 | Francis the First |  |
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ACT III.
SCENE I.
—THE ROYAL CHAMBER.Francis discovered.
FRANCIS.
By Jupiter! he must have made an errand
Unto th'antipodes, or this new world,
Which, it should seem, our grandsire Adam's will
Did leave to Charles of Spain, else doth he wear
Dull lead for Mercury's air-cutting pinions.
Enter Clement.
Why, how now, slow foot! art thou lame, I prithee?
Hath she the ring,—hath she perused the letter,—
What does she,—says she,—answers she? Be quick,
Man; thy reply. Come, come, the devil speed thee.
CLEMENT.
My liege! I found the lady beaming all
With smiles of hope her brother should be chosen:
Then to her hand deliver'd I your scroll.
FRANCIS.
Ha!
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The which she, with a doubting look, did open;
And, for a moment, her fix'd eye did seem
To drink the characters, but not the sense
Of your epistle: like some traveller,
Who, lacking understanding, passes o'er
Wide tracts and foreign countries, yet brings back
No fruit of his own observation: thus
Stood the fair lady, till her eye was fain
Begin the scroll again; and then, as though
That moment comprehension woke in her,
The blood forsook her cheeks; and straight, asham'd
Of its unnatural desertion, drew
A crimson veil over her marble brows.
FRANCIS.
I would I'd borne the scroll myself, thy words
Image her forth so fair!
CLEMENT.
Do they, indeed?
Then sorrow seize my tongue! for, look you, sir,
I will not speak of your own fame or honour,
Nor of your word to me: king's words, I find,
Are drafts on our credulity, not pledges
Of their own truth. You have been often pleas'd
To shower your royal favours on my head;
And fruitful honours from your kindly will
Have rais'd me far beyond my fondest hopes;
But had I known such service was to be
The nearest way my gratitude might take
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All that I hold of you: and, now, not e'en
Your crown and kingdom could requite to me
The cutting sense of shame that I endur'd
When on me fell the sad reproachful glance
Which told me how I stood in the esteem
Of yonder lady. Let me tell you, sir,
You've borrow'd for a moment what whole years
Cannot bestow—an honourable name!
Now fare you well; I've sorrow at my heart,
To think your majesty hath reckon'd thus
Upon my nature. I was poor before,
Therefore I can be poor again without
Regret, so I lose not mine own esteem.
FRANCIS.
Skip me thy spleen, and onward with thy tale.
What said the lady then?
CLEMENT.
With trembling hands
She folded up your scroll; and more in sorrow,
As I believe, than anger, letting fall
Unheeded from her hand the sparkling jewel,
She left me.
FRANCIS.
Thou, I warrant, sore abash'd,
And durst not urge her further. Excellent!
Oh, ye are precious wooers, all of ye!
I marvel how ye ever ope your lips
Unto, or look upon that fearful thing,
A lovely woman.
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And I marvel, sir,
At those who do not feel the majesty,—
By heav'n! I'd almost said the holiness,—
That circles round a fair and virtuous woman:
There is a gentle purity that breathes
In such a one, mingled with chaste respect,
And modest pride of her own excellence,—
A shrinking nature, that is so adverse
To aught unseemly, that I could as soon
Forget the sacred love I owe to heav'n,
As dare, with impure thoughts, to taint the air
Inhal'd by such a being: than whom, my liege,
Heaven cannot look on anything more holy,
Or earth be proud of anything more fair.
[Exit.
FRANCIS.
Good! 'tis his god stirs in him now, I trow;
The poet is inspir'd, and doubtless, too.
With his own muse; whose heavenly perfections,
He fain would think belong to Eve's frail daughters.
Well: I will find occasions for myself—
With my own ardent love I'll take the field,
And woo this pretty saint until she yield.
[Exit.
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SCENE II.
—A SMALL APARTMENT IN THE LOUVRE.Enter Gonzales, with papers in his hand.
GONZALES.
Bourbon arrested! oh sweet mistress Fortune,
Who rails at thee, doth wrong thee, on my soul!
Thy blindness steads me well; for thou hast thrown,
All time, and place, and opportunity,
To boot into my path—these documents,
That, but this moment, seem'd foul witnesses
To my suspicious fears, must now become
The charts of my new born, though late dead purpose.
(Reading)
So! now I know my task, how far I may
Promise with truth; and how far with false promises
Garnish my snare—I'll straight unto the Queen,
And strive to win access to Bourbon's prison;
It shall fare ill, if I cannot outwit
Even this lynx-eyed woman.
Enter the Queen.
QUEEN.
Save you, father!
Throw by those papers now, and hearken to me:
De Bourbon is arrested; 'tis of that
I came to speak—you must straight to his prison.
GONZALES
(aside).
I cannot, for my life, remember me
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Yet do all things fall out so strangely well
For me, and for my purpose, as though fate
Serv'd an apprenticeship unto my will.
QUEEN.
How now, what counsel hold you with yourself?
GONZALES.
Debate of marvel, only, please your grace;
Is then the Duke so near his verge of life,
That he hath need of spiritual aid,
T'improve this brief and waning tenure?
QUEEN.
Good!
Oh excellent! I laugh; yet, by my fay,
This whin'd quotation from thy monkish part
Hath lent a clue to my unfixed purpose,
Which had not yet resolv'd by what pretext
Thou might'st unto his prison with best seeming.
Most reverend sir, and holy confessor!
