 | Louis XI |  |
ACT III.
An open spot in the wood near the castle, Plessis-les-Tours. A village fête. Music. Marcel, Didier, Richard and Villagers, Male and Female. Dancing groups about the stage.Marthe.
[C.]
Who knows how the King fares today?
Marcel.
[L.]
No worse—no better.
Marthe.
A King, it seems, is very long a-dying.
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The place is such a good one.
Marthe.
Who can tell why Master Tristan bade us here? The chapel is
Prepared; the altar decked with flowers, and we have orders
To assemble here to sing and dance.
Didier.
And be most joyful.
Marcel.
Ay, on pain of death.
Rich.
Beware! I hear a footstep.
Didier.
'Tis Master Oliver.
Marcel.
The Barber Minister. Quick, to your places! Strike music! [They dance and sing. Enter Oliver]
Oliver.
Good—this is well! Sing—dance—be happy!
Marcel.
You see, my lord, we can't be happier.
When once the Grand Provost said, “Be joyful,” we know there's
No excuse.
Oliver.
Well done. Proceed! Perhaps the King
May venture out amongst ye.
Didier.
The King!
Rich.
Here?
Marthe.
Amongst us?
Oliver.
Why not? Why do ye recoil?
Marcel.
'Tis the—the—joy—I feel when I hear his name.
I feel a—a—respect for him that makes my blood run cold.
Oliver.
When he comes, you will speak to him, but freely, gaily—
Marcel.
I speak—a—gaily? Noble sir, I am of a sad temper,
But here is Richard who sings an excellent song, let him speak.
Rich.
No, you, Didier.
Didier.
Me?
Marthe.
I'll do it. What am I to say?
Oliver.
Open your hearts, and tell him all you think.
Marthe.
I have it! I will let him know we hate his Scottish guard.
All.
Ay! Ay!
Didier.
And how our crops are ravaged by his game.
All.
Ay! Ay!
Oliver.
How now? What insolence is this?
Marthe.
Pardon, sir, you bade us tell him all we think.
Marcel.
That's true! Tell us, sir, what is our opinion?
Oliver.
You love your king.
Marthe.
We'll think so.
Oliver.
Like a father.
Marcel.
I never thought of that till now.
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Tell him so—speak frankly—raise his spirits with
Your rude and rustic merriment. Laugh loud, and if he jest—
Marcel.
Eh?
Oliver.
Reply in sort, and keep his humor up.
Hush! Here he comes.
All.
Where?
Marcel.
What? That old, decrepit man?
Oliver.
Decrepit! Fool, do you prize your head?
He is in excellent good health.
Marcel.
Yes, sir, I see now. So he is.
Oliver.
Sing, dolt!
Marcel.
[Sings rather trembling a line of the previous melody]
Oliver.
Louder! Quick, be gay! Sing, all of ye, and dance.
It is the King! [They do so. Louis enters, leaning on Tristan, and followed by Scottish archers who remain at back. Goes to back and sits. Oliver creeps over to him. The peasants gaze in terror]
Louis.
The sun is fierce today; the air is heavy; it weighs upon
Me, and yet the air of France used to be pure. Methinks the
Climate must have changed since I was young.
Oliver.
It has been so remarked, sire.
Louis.
Ah Oliver.
Oliver.
Look, sire. These peasantry were happily
Engaged here as you came; join in their gaiety.
Speak to them. They do not
Recognize you.
Louis.
I will. I'll play the King incognito.
Oliver.
This noble lord would speak with you, come near.
Louis.
Aha! Come hither, rosy face.
Marthe.
Please you, sir.
Louis.
Bounty of nature! You deserve a prize for
Health. How came you by it?
Marthe.
How? Hi—hi—hi!
Louis.
Ah! How?
Marthe.
It comes by stealth, I know not how, no more
Than why the grape grows. Perhaps it comes from heaven
By night, fattening the heart with happy dreams.
Louis.
But you have sorrows?
Marcel.
Why—ay. Life has its changing weathers, sir. All is
Not sunshine. But sorrows come like rain; they freshen up
A man. Sorrow's a good providence.
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And a light heart flows over it. The hardest lot
Can always find some wretch to covet it.
Marcel.
There's cousin Mallard owes five quarters' rent.
That comforts me who only owe a half.
Louis.
[To Oliver]
These wretches find a cause of happiness
In everything. But when disease arrives, and strikes ye down?
Marcel.
Ah, when our sheep have got the rot.
Louis.
Nay, your own mortal sickness. When you behold
Your substance lavished upon doctors?
Marcel.
We're no such fools. Doctors, forsooth!
When I am sick, I draw a horn of wine,
And laugh at 'em. Who pays a doctor robs his son
And heir. When a man's due, death lays his hand
On him, and never asks a doctor's leave.
