University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

Scene I.

—The Court of the House of the Bastard of Montargis. The Bastard of Montargis and his two Squires, Raoul de Rouvroy and Ranulph de Roche-Baron.
Montargis.
The house I speak of bears above the porch
An image of our Lady; old and batter'd
Are house and image both: none dwells within
Save a bald porter, old and batter'd too.
Let his old ears inform him I have need
To store some wine that comes to me from Bourg,
And hire the house; give him whate'er he asks;
Then cask these weapons that I tell you of
And take them thither. On this roll is writ
The names of certain of my men at arms;
Call them together; hold them on the wing,
And after nightfall drop them one by one
Into that house. Then keep them fast and close,
And till I come,—mayhap to-morrow night,
Early or late,—let no man pass the door.
Be secret, ye and they.

[Exit.
De Roche-Baron.
What may this mean?

De Rouvroy.
Mischief it means, if I have ears. Tomorrow
Will be St. Clement's Eve. The Bastard walks
In the world's eye untroubled, but in heart
He bears his Monday night's discomfiture
As new caged tigers bear captivity.
Some bird has whistled that the booty wrench'd
From him, has fallen to that crowing Duke,
Whom if he hated humanly before
He hates with hatred more than human now.
With that he broods upon a prophecy
Which babbles of St. Clement's Eve, and tells
How on that night the gutters shall run blood,
And lilies redden in the morning sun.
There is an ancient picture too, wherein
St. Clement, with the anchor round his neck,
Sinks and draws with him underneath the wave
A knotted staff, twined with the Fleur de Lys,
And holding on its point a porcupine
Enscrolled with “Far and Near,” the Duke's device:
And hearten'd by these figurings and sings
He holds the time auspicious.

De Roche-Baron.
But Duke John—
Him must we carry with us; without him
I hardly deem St. Clement will suffice
To hold us harmless. True, revenge is sweet,
And neither thou nor I have cause to love
His Grace of Orleans; but revenge were mad
Without the one Duke's warrant and support,
In case of need, to practise on the other.

De Rouvroy.
Trust to the Bastard to draw in Duke John.
He's forward in a scheme for melting down
This newly-solder'd fellowship of the Duke's.
He's gone even now to put it in the pot
Of those two Monk-magicians. As for me,
My lot is cast with his; whither he dares,
Thither I follow.

De Roche-Baron.
With Duke John to boot,
I say the same.

De Rouvroy.
No question of Duke John;
No question but he'll lead him like a lamb.

Scene II.

—An Apartment in the Château St. Antoine furnished with a brazen head fixed on a skeleton, crystal globes, magic mirrors, and celestial squares.— Father Buvulan and Father Betizac.
Father Buvulan.
For a brief moment I was high in hope
They both would burn. Truly he singed his beard
In saving of his barber.

Father Betizac.
Well, it shakes us.
Unstable is the commonalty ever;
The Duke had but to tickle them with tropes,
And Passac was their chuck, their duck, their darling,
Their Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego,
That in our heathen fire had walk'd unhurt.
Oh 'tis a fickle and a foolish people!
Their faith is with success; who faileth falleth.
When we lost hold of Passac, we lost hold
Of credit and repute. De Montenay
Sends me his greeting, and he has no need
Of the enchanted armour. There's a loss
Of some five hundred crowns. De Graville's page
Comes with his cozening master's countermand,
Who cares not that his horoscope be cast
Till better times—God grant his best be bad!
Since Tuesday there has been nor maid nor youth
To spy their spousals in the magic mirror.
All day the knocker sleeps upon the door
As it were dead. What! now it stirs. Come in.

Enter the Bastard of Montargis.
Montargis.
So! Reverend Fathers! winters such as these
Make fuel dear; 'tis cruel to the poor
To waste the store; when next ye light your fire
Look that there's something on the spit to roast.

Father Buvulan.
His Grace of Orleans in his brotherly love
May, if it please him, set all traitors free
To do their devilish work upon the King.
Our part right loyally have we fulfill'd,
And stand acquitted.

Montargis.
In your consciences,—
Yes doubtless in your tender consciences
Ye stand acquitted; but elsewhere how stand ye?
The Duke, who snatch'd away his friend the Barber,—
So seasonably, just as his wig was frizzled,—
Think ye with him ye stand acquitted? No,
Beware his wrath. And let me tell you, friends,
This frizzling of a barber doth but clinch
A foregone condemnation. Have ye heard
How ye were handled at the Council-board?
Your very eyes and noses could not 'scape,
But seeing that they did not please the Duke,
Plain documents were they of your damnation
Confirm'd in Satan's signature and seal.
To my poor thinking, Sirs, His Grace's speech
Savour'd of pitch and resin. Ye best know
(For through affection and a burning zeal
Ye are well seen in fagots and the stake)
If it be pleasant to ascend the skies
In manner of an incense; but if not,
I counsel you to find some present shift
For dwelling in the flesh.

Father Betizac.
Oh Lord! Oh Lord!
Oh God be merciful! What mean you, Sir?
Know you of aught devised and put in hand
Against our lives?

Montargis.
Of what I know, my friends,
I tell you what I may.

Father Betizac.
Oh, Sir, sweet Sir,
What may be done? Befriend us in our need.
Will gold redeem us? We have here laid by,
Out of our honest earnings, a round sum
In crown and ducats; will it please you take
And use it at your pleasure?

