University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—AN APARTMENT OF THE PRINCESS MARGARET'S.
Enter De Bourbon, followed by Margaret.
BOURBON.
A plague upon their tournaments, I say!

MARGARET.
Nay then, De Bourbon, by my woman's word,
This must not be; oh, say it shall not be!
Say, thou wilt rein this hot, impatient mood,
For thy sake—no, for mine, for mine I meant:
Are we not twined together in our love?
What wonder then, if, speaking of myself,
Thy name was on my lips?—for my sake, Bourbon.

BOURBON.
If thou wilt bid me journey to the moon
Upon a moth's wing, or wilt send me forth,
Belted and spurred, to fight some score of devils,—
Or worse, wilt bid me with some twenty men
Turn out Colonna from the Milanese,
Say so; and by this light I'll do it too!
But, to submit to this,—to bear all this,—
To let a woman tear my laurels off,—
And trample them,—Hell! when I think on it!
Pshaw! never fix those dangerous eyes on me,
And clasp thy hands—I say—

MARGARET.
She is my mother!

BOURBON.
I'saith I've often doubted of that truth;
Thou art not like her, for the which thank heaven!

MARGARET.
I can be like her though, my lord, in this:—
Not to endure the licence of your tongue.
If headlong passion urge you, sir, beyond
The bounds of prudence, look that you control it,
Nor vent bold thoughts in bolder words to me;
Else you may chance to find—

BOURBON.
She is thy mother?
Nay, smooth that brow, thou art too like the Queen;
And in those soft blue eyes, whose orbs reflect
Heaven's light with heaven's own purity, let not
The stormy gleam of anger e'er flash forth!
I had thought, Margaret, that love forgot
All ranks and all distinctions?

MARGARET.
Ay, so it doth.
All ties, the world, its wealth, its fame, or fortune,
Can twine; but never those of nature, Bourbon.
So mine can give up all, save the first bond
My heart e'er knew,—the love of those who gave
Life, and the power to love;—those early links
Lie wreathed like close-knit fibres round my heart,
Never to sever thence till my heart break.

BOURBON.
Lo! at thy feet I sue for pardon, sweet!
By thine own purity, thou virgin lily!
Thou flower of France! forgive the word that broke
Too hastily from my rash lips; which thus,
Having offended, will do penance now
Upon this marble shrine, my lady-love.

(Kisses her hand.)
MARGARET.
A goodly penitent! Nay, never kneel,
And look so pitiful;—there, I forgive thee.
But, Bourbon, by the faith of our sworn love,
I do implore thee to bear with my mother.

BOURBON.
Pshaw!—

MARGARET.
Why, look now, there's your brow dark and contracted;—
I see the passion flashing in your eyes;
You will not think of me, and bear with her?

BOURBON.
If I could think of thee, and not see her,—
Or think of thee, and not hear her, why, then—
Well, patience, and kind thoughts of thee befriend me!
And I will do my best to second them.

MARGARET.
Go you to meet my mother now?

BOURBON.
This hour
Love stole from duty to bestow on thee;
And now I must attend upon the Queen.

MARGARET.
See you observe my lesson.

BOURBON.
Fear me not;
Oh! I'll be wonderfully calm and patient.

MARGARET.
(Aside.)
—Methinks I'll try thee. (Aloud.)
—How if she should ask
Some question of your late left government?
I see you're very calm already! How
If she should speak of a fit successor?
Most patient! Lautrec now, or Bonnivet?

BOURBON.
Confusion light upon them! Bonnivet?
And Lautrec? beardless boys! whose maiden swords
Have not yet blush'd with one red drop of blood;
Whose only march hath been a midnight measure,
Whose only field hath been a midnight masque;
Is it for these, and their advancement, I
Have watch'd, have toil'd, have fought, have bled, have conquer'd;
Rush'd over fields strewed with the dead and dying,
Swam streams that ran all curdled with the blood
Of friend and foe, stood in the bristling breach,
And in the hour of death and desolation
Won never fading victories for France?
Shall the Queen's minions—by this living light—

MARGARET.
Oh, patient gentleman! how calm he is!
Now in those flaming eyes, and scornful lips,
I read how well my lesson profits thee.
Thou shalt not to the Queen in this hot mood.

BOURBON.
I'faith I must; the storm is over now;
And having burst, why, I shall be the calmer.
Farewell, sweet monitress! I'll not forget.

