University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Scene I.

—The Banqueting Room in the Palace of the Duke of Orleans. Tables spread. A company are assembled, amongst whom are Henri de Vierzon, René D'Aicelin, Enguerrand de Chevreuse, Loré de Cassinel, Alain Thibaut, Eustace D'Estivet (the Duke's Minstrel), and Griz-Nez (the Duke's Fool). To whom enters the Duke's Seneschal.
Seneschal.
His Highness bids you to sit down and sup;
He will be with you later.

De Vierzon.
As he will.
What round white arms withhold him?

Seneschal.
Out, De Vierzon;
No damsel is it, but a devotee.

De Vierzon.
That pretty Theologue De Ricarville
Is both in one. I drink her health and his.
Stay them with flagons, comfort them with apples!

Seneschal.
Robert the Hermit 'tis, I tell thee.

De Vierzon.
So!
Then Cupid's case is desperate for a day.
What think ye of this pact betwixt the Dukes?
Shall it endure?

D'Aicelin.
Till death. But how soon death,
Under the countenance of dear Cousin John,
May enter to dissolve it, who can tell?
To-day they rode together on one horse,
Each in the other's livery. To-morrow
They are to sleep together in one bed.
The People stare and deem the day is nigh
When lamb and lion shall lie down together.

De Chevreuse.
Rode on one horse!

D'Aicelin.
Yea, Orleans before,
And Burgundy behind.

Gris-Nez.
'Twas so they rode:
Two witches on one broomstick rode beside them;
But riding past an image of Our Lady
The hindmost snorted and the broomstick brake.

De Cassinel.
Would I were sure my gout would be as brief
As their good fellowship.

De Vierzon.
To see grim John
Do his endeavour at a gracious smile
Was worth a ducat; with his trenchant teeth
Clinch'd like a rat-trap.

De Cassinel.
Ever and anon
They open'd to let forth a troop of words
Scented and gilt, a company of masques
Stiff with brocade, and each a pot in hand
Fill'd with wasp's honey.

D'Aicelin.
Nay, no more of him;
The wine turns sour. Come, Eustace, wake thee up!
Hast ne'er a song to sing us? Rose and Blanche
And Florence d'Ivry with her deep-mouth'd eyes
And Merry Marriette,—where are they gone,
The score of maids that made thee musical
In days of old? or if their date be out,
Have none succeeded?

D'Estivet.
Ah! my youth! my youth!
Gone like a dream, and now at twenty-eight
I live on recollections. No, my songs
Have had their day; the charms I sang are fled;
The ears I charm'd are deafen'd in the dust.
What would ye with my ditties? But there's one
His Highness made, which, if I mar it not,
Should find its way.

D'Aicelen.
Be still, De Vierzon; hush!

Eustace d'Estivet
sings to a lute.

D'Aicelin.
Minstrel, well sung, and well conceited, Duke;
What is this whispering, Loré?

De Cassinel.
Shall I tell?
De Vierzon's by an envious Abbess charged
That through the convent-grate he kiss'd a Nun;
Whereon the Court Ecclesiastical
Puts forth a process; this that he may answer
To-morrow noon, he fain would have me swear
I saw him in St. Michael's on his knees
That very hour the Abbess of St. Loo
Swears to the kiss.

D' Aicelin.
And didst thou kiss the Nun?

De Vierzon.
I may have kiss'd a linnet in a cage,
But as to Nuns, oh no.

D' Aicelen.
Come, I'll bestead thee;
As for myself, I have an errand then
At Château-Menil; but I'll send my page
With orders to swear what you will.

De Vierzon.
Much thanks;
He shall not be the loser.

Gris-Nez.
Ah, sweet Sir,
Had you been pleased to come to me for council
Before you kiss'd that Nun!

De Vierzon.
What then, Sir Fool?

Gris-Nez.
Knowest thou not, Sir Fool, my brother,
One dirty hand can wash another;
Ofttimes offences that are twins
Shall suffer less than single sins;
Stern forfeits tread upon his kibe
Who hath not robb'd enough to bribe;
To distance justice in the course
Who steals a purse should steal a horse;
Not hardly the offender fares
When Accusation hath gone shares:
Receive thou then, dear brother Fool,
Monition wise from Folly's School,
To kiss a Nun nor fear the worst
Thou should'st have kiss'd the Abbess first.

De Cassinel.
By Peter's keys! to moralize a kiss
No preaching have I heard more pertinent.
Here comes the Duke—no, 'tis but little Geoffrey.

Enter Geoffrey de Laval.
Geoffrey.
His Grace desires you'll none of you depart
Till he shall join you.

