University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

The French tent near Bouvines. Soldiers stationed at the entrance. Intermitted and distant alarms.
Enter Guérin and Sir Lucien, the latter attired as from a journey.
Sir L.
Is it indeed so? has this mighty league,
Whose frown eclipsed the light of France, dissolved,
And left no sign in air? What, Otho fled!

Guér.
He scarce escaped with life. The Count of Flanders
Lies captive, with a hundred meaner names,
Yet all renowned.

Sir L.
Then was the rout complete?

Guér.
Long as his steed upbore him, chased the king
The flying remnant, vengeance still his cry.
His foes will rue this day.

Sir L.
And I have lost
The fame of it, though but an hour too late.

Guér.
Thou art misfortune's herald, and he comes
Always too soon. Thou bear'st a woe so vast
'Twould weigh down empire in the opposing scale.

Sir L.
Nay, had my foot been heavy as my heart,
I ne'er had borne these news of my dear lady;
Nor had I, save at her express command,
Ever resigned her service for the king's.

Guér.
Sweet patience keep him! Is there then no hope?

Sir L.
None; or a hope so sickly that it smiles
In mockery of itself. Those who have seen her
Report by slow advance her fate draws near;
Most like the shades that deepen over day
So softly that we start to find it gone.

Guér.
Awhile retire.
[Sir Lucien joins the soldiers at the entrance of the tent.
King, had thine ends been true
Either unto thy people or thy love,
This grief had never been! Oh, better ne'er
To know the good, than knowing—violate!
High thoughts, which touch but do not rule the soul,
Shall turn their light to fire.
[Martial music heard without.
Ah! 'tis the king.

Enter Philip, preceded by soldiers, with banners, Nobles, &c. Martial music from the troops without.
Phil.
[At the entrance of the tent.]
Again!
[Triumphant music and acclamations.
And yet again! [The same sounds renewed.]
This swelling strain
Salutes ye, Flanders, Austria, England. Dumb!
Oh, this is victory, Guérin!

[Advancing to the front.
Guér.
He who rules
The fate of kings hath bless'd you.

Phil.
The brave heart
Makes its own fate! What, wouldst thou grudge this arm
The glory of this day? Like autumn leaves
Whirled by the eddying blast; like spars of wrecks
Tossed shorewards by the seas, they fled before me!
My lifted arm was doom, my steps were graves!
I chased them still! With every stroke I mowed
A separate host for death! My steps were graves!
Kings are my captives, home revolters quelled;
Fontaine, the traitor, measures the red plain
Whereon I stretched him. Well, prate on, prate on!

Guér.
And sleeps that restless brain? Is Fontaine dead?

Phil.
Ay; and his issue, friends, abettors, all
The baneful offshoots of this traitorous stem
Will we uproot, even to the infant germ
That knows not yet the poisonous life it folds.

Guér.
I cast a shield over a vanquished foe
When I recall the Lady Marie's name.

Phil.
I've won her by the sword, and so will guard her.
Report again these glorious news from Rome;
The war's dread thunder clamoured in mine ear
And shut out half thy tidings.

Guér.
Ingerburge,
Your queen, thereto persuaded by the Pope,
Has to the shelter of religious walls
From worldly strife retired, to thee resigned
Her royal throne and bed, and sought divorce:
Rome thus would win back thine offended power
Whose aid she needs to curb rebellious John.

Phil.
What! Rome hath learned to need, then?

Guér.
Meekly say it;
Your patron saint has blessed you.

Phil.
[Raising his sword.]
Patron Saint!
I thank thee. Marie, Marie, where dost hide
Thyself from bliss? Not seen in Méranie!
Fled weeks since, and not sought her father's arms!
Was it not yesterday that we despatched
Our envoys in her quest?

Guér.
It was, my liege.
Your messenger already is returned.

Phil.
Returned?—his errand unfulfilled?

Guér.
Not so;
But some leagues from the field, this very spot,
An ancient castle stands. Willing, perchance,
To shun familiar scenes and questioning tongues—
Yea, aught that might recall her bitter past—
Your wife has fixed her rest there!