Louis.
You speak of death as if you feared it not.
Marcel.
I do believe death is not near so bad
As folks would make it. 'Tis a bad life that makes
Death so dreadful. When I behold a train
Of weeping mourners, and think that he they follow is
Preceded by a black account of crime, ill-gotten wealth,
Murders—
Louis.
Oh!
Marcel.
Then death alone has terrors. The bearers of the dead
Seem fiends.
Louis.
Perdition!
Marcel.
Then fear I death. Yet why, I know not, for
I never wronged my neighbors, nor shed fellow creature's blood.
Louis.
Begone!
Marcel.
What have I said?
Oliver.
Idiot!
Louis.
Death—hell—eternal torture! Heaven pity, help me!
Hence! No, come answer me. Who bid thee, wretch,
To speak these words to me?
Marcel.
Nobody. Nobody.
Louis.
Thou'rt paid to do it. Speak!
Marcel.
No, as I live.
Marthe.
Not he, sir, there's no harm in him. I'll warrant him—
He's but a fool.
Marcel.
A downright, well known fool, sir. Ask all the neighbors.
Louis.
I did but jest. He's your husband, then?
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I would not ask a better.
Louis.
Then you shall earn his pardon.
Marthe.
That will I. How?
Louis.
He says he has no sorrow. I will provide him one.
He, he! Hark! With such a buxom air, those ruby lips
And sparkling eyes, you must have lovers in the village
On the sly. Name them!
Marthe.
Lovers, sir? Not I!
Louis.
Take care; his pardon hangs on it.
Marcel.
Name them all, Marthe; as you love me, out with
Their names—I'm deaf!
Marthe.
Well, if I had a choice—
Louis.
Ay, ay?
Marthe.
Amongst the men I've seen, I'd choose—
Louis.
Who? Who?
Marthe.
You!
Louis.
Me! He, he!
Marthe.
Be quiet.
Louis.
Would you fear an old hunks like me?
Marthe.
Not so old neither; you've a sly look.
Louis.
[Aside to Marthe]
Good, good!
Marthe.
A sturdy form.
Louis.
He, he!
Marthe.
A fool would be the maid would trust you.
Louis.
You think so?
Marthe.
I only wish our good old king had such an air,
And bore his years as well.
Louis.
What, what?
Marthe.
Then for his precious life we'd have no fear,
For you will live to see a hundred years.
Louis.
A hundred years! You love your king?
Marthe.
Love him? Ay, do we all. France has but one voice,
And you have heard it.
Oliver.
There, sir, you can't accuse them of flattery.
Louis.
A hundred years, that I shall live to see. [Kisses her]
The King thus thanks you for your prophecy.
Marthe.
The King!
All.
Long live the King!
Louis.
Good souls, good souls! For France and myself I thank ye.
Ah, I shall see a hundred years. For every year of that good
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Go sing, dance, drink, pledge me good health—long life. Drink
To my hundred years!
Marcel.
I shall tell everyone the money I have received.
Marthe.
Yes, and I shall tell how I have received
Two kisses from the King.
All.
Long live the King! [Shout and exit U. E. L. H.]
Louis.
'Tis sweet to be thus loved.
Oliver.
And when the avowal comes from hearts that know
Not how to feign.
Louis.
A hundred years! Did you mark, Oliver?
Oliver.
These common people predict with wondrous truth.
Louis.
You jest, gossip.
Oliver.
Not I.
Louis.
Her words agree with my nativity.
My horoscope portends I shall outlive my foes.
Oh, life, life! Let me but live
To see these sores of France, these sovereign vassals
Levelled to the herd. Their lands, their crowns,
Their very pride I would escheat to swell
The royal power, till there should be in France
But one estate—the people. Ay, all people—
Except me!
Oliver.
Blessed hour!
Louis.
Let me secure my cousin, Charles the Bold of Burgundy,
And in a good stout coffin see him cribbed, and then, my
Well beloved subjects, ye great dukes of Burgundy shall never
Chaffer with the knight of France for right or privilege.
But hush, he lives. Tell me, this Count of Rethel, has he
Seen Marie?
Oliver.
Not yet, sire.
Louis.
So. Bid him come hither. [Shouts “Long live the Dauphin!”]
What shouts are these?
Oliver.
It is the Dauphin, sire. The people greet the Prince.
Louis.
Their love is too profuse; it worries me. He is not yet
Their king. He comes—begone! [Exit Oliver into the chapel. Enter the Dauphin]
How now, what mean these transports?
Dauphin.
Sire, the people crowded on my path, invoking blessings on me.
I was moved to tears.
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Tomorrow you return to Amboise.
Dauphin.
So soon?
Louis.
