University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

Scene I.

—A Street. —De Vezelay meeting his Squire.
De Vezelay.
What of Montargis? Hast thou found his track?

Squire.
'Twas dark ere I had reach'd the spot; but there
I spied him; he was muffled in his cloak
And skulk'd beneath a porch you'll find half way
Betwixt the Celestines and Gate Barbette;
It bears for sign the image of our Lady.
I left Philippe to watch and came to tell.

De Vezelay.
Then there shall he be met with.

Squire.
He is arm'd.

De Vezelay.
Else could I not assail him. Should I fall,
Take thou this token unto her thou knowest,
And say I gladly would have lived to serve her,
Wherein defeated, I as gladly die:

So speak from their graves the Spanish lovers and martyrs of Liberty in Landor's Inscription:

“Emeriti . lubenter . quiesceremus .
“Libertate . partâ .
Quiescimus . amissâ . perlubenter.”

Which ended, to my mother take this purse;
It sums the wealth of Raiz de Vezelay.

Scene II.

—The Convent of the Celestines.—The Duke of Orleans and Iolande.
Orleans.
You knew not, Iolande, but I knew well,
The import of that word which Passac brought,—
“He bade us take away his sword.” Poor soul!
So long as sense is with him he takes thought
For all, and ever as the clouds within
Speak to his spirit of a coming storm,
Desires to be disarm'd.

Iolande.
Alas! Alas!

Orleans.
Take courage and take comfort; look not back;
'Tis that way darkness lies. God knows thy heart;
He knows thou wrought'st devoutly and in faith,
And though He grant thee not a Kingdom's health,
'Tis for the Kingdom's sins, and not thine own,—
For mine and for the Kingdom's sins,—none else,
That He denies thee; nor for these for long;
Thy power, supernal even now in me,
Through me shall work its way to purge the realm,
And victory and peace shall yet be thine,
Though now defeated. Forth then from the Past,
And bid it get behind thee. Hope and joy
Shall blossom from this ruin.

Iolande.
With joy and hope
Let never more my name be named on earth.
Wrought I in faith? But what then are the fruits?
I wrought in sin, and shame is my reward.

Orleans.
Nay, never, never yet have sin or shame
Stain'd thy resplendent soul, nor ever shall.
One gift hath been refused thee, one reward,
But thou art still Heaven's chosen child, and Heaven
Is in thine eyes and lips and brow and voice;
Nor even in the rapture of that rite
Believed in through belief in Heaven's behest,
Wert thou so like an Angel sent to save
As in thine anguish now. If not the King,
Yet surely me hast thou been sent to save,
Nor wilt thou cast me,—oh! no, no, not now,—
From that pure presence which is safety's self.
Oh! say not now our paths must be apart;
I could have borne,—I thought I could have borne,—
To leave thee and to see thy face no more,
Caught in a gust of triumph and of joy
That swept thee out of sight; but as thou art
Not Earth nor Hell shall part us.

Iolande.
Earth and Hell!
It is for Heaven to part us. Earth and Hell
Are closing round and pressing in upon us
And shutting out the very sight of Heaven.
Oh, leave me; I have told thee I am weak,
Weak through the overthrow of faith and hope,
Weak through the triumph of malignant Powers,
And weak through what beside I will not say.
But in the chambers of my soul, one light
Still burns, and shows me, wildered though I be,
That saving strength is found in self-distrust.
If thou wouldst learn of me, learn that.

Orleans.
Oh God!
But canst thou not believe .... I plead not now
Nor ever will, though fifty fiends should rise
And clutch in fury at their former prey,
For aught but what is gracious and divine,
Thy gracious guidance, thy divine support
To rescue from their rage, not me alone,
But many a million more; for France through me
Is blasted and accursed, and her through me
May'st thou redeem from darkness and from death,
And ransom and assoil. 'Tis France that pleads.

Iolande.
Prince, tempt not me, nor tamper with thyself.
Nor thou nor I are Saviours of mankind:
They have another. Oh! in Him, not me,
Seek grace and strength, and in His armour clad
Go forth and conquer. No, not me, not me!
For never was it meant when God array'd
Thy spirit with a lustre more than man's
That it should bend with less than manhood's might
And seek support in me.

Orleans.
Oh, Iolande,
Thy mandate if the demon dared dispute,
That dare not I. The very ground thou tread'st
Is holy; it is dedicated earth
Which never more shall foot of mine profane.
But wheresoe'er it journeys, ever there
The vision of thy presence floating round
Shall every path and every precinct guard,
And he that was the slave of sense and sin
Shall be thy soldier in the cause of Christ,
Far from thee and yet near.

