University of Virginia Library

ACT I

Scene I

Twenty years later
Paris. Saint-Germain; Diane is seated in the embrasure of a window. She is dressed in deep mourning, and she weeps. Henri stands before her, silent; she raises her head.
Diane.
Take comfort, Prince.

Henri.
I will not for your tears—
I will not. In the world there is no wrong
Like this that you are weeping.
Sénéchale,
These tears must check; they fall on me at night,
They lash me from my sleep as cruel storms,
They beat upon me fiercely as the rain
Beats on a flood. . . . In mercy,
Seeing my sorrow is too much, my anger
Too young to comfort you, let your fair eyes
That can hold all things, as a flower
Holds to itself its fragrance, hold their rain.

Diane.
Take comfort, Prince; your grief to me is sharper
Than any of my own.

Henri
(stooping to the edge of her raiment and kissing it).
You are white and black; you are a widow now.
May I put on your colours? Not the white
And green the poets sing—I cannot sing;
I am too full . . . it is not like a song.
Give me your tears to dry them in my blood!

Diane.
To-morrow, at the tourney? No, my Prince.
I am not wronged; mine is a widow's dule,
Eternal, not to pass. You must not wear,
Dauphin, the colours of eternal dule.

Henri
(springing closer to her).
But I shall wear them constant as the habit
Of a dead man to his shroud.

Diane.
To-morrow's favour?

Henri.
Constant as the habit
Of a dead man to his shroud.
I know that laughter
Will greet my strong presumption, as a child,
An acolyte, should in blank repetition
Rehearse the Mass . . . and must it be your laughter?
I am shy, flouted by the King;
I have been many years in prison too;
And many years I have been dumb:
I thought that I was praying when I spoke.
How still you sit!

Diane.
I am listening, Prince, to music.

Henri.
If you could sit like that and make no sign,
But sit indifferent on,
Like that, when presently I yield my soul
For your glory at the jousts!
You have a beauty
That must not be dishevelled—in compassion
Continue it, that we may dream a statue
Is with us and no fear of its decay!

Diane.
I am listening still to music . . .

Enter King François
François.
Hin!
But let me be a leper, if this is not
My son—la, la!—
Droning an elegy to the fair widow!
Satyr, your dull, black eyes
Burn on her as the torches of her dule.
Fie! Fie! It was deplorable to find her
Weeping her noble Brézé. Not a blink
Of sunshine till I came to visit her.
I was the Sun
That snuffed those candles out!
(To Diane.)
Have you forgotten?
[Diane looks at him reproachfully.
Sa, sa, sa, sa!
Yet it was matter of delirious mirth
To see those candles ranged about the Moon—
And the untending thirsty clouds—a! ho!
Diane impatient for the chase! . . . She listened
In the dark chamber to the crannied mouse,
Or any the least knocking at the wall . . .
Diane, with Master Marot's psalms
Clung to her hand, and from her parted lips
Hummings and cries as inarticulate
As of dumb creatures when they are not dumb.
I nearly gave my ghost up to my God
With laughing at that chasing whiteness, set
In modo e figura Dian, widow!
Ha, ha! Not Dian—Dido in her bed,
Weeping Sichaeus sore.
(To Henri.)
Staff of the Cross,
So do we use our hours? Are we Æneas?
[Henri remains petrified.
Sirrah, the heralds are in sharp dispute
Upon some points . . . your homage and attend!
[Henri bows and goes out.
Bat of Valladolid, I loathe the boy!
What dungeon sighs, what stares! He pules at me
As if he grudged me still
That he was hostage for the crown of France,
To monachal, sour Spain—a bat, a cloistered owl!
[Sitting down by her cosily.
I grudge his ransom. Is there François in him?
What is he, for an heir?

Diane.
Alack, he has been long in prison, Sire.

François.
Oh, my dear lady, when I was a boy
I was full king, not only to my mother,
Not to my perfect Marguerite, to all
My retinue of youngsters—Marin de Montchenu,
Montmorency and Guillaume de la Mark,
And Philippe Chabot: but this gloomy Dauphin
Has of his age no friends; haunting the Court
Suspiciously as he were still a hostage,
He brushes among women with the deafness
And grunting of a boar.
[Looking in Diane's face.
But you are patient,
Marvellous patient, cloudy Luna.

Diane.
Sire,
What is the suit?

