Francis the First An Historical Drama |
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| 6. | SCENE VI. |
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 | Francis the First |  |
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
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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
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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)
—
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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,
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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!—
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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!
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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,
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'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.
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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.
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(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.
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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!
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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;
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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.
| Francis the First | |