Montargis.
No, Sirs, no;
Gold will do nothing; ye must find a friend
To match a foe so mighty; who is he?
One only Lord there is, one only Prince,
Of such sufficiency as to ward the blows
Of the King's brother. Give yourselves to him
Bravely and wholly. Danger is a dog
That follows if ye fly, flies if ye face him.

Father Buvulan.
Surely his Highness knows us for his own.
Oh, excellent Sir, commend us to his Grace;
We wait upon his every wish and word.

Montargis.
Commend yourselves by service. Well ye know,
If aught your art avails you, who it is
That by his damnable practice hath let loose
These troops of demons that torment the King,—
A sin by so much worse than fratricide
As hell is worse than death; ye know it well;
It is the Duke his brother. What ye know
That daringly declare, and ye are safe.

Father Buvulan.
Oh, Sir, it was but reverence and respect
For the Blood-Royal muzzled us till now;
But at his Grace's honourable bidding
The truth must be declared.

Montargis.
His Grace's bidding?
The servant who doth only what is bidden
Shall earn but scant reward. He that divines
His master's need and feeds it, serves him twice;
Serves him with head and hand and heart and will;
This is the saving service.

Father Buvulan.
Sir, 'tis well;
This service we will render, and the truth
Unflinchingly avouch.

Montargis.
Truth is a gem
Of countless price; and life too is worth something.
Once more the Council in its wisdom meets
To vex the question of the King's disease;
Ye shall attend it. Come meantime with me;
A little of my teaching will ye want
Ere ye proceed adepts in speaking truth.

Scene III.

—The Convent of the Celestines. Nuns and Novices at work embroidering vestments and altar-cloths.
1st Novice.

I was next before Iolande, and heard a
kind of soft scuffle behind, and, turning round, I missed
her; and oh! woe is me! I cried, there is a maid gone
and it might have been I! And I looked through the
grating, and there he stood, a tall man and a beautiful
bachelor. He bade the other touch him if he dared;
and there were words and oaths, and when they drew
their swords I squealed and ran away.

1st Nun.

Ay, and it was time, too. Who taught thee
to look at a man through a grating?

1st Novice.

Nobody, Mother; I was looking for Iolande.

1st Nun.

Then do so no more. If a maid look through
a grating what may she not see? Peradventure the
Grand Turk and all his Janissaries, and I know not what
masquings and mummeries; or the six Satyrs which
danced at the widow's wedding with no more clothing
than a beast's, and by God's providence took fire and
were burnt; all except his gracious Majesty, whom God
preserve!

2nd Nun.

Yes, Sister, there was another saved; which
was Jean de Nantouillet; seeing he flung himself into a
trough of water which was there for cooling of the wine, and

calling upon St. Winifred, she endowed the water with
that virtue that it quenched the flames.

1st Nun.

But saidst thou a tall man, eh! and with a
long nose?

1st Novice.

Tall, Mother; and for his nose, it may be
long or may not, as it pleases God; for there was but a
small matter of moonlight to see it by. But he was not
a Turk, which has tusks, they say, like a boar; nor a
Satyr, which is shaggy.

2nd Novice.

Twice since has a tall man come hither by
the garden gate that was left open for him. I saw him
through the casement in the dormitory.

2nd Nun.

Fie! fie! This looking out of casements is
unseemly. Marcian looked out of a casement and she
saw a little boy with a bow and arrow, which was a
heathen and shot at her. Was he a fair-faced man with
blue eyes and a light-brown beard?

2nd Novice.

I know not, Mother, for his hat was drawn
over his brows, and he held his kerchief to his face as
though he had the toothache.

3rd Nun.

Marry, and I'll warrant you God sent a
toothache no sooner than he deserved. And if I were Abbess
there should be no leaving open of gates for sinners to
come in with their blue eyes and their brown beards.

4th Nun.

Yea, and their rapiers at their sides like
leopards, gaping and prancing up the walks that one
knows not which way to turn for them.

5th Nun.

No more prating and prattling. Come,

Marceline, sing us one of thy holy songs, which is better than
our babblement.

3rd Novice.

I will sing you the song of the Knight and the Dragon.

It begins so, Mother, and then it tells what happened.

5th Nun.

Go on, child; truly 'tis a good beginning,
and very necessary.

3rd Novice.

6th Nun.

Well, I pray God and St. Gregory that Sin
come no way near us, nor a Dragon neither; and if
one shall come that is not Sin nor a Dragon, what I say
is, he should not come muffled up and no one to see the
face of him.

5th Nun.

Past a doubt this Knight which comes once
and again is the same which snatched Iolande from the
hands of the spoiler.

3rd Nun.

Which some will say was sore against her
will, for all her scuffling and screeching. I am a guileless
woman that thinks no ill; but if ever such a thing happens
to me, I shall not stand screeching away to no purpose, I
think not indeed. I shall not stand waiting for any chance
of a passer-by just to fall out of one man into another.

5th Nun.

St. Mary, Sister, it is not for such as thou
and I to stand in dread of these dangers.

3rd Nun.

Who knows? It is true God has been good
to me for sixty years and upwards, but I were too bold
to count upon his mercies as though they were never to
fail me.

Enter a fourth Novice.
4th Novice.

