 | Marie de Méraine |  |
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
Soissons. Ante-room leading to the chamber of the Ecclesiastical Council.Enter, at opposite sides, Fontaine, with La Roche, and two Ushers of the Council.
Fon.
Sirs, are their reverences yet prepared
To hear his majesty?
1st Usher.
Indeed, I know not;
I've no commission.
Fon.
Two hours hath the king
Attended on their summons.
2d Usher.
Very like.
The Court knows its own season; by your favour.
[Ushers withdraw into the chamber.
Fon.
Delay and insult still from these proud priests,
Elate to see a monarch at their bar!
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They pledged decision which, still day by day,
They have withheld: while he impatient frets,
And the rage boils which dares not overflow.
La Roche.
The wonder was the king abased himself
To plead at their tribunal.
Fon.
Therein lay
His only hope still to preserve his wife,
And from the Papal curse deliver France.
La Roche.
A fruitless hope; they will annul his marriage
And Ingerburge replace in Marie's seat.
Fon.
No; this indignity shall turn to grace
If meekly borne. Rome sought to sit in judgment
On Philip's cause, and thus maintain her sway
O'er Europe's crowns. By secret means I know
The king's submission has assuaged her wrath;
Awhile she'll scourge him to assert her power,
Then take him to her bosom. All is plain.
Denmark's to be appeased; Marie pronounced
The queen of Philip; Flanders, England—all
With whom our rights and vengeance to secure
We've secret league—must harm no single hair
Of the good boy hid in the Pontiff's mantle!
La Roche.
That's sorry comfort: Philip reconciled
To Rome, were proof against our enmity.
Fon.
But they must not be reconciled. Already
He writhes beneath her yoke, and deems, like thee,
The Council will decide against his suit.
La Roche.
What profit springs from this?
Fon.
Mark! I have moved him
To do himself the deed he fears from them—
Restore his Danish queen; which act dissolves
The interdict, and sets at nought their power.
Their arbitration thus disdained, will breed
A bitterer hate than sprang from past defiance.
A head has schemed to thwart your holiness,
Your child may prove refractory. See, he comes!
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Phil.
[To Tournet.]
Again, sir, to the Council; say we wait.
[Exit Tournet. Attendants retire to back.
Yes; what is love that will not prove its truth
By needful sacrifice?—Names, empty pomp,
Weigh with devotion nought. The faith I pledged
Their loss impairs not, and their transfer rends
These festering links of shame, gives my soul play,
And wipes the abject stain from my renown.
In form a little do I wrong thee, Marie,
For my essential good. Thou'dst have it so.
Why then, when reason offers cordials,
Shuns my sick heart her chalice?—Oh, 'tis conscience
That doth rebuke my treachery! I have gazed
So long on guilty thoughts, they lose their horror.
Hither, Fontaine! Did they not say at noon?
For weeks we've paced their ante-room to feast
The eyes of curious lackeys with our fall.
Fon.
I may not censure whom your grace endures;
Yet, when we last spoke—
Phil.
Thou didst strike a chord
Of evil that now sleeps. Tempt me no more!
Fon.
I grieve to find my loyalty offence.
How have I sinned? I did but say that Rome,
By these delays was bent to humble you,
And, through you, all the wondering crowns of Europe,
Who seeing—pardon me my honest boldness—
Who, seeing your subjection, dread their own!
Phil.
I know it.
Fon.
Which presumptuous end you crush,
And from the Papal curse your realm set free,
If of your own inclining you take back
The Lady Ingerburge.
Phil.
My own inclining!
Fon.
The deed is then your own, not Rome's enforcement.
'Tis Philip's sovereign act, not the Pope's mandate,
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You thus defeat his power and yours uphold.
Phil.
[Aside.]
It were sweet, most sweet vengeance! Yet my Marie!
Man, thou hast looked into my heart, and seen
Whose image it enshrines. Shall I rend from her
The sacred name of wife, yet bid her share
A lawless bed? Like a saint's faith in heaven
Is hers in me. In smiling innocence,
With love-stirred lips her faith sleeps on my breast;
Shall I, her providence, look on and stab?
Fon.
What path is open then? Reflect—no less
You yield her by submission to the Council;
You cannot doubt they purpose your divorce.
Phil.
It may be so; but, if her peace must perish,
I need not deal the blow.
