!

Catherine.
The King rides forth on the pale horse of Death;
And you will not dissuade . . .

Diane.
The King rides forth
Secure in God.
[She comes humbly to Catherine.
Sweet, you must pray for him:
It is the only magic for this hour.
You love him! I beseech,
Give him the grace and valour of your prayers.

Catherine.
Ha, you beseech me as I am his wife,
His queen, his rightful queen?

Diane.
I ask your prayers.

Catherine.
Because our God will hear me, for my wrongs
Cry rending in His ear?
But you can save the King yourself alone,
Without my prayers that are your accusation.
No need of me—a motion of your hand's
Entreaty, a few words upon your voice,
Your suppliant voice harmonious to him—kisses,
A little grasping in embrace . . .
[Her hands on her breast, she throws back her head, with closed eyes.
O Power!
If I had power, if I were with the things
Attractive on their way. . . . If I had power,
The blessedness founded in stars and yielded
To persons of affinity with stars. . . .
If I might reach out into time and cog
Its wheels, or set its hours in beamy whizz;
If I could love with such star-brushing will
That it was even with the lights of doom,
If I had power majestic or but power
Of any earthly strain!—Power! Power!
[Opening her eyes.
O Madam,
Could I but leap into your chariot, guide
With reins like you and be to him I love
As was his cradle-star with his first breath,
Or hold his breath from passing!
Had I power,
Would I beseech a prayer for him!

Diane.
Our King
Has bidden us keep our silence. In the Chapel
Pray silently.

Catherine.
Had I but power, my God!
Could power be given me once, at last, nor vain! . . .
[With a deep, patient sigh.
But I must pray, my King and husband, pray.

Re-enter Brusquet
Brusquet.
Madam!

Catherine.
Whom seek you?

Brusquet
(to Diane).
Madam, where is Madam,
Where is our sovereign Lady?

Catherine.
Which of us,
Fool, do you beckon?

Brusquet.
Madam, Sovereign Lady,
The Palace is distraught! . . .
Two maiden-beds—
Have I not seen them, as indeed a boy
And maiden in my folly?—two white beds,
White with their virgin flowers, stay coveting
Your benediction and your sanctity.
Two brides desire that you will visit them
To give them courage of your brave ensample
So to be queens and wives.

[While he has been addressing Catherine, Diane has removed to a distance.
Catherine.
She shrinks away.
I will go with you, fool.
Where is the King?

Brusquet.
Still with his armourer.
. . . This entrance, Madam;
One of Love's passages, and a fool's exit.

[They go out through a narrow door.
Diane
(laughing).
The Motley! My fine-witted fool, the jangle
Of his bells across the sward! Cajolery
How chaste and prudent! Now a matron's cares
Will keep us sacred to our loves. . . .
What darkness!
Another darkness on the wavering dusk
More massive, closer in encompassment—
The King!
[They embrace. Then they come forth into the starrier air beyond the shadow of the Palace, by the side of the fountain. As Diane leads him forth.
There is no moon.

Henri.
Is that an augury?

Diane.
Dullard, I wrestle for a compliment.
Am I not perfect Luna?

Henri
(moodily).
Dissonance
There was and laughter.
Did you send your fool
To check me at my prayers? . . . Diane, your laugh!

Diane.
I will not make confession, not to you,
Though I did laugh. Beloved, in all these years
I have been aging in your sight and passing
Through the russet darks of autumn to this age,
You have not laughed.

Henri.
I lay before my God
In prayer to offer you a perfect praise:
For, when I strain you to my heart, Diane,
I am as bruised, I am made void; it is
As I embraced the blessèd Crucifix,
And must fall back and die.
If it be boasting,
Or if you mock me in this vast attempt,
Greater than any ever made by man,
To write in fame how I am moved for you;
If you reject this service, if it seem
Fantastic . . . O Diane,
In youth I sang you now and then a verse;
You said my letters had a song in them
Heard low like music that we do not see;
You said . . . And now our lives are paired, and now
I have you by me as my breath and live
By the wisdom of your counsels, all my state
Guided by your great patience, I am dumb,
And a remoteness creeps upon our love.
I must do something infinite, immense,
Before these formal lovers, to transcend!
They shall be served, a hundred lances broke;
But at the last, and when all mortal strength
Is slacked, I will ride forth with a fresh challenge.
Diane, I am accoutred of the angels,
And in my truncheon is the mass of God.

Diane.
Henri, my great Lord Love!

