 | A Son of The Soil |  |
ACT III.
Scene.—The Public Place, Auray, in Brittany. House, R.; table and seats, R.; drinking cups.Margot and other People assembled on the Place in front of the house of Michael, R.
A Woman.
What's all the fuss and the marching for, Mère
Margot?
Marg.
Don't rightly know. They do say there's been a
power of hard fighting in the night. But, lord! they'd never
go and fight such weather as last night, surely! I've sent
Michael to find out all about it; and here a' comes, all agape
with the news.
All.
Tell us about it, Michael; tell us about it.
Mich.
Give us a drop to drink.
(Margot gives him drink)
I'm better. Now then, there's been a fight on the coast, and
no mistake about it
All.
Yes. Go on.
Marg.
When was it?
Mich.
Last night, in the middle of the storm. The Republican
army came down on the enemy in the dark; and,
would you believe it, they waded through the water up to the
waist, with the waves running mountains. Blest if I don't
think those fellows have got wings like the petrels yonder, or
skins like a shark's, made water-tight.
Marg.
And what was the end of it?
Mich.
The end of it was, that there is'nt an enemy's ship
left on the sea, or a rebel on the coast line. Never was such
a thing done yet; twenty thousand killed or taken, that's the
long and short of it.
Marg.
Holy Virgin! I knew there was something awful
going to happen. I heard the death-spirit howling in the
storm last night, and saw the Jack-o'-lanterns dancing out on
the marshes.
Mich.
Bah! give us something to drink.
(drinks)
Marg.
Did you see the troops anywhere?
Mich.
Anywhere? everywhere. I saw some of the regiments
coming towards the town, with the sea-water still
dripping from their clothes. And there was the prisoners
between a double row of muskets, jammed together like a
flock of sheep.
Marg.
Poor folk, poor folk!
Mich.
Ay, and a lot of poor women were crying and dragging
themselves on behind them—their wives and daughters, I take
it; there's many that were with the Aristocrats, for they had
no other homes to go to.
Marg.
Ah, it's a cruel business, and I don't rightly see
what we gain by it.
Mich.
Gain! why liberty, equality, and fraternity.
Marg.
Don't talk that nonsense to me. We were always
very well off down here, and if I can do anything to help the
poor Aristocrats in their trouble, why I will.
(all except Michael and Margot have left the stage)
Mich.
(confidentially)
So long as you do it when my back's
turned, I don't mind if you do.
Marg.
Ah, you're a man, you are.
Mich.
Just so, and women can do things that men can't.
That's not saying much for them. But about the
prisoners, what's to be done with them?
Enter Beatrice, behind, L. U. E.
Mich.
They say that the Bretons are to have a free pardon,
and to be sent home to their fields and farms; but it's a bad
job for the Aristocrats. Taken in arms on French soil—that's
the way the cant goes—shot!
(Beatrice gives a faint cry and sinks on a bench, R.)
Marg.
Eh! what's that? A woman, and a young and
pretty one, for all she's so white and worn like. She's fainted
away.
(Beatrice shakes her head)
What is it, my dear, what
is it?
Beat.
For pity's sake give me a cup of milk, I am so weak
and ill.
Marg.
(supporting her)
Eh, but the poor thing's dying for
hunger. Here, Michael, quick, bring some milk, and cheese
and bread. Courage, Madame, you shall have food directly.
(Michael brings bread, R.)
Here take and eat this, and pluck
up heart o' grace, there's a dear.
Beat.
A thousand thanks for your kindness. You have a
good heart, child. Heaven bless you for it!
(trying to rise,
but unable)
The air is stifling; oh, how tired I am!
Marg.
And no wonder, if you've walked all the way from
the coast. Have you?
Beat.
I think so. I don't know—yes—it's a weary distance.
I nearly fell down on the road from sheer fatigue.
Marg.
Ay, ay—you want something better than bread.
Michael, lay the white cloth indoors—with the venison and
the Sunday wine.
Now, rest yourself a bit, you'll be right in a minute.
Beat.
If it were only that; but I am distracted with
anxiety.
(aside)
I can learn no news of my father, whether he
is dead or a prisoner. Merciful heaven!—what a night! and
what a day!
Marg.
Listen, now; any one can see that you're a lady
born and bred, and if there's anything I can do to help you, I
will, if you'll only trust me. I love ladies; and I hate your
citizens, I do.
Beat.
I could trust you readily. But you can do nothing
for me. My father was with the beaten army last night, and
they say that every officer in it was killed or taken.
He was all I had in this world, and I have lost him.
Lille.
Not yet, Beatrice.
Beat.
Ah!
