University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

A chamber in the Chateau of Bertulphe.—Constance on a couch asleep.—Bertulphe watching her.
BERTULPHE.
She sleeps,—her body sleeps,—and every vein
Through her transparent skin throbs as it used;—
But the pure mind—the all-informing soul,
That gave that form its worth—where does that sleep,
That all a father's agony of love
Calls after it in vain? With but a touch
I can recall their functions to those limbs:—
The eyes shall see, ears hear, and even the lips
Murmur their poor, sad, unconnected sounds;
But oh! thou glorious soul, where art thou fled?—
That all my tears, my prayers, and frenzied cries
Cannot awake one touch of thee? Poor flower!
So delicate and fragile in thy beauty,
The earliest blast that touched thee, blighted thee!—
What's that?
There was a thrill of pain shot o'er her brow!
Oh, cruel! cannot even madness rest!—
Yet stay! What if it be returning sense!
How if the soul in this long heavy sleep
Clear off its mists—and the entangled thoughts,
Soothed by their rest, resume their wonted course!
Oh, Heaven! that I can say such things may be,
And yet delay to prove them! There, again!
That fierce contraction! Though it blast my hope,
I'll dare it! [taking her hand]
Constance! Child!

CONSTANCE
[rising.]
Father!—

BERTULPHE
[trembling.]
She knows me!—

CONSTANCE.
I thought you would not leave me.—Take me home!—

BERTULPHE
[with extasy.]
'Tis sense! 'tis sense!—my child's restored to me. [sinks sobbing on the couch.]


CONSTANCE.
Tears!—Nay—that's folly.—Let the Serfs shed tears!—
The poor old man—Bertulphe—he may shed tears—
But you that are a proud and reigning prince,
The Earl of Flanders—you to weep!—for shame!

BERTULPHE
[sinking.]
Oh, no—'tis madness still!

CONSTANCE.
Did they not say
The old man had a daughter! Let her die!
Poor fool!—why should she mate with princes?

BERTULPHE
[in agony.]
Constance!—
Child! idol of a life of many cares!
Look on me!—There—you know me! 'Tis your Father—
Your own dear Father!—There's a consciousness
Struggling to win its way through the dark mist.—
She yet will know me.—Constance! it is I!—
What but a father's eyes could pour these drops
So hot and fast!—what but a father's arms
Circle thee with such idolizing love!
Constance!—I shall go mad—turn from my face
Those dull, unmeaning eyes; their vacancy
Is worse than frenzy!—thou art not my child!
Thou spectral thing!—take off that stony gaze—
I say thou'rt not my child.—Away with thee!

CONSTANCE.
Hark! no—'twas nothing—yet it sounded like
The tread of men.—What!—to a prison!—Nay,
Yield, yield, Bouchard—they will not harm us—yield!—
The gates are crashing—hark!—they come—they come!—
What's that?—'tis blood—ha! they've struck him down!
Ruffian, away! Bouchard! Oh! save me—save me!—
These are my father's arms! [clings round him.]

You dare not harm me now.

BERTULPHE.
Heaven's mercy's spent,
And 'tis the hour of vengeance! 'Tis for this
That I have lived, wrought, plann'd—it may be, sinn'd;—
For this!—and this must have no end till death!
To-morrow as to-day—the next the same—
Weeks, months, long years, an age, grey hairs of madness!
Perhaps to sink in want when I am gone,
And live on pity, or it may be malice,
To feast more loyal eyes with, the last wreck
Of Serf Bertulphe, the Regicide! [seeing his hand on his dagger]

Why so!— [looking at her, and convulsively clutching the hilt.]

A moment and all's over!
Perhaps—perhaps— [suddenly flinging away the dagger, falling on his knees, and clasping his hands.]

Help—help—and spare me, Heaven! [starting up.]

Within! within, there! ho! quick!—quick! within!
Enter Ursula and attendants.
Why came you not before?—take her away!
I call you to witness she is safe—
I have not harm'd her—Heaven be praised I have not!

URSULA.
Harm'd her! the saints defend us! Harm the child!
Look how she clings to me, and how she trembles!

Enter Charente.
CHARENTE.
My Lord—my Lord—your presence is besought—
The city's in commotion—crowds collect—
And all tongues cry for you. Your friends are scared,
And waver at their posts.

BERTULPHE
[abstractedly.]
Well—

CHARENTE.
The Earl's name
Is now on all men's lips—the city gates
Are weakly kept.

BERTULPHE
[as before.]
Well—

CHARENTE.
Dear my Lord!—your friends
Are met in council, and beseech your presence.

BERTULPHE.
What's ill? I did not mark your tale—what is it?

Enter Gautier.
GAUTIER.
All's lost without you!—we are now beset!
Thousands are gathering round, and every instant
They threaten an attack on the Chateau!
Bertulphe! will this not move you?

BERTULPHE
[coldly.]
No—not now!—
Sweep on, ye fiery elements of strife!—
I have no portion in you now. To me,
A tree already struck, it matters little
Which way the tempest rolls— [a trumpet heard.]

What's that? [sharply.]


GAUTIER.
Your foes!
They sound defiance at your very gates;
They claim you for their vengeance—claim all yours,
Bertulphe! Chief!—leader! the Chateau is strong
With many a valiant heart within its walls—
Men led to this by you—drawn by your act—
Who still hold cheap their lives to do you service—
They only ask a leader.

BERTULPHE
[with energy.]
They shall have it!

GAUTIER.
It is yourself they ask—none else—

BERTULPHE.
I come!—
Where is Bouchard?

GAUTIER.
Providing for all chances—
Fierce as the wounded lion—while his tongue
At every pause cries out afresh for vengeance.

BERTULPHE.
He shall not cry in vain!—tell them I come!—
My arms there!—say I come!

GAUTIER.
I will, brave spirit!

[Exit.
BERTULPHE.
My arms!—a helmet!— [turning round, sees Constance.]

Oh poor blustering fool!
A helmet for the head would bless the hand
That sent an arrow quivering to its brain!
No,—no,—I will no helmet! These grey hairs,
Stream'd in the breeze, shall be my banner, guiding
Their hottest fire.—No—no—I will no helmet!
My child!—poor wreck of what was once my child—
One kiss. Oh that we were both at our rest!
Disturb her not—the fit has pass'd away,
And she is calm—so would I have her be.
My child!—I'd breathe a blessing on thy head;—
But should I give my prayer a tongue, the word,
Methinks, would be thy death! Away! away!