 | Louis XI |  |
57
ACT I.
Exterior of the castle, Plessis-les-Tours. Tristan enters with the prevotal guard. Richard enters from hut.Trist.
Thy name?
Rich.
Richard, the swineherd.
Trist.
Thy dwelling?
Rich.
There.
Trist.
The King forbids all egress at this hour.
Rich.
Death is beneath my roof. I seek a priest
To thrive a fleeting soul.
Trist.
Back to thy kennel!
Or else thy carrion swings on yonder oak
To mark the wakeful justice of the King.
Rich.
My son—
Trist.
Obey!
Rich.
—is dying.
Trist.
Darest thou prate to Tristan?
Rich.
Tristan! Heaven preserve the King! [Exit. Enter Cranford with Scottish Guard]
Officer.
Halt! Who goes there?
Trist.
The Grand Provost.
Officer.
The countersign!
Trist.
Faithful!
Officer.
France! [Exeunt. Enter Philip de Commine]
Com.
The day shows faint and sickly in the east.
Welcome, my only hour of calm repose,
Robb'd from the body's rest to rest the mind.
Hark, 'tis the watch-cry of the Scottish soldier
Hired to defend yon Tours, and guard the life
Of Louis, King of France. Château de Plessis—
Tomb of a living King! Thy watch and ward,
Thy lofty ramparts and thy deepest fosse
Will never scare th'assassin who now seeks
The life of Louis. Yet a few poor days
He may dispute with death, and then— [Enter Coitier and Richard]
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Fear not;
He sleeps. The danger now is past; he yet
May live. [Exit Richard]
Com.
Coitier!
Coit.
Commine!
Com.
Dare you thus
Neglect your duty to the King?
Coit.
The King—the King—
Always the King!
Com.
His life from day to day hangs on your skill.
Coit.
My skill were well bestowed elsewhere.
Com.
Somewhat has angered you.
Coit.
Smother wanton crime. This swineherd's son
Was wounded nigh to death last night. Forsooth
He dared to linger near the castle walls
Gaping in wonder at the gloomy pile.
A Scottish archer from the battlement
Transfixed him with an arrow.
Com.
Louis of this is innocent.
Coit.
The King who tolerates a crime commits it.
Com.
Thou art the only man who dares thus chafe him—
But haste thee in—already he has waked
And calls for Coitier.
Coit.
Let him call and bawl,
And when he's tired he'll wait, 'tis well he should,
Patience is a medicine he must gulp,
'Twill soothe his choler. Thus I can repay
The sufferings he heaps on me. He hates me,
Taunts me with lack of skill, and mocks my art—
That's when he's well—but when from fever'd sleep
By some avenging spectre he is chased,
To me he cries for help. Coitier must wake;
To Coitier is exposed his ulcered soul,
Creeping with terrors and alive with crime.
'Tis then my turn to taunt, to jeer and mock!
We change our parts; the tyrant I become,
And he, the abject slave.
Com.
Thou art too hard
Upon a dying man.
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'Tis true he dies.
But like a snake with all the venom quick
And ready in his tooth, to the last pulse
There's a murder in him.
Com.
Why, then, toil
With all thy art to keep such crime alive?
Coit.
My mission is to heal, and not to judge.
Com.
Does not his abject fear of death move you
To pity?
Coit.
Dost thou ask me
For pity for the murderer of Nemours?
Com.
Nemours was guilty—
Coit.
'Tis false! His only guilt
Was his offensive goodness. Louis could bear
No virtue save in a priest. Beneath his roof
I passed my youth where I was born a serf.
Nemours first lifted my intelligence,
And bade me think. Sustained by him with hope
I struggled on, and by his help became
The wonder of the time. Nemours built up
My fortune—yet when his own ebb'd fast,
When he and his three children lay immured
In the Bastille, Louis denied my prayer.
Nemours, my master, benefactor, friend,
Fell by the tyrant's axe. One child alone
Was saved; aided by thee he was conveyed
And hid away.
Com.
Coitier—
Coit.
I say by thee.
Com.
In Heaven's name speak lower!
Coit.
Then why say Nemours was guilty?
Com.
Be more just to me.
I loved Nemours; and when he fell, did I
Mourn idly? No! I sounded anxiously
The King's intent, and found his thirst for blood
Unslaked. The children of Nemours still lived;
I roused them from their grief and bade them fly.
The eldest only would be warned in time,
And sought the shelter I had found
For him with Charles of Burgundy.
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A welcome guest.
If Charles the Bold should need an instrument
Of cold, determined steel, there is the weapon,
Steeped in the hideous poison of revenge,
And hungry for the heart of Louis.
Com.
Such
Was the Duke's design, but foiled ere ripe.
My daughter Marie, then a child, was lodged
Beneath the roof where I had placed Nemours;
She was the sole companion of his exile.
They grew to love; their union is agreed
When Heaven shall bring back brighter days to France.
Coit.
You mean, when he is gone.
Com.
Who?
Coit.
He!
Com.
Beware!
I hear footsteps.
Coit.
'Tis Marie.
Com.
My child!
No more, she might betray us.
Coit.
How! Dost fear her?
Com.
Not so—but hush, she comes.
Coit.
By Heaven, he has suspicions
Of his own child. [Enter Marie]
Marie.
Ah! my father—good morning, sir.
How fares the King?
Coit.
He is in his hour
Of excellence—his only gentle mood.
He sleeps. But whence that glow upon your cheek?
Marie.