De Vierzon.
With such wine as this
To wet our wings, no thoughts have we of flight.
Is the lean Hermit with his Highness still?

Geoffrey.
No, he is gone; 'tis Vezelay that's with him.

De Vierzon.
Thou dost not say so! Well, the times are strange;
To the backbone Burgundian is he
And private with the Duke! What next?

De Chevreuse.
Why next—

Enter the Duke of Orleans. They rise to receive him.
Orleans.
Kind Sirs, I pray you pardon this neglect;
Scant courtesy it was not, but strict need.
I drink your healths. No, Seneschal, gramercy:
I'll neither eat nor sit. My trusty friends,
I have a work in hand will ask your aid.
The Bastard of Montargis, as I hear,
Designs this night to seize and spirit away
A pupil of the Celestines; which rape
I would not such a rotten-hearted rogue
As he is, should accomplish; wherefore, Sirs,
Of five of you I crave attendance here
An hour ere midnight arm'd.

De Vierzon.
Your Grace has named
A service I shall clasp and strain to heart
Even as my best friend's wife.

De Chevreuse.
And so shall I.

De Cassinel.
And all.

Orleans.
I thank you heartily; but no;
Montargis is attended but by five,
Whom we must not outnumber. Hie ye home,
De Vierzon and De Cassinel, and you,
René d' Aicelin, Enguerrand De Chevreuse,
And Alain Thibaut; hie ye home and arm,
And hither hasten back at your best speed.
The rest, good-night. And be ye sure, my friends,
For right good service your good wills shall count.

[Exeunt all but the Duke and Geoffrey de Laval.
Geoffrey.
A boon, my gracious Lord.

Orleans.
What is it, boy?

Geoffrey.
Let me be one.

Orleans.
No, no; too young, too young.
They'd blow thy head off like the froth of their ale
And I should lose a monkey that I love.

Geoffrey.
My gracious Master, at your side to die
Is all I live for.

Orleans.
Be content, young friend.
The time may come. Thy horoscope and mine
Point to one hour, 'tis said. Enough of this.
Go to the vestiary, wherein thou'lt find
Provision of all garbs for the masqued ball.
Thence to the hall bring thou six pilgrims' weeds.

Scene II.

—The Interior of the Convent of the Celestines. Iolande de St. Rémy and Flos de Flavy.
Flos.
A charming little Abbess if you will;
That liberty she grants herself, good soul,
She not denies to others; so far, well;
But then comes Father Renault, spare and dry,
With menace of the Bishop and the Chapter,
And in her straits we're straiten'd. Oh, no, no,
I cannot bear it; some day I shall run;
Yes, Iolande, I will, I will.

Iolande.
Oh Flos!
Oh foolish Flos! impatient of restraint
Because you scarce have felt it. The loose rein
It is that makes the runaway; too kind
The Abbess is; for those who say she errs
In other ways and worse, God pardon them!
Or if their tale be true, God pardon her!
But God forbid that I should know it true,
For love her I needs must.

Flos.
What! though she's wicked?

Iolande.
Yes, though she's wicked. That is not forbidden.
In pain and sorrow should I love her then,
As I love you.

Flos.
Oh, I am wicked too?

Iolande.
No, there I said too much. But yet with fear,
If not with pain, you fill me. Flos, from my soul
I hate the man you love.

Flos.
Well, you speak out;
But ere you spake I knew it.

Iolande.
Did you but know
The cause !—and I will tell you it in part.
Last night I had a dreadful dream. I thought
That borne at sunrise on a fleece of cloud
I floated high in air, and, looking down,
Beheld an ocean-bay girt by green hills,
And in a million wavelets tipp'd with gold
Leapt the soft pulses of the sunlit sea;
And lightly from the shore a bounding bark,
Festive with streamers fluttering in the wind,
Sail'd seaward, and the palpitating waves
Fondly like spaniels flung themselves upon her,
Recoiling and returning in their joy;
And on her deck sea-spirits I descried
Gliding and lapsing in an undulant dance,
From whom a choral gratulating strain
Exhaled its witcheries on the wanton air:
Still sail'd she seaward, and ere long the bay
Was left behind; but then a shadow fell
Upon the outer sea—a shadowy shape—
The shadow bore the likeness of the form
Of the Arch-fiend; I shudder'd for the bark
And stretch'd my hands to heaven and strove to pray
But could not for much fear; the shadow grew
Till sea and sky were black; the bark plunged on
And clove the blackness: then the fleece of cloud
That bore me, melted, and I swooned and fell,
And falling I awoke.

