University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

A Chamber in the Palace of the Earl.—Enter Earl Charles and Thancmar.
THANCMAR.
My liege, I claim my own—say it is true,
That his estate is high beyond compare;
'Twill more exalt the power that can reach him.—
That were a strange conclusion, which should make
The very magnitude of the offence
Its plea for pardon.

EARL.
Tis great minds alone
That can afford so greatly.

THANCMAR.
Therefore, Sire,
The greater danger, if they rest uncheck'd.—

EARL.
True—but Bertulphe has ever served me well,
And has most well deserved.

THANCMAR.
And what of that?
He did his duty; the withholding which
Had been itself a crime:—you see not this;—
And, let your Highness pardon that I say it,
You have so long bent to his towering will,
You now shrink from a struggle to be free.

EARL.
Thancmar, no more of this!—You would enlist
My passions, not my judgment, in your cause.

THANCMAR.
Then to your justice I appeal, my Lord!—
My father, dying, left me gold and lands:—
If any man had stolen these away,
I would an instant restitution claim,
And you allow it. On these lands, my father
Left to me also many Serfs and vassals,
As truly mine as are your subjects yours:—
One out of these escaped—I now have found him,
And claim him back again.

EARL
[sighing.]
It must be so!

THANCMAR.
I claim his children too:—
By your own law, who weds a Serf, becomes
A Serf himself. I claim Bouchard as mine.

EARL.
Forego thus much!

THANCMAR.
Not for the world, my Lord!—
Not for the love I bear your princely person,
To which this man is dangerous. You learn'd
His conduct even now—he braved your power—
He must be made to feel it! That just law
Is publish'd, and its tenor known. If he
Escape it, men will say—and say with truth—
Earl Charles the Good—the just Earl Charles—makes laws
To bind the poor alone; the rich break through them;—
And the poor citizen, who feels its weight,
Will be most foully wrong'd.

EARL.
True, Thancmar,—true!
At least he shall have hearing. Let him be
Cited before us.

THANCMAR.
Think you, he will come?—
No—he will bid you fetch him! Nay, I know
That even now, with all his followers,
He seeks his castle.—I beseech you, sir,
Grant me such force as may command obedience,
And let me bring him hither.

EARL.
Be it so:—
If he defies us thus, he is a traitor,
And must as such be met. But mark me, Thancmar,
I'll have no needless violence;—and if
Upon your summons he submit, conduct him
With such observance as befits a knight,
For he in truth has ever been a brave one.

THANCMAR.
But if he bid defiance to your orders,
I have your licence to enforce obedience
With my best judgment.

EARL.
Yes,—but use it well.

THANCMAR.
I'll use it as befits my Prince's honour—
(Aside.)
I'll use it, as shall serve my own revenge;—
My foot is on him now, and I will crush him!

[Exit.
EARL.
Of all the duties of my busy life,
None ever press'd so heavily upon me!
But justice must maintain an even scale
Though mountains quake, and earth be rent before her.
What should be shall be.
Enter Bertulphe from a private door.
How is this?—Bertulphe!—

BERTULPHE.
'Tis new, my presence should surprise your Highness!

EARL.
How came you hither?

BERTULPHE.
Nay,—that's stranger still!—
Your memory, sir, has undergone much change;
And, I do fear, things that with greater weight
Than these should dwell there, are as much forgotten.
'Twas you who fix'd my dwelling next your own:
And by your own command that door was made,
That your beloved and trusty counsellor
(As you were wont to call him) might have access
At any hour without intruding eyes.

EARL.
Yes—that permission was accorded one
I deemed a Noble, true and honest man.

BERTULPHE.
And what am I?

EARL.
A Serf, whose unmatched boldness
Has deck'd him in the mantle of a prince;
And who, beneath the mask of stolen honours,
Has made his lords his fellows!

BERTULPHE.
Hard, sharp words
From you to me, my liege;—yet I am calm;—
I did not come to rail, but reason with you.
You call me Serf, and, it may be, presume
Some little on the base and abject spirit
You think that name betokens.—Let it pass!—
You call me Serf.—How if I should deny
The slavish word, and tell of noble names
Borne by my father's fathers.

EARL.
'Twere in vain—
I have the proofs of your base parentage
In my possession.

BERTULPHE.
An old dotard's ravings,
Or papers which a cunning foe might forge.

