 | The Duke D'Ormond |  |
THIRD ACT.
SCENE THE FIRST.
The Hotel of the Marchioness de Mielcour.THE MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
THESE men, what fools do they become, when once
We have enslaved them. Here I Courtenaye see,
And the Duke D'Ormond crawling at my feet!
Do I love Courtenaye? That I cannot tell.
Love the Duke D'Ormond? That's more puzzling still!
I scarcely know, or what, or whom, I love!
I only know, that, for my life's enjoyment,
'Tis requisite that I indulge the love
Of power, and pleasure! Of my passions, first,
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Courtenaye loves me, but loves his interest more;
This gives a spirit to his intercourse,
And lends a piquancy to the attempt
To vanquish him. The certainty I feel
That I have yet to make myself the mistress,
Not of the outworks of his character
Alone, but also of its strong hold, gives
Charms, to my restless spirit, to his commerce,
Which I feel not in that of the Duke D'Ormond.
Courtenaye brings most amusement, and the Duke
Has not sufficiently a heart to give
To be the object of a serious passion.
As if he were to me the world in one
He is as jealous and exacting; yet
I see his spirit has its absences,
Its infidelities, and reveries
Of past-done things. Ought such an one to ask
The entire homage of a single heart?
Besides his commerce,—if one so may speak,—
Puts in one's hands no play. He does not make
Any resistance; and, absurd enough,
Unsympathizing, ask for sympathy.
He is all sentiment, and melancholy;
And say, what woman, if she had a spirit,
E'er lik'd a sentimental paramour.
What woman e'er, if she had spirit, liked
One that capitulates when first attacked?
Besides, I half despise him. This I know
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With more of that which gives love warranty
Endowed, aye infinitely more, than that
To which I can lay claim! Am I not fallen?
Fallen irrecoverably? In my own esteem
I am: and self-blame sets the seal to that
Which constitutes essentially a fall.
What though I still have too much pride t'admit
A partner in the consciousness of this,
The worm that gnaws within me, and that preys
E'en on my very vitals,—till at last
It shall consume me,—forces on my soul
A dire conviction I may not evade.
One day it will consume me! But as long
As I can hinder it, external mark,
Sigh, tear, complaint, or any other sign
Of inward heaviness, shall ne'er attest
Its ravages. When I am only fit
To be compassionated,—since I can,
Without self-loathing, ne'er be so,—let me
Be so placed that I must be, what I should
If otherwise it could be,—uncompassioned.
I never saw one that could pity nobly.
Those have I who could nobly have been pitied.
But suffering is the charter of the noble,
And he who has not its pernicious essence
Lodged in his breast, of bliss was never worthy.
But truce with all reflections! In these veins
While the tumultuous pulse of passion throbs,
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Of an impetuous temperament. Ye talk
Of conquering worlds, tyrants of Macedon,
And Rome! What are your proudest boasts compared
With those of even slighted woman? Our's
Is the dominion o'er the human heart!
The noblest empire this! The passions we—
You sway—of that high creature man—alone
The bodily functions! and not e'en these
Till ye have first debased him to the brute,
And robbed him of his noblest patrimony,—
A patrimony imprescriptible
To those who chuse to keep it—Liberty!
More glorious an achievement in my thought
Than subjugation of the universe,
The subjugation of one human heart!
(Enter Courtenaye).
COURTENAYE.
You love me not, Maria.
MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
Of all men
You have least reason to make this assertion.
COURTENAYE.
Duke D'Ormond? Aye, confess now, the Duke D'Ormond?
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What? Would you first intreat me to allure him,
And then reproach me for the scheme's success?—
COURTENAYE
(aside).
Yet, must I wear the mask of amorous dalliance;
It suits my purpose best; else would she not,
(High as her nature is) yield that to interest,
Which now she thinks she yields to love, for me.
MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
Talk not to me thus, Courtenaye, think you not
My conduct towards him, of my love for you,
Proof most convincing? Have I not consented
For you to do that which no other man
Would dare to ask me, and which by no other,
And for no other, as I ne'er was asked,
Much less did I ever resolve, to do?—
To be your instrument have I not agreed,
That, to your purpose, more effectively
He may be won?—
(Aside).
Fool! let him, if he can, believe all this!
Woe be to him, who, of his fellow beings
Makes a convenient tool, if he should chance
To aim at this, when with accomplice leagued
More comprehensive both in scope of thought,
From higher, and from wider range of feelings,
With more resources from a richer nature;
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The greatest insult man to man can shew
Is, in emergency, of him to make
Slave of th' occasion! What must this then be
When woman is by man insulted thus?—
Woman defenceless by her nature? Hell
A crime torments not fit to match with this!
COURTENAYE,
(Who, during her soliloquy had been walking to and fro on the back part of the room, returning to the Marchioness.)
Then you do not love D'Ormond?
MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR
(aside).
Help me here,
Ye powers that wait on woman to dissemble.
(To Courtenaye).
Can you love one who at your very feet
Crawls? Can you value him who values not
Himself? When once a man into one's breast
Has poured forth all the mysteries of his nature,
He's like a casket of its jewels stripped.
Then curiosity is consummate!—
That fatal is. Ambition too is sated!—
That is more fatal!—Lastly, all the stress
Which both to passions nam'd, and nameless, brings
Excitement, is no more; all energy
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This is more fatal still! But at his door
Lies yet a deeper sin, not negative,
But positive: a sin it is, in man,
By woman not to be forgiven! He,
'Stead of amusing, wants to be amused!—
What mistress could endure to be obliged
To take the burthen wholly on herself
To be love's purveyor? He is consumed
By deep remorse. And, self-dissatisfied,
As others thus estranged from natural joy,
And all spontaneous cheerfulness, is doomed
Living to sepulture; repining, froward,
And fraught with most fastidious selfishness!