MARGARET.
Oh, but I fear—

BOURBON.
Fear not—she is thy mother!

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

—AN APARTMENT OF THE QUEEN MOTHER'S.
The Queen is discovered writing.—Enter Gonzales.
GONZALES.
So please your highness, the Duke de Bourbon
Attends your grace.

QUEEN.
Give him admittance straight.
[Exit Gonzales.
Now then to try the mettle of his soul,
And tempt him with the glitter of a crown.

Enter Bourbon.
BOURBON.
Madam, I humbly kiss your highness's hands.

QUEEN.
I thank you, sir; and though last night's blithe close
Was hardly rest to one o'ermarch'd before,
I trust you are recover'd from the weariness
Of your long journey.

BOURBON
(aside).
Pray heaven, she go no further with that theme!
(Aloud.)
I thank your grace, but owing to the speed
Enjoined by those who penn'd my—my recall—
My journey was a short one.—

QUEEN.
Did ye not rest at Chantelle?

BOURBON.
Ay, good madam.

QUEEN.
Short as you hold your march, my lord, and lightly
As you think fit to speak of it, I trow
It was swift riding to reach Paris yesterday.

BOURBON
(aside).
Hell!—how she hangs upon the cursed subject.
(Aloud).
To me both time and road seem short, indeed,
From a proud kingdom back to a poor dukedom.

QUEEN.
My lord, there is much bitterness in that!

BOURBON.
Bitterness! madam—oh, I do not doubt
There were high, weighty reasons warranted
My being thus recalled from Italy:
And those same weighty reasons will, no doubt,
Point out a fit successor to me also.

QUEEN.
There is much bitterness in that, my lord;—
Your mind is apt to start at fancied wrongs,
And makes a shadow where no substance is.

BOURBON.
Your grace will pardon me; but hitherto
We have not seen such payment given to service;
Can governments be wrested from a man
Unheard,—nay, unaccused, without a cause?

QUEEN.
No, sir, they cannot—but might not the cause
Have been your future profit and advancement,
Instead of your disgrace?

BOURBON.
Oh! we all know
The government of our Italian states
Must henceforth be a post for beardless soldiers,
Lacking wit wherewithal to win their honours,
Or courtiers lacking valour to deserve them.

QUEEN.
I see the bent and mark of this discourse;
And though, be well assured, no other man
That breathes had thus far ventured in his speech,—
Your daring I have borne with patiently.

BOURBON.
Borne with me! Borne with me, forsooth!—

QUEEN.
Ay, sir,
Borne with you: further still,—for in that sorrow
Hath fallen on your mind too bitterly,
And well nigh chang'd its bright and polish'd metal
With its corrosive touch,—I've pitied you.

BOURBON.
Wrong'd! borne with! pitied! By our Lady, madam—
This is too much.

QUEEN.
Oh, sir, the King's advisers—

BOURBON.
The King should hearken less to false advice,
And more to honest service, madam.

QUEEN.
(Aside)
—Ha!
Now is the bridle thrown upon the steed;
That word, that one unguarded word, shall make
My victory, or thy perdition sure!
(Aloud)
—I pass you that, my lord, you are too hot—
And now that I have curb'd all proud respects
In kind indulgence of your hasty spleen,
Hear me: what if (I will repeat the question),
'Stead of ingratitude or envy, motives
With which you seem full well contented,
Being the spring of this your swift return,
Your quick preferment, and increase of glory
Had been alone consulted?

BOURBON.
How so, madam?

QUEEN.
Ever too rash in your belief, my lord,
You run before the truth—you've followers,
Eager and zealous partisans you have;
Think you it is impossible some friend
May haply have contriv'd this prompt recall,
To bring you nearer to a court, where you
May find paths unexplor'd as yet, in which
Ambition might discover such a prize,
As were worth winning?

BOURBON.
I would have you know
De Bourbon storms, and does not steal his honours
And though your highness thinks I am ambitious,
(And rightly thinks) I am not so ambitious
Ever to beg rewards that I can win,—
No man shall call me debtor to his tongue.

QUEEN
(rising).
'Tis proudly spoken; nobly too—but what,
What if a woman's hand were to bestow
Upon the Duke de Bourbon such high honours,
To raise him to such state, that grasping man,
E'en in his wildest thoughts of mad ambition,
Ne'er dreamt of a more glorious pinnacle?