Get thee unto the prison of this lord;
There, see thou do exhort him unto death;—
And, mark me—for all warriors hold acquaintance
With the grim monarch: when he rides abroad
The battle-skirts, they crown him with proud crests;
In human blood dye they his purple robes;
They place a flashing sword in his right hand,
And call him Glory!—therefore be thou sure
To speak of nought but scaffolds rob'd in black;
Grim executioners, and the vile mob
Staring, and jeering; 'neath whose clouted shoes,
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That flows thro' his proud veins soak in the earth.
GONZALES.
Madam, I will.
QUEEN.
Then, when thou hast o'ercome
The haughty spirit, mould it to thy will,
And tutor him so well, that presently
Bid them strike off his chains; and to the palace
Lead him in secret: above all, be sure
To lard thy speech, but chiefly at the first,
With sober strains of fitting holiness,
Quote me the saints, the fathers,—bring the church
With all its lumber, into active service.
Briefly, dissemble well—But pshaw! I prate!
I had forgot again—thou art a priest:
Tarry not, and conduct thy prisoner
Unto my chamber, where I wait for thee.
[Exit.
GONZALES.
Dissemble well! witness, deep hell, how well
I have, and will dissemble! Now, then, to seek
De Bourbon's prison; by my holidame!
Lady, you'll wait till doomsday ere he come.
He shall be free within this hour—and yet—
But ere I pour my proffer in his ear,
I'll work upon his hot and violent nature,
And make him sure, ere I attempt to win him.
But come, time tarries not—sweet Fortune! prithee
Still let me woo thee, till I have achiev'd
The task another's proud ambition sets me;
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No power to stem the headlong tide of will
That bears me onward to my own revenge.
SCENE III.
—A PRISON.Bourbon and Margaret discovered.
BOURBON.
Lady, you speak in vain.
MARGARET.
I do beseech thee!
Oh Bourbon! Bourbon! 'twas but yesterday
That thou didst vow eternal love to me;
Now, hither have I wended to your prison,
And, spite of maiden pride and fearfulness,
Held parley with thy guards to win my way.
I've moved their iron natures with my tears;
Which seem'd as they would melt the very stones
Whereon they fell so fast. I do implore thee,
Speak to me, Bourbon!—but a word—one word!
I never bowed my knee to aught of earth
Ere this; but I have ever seen around me,
Others who knelt, and worshipp'd princes' favours:
From them, or rather from my love, I learn
The humble seeming of a suppliant;—
Upon my bended knees, I do implore thee,—
Look not, or speak not, if thou so hast sworn,—
But take the freedom that my gold hath bought thee:
Away! nor let these eyes behold thy death!
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You are deceiv'd, lady, they will not dare
To take my life.
MARGARET.
'Tis thou that art deceived!
What! talk'st thou of not daring;—dost thou see
Yon sun that flames above the earth? I tell thee,
That if my mother had but bent her will
To win that sun, she would accomplish it.
BOURBON.
My life is little worth to any now,
Nor have I any, who shall after me
Inherit my proud name.
MARGARET.
Hold, there, my lord!—
Posterity, to whom great men and their
Fair names belong, is your inheritor.
Your country, from whose kings your house had birth,
Claims of you, sir, your high and spotless name!—
Fame craves it of you; for when there be none
Bearing the blood of mighty men, to bear
Their virtues also,—Fame emblazons them
Upon her flag, which o'er the world she waves,
Persuading others to like glorious deeds.
Oh! will you die upon a public scaffold?
Beneath the hands o'th' executioner!
Shall the vile rabble bait you to your death!
Shall they applaud and make your fate a tale
For taverns, and the busy city streets?
And in the wide hereafter,—for the which
All warriors hope to live,—shall your proud name
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Branded and curst, as rebel's name should be?
BOURBON.
No! light that curse on those who made me such,—
Who stole my well-earn'd honours from my brow,
And gave such guerdon to whole years of service!
Light the foul curse of black ingratitude,—
Of shame and bitter sorrow,—and the sharp
Reproving voice of after times and men,—
Upon the heartless boy, who knew not how
To prize his subject's love! A tenfold curse
Light on that royal harlot—
MARGARET.
Oh! no more—
BOURBON.
Nay, maiden, 'tis in vain! for thou shalt hear me!
Drink to the dregs the knowledge thou hast forced,
And dare upbraid me, even with a look:
Had I but loved thy mother more—thee less,
I might this hour have stood upon a throne!
Ay, start! I tell thee, that the Queen thy mother
Hath loved—doth love me with the fierce desires
Of her unbridled nature; she hath thrown
Her crown, her kingdom, and herself before me;
And but I loved thee more than all the world,
I might have wed Louisa of Savoy!
Now stare, and shudder,—freeze thyself to marble;—
Now say where best the meed of shame is due,—
Now look upon these prison walls,—these chains,—
And bid me rein my anger!
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Oh, be silent!
For you have rent in twain the sacred'st veil
That ever hung upon the eyes of innocence.
(Gonzales without.)
GONZALES.
God bless the inmates of this prison-house!
BOURBON.
Who calls without?
Enter Gonzales.
MARGARET.
The pulse of life stands still
Within my veins, and horror hath o'ercome
My strength! Oh! holy father, to thy care
Do I commend this wayward man.
[Exit Margaret.
BOURBON.
How, now?
A priest! what means this most unwelcome visit?
GONZALES.
Who questions thus a son o' the holy church
In tones so rude?
BOURBON.
One who has known
Much of the church,—more of her worthy sons;
Therefore, sir monk, be brief—thy business here?
GONZALES.
Look on these walls, whose stern time-stained brows
Frown like relentless justice on their inmates.
Listen!—that voice is Echo's dull reply
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What should a priest do here?
BOURBON.
Ay, what, indeed!—
Unless you come to soften down these stones
With your discourse, and teach the tedious echo
A newer lesson: trust me, that is all
Your presence, father, will accomplish here.
