University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Paris. A public place in the vicinity of the Palace.
Fontaine, La Roche, and Tournet standing apart. Citizens, youths, and maidens dancing at back; occasional acclamations.
1st Cit.
Long live King Philip!

2d Cit.
And Queen Ingerburge!

1st Cit.
I say, long live King Philip; and the Queen
May live too—till she tires him!

3d Cit.
Ill for her
Had she wed thee on such conditions!

1st Cit.
Truly,
'Twere ill for both had I wed her on any!
Pardie, a white-faced Dane, with yellow—

2d Cit.
Friend,
Beware my cudgel! Faith, a likely knave
To prate of a queen's hair!

1st Cit.
Well, all I say,
Poor lady, of her Danish face, is this—
If her heart be not cold and sour, the wine
They drink in Denmark must be very thin.

3d Cit.
Not so is that which all to-day hath flowed
Along our streets, in honour of her marriage.
Pity a king can't marry every day!

[Several Nobles pass through the crowd with a haughty carriage.
2d Cit.
Hush, masters! doff your caps! Ay, there they go!
Now there's a mouth would fall into a sneer,
After the draining of a well-brimm'd cup.

1st Cit.
Ay,
Because the king forbids them hang their serfs
For a morn's pastime, they grow sullen. Would
They'd kindly feed our mirth that way themselves!

2d Cit.
Always except the brave Fontaine, and those
His loyal comrades of the household. See,
He stands, a knightly pattern!

3d Cit.
Well, let's on—
Long live the King!

2d Cit.
And Queen!

3d Cit.
And song!

1st Cit.
And dance!

[They join the dancers in the background, and rush out with cheering and music.
La Roche.
Where fall thy musings?

Tour.
Faith, on loyalty.

Fon.
Now, what is loyalty?

Tour.
Once in an age,
A people's echoed love; oft but a vent
For the national superfluity of sound.
The essence of this ardour towards the king
Is his despite to us.

La Roche.
Ay, the appeal
He gave our vassals from us to himself.
One may not scourge, or chain, or hang one's serfs
Without the king's good pleasure. That's to rate
A peasant's life as richly as a noble's.
Our cattle soon shall have their justice-halls,
And fine the herdsman for his blows!

Tour.
Fontaine,
Shall we thus tamely yield our rights and honours?
Thy kinsman rose 'gainst this unnatural wrong!

Fon.
And lost his head. You see, I'm tame.

Tour.
Thou art!

Fon.
Had I been king, he should have lost his head.
Power, when assail'd, must sternly strike or die.

La Roche.
Dost praise the king?

Fon.
Yes.

Tour.
Dost forgive him?

Fon.
No.
Yet do I hate him not; but must wipe out
By my necessity the stain wherewith
His own necessity disgraced my house.
Besides he hath despoiled us of our rights—
Perilled our very order; and my aim
Slackens no whit, under this guise of love,
To work his downfall. Still I like the man—
I like him for a foe. Though wily, brave,
And bounteous like heaven.

Tour.
Ay, sir, to those
Who rate him as a god; but cross his pride—

Fon.
And he's a demon. So the brightest torch
Flings deadliest glare on the opposing wind.
Let's own the quarry noble that we fly at—
I would he had not slain my kinsman, though.

Tour.
What must be done?

Fon.
Nothing.

La Roche.
Nothing? Be sure
Much always hides in Fontaine's nothings.

Fon.
Friends!
The king—just wed with Ingerburge—has girt
His throne with a new bulwark, Denmark's aid.
His foes abroad put up their half-drawn swords,
And wait their season: we must do the same.

La Roche.
A bitter physic for his kingdom's ills,
Finds Philip in his wife!

Tour.
'Twas a strange union;
No note of preparation. In one week
They were betrothed and wed!

La Roche.
Fontaine, didst mark
His bearing at the altar?

Fon.
It scarce spoke
The bridegroom an idolater.

La Roche.
The lady,
Thou knowest, was his kinswoman. That staled him.

Fon.
His kinswoman! Ay! near?

La Roche.
So near, indeed,
That your wits jest and cynics frown distaste.

Tour.
They are so close akin, 'tis said their marriage
Borders upon offence to Holy Church.

Fon.
Borders upon it?

Tour.
One or two degrees
Had made the bond unlawful.

Fon.
Good! degrees
Are what construction makes them, and construction
Is a most pliant servant to the will.
Borders? humph!

La Roche.
Speak!

Fon.
Don't shake the vat wherein
The liquor should ferment. I will—

Tour.
What?

Fon.
Join
These loyal revellers.
Citizens and others re-enter.
Saints, what an eye
That dancing nymph hath! ankles, too, that gleam
Like two mad stars at play!

Tour.
And can thy brain
Stoop to these follies?

La Roche.
'Tis his whim.

Fon.
Sage Tournet!
Thy moody face too well reports thy heart.
Jovial La Roche! thy wits too oft escape
Through that wide, ever-open gate—thy mouth.
And so I quit ye both. Why, life's a game
Whose zest's variety! Plots, festivals,
Rose-wreaths and lances, council-chambers, bowers
Alternate bravely. Nay, look, what an ankle!

[He breaks from them, and joins the throng in the background.

SCENE II.

An apartment in the Palace.
Enter Philip, Ingerburge, Guérin.
Guér.
Your royal consort, sire, has cause for speech.
Forgive me if, as priest still more than knight,
I here uphold her claims.

Ing.
Sir! if in aught
I have displeased you, name my sin. If not,
Use me as innocent, and as your wife.

Phil.
What lacks your grace? A larger retinue?
More liberal pomps or pleasures? They are yours,
Though our exchequer fail.