Fon.
If so you deem,
Submit; crave peace of Rome—
Phil.
And kiss the rod!
I was not born for this. I lived to make
My people great, my reign august,—to pile
My monument on triumph till it towered
To beacon Time with glory!—Now to shrink
Into the thrall of monks, and to infect
With my abasement the proud blood of kings;
Who, when they crouch beneath the priestly yoke,
Shall plead—So first did Philip!
Fon.
Trust me, sir.
You wrong your queen! How poor were pomp to her,
If wrung from your disgrace!
Phil.
Ay; if she saw
My struggle with thine eyes!
Fon.
And so she would.
Man cannot master fate. You strive in vain
To save her hope from shipwreck, but preserve
Your honour in the storm. She'd have it so.
Phil.
By heaven,
I think thou reasonest well; she would!
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Tour.
My liege!
To-day the Council do refuse you hearing.
They will forthwith adjourn, and still suspend
The hour for sentence.
Phil.
[With bitter laughter.]
Sentence, sentence! What,
Yet more delay! My patience has stood bare
In their fierce noon of pride until the blood
Leaps to my brain like fire!
Re-enter Ushers.
Sirs, in good time!
Fling wide the doors.
1st Usher.
My liege, the Court breaks up.
Phil.
[Imperiously.]
Lead on! I bid them stay. Fling wide the doors!
[He goes out, preceded by Ushers and followed by Attendants. Fontaine, Tournet, and La Roche remain.
Tour.
[To Fontaine.]
Brave, brave! With skilful breath hast thou revived
The ashes of this feud. I see his power
Melt in the conflagration.
La Roche.
Sage, or wizard—
Whate'er thou art—our cause owes all to thee.
Fon.
We have not speared the lion in the woods,
But strewed the pit with rushes, and entrapped him.
Well, well, the hour may come.
Tour.
What mood is this?
Fon.
Even let it go. The time for action's ripe.
We yet may meet him front to front as men.
Enter Guérin, followed by Retainers.
Guér.
Recruit your strength. See that your steeds be fleet,
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To the king.
[To Fontaine.
Fon.
Most urgent matter holds him with the Court.
Guér.
[Drawing Fontaine apart.]
More urgent matter claims his ear through me.
The blast of war rings out; and, swift from England,
John—leagued with Otho and the Flemish count—
Has landed at Rochelle. I know thee frank
And unsuspecting; keep a wary eye,
For disaffection lurks in many a breast
That wears a loyal front.
Fon.
You'll find me watchful.
[Guérin goes out.
Now with our vassals to enforce the foe!
His unjust arm shall work our just revenge.
[They go out on the opposite side.
SCENE II.
Corridor in the Palace.Enter Sir Lucien and Anne.
Sir L.
She had been bless'd beyond compare if fortune
Obeyed desert!
Anne.
You'd weep to look on her;
Her patience touches more than could complaint.
When first I seek her chamber, she'll discourse
Awhile on trivial things, as if to veil
Grief at her heart; yet, what her words would hide,
Her faltering step and flitting smile reveal.
Alas, dear mistress!
[Weeps.
Sir L.
Why, these are tears!
I honour thee for this. Now is thy soul
Well mated with thy beauty!
[Attempting to take her hand.
Anne.
[Withdrawing it.]
Possibly.
But that concerns you little. [Aside.]
Stay, I'll try him!
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Should not the king resign her?
Sir L.
Having sworn
To love and shield her? Never!
Anne.
Then Rome's curse
Still rests on France.
Sir L.
Not if he yield his throne.
Anne.
How, yield his throne?
Sir L.
The throne of earth were poor,
Save a royal spirit filled it. 'Tis not needful
For any man that he be styled a king;
But that each man be true to his own manhood,
That is most needful.
Anne.
Good; then, wert thou Philip,
How wouldst thou act?
Sir L.
If truth to her I chose
Brought ruin on my realm, I yield my realm,
Unclasp my kingly robes, cast off my crown,
Take my wife's hand in mine, and trust the soul,
That falsehood ne'er had flawed to win me fame.
Anne.
[Aside, with delight.]
So, so—the flash breaks out; a man, by heaven!
That's rightly said. My hand upon it, sir.
Sir L.
And may I keep it?
Anne.
