University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

—AN APARTMENT IN THE CHATEAU-DE-FOIX.
Françoise is discovered sitting, pale and motionless, by a table—Florise is kneeling by her.
FRANÇOISE.
How heavily the sun hangs in the clouds,—
The day will ne'er be done.

FLORISE.
Oh, lady, thou hast sat
And watch'd the western clouds, day after day,
Grow crimson with the sun's farewell, and said,
Each day, the night will never come: yet night
Hath come at last, and so it will again.

FRANÇOISE.
Will it, indeed! will the night come at last,
And hide that burning sun, and shade my eyes,
Which ache with this red light—will darkness come
At last?

FLORISE.
Sweet madam, yes; and sleep will come:
Nay, shake not mournfully your head at me,—
Your eyes are heavy; sleep is brooding in them.

FRANÇOISE.
Hot tears have lain in them, and made them heavy;
But sleep—oh, no! no, no! they will not close:
I have a gnawing pain, here, at my heart:
Guilt, thou liest heavy, and art hard to bear.

FLORISE.
What say you, madam, guilt!

FRANÇOISE.
Who dare say so!
(Starting up)
'Twas pity,—mercy,—'twas not guilt! and though
The world's fierce scorn shall call it infamy,
I say 'twas not! Speak,—speak,—dost thou? Oh! answer me!
Say, was it infamy?

FLORISE.
Dear lady, you are ill!
Some strange distemper severs thus your brain.
Come, madam, suffer me at least to bind
These tresses that have fallen o'er your brow,
Making your temples throb with added weight:
Let me bind up these golden locks that hang
Dishevell'd thus upon your neck.

FRANÇOISE.
Out, viper!
Nor twine, nor braid, again shall ever bind
These locks! Oh! rather tear them off, and cast them
Upon the common earth, and trample them,—
Heap dust and ashes on them,—tear them thus,
And thus, and thus! Oh, Florise, I am mad!
Distracted!—out alas! alas! poor head!
Thou achest for thy pillow in the grave,—
Thy darksome couch,—thy dreamless, quiet bed!

FLORISE.
These frantic passions do destroy themselves
With their excess, and well it is they do so:
But, madam, now the tempest is o'erlaid,
And you are calmer, better, as I trust,
Let me entreat you send for that same monk
I told you of this morn: he is a leech,
Learned in theory, and of wondrous skill
To heal all maladies of soul or body.

FRANÇOISE.
Of soul—of soul—ay, so they'd have us think:
Dost thou believe that the hard coin we pour
Into their outstretch'd hands, indeed, buys pardon
For all, or any sin, we may commit?
Dost thou believe forgiveness may be had
Thus easy cheap, for crimes as black in hue
As—as—

FLORISE.
As what? I know no sin whatever
The church's minister may not remit:
As—what were you about to say?

FRANÇOISE.
Come hither;
Think'st thou a heap of gold as high as Etna
Could cover from the piercing eye of heaven
So foul a crime as—as—adultery?
Why dost thou stare thus strangely at my words,
And answerest not?

FLORISE.
I do believe, indeed,
Not all the treasury of the wide world,
Not all the wealth hid in the womb of ocean,
Can ransom sin—nothing but deep repentance—
Austere and lengthened penance—frequent tears.

FRANÇOISE.
'Tis false! I know it—these do nought avail:
To move relentless heav'n it must be brib'd.
And yet—go, call thy priest; I'll speak with him.
I will cast off the burthen of my shame,
Or ere it press me down into the grave!

[Exit.
FLORISE.
Alas, poor flow'r, the canker's in thy core!
Enter Gonzales.
Good morrow to my reverend confessor!

GONZALES.
Good morrow, maiden;
Where's thy lady, Florise?

FLORISE.
This moment, as I think, gone to her chamber.

GONZALES.
To sleep, perchance!

FLORISE.
Oh, father, would she could!
But there's a sleepless sorrow at her heart,—
She hath not clos'd her eyes for many a night.

GONZALES.
Her brother, Lautrec, for the loss of Milan,
Was lately thrust in prison.

FLORISE.
Even so:
And at that very time a messenger
Arriv'd with news of that most dire mischance,
Which quite o'ercame my mistress' drooping heart:
She often read a scroll Count Lautrec sent her,
And wept, and read it o'er and o'er again;
And then, as though determin'd by its arguments,
She sought the king, to move him to forgiveness:
Short space elapsed ere home she came again,
Thus broken-hearted, and, as I do think,
Bow'd to the grave by some o'ermastering sorrow.