EARL.
Yet good until rebutted.—If indeed
You were born noble, bring the public proofs
Of your ancestral line—their name, their race—
The archives of the land that father'd them.

BERTULPHE.
Playthings for children!—would I stoop to this,
I could buy scores of such—names for them all—
Titles and goodly deeds to deck them too!—
Find cunning scriveners, who, on mouldy parchments,
Should draw my pedigree from Charlemagne,
Or any musty monarch I would name them;—
Nay, I could buy me witnesses as well,
Who should come hither from some distant land
And swear they knew my father,—who should be
Whate'er I chose to call him!—They should tell
Of marks upon my person,—moles and stars,
By which they'd know me.—Tush! my Lord, I have wealth
Would buy all this—ay, buy a score of souls
To damn themselves to serve me—if I would!

EARL.
Bertulphe, however low thy parentage,
Thy soul was cast in such a noble mould
As won my love—more than thy services.
Thou hast a high and chivalrous spirit in thee
That could not stoop to baseness.—No, Bertulphe,
Thou couldst not do these things!

BERTULPHE
[warmly].
I thank your Highness!
You judge me well—indeed I could not do them;
And yet I thank your good opinion of me.—
I come to bring you proof that I deserve it.—
I need not tell you, sir, I have some power
In friends and wealth, that, did I will to use them,
Would hold me strong against you,—would I stain
My pure unsullied honour with rebellion.—
That will I never! I will but remember
We have been friends, and that my heart retains
So fondly still that early cherish'd love,
I cannot think it banish'd from your own.—
Sir, I am come to counsel with your friendship.

EARL.
I like not this beginning. Yet proceed.

BERTULPHE.
Then to my friend I freely will confess
If e'er my house was noble,—which in truth
It may have been long since—but if it was,
'Twas all forgotten ere my father's birth.
He was a Serf—and yet so good a man,
It were my shame if I should blush to own him.—
But though I was his son—My lord! My lord!
I see your darkening brow! It grieves me much
That I must then remind you what you owe
My father's son. Your proud and ancient line
Had miss'd their representative in you
But for the aid of my Serf father's child!

EARL.
I own your merits, and have paid them well;
Nor least in this,—that you are placed so high,
You dare thus boldly question with your prince.

BERTULPHE.
Forgive me!—I was wrong—I had forgot
That I must sue for—not demand your grace.
Beseech you pardon me:—the sins of state
Have got some hold on me; I have been proud,
And play but ill the beggar's part at first.

EARL.
Thou find'st the recompense thy pride has brought!
Thus every springing sin bears in its seed
The germ of retribution. Thine ambition,
That first did tempt thee to o'erleap thy state,
Has been thy guide;—till now its fatuous light
Proves thy destruction. Though I pity thee,
I cannot aid.

BERTULPHE.
Pity, but cannot aid!

EARL.
Such were my words.
Wert thou my Serf, I would enfranchise thee;
But, being another's, he must rule thy fate.—
Justice has no alternative.

BERTULPHE.
His Serf!—
Justice!—Thancmar my fate! Hear this, great Heaven!
And 'tis for this I have debased myself!—
Humbled my lips to accents of entreaty
For this!—Thou man without a heart!—Thy justice!
Thou know'st not justice, save by the cold name—
A heathen worshipper of a fair image
That bears indeed the outward show of beauty,
But lacks the inward sense that marks the god!—
Stone—stone to the heart!

EARL.
What means this daring speech?
Within, there! ho! a guard!—Here's treason, sirs!

Bertulphe
[seizing him by the arm.]
Earl Charles, another word and 'tis thy last,
For I am desperate! You would expose me!—
Make me the gossip of your menials' tongues!
There's such a maddening frenzy in my soul,
I lose my purpose. But beware, Earl Charles!
If there is treason in me, I have yet
Enough of vigour in this trembling arm—
Enough of fire within this burning brain
To make me dangerous!—Ah me! ah me!
I am a very wretched, weak old man,
With all my thoughts entangled!—There was something
I would have said—and now it flash'd upon me—
And now again 'tis gone: the few last hours
Have piled a heap of years upon my head!

EARL.
Bertulphe, I pardon thee thy folly,—speak,
And I will listen still; and think the past
As it had never been. Thou art not thyself,—
Collect thee.

