University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

Gardens adjoining the Château of Marie de Méranie, some leagues from Paris. The garden is laid out in grass plots, bordered with trees. Rustic seats are placed here and there. Entrance to Château, which is visible at side.
Enter Adolphe, Cécile, and other retainers of Marie de Méranie's household, including women and children. They sing as they enter.
Song.

Adolphe.
[To the rest.]
Now for a dance, a blithe dance; let the foot
Bound lightly to the pulses of the heart,
For 'tis our lady's birthday.

Cécile.
Brightest fête
Of all we keep; to-day the Princess Marie,
So loved by all, so well deserving love,
Attains her twentieth birthday.

Adolphe.
Her first birthday
Since she left Méranie; the duke, her father,
Desired that she should learn the life of courts
In polished France, and at King Philip's prayer
Did send her hither.

Cécile.
Ah! life's gay enough
When she's at court; but this, her country home,
Where no news travels, six long leagues from Paris,
Is dull as gaol or convent.

Adolphe.
We'd make merry
Even in gaol upon her birthday.

Many Voices.
Ay!

Adolphe.
'Twould be no gaol if she were there. The dance!
Your hand, Cécile!

[A rustic dance, in which all join.
Adolphe.
See, see, the princess comes!

Enter Marie de Méranie, attended by Anne de Vignolles.
All.
Long live the princess!

Cécile.
Long live the Lady Marie! Now, Elise!

[Elise, a child, led by Cécile, advances from the group, kneels, and presents flowers to Marie.
Marie.
[Graciously receiving them, and embracing Elise.]
Thanks, thanks, my sweet Elise;
Thanks, thanks, kind friends;
This is a happy birthday. She, indeed,
Has right to count it such who year by year
Finds old friends still more loving, and new friends
To ripen into old ones. Follow now
The Lady Anne. There is a feast prepared;
And ere you quit the board, myself will join you.
Conduct them, Anne; you too, Adolphe, go with them.

[She makes a gracious inclination, which the group answer with obeisances, and retire into the Château, conducted by Anne and Adolphe. As they retire, they resume the song with which the scene opens.
Marie.
[Who has sunk into a rustic chair.]
A happy birthday! Ay, the happiest!
Past years seemed bright; but oh! how wan appears
Their brightness set by this; just as, at eve,
The early stars seem bright, until the moon,
Like a new birth in heaven, breaks forth and drowns them.
So my past joys fade in a rarer bliss—
A bliss so pure, I scarce dare whisper it—
I love and I am loved! Am I not, Philip?
[Draws a letter from her bosom.
Here are thy words. [Reads.]
“Marie, my life, having thee,
I were earth's richest man; earth's poorest man,
Having earth itself without thee. Doubt me not,
Though I delay. The acts of kings must wait
On policy, and on their people's need.
Yet, sure as rivers, howsoe'er they wind,
Tend to the sea, my love shall find thee out,
And claim thee of thy father; doubt me not!”
Doubt thee? Not while thy Marie is thy Marie!

[She sits absorbed, her eyes riveted on the letter.
Re-enter Anne.
Anne.
[Aside, observing her.]
Still wrapt in dreams—in happy dreams of love,
Hid in joy's very core, as is a bee
In a rose's heart. O cruel task to wake her!
Yet she must wake. 'Tis months now since King Philip
Pledged her that love which she has secret held
From all but me. He vowed ere many days
To ask her of her father, but forbears
To claim his prize. One letter, which she wears
And hoards as 'twere some life-protecting charm,
Is all since then that she has heard of Philip.

[Marie turns and sees Anne; then, as if waking from reverie, replaces letter in her bosom.
Marie.
So, Anne; how goes the feast?

Anne.
O, gaily, madam!
On this your birthday every face puts on
Its happiest smile.

Marie.
Except, dear Anne, thine own.
How comes it that to-day thy lively wit
Deserts thee, and thy clear, smooth brow grows clouded?

Anne.
Is it so, madam?

Marie.
[Taking her hand playfully.]
Ah! I guess the cause:
Our knight, Sir Lucien, stays too long in Paris.
Thou'dst have him home?

Anne.
Have Lucien home? for what?
To tire my eyes by day with love-sick looks,
And break my rest at night with serenades!

Marie.
Perverse one! Hide thy secret from thy friend,
Who tells thee all? Thou long'st for his return.
Yet, faith, scarce more than I. He may bring tidings—
Thou know'st of whom?