As to a Circe, he to me repairs,
That I, by draughts of passion, may divide
Him, by intoxication, from his thoughts.—
Now his Aspasia, now his Æsculapius;
His recreation,—or—his medicine chest!—
Any thing may I rather be to him
Than mistress of his heart! Give me a man
That is romantic, or is vain enough,
E'n in the dream of love, to deem that he
Subjugates me, that mightily enhances
The dear delight of subjugating him.
COURTENAYE.
You are a wondrous creature! Born to prove
What nature can, in a munificent,
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Of treading in a customary path,
She would give evidence of original power.—
Like those who play at chess, you take us all
For men of wood, and move us to your purpose
As life were merely a fantastic game.
MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR
(aside).
So be it.—It my purpose suits most well
That he should think so.
(To Courtenaye).
I allow you, Courtenaye,
At least a castle's privilege: for here
Am I by you immured.
COURTENAYE.
Immured! I wish
Only that you should hold yourself select
For the Duke's visit for a little week.—
One little week is all! But a truce now
With these superfluous episodes. I wish
Now to converse most seriously with you.
If you love me, now is the time to prove it.
MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR.
If I love you! Name but the proof which you
Require of me, and see if I do not,
To the least little, execute your wish.
But first, let me retire a little instant,
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To give admission to no visitor.
[Exit.
COURTENAYE
(alone).
That I'm his heir, being his father's nephew
On my mother's side, and that my name is Villeneuve,
This, as she little does suspect, by me
So shall she ne'er be told, till my schemes are
For such disclosure ripe. For knowing this,
As she would then perceive how it imports
To my aggrandizement that D'Ormond falls,
She would at once see through my stratagems;
And of my actions every tendency,
And bearing, of a circumventive nature
Conducive to the ruin of Duke D'Ormond,
Knowing my weal dependent on his woe,
She would at once discern! Her noble nature
Would utterly revolt, if she knew all
Both of my projects, and my means to make them
Desperately bear on the Duke D'Ormond's fate.
(The Marchioness re-enters).
COURTENAYE,
(To the Marchioness de Mielcour, both seated).
Of my past life, though you know not the whole,
You know the greatest part. You know that I
Though wealthy once, am now a ruined man.
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A little of his wealth would do me service.
Of him I cannot make a man of pleasure,
Much less a man of dissolute life. He must
Be, by his passions, not his senses, ruled.—
With inextinguishable appetite
For sympathy—in men of temperament
Like to his own, which is so often found,—
He is peculiarly endowed. Indeed,
No more, as I conjecture, could he live
Without some object,—or fantastical,
Or real,—for his heart,—no matter which,—
For both amount to the same thing with him,—
Than other men without the vital air,
Save through the fascination of your sex,
No hold have I on him. To fascinate him
Try; and use all your powers to enslave him.
So shall his absent fair,—in some sort, who
Is still to him as an external conscience,
Be from his memory razed. Of this world's goods
He nothing heeds. The heart,—and that alone,—
And its fantastic joys or miseries
Constitute his sole universe.—Of walks
Which, during evenings of the summer past,
He with his mistress took, still will he rave
Of the warm breezes stealing from some bank,—
Where the pale primrose, and the violet grew,—
Choicest perfumes, and playing on their cheeks,
Or with the crisped tresses of his love.
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With its sincerity, and innocence!
Of converse, though spontaneous, pure and calm
As that, which, in the abodes of Paradise,
Immortal spirits with each other hold.—
From him eradicate, I do beseech you,
All these pedantic rhapsodies. If you
But have the will, you have the power, to do it.
You can, with our sex, with your heaven of beauty,
Do any thing, you know you can; this knowledge
Gives you the liberty of spirit to do it.
Root, root them out! and make him your's; and then
He's mine for ever! Then he is as much
To my shrine brought, as any victim ever
To the fantastic gods of Greece or Rome!
MARCHIONESS DE MIELCOUR
(aside).
Mean, despicable wretch! He little thinks
The effect his exhortations have on me!—
To what fools, vanity, dost thou tranform
Men of some talents! Till this moment never
So loathed I Courtenaye, nor so well loved D'Ormond!
But now to have the real sway, I must,
In my turn, simulate! What intercourse
Is this! To this we bring ourselves by vice!
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With love most ardent, soon begin to fear
Each other, then to hate, and finally
Mutually to seek in secret to contrive
The ruin of each other!
(To Courtenaye).
All shall be
Done as you counsel. Well you know I cannot
Refuse you any thing.
[A knock is heard.
COURTENAYE.
But D'Ormond comes.
Here is his picture, which to you I promised:
Wear it, but not exposed: and, in exchange
Give me my own: be quick. Retire, I pray you,
I fain would here awhile converse with D'Ormond:
And if of you he catch but one slight glance
I scarcely shall arrest his absent thoughts.
[The Marchioness de Mielcour goes out, darting towards Courtenaye, unperceived by him, a look of the most profound contempt.]
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(alone).
Cursed chance! Thus have I this night ventured all,
All that I had to lose, and lost it all!
Duke D'Ormond ne'er came as he promis'd. Well!
I must allow him, for a little time,
To feel at liberty; like bird, with thread
Invisible, of gossamery woof,
Ensnared, that, having yet not tried to fly
Beyond its tether, knows not 'tis a prisoner:
Then will I pounce upon him, and transfer
All his rich acres to my now drained purse.