BERTULPHE
[subdued.]
'Twas my child! Sir, I came here
Arm'd, as I thought, in coldness and in pride—
But that one word unmans me. My poor child—
My daughter!—she has been so fondly nursed,
And life for her made such a rosy path,
This blow will kill her! Sir, you know her fair
And young—you may have heard too she is good;—
But all your knowledge, or your fondest fancy,
Could never tell how dear she is to me!
Forgive me—I cannot.

EARL.
Calm thyself! What of thy daughter?

BERTULPHE.
'Twere weak to say that I have lived for her:
But in whatever I have served your Highness,
Which has been something, I beseech you think
Yourself her debtor. Oh, my Lord—my Lord!
You would not give, to feed a loathsome canker,
The only flower that decks my lonely garden!

EARL.
What would you ask?

BERTULPHE.
But little for myself:
Yet, for my daughter's sake, I would extend
My prayer for leave to seek some foreign land,
With means to bear us honourably there,—
And we will be the rest to one another.
I might ask more, yet I ask only this—
A few short months—and I shall be at rest;
And all my fault, if 'twas a fault, die with me.—
You hesitate! I have demean'd me, sir,
To such an humble prayer as never yet
My lips did utter, save to Heaven: yet hear me,
And I will not repent my abject phrase.
But if, untouch'd, thou still shalt drive me from thee,
Then my despairing curse shall ever stand
'Twixt thee and mercy; and, when thou wouldst pray,
Stifle thy cry ere it can reach to Heaven.

EARL.
Still threatening! Did I give my judgment up
Into my passion's guidance, thou wouldst make me
Thy foe, though purposed to be thy friend;—
But I have pardon'd much, and pardon this;
And, though thou think'st I bear a heart of stone,
I have so much compassion on thy grief,
My pity, and remembrance of thy service,
Shall warp thus far the line of rigid justice:—
Two days are thine;—bestow you as you will—
Go where you will—no man shall question you.
But mark! that term expired, and thou in Flanders,
Thyself must bear the consequence.

BERTULPHE.
Content!
I will not say I thank you: 'twere too much
To give a mockery of thanks for exile;
But I will learn to think less hardly of you,
And pray to Heaven you may find other servants
As faithful as I was; and with no taint
Of blood to drive them from you. Fare you well!—
No, not your hand, my Lord! It has been taken
In friendship often—I'll not now pollute it!
I cannot yet forget that you have made me
The victim of a most ungracious law:—
Yet 'tis a law—the worse for those who stay
To suffer under it. My Lord, farewell!

[Exit.
EARL.
Proud to the last! Oh! thou capricious nature,
That such a lofty soul should spring so basely!
They lose the most who lose so brave a spirit—
Not thou who bearest thy native worthiness
To hallow still thy home in any land.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

A Chamber in the Chateau of Bertulphe.
Enter Bertulphe, and flings himself into a chair.
BERTULPHE.
So—'tis decided! and I leave my home—
My home of many years,—an exile—outcast!—
The luxuries, in which I have grown old,
Till they are necessary aids of life;—
These noble halls, so long believed my own,
With many a sweet remembrance hung about them;—
The trees I planted, while I saw in fancy
My children's children play beneath their boughs;—
My honours—let them go!—I keep my child,—
That comfort still remains: he grants me that,—
His pity grants so much—pity!—that's bitter!
Bouchard too!—must I then confess to him
That I have sued for pity!
[Rising, and pacing up and down.]
I dare not do it.
I did not feel till now how I am sunk—
Bouchard will spurn me! Why, what devil was it
That moved my tongue that I should sue for pity?
'Twas the Serf in me. No!—no—'twas the Father!
My child—it was for thy dear sake;—and now,
'Tis done, I'll not repent it—'twas for thee!
Enter Bouchard wounded.
Why, what is this?—Bouchard!—and wounded!—Speak!
What has befallen? Wherefore stand'st thou thus
With those glazed eyes and open quivering lips?
Hast thou no breath—no sense?—Speak to me, boy!
What has been done?

BOUCHARD.
My home! my home!

BERTULPHE.
What of it?
Speak, I conjure thee!

BOUCHARD.
Lost! lost! all lost!

BERTULPHE.
Hast thou no sense to give thy tale a speech,
That thus thou mock'st me with these half-form'd words?