BOURBON.
I'd kiss the lady's hand, an she were fair.
But if this world fill'd up the universe,—
If it could gather all the light that lives
In ev'ry other star or sun, or world;
If kings could be my subjects, and that I
Could call such pow'r and such a world my own,
I would not take it from a woman's hand.
Fame is my mistress, madam, and my sword
The only friend I ever wooed her with.
I hate all honours smelling of the distaff,
And, by this light, would as lief wear a spindle
Hung round my neck, as thank a lady's hand
For any favour greater than a kiss.—

QUEEN.
And how, if such a woman loved you,—how
If, while she crown'd your proud ambition, she
Could crown her own ungovernable passion,
And felt that all this earth possess'd, and she
Could give, were all too little for your love?
Oh good, my lord! there may be such a woman.

BOURBON
(aside).
Amazement! can it be, sweet Margaret—
That she has read our love?—impossible!—and yet—
That lip ne'er wore so sweet a smile!—it is,
That look is pardon and acceptance! (aloud)
—speak.
(He falls at the Queen's feet.)
Madam, in pity speak but one word more,—
Who is that woman?

QUEEN
(throwing off her veil).
I am that woman!

BOURBON
(starting up).
You, by the holy mass! I scorn your proffers;—
Is there no crimson blush to tell of fame
And shrinking womanhood! Oh shame! shame! shame!

(The Queen remains clasping her hands to her temples, while De Bourbon walks hastily up and down: after a long pause the Queen speaks.)
QUEEN.
What ho! Marlon! St. Evreux!
Enter two Gentlemen.
Summon my confessor! (Exeunt)
—And now, my lord,
I know not how your memory serves you;
Mine fails not me—If I remember well,
You made some mention of the King but now—
No matter—we will speak of that anon.—
Enter Gonzales.
Sir, we have business with this holy father;
You may retire.

BOURBON.
Confusion!

QUEEN.
Are we obeyed?

BOURBON
(aside).
Oh Margaret!—for thee! for thy dear sake!

[Rushes out. The Queen sinks into a chair.
QUEEN.
Refus'd and scorn'd! Infamy!—the word chokes me!—
How now! why stand'st thou gazing at me thus?—

GONZALES.
I wait your highness' pleasure,— (Aside)
So, all is well—
A crown hath fail'd to tempt him—as I see
In yonder lady's eyes.

QUEEN.
Oh sweet revenge!
Thou art my only hope, my only dower,
And I will make thee worthy of a Queen.
Proud noble, I will weave thee such a web,—
I will so spoil and trample on thy pride,
That thou shalt wish the woman's distaff were
Ten thousand lances rather than itself.
Ha! waiting still, sir Priest! Well, as thou seest
Our venture hath been somewhat baulk'd,—'tis not
Each arrow reaches swift and true the aim,—
Love having fail'd, we'll try the best expedient,
That offers next,—what sayst thou to revenge?
'Tis not so soft, but then 'tis very sure;
Say, shall we wring this haughty soul a little?
Tame this proud spirit, curb this untrain'd charger?
We will not weigh too heavily, nor grind
Too hard, but, having bow'd him to the earth,
Leave the pursuit to others—carrion birds,
Who stoop, but not until the falcon's gorg'd
Upon the prey he leaves to their base talons.

GONZALES.
It rests but with your grace to point the means.

QUEEN.
Where be the plans of those possessions
Of Bourbon's house?—see that thou find them straight:
His mother was my kinswoman, and I
Could aptly once trace characters like those
She used to write—enough—Guienne—Auvergne—
And all Provence that lies beneath his claim,—
That claim disprov'd, of right belong to me.—
The path is clear, do thou fetch me those parchments.
[Exit Gonzales.
Not dearer to my heart will be the day
When first the crown of France deck'd my son's forehead,
Than that when I can compass thy perdition,—
When I can strip the halo of thy fame
From off thy brow, seize on the wide domains,
That make thy hated house akin to empire,
And give thy name to deathless infamy.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

—A GALLERY IN THE PALACE.
Enter Françoise de Foix and Lautrec.
LAUTREC.
Nay, nay, my pretty sister, be not sad!
And that thou better mayst endure this parting,
I'll give thee hope, shall make thee think of nought
Save my return—what sayst thou to a husband?—
One fear'd in battle-field, and no less full
Of courtesy, and other noble virtues.
Than high in birth, and rank, and fortune;—eh?