I vow there is the same man again, coming
in through the garden gate.

3rd Nun.

The same again! Fearful! This must be
looked to; I must see to this.

[Exit.
1st Nun.

We must all see to it, we that wear the veil.
What is this hurry-skurry! Keep back, Novices; it is not
for you .... Nay, young legs! They're all gone before
one can cross oneself.

[Exeunt.
Enter the Lady Abbess and Father Renault.
The Abbess.
A woeful plight, poor sinner, woeful—
yes—
Poor Flos! I told her it would come to this.
Poor soul! she never heeded me, no more
Than had I been a magpie or a chough.

Father Renault.
That woeful is her plight I well believe,
And hear with hope; the woefuller the better;
So woe shall work to weal.

The Abbess.
Pray God it may!
Pary God you bring it so to work! God grant it!
But what it works to now is bad to worse.
She hates him with a passion and a heat
More senseless than she loved him with before;
And take my word for 't—of a truth you may—
I know her well, and she may sit and sulk
And spare to speak, but well I know her thoughts—
And take my word for 't she is dangerous;
She's brooding, and there's somewhat will be hatch'd;
And she has those—I say not who they be—
At her behest who'll do a deed of blood
For love or lucre; and what scandal then
Should light upon this holy House and me
And all of us. I pray you press it home;
Enjoin her if she harbour in her soul
Bad thoughts of malice and revenge, to speak,
And bid her upon pain of her soul's death
Put them away.

Father Renault.
Else shall she not be shriven.
Go, summon her and send her to confession.
By this example we may mark how swift
The transformation whereby carnal love
Is changed to carnal hate. I have heard it said,
There is no haunt the viper more affects
Than the forsaken bird's-nest. In the Chapel
I shall await her; send her to me there.

The Abbess.
She's there already and expects you.

Father Renault.
Good.
My part accomplished, it will then be yours
To hold her well in hand.

[Exit.
The Abbess.
So; gone at last.
The Duke is late; or is he hiding? Oh!
My gracious Lord!

Enter Orleans.
Orleans.
Good Abbess, my good friend,
Where is she? No—not here—nor coming? Nay,
Is her thank-offering of yesterday,
Her hand to kiss, the sum?

The Abbess.
My gracious Lord,
That were but little.

Orleans.
Abbess, say you so?
You think I ran some hazard of my life;
It was not much; but by the Lord of Life
If twenty lives were mine to put in pledge
And on each life were twenty kingdoms staked,
Laugh they that laughter love, that hand to kiss
Should countervail them.

The Abbess.
Oh, my Lord, I blush
To hear such things.

Orleans.
No need, good Abbess, none.
I am not what I was. Her saintly grace
Hath wrought a miracle and made of me,
Whole sinner that I was, now half a saint.
I think you scarce believe it, but 'tis true;
That quest I told you of—that sacred quest
Touching the king,—is all my errand now:
Tell her for holy ends I humbly crave
To be admitted to her presence.

The Abbess.
Nay,
My gracious Lord, it pleases you to waive
Your royal state; but it befits not me
To be forgetful. She is near at hand:
She shall attend you.

Orleans.
But no word, I pray,
Of who or what I am.

The Abbess.
My gracious Lord,
She does not, and she shall not, even surmise,
If I can help it, till your Grace give leave,
The honour that is hers.

[Exit.
Orleans.
When soul meets soul
I crave a riddance of my royalties.
Save those that wear them, there are none can know
The leaden hand they lay upon the hearts
Of whosoe'er approaches, numb and dumb,
That else were sprightly, fervent, fond and free.
But wherefore do I wish her free and fond?
And is it but the Devil's self within
Assures me she has power to cast him out,
So to betray us both? No, verily,
Should the unholy ghost entice my soul
From this its holy purpose, she herself
Would rescue and redeem it.
Enter Iolande.
Fairest friend,
Is it too soon I come again?

Iolande.
Too soon?

Orleans.
It would not seem so were my mission told.
Have I seemed slow to tell it? Then believe
'Tis that I loved to linger in the joys
That herald what is grave.

Iolande.
You speak of joys,
And then you speak of that which is not joy.
What else it is I know not; nor can I guess
Why you, that have the splendours of the world
(So thinks the Abbess) in your choice, should choose
To haunt this dim retreat.

Orleans.
If dim it be,
It's dimness is divine. In years long past
I sought and found another dim retreat;
And shall I tell you where?

Iolande.
Tell what you will.

Orleans.
Once in a midnight march—'twas when the war
With Brittany broke out—tired with the din
And tumult of the host, I left the road,
And in the distant cloisters of a wood
Dismounted and sat down. The untroubled moon
Kept through the silent skies a cloudless course,
And kiss'd and hallow'd with her tender light
Young leaf and mossy trunk; and on the sward
Black shadows slumber'd, softly counterchanged
With silver bars. Majestic and serene,
I said, is Nature's night, and what is Man's?
Then from the secret heart of some recess
Gush'd the sweet nocturns of that serious bird
Whose love-note never sleeps. With glad surprise
Her music thrill'd the bosom of the wood,
And like an angel's message enter'd mine.
Why wander back my thoughts to that night march?
Can you divine? or must I tell you why?
The worlds without this precinct and within
Are to my heart,—the one the hurrying march
With riot, outrage, ribaldry, and noise
Insulting night,—the other, deep repose
That listens only to a heaven-taught song
And throbs with gentlest joy.