(throws herself into his arms)
(aside)
Hurrah! the Republic's done this time.
And it won't be my fault if they catch this one.
Exit, R., into house.
Beat.
(R. C.)
Safe! Can I believe my senses?
Lille.
(C.)
Safe only so far. And but for you, Beatrice,
and for the hope that I may yet live to see these curs crushed
in the end, I would have died on my own sword last night.
Beat.
Ah!—hush—don't think of that. How will you
escape from this place? Are the Republicans on your track?
Lille.
I cannot tell. I escaped their hands almost by a
miracle, and got shelter from a friendly peasant who provided
me with these clothes. As far as I know, I am the only
survivor of all our officers. It was a terrible carnage. May
I live to avenge it!
Beat.
Don't speak of vengeance now, but think only of
your safety.
Lille.
If we can find some quiet hiding-place here for a
while, we may be able to take ship for England.
Beat.
You wish me to follow you there?
Lille.
What else would you do? Beatrice, you are not
still thinking of that man?
Beat.
He has forgotten me. Do not speak of him.
Lille.
But if he has not? I have heard that he was with
the army here.
Beat.
Here!—Louis Martel! Oh! father, through his
means your life may be saved, if you will consent to—to—
Lille.
Beatrice!
Beat.
We need not talk of this now. Where can you
hide? The soldiers surround the town, I know, and you
cannot pass them. If I had a friend here!
Re-enter Margot from house, R.
Marg.
And so you have, madame. If the gentleman don't
mind a different sort of bed from what he's been used to—
Lille.
Pardieu! for some time I've been used to none at
all.
Marg.
Then I'll undertake to hide you for a bit until you
can look round you.
Beat.
Oh, bless you for your kind heart!
Lille.
I will never consent to expose you to such a danger.
Marg.
There's no danger to me; I've had my own way all
my life, and I'm not going to let other people have theirs
now, not if they were twenty times citizens. Supposing they
ask me, how am I to know you're not a real peasant—begging
your pardon for supposing that I could think such a thing?
Peasants, indeed! give me a nobleman.
(Valmont suddenly kisses her)
Valm.
(R. C.)
Your wish is gratified.
Marg.
(R.)
Gracious! What's that?
Valm.
Don't be alarmed—the tribute paid by Valour to
Beauty and Generosity.
Lille.
Valmont?
(crosses, R.)
Valm.
I believe so, though I don't look like him.
Marg.
(aside)
Another nobleman, and certainly behaves as
such.
Lille.
What are you doing here?
Valm.
What you are—running away.
Marg.
Ah, and that's why you called yourself Valour.
Valm.
I am the better part of it—Discretion.
Beat.
Then you are indeed changed, cousin.
Valm.
(kissing her hand)
In all respects save one. I live
for novelty, and it amuses me to be discreet. Then the
excitement of running away is new to me; and in all my
adventures I never wore a peasant's dress before, till I stripped
this last night from the body of a citizen (of the other world)
who tried hard to knock my brains out. He had so few,
though, that I knocked his out first, and, as he died intestate,
possessed myself of his personal property. Duchess, once
more your slave till death, which is likely just now to be a
very short term of service.
Beat.
Is this your discretion, and at such a moment?
(a march heard)
Marg.
The soldiers are coming! make haste in, sir; there's
no time to be lost.
Exeunt Lille and Beatrice into house, R.
But what am I to do with you?
Valm.
Nothing; nobody ever succeeded in doing anything
with me. I shall stay here and see how the land lies. My
own mother wouldn't know me in this dress, and I am sure
nobody else will.
Marg.
Show me a citizen that would take things as cool
as that!
Exit into house, R.
Enter Aristides, Leonidas, and Soldiers, accompanied by some of the Townspeople, L. U. E.—Valmont stays about in the background, and mixes with the Crowd.
Aris.
(R.)
Now then, Citizen Landlord, your best cider and
plenty of it. Come along, boys, and Ill give you a toast.
Leon.
(R.)
Long live Aristides!
Aris.
Amen, by all means; but I've a better toast than
that. Here's to our General, who beats every enemy from the
Rhine to the sea. To the good Republican, Hoche!
To the health of the General, Hoche!
Aris.
This cider's a real invention to comfort a man after
such a piece of work as last night's. We'll have another toast
on the strength of it; and it's pretty strong too. Comrades,
here's the health of the Captain who stormed the fort last
night, and never cranes at anything. Here's a health to
Captain Martel!
All.
Captain Martel!
Valm.
(aside)
The Hurricane. It was he, was it, confound
him? I thought I heard his voice shouting last night, but they
told me it was a cannon.
Leon.