So, you would taste of popularity,
The people's breath!
'Tis a foul poison, Prince.
To win their voices, throw but a crown or two, and while they
Fight for 'em, they'll cry ye deaf. You deemed their shouts
Were hearty? Eh! 'Twas I who bade 'em do't. They had
Been paid for't.
Dauphin.
How! 'Twas ordered?
Louis.
Ay; by me.
Dauphin.
Oh, sire!
Louis.
Now let this be a lesson, so—begone and meditate upon it.
Dauphin.
What have I done?
Louis.
Thou? Nothing! What dared? What could you do?
Dauphin.
Alas, not even please you, sire. And yet—
Louis.
What?
Dauphin.
I dare not. Sire—my liege—my father—
If you could grant me your love.
Louis.
How! What it seems that I do not love you, heh?
Dauphin.
Oh, pardon, sire.
Louis.
I hate you? So! So! I am a savage, an inhuman father. This
Has been prompted; 'tis not of your thought. Who told you
This? Ha, 'twas your uncle, Orleans. Come, Charles, my son,
Tell me in confidence, who was it?
Dauphin.
My uncle once did say that France sooner or later must
Own me for its master.
Louis.
[Aside]
Ah, the traitor! And said he not that old and sick
I must ere long—I—Ha! 'tis false! And then he said the
Crown was well-nigh in your grasp.
Dauphin.
Oh, sire.
Louis.
'Tis false again! Does its weight make me bow? I tell ye,
Boy, another diadem, and yet a third heaped on this wrinkled
Front, would lighter sit than that same silken cap upon thy
Baby brow.
Dauphin.
My father, live—live long; it is my only prayer—my hope
Beneath your sway, may France grow great, and if my days
Could serve to lengthen yours, I'd pray that Heaven may take
Me in my youth, and add my life to thine.
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My son, my son, this is weak. Begone! [Dauphin exits]
That's a good son who still perhaps deceives his father. [Enter Marie from chapel]
Ah, 'tis she. Come here, child. What brave attire! Thou
Never hast thy beauty thus enshrined for me.
Marie.
You bade us to a ceremony where I thought—
Louis.
To meet some cavalier.
Marie.
I do not understand you, sire.
Louis.
Your cheek does. Well, let's speak of something else. You
Shall be secret, yet if there be a thing I love, 'tis to make
Young lovers happy.
Marie.
You are a great king, sire.
Louis.
Ay, I know some newly married folk that say as much. I hoped
I could have lent my aid to thee, but since you love not—
Marie.
I, sire?
Louis.
Let us speak of something else.
Marie.
But—what then did you think?
Louis.
Come, sit you here. I thought that at the Court of Charles
Some brave and handsome cavalier—what more natural—had
Touched your heart. I saw him, as I thought, at your feet—
A noble youth—let's see, should he be noble?
Marie.
Oh, yes, sire, noble and most unhappy.
Louis.
True! A count! And then I dreamt this swain, so lost in love
Was he, that in the guise of envoy came to see this fair.
Marie.
Oh, Heaven!
Louis.
Nay, had arrived today, and even had my royal word obtained
To sign—
Marie.
A treaty!
Louis.
And a marriage bond.
Marie.
And you—you, sire?
Louis.
Methought that I consented—but 'tis false. 'Tis all dreams.
Marie.
You know then, sire?
Louis.
Let's speak of something else.
Marie.
'Tis true! Oh, pardon—
Louis.
Ah, you have secrets from me. I will be revenged.
Marie.
Pardon—I ask it on my knees. Who had betrayed him?
Louis.
Who? Commine.
Marie.
My father! He has told you all, and you forgive?
Louis.
I do.
Marie.
Nemours—
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[Aside]
Ah, 'tis Nemours!
Marie.
Ah, give me leave, my liege, to fly to him and join my
Hopes to his;
To bless your royal name, and mingle prayers for your prosperity.
Louis.
Not for his life. Hark, he believes himself unknown. Ha, ha!
Thy father and myself have planned a plot, see? I'm a traitor
For I let it out. Well, we have planned the moment and the
Place to lift the mask from this impostor's brow.
Marie.
Oh, sire!
Louis.
You know I love my jest. Come, then, and swear to me by all
Thy hopes of heaven and love, never this matter to divulge.
Marie.
I promise, sire.
Louis.
Upon that silence rests thy lover's life, which I have sworn
To spare. Redeem thine oath, and I'll remember mine. [Aside]
Nemours! And in my grasp! A word, a look and he is dead.
But what may then ensue? I'll think on't. Tristan! [Tristan enters]
Adieu, dear child, adieu! [Exit]
Marie.
Must I not speak? Oh, treason to my love. Must I then have
A joy which he has not? No, it will overflow, as now it does
At these rebellious eyes. Yet he will come. A word I sent
Him by my page will guide him hither. Ah, a footstep!