FRANÇOISE
I could be well content that such a man
Had sought a meeter bride. Oh there be many
Maidens, of nobler parentage than mine,
Who would receive so brave a gentleman
With more of joy than I.

LAUTREC.
Why, my sweet sister!
This is a strange unnatural coldness hangs
Upon thy brow, and in thy measur'd speech.
I know not much of maiden state and pride,
But, by the mass! thy words seem less in coyness
Than in indifference.

FRANÇOISE.
Oh say in love,
In true and tender love to thee, my brother:
Trust me, I'm not ambitious; and would rather
Live ever by thy side unwooed, unwon,—
With nought to think or live for, but for thee,—
On whom, since earliest infancy, my heart
Hath spent its hopes and fears, its love and pride.
Oh do not give me to another; do not,
Dear Lautrec, send me from thee, and at once
Sever the ties of sweet and holy love
That live between us!

LAUTREC.
To the man, whom best
On earth I value, I resign thee, Françoise;
My word was plighted to thy glad consent,
And unless thou wilt break the faith I gave,
And cancel thus one of my fondest hopes,
Thou wilt be his.

FRANÇOISE.
I thank him for the honour
He doth our house, and my unworthy hand;
I thank thee, too, in that thy love hath made
So proud a choice for me. Oh, do not think
That, by one word, I will unknit the friendship
Of so long years. Where'er it seemeth thee
Best to bestow me, there will I endeavour
Humbly to bend my heart's untried affections,—
There love, if it be possible,—at least
There willingly obey.

LAUTREC.
Then, dearest love,
If that, indeed, this offer please thee well,
Think on it as the fondest wish I have,
And look to see me come from Italy,
Bringing thee home a bridegroom, proudly crown'd
With war's victorious wreaths; and who shall woo
The better, that he previously hath won
Fortune's hard favours, who, if I guess right,
Is coyer e'en than thou, my pretty sister.
Farewell awhile, I go to meet Laval.

[Exit.
FRANÇOISE.
Farewell! Oh, heav'n be prais'd that thou art blind
To that which, could thine unsuspecting heart
Once dream, would blast and wither it for ever.
I must not dwell on this sad theme; and though
I have read rightly in those dangerous eyes
Which gaz'd so passionately on me,I
Must e'en forget love's first and fondest lesson,
And write another in my lone heart's core.
What though the King—oh, very full of danger
Is solitude like this—and dangerous
These thoughts that flock around me, melting down
Each sterner purpose. By thy trusting love,
My brother! by thy hopes, that all in me
Centre their warmth and energy, I swear,
That while one throb of strength remains, I'll bear
This torture patiently, and in my heart
Lock love and misery until life depart.

[Exit.

SCENE IV.

—AN ANTEROOM IN THE PALACE.
Enter, at opposite sides, the King and Clement.
FRANCIS.
The very man I seek!—well met, Clément;
I have a boon to ask of thee.

CLEMENT.
My liege,
Speak but your will, it is my law.

FRANCIS.
I thank thee.
But first answer me this—didst thou not mark,
This morning at the tournament, a lady
Who sat beside my sister?

CLEMENT.
That did all
Who were there—'twas the young Countess de Foix,
Lautrec's fair sister.

FRANCIS.
Ay, the very same.
Dost know her, good Clément?

CLEMENT.
My liege, I do;
And e'en will say, that her surpassing beauty
Surpasseth not her wit, which is, indeed,
So perfect, and withal so gentle, too,
That her fair form is but a priceless casket,
Wherein lie precious treasures.

FRANCIS.
By my fay,
The lady's praise falls freely from thy tongue,
Indeed, Clément! Methinks she must be perfect,
Else art thou very mad!

CLEMENT.
My gracious liege!

FRANCIS.
Come, come, Sieur Clément, thou dost love the lady!

CLEMENT.
All saints defend me from it! as I see
Your grace would hold such love insanity.

FRANCIS.
Hast known her long?

CLEMENT.
Ay, long enough, my lord,
To have o'ercome that sudden love which springs
To life from the first glance of beauteous eyes.