Besides, although he know it not,—and though
I take good care that others know it not,—
I, next of kin, am of his wealth the heir,
Though, since i'th' female line, not of his title.
A home-thrust I must make! Things, many days,
Cannot remain, as now they are, and I
Be visible in Paris. This same night
Thy doom, Duke D'Ormond, shall be consummated.
To-night shalt thou be in De Mielcour's arms
Imparadis'd; but to that paradise,—
As to the happy dwellers in thy clime,
Oh Eden,—shall a lasting hell succeed.
Satiety will soon come! Soonest, best!—
Provided with it liberty come not!—
I will take care to rivet well his chains;
And make him scoop out,—as with his own hands,—
A bottomless pit of everlasting woe.
I can frame circumstances so,—from this
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That—with his turbulent impetuousness,
And exquisite conscience,—he shall so transgress
Against the laws of honour, as respects
His former love, that this alternative
Alone remains to him,—to die a victim;—
And then I quietly ascend his seat;—
Or,—from his conscience being in my power,—
And from that recklessness which deep remorse,
Especially in minds so sensitive
Produces—so to have his master-key—
Like that of instrument of music—touched,
That all his purposes I subjugate.
(Enter the Duke D'Ormond).
DUKE D'ORMOND.
What Courtenaye, are you here? It seems, methinks,
These few days past, you haunt me, not unlike
One's shadow, both in constancy and gloom.
COURTENAYE
(aside).
Jealous, by Jupiter! I did not think
That he was yet so far by passion master'd.
Here's a new tool with which to clench his fetters!
I will so little, and so much, as suits
My purpose, on this weakness work, to me
Delectably adapted! and that other—
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To men of sensibility, and makes
Them exquisitely shrink from ridicule.
(To the Duke).
What, are you jealous, Duke?—
DUKE D'ORMOND.
No, no! Not jealous!
You well may claim certain prescriptive right
From intercourse previous to mine with her,
To commerce with the Marchioness de Mielcour:
But let me this gently insinuate,—
Not, since thus, that I am less absolute
That,—save on public opportunities,—
Your visits here will be,—to me at least—
Welcome proportionably as they are rare.
COURTENAYE,
(Aside, but loud enough for the Duke to hear).
How would he blame his passion, could he know
What fondness prompted her to say of him!
(To the Duke).
What—man of sentiment as you are—cannot
You comprehend that a fond heart which is
Wronged with reserves by the object of its love,—
If not entirely slighted, kept at distance,—
Will seek almost instinctively for one
To whom it may disburthen its repressed,
And unrequited sensibilities.
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(aside).
Oh, could I once believe 'twere so!
(To Courtenaye).
But how
Do you from hence infer necessity
For commerce 'twixt the Marchioness and you?—
COURTENAYE,
(Aside, but still purposely loud enough for the Duke to hear).
On his romantic generosity,
On his too exquisite refinement, I
Fear its effects, especially should not
The passion be reciprocal in him.—
A nature like to his should I tell him
Her love's excess, from its excess of honour
Might thence be irretrievably induced
Its freedom to surrender: and till I
Learn if her boundless passion be returned,
How can I risk disclosure of her secret?—
I am perplexed!
(To the Duke, as if suddenly roused from deep meditation).
But how from hence, say you,
Do I infer necessity for commerce
'Twixt myself and the Marchioness? 'Tis well,
Well acted, on my life! This infantine
Unconsciousness most marvellously fits
A person altogether so unskilled
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Let not a swift involuntary smile
Of incredulity, that will reveal
My thoughts, by you be construed into rudeness.
DUKE D'ORMOND.
No more perplex me! What does all this mean?
Of “exquisite refinement” on my part,
“Romantic generosity?”—For I—
Though sure you meant it not,—o'erheard your speech,
And “boundless passion on the lady's?”
COURTENAYE.
How
Have I betray'd her, and myself! These walls
Must be constructed like a whispering gallery!
DUKE D'ORMOND.
You agonize me! Be explicit. Once,—
Once in your life, prove that you are my friend.
COURTENAYE,
(Affecting not to hear the Duke, and to be in such a state of abstraction that he is insensible to the presence of any second person).
Then her consummate delicacy. She
Has rumours of a prior preference heard.
Would it not be ungenerous, base, to tell
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Of being weaned from all anterior ties?—
It would—it would! I must be cautious!—
DUKE D'ORMOND.
You
Will drive me mad! I cannot bear it more!
[Drawing his sword.
Am I to deem you as my friend, or rival?
COURTENAYE,
(Affecting a loud laugh of surprise).
By Jove, most excellent! Rival indeed!
(Aside).
I see I've stung his soul now to a pitch
Just fitting for my purpose.
(To the Duke).
Rival indeed!
She had a moderate regard for me.
Too rational, too phlegmatic, it was
To flatter me. And that is over now,
All over! Cæsar-like you've crossed my path,
And, like him, you may say, I came, I saw,
I conquer'd.
DUKE D'ORMOND.
Listen Courtenaye.—I cannot
Value the favours of the brightest dame
Till first I know that I possess her heart.
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I must be to, the woman that I love!—
A wandering of the eye, a sentiment
Uttered in absent tone, a look, a gesture,
Vacant expression of the countenance,
Which made it questionable whether one—
A spirit paramount—and that the spirit
Of most idolatrous fondness—did pervade
Her entire being, would, to my repose,—
To my desires, be fatal. Think, then—think,—
What must my feelings be, in finding you,—
A man notorious for promiscuous intrigue,
And libertine adventure,—more than this,—
Although, to say it, I know, will but feed
Your vanity, now too exorbitant,
Yet still will I repeat it,—you, a man
Notorious for successful gallantry;
What must my feelings be, I say, to find
Such an one closetted in secret converse
With her my heart is bursting to obtain?