GONZALES.
'Tis a strange tale: but tell me now, Florise,
Where's her young lord, John de Laval? methought
It was agreed on with her brother, who
Disposes of his sister's hand and fortune,
That, soon as this Italian war permitted,
Laval should hasten back again to France,
And claim the Lady Françoise as his bride.
Was it not so?

FLORISE.
Ay; and I've sometimes thought
That the Count's absence was my lady's grief.
I fear this last campaign hath ended him,
And that he'll ne'er come back to wed his bride,
Who mourns his loss, and fades a virgin widow.
Out on my prating tongue! I had forgot—
The lady Françoise straight would speak with you.

GONZALES.
With me—with me! What, Florise, dost thou think
That she hath aught she would confess?—no matter;
Tell her I'll wait upon her instantly.
[Exit Florise.
Strange! passing strange! I guess at it in vain.
Lautrec forgiv'n, and herself broken-hearted!
This simple maid knows nothing—can the king!
'Tis sure he lov'd her—oh, that it were so!
Oh, that his passion had forestall'd my vengeance!
That love in him had done the deed my hate
Most covets!—An I had not worn so long
This monkish garb, and all uncourtly seeming,
Methinks for such an end I could have done
All that disuse hath made unnatural
And strange to me: acted the fool again;
Conn'd o'er youth's love tale; sued, implor'd, intreated,
And won her, but that I might give her back
Defil'd unto Laval!—would it were so!
I'll to her straight, and from her wring confession
By such keen torture, as designless looks
And careless words inflict on secret guilt.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

—AN INNER COURT IN THE CHATEAU-DE-FOIX.
Enter Francis, wrapped in a cloak, and Florise.
FLORISE.
Then be it even as you will, sir stranger,
Since you bring joyful tidings to my lady,
Good heart! who sorely stands in need of such.
At sunset meet me here, when I will bring you
Where you shall see and speak with her, fair sir

FRANCIS.
At sunset I'll not fail: farewell, fair maiden!
[Exit Florise.
They tell me she is sunk in sorrow,
Lets a consuming grief destroy her beauty;
Therefore, in this disguise, leave I the court,
To follow and to claim her; for though o'erthrown,
If shame and woe have follow'd her defeat,
I hold myself no lawful conqueror;
But one whose love, like the fierce eastern wind,
Hath wither'd that it hung upon. But, pshaw!
'Tis idle all; if that her hand be promis'd,
It is not bound; and, were it so, kings' wills
Melt compacts into air. She must be mine—
Mine only—mine for ever! and, for Laval,
Another and a wealthier bride, I trow,
Shall well repay him for the one I've stol'n.

[Exit.
Enter Gonzales.
GONZALES.
'Tis true, by heav'n! 'tis as my hope presag'd,—
Her lips avow'd it. Oh! then there is torture
Far worse than death in store for thee, Laval.

Enter a Page.
PAGE.
Save you. From court a letter, reverend sir.

GONZALES.
Give it, and get thee gone.
[Exit Page.
'Tis from the queen!
Further injunctions to be sudden, doubtless—so:
(Opens the letter, and reads.)

‘That which thou hast in hand, quickly dispatch; else
opportunity will play thee false. Laval is now in
France, and by to-morrow will have reached Chateau-de-Foix;

therefore, if it is not done, do it so soon as
thou shalt have received this letter.—Louisa.’

To-morrow! how! why that should be to-day:
To-day—to-day—ah! say you so, indeed:
He could not come at a more welcome hour.
[Horns without.
Hark! even now the horn proclaimes my triumph!
The gates swing wide, the outer court-yard rings
With neighing steeds and jingling spurs, and steps
Whose haste doth tell of hot, impatient love:
He stands upon the threshold of his home
Reeling with joy. Now, now,—
Enter Laval and attendants.
Hail, noble sir!

LAVAL.
I joy to see thee, yet I cannot now
E'en stay to say as much. Where is my love?

GONZALES.
The Lady Françoise, sir, is in her chamber.
[Laval is going.
I pray you tarry, good my lord, I've much
To say to you.

LAVAL.
Ay, so have I to her:
Another time, another time, good father.