Yes; until we reach
Her grace's antechamber. 'Tis your due.
[They go out.
SCENE III.
An apartment in the Palace.Marie alone.
Marie.
Another night, and yet no tidings come.
Day follows day to mock me in its round.
O Time! that to all senseless things dost bear
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And freshening dew to tree and flower and weed—
Why dost thou pass the famished heart and smile?
Enter Anne.
Anne.
Dear lady!
Marie.
[Eagerly.]
Anne! Well? No; your face is void!
You have no tidings for me.
Anne.
Alas! none.
Marie.
We must be patient, Anne. I cannot think
The Council will bereave me of my lord.
Anne.
Heaven touch their hearts with gentleness!
Marie.
Amen!
Anne.
And keep the king—
[Faltering.
Marie.
Why falter? Prayers should breathe
Trust, and not fear.
Anne.
Heaven keep King Philip faithful
And worthy of your love.
Marie.
I will not say
Amen to that. To pray he may be faithful
Were to misdoubt he is so.
Anne.
All men, being tempted,
Are prone to fall; most prone, ambitious kings.
Marie.
What dost thou mean?
Anne.
By thoughts on ill that may be
To shield your heart from worse.
Marie.
Worse? What were worse
Than treachery in my lord? Rash girl, that word
Stretches to woe so infinite, it fathoms
An ocean of despair! Uncrown me, slay me,
Honours and life must end. Not love! The grave
Is as a port where it unlades its wealth
For immortality. But rob or taint
The merchandise of love—then let the bark
Drift helmless o'er the seas, or strike the shoals!
They can but wreck a ruin.
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Pardon, madam.
I would not thus have moved you; but—
Marie.
Be silent!
Thy look doth herald thoughts my soul repels.
He did desert me once. You see I read you.
No, Anne! His love was changeless, but he quelled it
For duty and his country. O shame, shame!
Listening thy treason, I adopt it. Go!—
Nay, not unkindly. This suspense disturbs me.
Leave me awhile. There, there!
[Taking her hand. Anne goes out.
Another night!
It cannot last for ever. Even now
The unregarding messenger despatched
To bear my doom his onward course may speed.
They could not part us, Philip, had they seen
Our happy solitude, our inner world
Of secret, holy, all-sufficing bliss.
They guess it not, nor feel it. At their knees,
Locked in my arms, I should have told them this,
And forced my heart an avenue to theirs
Through all their wiles, for hearts must answer hearts;
But mine was dumb, and how could theirs reply?
Woe's me! Who comes?
Enter Philip.
Philip—my lord!—Say, say,
May I embrace thee?—may I call thee mine?—
Am I thy wife?
Phil.
Yes; in the sight of Heaven.
Marie.
And not of earth? A doom told in a breath;
Brief, but so cold that it hath froze the fount
Whence sorrow gushes!
Phil.
I am dear to thee?
Marie.
What! is there hope? If not, encourage none.
Phil.
Why should we be the slaves of Rome?
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Thou wilt
Resist his mandate? Yet thy kingdom, love?
Phil.
Dearest, most faithful! We may still remain
Bound to each other, and the Papal curse
Pass from the realm.
Marie.
How?—Haste thee to disclose.
Phil.
The Council has pronounced no sentence.
Marie.
Yet
Thou art returned!
Phil.
Like to a criminal
I stood before the conclave. Every day
Brought some new contumely. The weight I bore
Of strained suspense and nice indignity
Was pleasant pastime for them; and they lingered,
Protracting their enjoyment, and inviting
The universe to look on haughty Philip
Crouched at their stools, and learn from thence how Rome
Would deal with rebel kings!
Marie.
And yet you bore it?
Phil.
It was the Church's aim to judge my cause,
To plant its insolent foot upon my neck,
Humbling all crowns in mine. I looked for this;
I bore it long. At last scorn heaped on scorn
Turned patience to revolt.
Marie.
[After a short pause.]
And then? How then?
Phil.
[Avoiding her look.]
Marie! I said within my soul, my pomp,
My title, all my gilded shows of power,
Were not the links that bound thy love to mine.
Was I right there?
Marie.
Can Philip ask that question?
Phil.
Her trust doth sting me more than could reproach.
Too late, too late! all must be told!
[Aside.
Marie.
What followed?
Phil.