Anne.
You mean he may bring tidings
From Paris of the king.

Marie.
He may.

Anne.
[Aside.]
Fond heart,
That harbours not a doubt; so unprepared
For the stern blow I dread! [Aloud.]
Dear mistress,
He may, indeed, bear tidings of the king;
But is't not strange?—

[Hesitates.
Marie.
Go on.

Anne.
That months should pass
With no word from the king—no little message
Or sign of memory?

Marie.
[Smiling.]
Dost thou doubt him, Anne?

Anne.
Dost thou ne'er doubt?

Marie.
I love; love cannot doubt.

Anne.
His silence and his absence then—

Marie.
Are tests
That prove my faith. What! Think'st thou, when this king—
The pride of Europe, Champion of the Cross,
The serf's deliverer, the people's friend—
Deigned proffer of his love to one like me,
I should requite his love with base suspicion?
He pledged me in himself the sum of all
That man could give. Shall I not give him trust?

Anne.
Heaven make him worthy of it. You might choose
Less grandeur with more peace. Report gives out
This king for stern and crafty—

Marie.
Envy still
Defames the life above it—

Anne.
And, at least,
The king's not young.

Marie.
The great are ever young.

Anne.
[With a sad smile.]
We make things as we will them. [Breaking off.]
Hush! a voice.

Sir L.
[Without.]
My lady here, you say?

Marie.
[To Anne.]
Ay, and a step!
And by that blush thou knowest whose. 'Tis Lucien.
Enter Sir Lucien.
Said I not so?—You're welcome, friend; we long
Have looked for your return. What news from Court?

Sir L.
Events both strange and sudden, gracious lady.
I come from Amiens, where three days since
The city, dressed in banners, with a shout
Of mingling bells, that pealed from dawn to midnight,
Proclaimed the royal marriage.

Marie.
[With unsuspecting interest.]
Royal marriage!
Who were the bride and bridegroom? Came the king there?

Sir L.
[Surprised.]
How, madam!

Marie.
Came the king there?

Sir L.
Surely, princess.
Methought I told you that the king himself
Was married three days since at Amiens.

Anne.
[Aside.]
Worse than I feared! Rash blunderer! [Apart to him.]
Hold, Sir Lucien!

Marie.
Married! The king! What king?

Sir L.
King Philip, please you,
To Princess Ingerburge, great Denmark's sister.

Marie.
[After a pause, mastering her emotion by a great effort.]
You know this—saw it. 'Tis not mere report?

Sir L.
I know and saw it, madam.

Marie.
[Forcing a smile.]
So 'twas sudden.

Sir L.
Twas most unlooked for.

Marie.
And the bride, you say—

Sir L.
Is Princess Ingerburge.

Marie.
A gracious lady,
As I have heard. We'll not detain you, Lucien.
Some other time we'll ask you of the pageant.

[Sir Lucien bows, and goes out.
Anne.
Sweet mistress: she is tranced. O, speak to me!
[After a pause.]
Break, break this silence.

Marie.
[Rousing herself.]
Anne?

Anne.
Your faithful friend,
Who knows your grief.

Marie.
Then, if thou know'st it, speak not.

Anne.
Shame on this forsworn king, this recreant knight!

Marie.
Is this thy comfort?—Peace!

Anne.
Thy trust in him
Was thy soul's life, and he has slain it!

Marie.
Then,
Respect the dead, and leave it to its silence.
[Anne is about to speak.]
I'd be alone; retire.

[Anne, anxiously observing her, withdraws to back, but still remains on the scene.
Marie.
[After a long pause.]
Dead! Would it were—this heart that he has crushed!
But ah! though crushed, it beats, and must writhe on,
Trailing a wounded life out. Philip false!
Do I so brand him?—I who, on his breast,
Have drunk his vows, and from one smile have spun
A life's whole sunshine—I who, had one said
But yesterday—O Heaven! how many lives
Is yesterday from this! He has been tempted,
Driven to this marriage. Some stern need of State
Has forced him on, while his resisting heart
Still yearned to Marie. 'Twere a keener pang
To think him faithless than to know him lost,
Though lost for ever. Lost! in that one word
My life is henceforth written. Lost! still lost!

[She totters forward. Anne, who has observed her emotion, hastens to support her.
Anne.
Sweet lady, gentle friend, 'tis I!

Marie.
[Falling on Anne's neck with a cry.]
Anne, Anne!

[As Anne supports her, and slowly leads her out, the drop-curtain falls.