GONZALES.
No time so fitting as the present, sir.

LAVAL.
'Sdeath! would'st thou have me listen, and not hear?
Look on thee, and not see thee? stand aside!
Till ears and eyes have had their fill of her,
I'm blind, and deaf, and well nigh mad.

GONZALES.
My lord,
What I would say will bear no tarrying.

LAVAL.
A plague on thee! come with me, then, and thus—
While I do gaze on her I'll hear thy tale.

GONZALES.
What I've to say you'd rather hear alone.

LAVAL.
I tell thee, no, thou most vexatious priest!
That which I hear shall she hear too; my heart,
And all it owes or wishes, is her own;
Knowledge, hopes, fears, desires—all, all are hers.

GONZALES.
Then be it so—follow unto her chamber!

LAVAL.
Follow! I could not follow the swift wind!
Thou dost not love, sir priest; follow thyself!

GONZALES.
E'en as you will I do: lead on, my lord!

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

—AN APARTMENT IN THE CHATEAU-DE-FOIX.
Enter Francis and Florise.
FRANCIS.
I tell thee, ere she see the Count Laval,
I must inform her of mine errand.

FLORISE.
Well—
I had forgot, in all this sudden joy:
But see, behind the tapestry, here, you may
Wait for, and speak with her.

FRANCIS.
I thank thee, maiden.

FLORISE.
Farewell, and good success attend you, sir.

[Exit Florise. Francis conceals himself behind the tapestry.
Enter Françoise.
FRANÇOISE.
Now, ye paternal halls, that frown on me,
Down, down, and hide me in your ruins—ha!

(As Laval and Gonzales enter, Françoise shrieks.)
LAVAL.
My bride!—my beautiful!—

GONZALES.
Stand back, young sir!

LAVAL.
Who dares extend his arms 'twixt those whom love
Hath bound? whom holy wedlock shall, ere long.

GONZALES.
The stern decree of the most holy church,
Whose garb I bear; and whose authority
I interpose between you; until I
Interpret to your ears the fearful shriek
That greeted you, upon your entrance here:
Look on that lady, Count Laval,—who stands
Pale as a virgin rose, whose early bloom
Hath not been gaz'd on yet by the hot sun;
And fair—

LAVAL.
Oh, how unutterably fair!

GONZALES.
Seems not that shrinking flower the soul of all
That is most pure, as well as beautiful?

LAVAL.
Peace, thou vain babbler! Is it unto me
That thou art prating?—unto me, who have
Worshipp'd her, with a wild idolatry,
Liker to madness than to love?

GONZALES.
Indeed!
Say, then, if such a show of chastity
Ere sat on lips that have been hot with passion?
Or such a pale cold hue did ever rest
On cheeks, where burning kisses have call'd up
The crimson blood, in blushes all as warm?
Look on her yet; and say, if ever form
Show'd half so like a breathing piece of marble.
Off with thy specious seeming, thou deceiver!
And don a look that better suits thy state.
Oh, well-dissembled sin! say, was it thus,
Shrinking, and pale, thou stood'st, when the King's arms
Did clasp thee, and his hot lip sear'd from thine
Their oath to wed thy brother's friend?—

LAVAL.
Damnation
Alight upon thee, thou audacious monk!
The blight thou breath'st recoil on thine own head;
It hath no power to touch the spotless fame
Of one, from whom thy cursed calumnies
Fly like rebounding shafts;—Ha! ha! ha! ha!
The king! a merry tale forsooth!

GONZALES.
Then we
Will laugh at it, ha! ha!—why, what care I?
We will be merry; since thou art content
To laugh and be a—

LAVAL.
Françoise—I—I pray thee
Speak to me,—smile—speak,—look on me, I say—
What, tears! what, wring thine hands! what, pale as death!—
And not one word—not one!

FRANÇOISE.
(To Gonzales)
Oh deadly fiend!
Thou hast but hasten'd that which was foredoom'd.
(To Laval)
My lord, ere I make answer to this charge,
I have a boon to crave of you—my brother—

LAVAL.
How wildly thine eye rolls; thy hand is cold
As death, my fairest love.

FRANÇOISE.
Beseech you, sir,
Unclasp your arm;—where is my brother?

LAVAL.
Lautrec?—
In Italy; ere now is well and happy.