I will not hear your judgment, lords, I cried:
Not moved by you, but of my sovereign will,
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The throne and empty state she never prized,
And Ingerburge to her lost dignities
Be straight restored. 'Tis all that Denmark seeks;
Therefore dissolve the interdict!
Marie.
Thou saidst this?—
Heard I aright?
Phil.
[Confused.]
Marie, thou didst.
Marie.
And Philip
Could of his proper will cast Marie out!
I thought—I thought you said we should not part.
Phil.
Part—never, never! Part!
Marie.
But have you not owned Ingerburge your wife?
I am no longer queen.
Phil.
But for all this,
We must not part.
Marie.
Husband—I pray your pardon;
I can't forget you were so—torture not
My mind with this perplexity! How is't
I can be thine, and Ingerburge thy wife?
Phil.
[After a pause.]
She is but so in name; thou wilt retain
The empire of my heart.
Marie.
Ha! how the light—
The cruel light I could not see before—
Bursts on my sight! No; 'tis some hideous dream.
Although I see, I shall not touch thy hand.
[Takes his hand, as if to assure herself.
It is reality! And yet—forgive me!
A subtle tempter through my o'erwrought brain
Would stab my trust in thee. He shall not, love!
Even now I'm calmer. Pray, repeat the words—
The words you spake but now.
Phil.
I said, my own,
Though Ingerburge might bear the name of queen,
Thou only shouldst rule Philip—
Marie.
Pause awhile.
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I only should rule Philip—
[Signs to him to proceed.
Phil.
Thou shouldst share
His hours of love—thou only; thou shouldst be—
[Hesitating, and averting his head.
Marie.
His paramour! O God! although his voice
Was shamed from speech, this is the thing he means.
[She turns from him.
Phil.
Thou wouldst not go?
Marie.
I am already gone!
We measure distance by the heart.
Phil.
Yet hear me!
Marie.
The Duke de Méran's daughter listens, sir.
[She sits.
Phil.
[About to kneel.]
If this humility may aught—
Marie.
No knee!
Respect so far my woe's reality,
As to put by these pageant semblances.
Phil.
Oh! has this grief no remedy?
Marie.
None, none.
The faith of love no hand can wound but that
Was pledged to guard it. Then what hand can staunch?
We strive no more with doom; the sad mistake
May be endured, but not retrieved. No, no!
Phil.
By heaven, you do me wrong! 'Tis not in man
To conquer destiny. I made you queen.
Marie.
You made me queen! I made you more than king.
When my eyes raised their worship to thy face,
I saw no crown. I asked not if thy hand
Closed on a sceptre; but mine pressed it close,
Because it rent the shackles of the slave.
'Twas not thy grandeur won me. Had the earthquake
Engulfed thine empire—had frowning fate
Lowered on thine arms and scourged thee from the field,
A fugitive—if on thy forehead Rome
Had graved her curse, and all thy kind recoiled
In horror from thy side—I yet had cried,
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In the vast loneliness, still beat to mine!
Phil.
[Falling at her feet.]
You had; you had! the dust is on my head!
Sweet saint! thou'rt of a higher brood than we,
Hast right to spurn me from thee.
Marie.
Rise! The feet
By thorns on life's rough path so often pierced,
Are little like to spurn a stumbling brother.
Phil.
Forgive, forgive me, Marie!
[Rising.
Marie.
You repent.
Twas but delusion. You will be again
The Philip I adored! That hope shall bless me
When we are far apart. And now for ever
In this dark world farewell. Another land
I seek, but ne'er shall find another home.
Shield him, all holy powers! Philip—
[Extending her hand.
Phil.
Go, go;
I was not worthy thee!
Marie.
Not thus, not thus!
Phil.
But one embrace. It is the last, the last!
[They embrace.
Go, Marie!
[Marie goes to the door. She reverts her head. They regard each other in silence for a few moments, after which Marie slowly disappears.
Phil.
[After a pause, sinking into a chair.]
I'm alone on earth! She's gone,
And what is left me?
[The roll of drums is heard without. He suddenly rises.
Ha! that clamour speaks
In stern reply; a summons to the field!
Fate, that denies me love, has left me vengeance.
Friends fail me, foemen swarm my coasts. 'Tis well!
Now, fiend of war, I am devote to thee!
[He rushes out.
| Marie de Méraine | |