 | The Provost of Bruges |  |
84
ACT V.
SCENE I.
A Street in Bruges.—Enter Bouchard, St. Prieux, and Albert.BOUCHARD.
Nothing is gained while Thancmar is alive.
ST. PRIEUX.
Yet still we have done gloriously;—the city
Is all our own; no public officer
But has sworn fealty to us.—They who first
Did waver, soon o'erawed by our bold front,
And by the daring of the mighty deed,
Have all submitted, and no man in Bruges
But hails us for his masters. Surely this
Is much;—what would you further?
BOUCHARD.
Thancmar! Thancmar!—
He has escaped, and all the rest is worthless;
But he will come again—there's balm in that!
Oh! I will welcome him
With a more close embrace than ever yet
Did lover his lost mistress!
ALBERT.
Yet be calm
And take your needful rest.
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I will—I will.—
Had I been calm before, I had not missed him!—
But oh! St. Prieux, thou didst not know the war
Of this poor brain!—I have sat in the deep midnight,
Watching the workings of approaching frenzy,
And as the horrid images arose,
I laugh'd—and long'd to be all mad! And then
I saw my wife—such as she used to be—
That pure and gentle, loving, tender girl;—
I saw her innocent smile—poor thing! poor thing!
And then I did not laugh—but wept—wept—wept!
And so the fever passed.
ST. PRIEUX
[affectionately].
Will you not home?
BOUCHARD.
Home! where?—where is my home? Is it the chamber
Where—Hell! I cannot name it—where the old man
Through day and night watches beside his child,
Muttering sad thoughts, and sunk beyond the reach
Of hope or care? Oh! that I were so too!—
But it is denied to me;—my burning blood
Still rushes onward through its parch'd-up channels,
Drying the source of life—but not of pain.
[Distant shouts and cries.]
Enter Messenger.
ST. PRIEUX.
What means that outcry?
MESSENGER.
By a sudden effort
The northern gate is forced—the guard is fled—
And Thancmar with the chamberlain and Hebert
Leads troops into the city.
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[drawing his sword].
Thancmar!
ALBERT
[holding him].
Hush!—
Do none oppose him?
MESSENGER.
Nay, they rather hail him.
BOUCHARD.
He is come!
Thancmar is come! You said the northern gate?
ST. PRIEUX.
You shall not seek him.
BOUCHARD.
How!
ST. PRIEUX.
'Twas thus before,—
Your eagerness defeated your intent.—
Remember, Thancmar is enclosed by thousands,
And half the city interposed between you;—
You are alone—your troops are all shut up;—
Had you a hundred lives, you'd waste them all
Before you reach'd him.
Enter Second Messenger.
ALBERT.
Now,—your tidings, sirrah?
SECOND MESSENGER.
The Palace-gates are closed, and crowds collect there
With threatening gestures, crying for the Provost
And Sir Bouchard;—we soon shall be beset.
ALBERT to Bouchard.
Your course is plain—to gain at once the palace;
Or soon, cut off from all resource, the crowd
Will crush you unavenged. There wait your foe,
And, as occasions offer, choose your own.
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[irresolute].
Which way makes vengeance surest?
ST. PRIEUX.
To the Palace!
BOUCHARD.
Albert,—St. Prieux,—you counsel this,—I yield;
But mark me,—if by this my foe escape,
I'll think you Thancmar—and your blood shall be
To me in place of his.—Come! to the Palace!
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
A chamber in the Chateau of Bertulphe.—Constance on a couch asleep.—Bertulphe watching her.BERTULPHE.
She sleeps,—her body sleeps,—and every vein
Through her transparent skin throbs as it used;—
But the pure mind—the all-informing soul,
That gave that form its worth—where does that sleep,
That all a father's agony of love
Calls after it in vain? With but a touch
I can recall their functions to those limbs:—
The eyes shall see, ears hear, and even the lips
Murmur their poor, sad, unconnected sounds;
But oh! thou glorious soul, where art thou fled?—
That all my tears, my prayers, and frenzied cries
Cannot awake one touch of thee? Poor flower!