François.
This little finger-tip!
God and St. Benedict, here have we state-craft—
A crescent-point like those that blandish sea-waves
To run ashore! Wind him about your finger,
Counsel him, rouse him from his dreams! I fear
My tardy Dauphin never will be man,
Therefore appeal to catch you, Sénéchale,
To such a business you shall lead alone
With none for coadjutor. Willy-nilly
Our Dauphin binds us fast to Rome and binds us
To Italy, our sovereign Italy,
As husband to Pope Clement's niece—this girl
Of listening eye, a chit of wisdom, gay
As innocence . . . ha, moss above, below
Some rotten kind of stuff, a Médicis.
The child amuses! He has wedded her
At our command, but, sullen as a mule,
The boy turns from his bride, embarrassing
Our friendship with Pope Clement, by the fashion
Of his dull conduct and discourtesy.
Temper him, noble Matron, change his nature
According to the prevalence he follows;
Turn him to duty and to virtual aim
In marriage, no more feelingly resisted
Than glowed brass by the vision that a sun
Endazzles from the heaven.
[Diane is silent.
It made me merry
To find him playing at the Turtle-dove,
Metamorphosed by Venus. Sénéchale,
Complete, magnetic, sting his blockishness
To flower of youth. Give him some countenance—
Black-spotted weasel, handsome,
If once his face were turned to human cheer.
A dreary, sullen, sleepy child! I hate him
[Diane is still silent.
Did not your good devotion win from me
Your father's forfeit life? Win from my son
What traces of his father lie in cloud
Beneath a surly Spaniard. By God's Body,
I beg a royal thing of you, ma Belle,
To mould us France.
You smile? Hoc fac et vinces!
So! And the task, the generous victory
Shall wean you from your sorrow. You and I
Cannot breathe captive. Let us then forget!
Why run to Death, since memory is a cell
Of the tomb-owning Monster? Nay, I'd rather . . .
But cast those murky sables and be gallant
In velvet of my favoured gooseberry-green,
This skin would prick to goldness, challenging.
Listen, fair Victrix, Help-in-Season! Listen!
Be Dian to Endymion, and Lucina
To France, protectress of her future Kings.

Diane.
Madame la Duchesse
D'Estampes were better to this purpose, younger,
More apt.

François.
My Duchess! Is it jealousy
Of my young mistress that provides a rival?
She is not half your age!—tut, tut!—a crude,
Young fruit, and not the perfect, lapping flower
Of your maturity. To have you jealous—
My triumph! But, alas, for Winter, Spring;
And for rude Ver the mellow Summer-eve
With its moon-rising, and moon-setting dawn.
My Duchess—la!
He did not see her when we rode together
To bring the captive home; she laughed at him
Dangling your skirts. Ho, ho! My little son!
My childilollie!
Make a man of him!
Madame de Brézé, give him of your counsel!
This little Médicis, beneath your guidance,
Must bear him many children, you prevailing
As goddess of his altars, where his heart
And all his joys are rendered.

Diane.
Sire,
Your suit is granted.

François
(surprised and doffing low).
Then I take my leave.

[He goes to the arras, wonders and comes back. Diane stands defiantly before him.
Diane.
I have consented
The Prince should wear my colours, white and black,
My white and changeless sable. Presently
He will become a man.

François.
Let there be light,
And there was light: so at a woman's fiat
The face of the whole world is changed. Adieu!
[Exit King François.

Diane.
Not beautiful, a head
Just turning grey, a face
Wrinkled, swept over by a wind, discoloured!
This to King François—I am shamed before him;
I would descend into my grave: but Henri . . .
The great, brown eyes attest me beautiful,
And I have solace of the lie.
(Catching sight of herself in a mirror.)
The truth
Before me—I am beautiful with beauty
Of very early springtide, little flushes
Of light and promise, and a softer lip.
Brusquet has entered. Looking up, Diane espies the Fool
Brusquet, sweet fool, but I have played your part,
Crying for joy.

Brusquet.
You are not then a fool.
I never cry but when I have no joy.
We have none, who must laugh the whole day long.

Diane.
But share it, fool, but share it—
Since it is wisdom to you, share my joy.

Brusquet.
Unfold it, Madam.

Diane.
Brusquet,
I am beloved. . . . O witless fool,
You do not ask by whom.

Brusquet
(simply).
The Dauphin. Fie, fie, fie!
I do not hazard impious conjectures,
For the good Dauphin half an hour ago
Threw his arm . . . thus! . . .
Right round my neck and wept.
I paint you, Madam,
His very action, as it is my trade,
And no offence.

Diane.
But what should follow, fool?
The Dauphin weeps as you have seen me weep.
Has he not bitter cause? As if still captive
I pass him oftentimes
Sitting in deep embrasures by himself.
How should you think I am beloved of him?

Brusquet
(very softly).
He gave no sign: it was the matching tears.
I counted them—they fell just of one number:
Two on the cheek, one coursing down the nose
Most fellowly . . . and they were drops of gold.
I caught two on my hand . . .
[Diane takes his hand and kisses it.
He loves you, Madam.

Diane.
Swear on your bells, swear it by Cupid's blindness.

Brusquet.
No, no—the matching tears
Are my sole warranty.

Diane.
Brusquet, he carries
My colours at the tourney, on his helm,
His doublet and his cloak—not white and green,
But white and black—the colours of my dule.

Brusquet.
He loves you, Madam . . .

Diane
(suddenly).
Has the Dauphine risen?
Is she within?

Brusquet.
Madam, there may be many
Princesses, queens, and lawful spouses. Take
This word of folly: have no eye for them,
No ear, no angry tongue. He loves you, Madam.
[Exit Brusquet, kissing his hand to her.