FRANCIS.
Do thou mine errand then, and bear to her
This letter and this ring; but see thou name not
Whence they are sent; be silent, and be swift,
And to my chamber bring me her reply.—
How, now! I thought thee gone; why dost thou stop,
And turn your letter o'er and o'er, and look
So sad and doubting?

CLEMENT.
May it please your grace,
I had a sister once—my thoughts were of
This lady's brother.

FRANCIS.
Well, sir! what of him?

CLEMENT.
I pray you, pardon me, my noble lord,
But if—

FRANCIS.
I will arrest the treason hanging
Upon thy lip; for, by my knightly word,
You scroll is such as any gentleman
Might bear to any lady.

CLEMENT.
For that word
I thank your majesty with all my heart;—
I'll bear your message trustily.

FRANCIS.
And quickly;
And meet me in my chamber with thine answer.
Good speed—farewell!—be swift! I wait for thee.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE V.

—COUNCIL CHAMBER.
Under a Canopy is placed the Throne; on either side a vacant seat. Seats are placed on either side of a long table.
Enter the Queen-Mother.
QUEEN.
What, dazzled and ensnar'd, ere the black eyes
That blinded can have flash'd three glances on him!
The last that should have won his yielding heart, too!
She hath a brother, young and proud,—ambitious,
Or else he comes not of the haughty stock
Whose name he bears. Ambitious! ay, and if
This black-eyed girl have the De Foix' high blood
Within her veins, she'll forward his ambition.
I fear this government of Italy
No longer lies at my disposal now.
I would that blindness had put out the beauty
That lies in every woman's eyes!—I would
A foul deformity alone had been
The portion of all women, ere this thing
Had come to pass!—Beset on ev'ry side,—
Hemm'd in,—and forced to guard—e'en more than life—
My pow'r; and let revenge meantime go sleep:
No matter! in the storm the pilot's skill
Shows best.—The King approaches to the council.

(Flourish of trumpets.)
Enter the King and all the Court, Alençon, Bonnivet, Vendôme, Chabannes, Lautrec, Laval, &c.
FRANCIS.
The Duke de Bourbon's absence we might deem
Strange and uncourteous; but we'll rather hope
That some event of unforeseen importance
Hath stood between his duty and ourselves:
Time wears—
[The King leads his Mother to the throne— Alençon seats himself on the left of it; the rest of the Nobles place themselves according to their rank.
On the business of the day.

QUEEN.
Sire, will it not seem also strange in us,
And all uncourteous, if we should discuss
This matter, ere the first prince of the blood
Be here to give his voice in this decision?
Enter Bourbon.
Said I not so? We know my lord of Bourbon
Is ever at the post where duty points.

[Bourbon seats himself on the right of the throne.
FRANCIS.
Cousin of Bourbon, you are welcome here.

BOURBON.
I thank your majesty who bids me so,
And crave th'assembly's pardon: on my way
A man withheld me, unto whom I owed
Some gratitude.

FRANCIS.
Indeed! his name, I pray?
He that hath served those whom we love, serves us.
I prithee, coz, what was't thou ow'dst to him?
I'll be his debtor too.

BOURBON.
Your majesty
(As we have seen in battle oft) holds life
At too unworthy price: unto that man,
I owed my life at Marignan.

FRANCIS.
Indeed!

QUEEN.
Shall we not to the point—our time grows short?

FRANCIS.
Ay, marry; thus, then, noble lords, it is:—
But now a messenger from Italy
Hath reach'd our court, with tidings from Milan,—
Prosper Colonna is in arms again;
And Charles of Spain hath sent his swarthy bands
To ravage the fair tributary states
Our fathers won of yore, and ever deem'd
The brightest flower of foreign growth that wreath'd
Their coronet: now, in this urgency,
We lack some trusty arm to wield our brand
In the defence of Italy. Already,
Two have been named to us—De Bonnivet,
And Lautrec.

QUEEN
(aside to BOURBON).
Bourbon, you look wondrous pale;
I fear me you are ill.

BOURBON
(aside).
Oh gracious madam!
Fear's pallid tint must live within your eye,
And lend whate'er you look on its own hue.

FRANCIS.
Stand forth, Count Lautrec; for De Bonnivet,
Methinks, his youth may follow yet the wars
Before he lead them on; how says our mother?

QUEEN.
How should she say when that the royal choice
Lights on such valour? how but well? but you,
My lord of Bourbon, we would have your voice;
Does silence, disapproving, seal your lips?
Or takes your wisdom no exception here?