So delicate and fragile in thy beauty,
The earliest blast that touched thee, blighted thee!—
What's that?
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Oh, cruel! cannot even madness rest!—
Yet stay! What if it be returning sense!
How if the soul in this long heavy sleep
Clear off its mists—and the entangled thoughts,
Soothed by their rest, resume their wonted course!
Oh, Heaven! that I can say such things may be,
And yet delay to prove them! There, again!
That fierce contraction! Though it blast my hope,
I'll dare it! [taking her hand]
Constance! Child!
CONSTANCE
[rising.]
Father!—
BERTULPHE
[trembling.]
She knows me!—
CONSTANCE.
I thought you would not leave me.—Take me home!—
BERTULPHE
[with extasy.]
'Tis sense! 'tis sense!—my child's restored to me. [sinks sobbing on the couch.]
CONSTANCE.
Tears!—Nay—that's folly.—Let the Serfs shed tears!—
The poor old man—Bertulphe—he may shed tears—
But you that are a proud and reigning prince,
The Earl of Flanders—you to weep!—for shame!
BERTULPHE
[sinking.]
Oh, no—'tis madness still!
CONSTANCE.
Did they not say
The old man had a daughter! Let her die!
Poor fool!—why should she mate with princes?
BERTULPHE
[in agony.]
Constance!—
Child! idol of a life of many cares!
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Your own dear Father!—There's a consciousness
Struggling to win its way through the dark mist.—
She yet will know me.—Constance! it is I!—
What but a father's eyes could pour these drops
So hot and fast!—what but a father's arms
Circle thee with such idolizing love!
Constance!—I shall go mad—turn from my face
Those dull, unmeaning eyes; their vacancy
Is worse than frenzy!—thou art not my child!
Thou spectral thing!—take off that stony gaze—
I say thou'rt not my child.—Away with thee!
CONSTANCE.
Hark! no—'twas nothing—yet it sounded like
The tread of men.—What!—to a prison!—Nay,
Yield, yield, Bouchard—they will not harm us—yield!—
The gates are crashing—hark!—they come—they come!—
What's that?—'tis blood—ha! they've struck him down!
Ruffian, away! Bouchard! Oh! save me—save me!—
These are my father's arms! [clings round him.]
You dare not harm me now.
BERTULPHE.
Heaven's mercy's spent,
And 'tis the hour of vengeance! 'Tis for this
That I have lived, wrought, plann'd—it may be, sinn'd;—
For this!—and this must have no end till death!
To-morrow as to-day—the next the same—
Weeks, months, long years, an age, grey hairs of madness!
Perhaps to sink in want when I am gone,
And live on pity, or it may be malice,
To feast more loyal eyes with, the last wreck
Of Serf Bertulphe, the Regicide! [seeing his hand on his dagger]
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A moment and all's over!
Perhaps—perhaps— [suddenly flinging away the dagger, falling on his knees, and clasping his hands.]
Help—help—and spare me, Heaven! [starting up.]
Within! within, there! ho! quick!—quick! within!
Enter Ursula and attendants.
Why came you not before?—take her away!
I call you to witness she is safe—
I have not harm'd her—Heaven be praised I have not!
URSULA.
Harm'd her! the saints defend us! Harm the child!
Look how she clings to me, and how she trembles!
Enter Charente.
CHARENTE.
My Lord—my Lord—your presence is besought—
The city's in commotion—crowds collect—
And all tongues cry for you. Your friends are scared,
And waver at their posts.
BERTULPHE
[abstractedly.]
Well—
CHARENTE.
The Earl's name
Is now on all men's lips—the city gates
Are weakly kept.
BERTULPHE
[as before.]
Well—
CHARENTE.
Dear my Lord!—your friends
Are met in council, and beseech your presence.
BERTULPHE.
What's ill? I did not mark your tale—what is it?
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GAUTIER.
All's lost without you!—we are now beset!
Thousands are gathering round, and every instant
They threaten an attack on the Chateau!