Henri.
But, if you doubt,
I am a phantom knight and through my flesh
Death will pierce swiftly, Death will break my guard:
Or if you credit any auguries,
And pray where superstition sits, and take
The fumes of sottish magic . . .

Diane.
If I doubt!
Henri, but I have doubted day and night,
Since the first day that was our day of love,
When you returned from your captivity
To find no welcome, and your Spanish eyes
Prayed to me from their prison, while the King
Bowed over Madam d'Heilly with a kiss.
I doubted.

Henri.
Well you might—a boy, an owl
Blinking the light from his captivity!

Diane.
Yea, I did doubt . . .

Henri.
The twelve long years of kingship offered you?

Diane.
And still I doubted. Never have we spoken
Together of our love! Henri, I doubted
If I could so suffice you.

Henri.
Goddess!

Diane.
Yea,
To you, my great Lord Love.

[They are fast clasped.
Henri.
But now. . . . Not now!
If I should die! There are the auguries.

Diane.
Nay, we have often read of Amadis,
How he passed under the Enchanted Arch
Built to pronounce true lovers, how his name
Broke from a silver trumpet's mouth, with vent
Of flowers showered down, and how at last he strove
To the Forbidden Chamber: when you stooped
And wondered at the story as you read,
I laughed a little at your jealousy;
But while your eyes burnt on, my Amadis,
I heard your name and 'mid strange elements
I only saw your triumph. Can I doubt?
But every night and on hard stones I pray
So to be loving even as I am loved.
Go forth—go in!

Henri.
Embrace me!

Diane.
No!
Our loves resume as softly as the stars.
Go in—go forth!

[Henri slowly turns back into the darkness.

Scene II

Paris, Rue Saint Antoine. A curve of the lists, facing the seat of Diane as Queen of Beauty. She sits central, dressed in cloth of silver and black velvet cloak. Brusquet is by her, in a coat of many stripes. Her women sit behind. François de Guise with the Cardinal of Lorraine press round her.
Cardinal.
Burning July—hot by the river! Hot,
Par Dieu!—and cloudless. What of augury?
Is Nostradamus sheltered while the welkin
Is broad in smile against his quiddities?
A hundred lances broken!

Brusquet.
Yea, a hundred,
All broken!—so the world is formed to wag!
A hundred lances, and our Sovereign swears
A hundred lances must be broken . . . then
He will break lance, O Madam, for your sake.
A hundred—ay, ay, world—and one beyond!

Diane.
Brusquet, you darken Nostradamus even
With riddles of the dark.

Cardinal.
Ho, Brusquet, there!
Your book is lying open on your lap,
Your little motley book of the world's fools.
Let 's see . . . my name.

[Lifting up the book.
Guise.
O villain fool, a lady's!

Cardinal.
Goddess, forgive, nor turn us as your hounds
To rend this infamous Acteon's patches.

Diane.
My name!—We rend a jest
If we explain it. Brusquet, I am written
Largest of fools. . . . Be rent and speak me clear!

Guise.
Justice deserved!

Cardinal.
Fool, lift your stomach toward your mighty head,
And so pluck courage for your death. Explain!

Brusquet.
Who risks the hundred for the one,
May find his hundred drawn and spun—
Oh, for the odds!—his counting done!

[Brusquet shivers.
Diane.
Is it a quaking tertion on you, Brusquet? . . .
No, no—a little greyness in the sun . . .
A drowse of life about the tribunes. Hark!
The lists so sudden quiet, as if the silence
Itself were calling. Monsieur le Duc, what is it?

Guise.
A little silence: such
As comes in celebrations when the glory
And feast dread time. . . . So soon our fêtes are over,
Always these little pauses come in joy:
Even at the Holy Mass have you not known them?

Diane.
How vacant!—Nay, who rides up tall and strong?

All.
Your black and white—our King. Vive, vive le roi!

Diane.
High on Le Turc!

Voice
(heard).
Must I believe, my lieges,
This kingdom France holds no good lances more?

Guise.
A ringing note!

Cardinal.
Who 's that?—Old Vieilleville
In protest? Would he close the glowing lists?
Ungenerous—because his belly's knoll
Is sinking into table-land for dinner.
These grey, old guzzlers at a tournament!

Montmorency joins the group
Montmorency.
Listen! A challenge! Peace!

Herald.

I, Henri, King of France, challenge
Monsieur de Montgoméry, Comte de Loche, in
tourney to prove his lance and truncheon before
Diane the Queen of Beauty and the Goddess of
all Radiance.