COURTENAYE.
But let me state a case. A fond heart feign—
And here you need not feign—o'erflowing with
Excess of tenderness! Further suppose
The object on the which that heart is fixed
Itself, irresolute is, and dilatory;
Mysteriously cautious in surrendering
Up its whole self to this devoted heart?
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Be the result of this, in her who thus
Feels,—with a circumspective guardedness,—
Wholly unmerited by her profound
Self-dedication,—herself wronged;—yet such
Her love, she rather weeps in solitude,
Than seeks on that wrong to recriminate.
Will such an one, in such predicament,
Occasion not most naturally seek,
Into the bosom of a long tried friend
Her sorrows to disburthen? Such has been
The character of this night's colloquy
Betwixt the Marchioness and me. She loves you,
Dotes on you; loves you to distraction, Duke!
Could you so cold, so unimpassioned be
As with contemptuous levity to treat her?
No, you could not! Have I not now well proved
Myself your friend? Do you suppose the task
I have imposed upon myself,—to that,
With which perhaps you've not without cause taxed me,
My vanity,—is acceptable?—No!—
I'm galled; but I'm your friend! and friendship now
Unseals my lips, which honour else had closed.
But let me not suppose that I've betrayed
Her honour, in this proof of zeal for you.
A fear lest this might be the case, alone
Has kept that secret, which some four months past,
The Marchioness imparted first to me.
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Now, Edward, now indeed you are my friend!
Older are you than I, and in the world,
And in its ways, more deeply have been trained.
Oh, could I trust that that which you have said
To me, were true; were literally true,
I were the happiest man on earth! But I
Am new to men and manners. Can I think
That,—from the many polished cavaliers
Who seek her favour,—she can turn aside
To one who's still in his noviciate?—
COURTENAYE.
As proof of it, look at this picture here.
It is a likeness of myself I gave her
Just ere you came to Paris. She has this
Returned to me within the last half hour,
Assuring me that equally the depth,
And delicacy of her love for you,
Forbid her longer, free from self-reproach,
To have possession of a bauble, once
Given to her as pledge of my regard.
At the same moment, she has, from my hands,
Received a picture of yourself, which you,
As you may recollect, gave to my keeping
Some four months since, and which you now will find
Tied round her neck. Discovering that I had it,
She, with an eagerness I scarce could brook,
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Loth was I to agree to this exchange,
Implying such a mortifying preference;
At last, won by her importunities,
I promised it: and I this evening brought—
When you of me so needlessly were jealous—
That, on the one hand, which her love for you
Made her so highly prize, and took from her
Th' humiliating proof of her indifference.
(Aside).
If this to him seem not apochryphal,
I now may deem him my affianced dupe.
DUKE D'ORMOND.
Ah Courtenaye, how can I express to you,
In worthy terms, my gratitude? How could I
De Mielcour misjudge thee thus?—
COURTENAYE
(aside).
Yes, with his proneness to become the victim
Of female fascination, and my power
To work upon his jealousy, from long
Previous intelligence with his fair mistress,—
E'en had I no more instruments than these
To set at work, I may, as I could wish,
Keep him at bay.—
(To the Duke).
But why waste we our time
Discoursing here? The Marchioness de Mielcour,
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In yon apartment.
DUKE D'ORMOND.
Wherefore did you not
Intimate this to me an hour ago?—
You might have sav'd me from a world of anguish?
COURTENAYE
(aside).
Whereby I've gained a world in expectation.
(To the Duke).
Why, look you, Duke, it is exorbitant
To quarrel with a half-hour of suspense,
If that be harbinger to ecstacy!—
Meantime, I own, I somewhat have exceeded
A gentleman usher's function. But reflect
While you are gaining, I had to resign;
And tell me now, have not I, with good grace,
Exchanged a higher, for a lower post?
DUKE D'ORMOND.
Adieu till midnight. Courtenaye you sup here?
You come then in no questionable shape.
[Exit.
COURTENAYE
(alone).
Au revoir. This, to him, shall be a banquet
Fatal, though not so bloody, as that given
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Deep in Circean nectar. The last link
Of his chain shall be rivetted to-night.
[The House of Despard]
(Enter Despard).
DESPARD.
Courtenaye, well met, of all men in the world,
You are the one whom most I wished to see.
I to your house have been; not finding you,
Hither was I directed thence. My heart
Bursts for relief till to your friendly ears,
I have divulged th' adventures of the day.
Oh Courtenaye, I think you'll scarce credit me,
When I repeat to you this evening's chance.
The pleasantest, at least the one most pregnant,
With various interest, that I ever met with.
You know I tracked a fair incognita
This evening from our bacchanalian orgies,
I pray you guess, though 'twill be to no purpose
Although you rack your brain from now 'till doomsday,
Guess, who this heroine turns out to be.
COURTENAYE.
Some demirep I'll warrant. None but those
Whose reputation nothing can repair
Would enter on an intrigue with a man
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And with not wit enough for one short hour
To play a part consistently.—
DESPARD.
You've missed
The mark, quite miss'd it. My fair paramour,
As yet, plays an involuntary part.
She's innocent, and pure, as driven snow;
And beauteous as an angel!—
COURTENAYE.
