University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

—THE QUEEN MOTHER'S APARTMENT.
(The Queen enters precipitately.)
QUEEN.
So—I am glad Gonzalès is not here;
I would not even he should see me thus.—
Now out upon this beating heart, these temples,
That throb and burn so; and this crimson glow
That rushes o'er my brow: now, by this light,
I had not dream'd so much weak womanhood
Still slumber'd in my breast!—I must remember me.—
Mother of France, and well nigh Queen of it,
I'll even bear my love as royally,
As I have borne my pow'r:—the time is near,
Oh very near, when he will kneel again
Before my feet;—the conqueror to the conquer'd!—
I am asham'd of this ill timed relapse,—
This soft unnerving pow'r which thus enthrals me.
(Enter Gonzales.)
Thou art right welcome, by my word, Gonzalès!
Where be those parchments?

GONZALES.
Noble madam, here.

QUEEN.
Hast thou drawn out the plan of the possessions?

GONZALES.
So please your grace, I have:—Pardon me, madam,
I fear you are not well; your cheek is pale,
And your lip quivers—is your highness ill?

QUEEN.
Hush! 'twas a trumpet, was it not?—and now—
Surely it is the tramp of horses' hoofs
That beat the ground thus hurriedly and loud;—
I pray thee, father, throw the casement wide—
The air is stifling.

GONZALES.
I do entreat your highness to be seated;
I never saw you thus o'ercome before:
You tremble, madam.

QUEEN.
(rising).
Do I so, indeed?
I thank thee for that word—it hath reviv'd me:
I'm very well—I do not tremble now;—
By heav'n I never heard that word before:
It hath a wondrous virtue! Pray thee, father,
What think the people of Bourbon's return?

GONZALES.
Madam, the summer clouds
That flit across the heav'ns are not more various,
More strange, and different in shape and colour,
Than are th'opinions born from his recall.

QUEEN.
But thou—but thou—
Accustom'd as thou art to thread the mazes
Of dark intriguing policy—how think'st thou?

GONZALES.
Accustom'd, as your highness should have said,
To read the will and wisdom of your eyes,
And watch, for your commands, each meaning look,
If I might say it, madam—I should think
That much indeed lay in this mystery;
For your eye speaks strange things.

QUEEN.
How sayest thou—
This hand is passing fair, is't not, Gonzalès?

GONZALES.
Madam!—'tis not for me to estimate
The hand that kings have priz'd above their kingdom.

QUEEN.
Psha! fool! Oh, rather say the hand that held
The sovereign rule over their kingdoms. Now,
Mark me attentively. This woman's hand,
That but this moment trembled with alarm,—
This fair, frail hand, hath firmly held the reins
Of this vast empire for full many a year:
This hand hath given peace and war to Europe,—
This hand hath plac'd my son upon his throne,—
This hand hath held him there,—this hand it was
That sign'd the warrant for Bourbon's recall.

GONZALES.
Amazement!

QUEEN.
Ay! this woman's hand, led by a woman's heart.
Now hear me, thou; for to thy secrecy
I will confide what none, save only thou,
Have known—must know. Note well the latter word!
It is because I love the duke de Bourbon
With the strong love of such a soul as mine,
That I have called him from his government,
To lift him to the dizziest height of pow'r
This hand can grant, or kingdom can confer.

GONZALES.
(aside).
Perdition on her! this will ruin all!
(Aloud)
—And will you tell him of your love?

QUEEN.
I will.
Nay, answer not,—I have resolved on it,—
Thou wouldst but waste thy words, and anger me.
I never yet knew friend or minister,
But they were ever readier to advise
Than act.

GONZALES.
Now, madam, by the holy mass,
You shall not find it so. I've not forgot
My fame and honours were bestowed by you;
And rather take them back,—nay, life itself,—
Than taunt me with unwillingness to serve you.

QUEEN.
Why, so! I did but jest. In sooth, Gonzalès,
I know thou art as good, in a bad way,
As any faithful son of the Holy Church
Need be.

GONZALES.
But does the King—

QUEEN.
Out, bungler! out!
The King was very dutiful, and well
Believ'd what I so strenuously assur'd.
I told him that the duke de Bourbon's power
Was growing strongly in the Milanese;
Urged his return; and show'd him how, when distant,
The high ambition of the Bourbon's mind
Was far less check'd than here, beneath the shadow
Of the throne, and so he was recalled—
(Trumpets without—shouts of “De Bourbon!”)
And now he is arriv'd—hark how the trumpets
Bray themselves hoarse with sounding welcome to him!
Oh, could I join my voice to yonder cry,
By heav'ns I think its tones would rend the welkin
With repetition of the hero's name,
Who's dearer far to me than life or fame.

[Exit.
GONZALES.
In love with Bourbon! by this living light,
My mission here is well nigh bootless, then.
Now might I back to Spain, since Charles' objects
Are all defeated by this woman's passion,
Were there not yet another task, the dearest,
The labour that is life—mine own revenge!
Till I have reached that goal, my foot shall never
Tread its own soil; or, freed from its disguise,—
This noiseless sandal of slow-gaited priesthood,—
Resume its manly garb. Oh, very long
Is the accomplishment; but it is sure,—
Sure as the night that curtains up each day,—
Sure as that death which is the end of life.
Lie still, thou thirsty spirit, that within
Call'st for the blood that shall allay thy craving!
Down, down with thee, until the hour be come
When I can fling this monkish treachery by,
Rush on my prey, and let my soul's hot flame
Lick up his blood, and quench it in his life!
Time, and the all-enduring soul that never
Shrinks from the trial, be my speed! and nought
My hope, my spur, my instrument, my end,
Save hate—eternal hate—immeasurable hate!

[Exit.