Enter Flos de Flavy.
Flos.
Where is she? Iolande, oh fly! Begone!
Take instant flight; a message has been brought
From Raiz de Vezelay in fearful haste;
The people clamour and the Council sits
To judge thee; and no safety but in flight.

Iolande.
Great God! one Angel watcheth o'er me still,
Sent by Thy pardoning love,—the Angel Death.

Orleans.
The Council sits to judge her! Who hath dared
Without my summons to convene it?

Flos.
Sir,
The people rage and say they will have blood.
His Grace of Burgundy in Council sits,
And, to appease them, he hath pledged his faith
That judgment should be pass'd.

Orleans.
His Grace is mad;
Or else 'tis in the dark he strikes, nor knows
Why nor at whom. Fear not for Iolande;
I'll to the Council instantly, and all
Will then be right. My cousin and myself
Are now in amity, and were we not,
We ever have been, as we ever shall,
Frank friends or open foes. All will be right.
I'll tell them it is I shall answer this;
For 'twas of my devising.

Iolande.
Oh! no, no;
You shall not go; all was well done by you;
The guilt was only mine.

Orleans.
Sweet Iolande,
Your arms about me thus would once have strain'd
The staunchest of my purposes—but now ...

[Breaks away.
Robert the Hermit enters.
Robert.
Is this a time for clippings and embracings?
Kneeling in prayer were meeter; know'st thou not
What threatens thee, and hear'st thou not thy knell?

Orleans.
I know what threatens those that threaten her.

[Exit.
Flos.
It is the people that I fear the most;
They are as cruel as that dangerous Duke,
And madder than their King.

Robert.
Unhappy maid,
Haste thee to Sanctuary; a dreadful fate
Awaits thee else.

Iolande.
Hermit, it is but death.
Let me stay here. What death am I to die?
Is it by fire? God grant it be by fire!
For holiest men aforetime have so died.
Oh Hermit! am I utterly unworthy
To die like them?

Robert.
Maiden, the hand of God
Hath written up thy sin. Thy fatal touch
Polluted and depraved the inherent grace
Of those most holy tears.

Iolande.
Oh 'tis most true;
My guilt is great; the visions of the sense
Beguiled my wandering soul, and I misdeem'd
Fallen nature's ecstacies for grace divine.

Robert.
Look further for thy fault. How and whence came
That treachery of the sense? the love of God
Enamours not the sense, nor, being pure,
Conspires with that, like losels o'er their cups,
To inebriate the soul and so betray;
For love of God the Father, God the Son,
And God the Holy Ghost, comes not with heat,
With seizure, transport, and with ravishment;
Since these are wild and fugitive as the lights
That dance and flicker o'er a new-fill'd grave,
And where these are, there are the fumes of death
And savour of corruption—amorous love
Tainting the love of Christ. I saw even now
Him that went hence reluctantly let go.
Search thou thy heart; avoid the wrath of God;
And that thou may'st avoid it, take thou heed,
Nor brave in wantonness the wrath of man.
It were presumptuous sin to court that death
Which God in His great mercy and good time
Grants or withholds.

Flos.
Yes, Iolande, oh yes;
'Tis tempting Providence to linger. Come.

Iolande.
Take me to Sanctuary. I will wait God's time.

Scene III.

—A Street. In front is the porch of a house, surmounted by an image of the Virgin. The Bastard of Montargis and Raoul de Rouvroy.
De Rouvroy.
This north wind bites. I am half sick with cold.

Montargis.
The night is chill; but something in my soul
Dances and sparkles like yon frosty star.
To watch for her I love or him I loathe
Is better than a bed of down.

De Rouvroy.
God's life!
I shall be frozen to the door-post soon;
My dagger hand is numb.

Montargis.
Think of thy wrongs;
Hast thou no spark of Hell-fire in thy heart
To keep thee warm?

De Rouvroy.
This hanging by and waiting
Is what I hate. Come but the work to hand,
It warms me well. Hear'st thou? what noise is that?

Montargis.
'Tis but a sheaf of snow slid from a roof.
'Tis vain to hearken for a tread to-night;
Unless he come accompanied and talk,
You'll see him ere you hear him.

De Rouvroy.
Hark! the chimes!
Eight and three quarters.

Montargis.
Look, he comes! hide, hide.