GONZALES.
Oh sinful man! and is thy heart so hard,
That I might easier move thy prison stones?
Know, then, my mission—death is near at hand!
The warrant hath gone forth—the seal is set;
Thou art already numbered with those
Who leave their names to lasting infamy,
And their remains to be trod under foot
Of the base rabble.
BOURBON.
Hark thee, in thine ear:—
Shall I hear when I'm dead what men say of me?
Or will my body blench and quiver 'neath
The stamp of one foot rather than another?
Go to—go to! I have fought battles, father,
Where death and I have met in full close contact,
And parted, knowing we should meet again;
Therefore, come when he may, we've look'd upon
Each other far too narrowly, for me
To fear the hour when we shall so be join'd,
That all eternity shall never sunder us.
Go prate to others about skulls and graves;
Thou never didst in heat of combat stand,
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With the pale scarecrow—Death!
GONZALES
(aside).
Ah, think'st thou so?
And thou didst never lie wrapp'd round so long
With death's cold arms, upon the gory field,
As I have lain. (Aloud)
—Hear me, thou hard of heart!
They who go forth to battle are led on
With sprightly trumpets and shrill clam'rous clarions;
The drum doth roll its double notes along,
Echoing the horses' tramp; and the sweet fife
Runs through the yielding air in dulcet measure,
That makes the heart leap in its case of steel!
Thou, shalt be knell'd unto thy death by bells,
Pond'rous and brazen-tongued, whose sullen toll
Shall cleave thine aching brain, and on thy soul
Fall with a leaden weight: the muffled drum
Shall mutter round thy path like distant thunder:
Stead of the war-cry, and wild battle-roar,—
That swells upon the tide of victory,
And seems unto the conqueror's eager ear
Triumphant harmony of glorious discords!—
There shall be voices cry soul foul shame on thee!
And the infuriate populace shall clamour
To heav'n for lightnings on thy rebel head!
BOURBON.
Monks love not bells, which call them up to pray'rs
I'the dead noon o' night, when they would snore
Rather than watch: but, father, I care not,
E'en if the ugliest sound I e'er did hear—
Thy raven voice—croak curses o'er my grave.
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What! death and shame! alike you heed them not!
Then, Mercy, use thy soft, persuasive arts,
And melt this stubborn spirit! Be it known
To you, my lord, the Queen hath sent me hither.
BOURBON.
Then get thee hence again, foul, pand'ring priest!
By heav'n! I knew that cowl did cover o'er
Some filthy secret, that the day dared not
To pry into. I know your holy church,
Together with its brood of sandall'd fiends!
Ambition is your God; and all the off'ring
Ye bring him, are your vile compliances
With the bad wills of vicious men in power,
Whose monstrous passions ye do nurse and cherish,
That from the evil harvest which they yield,
A plenteous gleaning may reward your toils.
Out, thou unholy thing!
GONZALES.
Hold, madman! hear me!
If for thy fame, if for thy warm heart's blood
Thou wilt not hear me, listen in the name
Of France thy country.—
BOURBON.
Tempter, get thee gone!
I have no land, I have no home,—no country,—
I am a traitor, cast from out the arms
Of my ungrateful country! I disown it!
Wither'd be all its glories, and its pride!
May it become the slave of foreign power!
May foreign princes grind its thankless children!
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To spill their blood for it, or for its cause,
Dig it like dogs! and when they die, like dogs,
Rot on its surface, and make fat the soil,
Whose produce shall be seiz'd by foreign hands!
GONZALES
(aside).
Now, then, to burst the last frail thread that checks
His headlong course,—another step, and then
He topples o'er the brink!—he's won—he's ours.—
(Aloud)
—You beat the air with idle words; no man
Doth know how deep his country's love lies grain'd
In his heart's core, until the hour of trial!
Fierce though you hurl your curse upon the land,
Whose monarchs cast ye from its bosom; yet,
Let but one blast of war come echoing
From where the Ebro and the Douro roll;
Let but the Pyrenees reflect the gleam
Of twenty of Spain's lances, and your sword
Shall leap from out its scabbard to your hand!
BOURBON.
Ay, priest it shall! eternal heaven, it shall!
And its far flash shall lighten o'er the land,
The leading star of Spain's victorious host!
But flaming, like some dire portentous comet,
I'th' eyes of France, and her proud governors!
Oh, vengeance! 'tis for thee I value life:
Be merciful, my fate, nor cut me off,
Ere I have wreak'd my fell desire, and made
Infamy glorious, and dishonour fame!
But, if my wayward destiny hath will'd
That I should here be butcher'd shamefully,
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His hope, and his inheritance, I swear,
That on the day Spain overflows its bounds,
And rolls the tide of war upon these plains,
My spirit on the battle's edge shall ride;
And louder than death's music, and the roar
Of combat, shall my voice be heard to shout,
On—on—to victory and carnage.
GONZALES.
Now,
That day is come, ay, and that very hour;
Now shout your war-cry; now unsheath your sword!
I'll join the din, and make these tottering walls
Tremble and nod to hear our fierce defiance!
Nay, never start, and look upon my cowl—
You love not priests, De Bourbon, more than I.
Off! vile denial of my manhood's pride!
Off, off to hell! where thou wast first invented,—
Now once again I stand and breathe a knight.
Nay, stay not gazing thus: it is Garcia,
Whose name hath reach'd thee long ere now, I trow;
Whom thou hast met in deadly fight full oft,
When France and Spain join'd in the battle-field!