Iolande.
What march was that?
Said you, the Breton War? You follow'd then
The banner of the founder of this House,
His Grace of Orleans. He is brave, they say,
But wild of life, and though abounding oft
In works of grace and penitence, yet as oft
Lapsing to sin, and dangerous even to those
His bounty shelter'd.

Orleans.
By his enemies
All this is said, and more. Are you then one?

Iolande.
Nay, I know nothing save the gossiping tales
That flit like bats about these convent walls
Where twilight reigns. Gladly would I believe
Our Founder faultless if I might; but you,
Living in courts and camps, must know him well.

Orleans.
He is not faultless.

Iolande.
Are his faults as grave
As tattling tongues relate?

Orleans.
They're grave enough.

Iolande.
Are you then to be number'd in the file
Of the Duke's enemies?

Orleans.
Indeed I am:
Not one has hurt him more.

Iolande.
What is your name?
The Abbess vows—what I but scantly credit—
She knows it not. May I not know it? No?
She says you are of credit with the Court,
And hope through certain ministries of ours
With holy relics, to restore to health
One whom the Founder loves.

Orleans.
Soon will you know
Mine errand and my name; the last too soon;
It is well known to calumny; when heard,
It may be you will bid the gates be barred,
And banish me your presence?

Iolande.
Never. No,
If calumny assail you, much the more
Be gratitude intent to do you right.
That you are true and generous and brave
Not all the falsehood all the world can forge
Shall sunder from my faith.

Orleans.
Yet is there more.
I said that calumny had soil'd my name,
Which is a truth; but bitterer truth's behind;
My life deserves not that my name stand clear;
I claim but to be true; save loyalty
Few gifts of grace are mine.

Iolande.
But you are young,
And you will grow in grace.

Orleans.
It should be so;
But hardly may I dare to say it will.
I came upon a holy mission hither;
Yet something but half holy in my heart
Detains my tongue from telling it.

Iolande.
Your words
Are strangely dark. I guess not what they mean
And almost fear to ask. I know but little;
Yet know that there are dangers in the world
I have but heard of. May I trust in you?
Oh that 'twere possible to trust in you
With boundless and inalterable faith!
Oh that 'twere possible to cast my soul
On you as on the pillar of its strength!
But you, too, you are weak; you say you are;
And only God is strong, and in His strength
And in none other strength may strength be found,
And in His love and in none other love
His child may win an unbewildering love,
Love without danger, measureless content.
Leave her to seek it there.

Orleans.
Oh, Iolande!
I love you—yet to say so is a sin;
And such a sin as only such a love
And veriest inebriety of heart
Can palliate or excuse. An earthly bond,
Earthly as it was woven of earthly aims
By heedless hands when I was but a child,
Yet sacred as it binds me to a wife,—
This earthly sacred bond forbids my soul
To seek the holier and the heavenlier peace
It might have found with you.

Iolande.
Go back, go back.
I knew not you were married; back to your wife;
Leave me—forget me—God will give me strength;
There yet is time, for I am innocent still,
And now each moment gathers guilt. Begone;
Nor ever come again, nor ever again
Wrong her you speak of, as you did but now
In saying you love me.

Orleans.
Yet loving you
I love not her the less,—surely not less;
Nay with a pitying love I love her more;
And pitying love shall have a heavenlier home.
For even in the instant I beheld your face
All that this glorious earth contains of good,
As in a new creation, freshly, strangely,
Reveal'd itself, borne in upon my soul;
And since the mandate which created light
And eyes not mortal then beheld God's works
Not then defaced, no eye of man hath seen
So fair an apparition as appear'd
This earth to me.

Iolande.
Home to your wife,—go home.
Your heart betrays itself and truth and me.
You know not love, speaking of love for two.
I knew not love till now; and love and shame
Have flung themselves upon me both at once.
One will be with me to my death I know;
The other not an hour. Oh, brave and true
And loyal as you are, from deadly wrong
You rescued me, now rescue me from shame;
For shame it is to hear you speak of love,
And shame it is to answer you with tears
That seem like softness: but my trust is this,
That in myself I trust not,—nor in you,
Save only if you trust yourself no more
And fly from sin.

Orleans.
More precious to my soul
Is your affiance, though with stern reserves,
Than ever soft surrender wild to meet
Love's wildest wish; nor will I longer dare,
Uplifted by the rapture of the time
Entrancing me from insight, to forget
That what is heavenliest in our mortal moods
Is not as fix'd and founded as the heavens.
Yet do I dread to leave you, leaving thus
My name the victim of all vile reports
Which, when you hear it, you will hear.

Iolande.
No—no.
The evil you have spoken of yourself
I will believe, and not a breath beside.

Orleans.
I ask no more—no more—oh, nothing more;
Not for one tone of that too tender voice,
Not for one touch of that transparent hand;
No, nothing for myself ...

Voices without.
What! Iolande:

Enter two Novices.
1st Novice.
Oh! cry you mercy! Are you not alone?

Iolande.
You knew I was not.

2nd Novice.
Well, perhaps we did;
But 'tis no fault of ours, for we were sent.
The Sisters want you in the Founder's chapel
To deck the altar for St. Clement's Eve;
And Father Renault tells us first and last
None knows so well to twine the mimic flowers
And Nature's broidery to counterfeit.