Guise.
A famous lance, a man
Of sudden angers red along the neck.
These Scotchmen!

Montmorency.
Montgoméry's answer. Hush!

Herald.

I, Gabriel de Montgoméry, Comte de
Loche, take up the challenge of my liege-lord,
King Henri, to tourney, and will prove my lance
and truncheon before Diane the Queen of Beauty
and the Goddess of all Radiance.

Cardinal
(to Diane).
What did you kiss?

Diane.
This little ornament,
And for the words.

Cardinal.
Until it fill the world—
His Donec Impleat Orbem . . . and his gift.

Diane.
His promise—oh, it lightens down on me;
And we must act our homage to our glory
When Heaven fulfils . . .
(To Brusquet.)
What are you writing now?

Brusquet.
The name.

Diane.
What name?

Brusquet.
His that is France.

All.
The King's!

Brusquet.
When one has struck and noon is gone,
Rest still nor gird your armour on,
Until the sun is set that shone.
Poor fool, poor fool—
I am a'tremble though the wise have felt
No slacking of their sinews, though our whitest
Of fools half-rises to the sovereign fool
Who tempts not Heaven, but number and the odds.

Guise.
Peace from offence, fool. They face gallantly.

[Below Henri appears on his charger; he salutes Diane; she smiles fearlessly down.
Cardinal.
O rapt sight of the mysteries!

Brusquet.
O madness!

[Henri retires; there is a sound of encounter heard.
Montmorency.
Parbleu!

Diane.
His guard is broken?

Montmorency.
Hush!—He sits . . .
The strongest seat in France or in the world.

Cardinal.
So Phœbus sits his car. God pardon me,
I thought an instant Phaeton seared our eyes.

All.
Vive, vive le roi! . . . le Turc!

Diane.
Magnificent!
Would that Maître Léonard were here on earth
To see a horseman level with his art.
Le Turc swept like a sea the mighty curve
That brought his rider stable.
What applause! . . .
I have forgot the cymbals of my palms.
Let 's sound him a triomphe . . .

Montmorency.
They are recrossing, Madam.

Diane.
At turn of the event no acclamation . . .
Stillness. . . . Gone, gone the breath of all the field.

Montmorency.
Ha!

Guise.
The King falls—by Montgoméry's fault,
He kept his broken lance, and splinters it
Against his sovereign's visor.
(To Diane.)
Have no fear.
An accident of but a minute.

Cardinal.
Duchesse,
They have untangled him. Le Turc is free.

Diane.
Le Turc—free!

Guise.
They have drawn the King below.

Montmorency.
Murdered before our eyes in wantonness,
Our Lion, our King!

[He descends. Henri is brought in below among exclamations and whispers. Le Docteur

---

237

Vesale supports his head. Catherine de Médicis rushes to him. Diane remains transfixed, standing white in the tribune. They unfasten the visor.
Catherine.
His fate, his very fate!
The cage of gold, the eyes—O cruel death!

Cries.
She swoons . . . and he has swooned.

Catherine
(rousing herself).
Struck, torn! His fate has rent him, as was told,
But left him mine at last. . . .
(To le Docteur Vesale.)
Not dead, not yet?

Vesale.
No, Madam—no!

Catherine.
Bear him away from all malevolence
Of aspect, from the evil lights of darkness;
Bear him away to me at Les Tourelles.
My King, own husband—Henri! Raise him up,
Bear him away—my cloak beneath his knees.
Gently. . . . Remove, remove! I am here for him.
O Doctor, how the flux of blood creeps up
Out of his eyeball! Jesu Maria, lift him
To pillows . . . Henri!—Soft, to Les Tourelles!
Henri!

[He is borne out, Catherine clinging to his fallen hand.
Cardinal.
Be ready at Queen Catherine's side!
This stroke turns grave—the blood profoundly welling,
No knowledge of himself.

Guise.
I am with the Queen.

[He descends.
Diane
(suddenly).
He is not there. . . .

Brusquet.
O dearest of all fools!

[He weeps.
Diane.
Where are they gone . . . the little figures twisting
Or running round a spot I could not see?
Empty!—All gone away. . . .
Monsieur le Cardinal,
Will you win entrance for me to the King.
Oh, it is pain! And he will cry, will waken. . . .
God pity him!
Pray you, win entrance for me
Monseigneur, to his Majesty!
[Cardinal Lorraine descends.
Gone too!
Brusquet, fetch news. . . . I say it with my lips,
But feel all news is gone to echo now,
Wandering the Seine and garden-trees. Dear Brusquet,
One thing Love rules—that I be overthrown
With my great Knight. Go, plead for me, entreating
The Queen, by her fair mildness and old friendship,
She grant me but one touch of the King's hand,
To give him peace in anguish. Humble me,
As vanquished on the lists. Run! run!