Diane.
How many years? There is so little time!
[She takes a crystal hour-glass and watches the sand trickling through.
Henri! O mes délices!
I think the purport
Of age is to lay out before our eyes
The entire and perfect spectacle of youth. . . .
A year ago he poured into my lap
Jonquils and violets: it troubled me;
It seemed part of a pageant or a riddle
It were my death to read . . .

A Woman
(at the door).
Madame la Dauphine!

Catherine de Médicis enters with her women. She is dressed in rose-coloured velvet. She makes a curtsey.
Diane
(rising).
Nay! Can I ask forgiveness?
You were the first to do me reverence.
There has been error. Let me sit beside you.
What! Are there tears and pallor on a face
That is a stranger's!
(To the Women.)
Leave us.

Catherine.
Not my women!

Diane.
All of the retinue.
[She waves them away; then puts her arm round Catherine.
Unfold your grief.
You are shy, sad; you are very shy. Cher enfant!
But what is at the sources of your tears?
Unfold your grief.

Catherine
(suspiciously).
Madame la Sénéchale,
You are the Dauphin's friend.

Diane.
I would befriend you.
Yours is so high a destiny and pressed
So suddenly upon you. Dry your eyes!
This dusky-coloured hair, if broidered richer
With certain jewels, may take satin sheen;
But I must choose the jewels. You misdoubt
That you can please him, Dauphine?

Catherine.
Why, he hates me
More, as I love him more.

Diane.
His father loves you.

Catherine.
That is not enough.

Diane.
You love him? you would have him for your own?

Catherine.
I do desire it.

Diane.
Afterward as Queen?

Catherine
(vehemently).
I do desire to be a Queen, his Queen!
I do desire to have him for my own,
All to myself. He is too fond of jousting,
And he escapes me.

Diane.
Can you bear instruction?

Catherine.
Of any in authority. Your place? . . .

Diane.
The child! I am not this or that, the matron
Chosen to give you guidance, nor appointed
To rule your household.
Let us speak as women!
You love the Dauphin? Ay!
With all the blinking of these diamond eyes;
And you would be beloved. Is he not handsome?

[Catherine sighs and draws from her breast a miniature.
Diane.
That is an exercise—you cannot judge—
That is a thing painted for Italy,
A bauble of no worth. Put it away.
It would displease him.

Catherine.
You are bold to drop it
So sudden from your hands—it is the portrait
Of your young Prince . . .
But you may braid my hair.

Diane
(dropping the braids).
The Dauphine and his wife—will that suffice?
Would you thus savour majesty? There is
A Queen now of the Court, and so neglected,
And of so poor account she did not even
Advance to welcome you. I welcomed you;
I had been so entreated.

Catherine.
Henri bade you?

Diane.
The Dauphin wooed me,
And on his knees, to save him from that meeting,
For he is shy and young.
Would you look on him
Such as he is—the traits of this medallion
[Drawing one from her breast.
Are art that has sucked nature as a flower
Sucks dew and then appears more perfect flower.

Catherine
(pettishly).
No likeness!

Diane.
None of anything that you,
Poor child, have ever caught or will encounter.
Does it not even fascinate you?
[Catherine silently gazes at the portrait, then her eyes fill with tears.
Stay!
If you would learn the secret which it holds—
It is a captive's face and more, an exile's.
I wonder, have you spirit fine enough
To dote in pity on the weariness
Of these dull eyes that, like an animal's,
Have but the beauty of their loving?

Catherine
(her hand on the medallion).
Give it!

Diane.
No!—but you have it. Is he not your bridegroom?
[Half to herself.
The shell, the husk, the shadow and the name,
Even these are dear possessions.

Catherine.
He abhors me;
I am distasteful to him.
[Grasping Diane's hand.
Séenéchale,
Something you said of satin in my hair,
If you would twist it right?
[Diane looses a chain of beryl from her neck and twists it into Catherine's fine dark hair. Catherine catches sight of herself in a mirror. She lifts up her arms to Diane and lays them round her neck.
All the new dances
Of Florence, the new games—I am very quick
At games—and I will show you every point:
You are not quick at games?

Diane
(smiling).
But if la Dauphine,
Will suffer me to guide her . . .
Listen, petite,
That is Prince Henri's voice, and calling me.
Child, you have much to learn!
So!—I have braided
This satin hair to catch his eye, and, if
You will defer to me, you will find favour.
Now, do not sulk and do not speak a word.

Re-enter Henri, calling
Henri.
Diane, my lady, O Diane—

Diane.
You shame me
Ringing my name as we were in the woods.
You fright our little Princess.
To beguile
This hour so tedious to her, I have sung
Your praises; we have glanced at portraits too—
And I have lost all knowledge of the hour,
Wreathing her hair.

Catherine
(timidly).
Madam is very deft,
So deft: it is all Madam's art.

[She bows her head for inspection. The eyes of Henri and Diane meet over the small, wreathed head.
Henri
(mastering himself).
Good, good!
I will conduct you straightway to the King:
He loves these points and sparkles.

Catherine.
And these beryls
Are Madam's; she unclasped the necklace.