1st Novice.
Old Sister Martha, mounting the ladder, tried,
We handing up the flowers; but from her hold
Thrice fell the fleur-de-lys; and she, poor soul!
Was seized with trembling and would try no more.
She said it was unlucky.

Orleans.
It was strange.

1st Novice.
Yes, truly, Sir, it scared us.

2nd Novice.
Worse ensued;
For in her fright the ladder she o'erthrew,
Which struck the Founder's banner in its fall,
And that fell too.

Orleans.
That fell before its time;
If ancient prophecy may win belief
That should have waited for St. Clement's Eve.

2nd Novice.
Sir, you say true. Come, Iolande; they wait.

Iolande.
I will be there anon. So tell them.

[Exeunt the two Novices.
Orleans.
This
I said, and I will say it once again,
That for myself I ask nor word nor look
That speaks of more than pardon. What remains
Is but to name mine errand and begone.
For one far worthier than myself I crave
A boon that in the holiest human pity
You may confer. A brother whom I love,—
Whom all men love,—a treasure-house of weal
For France and me,—in his behalf I ask
What none but you can give. Sorely his soul
Is wrung and tortured by the terrible power
Of evil spirits, ever and anon
Re-entering his body through the gaps
Of faltering faith and intermitted prayer,
When struggling nature wearied with the strife
Yields a brief vantage.

Iolande.
He shall have my prayers;
'Twill be my sorrow's solace when you're gone
To pray for one you love.

Orleans.
And did you know,
In health how kind he is, how good and just,
In anguish how unutterably tried,
You'd pray with tears.

Iolande.
I never pray without;
But they shall flow from deeper depths for him.

Orleans.
For prayers I ask—for prayers and something more.
A vial is there in the Bernardins
Which holds a relic of transcendant price,
The tears of Mary Magdalene, let fall
Then when she stood before the tomb of Christ
Ere Christ appear'd; an Angel as they fell
Caught them, and later gave them to St. John
In Patmos; to St. Bernard from St. John
Successive Saints devolved them; and such power
Is theirs, that should a virgin whom no sin
Nor sinful thought hath violated, dip
Her finger in them, calling Christ to aid,
And trace upon the brow of one possess'd
The figure of the Cross, the unclean spirit
Will instantly depart; and never more
To one so fortified can fiend or imp
Make good his entrance. Now you know what boon
In what behalf I beg.

Iolande.
Am I the maid
That may do this? Oh, would that I were worthy!
But if no holier hath the call, then I,
Beseeching God of His abounding grace
To give sufficiency, will work in faith.

Orleans.
His blessing then upon your work and you!
I will betake me to the Bernardins,
Where is enshrined the relic. Once again,
But in the hallowing presence of a rite
More solemn than a service for the dead,
We meet; and then, if so your conscience wills,
We part for ever.

Iolande.
Once and no more.

Orleans.
Meanwhile
The Lady Abbess will instruct you more
Touching myself, my Brother, and the weight
And import of your task.

[Exit.
Enter the Lady Abbess.
Abbess.
Well, pretty one;
You know not yet what crown of honour ... Yes,
And worthily you wear it—here's a colour!
I wonder if my cheeks will e'er again
Glow like a meteor, and my dangerous eyes
Throw out blue lights .. believe me once they could.
Well! there's a time for all things! I protest
You look so stately and so lifted up
I think you know what Knight you have in hand;
I think he told you.

Iolande.
No, dear Lady-Mother;
Nor do I greatly care. How brave he is,
How kind, how generous, how great of heart,
I know—what care I for his name?

Abbess.
Good child,
Say not you care not till you know. What, what!
I will not tell you if you say you care not.
Now do you care?

Iolande.
Yes, I believe I do.
Who is he?

Abbess.
Louis, by the Grace of God
Of Orleans, Valois, Blois, and Beaumont Duke,
Count of Touraine! Hi! hi! Beshrew thy heart!
The red blood ebbs amain; the fleur-de-lys
Has beaten back the roses.

Iolande.
Oh! my Mother!
Then he whose malady I am charged to cure,—
He is the King! Oh Mother, yes, I know—
“A treasure-house of weal to France and him;”
He said to France. Mother, no hour shall fly,
No minute that I shall not pass in prayer.
Send for the Hermit; tell him in the chapel
I shall be found.

Abbess.
Well, well, my child, I will.

Scene IV.

—Another Apartment in the Convent.—Flos de Flavy and Raiz de Vezelay.
Flos.
Talk not to me of love; I loathe its name
More than blue plague or the unburied corse
That none dares touch. Give me thy hand; I have it;
But is it mine?

De Vezelay.
For ever and for ever!

Flos.
Mine for all work that I shall put it to?

De Vezelay.
In all submission thine.

Flos.
Now give me this;
[Draws his dagger from its sheath.
Thy dagger's haft is fashion'd to a cross,
As though for handling by some Christian Knight
Apt to avenge a woman. Vain pretence!
Oh empty emblem! Out of date in France.
What dagger now leaps lightly from its sheath
Save in a tavern brawl?

De Vezelay.
Now by my soul
You do us less than justice. Women's wrongs
Find yet in France avengers.

