 | Marie de Méraine |  |
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.
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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!
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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?
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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,
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Alternate bravely. Nay, look, what an ankle!
[He breaks from them, and joins the throng in the background.
| Marie de Méraine | |