Henri.
Good!
They are become crown-jewels by her gift:
You shall have all the homage.
Do not render
These beryls back to her again. I like
That you should wear them in your glossy hair
So, as the Duchess willed.

[Henri takes Catherine's hand and leads her quickly away, leaving Diane alone.
Diane.
Is it in pique?
The beryls were not of his gift. He touches
Her cheek; she glows so in his pride of her:
Like a small lizard she is beautiful.
King François tells me I must do this thing,
Foster this marriage. . . .
The crown-jewels hers
And of his gift; ay, and the crown as well,
If she bear children. . . . He is passed away
Lifelong from me! My gift . . .
What can my gift be to him but the years?
I must go back, must seek
The violets, in my nature, of my youth;
They are bleeding for him, all my sweetness bleeds.
I will not mind the King. I will transgress
All honour, I will wash
My eyes with tears. . . . The fountain of my tears,
I fear, will break my heart! But I will suffer;
I will do anything to be beloved
For ever of him.
Henri! Long ago
I loved him on my knee, a black-haired babe;
I loved him as a child just broke from prison,
I have loved him in my dule, incredulous
That he could love me. . . .
It may be in sport,
In dream; it may be he will cast me off.
If he should cast me off! . . .

[She bows herself, weeping bitterly. Henri stands before her, a curious smile on his face.
Henri.
I have left her with the King. Why are you weeping?
Diane, this heavenly rain—
This softness—
[He kneels.
April!
I broke the cloud?
Are the rich clouds for me? Too marvellous
It were if you could love me in this sort—
Nothing to come between. Could I believe . . .
If I should dare! Are the rich clouds for me?
[Diane kisses his raised hands and swiftly leaves him.
Could I believe the miracle—believe
I broke the cloud!

Scene II

Paris. The Dauphin's bedchamber at Saint-Germain. Courtiers move about with jewels and ornaments. Henri finishes his dressing to strains of exquisite music. For an instant he prostrates himself before a Crucifix: then he rises, and, with a movement of his hand, dismissing his courtiers, he approaches his Musicians, among them Jannequin, and embraces them one by one.
Henri.
Beloved, beloved. . . . Community of loved ones!
My notes of music! Gratitude
Is mine—how shall I say it with my lips?—
As for the dew that lustres my young roses,
As for the dayspring that provides the day
Its streams of freshness. Music!
[As he breaks from them.
Pass
And let me hear your voices; as a flock
Drops in a vale, and with a wider movement
Ascends to clothe the hill. . . .
I cannot part from you without a hope!
[He touches a viol.
Enter my prayers—these flying prayers
That are my thoughts in solitude. Ascend!

[The Musicians retire and are seen above in a distant gallery. Jannequin returns. Henri has seated himself at a table and plays with a pen.
Jannequin.
Monsieur le Dauphin,
What music for the coucher?
‘Chant de l'Alouette’
Is for the lever? But your favoured trifle
‘Caquet des Femmes’—shall we repeat the air?
. . . O women, women, and their music-babble
Is for all hours, the morning, noon or night?
What music for the coucher?
[Henri sits blank.
Monsieur le Dauphin,
Unless . . . It must depend . . .
There is a music glows like Hesperus.
If my lord Dauphin please
To comfort the lone Dauphine, newly wedded,
Since he allows me access to his heart,
And sorrow for the colours of its grief . . .
There is a music bridal, prevalent,
Epithalamium. Vivace! Prince,
'Twould give you recompense: the sorriest feast
Vouched from the gallery with sound of rebecks
Is eaten as untasted; appetite
Itself being dulcet-quickened by the ear.
Would you give order to your chamberlain . . .

Henri.
O Jannequin, are you King François' spy?
But if you are—let him divert the child,
That he is making Queen before my face,
Before my mother's face. There is no Queen
But my dead mother—there I am bereaved.
[Jannequin comes close and caresses him.
I cannot!

Jannequin.
Listen! I have been persuaded
And of the King, and of the Médicis,
And of the noble Sénéchale herself.

Henri
(springing up).
Enfer! La Sénéchale!

Jannequin.
If you could so estrange your life, your senses . . .

Henri.
O Jannequin, but you are not your music.
Leave me alone!
[Exit Jannequin.
What of these days before me now? . . . My God,
What of my youth? Why should I rise
To the hours that are my doom? I know the weight
Of the heavy-weighted hours and the long softness
Of the tears that wet their sands.
[He listens.
Ha, music, music!
It is not then all lost. This music comes
Back on myself even as the wind blows back
Her roses on the rose!

[A song of his own is heard sung from the distant gallery.

[He listens rapt, nursing his knee.
Henri.
One must forgive her silence to the moon—
How should she so behold herself, except
Below in the white fields,
And on the glimmering haystacks and the ponds?
What sorrow, burning sorrow, I am poet
Never to her: to none
But to the Lady Music. She, I think,
Has been shut up in prison many years,
Has waked in prison and her chains struck off.
Diane! But did she crave her shepherd's pipe?
Never!—Endymion's pipe . . .
I must put back my gifts—the resonance
Is not for her!
Diane, and she would have me vulgar—she
Would so profane! Fah, let my father urge
Heirs for the kingdom, lineage, royal stock—
The future, I must honour as a slave!
Diane, Diane! . . .
I must put back within myself the coffret
Of the jewels that I wrought for her: I swear
It is more precious to me than her love.
This loneliness
I build up in my spirit from her ken
Is a fierce refuge. Is it thus with lovers?
Must it be ever thus?