Brusquet.
Fool's errand, Madam!
But you are written in one book—my kindred.
Keep this for pledge I go.

[He tosses her his book and leaves her.
Diane.
The precious name
Washed out—tears drowning all the characters.
Brusquet! . . . Tears, tears!
[Turning.
My women, doves before the hawk! . . . My women,
We are indeed left bare—the hawk at poise.
Gather your veils and fans. This privacy
Of ours is public to the crowd. . . .
Yet wait!
Some one approaches. . . . Pain, his pain! My Henri!

Enter Messenger
Messenger.
Madame de Valentinois, you are bidden
Retire yourself from Court, at the Queen's pleasure,
To your domain, restoring the crown-jewels
In sum and kind, then forthwith leaving Paris.

Diane.
Is the King dead?

Messenger.
No, Madam, but will die;
The surgeons and physicians speak him dying.

Diane.
No master have I while his Majesty
Has life but in one finger; and I fear
No enemy: but when he shall be dead
My sorrow will forget all injuries
Or insult in the vastness of its world.
For should he die, as the ascended moon,
Full to completion of the dead sun's light—
World of its world—I should reiterate
His shining till I set. I have no light
Of Mercury or Jupiter or Mars,
Nor any splendid planet, nor any star,
Nor luminary spangled on the heavens,
Nor darting 'mid the air, except my sun!
And from him only—my bright sun!—
The favourable kindness of his grace.

Messenger.
Madame la Duchesse,
Catherine, Queen-Regent of the Realm of France,
Requires of you the Château of Chenonceaux,
Sequestered from the throne . . .

Diane.
Château Chenonceaux
Was never of my title as is Anet;
But held of living gift while the great giver
Breathes breath of life. The gift is unannulled,
The King . . . God's mercy soothe him!—being alive.

Messenger.
You must obey the Queen, Madame la Duchesse.

Diane.
Here we are public: seek us in our house.

[As the Messenger leaves, Brusquet returns.
Brusquet.
Fool's errand, Madam! . . . Soothe!
She would not let you pass the palace-threshold,
Not pass—

Diane.
I have bowed down my soul. I enter
My Hell, where is no Christ—Love at a distance,
And every hour in sufferings and in fire . . .
Henri! . . . Christ come to us!

[She weeps, groaning.
Brusquet.
Brave, blessèd Lady,
The little Médicis weeps too.

Diane
(drying her tears with her silver veil, as she gathers her cloak round her).
She weeps!
To Anet, women—to the little Chapel.
[Perceiving Goujon standing quietly near her.
O Anet, Anet, Anet!—safe,
Maître Jean, the Dream safe, and fast-sealed!
My Henri
Reared me his Castle of Love's Holy Grail
On my own land, and there I have possession:
Those woods will flow
Their alleyed sun across my tears; for ever
The fountains throb their source, and the clear image
Of our great dream, in many a dream, enmesh me
To my far-banished King, that everywhere
Among the mirrors and the golden tissue
Of glasses, and the grisailles of the panes,
Among the balustrades and lovely doorways,
The statues and sky-fixed enamels, Henri
Will meet me in his presence, for we twain
Are by the very substance of our love
With beauty consubstantial. To all ears
Save yours, my Goujon, and to Palissy's,
Or Cousin's, or my Philibert de l'Ormé's,
How cold such words!—but not to yours, my love
Being safe in consecration as your dreams,
High and still kindled as the heavenly moon.
And if he die—my one, my sovereign joy—
His death will reach me, in a breath about,
Not of the forest coolness any more,
But infinite, set free from a deep heart
That is the depth of mine. . . . If he shall die,
You will at Anet raise my sepulchre,
Where you have raised me Goddess of his youth . . .
[Suddenly, with a moan.
But oh!—his pain, and the impassable,
The torturing gulf! How I am shut from him,
And he from me! . . . Christ come to us in Hell!
Oh, for Death's nearness—when the dead at large
Find closer ways to life than when they lived!
. . . Christ come to us! My Henri, none will pass
Save one that is divine between us now.
From where I am to where you are none pass . . .
Henri!—the great gulf fixed!