FRANÇOISE.
Thanks, gentle heaven! all is not bitterness,
In this most bitter hour. My Lord Laval,
To you my faith was plighted, by my brother;
That faith I ratified by mine own vow.—

LAVAL.
The oath was register'd in highest heaven.
Thou'rt mine!—

FRANÇOISE.
To all eternity, Laval,
If blood cannot efface that damning bond;
(Snatches his dagger and stabs herself.)
'Tis cancell'd, I've struck home—my dear, dear brother.

[Dies.
GONZALES
(aside.)
It works, it works!

LAVAL.
Oh horrible!—she's dead!

(Francis rushes from his concealment at the word.)
FRANCIS.
Dead!

(Laval draws his sword, and turns upon the King, who draws to defend himself.)
LAVAL.
Ha! what fiend hath sent thee here?
Down! down to hell with thee, thou damn'd seducer!

Enter Queen, followed by Attendants.
QUEEN.
Secure that madman!

(Part of the Attendants surround and disarm Laval.)
QUEEN
(aside to GONZALES).
Bravely done, indeed!
I shall remember.— (aloud)
—How now, wayward boy?
How is't I find thee here in private broils,
Whilst proud rebellion triumphs o'er the land?
Bourbon's in France again! and strong Marseilles
Beleaguer'd round by Spanish soldiery.
These tidings brought young Henry of Navarre,
Whom Bourbon, and Colonna, joining arms,
Have stripp'd and spoil'd of his paternal crown.

FRANCIS.
Peace, mother, prithee peace; look here! look here!
Here is a sight, that hath more sorrow in it,
Than loss of kingdoms, empires, or the world!
There lies the fairest lily of the land,
Untimely broken from its stem, to wither!

(Going towards the body.)
LAVAL
(breaks from Attendants).
Stand back, King Francis! lay not e'en a finger
On this poor wreck, that death hath sanctified!
This soulless frame of what was once my love!
Oh! thou pale flower, that in death's icy grasp
Dost lie, making the dissolution that we dread
Look fair;—farewell! for ever, and for ever!
Thou should'st have been the glad crown of my youth,
Maturer life's fruitful and fond companion,—
Dreary old age's shelter.

GONZALES.
Tears, my Lord?

LAVAL.
Ay, tears, thou busy mischief; get thee hence!
Away! who sent for thee?—who bade thee pour
The venom of thy tongue into my wounds?
What seek'st thou here?

GONZALES.
To see thee weep, Laval!
And I am satisfied! Look on me, boy!
Dost know Garcia—first scion of a house
Whose kindred shoots by thine were all cut down?

LAVAL.
For dead I left thee on Marignan plain!
Art thou from thence arisen! or from hell!
To wreak such ruin on me?

GONZALES.
They die not
Who have the work I had on hand unfinish'd;
The spirit would not from its fleshly house,
In which thy sword so many outlets made,
Ere it had seen its fell revenge fulfill'd.

LAVAL.
Revenge!—for what?—wherefore dost thou pursue me?

GONZALES.
Look on thy bride! look on that faded thing,
That e'en the tears thy manhood showers so fast,
And bravely, cannot wake to life again!
I call all nature to bear witness here;—
As fair a flower once grew within my home,
As young, as lovely, and as dearly lov'd.—
I had a sister once, a gentle maid—
The only daughter of my father's house,
Round whom our ruder loves did all entwine,
As round the dearest treasure that we own'd.
She was the centre of our souls' affections;—
She was the bud, that underneath our strong
And sheltering arms, spread over her, did blow.
So grew this fair, fair girl, till envious fate
Brought on the hour when she was withered.
Thy father, sir—now mark!—for 'tis the point
And moral of my tale—thy father, then,
Was, by my sire, in war ta'en prisoner;—
Wounded almost to death, he brought him home,—
Shelter'd him,—cherish'd him,—and, with a care,
Most like a brother's, watch'd his bed of sickness,
Till ruddy health, once more through all his veins,
Sent life's warm stream in strong returning tide.
How think ye he repaid my father's love?
From her dear home he lur'd my sister forth,
And, having robb'd her of her treasur'd honour,
Cast her away, defil'd,—despoil'd,—forsaken!—
The daughter of a high and ancient line!—
The child of so much love!—she died!—she died!—
Upon the threshold of that home, from which
My father spurn'd her!—over whose pale corse
I swore to hunt, through life, her ravisher;
Nor ever from my bloodhound track desist,
Till due and deep atonement had been made—
Honour for honour given—blood for blood.