Angel! Tush!—
An angel and yourself could not exist
One hour in the same hemisphere.
(Aside).
I must
Feign incredulity to get his secret;
And then I must abatement make of half
Of that which he asserts; his vanity
Leads him to fictions so extravagant.
(To Despard.)
“Angel” forsooth! and “pure as driven snow.”
Why all the devils in a female shape
The world e'er saw, with you contrasted, might
Seem such.
DESPARD.
But D'Ormond's mistress? What think you
O'th' fair incognita of La Vendée?
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(aside).
This is worth listening to.
(To Despard).
You are romancing?
DESPARD.
No.
The very lady—since he reverenced her
Too much her name to mention—about whom
We've been so often with conjectures puzzled,
She in my power is: and a prize more glorious
Never the blood warmed, or inspired the lays,
Of a Provençal cavalier or bard!—
COURTENAYE.
What is her name?
DESPARD.
Curse my o'ermaster'd spirit,
O'ermaster'd by her dignity of virtue,
I never thought to ask it: if I had
She would not have vouchsafed to answer me.
COURTENAYE.
Fool that you are! In the main point are you
Deficient! Here's a tale without a title!
How did you find her out? How learn her tale?
How bring her to your dwelling?
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If you please
One question at a time. You saw me leave
Your company in haste. I had espied
By light of lamps hung in the colonnade
Which flanks the house in which we banqueted,
A damsel, young, and lovely, and alone,
Enter a chariot. I contrived, by speed,
To keep it in my sight, until it stopped
At the Count Colville's door. Night favour'd me.
From questions, which, while skulking near her chariot,
I heard her ask of him who drove her thither,
I not alone learned that she was a stranger,
But with entire simplicity, to me
The most accommodating, nothing knew
Of town-bred manners. I found out that she
Meant to return to th' house from whence she came.
The entrance of my own is not unlike
That of the one which she had quitted. I
Thus deemed it better not to intercept
Her going to Count Colville's house, because
While there she tarried I might hasten on
To my own door, which fortunately stands
Much about the same distance from Count Colville's
As the hotel from whence she first set forth.
Thus might she easily take one for t'other,
As she designed, as I before express'd
The latter to regain; thus set I forward
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My servants to prepare for her reception,
But also one to send to Colville's door,
To see my bidding to the charioteer,
Whom with a bribe I had already won,
To carry her to mine, exactly followed.
Every thing chanc'd according to my wish.
The darkness of the night, her ignorance
Of Paris, and the close resemblance 'twixt
The entrance of my dwelling, and the one
Belonging to the hotel she had quitted.—
Which, in my memory, was residence
Of an ambassador,—prevented her,—
Till she had passed my threshold, and already
Was in my custody,—from fearing guile.—
COURTENAYE.
Have you ta'en 'special care your lady be
Well guarded in her lodging? Lock and key,
Have you peremptory command of these?—
DESPARD.
Trust me for that. A mouse could not escape
Without my sufferance.
COURTENAYE.
So far very well.
Am I to understand that I'm indebted
To vanity for your frank confidence,
163
Did not relieve itself; or may you have
Connected with the adventure of the night,
Any commands to tax my service with?
If so I'm your's.
(Aside).
My superintendence here
Is indispensable.
DESPARD.
There, Courtenaye, you
Have the right cause assigned for my disclosure.
Though I doubt not but that this lady has
From the Count heard Duke D'Ormond's faithlessness,
Yet still she raves of him! It would be told
By him, in such a dainty, choice selection
Of circumlocutory ambages;—
Besides she is so innocent, unsuspecting,
Had it not been thus told, her breast so is
Incapable of guessing to what height
Vice is indulged, and with what shameless front
It stalks forth, in this gay metropolis;
That—these things being so—e'en her worst suspicions
Would fall far short of the reality.
You may be sure that at the moment I—
By immolating expeditiously—
Wished to secure my victim to myself.
164
My better feelings,—feelings, I knew not
That I possessed, till I had heard her speak,—
So irresistibly, that I was led
Not to enforce possession of her person,
Till (that I thus might alienate her heart
From its strong prepossession in his favour)
I, like a fool, had blabbed out the extent
Of the Duke's infidelity. This caused
A fit of swooning, from the which, ere I
Quitted her, she was but enough recovered
To be, supported by two persons, led
To a neighbouring chamber.
COURTENAYE.
Hear! a sudden thought,
E'en as you spoke, has struck me. At midnight
Have the Duke D'Ormond and the Marchioness
Invited me en tiers to a banquet.—
For the catastrophe devoutly wished
By me, i'faith, but I will prime him well!
And if I can fit coadjutors find,
Though it is somewhat perilous,—yet who
E'er heard of scheme that is to consummate,
And in few hours, a complicated plot,
That was not perilous proportionably
To its decisiveness?—Yes, yes! If I
Fit coadjutors can select, I will
Mould to my wish his destinies for ever.
165
Repose on their first nuptial couch! No couch
For him of roses, but eternal thorns!
Yes, this night I've decreed that all my schemes
Shall be consummated. So I ere this
Had purposed, but this last intelligence
Of the arrival of his former love
My earnestness redoubles: 'tis a portent
Which to a crisis all at once matures
My former indefatigable toils.
So when a long train of combustibles
Subtly is laid, if once the fated spark
Be struck, what fierce explosion bursts at once
From all the quiet vaults in which they lay.
I have, as I had skill to do it, played
Upon him with a simulated tale
Of fancied injuries towards the Marchioness,
From slights, and coldness, she has felt from him.