BOUCHARD.
Yes! and to make thee curse the tongue, that still
Retains the power to give such news an utterance!—
My castle has been storm'd, destroy'd, and plunder'd!

BERTULPHE.
By whom?

BOUCHARD.
By Thancmar,—but on Charles's warrant.

BERTULPHE.
Nay, now, I'll not believe it.

BOUCHARD.
Will you go
And see the flames play where it used to stand?

BERTULPHE.
Can Hell contain such perfidy!—Oh, Charles,
Thou'lt dearly pay for this!—Come, boy,—for shame!
Droop not!—for these old walls that thou hast lost,
I'll give thee for thy choice the best in Flanders!
Rouse thee!—Where is my daughter?—I will fetch her,
And she shall soothe thee.

BOUCHARD.
Oh, thou poor old man!
Wretched!—most wretched!

BERTULPHE.
Hast thou more to tell?—
My daughter is within?

BOUCHARD.
Thou'lt seek in vain!
She went with me!

BERTULPHE.
How! left her father's house without his knowledge,
And never said farewell!—Where is my daughter?

BOUCHARD.
I know not.

BERTULPHE.
Know not!

BOUCHARD.
'Mid the burning ruins
I met a hideous thing with maniac eyes,
That mouthed and gibber'd at me as I pass'd.

BERTULPHE
[trembling].
What was it?

BOUCHARD.
'Twas thy child, old man! [Bertulphe falls into a chair,]
Ay,—gasp—
And if thou hast so much of sense left in thee,
Let out thy life, ere thou'rt a minute older
In such despair!

BERTULPHE
[catching at him].
Bouchard!—she—she—

BOUCHARD.
Ask me no more—I know not
Whence came that fearful thing, or where it went:
But when the tottering walls at length fell down,
I pray'd that they might cover it! Nay, groan not,—
Rather thank Heaven that spared thy shrinking sight
That withering horror!—Oh, more terrible
In its one glance of idiot misery
Than all the horrors that did usher it.—

BERTULPHE
[with sudden calmness].
What is the hour?

BOUCHARD.
Canst thou inquire of time?—
I know not.

BERTULPHE.
Ho! within there! [Enter Charente.]
What's the hour?

CHARENTE.
The day is breaking, and the Chapel bell
Rings its first matin.

BERTULPHE.
Enough!
[Exit Charente.]
Marvel not, sir, to see that I am calm;—
It is the hour of morning sacrifice,
And we must make a matin offering—
We are the ministering priests to-day;
And ours must be a staid and sober bearing.—

BOUCHARD.
Now, Heaven preserve thy sense!

BERTULPHE.
Show me your sword,—
'Tis broken— [throwing it away]
this is of a better temper:—
Hold! let me feel your hand.—Is your arm steady?
Could it with one strong blow reach to the spot
Where the life lurks?

BOUCHARD.
Oh, that I might but prove it
On Thancmar's breast!

BERTULPHE
[smiling].
Heaven sometimes grants its suppliants
Their prayer at the first asking:—need you aid,
You'll find some spirits in these walls
Not slow to second you.—Must I add more
To urge you, the weapon in your hand?—

BOUCHARD
[starting, and suddenly clasping Bertulphe's hand].
Bertulphe!
I bless thee for that thought!

BERTULPHE.
Go—your work waits
Remember— [stopping him]
Thancmar!

BOUCHARD.
We will meet to-morrow.

[Exit.
BERTULPHE.
Ay— [watches him out.]
'tis better so.—Yes—I should be alone [pauses and mutters to himself].

He—that I loved—have bled for—would have died for—
His promise—traitor!—Hem!—a Serf—and banish'd!—
Childless—ay, there! childless! yes—come—come—come!

[Thrusts his hand into his bosom, as feeling for a dagger, and exit.]

SCENE III.

Interior of the Church of St. Donatien.—Day-break. Enter Hackel and Albert, meeting Gautier.
HACKEL.
Gautier!

GAUTIER.
The same—you bade me meet you here.

HACKEL.
Saw you who passed to yonder oratory?

GAUTIER.
It was the Earl; there is his favourite shrine,
And this the accustom'd hour at which he prays,—
'Twill need a prayer the more for last night's work.

HACKEL
[sneeringly].
Does Thancmar pray there too?