Flos.
Yes, Iolande,
You're ever dreaming dreams, and when they're bad
They're always about me. I too can dream,
But otherwise than you. The God of dreams
Who sleeps with me is blithe and debonnaire,
Else should he not be partner of my bed.
I dreamt I was a cat, and much caress'd
And fed with dainty viands; there was cream
And fish and flesh and porridge, but no mice;
And I was fat and sleek, but in my heart
There rose a long and melancholy mew
Which meant, “I must have mice;” and therewithal
I found myself transported to the hall
Of an old castle, with the rapturous sound
Of gnawing of old wainscot in my ears:
With that I couch'd and sprang and sprang and couch'd,
My soul rejoicing.

Iolande.
May God grant, dear Flos,
Your mice shall not prove bloodhounds. That the veil
Befits you not, I own; nor if you long
In secular sort to love and be beloved
Shall I reproach you; for if God denies
The blessing of a heart espoused to Him
His mercy wills that love should be fulfill'd
In other kind, more mixed but still divine,
Less happy but still rapt; and to this end
In his own image he created Man.
The love for Man I blame not; but oh, Flos!
There are, though you may miss to see it, men
Who have transform'd God's image in themselves
Into another likeness.

Flos.
Iolande,
You hate him; you have said so—'tis enough.
I love him; yes, and may my false heart perish
That instant that it leaves to love as now.
And if I thought this heart would so revolt,
Or ere one sun had risen upon its shame,
It should be buried without toll of bell
Six fathom in the earth, and o'er its grave
A letter'd stone should tell its terrible tale,
And say it was a heart that, having fallen,
Would rather rot below ground than above.
Oh, take your arms away—you shall not kiss me—
Sweet Iolande, I know you wish me well,
But is it wishing well to wish me false?

Iolande.
Not if your truth were plighted to the true.

Flos.
Whate'er his treasons he is true to me;
True as the bravest of the brave in love;
True as the lion that laid down its head
O'ersway'd by love divine on Lectra's lap.

Iolande.
Deceived past rescue! Were it Vezelay,
He is not good, but I believe him true,
Know him but too devoted in his love;
Were it but he!

Flos.
More kind is he than good,
Poor mortal! Yet I love his love for me
And him some little.

Enter the Lady Abbess.
Abbess.
Well, my daughters dear,
The Lord is good and gracious to this House;
So is his Grace the Founder. Have you heard?
He grants two masses daily for the soul
Of Good Duke Philip, whom may God absolve!
Truly his Grace's bounty knows no end,
Such holy love he has for this poor House.

Flos.
Likewise its charming Abbess.

Abbess.
Naughty child!
No more of that. Hark ye! the bell for Nocturns.
Go, Iolande. For Flos, she stays with me,
For I am ill and she a cheerful nurse.
Mercy! such shootings in my back! Oh me!
And such a shaking here! And then such qualms!
And here a gurgling up! By God's good help,
St. Bartlemy assisting, I have hope
To struggle through the night—but not alone.
Come, Flos, we'll sleep together. Bless my heart!
Why, Flos is stricken too! How pale she looks!
This frost will be the death of some poor souls;
The Marne is frozen over. Come, sweet Flos.

Scene III.

—The Rue Barbette, near the Porch of the Chapel of the Celestines. Raoul de Rouvroy, Ranulph de Roche-Baron, Henri de Fontenay, Antoine des Essars, and Charles de Savoisy, all armed.
De Fontenay.
What if she screams?

De Rouvroy.
Tell her the night is cold,
And kindly tie a muffler o'er her mouth.

De Fontenay.
What if the Sisterhood scream all together?

De Rouvroy.
Run for your lives; but if you're deft and swift
The Sisters will have pass'd within the walls
Ere you shall scare them. Pupilage walks last.

De Savoisy.
But say the night-patrol should come this way.

De Rouvroy.
Then shall some two or three of you fall back
And seem to fight; be desperate and loud,
And whilst the watch is busy with your brawl,
Montargis and his maid will mount and fly.
If need be, set a house or two on fire,
And shout amain for help.

Enter Montargis from the Chapel.
Montargis.
Down with your vizors.
God's curse upon that Priest and his discourse!
When tenthly came, and twelfthly, and fifteenthly,
I could have stabb'd him. Strangers too were there,
Pilgrims—what not? who may be meddlesome
Unless discretion guide them. If they be
They'll rue it. Ranulph, are the by-ways void?
No stragglers?

Des Essars.
Right, Montargis; say a cat's grace
That ever looks about her ere she eats.

Montargis.
Back, back, I say; stand back; I think they come.