[She goes out, folded in her silver veil. Brusquet takes up his little book she has dropped and follows her in front of her women.
Goujon.
Goddess of Heaven,
She is the Moon left in Love's Universe,
That cloudless brow of hers, those languorous lids!
Now she becomes an effigy, as noble
As the firm glory it perpetuates,
Old, but as marvellous old marbles age:
And half her years'
Unconquerable legend we salute!
For her the Dream, for her a Sepulchre,
And I to serve her till she fill the world.

Scene III

Paris. Les Tourelles: the King's bedchamber. Henri is stretched motionless in stupor. Catherine de Médicis lies prone on the floor, near the bed. The royal ladies, the Dauphine Marie Stuart, the Princesses and the Brides of the late festivity, all dressed in white, stand round.
The Connétable Anne de Montmorency and the Cardinal de Lorraine bend over Catherine. It is growing dusk.
Cardinal.
Madam, not as the very grave to lie
In hopeless sorrow were a Catholic
And humble sorrow.
Raise yourself and drop
The groaning paternosters one by one,
Yet from eased heart.

Montmorency.
Madam, rise up! Take comfort.

Cardinal.
Your hand!

Catherine
(kneeling as his hand draws her from prostration).
That he should die! O Cardinal,
He will be dead to-morrow: and if dead . . .
It is the gulf that we have leapt across
Dazes us: what were any pit before
To one behind and traversed, memory
Booming and toiling of the phantom years
On years in requiem helplessness.

Cardinal.
O Madam,
You have a king, your son, and this young daughter

[Showing Marie Stuart.
Catherine
(on the breath of a whisper).
My poor, frail boy, my François—king!
His queen, young, fresh, unwrinkled!
(Patiently.)
Must we wait,
Wait still? . . .
O Cardinal, they cannot rule!
We are Queen-mother in the realm, and Regent,
If we are widowed. . . . Regent.
Marie, child!
Come, let your uncle see me kiss you . . . Regent!
You, the young Queen of France!
There, leave me, friends;
And, children, spread your white veils round your knees
Before the altar.
[The Connétable and the Cardinal withdraw. There is profound silence and the dropping of beads.
Husband!
[It is dark now, and the altar-lights fall on the white dresses of the beadswomen. Of a sudden Catherine stands up.
Why, how strangely
And utterly familiar!
(She looks round).
The black night,
The black-browed bed, standing, a catafalque;
And then this whiteness lit on shade and gloom—
A whiteness from the satin and the pearl
Of brides in bridal dress. . . .
What have I seen
In life, in all his life—what have I seen?
What does my memory implacable
See ever but this wedded black and white?
And I, if I would mourn him, must assume
The colours of my rival and the badge
Of his unfaithfulness—the black and white,
In death as life!
[She throws herself prone: after a moment she rears her head.
But, Henri, when you die,
The jewels, the crown-jewels, all your gifts—
By rote I know them, tabled every one—
These shall be rendered to the Widow-Queen
As to a Treasurer, firm, coloured things;
Though for your sake, belovèd, I must take,
And must adopt and wear by day, by night,
Her colours, even as you: and I shall wear them
While I am breathing in the lonely world.
Among us only black and white . . . on me
Ermine and sable, for I am a queen,
Queen-mother, Regent of my husband's realm,
And Regent of my dying son. . . . This queen,
This Marie Stuart, young, ambitious, favoured—
[In a loud voice.
Pray by your private altars, leave me silence! . . .
I am to lose my husband, dress in black,
Trail the white ermine. . . . I am full of faintness
I am to lose my husband. . . . What are children,
Dying from year to year, by the strait loss
And central of their father? Leave your prayers!
Put out the candles. . . . Hush! I would not see
The gulfs that teem this faintness; go!
[They pass out, as she moves towards the bed.
My Henri,
Black, white for evermore—for evermore
Our triple doom! O Henri, but to-day—
Am I not still in gold and red to-day?
Whose is the hour?
He stirs . . . his cry will follow;
Time has defeated the kind medicine.
The cry will rend me.
[She hurries to the anteroom.
Monsieur Vesale, help!

Henri.
Oh, oh!
Torn all to pieces and alive! A stag—
As when the biting hounds leap on its haunches,
And the poor, royal head must register
Death-agonies of prorogation, torn!
Hounds on me . . . and I cannot die.
Torture beyond the pains of death!
[He moans deeply.
Alone—
Diane, your royal stag, and run to ground!
A wilderness, the dogs, the panting air;
The frenzy. . . . O the vortex of mad teeth!