The King last night bade me and Bertha rise
Before the dawn and ride across the wood
To watch the coming of the holy man,
François de Paule, and quick to bring the news
When from the distant spires the pealing chimes
Rang out a joyful welcome—and each town,
Village, castle and hut poured forth its life
To greet the hermit.
Coit.
You have seen him, then,
This anchorite, this miracle performer?
Who by his intercession is to heal
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The King to youth and health?
Marie.
Dare you to doubt
His power? Have you not heard his wond'rous deeds?
Coit.
Oh, yes,
I have heard.
Marie.
Yet what simplicity!
No sacerdotal pomp—no purple robe
To command the homage of the eye; no crook
Of gold he wields; no jewelled mitre gleams
Upon his head; but neatly clad, not rudely;
Modest, not vainly humble.
A simple staff supports his aged limbs,
And as he sheds his blessings on the crowd,
His silvered brow is luminous with love
And seems to radiate benevolence.
Com.
Yesternoon the Dauphin left Plessis
To seek this hermit.
Marie.
They met François de Paule beyond Amboise;
The Dauphin straight dismounted, and his train
Walked by his side. The nobles laid apart
Their weapons, and, bareheaded, prayed his blessing.
Then high the people waved their fresh-hewn boughs
And chanted hymns of praise. The peasant girls
Strewed all the path with forest flowers; and thus
To Plessis comes François de Paule.
Com.
Thou shalt awake the King with this good news.
Marie.
A word, my father.
Com.
Go, Coitier, do thou
Announce these happy tidings to the King.
Coit.
Good news from Coitier? He will ne'er believe it. [Exit]
Com.
He is gone.
Now tell me, Child, what happy secret
O'erflows your eyes and flutters on your cheek.
Marie.
Can you not guess?
Com.
News from Peronne!
Marie.
The village
Of Plessis is thronged with knights who bear
The badge of Burgundy.
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It is the envoy of the Duke. He comes
Full-mouth'd with war. Louis has given aid
And succor to the revolted Swiss. Even now
A deputation from the Cantons here within
Craves audience. On the Burgundian border, too,
Brancas and Chabannes have by surprise
Seized on the frontier citadels. For this
Charles will demand most ample satisfaction.
Didst learn this envoy's name?
Marie.
The Count de Rethel.
Com.
Rethel! I know there was an ancient house
Long since extinct who bore that name, Rethel.
Amongst the nobles of Peronne heard you
Of such a one?
Marie.
Rethel? No!
Com.
Strange!
Marie.
I hoped
This envoy might be bearer of some news
From him.
Com.
Nemours?
Marie.
Nemours! Who knows; ere now
He may have quite forgot Marie.
Com.
Nemours forget!
Marie.
In childhood it was I who sought Nemours,
A cold, abstracted, silent youth, who fled
The commerce of the court, its plays, its jousts;
But did I speak
Of Louis, his hand would grip his dagger hard;
He gazed upon me, yet he knew me not.
I chased away the drops of agony
That beaded o'er his brow, but he felt not
The tears I left there.
Com.
Hush! Another year
Will give another king to France.
Nemours may then return.
Marie.
Oh, were the gentle Dauphin on the throne
He would not let me sue in vain. Nemours
Would be recalled.
Com.
Marie, I have observed
The Dauphin courts thy company.
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He does,
Poor youth.
Com.
That youth one day will be a king.
Marie.
Must I for that avoid him when he comes
To seek me; implores my aid to read
The chronicles of France?
Com.
Enough! Enough!
He is too old to learn from lips like thine,
And thou too young to teach a guileless task!
He loves thee.
Marie.
Father!
Com.
Avoid his company!
Hark, they approach.
Come, let's in. [Exit. Enter Peasants, François de Paule, Dauphin, Duke de Nemours, Nobles, Toison d'Or]
Fran.
Forbear, sweet Prince, and leave me here awhile
To rest from weary state.
Dauphin.
Father, permit
That I precede thee to the King, who craves
Thy blessing. He will come forth, and to the dust
Abase himself before thy saintly presence.
My lords, attend me! [Exit]
Female.
Father, pity my child; he's sick to death,
And 'tis my only one.
Marc.
Reason has fled
My mother's brain; restore it ere she die
That she may bless me.
Rich.
Enter my hut;
Look on my dying son, and he will live.
Fran.
Arise, my children, from your knees. 'Tis thus
Heaven only should be sought. Why look on me?
I am a man most feeble and infirm,
Bow'd down with age. Judge then, had I the powers
You claim of me, should I be thus?
Rich.
Had I been noble,
He had healed my son.
Marc.
But what are we?—Are we
Deserving of a miracle?
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We are alone, my son—
Alone with Heaven—
For Heaven is with thee, my father.
Fran.
As with all
Who put their trust therein.
Nem.
Beseech its mercy
For one whose hours are numbered.
Fran.
Not for thine—
No, thou art young; thy cup of life is full.
Nem.
Ay, full of blood, held by my father's spectre
To my lips, and as I quaff, 'tis filled and filled
From my murdered brother's gaping wounds.
Fran.
What would'st thou do?
Nem.
What is thy mission here?
Fran.
To comfort and console.
What thine?
Nem.
To bear the vials of Heaven's wrath. Hard on the priest
Cometh the headsman.
Fran.
These words are wild, my son.
What ill design do they import? Reflect—
Pause!
Nem.
Bless me, my father.
Fran.
Willingly, my son. Thou hast my blessing.
But what shall it avail thee if thy heart
Meditates evil? If thy thoughts are pure,
Mercy will better plead for thee above
Than my poor words. Yet I do bless thee.
Fare thee well! May Heaven be thy guide. [Exit]
| Louis XI | |