The Duke—like valetudinarian epicure
Who flavours craves, and subtle essences,
To stimulate his appetite—must have
His very pleasures, and voluptuous pastimes
Seasoned with metaphysic condiments.
I doubt, indeed, if pleasure had enough
Of dainty excitation, for his taste,
Were it not spiced—as we in costly banquets
Produce at last most piquant relishes,
And often most esteemed when most unnatural.
With keen anticipations of remorse!—
166
Of venturing somewhat on forbidden regions,
A prying into nature's mysteries,
The dark, th' indefinite, th' obscure, the doubtful,
All these are indispensable to give
Meet pungency to it, when the Duke D'Ormond
Selects an object for his appetites.
If he were cheaply so, he were not blessed
E'en in paradisaical abode.—
The staking his eternal interest
In a nocturnal revel, wondrously
Adds to its charms with him. Do you, to-morrow,
Precisely at the hour of matins, bring
Your nameless fair into his presence, while
His passion yet is raised to the highest pitch,
And as a loathsome weed he'll cast her off.
DESPARD.
You are my master-spirit.—I will be
Governed by your direction.
COURTENAYE.
If the blow
Be once struck, it will surely “trammel up
With its surcease, success.” Let him cast off
His mistress once: she then is wholly your's.
For though he never told to me her name,
I have heard him say she had no friend on earth
Except an aged mother.
167
She is dead.—
To that her mourning garments bear a witness.
Also that which she said of being released
From house of sorrow, and a death-bed scene.
COURTENAYE.
She has then no protector but yourself,
And what your own deserts could not achieve
Necessity may work for you. How soon
Soe'er remorse Duke D'Ormond seize, no matter,
Be this point once obtained! The soonest, best!
Only take care, that, in this juncture, you
Co-operate firmly. If remorse seize him,
He is not one of your steel-fibred heroes,
Who boldly will confront its menaces,
And hold a parley with it. No: he must
Have stimulants; and what so probable,
In what is he so sure to be o'ermatched,—
If his soul from its centre be disturb'd,—
And he with my longer experience cope,—
As,—last resource, when disinherited,
Of those who thought themselves the sons of bliss—
The gaming table? 'Stablish him once there,
And our prosperity is past all doubt.
DESPARD.
I understand the drift of your contrivance;
It pleases me; and I address myself
To execute it promptly. Now farewell.
168
Farewell! Remember, Despard, I now trust
To your discretion, and arbitrement
The master-spring, the potent spell, from whence
All the complexion of our future days,
Whether or prosperous or adverse fortune
Fall to our lot, exclusively depend.
[Exit Despard.
COURTENAYE
(alone).
I every moment now expect a summons
To inform me that my servants wait my pleasure
To attend me to the Marchioness de Mielcour's.
Now must the irrevocable blow be struck!
Within this very hour am I to meet
The Duke with his De Mielcour at my side
To second my endeavours. True, she knows
Nought of my projects. But no less is she—
Rather the more so—since unconscious—
Fit instrument to work my purposes.
Not knowing all my ends, and all my means
To work those ends, she may be influenced
Oft to co-operate, when otherwise—
If she knew all—difference of character
Might militate against my stratagems.
Thus seeming less to do so—since the end
Not seems—do I the more do that which seems not,
But is; and passes all mere semblances!—
To-night must union of the Duke with her
169
To-night,—Duke D'Ormond's feelings, as I know,
Are ripe for this,—to-night, yes, yes, this night,—
Shall they be joined in ties irrevocable.
The appearance of this lady, first to me
This scheme suggested. Yes, he shall not see her,
Till he have placed between himself and her
A barrier insurmountable. I meant
But by a snare of gallantry t'entrap him.
From this he may escape. But if they be
Married,—ah married! Then such sanctity
The law, his conscience, and the prejudice
Of all conditions to this tie attach,
Ah then, in vain will this his earliest mistress,
So opportunely at this instant found,
E'en though she be a kneeling suppliant, plead
For a renewal of his love. I see
It all. I'll to a priest, now I have done
With Despard. To the yielding Marchioness
Then will I hasten with the holy man:
And since I know they're ripe for any scheme
That gives a pledge of permanence to their passion,
E'en while the iron's hot,—I'll strike the blow!—
And, ere the day be passed, I'll so frame things
They shall be bound in everlasting ties.
Passion, which causes others to be victims,
And conscience which makes one of its possessor,
Unite in D'Ormond. One into itself
Too much absorbs all objects not to ask
A victim! and too scrupulous the other
Respecting those same objects not to be,
Even, as 'tis the likeliest chance, if not
So by a self-retributory act,
By a fix'd fate, predestined to destruction.
Him have I doom'd to be t' himself a victim!
My thoughts are yet confused: but a dim notion
That he would spurn his former mistress from him
If she were introduced to him abruptly
While yet his soul is revelling in bliss
From new-born transports with the Marchioness.
And thence, by nice attention on my part
To the shades of—and opportunities
For working on—his irritable passions,
That he might so be made the instrument
(By spurning her from him whom most he cherished,
Most lov'd, and most devoutly reverenced)
Of her destruction; and, from thence, of his:
By the fatalities which, in the train,
Lurk, of a wounded conscience! All these thoughts,
Rush, like peace-murdering, sleep-destroying fiends,
In one impetuous torrent through my bosom.
But then—ah!—let me see! He must not meet,
A second time, her that once is mistress
170
Discovered for removing her from hence,
After the interview, to my abode,
Or that of Despard! Yes, I see it all:—
“Hear it not Duncan, for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven or to hell!”