Beyond the Pyrenean boundary
That guards thy land, are forty thousand men:
Their unfurl'd pennons flout fair France's sun,
And wanton in the breezes of her sky:
Impatient halt they there; their foaming steeds,
Pawing the huge and rock-built barrier,
That bars their further course: they wait for thee;
For thee whom France hath injur'd and cast off;
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More shameful death; for thee, whom Charles of Spain
Summons to head his host, and lead them on
(Gives him a parchment.)
To conquest and to glory!
BOURBON.
To revenge!
What tells he here of lands, and honours! Pshaw!
I've had my fill of such. Revenge! Revenge!
That is the boon my unslaked anger craves,
That is the bribe that wins me to thy cause,
And that shall be my battle cry! Ha! ha!
Why, how we dream! why look, Garcia; canst thou
With mumbled priestcraft file away these chains,
Or must I bear them into Spain with me,
That Charles may learn what guerdon valour wins
This side the Pyrenees?
GONZALES.
It shall not need—
What ho! but hold—together with this garb,
Methinks I have thrown off my prudence!
(Resumes the Monk's dress.)
BOURBON.
What!
Wilt thou to Spain with me in frock and cowl,
That men shall say De Bourbon is turn'd driveller,
And rides to war in company with monks?
GONZALES.
Listen.—The Queen for her own purposes
Confided to my hand her signet-ring,
Bidding me strike your fetters off, and lead you
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But being free, so use thy freedom, that
Before the morning's dawn all search be fruitless.—
What, ho! within.
Enter Gaoler.
Behold this signet-ring!—
Strike off those chains, and get thee gone.
[Exit Gaoler.
And now
Follow.—How now,—dost doubt me, Bourbon?
BOURBON.
Ay,
First for thy habit's sake; and next, because
Thou rather, in a craven priest's disguise,
Tarriest in danger in a foreign court,
Than seek'st that danger in thy country's wars.
GONZALES.
Thou art unarm'd: there is my dagger; 'tis
The only weapon that I bear, lest fate
Should play me false: take it, and use it, too,
If in the dark and lonely path I lead thee,
Thou mark'st me halt, or turn, or make a sign
Of treachery!—and now, tell me, dost know
John Count Laval?
BOURBON.
What! Lautrec's loving friend—
Who journeys now to Italy with him?
GONZALES.
How! gone to Italy! he surely went
But a short space from Paris, to conduct
Count Lautrec on his way.
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I tell thee, no!
He's bound for Italy, along with him.
GONZALES.
Then the foul fiend hath mingled in my plot,
And marr'd it too! my life's sole aim and purpose!
Didst thou but know what damned injuries,
What foul, unknightly shame and obloquy,
His sire—whose name is wormwood to my mouth—
Did heap upon our house—didst thou but know—
No matter—get thee gone—I tarry here.
And if three lingering years, ay, three times three,
Must pass ere I obtain what three short days
Had well nigh given me, e'en be it so—
Life is revenge! revenge is life! Follow;
And, though we never meet again, when thou
Shalt hear of the most fearful deed of daring,
Of the most horrible and bloody tale,
That ever graced a beldame's midnight legend,
Or froze her gaping list'ners, think of me
And my revenge! Now, Bourbon, heaven speed thee!
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
—THE ROYAL APARTMENT.Francis seated: two Gentlemen attending.
Enter the Queen.
QUEEN.
Hear you these tidings, son?—Milan is lost!
A messenger, who rode the live-long night,
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Prosper Colonna hath dissolv'd our host
Like icicles i'the sun's beams: and Count Lautrec,
Madden'd with his defeat and shame, fled from it
The night Colonna entered Milan.
FRANCIS
(starting up).
Coward!
But he shall answer dearly for his flight
And for fair Milan's loss. Say they not whither
He fled to?
QUEEN.
Oh, he doubtless is conceal'd
In some dark corner of the Milanese,
Where heaven can scarcely look upon his shame.
[Shouts without.
FRANCIS.
What din without?
QUEEN.
It is the people, who
Throng round the palace gates, with gaping mouths,
To hear the confirmation of the tidings.
FRANCIS.
There's some commotion, for their ceaseless shouts
Shake our imperial dwelling to its base.
[Shouts without.
Enter a Messenger.
How now! what more?
MESSENGER.
So please you, my dread liege,
News are this hour arriv'd that the Count Lautrec,
Passing disguis'd from Italy towards Paris,
Hath been arrested by stout Lord St. Pol:
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Until your royal pleasure be made known,
Whether he there sojourn in longer durance,
Or be sent hither to abide his trial.
FRANCIS.
Confess'd he the betraying of our Milan?
MESSENGER.
He holds an unmov'd silence on the point,
Still craving of your majesty a hearing,
And, after that, stern and impartial justice.
FRANCIS.
And, by the soul of Charlemagne, we swear
He shall have justice, such as he demands.
[Exit Messenger.
His deeds, upon the swift wings of the wind,
Have reach'd the high tribunal of our throne,
And, ere himself arrive, have there condemn'd him.
But, for the well-remember'd services
Done by his sire to France and to our house,
As a dear mercy's boon, we leave him life.
Mother, how is't with thee? thou art drown'd in thought.
QUEEN.
Can it be otherwise, when wave o'er wave
Of fortune's adverse tide comes whelming us
With most resistless ruin? Hast thou heard,
Or did this loss of Milan stop thine ears
With its ill-fated din,—Bourbon's escap'd?
FRANCIS.
Bourbon escap'd! then fortune loves Colonna!
For, if he once set foot in Italy,
Our injur'd subject and our haughty foe
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How fell this evil chance?
QUEEN.
Another time
Shall fit us better for long argument:
We tell of his escape, while he improves it.
Deeds, and not words, suit best this exigency;
Our task is vigilant and swift pursuit.