Flos.
Is it so?
Then swear upon this Cross to prove it so.
Swear to avenge me, and be swift to strike—
I say not whom, lest naming of his name
My lips be wither'd and my human speech
Turn'd to a serpent's hiss.

De Vezelay.
That do I swear;
And by what's holiest in the heart of man
I hold myself herein God's minister
Of wrath and judgment, and your will as His.

Flos.
Give me thy hand again. It is too white.
I dedicate this hand to truth and love,
And hatred and revenge. White as mine own!
Dye it and bring it back to me to-morrow,
And I will clasp it to my heart. Farewell.

Scene V.

—The Council Chamber.—The King, the Duke of Orleans, the Duke of Burgundy, the Archbishop of Sens, and other councillors; the Bastard of Montargis, the Abbot of the Bernardins, the Captain of the King's Guard, and others in attendance.
Orleans.
The worthy Abbot here, my Lords, will vouch
It has been tried a hundred times and more
Nor e'er found wanting.

Abbot.
Never yet, my Lords.
The last demoniac who was dispossess'd
Was one from Vermandois,—a damsel plagued
With many devils, that she raved and shriek'd
And tore her clothes. A virgin of St. Cloud
Dipping a finger sign'd her, whereupon
A volley of blue sparks flew from her mouth,
Then crows and winged serpents; and with that
She dropp'd her arms and knelt, and praising God,
Gave thanks for her deliverance like a lamb.

Orleans.
You hear. Since which she rests inviolate.
Enough, Lord Abbot: we will weigh your words.

[Exit the Abbot of the Bernardins.
Burgundy.
May it please your Majesty, I question not
But that the tears shall work for good; they may;
But this should hinder not that means be sought
To track these devils home to them they serve;
And these sagacious Monks, as I am told,
Have now their noses on the slot. They wait
To tell their tidings. Ho there! bring them in.

[Exit Montargis.
Orleans.
For me, my Lords, as soon would I consult
With Satan's self as with his mimes and minions;
But since they please my Cousin, let them come.
I think—what smell is this?—they're not far off.

Re-enter Montargis with Father Buvulan and Father Betizac.
Burgundy.
Rise, holy Fathers; say to my Lord the King
How speeds your quest?

Archbishop.
But first, I pray you, tell
Whether it be by sorcery ye work,
Or holier ways.

Father Buvulan.
My Lord Archbishop, no;
'Tis not by sorcery; but as Moses wrought
His wonders, and by Jannes and by Jambres,
Egyptians and Sorcerers, was misdeem'd
To be a Sorcerer like themselves, so we
By Sorcerers and their crew are Sorcerers call'd,
But by the faithful faithful. For our art,
We draw it from the holiest source, a book
Which God to Adam for his solace gave
When he had wept a hundred years for Abel.
He that shall read this volume when the Moon
Conjoins with Jupiter in the Dragon's head,
Shall know of secret counsels that are hatch'd
In Satan's kingdom.

Orleans.
In what language, Sir,
Is this book written?

Father Buvulan.
That which was used, my Lord,
In Paradise.

Orleans.
Who taught it you?

Father Buvulan.
My Lord,
The Book I speak of teaches it.

Burgundy.
Well, well;
To the purpose. Say, if ye know, what man
Sends by his execrable art these fiends
To vex the King, himself a fouler fiend
Than any that obey him.

Father Betizac.
Honour'd Lords,
We know, but dare not tell.

Burgundy.
How! dare not tell!
How dare ye to be silent if ye know?

Father Betizac.
My Lord, so loth are we to deem it true,
Although we know it, we would fain believe
Our art this once betrays us.

Burgundy.
Tush! no words,
Or words of weight; no trifling, Friars, here.
Speak to the point, or take your hummings hence.

Father Betizac.
Oh, Sirs, but it is perilous to accuse
Men in high places! 'twere an ill return
For our outspoken fearless honesty
Should we lie open to the vengeful strokes
Of guilty greatness; and we humbly crave
Some warrantise that what we're bid to speak
Spoken shall bring no jeopardy of life
Or liberty or goods.

Burgundy.
Now look ye, Friars;
I've heard you heretofore with patience; yes,
With singular patience, bred of that respect
In which I hold you, so far I have heard you.
But I am not a Saint; patience has bounds:
And if ye do not instantly speak out,
By God I'll have your heads.

Father Buvulan.
Ah! my good Lord,
You deal too hardly with our just intent;
But being so bidden we must needs obey
Though it may cost us dear. My Lord, the man
Who to our sorrowing insight was reveal'd
The worker of this evil on the King
Stands in this presence on the King's right hand,
His Grace the Duke of Orleans.

Orleans.
Death and Hell!
Ye felon Monks, accuse ye me?

Archbishop.
My Lords,
This is plain blasphemy—these men blaspheme—
My Lords, these men, I say these men, my Lords,—

Orleans.
These men, Archbishop? Venomous snakes, not men;
Fell vipers hissing through the mask of Monks.
Detestable Apostates, come ye here,
Yea to the face and front of Majesty,
To trample on the Royal blood of France!
Rear up thy head, thou sacrilegious snake,
Ope thy white lips and spit that lie again
In the King's face.