Phil.
He has seen her!
Summon him hither.

Guér.
Sire, he waits; Sir Lucien,
Stand forth!

[Sir Lucien advances
Phil.
Thy stars, young sir, did yestermorn
Rain fortune on thee as thou gott'st to horse.
Thou hast found the Lady Marie?

Sir L.
Sire, I found
Her place of sojourn.

Phil.
Well, say on!

Sir L.
My king!

[Hesitating.
Phil.
Say on! By Heaven, that clouded brow affronts
The favour we design thee! Thou hast seen her,
Spoken with her, bear'st her answer? Quick, unfold!

Sir L.
Pardon, I saw her not.

Phil.
What! at her gates,
And yet not seen her. Hadst thou not credentials
From us unto her presence?

Sir L.
Sire, most true.

Phil.
And she denied thee audience?

Sir L.
Nay, she knows not
Even that I sought it.

Phil.
Thou art fond of danger
To dally with impatient majesty!

Sir L.
My lord!

[He again hesitates, and turns to Guérin.
Phil.
My lord! What means this juggling? Why
Bend thy regards on him, and with thine eyes
People the air with terrors? Set before me
Some actual mischief which, being known, my soul
May fix and grapple with, lest, mad with doubt,
To snatch the truth I plunge into thy life!

Sir L.
You need all patience, sir, the queen is found;
But in such case I rather would report
My mission fruitless. If as yet she live,
'Tis nigh the verge of death, her flame of life
So flickering, that a breath might quench it. Hence
Did they refuse me audience, and withhold
My errand, nay, my presence, from herself.

Phil.
I would have slain thee to compel these words
Which, being uttered, slay my peace for ever!

[Sir Lucien retires.
Guér.
My gracious master!

Phil.
Had the heavens no bolt
In all their armoury but this?

Guér.
Bethink you—

Phil.
Perdition on all counsel!

Guér.
Hear me, sire!

Phil.
Hear thee! When thou canst say to sceptred Death,
“Fall back,” and he obeys, I'll hear thee then.
For her I bore, schemed, fought; yea, singly breasted
The raging tide of war, and dashed to land!
I've staked with fate, and lost!

Guér.
Are you a king?

Phil.
A king! Ay, that's the name
For which I bartered love, and ruthless stabbed
The trusting heart that drew its life from mine.
Yes, by this glory shining on the tomb,
This banquet of renown that palls the taste,
This wealth upon the desert where I famish,
I am that empty sound—I am a king!

Guér.
Find medicine for the sorrows of this day
In thinking of its triumph.

Phil.
Hence! Ye heavens!
Abase me if ye will; pluck from me pomp,
Scorch my green laurels with your jealous fires,
Drain on my abject and discrownèd head
Your vials of derision, want, oblivion!
But spare her, spare her; she is like yourselves!

Guér.
My sovereign, Providence is merciful
To contrite hearts. Say that the queen declines
From grief that you resigned her: what if now,
Freed from all other bonds, your union
Allowed by Rome, you hasten to her side,
Bearing these news for cordial? Perchance,
For love is strong and joy miraculous,
You yet may save her.

Phil.
[Grasping his hand.]
Ah! to horse, to horse!
I hold thee as a brother for these words.
Summon our host; awake the trumpet's breath
To speed our flight, for we must outride Death!

[All go out with flourish.

SCENE II.

An apartment in an old Château near Bouvines.
Marie and Anne.
Anne.
[Seated at Marie's feet.]
No, no, sweet mistress, I cannot bear
The intrusion of these thoughts!

Marie.
Kind, faithful girl,
Marie's last solace!

Anne.
Last! What, must your life
Thus wither in its spring? I could not live
In this harsh world and lose you!

Marie.
Hist! what sound
Was that?

Anne.
I heard none.

Marie.
'Twas the tramp of horse;
Look forth. [Anne goes to window.]
What see'st thou?

Anne.
But the village hind
Leading his team from field.