To its tread my heart keeps time. 'Tis he! [Enter Nemours]
Nemours! Once more we meet, and, as I oft foretold we should,
Beneath our native sky.
Nem.
Look on me; let me not see beyond thine eyes, nor roam beyond
Thy heart. Speak to me, and let me hear thy voice.
Marie.
I have one theme, and that is all my language. Hope, Nemours;
I speak and bid thee hope. Thy fortune still is in the royal
Hand that plucked it from thee. By another word, the voice
That banished thee may bid thee back.
Nem.
I see a meaning in your eyes, Marie, that overtakes thy tongue.
Marie.
I dare not tell thee more. Already I have said too much.
Hush! See! [Procession advances from the chapel]
The chapel doors unclose; they come! Farewell! [She separates from him. Enter the Burgundians. Nemours joins them. As Marie advances towards the chapel, Louis, François, Oliver, Tristan, the Cardinal, d'Alby, Craven, Commine, Priests and Courtiers appear on the steps. Louis holds the treaty in his hands]
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There ends unholy strife. Bear witness, Heaven, I do approve
And sign the bond of peace. The Count de Rethel hath his
Mission done with haughty menace, which I had avenged did I
Not hold my people's happiness above my pride.
Nem.
He who can read the human heart doth know how much of it
Is on thy tongue. Not for myself I speak, but in
The name of him I serve. Duke Charles now holds
His wrongs atoned, and justice done.
Louis.
To Charles of Burgundy, my dear ally, before these holy symbols
And in sight of Heaven, I swear most solemnly this bond
To keep most unviol— [Enter Dauphin hastily followed by Dunvis and de Lude]
Dauphin.
Hold! Oh, hold, my father!
Louis.
How now?
Dauphin.
News, news, my liege, of moment. Pardon! There has arrived a
Despatch from Burgundy—a messenger who brings the tiding.
Charles, thy foe—
Louis.
My foe! Charles, my brother—my ally!
Dauphin.
Has been defeated.
Louis.
How? How say ye? Speak!
Dauphin.
I say defeated—utterly undone—and lost!
Nem.
Charles—
Louis.
Art sure of this?
Dauphin.
The lords of Loucy, Dunvis, and de Lude assure it true.
One of his captains did betray his cause.
Louis.
Ah, the coward!
Nem.
This is a false report, which soon a glowing triumph will belie.
Charles the Bold—
Dauphin.
He's dead.
Louis.
Dead? Dead? The proofs!
Dauphin.
They are here. [Hands Louis despatches]
Nem.
Duke Charles defeated—dead. 'Tis false, and Count de Rethel
With my life maintains—
Louis.
'Tis true—Duke of Nemours.
Dauphin and All.
Nemours!
Nem.
Betrayed!
Louis.
Ay! True it is—impossible. See you now, Heaven's vengeance
Has overtaken him, as sure as mine shall now find thee.
Secure him!
Nem.
[Drawing sword]
Death—treachery! A rescue! Burgundy!
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[Retreating]
Upon them, France!
Fran.
Hold, in Heaven's name, whose temple you profane.
Nem.
Put up your weapons, gentlemen, and yield. This is my cause
Alone. Alone I'll fall. If Charles still lives, the terror
Of his name will better aid me than your bravery.
If he be dead, alone I'll follow him. [Casts sword at King's feet]
To meet thee, I had need like thee to feign. For my design,
I'll render an account above. Cast thou unto my father's
Murderers another prey, but there is one delight you cannot
Have—I have no son, no brother, no not even a friend whom
Thou canst force to kneel beneath my scaffold to receive the
Blood that thou wilt shed.
Louis.
Tristan! Tonight, his judgment, and at daylight, the rest.
Fran.
Have pity, sire; thou art a king.
Louis.
Ay, as a King, my father, I might pardon, but I am
The Church's head; he hath insulted her, and to approach
Those sacred relics there with sacrilegious—Oh, I will
Avenge! Go, prepare his soul.
Fran.
And thine, my son. Dost give no thought to that? [Exit with his train]
Louis.
Montjoie, St. Denis—ha! Demois, gather six hundred spears—
Ride for Peronne, to Arras, Baudrecourt with all the force
You can. Let Artois ere one month be France. Down upon
Flanders, you. Burgundy is ours! I give it ye as spoil.
Seize what and where you can, and rend the soil amongst ye.
Counties and fiefs—for all who win shall wear 'em. But hold!
Hold ye awhile! The noble duke has met a hero's fate. He
Was my foe, but all my wrongs are hid and buried in his tomb.
He was my cousin. The court will wear full mourning for a
Week.
| Louis XI | |