Archbishop.
I say, my Lords, once more,
These men profane this presence, speaking words
That are most impious, and unfit to utter,
And I may add, untrue, and very fearful,
Transgressing and o'erleaping, so to say,
Those bounds of modesty which good men honour,
Insomuch that I verily stand amazed.

Orleans.
I say no more. I am ashamed to waste
Good honest anger on a reptile's sting,
Or scold at kites and jackdaws. Sir my Brother,
I deign not to reply to this foul charge,
But leave it to your justice.

The King.
They shall die,
Yea, instantly, an ignominious death.
Ho! Captain of the Guard, arrest these Monks.
[The Guard is called in and the Monks pinioned.
My ever loving and belovèd Brother,
Who from our earliest years hast been to me
A staff and stay,—my dear delight in weal,
My solace in affliction,—be it known
Who strikes at thy fair fame strikes at my heart,
And as a traitor to the realm and me
Shall suffer death.

Father Betizac.
Oh mercy! spare our lives!
My honour'd Lord of Burgundy, save us, save us.

Burgundy.
I save you! Take them hence.

Orleans.
But first, a word;
Of your own malice, though as deep as hell,
Ye have not learnt this lesson. Tell from whom,
Beside the Devil, ye derived it; tell,
And I myself may plead for you.

Father Buvulan.
My Lord,
You are most merciful and a Christian man.
We were assured his Grace of Burgundy
Knew more of this than we.

Orleans.
My cousin John!

Burgundy.
What, I, ye miscreant jugglers!

Montargis.
Take them hence—
Off with them—off! and gag them, lest their lies
Should spread amongst the people.

Father Betizac.
Base, false Knight!

[The Monks are gagged and carried off.
Burgundy.
My royal Cousin, what has moved these Monks
To mingle me with their malignities,
I do protest I know not. Before God
I am as innocent of this wrong to you
As when my mother whelp'd me.

The King.
Doubt it not,
My noble Brother. Think not that our Cousin,
Who did but yesterday at the altar's foot,
In token of a life-long good accord,
Partake with you the Bread of Life and Love,
Would ever so surrender his purged spirit
To evil counsels as to soil himself
With perfidies like these.

Orleans.
I well believe it;
And do as freely from my heart absolve
My Cousin of complicity in this,—
Yea with a faith as absolute—as myself
Of that I'm charged with. I would not believe
A cat had stolen my cream upon the oath
Of two such knaves as these; how should I then
Believe for them my royal Cousin wrought
To poison my good name? He did it not;
No, by the honour of the Fleur de Lys,
He did it not. My pledge I here renew
Of friendship and alliance.

Burgundy.
And I mine;
Here is my hand.

Orleans.
So be it. Now, my Lords,
Our day's work thus determined, God be with you!
With your good leave, my Brother.

The King.
Lords, farewell;
Our Brother, as we think, will wish us with him.

[Exeunt the King and the Duke of Orleans.
Burgundy.
I crave a word of counsel ere we part:
We see, Sirs, how no week can pass but breeds
Some new device for healing of the King;
And what we now have witness'd proffers proof
How easily in this good men may err,
The dupes of knavish craft. Touching these tears,
My cousin may be right or may be wrong;
Certes his purpose and intent is good;
But that his counsellors and instruments
Are unimpeachable, demands a doubt:
The Abbot of the Bernardins, I hear,
Is but a wily and a slippery saint;
And for my cousin's virgin, who but knows
What manner of maids they be that trade with him.
Then for the tears; there is another bottle,
Shrined in the Convent of St. Genevieve,
Which some think is the truer. How this be
I know not; but I know it is not meet
Such things be hazarded in wantonness;
And to this end it is I ask your aid.
I deem that whoso shall essay such things,
If harm should follow, howsoe'er excused,
Should expiate the issue with their lives.
So rash attempts shall fitly be foreslowen,
And none shall tamper with the King's disease
Save those that in themselves and in their means
Have a full faith. Hold up your hands for “Yea.”
[All hands are holden up.
It is decreed. I will not keep you now.
Farewell. Montargis, stay with me. Farewell.
[Exeunt all but the Duke of Burgundy and the Bastard of Montargis.
Well, this is strange, Montargis; by St. George
I nothing know what made those Monks so bold;
They had no cue from me.

Montargis.
And by the Dragon
I'll swear it was the truth that made them bold;
For certain is it what they said was true;
The King's bedevill'd by the Duke, no other;
Men do not deal in dangerous crimes for nought,
And who but he could profit?

Burgundy.
Who but he?
Let but the King be kept incapable,
He thinks to rule supreme.

Montargis.
And for what cause
Saved he up Passac, whose infernal arts
Compass the King from hour to hour?

Burgundy.
But why
The Monks should be so desperate for the truth
At forfeit of their heads ...

Montargis.
That craves reply.
Why true then,—let me see. Faith! they were stung
At the Duke's meddling with their roast, the barber,
And, taking count he would avenge him, reckon'd
Their vengeance should have won the race of his.

Burgundy.
And when their reckonings ran them on a rock
They hail'd to me, beshrew them! It is well
My Cousin seems to think no evil.

Montargis.
Seems.

Burgundy.
Not honest, think'st thou, in his seeming?