[Exit.
FRANCIS.
My task is vigilant though slow pursuit;
I have small care for even this event,
Which seems as though it shook my very throne:
One thought alone hath room within my breast—
How I may win this maid, whose fearful charms
Have deem'd themselves secure in absence only:
Forgetting how fond mem'ry, young love's shadow,
Laughs at such hope. I'll win her, though the stars
Link hands, and make a fiery rampart round her:
Though she be ice, steel, rock, or adamant,
Or anything that is more hard and stubborn.
Love, lend me aid, this vict'ry must be thine;
Win thou this peerless vot'ry to thy shrine!
[Exit.
SCENE V.
—AN APARTMENT IN THE CHATEAU-DE-FOIX.Françoise discovered seated.
Enter Florise.
FLORISE.
How fare you, madam?
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Well, Florise. Why, girl,—
Why dost thou gaze on me? Do hollow cheeks
And tear-stain'd eyes belie me?
FLORISE.
Lady, no;
But something in your voice and in your look,—
Something that is all sorrow's, only hers,—
Is grafted on the roses of your cheek,
And burns in the sad lustre of your eye.
Pardon me, sweet my mistress! but, indeed,
Since your return from court,—
[A horn is heard without.
FRANÇOISE.
Hark! from without
A horn is winded: hasten, prating girl,
And fetch me tidings of this sudden summons!
[Exit Florise.
I tremble! yet I scarce know wherefore—how
If it should be my brother?—heaven forefend!
He brings with him Laval, my promis'd husband!
Oh! grief hath wedded me for ever more;
Our bridal vow was all made up of sighs,
And tears have seal'd it!
Re-enter Florise.
FLORISE.
Please you, madam, one,
A messenger from court, hath just arriv'd
With this despatch.
[Exit Florise.
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From court?—oh give it me!
Hold! should it be the King! pshaw, trembling fool!
I long, yet fear to look upon it—thus
(breaks the seal)
Evil or good come of it, I will read—
(Reads)
—‘This, from my most doleful prison-house,—
‘If half the love thou oft hast sworn to me,
‘But half be true, read, and deliver me!
‘This I indite in such a darksome cell
‘As fancy shrinks from,—where the blessed light
‘And genial air do never visit me,—
‘Where chains bow down my limbs to the damp earth,
‘And darkness compasseth me like a veil;—
‘I do beseech thee, by the tender love
‘That I have borne thee from thine infancy,—
‘I do beseech thee, by all strongest ties
‘Of kin, and of compassion,—let me not
‘Lie like a curs'd and a forgotten thing,
‘Thrust down beneath the earth;—let not the blood
‘That bounds in youth's swift current through my veins
‘Be chill'd by dungeon dews before its time;
‘Or thicken'd by the weight of galling fetters!’
Oh misery! my brother,—my dear brother!
(Reads)
—‘If this doth move the spirit of thy love,
‘Hie thee to court, and there, at the King's feet,
‘Kneel and implore my pardon;—do not fear
‘To let thy tears plead for me,—to thy prayers
‘Do I commit my fate; and on thy lips,
‘Whose moving eloquence must touch his soul,
‘Hang all my hopes!—Sweet sister, think upon me!’
What, back to court!—what, sue at the King's feet!
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Must I plunge headlong back again! My brain
Is dizzy with the flocking ills that gather
All numberless and indistinct around me.
Alas! poor scroll; how his hand shook in tracing
Thy sad appeal! Oh my unhappy brother!
Why didst thou not at price of my own blood
Rate thy deliverance! but with heart still throbbing
With most unnerving and resistless love,
Shall I encounter the King's eyes, and feel
That winning is but loss; and life, and liberty,
Given to thee, the warrants of my ruin?
(Reads)
—‘I do beseech thee, by the tender love
‘That I have borne thee from thine infancy!’—
I can no more! thou shalt be rescued! yet—
Enter Florise.
FLORISE.
Madam, the messenger awaits your answer.
FRANÇOISE.
Oh maiden, read! my brother is in prison;
His fond arms that so oft have clasp'd around me,
Strait bound with gyves:—oh heaven! my dear, dear brother.
FLORISE.
Why, madam, how now? are ye lost in grief?
Are tears his ransom?—Up; for shame! for shame!
You must to court, and straight procure his pardon.
Nay, never wring your hands; they say the King
Is gentle-hearted, and did ne'er refuse
Bright eyes, whose pray'rs were tearful rosaries,
Told with devotion at his royal feet.
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Kind heaven be with me! I will do this deed.
Oh, Lautrec! there is sorrow at my heart,
Heavy and boding!—Florise, is't not strange—
I fear—alas! alas! I am undone!
FLORISE.
Why this is madness! and your brother lies,
Meantime, in darkness, and deep silence—winging
In fancy hither,—hoping, with the hope
That is but intense agony—so deep,
That hope which anchors on so frail a stay!
Now, at this hour, he calls imploringly;
His fetter'd arms are stretch'd abroad to you.—
FRANÇOISE.
No more! no more! I will this hour away;—
Nay, come not with me; ere the night be fallen,
I shall return, successful and most blest;
Or thou wilt hear, that at th'obdurate feet
Of him, whom I am sent to supplicate,
I pour'd my life in prayers for my dear brother.
[Exeunt severally.
SCENE VI.
—A ROOM IN THE PALACE.Enter Francis and Bonnivet.
FRANCIS.
No tidings of De Bourbon; search is vain.
The storm is gath'ring, and 'tis time we spread
Due shelter over us. De Bonnivet!