[He moans again. Catherine de Médicis and le Docteur Vesale approach the bed.
Catherine.
He cries—you hear!

Vesale.
This poppy should allay his martyrdom,
His tortured crying-out—the brain being torn
With fatal laceration.

Henri.
Give it me—
To drink, to end . . .

Vesale.
Nay, Sire . . .

Henri.
Not to the wound!
[Turning to Catherine.
Or send me my one salve,
You keep from me, Madam, my Watch-and-Ward!
Send me my salve!
Doctor . . . Be human! Doctor,
Tell me the one true thing: has she not pleaded
To visit me? She ever cared for beauty,
The statues with their polished, perfect brows;
But yet . . . Be human, tell me the one truth,
Mid all this calenture of brain and sight,
In which what seems is nowise what it is,
That she has pleaded.

Vesale.
Peace!
Keep still nor fret! Will not the gracious lady
Thank us if you shall heal.

Henri.
Stop, Catherine—listen! listen!
In the deep nights I came to you, your husband:
I came of her persuasion all these nights.
Are you not left Queen-mother of a race
She guards with care, as Artemis the young
Of the enfolding forests? Pity her!
I am swift-dying of such agonies
As master reason. . . . Let me feel her hand,
To nip, when the pain gnaws me, her dear rings—
The jasper dragon with its sparks and beams,
The ring of the four metals, and the ring
Made spireways with the pointed diamond-stone
And perfect balay ruby. . . . Oh, her touch—
As the moon's on the substance of the sea,
Garnering all its madness, she celestial!
Oh, her still touch! . . .
Doctor, she prayed to come?

Catherine.
Fret not! If you recover she will thank us.
Henri, my life,
Do not wrest off the poppy; let my fingers
Press solace on the gash.
O Henri, Henri,
You have confessed; God's oil is on your senses,
You are prepared for wayfaring and safe—
You are prepared for wayfaring by God. . . .
And in His sight, Henri, I stand your wife—
His mercy bathe you! Turn to me, O Henri!
Through twenty years of dream you have rejected
The wife who, virtual, loved you as her husband
Through famished girlhood to stale yesterday:
Who now is as a dog beside your body,
A dog beside his stricken master's body,
Keeping a foe at bay.

Henri.
But it is savage—cruel,
How they divide us.—As in Amadis
De Gaul, the hands, that beat upon the air,
Battling and hindering up the fatal perrons,
The iron and the marble and the copper,
Amadis fought through to the wondrous Chamber
Where he and Oriana should be joined.
Remember me, O Dian,
Now at this hour: I pass the line of spell.
Doctor, you know the hand was large and hard,
An old man's hand, that gathered Amadis
To the Forbidden Chamber.
Ha, la, la!
Take off your fingers, Catherine, take the paddle
Of your quick fingers off. Leave me alone!
And would you countervail? . . .
My only Princess!
Through all the roar of voices, the besetting
Of strife, O fiends, she the Most Beautiful,
Will come to me in the Forbidden Chamber.
Doctor . . . Oh, for God's sake, help, help! The girding
Of mortal pain! Give me a poppy-draught,
Oh, give me death! More poppy!
Not this woman—
You, you, old man . . . your hand, your large, hard hand. . . .
I know my own heart . . . have no fear.
[Clinging to his bedpost.
Lady of Succours, help . . .
(To Catherine.)
Ha, no, no, no!

Catherine.
I will not leave you—at the very last.
I have loved you in the dark as from a tomb,
My dying one, and you are mine. I hold you
Against all demon powers. . . .

Henri
(in a low, surprised voice).
And from this wandering softness,
New-born? O moonlight!
I am retired with it. . . .
O Moon, increasing,
Dewing with silver rills and all my pain
A sacred ecstasy! The years all gone!
Dian, my Lady, O Most Beautiful
In the Forbidden Chamber! Dian, Dian!
The ends of youth and age meet soft together,
Ah, very soft! I lie,
Safe in the growing, glistening silentness
Of thy own magic, thy Endymion.
Ha! thou hast hunted for me: I am found!
Doctor, nurse, priest, who ever presses near,
I am lone from you: do not speak . . .
No prayer, no touch. . . .
I shall lie white in night,
And when you come at dawn I shall be dead.

Catherine.
Henri, my husband!

Vesale.
Peace!