[She returns to her place at Marie's feet.
Marie.
[Taking her hand.]
Heaven's benison
Rest on thy head and Lucien's. He is brave,
Honoured, and constant. Will the matron's coif
And braided hair become thy face? Methinks
I see thee in the light of coming summers,
Thy happy children bounding at thy side,
Or clustered at thy feet. Should one fair girl
With glance of playful love reflect thine own,
Thou'lt call her Marie for my sake?

Anne.
I will.

Marie.
I wished to see thee wed, Anne, and bestow
This bauble at thy bridals; but ere then—
There dearest!

[Takes a chain from her neck, and with visible effort places it round Anne's.
Anne.
You will break my heart. [Marie sinks back.]
Dear Heaven,
She swoons! Her life is passing!

Marie.
[Rallying.]
Do not fear,
I shall not die yet. I shall first see Philip.

Anne.
[Aside.]
Still, still that feverish hope dispels her rest.
[Aloud.]
He knows not where thou art.

Marie.
Heaven will direct him.

Anne.
The foeman's camp divides you.

Marie.
Heaven will guard him
Through hosts of foes; he'll come. [Restlessly.]
Your hand, sweet, raise me;
I breathe with effort. [Anne props her with cushions; as she does so, Marie's ring drops off.]
See! my ring is fallen,
The ring that pledged me his. [Rather excitedly.]
Replace it, quickly.
I would not he should miss it when he comes.
[Anne replaces the ring, and kisses Marie's hand.
So; thanks! [A horn is heard without. Marie starts forward.]
Hark, hark! a trumpet. Now, look forth!

Anne.
[Going to window and returning.]
'Tis but the horn of the returning huntsmen.

Marie.
Not Philip! Still, he'll come!

Anne.
[Aside.]
To see the wreck
His falsehood made. [Aloud.]
Compose yourself: rest, sleep!
Think not of him.

Marie.
Then must I cease to think.
He'll come; but strength may fail me. Thou must tell him
All that I leave unsaid.

Anne.
You task me hardly,
Has not his treachery poisoned all thy joy?

Marie.
Ah me! his love first taught me what joy was.

Anne.
What can'st thou give him more than life?

Marie.
My death;
The hope that I may bless him from the grave.
Have not some said our spirits minister
To those we loved on earth, guide them from wrong
And draw them nearer heaven?

Anne.
[Turning away.]
My friend, my friend!

Marie.
[Drawing her back.]
Come closer, sweet;
O, hoard each accent now!
When all with me is over, seek the king:
He may be racked with grief, perhaps remorse,
For this slight fabric's fall. Thou'lt bear him comfort?

Anne.
[Aside.]
I bear him comfort!

Marie.
Tell him that I passed
In peace from earth; that, in my closing hours,
I thought of those made precious by his love,
And shunned all harsher memories! Tears!

Anne.
No more!

Marie.
[Earnestly.]
Thou'lt see the king—thou'lt not deny me?

Anne.
[With irrepressible emotion.]
Yes;
I'll see him, and demand him where he cast
The first gem of his crown—why filched from earth
Its holiest saint—my best, best friend from me.

[She bursts into tears.
Marie.
Anne, Anne!

Anne.
I'll haunt him through the world; I'll burst
The serried war to reach him; in the pomp
Of courts appal him with my agony,
And cry, “Thy wife! Where, traitor, is thy wife?”

[Starting to her feet.
Marie.
No, no! Thou torturest me! Silence! The queen
Commands.

Anne.
O for a voice to curse him!

Marie.
[Rising.]
Anne,
Thy hand [seizing it]
thus link'd, almost from infancy,
We have trod life's path together. Nought we met
On the long journey sever'd us. The clasp
Each step grew closer. Now for me the way
Winds to the grave—disjoin we now?

Anne.
No!

Marie.
Yes;
My travel's end so near, we're twain at last,
And I go down unfriended to the tomb,
Save thou renounce thy purpose. Promise, speak,
Or I let go thy hand! Shall I?

Anne.
No, no!
I promise all.

Marie.
[Falling upon her neck.]
That's my own faithful Anne!
[She sinks into a chair.
Now leave me, sweet one! I would muse in peace.