Enter the Lord Charles, Cardinal of Lorraine. He salutes the Dauphin, then advances affairé
Cardinal.
You are brooding, Dauphin?

Henri.
Ay, Lord Charles, a riddle
And an enigma to you all? What claim
Shortens the narrow limits of the hour
I claim for meditation?

Cardinal.
Nay, my Prince,
I would not so abridge your prayers. 'Tis Cupid
That as an apparition puts to flight
Our holy thoughts and weans us from our prayers.

Henri
(angrily).
I shall not hunt to-day.

Cardinal
(shrugging his shoulders as he seats himself).
To-day—Blood of the Cross!—to-day the king
Hunts with your wife.
And it is not from him,
Nor from the slender, coy audacity
Of an Italian mistress I take orders:
But from the Lady Sénéchale I come,
And to convey her pleasure. She has noted
A trouble, a distaste about your moods.
‘The Dauphin’—so I quote . . . how heavenly-fine
Her observation!—‘has an eye unquiet,
Fevered, distrustful of the flagrant lights
The Médicis requires. He suffers.’ Then,
Dauphin, with angel's tenderness we Churchmen
Can but adore and envy—then she bade me,
As armed with the strong impress of a dream,
Creep to your privacy . . . for she has business
In the little desert garden of the roses
Beyond the cypress grove.
She will not hunt.
She has refused the call, nor will you find her
Among her nymphs. She bade you bring your lute,
And strike among the boscage such a strain
As lures the goddess to her mortal. Dauphin,
Fresh from the bath she met me, and inspired
As from the sacred well-spring of the Muses.
A lute was in her hand.
[Crossing his legs.
My Office said,
I must repair to that most sacred garden,
To smell the roses, and to catch the descant
Of the nightingales enchanted to the Moon.
[Henri is gone quietly to fetch out his lute; he puts on his plumed cap and turns toward a private egress.

La, what a bird for the gin! Her adroitness had
failed; she had offended, giving her company
to Madame la Dauphine, and could only discover
the matter of her offence, in nowise its
cure. She appealed to me. I found he was
living en garçon and in frequent conference with
musicians. I found Jannequin setting verses
to music. La! what a bird for the gin!

But this Diane—solid, invincible, she is as a
statue in our Paris, as a beautiful statue. She
is France.

[He picks up a half-written page lying on the table, and goes out reading and chuckling.

Scene III

Paris. The Gardens at Saint-Germain. A little semi-circular ruin with open columns round, steps leading up to it. On these steps King François is seated with his Petite Bande. All the ladies are dressed in gooseberry-green or mulberry-coloured

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156

velvet with silver sleeves. The King's arm is round Catherine de Médicis.
King François.
Mignonne,
Are we not hidden safely? Will D'Estampes
Suspect us in a ruin? Fah, she preaches
Religion to me—the unholy credence
Of heretics—and all the while her face
Goes preaching from its wrinkles I am old.
But you, my plums, soft in your youth and merry
In the immortal creed of being young,
You, my green fruitage of the gardens, you
That lift my hours up from their sorry weight,
I am your sylvan Pan. My Nymphs—your Pan!

Catherine.
O Sire,
You with your converse of the heavens, discoursing
To us your policies of light and time,
Ripen our days.

[The King kisses her on her mouth and cuddles her.
King François.
Fine Mignonne,
My little Politician—ah, we settle
What heretics shall suffer in the squares;
Or shall the Turk be knit to us—the Turk!
But, hush, my little mouse of Florence, hush!
To-day, no politics . . .
Here I am come to brood my sadness out;
Here I am brooding as an ancient Pan,
The Captain of the Oreads, Nymphs, and Dryads,
Who, his long beard stroked toward his nose, conceives
The world and all the caverns underneath,
The graves, the hollow centuries before,
Th' affrighting hollow centuries behind.
When one is aging, every dusty proverb
And fable shoots up wisdom; but, mes enfants,
We must not think; we must refuse all mirrors,
Even the faces of our friends in time.
Mirrors be broken, friends of the old years
Removed from vision! Only let me see
Youth, youth, the red and green, the infantine!
[Yawning.
Come, I am heavy—rise!
Dance me a stately dance; and you must lead them,
My little Médicis . . . you know the step—
My favourite—Des Lavandières. Beat hands.
Lo, Brusquet!
Enter the Fool
Strike your jester's lute, my Fool!
Here are life's maskers.
[They dance the Branle des Lavandières: then a Pavane.
Life!
The fulness—motion, the round amplitude!
The coil and rustling splendour of the colours!
O Titian, were you here—brush to my wisdom,
Arresting what I live by! Play more slowly,
Fool, for your dancers, slow!
That I may linger with these forms of youth.
May God preserve me a few years to linger
Where beauty is, where cloudless faces mingle.
Ha, ha, my little Médicis, your stepping
Is as the prance of Flora's self
Across the bosomy hills in April-time.
You pant! Break off!
God's sake, if you should dance away a prince!
I was indeed to blame!