Enter from the Chapel the Nuns, preceded by the Priests and followed by the Novices and Pupils, after whom the Duke of Orleans, Henri de Vierzon, René d'Aicelin, Enguerrand de Chevreuse, Loré de Cassinel, and Alain Thibaut, in Pilgrim's weeds. The Priests and Nuns pass through the gates into the court of the Convent, whereupon Montargis advances.
Montargis.
My lady-love, you enter not; be wise;
Despairing love dares all; you must be mine,
And mine you are.

Iolande.
Yours! Wretch beyond all count
The loathsomest that I know, I know you well,
And hate you and defy you.

Montargis.
Nay, wild bird,
We'll teach you sweeter singing.

Iolande.
Touch not me!

Montargis.
With softer touches shall I touch you soon;
These rougher for this present you must brook.

Orleans.
First turn and touch another.

Montargis.
Who art thou
That hold'st thy life so lightly? Beggar, back!
Get hence! or if thou hungerest after death
Pass forward but a step.

Orleans.
There is my foot.

Montargis.
And there thy death.

Orleans.
Well aim'd against well arm'd.
Now, thy best ward.

They fight. The other Burgundians come to the aid of Montargis, and are engaged by the Orleanists; Montargis is wounded and disarmed.
Orleans.
So! yield thee, Bastard.

Montargis.
Ha! thou know'st me? Well;
If to a Knight I yield.

Orleans.
A Knight and more.

Montargis.
Say'st thou “and more?”

Orleans.
More, by St. Paul!

Montargis.
My Lord,
That voice and oath chiming together thus
Tell forth your title to respect. I yield.
My friends, put up your swords. My own lies there.
We will withdraw, if so the victor wills.

Orleans.
Go, and be wiser. Keep your council. I,
For his sake who befriends, will not betray you.

[Exeunt Montargis and his friends.
Orleans.
Unbar the gate.

De Vierzon.
'Tis fast within. Holla!
Within there! Ho! Unbolt the gate.

The Porter
(within).
Get hence,
Ye graceless knaves, get hence!

De Vierzon.
Unbolt the gate;
Here is a maiden of your House has swoon'd.

The Porter.
So has the general Sisterhood. Get hence,
Lewd villains that ye are!

De Vierzon.
Out, Thickskull, out!

Orleans
(supporting Iolande).
Frighten'd to death I hastily had thought,
But ne'er did womanish fear put on a face
Of such celestial sovereignty as this.
Rather the motions of the bodily life
O'ermaster'd by the passion of her scorn.
Open that gate.

De Vierzon.
'Tis easily said, my Lord;
But here's a Lackbrain keeps it barr'd.

Orleans.
Then stave it.
How fare you, Lady?

Iolande.
Well, I thank you, well;
Though dumb when fain a grateful heart would speak
As with a thousand tongues, and fill the world
With thanks and praise; but there is God to aid,
Who pays all dues.

Orleans.
Sweet Lady, when God grants
That praise from such a mouth ennobles me,
He showers His choicest blessing. They within
Must pardon us some violence, for else,
Through error of their fear, this sturdy gate
Should have repulsed its own.

Iolande.
Brave Sirs, farewell!
And though 'tis little that poor Nuns can do
To show their sense of service, there is one
As great in power as heart, the princely Duke
Our founder, who will value at its worth
A service to the Celestines.

Orleans.
My friends,
I wish you joy; and with this lady's leave
I'll wait on her to-morrow, so to learn
What guerdon you may look for.

Iolande.
Heartily
The Lady Abbess and myself will strive
To do you grace and honour. Pray you, Sirs,
Stay by the gate till I shall cross the court,
For all have fled indoors and it is void.

[Exit.
Orleans.
Now to our beds. Sirs, what she said I swear;
A service to the Celestines I prize
At a knight's fee to each. To bed, to bed,
To dream of such a voice as in my ears
Sounds like a Seraph's in a song of praise.

Enter the Watch.
Sergeant of the Watch.
Haro! Haro! What's here! Stand, villains, stand!
Clashings of swords and screamings for the Watch!
How dare ye! To the guard-house every man.

De Vierzon.
Off! laggards, we were keepers of the law,
Not breakers; we but filled a gap for you.
We fought with certain caitiffs who were fain
To ravish hence a maid; we rescued her;
For them, they slank away.

Sergeant.
Fie! tell not me!
We'll have no ravishings nor no rescues here;
No ravishings nor rescues can be suffer'd
After the Watch is set. To the guard-house, come.
If maidens shall be ravish'd and be rescued
It is the Watch must do it. Come, ye rogues.

De Vierzon.
Stand off, old Owlet.

The Sergeant.
What! the manacles! Ho!

D' Aicelin.
Away, ye Clot-pole-catchpoles! Hence, away!

[The Duke and his friends drive out the Watch.