Montargis.
Nay,
Your Highness searches men with inquisition
Subtler than mine. You're positive the Monks
No warrant had from you. I that am bound
To know you nice and scrupulous of speech,
May swear to what you say. But who beside
Will take it for a truth that men so mean
And lowly of condition would thus dare
To put their quarrel with a potent Prince
To mortal issue, save at his behest
Who only is more powerful still? 'Tis vain
To dream the Duke, or any man, howe'er
He mask the vengeful battery of his thoughts,
Acquits you in his heart; 'tis not in man
To hold you innocent; and if you deem
The Duke so minded, you are lull'd to sleep,
That so the dagger of a dire revenge
May waken you to death.

Burgundy.
By Anthony's cap
I swear I had no part in this at all,
Nor knew of their intent.

Montargis.
Sir, 'tis all one;
Part or no part, 'tis credited to you,
And will be ever. Go not abroad, I pray,
Unarm'd or unattended. Be advised;
You are not safe. From this time forth you walk
With pitfalls in your path. 'Tis you or he
Must fall to rise no more.

Burgundy.
Well, I'll beware.

Montargis.
One vantage you may suck from what hath chanced.
The Monks, thus dying for the word they spake,
Will leave an echo in the people. These
Will now misdoubt the Duke; and if mischance
Should haply overtake him, some will say
It was not undeserved. Let care be used
To spread the accusation; taking note
The Monks, as they were led to death, were gagg'd
To stifle it. Bid waverers call to mind
The dealings of the Duke in earlier years
With Jean de Bar, and that enchanted ring
Which still he wears, that gives him absolute sway
O'er women, be they ne'er so chaste; which ring
He scrupled not most impiously to employ
Even in the Holy Week. Noise that abroad;
And likewise that he hath a chamber, lock'd,
Which none may enter, where the pictures hang
By scores, of ladies o'er whose virtue thus
He foully triumph'd.

Burgundy.
Truly, I have heard
Of such a chamber.

Montargis.
More than heard have I,
For I have seen it.

Burgundy.
Hast thou? By St. George
Thou hast an entering art; how got'st thou in?

Montargis.
Sir, by the golden key; there is no lock
Which that key fits not. To your Highness too
Free entrance shall it open, would you view
This zodiac of fallen stars.

Burgundy.
Some idle hour.
But go, Montargis, see if the Monks be safe;
And bring me word. I am but ill at ease;
'Twould comfort me to hear their heads were off.

Scene VI.

This scene and song will not be found in the earlier editions of the play, and the song is mine only by an act of appropriation and the conversion of another's prose into verse of my own. The prose is Lady Minto's, in her Life of Hugh Elliot, p. 202:—“In looking over such a correspondence as this, the map of a whole life is unrolled before one. The starting point and the goal, the sunshine and the rain-cloud;are seen together: the same glance shows us the cause and consequence of action, the visions of hope and the experiences of reality, the growth and decay of friendships, the rapid succession of gladness and grief: and thus, ‘looking before and after,’ and pondering what might have been, what has been, and what may be again, the thought rises in one's mind, that if there be in other spheres spectators of these shifting scenes of life, they see few sadder sights on earth than the dawn of human joy.’

—Geoffrey de Laval and Eustace d'Estivet.
Geoffrey.
He bade me tell you he no longer needs
That ditty destined for a serenade,
Nor other amorous songs, how sweet soe'er,
Your art can minister. If sing you must
Still of love only, then he'd have you sing,
Not of love's dalliance, rather what he deems,
Thro' grace bestowed, not less but more divine,
Love's dirge.

Eustace.
My boy, when boyhood's happy years
Are past and gone, too aptly wilt thou learn
That Love and Death are mates; for either love
Dies in the living, or the living dies.
Oh boy—

Geoffrey.
But I am older than you guess;
You think, because my beard a little lags,
That I know nought of love. Oh, but I do;
And this I know,—if what you say of love
Is true, and in the living love can die,
Then rather would I that I died outright
Than that the love which is my life should die
And I should seem to live.

Eustace.
And may I know
For whom it is that thou would'st die?

Geoffrey.
For whom?
Well, there are two; his Highness is the one;
The other is a maid, whose name is—no,
I must not tell it.

Eustace.
Not to me? Dear youth;
Thou'lt find not one that tenders more thy weal;
God grant that if one day I sing a dirge,
It may not be for thee.

Geoffrey.
God grant it—yes,
Because my horoscope, his Highness says,
Points to one hour with his.

Eustace.
Nay, is it so?
Well, he that sings the dirge of love and joy
Needs not to single out this hour or that;
Still less that youth or maid. One song I sang,
In other years, that touched upon that key,
And if I could remember it ... “I asked” ...

Geoffrey.
You must—you must remember it. You shall.

(Eustace sings).

Geoffrey.
'Tis well for them that have the art, like you,
To put away their sadness into songs.
'Twas with a tender and a gracious grief
The Spirit deigned to look on human woes;
But had he not the solace of a sight
That reaches farther than an earthly far
And sees another dawn?

Eustace.
There—now I own
A ripeness must be thine beyond thine years,
And truly beyond mine; for I but sing,
And thou art fain to preach.

Geoffrey.
Hark, hark! the chimes.
One, two, three, four ... the hour is come, and now,—
If Iolande be steadfast, and the King,
As hitherto, consenting,—shall be wrought
The miracle of the tears. The Duke gave leave,
And I can pass you through the chapel doors;
But we must go at once and see unseen.