Great man! Was my master—is your friend.
Aris.
I should think so. We are a pair of brothers, we
are, and better than that. It's Orestes and the other fellow
over again. He and I have got one more little bit of service
to do before we have quite done with the Aristocrats.
Leon.
What's that?
Aris.
One of their chiefs got away last night, and is somewhere
hereabouts. We're after him.
Valm.
(coming forward, C.)
Ah, one did you say?
Aris.
Yes I did; who the devil are you?
Valm.
(aside)
By-the-bye, who the devil am I?—Citizen
Valette, at your service—a hard-working man.
Aris.
(aside)
With a very white pair of hands—very good;
Citizen Valette, will you join us in our toast?
Valm.
Citizen, with the utmost pleasure. You were drinking
to Captain Martel, I think. Here's to his very good
health, and may his lungs never be less. A fine fellow,
Captain Martel!
Aris.
What do you know about him?
Valm.
Come, I like that; you want me to drink his health,
and then ask me if I know him! His reputation has reached
me. A great creature, with an abnormal development of
muscle.
Aris.
(aside)
Speaks oddly for a hard-working man.—
You're a queer fellow; do you belong to this town?
Valm.
Not altogether.
Aris.
A Parisian?
Valm.
Partly.
(aside)
The patriot is inquisitive.
Aris.
One of us?
Valm.
Certainly;
(aside)
and as good as six of you. Did I
hear you say that one of those infernal Aristocrats had escaped
last night?
Aris.
You did. Does that interest you?
Valm.
More or less, as a matter of curiosity. I think you
said Captain Martel was charged with his capture?
Aris.
I did.
What is the runaway's name?
Aris.
Not known yet.
Valm.
(aside)
Ah, and they're only after one of us. I hope
it's myself, and not the Duke—in the first place, because I've
no womankind belonging to me, and in the second, because it
would hurt my feelings to be overlooked.
Aris.
You are fond of talking to yourself.
Valm.
I am; my conversation is so sure to be appreciated.
Aris.
(aside)
I've seen this fellow before. Can he be the
man we are after? Surely even an Aristocrat would never be
such a fool as to run his head into the lion's mouth in this way.
Valm.
You seem partial to your own conversation, too,
which I confess surprises me.
Aris.
What do you mean by that?
Valm.
Absolutely nothing.
(aside)
How clever I am when
I'm put to it! He hasn't the smallest suspicion.
Aris.
(aside)
I'd stake my life on his being the man we
want. The shallow-brained lunatic. I must warn the Captain.
Ah, here comes Captain Martel
(going up stage and pointing
out Valmont to Leonidas)
Don't lose sight of this man.
Valm.
(looking off)
The Hurricane himself, no doubt. I
must let the Duchess know that at once; it may be useful.
Looks round, then exit into house, R., Leonidas and Aristides watching him.
Aris.
Hang about here, and keep your eye on that house.
I mean to try what I can find out at the back there. If I'm
not much mistaken, the chase won't be long.
Exit, R. U. E.—Leonidas and Soldiers, R. 1 E.
Enter Martel, L. 1 E.
Mart.
So, then, the war is over; and to me,
Who in the warm embrace of fire had thought
To find at last death or forgetfulness,
Nothing is left to live for. Yet I live!
It is so difficult to die. I live,
Haunted for ever by one memory,
And think of her alone. I longed to find
Death in the battle, but I found her image;
And in that thought forgot that death was near.
And so he passes by, to deal with those
Who fear to meet him. Something, it is true,
Of the old patriot spirit and old pride
Stirs feebly in me in the hour of victory—
One smouldering ember that escaped her foot,
When she trod out the fire that warmed my life;
And even now, that last faint ember crumbles
Into the cold, grey ashes of the past.
Heaven grant this fugitive a safe release,
Whoever he may be!
Re-enter Aristides, R. U. E.
Aris.
Captain Martel!
Mart.
What is it, Citizen?
Enter Beatrice from the house, R., and listens apart.
Beat.
(aside)
It is true, then; he is here, and is the officer
charged with the capture. There he is. How changed and
sad!
Aris.
I have run the fox to earth, Captain. The Aristocrat
we are after is there,
(pointing to the house)
or I am much
mistaken.
Beat.
(aside)
Discovered! I must warn my father.
Aris.
The house is surrounded, and nobody can escape.
Beat.
(aside)
Too late! I have only one chance left.
Mart.
The Republic is indebted to you for your zeal, citizen.
(aside)
Curse his blundering, why couldn't he let the man go!
In that house, you say? Let me first make sure that you are
right. Come with me.
(takes a step towards the house, Beatrice
comes forward and meets him)
Beatrice—Madame D'Armine,
you in Auray?