GAUTIER.
He parted from him when they reach'd the gate,
And turn'd towards home.

ALBERT.
He must walk warily if he would reach it!
Bouchard's abroad.

GAUTIER.
Indeed!

HACKEL.
Ay,—and attended.

Enter St. Prieux.
ST. PRIEUX.
Has any seen the Provost?

GAUTIER.
No, but I do not know the brave old man,
If he is long unheard of. They have raised
A devil there 'twill take some pains to lay.
[Albert to St. Prieux.
How seems the city?

ST. PRIEUX.
Quiet, yet awake!—
A pausing thunder-cloud, that only waits
To choose where it will strike. None seek their rest;
But through the curtain'd casements tapers gleam,
That tell the inmates watchers. And anon,
A door half-open'd shows some anxious face
Intently listening to each distant sound;—
And some more bold stand whispering in the streets,
But sudden cease when any step approaches.

GAUTIER.
How stand your friends?

ST. PRIEUX.
Ready upon the instant,
Whenever called.

HACKEL.
Then why delay we longer?
'Tis plain Bertulphe and his are doom'd already;
And that ourselves, his nearest friends,—his kinsmen,—
Bound to him by so many ties!—our ruin
Will follow next:—Charles now will keep no terms—
Or he, or we, must fall!—wherefore delay there?

GAUTIER.
I will not stir without Bertulphe to guide.

HACKEL.
Nay,—this is madness. These events have stunn'd him;—
Our friends are ready;—the occasion smiles;—
The Earl dreams not of danger.

ST. PRIEUX.
Yonder Chapel
Adjoins the Palace, and will yield an entrance.

GAUTIER.
Speak lower—he is there.

ST. PRIEUX.
Force then the door, and raise the popular cry
Of freedom for the Serfs, and they will join us.
Hackel to Gautier.
Art still irresolute?
[The tocsin sounds, and distant cries are heard.
Ha!—that alarm!
What can it mean?

ALBERT.
It is Bouchard;—profit by the occasion,
And act at once,— [a distant groan]
—Hush!— [a pause]
'Tis begun already,—
Death is at work.
HACKEL to Albert.
Quick!—raise our friends without.
[Exit Albert and St. Prieux.
Now, Gautier, will you follow me?

GAUTIER.
I will!—
Bertulphe our rallying word,—our cry for vengeance.

Enter Bertulphe.
BERTULPHE.
'Tis gain'd!—
I sought it in the bosom of my friend,
And found it there!

[Slowly drawing a dagger from under his cloak.
HACKEL.
What's this?

BERTULPHE.
The Earl is dead!
I slew him—in the sanctuary, at the altar!—
There was no sanctuary from a father's vengeance!—
I loved him once,—now, all I loved are dead:
And Bertulphe, like a sear and fallen leaf,
With not a branch to own him, may be whirl'd,
The unresisting sport of every wind.

Enter Charente.
CHARENTE.
My Lord, I have sought you. All within your palace
Is consternation, sore dismay, and grief!—
The Lady Constance—

BERTULPHE.
Peace!—I know it all.

CHARENTE.
Her shrieking women weep and tremble round her.

BERTULPHE.
Round her? Is then her—body—found?

CHARENTE.
My Lord!—her body?
She lives.

BERTULPHE
[wildly.]
Lives!—Constance lives!

CHARENTE.
She is within.

BERTULPHE.
Constance within?—alive!
Constance returned?—my child alive!— [trembling]
—and well?

CHARENTE.
Unharm'd in person, but her delicate sense—
Alas! alas!—quite overthrown and wreck'd.

BERTULPHE.
But yet she lives!—you said she was alive?

CHARENTE.
My Lord, she is.

BERTULPHE.
Then bring me,—bring me to her!
These poor weak, trembling limbs!

[bursts into tears.
Enter St. Prieux and Albert.
ST. PRIEUX.
Why do you loiter here?

BERTULPHE.
My child's alive!

ST. PRIEUX.
The city favours us,—the Serfs have risen.

ALBERT.
Thancmar is fled,—Bertulphe, your presence now
Will stamp our conquest certain,—show yourself.

BERTULPHE.
Ay!—but my child!—where is she?

HACKEL.
Nay, but hear me!

BERTULPHE.
I hear nothing but my child!
She calls me!—I will see her!—bring me to her.

[Exit, supported by Charente.