How say'st thou? here be more despatches—see
81
Of this same Lautrec, and Colonna's host
Reeling with victory, which thought to trample
The last poor remnant of our broken troops,
Has been repuls'd by him, and overthrown.
Yet fear I much, this vantage will be lost
For lack of power to keep or to improve it.
BONNIVET.
The messenger brought word, that Count Laval
Had, in that very fray, been so sore wounded,
That long he lay upon the field of death,
As he'd ta'en there his everlasting rest.
Enter a Gentleman.
FRANCIS.
In this despatch—How now?
GENTLEMAN.
So please your grace,
One stands without, and earnestly entreats
To see your majesty.
FRANCIS.
Hath he no name?
GENTLEMAN.
My liege, it is a woman; but her veil
So curtains all her form, that even eyes
Which knew, and oft had gaz'd on her, might guess
In vain.
FRANCIS.
A woman, and a suppliant!
Let her have entrance.
BONNIVET.
At some other time
82
Further concerning Italy.
FRANCIS.
Ay, ay,
At some more fitting time.
[Exit Bonnivet.
Enter Françoise.
FRANÇOISE
(aside).
Oh, heav'n! be merciful!
My eyes are dim, and icy fear doth send
My blood all shuddering back upon my heart.
FRANCIS.
Close veil'd, indeed: mysterious visitant!
Whom curious thought doth strive to look upon,
Despite the cloud that now enshrines you; pardon,
If failing in its hope, the eager eye
Doth light on ev'ry point, that, unconceal'd,
Tells of the secret it so fain would pierce:
That heav'nly gait, whose slow majestic motion
Discloses all the bearing of command;
That noiseless foot, that falling on the earth,
Wakes not an echo; leaves not e'en a print—
So jealous seeming of its favours; and
This small white hand, I might deem born of marble,
But for the throbbing life that trembles in it:—
Why, how is this? 'tis cold as marble's self;
And by your drooping form!—this is too much—
Youth breathes around you; beauty is youth's kin:
I must withdraw this envious veil—
FRANÇOISE.
Hold sir!
Your highness need but speak to be obey'd;
Thus then— (unveils)
—
83
Amazement! oh, thou peerless light!
Why thus deny thy radiance, and enfold,
Like the coy moon, thy charms in envious clouds?
FRANÇOISE.
Such clouds best suit, whose sun is set for ever;
And veils should curtain o'er those eyes, whose light
Is all put out with tears: oh, good my liege!
I come a suitor to your pard'ning mercy.
FRANCIS
(aside).
Sue on, so thou do after hear my suit.
FRANÇOISE.
My brother! Out, alas!—your brow grows dark,
And threat'ningly doth fright my scarce-breath'd pray'r
Back to its hold of silence.
FRANCIS.
Lady, aye,
Your brother hath offended 'gainst the state,
And must abide the state's most lawful vengeance;
Nor canst thou in thy sorrow even say
Such sentence is unjust.
FRANÇOISE.
I do, I do;
Oh, vengeance! what hast thou to do with justice?
Most merciful, and most vindictive, who
Hath call'd ye sisters; who hath made ye kin?
My liege, my liege, if you do take such vengeance
Upon my brother's fault, yourself do sin,
By calling your's that which is heaven's alone:
But if 'tis justice that hath sentenc'd him,
84
Against all justice, without any mercy.
FRANCIS.
Maiden, thou plead'st in vain.
FRANÇOISE.
Oh, say not so:
Oh, merciful, my lord! you are a soldier;
You have won war's red favours in the field,
And victory hath been your handmaiden:
Oh! think, if you were thrust away for ever
From fame and glory, warrior's light and air;
And left to feel time's creeping fingers chill
Your blood; and from fame's blazonry efface
Your youthful deeds, which, like a faithless promise,
Bloom'd fair, but bore no after-fruit—
FRANCIS.
Away!
Thou speak'st of that no woman ever knew.
Thy prayer is cold: hast thou no nearer theme,
Which, having felt thyself, thou may'st address
More movingly unto my heart?
FRANÇOISE.
None, none,
But what that heart itself might whisper you.
Where is the Princess Margaret? my liege!
As she loves you, so have I lov'd my brother:
Oh, think how she would be o'ercome with woe,
Were you in hopeless dungeon pent? Oh, think!
If iron-handed power had so decreed
That you should never clasp her, or behold
Her face again!—
85
Farewell, fair maid, thy suit
Is bootless all—perchance—but no, 'tis vain:
Yet had'st thou pleaded more, and not so coldly—
FRANÇOISE.
Oh, good my liege! turn not away from me!
See, on the earth I kneel; by these swift tears
That witness my affliction; by each throb
Of my sad heart; by all you love!—
FRANCIS.
Ah, tempter!
Say rather by these orient pearls, whose price
Would bribe the very soul of justice; say,
By these luxuriant tresses, which have thrown
Eternal chains around my heart—
(Françoise starts up.)
Nay, start not;
If thou, so soon, art weary of beseeching,
Hearken to me, and I will frame a suit
Which thou must hear. (Kneels)
By the resistless love
Thou hast inspir'd me with!—by thy perfections,—
Thy matchless beauty!—Nay, it is in vain,
Thou shalt not free thyself, till thou hast heard;
Thou shalt not free thy brother, till—
FRANÇOISE.
Unhand me!
Sir, as you are a man—
Enter the Queen.
QUEEN.
Oh, excellent!
FRANCIS
(starts up).
Confusion seize you woman's watchfulness!
86
I fear me I have marr'd a wise discourse;
Which, if I read aright, yon lady's looks
Was argued most persuasively; fair madam,
My son hath had the happiness already
To welcome you to court; 'twould seem remiss
In me to be so backward, were it not
That ignorance of your return hath robb'd
Me of joy's better half—anticipation;
Which, as it seems, you have been pleas'd to grant
His Majesty: what, not one little word!