[Catherine returns to his side out of breath; he caresses her and makes her comfortable.
Brusquet.
Uncle of France,
Here comes duet for chorus!
[A sound of laughter and the touching of two lutes is heard.
Wish, hish, hish!

[The Dauphin Henri and Diane pass in front of the group, in their black and white dresses, absorbed and unheeding. The King whistles, and they pause.
King François.
Black on the picture! Black!—
You sting me! Nay, my lady Sénéchale,
We have one secret, you and I,
We have one wisdom. . . . He is young, though black.
[With a malicious laugh.
I take my medicine for years in syrups
Of cinnamon and mentha, red and green . . .
You, my superb, in black mandragora—
Our tastes—but the same wisdom. You and I . . .

[The Petite Bande laughs on many soft notes.
Diane.
Sire?

King François.
Go your way! The Dauphin blushes red
Out of all limit of your black and white,
Betraying your staid colours. Lady Sénéchale,
Drop that suspended finger on the lute;
The air yearns for it; draw your young musician
Along with you, closing suspension, lady.

Diane
(smiling).
Ever to be obeyed!

[She touches the note, and Henri, making obeisance to the King, without looking, moves away with her.
King François.
Ho, ho!
My little Médicis, a cloud—no clouding!
I am full sun upon your fortune, child . . .
He but the Dauphin, and you Queen of France
O my Italian daughter,
The devil take me to my grave, if once
I make declension from the life, the arts
And the new learning of your Italy!
O my Italian,
But I am sad again! These Spanish fashions,
Their sables and cold silver—faugh, these zealots,
These lovers shod with love, not winged with lightness
Of variable Eros, trailing moonlight
And darkness on the present! . . .
Little winds,
Strange little winds are loosed—I know not whither
They go, nor why they are . . . a sad, old Pan
Withering among his nymphs.
[Rising.
Break up the band!
My daughter Catherine, we will hunt together,
And you shall hunt astride across such country
As woman's sideway-sitting could not vanquish.
[He lays his hands on her shoulder and walks feebly on.]
Like a pale boy, you with the pale, sick King,
King François, dying, dying—
Shall hunt, the very Queen of Venery.
No matter for those Lutinists—those zealots. . . .
God's Mass, I hate a Spaniard as the devil—
As black Mephisto. . . .
All stir up the hunt!

Scene IV

Anet: beside a fountain, deep in the heron-wood
Enter together the Lord Cardinal Charles de Lorraine and the Connétable Anne de Montmorency.
Montmorency.
Bells!

Cardinal.
. . . Ah! the bells
Of the homing cattle through the forest—listen!
Still deep in leaves the chime, as though fay-music
Rang us out of the coverts from their midst
To guide us home. 'Tis late. That levelness—
There!—of a white ray is the great owl's wing.
What, bide his gipsy-music when the cattle
Have rung us home!

Montmorency.
But, Cardinal,
When this fay-music shook along the brakes
The Prince was no more of our company.
Where is the Prince?

Cardinal.
Shall we not ask where lamps
Our Lady Glow-worm of this forest-side,
And then the Prince were found? Montmorency,
Do all the lost pant for their finding? Seek him!
Nay, rather yield him to the dusk Sylvani,
And to the shadows where he watches shining
His spell of snow-keen bait. Are not these flambeaux—
That make the banks an air of nether lights,
The moss and grass, impenetrable cloud,
Lit to induce the mate into Love's circle,
From his dark vigil 'mid the glooms of earth?
Call our saints down upon the Dauphin. . . . Pass!
Ha, ha, these glow-worms and these holy places!
The saints upon the Dauphin! Let us on!

Montmorency.
Is the moon rising?

Cardinal.
When the clouds
Are velvet and one seems to smell their softness
As fragrance, they are hiding-places chosen
By the ascending moon . . .

Montmorency.
Quoit-players! Listen!
How the quoits ring like glass! The players' voices,
How they are raised up underneath the moon,
Though far away! To Anet! Leave our Prince.

[They go out. A great stag for a while on the grass that is kindled with glow-worms. Then he leaps back into the shadow. After a while Henri breaks through the forest-trees and throws himself down on the lawn by the fountain.
Henri.
Lost, lost! . . . The din
Of the lutes we played together, 'mid the roses!
And then King François! . . . How I hate my father;
And grow outrageous in his presence, all
My powers put off as in a foreign land,
Before strange potentates! He can discern
No King in me, so crowns the Dauphiness.
No Prince, no King!
And the great Sénéchale, who is as deaf
And foolish to my music as the fool,
Must bribe my Jannequin and hire us lutes
To thrum in company. . . . So lost,
So hideously lost . . . I flee
A madman from a mirror—not my face . . .
O Luna! Struck! Lost!