BOURBON.
None, madam; and the only wish I have
Is, that you ever had been served in Italy,
As I foresee Count Lautrec's arm will serve you.

LAUTREC.
My liege! beseech you, hold; and you, my lords!—
The honour now conferr'd sits blushingly
On my unworthy brow: oh! not on me
Bestow a prize, which years of bloody service,
And hairs bleach'd in your camps, alone should wear.

FRANCIS.
Now, by my fay, Lautrec, thy speech but shows
As brave and gallant soldier's speech should show,
Shrinking from praise and guerdon duly won:
With our own royal hand we'll buckle on
The sword, that in thy grasp must be the bulwark
And lode-star of our host. Approach!

QUEEN.
Not so.
Your pardon, sir; but it hath ever been
The pride and privilege of woman's hand
To arm the valour that she loves so well:
We would not, for your crown's best jewel, bate
One jot of our accustom'd state to-day:
Count Lautrec, we will arm thee, at our feet:
Take thou the brand which wins thy country's wars—
Thy monarch's trust, and thy fair lady's favour.
Why, how now!—how is this!—my lord of Bourbon!
If we mistake not, 'tis the sword of office
Which graces still your baldrick;—with your leave,
We'll borrow it of you.

BOURBON
(starting up).
Ay, madam! 'tis the sword
You buckled on with your own hand, the day
You sent me forth to conquer in your cause;
And there it is!— (breaks the sword)
—take it—and with it all
Th'allegiance that I owe to France! ay, take it;
And with it, take the hope I breathe o'er it:
That so, before Colonna's host, your arms
Lie crush'd and sullied with dishonour's stain;
So, rest in sunder by contending factions,
Be your Italian provinces; so torn
By discord and dissension this vast empire;
So broken and disjoin'd your subjects' loves;
So fallen your son's ambition, and your pride!

Queen
(rising).
What ho! a guard within there! Charles of Bourbon,
I do arrest thee, traitor to the crown!
Enter Guard.
Away with yonder wide-mouth'd thunderer!
We'll try if gyves and strait confinement cannot
Check this high eloquence, and cool the brain
Which harbours such unmanner'd hopes.
[Bourbon is forced out.
Dream ye, my lords! that thus with open ears,
And gaping mouths and eyes, ye sit and drink
This curbless torrent of rebellious madness!
And you, sir! are you slumbering on your throne!
Or has all majesty fled from the earth,
That women must start up, and in your council
Speak, think, and act for ye; and, lest your vassals,
The very dirt beneath your feet, rise up
And cast ye off, must women, too, defend ye?
For shame, my lords! all, all of ye, for shame!—
Off, off with sword and sceptre, for there is
No loyalty in subjects; and in kings,
No king-like terror to enforce their rights.

FRANCIS.
Our mother speaks warmly in the cause:
Though we must own we hold it somewhat shame,
That we forestall'd her not in her just wrath;
But verily, surprise had chain'd up motion;
And hand and eye, and tongue, alike were bound
In wonder, at yon rebel noble's daring.
Now unto thee once more we turn, Count Lautrec,—
To-morrow's sun must find you on your march:
Already hath Colonna dared too much,
'Tis time we check his hopes of future progress,
And rescue back our torn Italian states.
Well speed ye all! and victory be with you!
Farewell; be faithful, and heav'n send ye back
With no more danger than may serve to be
The plea for praise and honourable guerdon.
Mother, thy hand! we'll speak awhile with thee.

[Exeunt all but Lautrec and Laval.
LAUTREC.
I cry thy mercy, friend! but I'm so maz'd,
So thunderstruck, so lost in wonderment!—
Bourbon arrested! Bourbon prisoner!
And, by the Queen!

LAVAL.
I shall not soon forget
That woman's look, and voice.

LAUTREC.
Come, come, Laval.
Let us shake off this dream that haunts us thus;
The Queen's a woman, who, upon emergency,
Can don the devil,—which of them cannot?
'Tis time we think of our departure;—hark!
Footsteps!—

LAVAL.
Ay, light, though hurried—'tis thy sister—

Enter Françoise.
LAVAL.
Lady, you're welcome as the joyous sun,
And gentle summer airs, that, after storms,
Come wafting all the sweets of fallen blossoms
Through the thick foliage; whose green arms shake off,
In gratitude, their showers of diamond drops,
And bow to the reviving freshness.