Beat.
I wish to speak with you alone.
(Martel makes a gesture to Aristides, who looks doubtful)
Mart.
Leave us.
Aris.
(aside)
A petticoat again? My Orestes is in danger.
I shall give a hint to the General.
Exit, L. U. E.
Mart.
What are you doing here?
Beat.
I wished to see you.
Mart.
Well, are you satisfied? and am I changed
Enough to please you?
Beat.
Not more changed than I:
Look in my face.
Mart.
I know your power to mould it
To any shape you please. And yet I think
That you should fear to meet me: I have power
Yet—for revenge.
Beat.
Have I deserved that threat?
For our love's sake—
Mart.
Hush! never speak of that:
It is well over now. You never knew
The meaning of the word; and as for me,
I care for you no longer.
Beat.
(aside)
Oh, my heart!
All is lost now!
Yet, wherefore should I feign,
Or grudge you half the spoils of victory?
I love you still, as much as I despise you.
You wished to break my heart, and now would learn
If you have done so. Be content; you have!
Beat.
How can you speak so cruelly? What of mine?
Mart.
Bah! we are wasting time. Perhaps you have
Some other reason for your presence here?
What do you want of me? Is it your cousin?
Can I do anything for him?
Beat.
My father—
Mart.
I thought as much. Your father is in England.
Beat.
No; he is here—here in this very house.
Mart.
Your father, in this house?
Beat.
I have heard all.
The fugitive for whom you search—is he.
Mart.
He—he! Impossible! He whom my oath
And duty bind me to give up to death!
No—no, it cannot be!
Beat.
It is too true.
If you desire revenge, you have it.
Mart.
No;
Not in that way. Go home at once, Madame,
Back to your friends.
Beat.
I have no friends or home.
My father is all that I have left to me;
And they will kill him too, unless you save him.
Mart.
What power have I?
Beat.
Say that he is not there.
His secret is but guessed; a word from you
Will banish all suspicion. Screen him now,
And he may fly in safety. None will ever
Know aught of what you do, but I alone.
Oh, when they ask you, say he is not there!
Mart.
It would be a base treason, and a lie;
The men I lead, the uniform I wear,
I should disgrace to say it, and I cannot.
Beat.
Louis, for mercy's sake!
Mart.
Don't kneel to me!
I cannot bear it. Why, what can I do?
How can I cast my honour under foot?
Break faith and oath, and lie? My comrades all
Would scorn and loathe me. What you ask, Madame,
Is my own lasting shame.
Beat.
I want my father!
What do I know of your nice points of honour?
I know this, that one little word from you
Are the most merciful of conquerors.
Louis, by all our childhood's memories—
By all the care I gave your dying mother—
By all your love for me which I can read
Written in every line upon your face—
By all my love for you, and from my soul
I love you so, that I would die for you—
Say that one word, and save him!
Mart.
If I did,
Among the first you would despise me for it.
Beat.
No, before Heaven. Shall I give you proof?
Say it, and I will be your wife to-morrow.
I swear it by your mother's grave.
Mart.
You will?
Enter Hoche, L. U. E.
Hoche.
Captain Martel, it has just been reported
That the Aristocrat whom you are charged
To capture, styled and known as Duke de Lille,
Is thought to be concealed here, in this house,
And that yourself have ascertained the truth
Of the suspicion. Captain, on your oath,
Tell me if this be so?
Beat.
(to Martel, aside)
Yours when you will.
Mart.
(aside)
I thought that misery could do no more,
But this is worse than all.
Beat.
(to Martel)
Do you hear me, Louis?
Mart.
Do I not hear you? I have tried to doubt you;
But even when I tried, I trusted most.
I know you love me, and to win your hand
I would do anything in the world—but this!
If I must buy you at this price alone,
I have lost you. General, the Duke is there.
Beat.
My father!
Mart.
(aside)
Is this death?
Beat.
My father! (to Martel)
Oh!
You are revenged indeed, for you rob me
Of my last friend and last hope in the world,
While, with my father's blood upon your hands,
You leave with me no memory of you,
But as his murderer. You talk of love,
And never bate a jot of your false pride.
I leave you, and we shall not meet again.
What must become of me, orphaned, alone,
Heaven knows—not I. But never while I live,
Even in the last and worst extremity,
That breathes of peace or pardon. That I swear!
But I shall not forget you. In the mourning
Which I must wear in beggary all my life,
My eyes will ever see your cruel work—
The bitter end of all your evil pride!
(going)
Hoche.
Bring forth the Duke de Lille!
(signing to a Soldier, who approaches the house)
Enter Valmont from house, R.