[He bows over the rim of the fountain. Diane enters in her hunting-dress of white, with silver quiver.
Diane.
But my musician . . .

Henri.
Goddess!

Diane.
But my poet! . . .
[She comes to him and bends above him, speaking softly.
Endymion . . . Shut your eyes,
Be veritably lost from Time, and Dian
Will from infinitude and loneliness
Herself steal down to a forgotten prince,
Forgotten among sleepers of the night.

Henri
(springing up defiantly).
A blinded shepherd!
. . . But you cannot know . . .
Not that—Actæon, by no hounds devoured,
But by the gnawing fury of his senses
At heaven dropt down on him. Who built the temples,
The temples to the moon?
Diane, I cannot speak to you. . . . My music
Speaks back but to myself; the foolish verses
I stammer through my tears, but chill my tears.
You are mocking me. . . . My father mocks at me.
What is your cruel pleasure? I escape—
I have escaped from Paris—from my father,
My bride . . . I have escaped . . . as fierce at heart
As any brigand of the woods, as blemished,
As desolate. In my captivity,
Diane, I thought of freedom as a roving,
Aimless and sorrowful . . . you succoured me,
You were my goal as is the living sun
The goal of every listless, growing thing:
Then you became a blight to me, a bane,
And the amazement of a curse that dooms me
Homeless and unassigned to pallid Hell.
My poetry, my music! . . . yes, we chimed
The lutes together for a little while
In the Rose-garden; yes, we breathed the roses
In the desert-garden of Saint-Germain—yes,
And read together Amadis of Gaul . . .
To me as my whole history and life,
To me who came, a child, from out a prison,
As Amadis a child from forth the sea.
They led me to you, and, as Amadis
Lost never from his memory the word
Of Oriana, how it pleased her well
That he should serve her, from my memory
Never will fail
Your kiss upon my forehead—as an angel
Sinks from closed pinions. . . . Listen! . . . Oriana,
'Twas on soft herbage, 'neath the forest's cope,
Amadis had his joy for all his love,
And worst despair, by which a man may perish—
Joy for all this, joy on the greenwood grass . . .
No playing lovers in a gilded Court!
. . . Yes, we have chimed
The lutes together for a little while
In the Rose-garden; yes, we breathed the roses,
And I am left more infinitely void,
More slowly dropping blood than when you held me
First at Bayonne and kissed me, but then dropped.

Diane
(gathering Grass of Parnassus, and playing with the fountain).
O water,
Blood-tinctured of my goddess, but he hurts us
With his fierce onslaught. . . .
If I dropped the child,
It was . . . oh, sudden . . . as one puts away
A man from one's embrace.
[Henri looks at her silently.
Goddess, he chides me!
Dian, I stoopt too low.

Henri.
More to your fountain: let me hear your prayer.

Diane
(to the moon).
That I may dye him even as my flesh
Is of these placid depths made gold—my prayer!
[She rises from the fountain.
Nor will you ever speak to me of music,
Nor will you ever vex me with reproach;
Nor serve me, dreaming as an idle shepherd—
[She lays her hand on his shoulder.
But in great feats of arms my chevalier.
Lo, all my forests with their scents and coverts
I hold in leash till you become a man.
Hippolytus, my hunter, votive to me
Your life in every breath. Such speckled hounds
As I will rear you, dogs of so fierce strain
No hand may touch them, but your hand—such steeds
For you to dompt! And we will hunt together.
Henri, the incommunicable joy
Of waking to the hunt; the sounds
Of the young morning . . . Henri, and by moonlight
Together we will hunt the wolves. A Queen—
I would be Queen of Earth, not in the Court,
Here in the purlieus of my mountain forest,
Where the oak burthens, where the little aspens
Tingle above the pool: I would be Queen
Where the high echoes catch and every stillness
Has its own star and echo in the leaves.
[One of her little flowers is dropped. Henri picks it up.
Beloved!
You hold my little flower wrapt in your hand—
I love it for its vernal breath, I love
All flowers that nod and startle through the grass,
All flowers of my stag's mottle . . .
[He springs to embrace her.
No, not yet!
Henri, beloved, look up!
Those clouds are horsemen . . . swift, ah, swift, as those
Must be your course: and they attain the moon.

Henri
(kneeling).
Forget
How young and sleeping in my qualities
I lie before you. Stoop to me, receive me!
[She kisses him.
The sweetness of a universe let down
On one poor, young, closed heart!

[There is rustle among the bushes.
A Voice.
Where is His Highness?

Diane.
A messenger! We will receive him, Prince—
Trembling nor fugitive.

Voice.
Where is His Highness?

[Diane is about to reply; Henri puts his hand across her lips.
Henri.
Here at the King's command.
Saddle my horse.

[The bushes are still. Henri and Diane kiss.
Diane.
Leave me thy heart!
[They walk a little way in silence.
. . . But you forget—

Henri
(laughing low).
The King's command? I am myself a King.
[He turns away and leaves her. His voice a little way off.
O Ronsard, true! not Anet—Dianet.