FRANÇOISE.
Oh, my dear brother, have I found thee here?
Here will I lock my arms, and rest for ever.

LAUTREC.
My dearest love! what means this passionate grief;
These straining arms and gushing tears? for shame!
Look up and smile; for honour crowns our house.
Dost know that I am governor of Milan?

FRANÇOISE.
They told me so; but oh! they told me, too,
That ere to-night be come, thou wilt go hence;
And the anticipated grief let forth
The torrent of my tears to sweep away
All thoughts of thy promotion. Is it so—
Dost thou, indeed, forsake me?

LAUTREC.
Maiden no;
'Tis true we march for Italy to-night;
'Tis true that this embrace must be the last
For many a day. But for forsaking thee!
I leave thee with the Princess Margaret;
I leave thee here at court,—nay, silly girl—

LAVAL.
Oh, peace!
Prithee upbraid her not: see where she stands,
Bow'd with the weight of mourning loveliness:
Canst thou, with sharp reproving words, wound one
Who gems the lustre of thy new made honours,
With such rare drops of love!

LAUTREC.
My gentle sister!

FRANÇOISE.
Oh, Lautrec! blame me not; we twain have been
E'en from our birth together and alone;
Two healthful scions, of a goodly stock,
Whose other shoots have wither'd all—we've grown,
Still side by side; I like some fragile aspen—
And thou a sturdy oak, 'neath whose broad shelter
I rear'd my head: then frown not, that the wind
Doth weigh the trembling aspen to the earth,
While the stout oak scarce owns the powerless breeze.

LAUTREC.
Oh, churl! to say one unkind word to thee;
Look up, sweet sister; smile once more on me,
That I may carry hence one gleam of sunshine:
Come, dearest, come; unlock thy hands, Laval!
Take her, in pity, from my arms: for sense
Is well nigh drown'd in sorrow.

FRANÇOISE.
Yet one word;
I do beseech thee, leave me not at court;
But let me back to our old castle walls—
Let me not stay at court!

LAUTREC.
E'en as thou wilt:
But, dearest love, methinks such solitude
Will make of grief a custom; whilst at court—
No matter; use thine own discretion; do
E'en as it seemeth unto thee most fitting.
Once more, farewell! Laval, thou'lt follow?

[Exit Lautrec.
LAVAL.
Ay.
But ere I go, perchance for ever, lady,
Unto the land, whose dismal tales of battles,
Where thousands strew'd the earth, have christen'd it
The Frenchman's grave; I'd speak of such a theme
As chimes with this sad hour, more fitly than
Its name gives promise. There's a love, which, born
In early days, lives on through silent years,
Nor ever shines, but in the hour of sorrow,
When it shows brightest—like the trembling light
Of a pale sunbeam, breaking o'er the face
Of the wild waters in their hour of warfare.
Thus much forgive! and trust, in such an hour,
I had not said e'en this, but for the hope
That when the voice of victory is heard
From the far Tuscan valleys, in its swell
Should mournful dirges mingle for the dead,
And I be one of those who are at rest,
You may chance recollect this word, and say,
That day, upon the bloody field, there fell
One who had lov'd thee long, and lov'd thee well.

FRANÇOISE.
Beseech you, speak not thus: we soon, I trust,
Shall meet again—till then, farewell, and prosper;
And if you love me,—which I will not doubt,
Sith your sad looks bear witness to your truth,—
This do for me—never forsake my brother!
And for my brother's sake, since you and he
Are but one soul, be mindful of yourself.
[Exit Laval.
Defenceless, and alone! ay, go thou forth,
For hope sits sunnily upon thy brow,
My brother! but, to me, this parting seems
Full of ill-omen'd dread, woe's sure forerunner.
I could have told thee how seduction's arts,
E'en 'neath the bulwark of thy fond protection,
Have striven to o'erthrow my virtue—ay,
That letter and that ring—they were the king's.
Oh! let me quickly from this fatal court,
Beneath whose smiling surface chasms lie yawning,
To gulph alike th'unwary and the wise.
I'll bid farewell to the Princess Margaret,
And then take shelter in my ancient home;
There brood on my vain love, till grief become
Love's substitute—till foolish hope be dead,
And heav'n shall grant me patience in its stead.

[Exit.