Bertulphe! will this not move you?
BERTULPHE
[coldly.]
No—not now!—
Sweep on, ye fiery elements of strife!—
I have no portion in you now. To me,
A tree already struck, it matters little
Which way the tempest rolls— [a trumpet heard.]
What's that? [sharply.]
GAUTIER.
Your foes!
They sound defiance at your very gates;
They claim you for their vengeance—claim all yours,
Bertulphe! Chief!—leader! the Chateau is strong
With many a valiant heart within its walls—
Men led to this by you—drawn by your act—
Who still hold cheap their lives to do you service—
They only ask a leader.
BERTULPHE
[with energy.]
They shall have it!
GAUTIER.
It is yourself they ask—none else—
BERTULPHE.
I come!—
Where is Bouchard?
GAUTIER.
Providing for all chances—
Fierce as the wounded lion—while his tongue
At every pause cries out afresh for vengeance.
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He shall not cry in vain!—tell them I come!—
My arms there!—say I come!
GAUTIER.
I will, brave spirit!
[Exit.
BERTULPHE.
My arms!—a helmet!— [turning round, sees Constance.]
Oh poor blustering fool!
A helmet for the head would bless the hand
That sent an arrow quivering to its brain!
No,—no,—I will no helmet! These grey hairs,
Stream'd in the breeze, shall be my banner, guiding
Their hottest fire.—No—no—I will no helmet!
My child!—poor wreck of what was once my child—
One kiss. Oh that we were both at our rest!
Disturb her not—the fit has pass'd away,
And she is calm—so would I have her be.
My child!—I'd breathe a blessing on thy head;—
But should I give my prayer a tongue, the word,
Methinks, would be thy death! Away! away!
SCENE III.
A Gallery in the Chateau.—Alarms.Enter Albert.
ALBERT.
Where is Bertulphe? So many throng without—
Each minute brings its thousand, till their numbers
Baffle all skill.
Enter St. Prieux.
ST. PRIEUX.
Albert, the assault is made!
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[going.]
Ha!
ST. PRIEUX.
Nay, 'tis over!
At first they bore us back—had gain'd the wall,
And all seem'd desperate; when the old Provost
Rush'd with such noble fury in the midst,
Encouraging the while, with voice and action,
The falt'ring troops, that none could stand before him;
And fortune, even from habit, following him,
Restored all we had lost.
ALBERT.
The brave old man!
I'll join him instantly.
[Exit.
Enter Charente.
CHARENTE.
The Provost!
ST. PRIEUX.
Now—what new?
CHARENTE.
In the left wing, where we had little force,
A lodgment has been made.
Enter Bouchard.
BOUCHARD.
Who leads the assault?
CHARENTE.
Thancmar.
BOUCHARD.
Then let him enter! Ill betide
The man who stops his way! Room,—room for Thancmar!
He comes! The fiend who guides him in his course
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[Enter Thancmar.]
Secure the doors,
And he who dares to rob me of a blow,
I'll turn my sword on him the next. Now, Thancmar,
At last we are met. I have no words for curses;
It is enough I am Bouchard! And yet
I bid thee guard thee well—my thirsting blade
Will else at once leap to thy heart, and so
Shorten my vengeance. I would have thee pour
A separate life from every felon limb
And linger to destruction.
THANCMAR.
Serf and rebel!
Here is my only answer.
[Attacks him.—Exeunt fighting.
Enter Gautier.
GAUTIER.
There is no hope!
ST. PRIEUX.
That will I not believe
While that untameable old man holds out.
GAUTIER.
When he can multiply
His single self, and station a Bertulphe
At every point on which the assailants press,
Then will I too cry hope,—but not till then.
Enter Bertulphe.
BERTULPHE.
Who says there is no hope? Sir Gautier! Shame!
I had deem'd better of you. Had a soldier
Said this, I would have hurl'd him from the walls
To show that we could spare him. What! no hope!
There IS—there shall be hope! My child!—my child!
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Hark! they come again.