Ing.
These are my due:
Yet, more—your countenance, society,
Public respect. Why do you shun my sight,
And make my lofty station void of honour?
Courts quickly learn to slight whom kings despise.

Phil.
Whate'er was mine to give is yours already.
We cannot take hearts in our hands and give them.

Ing.
Yours is not mine then?

Phil.
Did you give me yours?

Ing.
I claim at least the decent shows of honour.
Nor is King Canute's sister so unfriended
That she should brook contempt of just demands.
Sir! see my ladies wait.

[To Guérin. She makes a profound reverence, and quits the apartment.
Phil.
Claim, said she? Claim!
For this cold prudence whose ambition, even,
Voyages by map, not starlight—have I thee
For ever lost, my Marie? To this ruin
Thou didst persuade me, Guérin!

Guér.
By your marriage,
Austria and Flanders, who, with English John,
Stand leagued against your peace, are held in awe;
So, too, your disaffected nobles here.

Phil.
Ay, true. The crafty Canute saw my strait,
And that crown'd usurer proffer'd Denmark's aid
Provided Philip made his sister queen!

Guér.
The Lady Ingerburge is now your wife.
Brood on the past no more; improve the present!

Phil.
Cold-hearted priest! That past enfolds a Marie.
She was my chosen: we were wed in heart.
[Aside.]
Marie, thou know'st not yet thy wrong; thou know'st not
Thy Philip perjured; but confiding still,
Still loving, dost await him.

Guér.
Sire, bethink you,
Monarchs are born for thousands, not for one;
For duties, not affections.

Phil.
Ay, wise craft!
With kings 'tis war with Nature from their birth.
Cold form sits by their cradles; childhood's trust
And impulse curbed, a boy-prince rarely knows
Boy-fellowship, nor princely youth a friend.
And when, surviving still, the sense he drew
From heaven of beauty doth expand to love
Of some bright form of goodness; when he yearns
In honour of the worshipped one to rear
That stateliest column, a great life! when most
He feels his Nature's grandeur, strength, and joy,
A courtly custom intercepts his path
To the bright goal—love was not made for kings!

Guér.
Great ones must crush their hearts to pave their power.

Phil.
'Tis false; the crushed heart's powerless. Stifling that,
We stifle ardour, hope, and enterprise;
And what God means for man dwarfs to a form,
A feeble puppet with a golden rim,
That doses life away, and dies unmissed!
Enter Fontaine.
How, sir! We're private!

Fon.
Pardon, sire! methought
I had your gracious privilege—if not,
My tidings might atone me.

Phil.
Leave us, Guérin,
Bear with thy master, Stephen.
[Apart to him, and taking his hand. Guérin goes out.
Well, speak on!

Fon.
The insurgent nobles in the south submit
Unto your grace's arms, which news to crown,
From Otho—late your foe—have envoys sped
To hail you on your nuptials.

Phil.
[Bitterly.]
To the queen!
The might of Denmark quells these foes, extorts
These novel courtesies. Think'st thou not so?

Fon.
From your own seed hath sprung this harvest, sire!
The glorious issue of his acts whose fame
Unwearied echo sounds, and to whose robe
Cling widowed majesty and orphan right;
Whose very wards are monarchs!

Phil.
Bid them fling
A cushion for me to the foot of the throne!
Is't meet that I should sit with her who gave it?
Well, friend? That glance has meaning; speak your thought.

Fon.
Ah, my liege, pardon me, and bear with her!
I grieve 'tis noted that division lives
Between your princely hearts;—but I presume.

Phil.
Of all men have we singled thee for love.
Fear not.

Fon.
Then till you chide I speak. Your consort holds
A double claim on duty; first, as queen,
Then as your kinswoman. O sir, 'twere well
Those slanderous tongues were checked which dare impeach
Her title to that name you deigned confer.

Phil.
Ah! what name?

Fon.
Wife, my liege.

Phil.
Wife! say you, wife?
They question that?

Fon.
Pretending, sir, that bonds
Of such close kinship knit you, ere you wed,
That marriage did invade their sanctity.

Phil.
Is't said so! Dare they.

Enter Tournet and La Roche.
Fon.
Here come two, my lord,
Whose swords, incensed by men's audacious jests,
Have blushed to keep their sheaths.

Phil.
Can I believe
Licence has grown so bold?

Fon.
As though a king
Were bound within the limits priests prescribe
The commonalty.

Phil.
What! you have heard this marriage
Laughed at, discussed, reproved?

[To Tournet and La Roche.
Tour.
[Apart to La Roche.]
What shall we say?

La Roche.
Oh, travel by the light of Fontaine's eye.

Fon.
Forgive them, sire, if awe restrain their tongues.
Friends, witness for me that my words are true!

Phil.
Speak frankly all.

La Roche.
In every point, my lord,
Must I confirm the words of brave Fontaine.

Tour.
So humbly I repeat, can I with grief
That reverence for your grace forbade my hand
To smite the scoffers.

Phil.
[Sternly.]
Well, you did refrain!
Judge not in the king's quarrel, nor revile
Those whom you count his foes, more kin perchance
Than meddlers, to his pleasure. Sirs, retire!
[Tournet and La Roche go out.
Fontaine, we need thee still. We'll breathe the air.
Walk by our side. We rate thee highly, friend;
And honour thee with fullest trust.

[Extends his hand to him.
Fon.
[Kneeling.]
Your grace
Is rich in bounty and in confidence
To your poor vassal; [Aside.]
tendering him this hand
Red with a brother's blood!

[Fontaine rises; Philip motions him to follow.
Fon.
[Bowing deeply.]
Sire, I attend you.

[The King goes out, followed by Fontaine.

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.