Anne.
And may peace keep thy soul! [After a pause, watching her.]
At last she rests;
Her eyelids lay their fringe on her pale cheek.
Visit her, gentle sleep; on thy soft wing
Bear her from this harsh present back to youth—
Perchance to her green home in Méranie,
Where guardian mountain rise, and singing streams
Leap down in laughter, where the chamois bounds
From steep to steep, and shepherd's pipe or horn
Make glad the valley. There did we partake
The sports, the innocent hopes and loves of childhood,
Nor guessed the fate to come. . . . . Does she yet sleep?
Her eyes are sealed; but those parched leaves, her lips,
Stir with a wind of thought, and all her look
Seems strained and listening. Ah! she speaks.

Marie.
[Grasping at Anne's hand.]
Anne, Anne!

Anne.
Ay, sweet.

Marie.
[Raising herself.]
Didst hear?

Anne.
Hear what?

Marie.
He comes, he comes!

Anne.
'Twas but a dream.

Marie.
Dream! From Death's opening gates
Those sounds recalled me. Dost thou hear them now?

Anne.
[Listening.]
She's right—the clang of hoofs! [Rushes to window.]
Troops, lady, troops!

Marie.
Do they make hither?

Anne.
Ay, at speed.

Marie.
What troops?

Anne.
French, if the twilight do not cheat mine eyes.
Madam, the power of France!

Marie.
Of France! I knew it.
My dimming gaze will reach him—his farewell
Close on my ear, the music of this world!
Come they not nearer, Anne? Look forth!

Anne.
They pause;
But for a moment. He who seems their chief
Motions them forward. They pass on—

Marie.
They pass!
My lord is with them, yet they pass. Stay, Philip—
'Tis Marie calls—I shall not see thee—death
Knocks at my heart, and all that was my life
Swims from my eyes! Stay, stay in mercy! Philip!

[She rises, and rushes to the window.
Anne.
Thy prayer is heard; they cross the moat, they enter.

Marie.
Ha, look, that knight!

Anne.
His visor's closed.

Marie.
To thee.
My soul looks through it. 'Tis the king! Come, come!

Anne.
Await him here.

Marie.
Time will not wait, nor death.
[She pauses as if overcome. Anne supports her.
The shadows press around me: all is dim;
He comes too late.

Anne.
Hark! footsteps!

Marie.
Ah!

Phil.
[Without.]
My Marie!
My wife!

Philip, who has laid aside his helmet, rushes in.
Marie.
Ah, Philip, Philip! on thy breast!

Phil.
She lives—she stands! This is no couch of death!

Marie.
I hold thee, see thee; thou art safe, victorious!

Phil.
Three realms are at my foot. My throne is fixed,
Rock-like for ever; thy throne, Queen of France!
The conqueror is thy slave.

Marie.
[Faintly.]
Use well thy power,
Dear lord, when I am gone. Be thy sway bless'd,
Thy memory revered!

Phil.
When thou art gone!
What mean those cruel words? Thy looks affright me!
The shadows of thine eyes eclipse thy soul!

Marie.
The angel tarried for thy coming. Now
My head is on his breast;—I die!

Phil.
Not now,
Thou must not, shalt not! I will cling to thee,
And round thy mounting spirit twine my clasp
Till the huge weight of misery drag thee down.
[Supporting her to her chair.
Avaunt, pale phantom! 'Tis the victor king
Waves off thy shadowy dart and guards thy prey!
Speak, Marie! speak to me!

Anne.
Alas! her touch
Shoots to my heart, and chills it.

Phil.
Ay, the skies
Do envy earth its bliss, so call her back.
O God! the brows are growing marble cold
To which I bear a crown. Marie, my wife!

[Anne, who has been kneeling by Marie's side, utters a faint cry, and rushes up to Philip.
Anne.
She bless'd thee ere she died!

Enter Guérin and several Nobles with Attendants. At a sign from Anne they stand fixed and silent.
Phil.
And this is fame!

[He sinks before the body of Marie, which still occupies the chair. The rest stand in attitudes of awe and dejection. The soldiers veil their lances. The curtain falls to solemn music.