Nay, then, your conference is doubtless ended;
If so—I have some business with the King—
(She waives Françoise off.)
FRANCIS.
Then, madam, you must let that bus'ness rest;
For, look you, I have matters, which, though long
I've ponder'd o'er them, I've reserv'd till now,
Unto your private ear.—How many years
Longer am I to live in tutelage?
When will it please your wisdom to resign
The office, which, self-arrogated, seems
Daily to grow beyond that wisdom's compass,
Though strain'd unto its utmost? Hark you, madam!
'Tis time you lay aside the glittering bauble,
Which, hourly, in your hands grows more respectless;—
I speak of power,—I'm weary of these visions;
In which, you've nurs'd and pamper'd your ambition
Until it dreams its dream is true:—how long
Am I to wear the yoke, that ev'ry day
Grows heavier, but less firm?—if longer yet,
87
'Twill break and crush you: nay, ne'er gaze on me
With that fix'd haughty stare; I do not sleep—
'Tis you that dream—full time you were awaken'd.
QUEEN.
What, thankless boy! whose greatness is the work
Of my own hands;—this, to your mother, sir?
FRANCIS.
I am your King, madam,—your King,—your King!—
Ay, start and boil with passion, and turn pale
With rage, whose powerless effort wakes but scorn:
Who made you Queen of France? my father's wife
Was Duchess of Savoy and Angoulême:
These, are your only titles,—and the rest,
A boon, that courtesy hath lent, not given,
Unto the mother of the King of France;—
And, for the boast you make, of having made me
All that I am, 'tis false; my open right,
Strong in its truth, and in the world's approval,
Both call'd me to the throne, and held me there.
'Tis you who shine from a reflected light;—
'Tis you, whose greatest honour is my crown;—
'Tis you, who owe me, and my royal state,
All that you have of state and of observance.
Think on it well; henceforth you'll find it so:
And, as you value the faint shade of power
Which clings to you, beware how it is used.
Curb your unbounded pride and haughty spirit;
Which, brooking no control itself, would make
Slaves of all else that breathe; and, mark me well,
Slacken your leading strings or ere they break.
[Exit.
88
The hour is come at last,—so long foreseen,—
So long averted by my anxious efforts,
My o'ergrown power is toppling from its base,—
And, like a ruin'd tower, whose huge supporters
At length decay, it nods unto its ruin.
I am undone! But, if I needs must fall,
No rising foot shall tread upon my neck,
And say I pav'd the way for its ascension.
Proud spirit! thou who in the darkest hours
Of danger and defeat hast steaded me,—
Thou dauntless, uncontroll'd, and daring soul!
Who hast but seen in all the world a throne,—
In all mankind, thine instruments; rejoice!
I'll do a deed, which, prospering, shall place me
At once upon the summit of my hopes,—
Beyond all power of future storm or wreck;
Or, if I fail, my fall shall be like, his,
That wond'rous mighty man, who overthrew
The whole Philistian host,—when revelry
Was turn'd to mourning,—and the pond'rous ruin,
That he drew down on his own head, o'erwhelm'd
The power of Gath, when Gaza shook for fear.
Enter Gonzales.
Come hither, sirrah, now the day is done,—
And night, with swarthy hands, is sowing stars
In yonder sky: De Bourbon is escap'd:
Thy days are forfeit; but thy life is now
More needful to my present purposes,
Than was thy purpos'd death, t'appease my rage.
Thou'rt free!—I've need of thee; live and obey.
89
(aside).
Revenge! I clutch thee still, since still I live.
(Aloud)
Madam, obedience ever was my life's
Sole study and attainment.
QUEEN.
Hark thee, father!
I have a deed for thee, which may, perhaps,
For a short moment, freeze thy startled blood;
And fright thy firmly-seated heart, to beat
Hurried and trembling summons in thy breast;—
Didst ever look upon the dead?
GONZALES.
Ay, madam,
Full oft; and in each calm or frightful guise
Death comes in,—on the bloody battle-field;
When with each gush of black and curdling life
A curse was uttered,—when the pray'rs I've pour'd,
Have been all drown'd with din of clashing arms;
And shrieks, and shouts, and loud artillery,
That shook the slipp'ry earth, all drunk with gore;
I've seen it, swoll'n with subtle poison, black
And staring with concentrate agony;
When ev'ry vein hath started from its bed,
And wreath'd like knotted snakes, around the brows
That, frantic, dash'd themselves in tortures down
Upon the earth. I've seen life float away
On the faint sound of a far tolling bell;
Leaving its late warm tenement as fair,
As though 'twere th'incorruptible that lay
Before me; and all earthly taint had vanish'd
With the departed spirit.
90
Father, hold!
Return to th'other—to that second death,
Most fearful in its ghastly agony.
Come nearer to me; didst thou ever—nay,
Put back thy cowl—I fain would see thy face:
So—didst thou ever—thou look'st very pale—
Art fear'd?
GONZALES.
Who, I? Your highness surely jests!
QUEEN.
Did ever thine own hand—thou understand'st me.
GONZALES.
I 'gin to understand you, madam; aye,
It has been red with blood, with reeking life.
QUEEN.
Father! so steep that hand for me once more,
And, by my soul I swear, I will reward thee
With the cardinal's hat when next Rome's princes meet.
GONZALES.
The cardinal's hat! go on, I pray you, madam,
I know but half my task.
QUEEN.
