 | The Provost of Bruges |  |
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?
75
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?
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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,
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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!
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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.]
| The Provost of Bruges | |