Valm.
(with dignity)
Well; he is here!
I am the Duke de Lille!
Beat.
(to Valmont)
Valmont! my cousin!
(Hoche retires to the back with Martel)
Valm.
(to Beatrice)
Hush! I am here to save your father's life!
These fellows only know of one of us,
And I shall serve to gorge their appetites.
Beat.
I will not hear of it; it must not be.
Valm.
Indeed it must; for me, the mischief's done;
And, if you speak, your father is lost too;
Don't let me make a useless sacrifice!
Beat.
My father is within?
Valm.
No; with the help
Of that extremely tempting landlady,
He has escaped our polished enemies.
They had been kind enough to mark me down,
So paid him no attention; you will find him
Safe at the nearest sea-port. As for me,
I never thought to make so good an end.
(to Hoche, who comes forward)
I am your prisoner, sir. (gravely)
God save the King!
Hoche.
(aside)
The spirit of a hero! I am glad
To tell the Duke de Lille his life is safe;
And 'tis our friend here who has saved it, lady.
Beat.
(bewildered)
I do not understand you.
Mart.
(L.)
Comrade—friend,
What does this mean?
Hoche.
It means that the Duke's name
Was by your orders some time since removed
From the proscribed list of the absentees.
Do you remember?
Mart.
Yes.
Hoche.
The stringent law,
Which to the rebel nobles here denies
All mercy and all quarter, strikes alone
Such are my orders. And the Duke de Lille,
By act of you, Martel, is not among them;
And you, Martel, have saved the Duke de Lille!
I have shown mercy to the Breton peasants,
And have the right to him to show as much.
It may be that I stretch a point in this;
(to Martel)
But I have done good service to the State,
And claim the privilege to serve a friend.
Beat.
(to Valmont)
He knows you, and he screens you. From my soul
I thank you for the noble act which saves
Your own life where you thought to save another.
Val.
Virtue its own reward! How very hard!
I may not even sacrifice myself.
Just my old luck! Well, as your father, Duchess,
Of course I cannot hope to marry you.
Don't let the Hurricane tear you to bits,
And take my blessing.
Beat.
But where will you go?
Valm.
To follow my old leader, the god Chance—
Heaven knows how long or where! One parting word,
Dear cousin, of advice. Wear the Greek dress
As often as you can. It's a sweet fashion,
And it becomes you to perfection.
Exit, R. 1 E.
Hoche.
A Frenchman to the core! A frivolous heart,
Until its depths are stirred, but stedfast then,
Even to the last! (aside)
I'm glad I let him go.
May the Republic never hear of it!
I have been very deaf and very blind!—
Forgive the trial, lady; for your sake
I wished that you should see him as he is!
And so I leave you free to join the Duke.
You will want a man's help to take care of him.
Mart.
I lose her once again, then!
Hoche.
(laughing)
What of that?
You have no leisure time for sighs and loves!
Let her alone; bright eyes don't trouble you.
Exit, L.
Mart.
You leave France—with your father?
Beat.
Where he goes.
So must, I too; I have no other home.
(timidly)
Have I?
Mart.
I know: I am glad that he is spared.
Beat.
And yet, you would not spare him!
Mart.
What I did,
I could not choose but do, but know too well
It parts us more than does your father's will.
The vow you made just now.
Beat.
What vow was that?
That I should not forget you—was it not?
Mart.
Or dream of peace or pardon. Oh, the words
Are burnt into my brain. Where'er you go,
May happier love than mine, and not less true,
Follow, and guard, and crown you, evermore!
(going)
Beat.
(aside)
Oh, he will go! I cannot call him back;
Yet, what is pride that I should cling to it,
When he gives all, but honour, up for me!
Hear me before you go. It was well done,
That which you did; and while I hated you,
Oh how I did admire you!
(he turns to her—she stops him)
Doubting still?
Spite of yourself you saved my father's life;
Will you not claim your guerdon?
Mart.
If I dared!
That oath forbids.
Beat.
(throwing herself into his arms)
Then thus I break the oaths!
If angry vows bound women where they love,
There's ne'er a wooer that would gain a bride!
Give me your life, and I will pay you for it
With coin as rich and golden as your own,
If in the world such mintage may be found!
Come, take me to my father. You will bend
His love to yours, as you have conquered mine.
Mart.
Heaven helping me, I will! Mine own at last!
Mine own! so madly loved, so hardly won!
May a new era be by us begun!
May pride's worn barrier that thy love breaks through,
No longer part the old race and the new;
And in our plighted troth may France forecast
The union of her future and her past!
Curtain.
| A Son of The Soil | |