The love of wicked friends converts to fear,
That fear to hate, and this brings one, or both,
To worthy danger, and deserved death.
Shakspeare.
That fear to hate, and this brings one, or both,
To worthy danger, and deserved death.
Shakspeare.
SCENE THE SECOND.
An Apartment in the House of Despard.(Despard leading in Julia, from the vestibule, or hall of the house, in which he had met her, attempting to make her escape.)
DESPARD.
I THOUGHT I had completely frustrated
The possibility of such a meeting.
(To Julia).
Where in such haste, good madam?
JULIA.
Any where!
Any where, so that I may make escape
From this ill mansion.
DESPARD.
But should I bring
Good tidings?—I one promise asked from you
171
Precipitate, induces me to think
You are disposed to break it. I have so
But poor encouragement to challenge you
To another promise, on a strict compliance
With all whose terms, and on whose strict fulfilment,
All the complexion, of the hopes which rule
Your future fate, exclusively depends.
JULIA.
What mean you, sir?
DESPARD.
Did I not, some hour past,
Promise to inform you of the present state
Of the Duke D'Ormond, having first expressed
To you some other slight preliminaries,
If you would promise that you would not seek
T'escape from my protection? Did you not
To all these terms agree?—How am I then
To understand this unannounced attempt
At an elopement from your room, to which
I thought that you were reconciled, at least
For this one night?
JULIA.
I reconciled!—If so,—
It is the reconcilement of despair.
But by what right do you assume the power
172
'Tis a poor boast to trample thus on one
Too weak for self-protection! who has not—
Or you would not presume to do it—one
To stand her friend! When I that promise made,
(Whence you infer such plausible pretence
To shackle me, and rivet so my chains
That I am thus your wretched thrall for life)
Had I not every reason to suppose
That the disclosure you would make to me
Of D'Ormond—if not satisfactory—
Would be, at least, definitive, and clear?—
Whereas, by that which you have utter'd you
Have raised in me such horrible surmise,
That I have now no hope, but in the hope
That your reports are not authentical!
DESPARD.
Be calm, be patient, madam! In my power
Now are you, and—
JULIA.
For this I can't be calm!—
You're like an executioner, who lifts
The griding axe above his victim's head,
And bids him—from th' unutterable depth
Of his perception of power paramount,
From the extreme of his despair—to smile!
Calm,—calm, indeed!
173
(Stupidly and doggedly going on; and from self-complacency not adverting to the apostrophe of Julia).
I hold the clue, by which
'Tis in your power t'unwind this labyrinth.
It now depends on me, whether or ere
To-morrow noon, or whether you no more
Behold the Duke.
JULIA
(aside).
E'en on the very verge
Of what a precipice do I seem tottering?
All my life's hopes are turned to casualties.
When I look at him, the vile instrument
Seems incommensurate with such dread sway!
DESPARD.
You answer not!
JULIA.
Almighty God, is this
In human nature? Calmly to behold—
Breathless with earnestness—a fellow creature
Enduring absolutely, as it were
Death-pangs t'obtain a good, which though it be
Fantastic, is the all of earthly bliss
To that heart-stricken one,—yea, every thing?
174
Dallying with th'expectation of another,
Torturing a writhing victim, which alas!
He has inextricably snared already—
Extract—from mere indulgence of his power
To agonize—a calm, malicious joy.
DESPARD.
These are mere rhapsodies of powerless passion.
JULIA.
They're powerless, granted; not rhapsodical.
For mercy's sake, not unrelentingly
View pangs like mine! You calmly play a part:
While on the issue of the present hour
I am a bankrupt, or enriched for ever!—
From house of mourning, from a death-bed scene
I am but just released. But that was heaven—
For there religion was—compared with this!—
There pious trust was, there tranquillity!—
E'en in my tears was there infused a balm!—
But now my brain is dry; or if I weep,
Like marble damps, my unrelieving tears
Unreconciling seem, unreconciled,
As are the pangs which wring them from their source!
This, this is madness! I am unprepared,
Unfit, for such a conflict.—
175
Madam, think you
That what I have to say will lessen it?—
I fear 'twill not! At least, not if the Duke
Be its distinguish'd object.—Oh, that I
Had, in your favour, such an interest,
As to suffice to change your grief to joy!
JULIA.
You're practising on my credulity;
My ignorance of the world, and apprehensions!
Into compliance would you torture me
With that to which my lips can frame no utterance.
(In an altered and softened tone).
But I forget. Count Colville told me this.
He hinted to me.—Oh, it is too much.
[Sinks down in a chair.
DESPARD.
There is no method but to tell her all.
If I do not, she ne'er will listen to me.
JULIA,
(With an hysterical wildness, which Despard, in his stupidity, mistakes for rage).
What art thou muttering there thou fiend of hell?
176
(Approaching her, and endeavouring to throw his arms around her).
If you will have recourse to violence,
I will give proof that I too can be violent.
Are you for open war? You, in this house,
Are quite defenceless! Here, I reign supreme!—
With a forbearing generosity,
Which you abuse, too long I have treated you.
JULIA.
You generous! you forbearing! I despise
Your mean unmanly threats! You may destroy me,
But till that's done my will shall master your's.
Oh, D'Ormond, could'st thou see thy Julia now!
DESPARD,
(Wrapt up in himself and not condescending to heed her).
Self-love is ruling principle of all,
Of good, and bad alike.—The difference this.—
Whose self-love is in sympathy with that
Of other men, are called the good:—the bad,
Wretches whose self-love is anomalous!
You think your bliss depends on D'Ormond; I
That mine on you. Thus are we crossed alike.