Diane.
There is no death in love, except this death,
And stopping of Love's breath by lovers' hands—
This parting. . . . How I love him,
So wild and royal; it is like a curse
To bear his shining eyes. . . .
He must not suffer,
And shed on me the glory of his youth,
If afterward. . . . O crystal Moon, that showest
All ages in thy turning magic stone,
Let me not on thy ominous glass behold him
Waking to disillusion.
All my moments
Are to his pleasure, and I build this Anet
His home, I draw the hunt around its walls,
And round its fires carve crescent moons and quivers,
Set in my trees the trailing herons, cage
The leopard in my halls; on terraces
Broider my peaches blowing posied flowers,
Or on my tables stand Cellini's bowls
And Palissy's illumined vases—all
To bind his senses to his passionate heart,
Submissive to one joy. . . .
A distant shouting!
A roundelay of shouts! . . . It was so silent
I heard the woodmouse creep.
Again! More clear
The roundelays of shouts!

[She listens.
Voices.
Vive, vive le Roi!

Diane.
The little, creeping feet . . . then Vive le Roi!
And horses' hoofs scattering their noise abroad.
King François dead? Le Roi est mort!
And Henri
Careering to a throne?
[She sits down.
Years fall on me . . .
[She passes her hand over her forehead as if stunned.
Another woman now
Is Henri's Queen, to-night is Queen of France;
And other women of resplendent youth
Proclaim in their fresh bosoms their young King.
Another is his Queen and will be crowned
His Queen! The little Médicis, his Queen!
O Child of Jove, my Sponsor, shall she rule?
O Sister of the gods, shall this thing be?
Anet, O Anet,
Thy costly buildings vain, as vain as dross
The courtways, balustrades and gleaming treasure
Of Limosin, Cellini, Palissy,
Vain—if a Queen and of immortal stamp
Rule not among them. In this magic castle,
Among the woods, Diane must be established,
And cried the Queen of any Queens alive,
Till the years yield, and the laws yield, and even
The ceremonies in old Saint-Denis
Are empty rites beside her coronation.
[Listening.
Footsteps this way—steps of a messenger?
No, my fantastic sculptor paces night
Alone, or as if handfast with the moon.
Maître Jean!

[Goujon pauses.
Goujon.
Your servant!

Diane
(advancing).
Maître Jean, are there not dreams that exile Time?

Goujon.
Dreams, Madam, exile Time from any future,
And only guard him in his Golden Age
When he was young; for dreams are memories
Alive, as tyrannies of happy gods
Over all change.

Diane.
Maître Jean, you must forsake
Your doors, your mantels—art of masonry!
And do a finer miracle: present me
In sculpture as a Dream,
A troubling Dream that shall for ever hold
The moved heart of a Dream; such talisman
As in a little lake kept Charlemagne gazing
Whole-eyed before it while the day went on.
Maître Jean, my years are many—mould a dream!
This house is sad—
The many years rule over it—depose them!
Let the one vision, let the talisman
Govern the coming in, the going out
Of sovereign love.

[He lifts his cap.
Goujon.
Madam, a sculpture, is it?
The goddess set in trees?

Diane.
Dian, my angel,
My sponsor—

Goujon.
At the font? I have the dream,
Not for dull trees to shadow, for the moon
To heave a ghostlike pall on. . . . Would such vision
Be talisman to rule a house of youth,
To trouble Love's imagination, quickest
Of faculties? No, no! I carve a fountain,
And you shall listen to the untired waters,
Smile from your couch at their untired abundance. . . .
Think, how the streams abound here! Powerful youth
Is in them as a legend. From their waves
I will evoke the genius of the place,
A woman, clear and fresh, a huntress-fairy
Clasping a royal stag, pillowed on bulk
Of a huge hound, and, in repose from hunting,
Attentive to the brightness of the waters,
To their eternal movement, to the glances
Of sun on them and lovely moon by night.
So you shall dream and be yourself the Dream.

Diane.
Maître, I will be a fountain.

Goujon.
And a goddess!
But, Madam, for the royal love a woman,
Not the inexorable lunar beauty,
A goddess and yourself: the shapely head
Adorned with France's rarest gems, a bracelet
To start the mind back to the gracious woman
As only vesture of mortality.
A gallant, troubling spell! Ah, Madam, noble,
Amusing and eternal.

Diane.
At my font,
Baptized with the cold streams that feed my bath,
As an old witch in childhood counselled me;
The captive stag, those jewels and my beauty
Resolute in its youth. . . . Amusing, noble!
Maître Jean, against the stag
I shall let dangle a few gathered blossoms—
You see how I am dreaming with your dream—
Thus, from my hand . . . King François died last night!
The Dauphin Henri is your King.

Goujon
(kneeling).
Our Queen.

The Steward enters
Steward.
Madame la Sénéchale,
His Majesty King Henri—for such title
To-night is his—bade me of his royal love
To tell you of his sovereignty, and pray you
That you will start to-morrow for Saint-Germain.

[The Steward bows and withdraws.
Diane.
Maître Jean, our secret!
Keep your knees one breathing
Of these white forests. . . .
We can hear the streams.