University of Virginia Library

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.