True, father, true,
I had forgot: and now methinks I feel
Lighten'd of a huge burden, now thou know'st
My settled purpose.—Listen! there is one,
Whose envious beauty doth pluck down my pow'r,
Day after day, with more audacious hand—
That woman!
91
Ha! a woman!
QUEEN.
Well, how now!
Blood is but blood, and life no more than life,
Be 't cradled in however fair a form!
Dost shrink, thou vaunting caitiff, from the test
Thine own avowal drew upon thee? Mark me!
If, ere two suns have risen and have set,
Françoise de Foix—
GONZALES.
How?
QUEEN.
The young Lautrec's sister,
Count Laval's bride.
GONZALES.
What! John de Laval's bride!
Hell! what a flash of light bursts in on me!
Revenge! revenge! thou art mine own at last!
QUEEN.
Why dost thou start, and look so wide and wild,
And clench thy hands?
GONZALES.
So please your grace—O pardon me!—
'Twas pity—sorrow—I—Oh! how has she
Provoked your dreadful wrath, that such a doom
Should cut her young days off thus suddenly?
QUEEN.
Content thee, that it falls not on thy head,
And do my bidding, as thou valuest
That head of thine. I tell thee she must die;
92
I care not—so those eyes be closed for ever.
Look, priest! thou'rt free; but if, in two more days,
The grave hide not that woman from my hate,
She shall not die the less: and, by high heav'n!
Be thou i'th' farthest corner of the earth,
Thou shalt be dragg'd from thence; and drop by drop,
Shall thy base blood assuage my full revenge!
Think on it, and resolve—and so farewell!
[Exit.
GONZALES.
Rejoice, my soul! thy far-off goal is won!
His bride,—all that he most doth love and live for,—
His heart's best hope,—she shall be foul corruption
When next his eager arms are spread to clasp her!
I'll do this deed, ere I go mad for joy:
And when her husband shall mourn over her
In blight and bitterness, I'll drink his tears;
And when his voice shall call upon his bride,
I'll answer him with taunts and scorning gibes,
And torture him to madness: and, at length,
When he shall deem some persecuting fiend
Hath 'scaped from hell to curse and ruin him,
I'll rend the veil, that for so long hath shrouded me,
And, bursting on him from my long disguise,
Reveal the hand that hath o'ershadow'd him
With such a deadly and eternal hate!
[Exit.
93
SCENE VII.
—A GALLERY IN THE PALACE.Enter Triboulet, followed by Françoise de Foix.
FRANÇOISE.
Hold, hold! I do beseech thee, ere my brain
Whirl with this agony;—show me the letter.
TRIBOULET.
Nay, but you did refuse it some time gone;
I'll to the King, and give it back again.
FRANÇOISE.
Perchance 'tis of my brother!—oh! for mercy,
Give it me now; I do repent me—give it!
TRIBOULET.
Give it?—no, take it; give it back again!
Which way doth the wind blow?
FRANÇOISE.
I shall go mad
With this most dread suspense! Oh! if that letter
Tell of my brother's fate, as chance it doth!
Give it me once again or ere I die!
TRIBOULET.
Listen: I'll read it thee.
FRANÇOISE.
Oh! no, no, no!
(Aside)
—For if the King doth plead his love in it—
No, tear, but do not open it, good fool!
TRIBOULET.
I cannot read unless I open it. Listen:
(reads)
‘If thou do not follow his footsteps, who shall bring thee
‘this, not only shall thy brother's liberty, but e'en his life’—
94
Oh gracious heav'n! it is impossible!
His life! his precious days! Give me that scroll.
(She reads, and faints.)
TRIBOULET.
Let me spell o'er this letter; for the lady, she'll be the
better for a little rest.
(Reads.)
—‘If thou do not follow
his footsteps, who shall bring thee this.’—Marry, that
means my footsteps; and whither tend my footsteps?—
Even to the King's chamber. What, shall her brother
die, unless she meet the King alone at this dead hour of
night? I would I had lost the letter! my back and the
whip had been acquainted of a surety; but that were
better than—poor maiden! By my wisdom, then, I will
not lead her to the King! I'll run away, and then, if I
be questioned, I can swear she fell into a swoon by the
way, and could not come!
(Going, Françoise revives.)
FRANÇOISE.
Oh, no—not death! mercy! oh, mercy! spare him!
Where am I! have I slept!—oh, heav'n be praised,
Here's one will be my guide! Good Triboulet,
If thou have aught of reason, lend it me.
TRIBOULET.
Alack! poor thing, how wide she talks!—she's come
To borrow wisdom of a fool! Poor lady!
FRANÇOISE.
Nay, gaze not on me, for dear charity!
But lead, and I will follow to the King,—
Fall on my knees—once more implore his mercy!—
I do beseech thee—Life is on our haste!
95
How say you, pretty lady—life, and no more?
FRANÇOISE.
Oh! I shall go distraught with this delay.
See, to thine eyes I will address my speech,—
For what thou look'st on that thou understand'st.
TRIBOULET.
Ay, marry, and more, as I think, than either of us look
on, do I understand.
FRANÇOISE.
These jewels are of a surpassing value,—
Take them, and lead me to the king.
TRIBOULET.
What, at this hour?
FRANÇOISE.
If not, my brother dies.
TRIBOULET.
Alone?
FRANÇOISE.
The night grows pale, and the stars seem
To melt away, before the burning breath
Of fiery morn. If thou art born of woman,—
If thou hast but one drop of natural blood
That folly hath not frozen,—I beseech thee
Lead to the king, whiles I have strength to follow!
TRIBOULET.
Then heaven be with thee, lady! for I can no more.
Follow! and may I in this hour have been a greater fool
than ere I was before.
[Exeunt.
END OF ACT III.
| Francis the First | |