Which has most reason to upbraid the other?
177
Or at least I, which comes to the same thing.
Yet for an interview 'twixt him and you
Willing am I to afford facilities,
But only on the terms, as, on your part,
Of certain condescensions, so on mine,
Of certain stipulations.
JULIA.
Sir, proceed.
DESPARD.
Now hear me, madam—that to which I will,
Without prevarication, pledge myself
To execute, provided, on your side,
You will an acquiescence promise me
In consequences I anticipate.
JULIA.
Name them, sir.
DESPARD.
I, to-morrow, promise you,
Unspotted as you are, to yield you up
To the Duke's arms, if you will likewise promise,
If he reject you, to return to mine.
178
(Aside, and deeply affected).
Oh God! Is he so fallen? Somewhat of him
This man must know! Can he so fallen be
As with such caitiffs live in fellowship?
DESPARD.
What say you, madam, to this compromise?
JULIA
(aside).
Oh, could I now prevaricate? My God,
What shall I do? Do thou protect and guide
My inexperienc'd youth? Count Colville said
That he at noon would call at the Duke's door.
Did I not in the Duke find a protector,
Surely I should in his once valued friend!—
Could I but stipulate that I should be
At that hour taken to Duke D'Ormond's house?—
DESPARD.
You seem absorbed in thought.—Pray answer me.
JULIA
(still aside).
Yet should I not be safe, at any rate,
If I were once admitted to his presence?
There's comfort in that thought! But should I be
The dupe of hypocritical pretences!
179
Sure you've had time enough to meditate
Upon my proposition.
JULIA.
Yes—no—yes!—
What shall I say? It is a fearful venture.
Suppose he take me to some lonely place
Far from the city! I'm perplexed.
(To Despard.)
What hour
Would you appoint for th' interview?
DESPARD
(aside).
What hour!—
Beshrew me if she's not her stratagems,
As well as I my own.
(To Julia).
At what hour? What
Can the hour signify? Why, at the hour
Which I shall chuse.—The matin bell shall be
The signal for our going.
JULIA.
Better 'twere
At noon!
DESPARD.
My fair enchantress, no!
180
I'faith,
I 'gin to think she has her emissaries
To do her bidding. Can she—no—have tamper'd
With Madame D'Orville, or my pursuivants?
That is impossible! But yet it looks
Suspicious, thus to stipulate the time.
However, 'tis enough, that hour should not
Be, since 'tis her, my choice.
(To Julia).
No, at the hour
Of matins; I thought you were all impatient
To see Duke D'Ormond. What can work this change?
If all impatient, why thus cruelly
Defer the interview?—
JULIA
(aside).
Hypocrisy,
How difficult to those to simulate
Untaught by thee!
(To Despard).
Because, sir—why because—
I wish,—I think,—the hour of matins sure
Is too importunate for the modes of Paris.
Because—sir—why because—I wish it so—
Is it not early?
DESPARD
(aside).
And I do not wish it,
Because you wish it. Here is artifice.
181
As you affirm Duke D'Ormond is, to whom
You are so dear, vain ceremony 'tis
To make exception at an early hour.
JULIA
(aside).
Should he have fixed upon that early hour,
Because with less chance of detection, he
May thus decoy me into further danger?
I fear—I greatly fear—his purposes.—
How wretched 'tis to be defenceless thus,
Defenceless utterly, and in the power
Of one who has the will to work your ruin!—
DESPARD.
Madam, attend! My last proposal hear!
At hour of matins, and no other hour,
Will I go with you to Duke D'Ormond's house.
If he receives you, I surrender you
To him, if not, you're mine.
JULIA
(aside).
If he receives me!
What dreadful ambiguity is there,
What ominous mystery of fearful import,
Contain'd in these few words! The time has been
This were incredible! What can I do?—
I cannot yield to this. Perhaps 'twere best
To ask this man to give me till to-morrow
182
Gain time; and something in my favour may
Occur 'twixt now and then. I shall but then
Be forced to do his bidding, not worse off
Than now I am. At all events, I ought
To avoid provoking him to violence.
I now am in his power. Utter refusal
Would only be a signal for fresh insult.
(To Despard).
I have one favour, sir, to ask of you.
DESPARD.
Well, what is it, my fair one?—
JULIA.
Till to-morrow
Give me to think of your proposal. I
Beseech you, give me till its earliest dawn.
DESPARD
(aside).
I'faith, her innocence as prolific seems
In stratagems as guilt! To-morrow's dawn?—
Passion forbids it! It is hard!—But still
I may derive advantage to my schemes
From one more consultation yet with Courtenaye,
Or ere I fix them quite, except this siren,
Like to spell-muttering necromancer, have
Agents invisible to do her bidding.
A thought has struck me. I'll make Colville's name,
183
Courtenaye must be consulted.
(To Julia).
I consent.—
At sun-rise I receive to-morrow morn
Your answer, but
(Advancing to salute her)
You owe to me, at least,
Some courteous recompence for this forbearance.
To Madame D'Orville now! She must be well
Tutor'd to watch this stipulating fair one.
[Despard rings, and Julia is conducted into another apartment by Madame D'Orville, and a servant with her.]
DESPARD
(alone).
Yes, I will go to Courtenaye. 'Twixt us both,
We will contrive, as written by the Count,
A letter to my prisoner, urging her,
At hour of matins, to repair—with view
Of meeting him there—to Duke D'Ormond's house.
Surely by such a bait she will be caught.
[Exit Despard.
END OF ACT THE THIRD.
| The Duke D'Ormond | |