Who's there? St. Prieux, take you some men-at-arms
And drive them o'er the wall—leave not a man—
Then come to me again.
[Exit St. Prieux.
GAUTIER.
'Tis a vain struggle!
BERTULPHE.
Gautier, I charge thee, do not reason with me!
My heart and brain are all so wildly jarr'd,
It little lacks of madness.—Give me action,
Noise, blows, the conflict—to fill all my soul,
And leave no space for thought.—Come!—to the walls!
Enter Bouchard.—He throws a sword at Bertulphe's feet.
BOUCHARD.
There!—feast thine eyes on that!
BERTULPHE.
What is it?
BOUCHARD.
Blood
From Thancmar's heart! [sinks on the ground.]
BERTULPHE.
But thou, Bouchard—thou art hurt!
BOUCHARD.
Ay—past all remedy—
BERTULPHE
[rushing to him.]
No—no—no—thou art not—
Thou shalt not die, Bouchard—my child—she loves you!
Look up—'tis but the loss of blood—there—there!
BOUCHARD.
Wretched old man! I seek no further life!—
For thee—farewell!—I pity—and—forgive thee!
[Dies.
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Dead!—who shall tell her this? Why now indeed
Madness is mercy—for she will not know it!—
She must not know it—she would curse her father!
My child—my poor lost child! [shriek without.]
URSULA
[without.]
Woe! woe!
GAUTIER.
What cry is that?
URSULA
[entering.]
Oh, wretched father!
Father no longer now—she's dead! she's dead!—
BERTULPHE.
Dead!—why I'm glad on't—Ha! ha! ha!—to hear
A doting father told his child is dead
And cry, I'm glad on't!—
Now I defy thee, Fate! for I am free—
I did but bear this load of life for her,
And now I cast it from me.
GAUTIER.
My brave, my wretched kinsman!
BERTULPHE.
Thou there, old comrade!—Thou hast bravely fought—
So have you all.—Go now, and make your peace—
'Twill readily be granted when you tell them
Bertulphe submits, and is their prisoner.
GAUTIER.
Never, while I have life!
BERTULPHE.
Fear nothing. [a crash without.]
Hark!
They come!
GAUTIER.
Bertulphe, I'll die defending you!
[Exit.
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So—to receive them,
[Walks slowly up the stage; as he passes the body of Bouchard, stops and gazes mournfully.
Husband of my child!
They shall not find thee thus—I will compose
Thy noble limbs with fitting decency.
[Kneels beside the body.]
Did time permit, I'd place her by thy side,
Uniting you in death, as three months since
I joined you at the altar, while I watched
Your fond eyes beaming love upon each other,
And blessed you so—and thought I saw begun
The long, long line should make Bertulphe immortal,
While my heart proudly said—I have done this.
[Starting up].
Yes! yes! I have done this! blighted you both,
Fair blossoms of such promise—'twas my work!
Be quick,—be quick—my foes, and end this torture
Ere my heart burst! [Noise without.]
[The besiegers drive in the followers of Bertulphe and fill the stage.]
HEBERT.
Yield thee,—regicide!—
BERTULPHE
[calmly.]
See! I am here!—Will you not fetch your captive?
Why gaze you thus as on some prodigy?
It is Bertulphe!—that dares you to the last—
That stands alone before you all! What would you?
HEBERT.
Thy life—for outraged justice, thou bold rebel!—
Thou Serf!
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Serf—ha! I knew 'twas there it gall'd you!
The Serf has ruled you,—curb'd your restive spirits,—
Urged on your trembling flag to victory,—
Rode the top wave in all your storms of state,
And overwhelm'd you when you would unseat him;
And still, even now, that you stand circling round him
With malice open-mouth'd, craving for vengeance—
Still to the last he is above your reach
And mocks you—even thus.
[Stabs himself.
GAUTIER
[springing to him.]
Bertulphe!—my friend!
BERTULPHE.
Good soul—'twas well done! [Raising himself.]
Dogs!
I am no Serf.
[Dies.
THE END.
| The Provost of Bruges | |