LAVAL.
These were my father's injuries,—not mine,
Remorseless fiend!

GONZALES.
Thy father died in battle;
And as his lands, and titles, at his death,
Devolv'd on thee, on thee devolv'd the treasure
Of my dear hate;—I have had such revenge!
Such horrible revenge!—thy life, thy honour,
Were all too little;—I have had thy tears!
I've wrung a woman's sorrow from thine eyes,
And drunk each bitter drop of agony,
As heav'nly nectar, worthy of the gods!
Kings, the earth's mightiest potentates, have been
My tools and instruments: you, haughty madam,
And your ambition,—yonder headstrong boy,
And his mad love,—all, all beneath my feet,
All slaves unto my will and deadly purpose.

QUEEN.
Such glorious triumphs should be short-lived:—ho!
Lead out that man to instant death.

GONZALES.
Without confession, madam, shall I go?
Shall not the world know on what services
Louisa of Savoy bestows such guerdon?

QUEEN.
Am I obey'd! away with him!

FRANCIS.
Your pardon:—
If he have aught to speak before he dies,
Let him unfold; it is our pleasure so!

GONZALES.
You did not deal so hardly with the soul
Of Bourbon, when you sent me to his cell,
Love's frock'd and hooded messenger, I trow.—
But let that pass.—King Francis, mark we well:—
I was, by yonder lady, made the bearer
Of am'rous overtures unto De Bourbon,
Which he with scorn flung back; else trust me, sir,
You had not stood so safely on your throne
As now you stand. 'Twas I who set him free:
Empower'd by Charles of Spain to buy his arm
At any cost: so much for Bourbon! Now,
Look on the prostrate form of this fair creature!
Why, how now, madam, do you blench and start?
You're somewhat pale! fie, fie! what matters it—
‘Blood is but blood, and life no more than life,
‘Be 't cradled in however fair a form.’
Is't not well done! ha! well and suddenly?
Are you not satisfied?

QUEEN.
Thou lying devil!

GONZALES.
Dar'st thou deny the part thou hast in this?

QUEEN.
Dar'st thou to me? Ay, reptile!

GONZALES.
Here! look here!— (shows her letter.)


QUEEN.
Ha!

GONZALES.
Hast thou found thy master spirit, Queen!
Our wits have grappled hard for many a day.
What! mute at last? or hast some quaint device?

QUEEN.
No! hell has conquer'd me!

FRANCIS.
Give me that scroll—hast thou said all, Garcia?

GONZALES.
Ay, all!—Fair madam, fare ye well awhile;
And for my death, I thank you from my soul.
For after the rich cup I've drain'd this hour,
The rest were tasteless, stale, and wearisome.
Life had no aim, or joy, or end, save vengeance—
Vengeance is satisfied, so farewell life!

[Exit, guarded.
FRANCIS
(reads the letter).
Oh, mother! guilt hath taken from thy lips
All proud repelling answer. Give me that ring,—
Strip me that diadem from off thy brows,—
And bid a long farewell to vanity!
For in a holy nunnery immured,
Thou shalt have leisure to make peace with heav'n,
And mourn i' the shade of solitude thy errors.
It is our sov'reign pleasure. (To the body.)
—And for thee,
Thou lovely dust, all pomp and circumstance
That can gild death shall wait thee to thy grave:
Thou shalt lie with the royal and the proud;
And marble, by the dext'rous chisel taught,
Shall learn to mourn thy hapless fortunes.

LAVAL.
No!
Ye shall not bear her to your receptacles;
Nor raise a monument, for busy eyes
To stare upon: no hand, in future days,
Shall point to her last home; no voice shall cry
‘There lies King Francis' paramour!’ In life,
Thou didst despoil me of her; but in death,
She's mine! I that did love her so,
Will give her that, my love doth tell me best
Fits with her fate—an honourable grave:
She shall among my ancestral tombs repose,
Without an epitaph, except my tears.

FRANCIS.
Then now for war, oh! ill to end, I fear,
Usher'd with such dark deeds and fell disasters!

[Exeunt Francis, followed by the Queen and Attendants on one side, and Laval, with the others, bearing the body.