[They retire under the porch.
Enter the Duke of Orleans and Geoffrey de Laval, his Page.
Orleans.
Now haste thee home, and bid the Seneschal
Bring me swift muster of the men-at-arms
Wherever I may be.

Montargis.
(springing from the porch, followed by De Rouvroy and others).
That is in Hell.

[Stabs him.
Orleans.
Ha! know ye whom ye strike? Villains, 'tis I,
The Duke of Orleans.

Montargis.
The man we want.

Orleans.
I know thee not, nor whence thy grudge to me;
But thou hast struck the life.

[Falls.
Montargis.
And will again.

[Aiming again at the Duke, whose Page, throwing himself on his master, is stabbed and dies.
Montargis.
Fool, what thy master needed not is thine.
He hath enough.

De Rouvroy.
What! is he dead? Make sure.

Montargis.
Look in the gutter; full of blood he was;
But if that drain him not ... Fly for your lives!
There's some one comes.

[Exeunt Montargis and his gang.
Enter De Vezelay and his Squire.
De Vezelay.
What horrible sight is this! The Duke! the Duke!

Orleans.
(raising himself.)
And who art thou? Is't not De Vezelay?
Not many minutes have I left of life,
De Vezelay—
[Seeing the body of his Page.
Alas! poor faithful boy!
And couldst not thou be spared! De Vezelay,
Lift me and take me to the Celestines
Alive or dead. Despatch thee. If God will
I fain would reach the Celestines alive.

[Faints.
De Vezelay.
(assisted by his Squire, takes up the Duke).
Accursed be my feet that came too late,
My hand, that could not find a time to strike
Ere this was acted. Bastard! man of blood!
'Tis thou, 'tis thou that didst this murder. So!
Swiftly, but smoothly, to the Celestines.

Scene IV.

—The Council Chamber. The Dukes of Burgundy, Bourbon, and Berri, the titular King of Sicily, and divers high Functionaries and Officers of State.
Burgundy.
I will be sworn, my Lords, the Duke my Cousin
Can clear himself of this. The people fume,
And rub again old rancours, and in chief
That satyr's dance, when, as by miracle,
Of five that from his Brother's torch took fire,
Masking in garbs of tow, and burn'd to death,
The King alone escaped, thanks be to God!
They murmur, too, of Passac's rescue, wrought,
As they misdeem, in malice to the King;
Whence they, by evil inference, charge the Duke
That he design'd the present woe. For me,
I hold him innocent, though much misled.

Bourbon.
Good Nephew, for the witchcraft let the witch
Be answerable singly; mix not up
His name with hers.

Berri.
When she hath smelt the fire,
Doubt not the people shall be pacified.

Burgundy.
Clerk, is the warrant ready?

Clerk.
Here, so please you.

[As he signs the warrant, enters Montargis, who whispers in his ear.
Burgundy.
And next, my Lords, the testy time consider'd,
Behoves us to take order with all speed
Touching the Regency. My Cousin's claim
Stands first. I marvel that he is not here;
I scarce can think the city so incensed
But he might find his way in safety hither.
Yet, though he slights us, let it not be said
His absence slurr'd his rights. The vulgar voice
Is loud against him; but what skills it? Noise
Shall never fright prescription from its course,
Nor shall a puff of popular discontent
Move ordinance aside.

[Shouting is heard in the streets.
Berri.
What cries be these?

Burgundy
Know'st thou, Montargis?

Montargis.
Sir, the citizens
Demand the death of that young Sorceress
Who practised on the King.

Burgundy.
There is her doom.
[Gives him the warrant.
See thou the citizens be satisfied;
Their urgency is just.

[Exit Montargis.
Bourbon.
But hark again!
I seem to hear an uproar here within,
A hideous shrieking.

Enter the King's Chamberlain.
Chamberlain.
Oh, my Lords! my Lords!
A treason—such a treason—such a deed—
A deed so barbarous, all the world's despite
Can never match it, hath been done—Oh God!
So black a treason ...

Burgundy.
What, upon the King!

Chamberlain.
Not on the King, my Lord,—the Duke
—the Duke—
His Grace of Orleans.

Burgundy.
God in heaven forefend!
What hath befallen him?

Chamberlain.
Dead, dead, my Lord:
Most foully murder'd.

Burgundy.
My sweet Cousin dead!

Chamberlain.
Stabb'd in the street as he was hastening hither:
Scantily attended and unarm'd.

Berri.
Stabb'd dead!

Sicily.
Merciful Heaven! Whose monstrous deed is this?

Bourbon.
Oh God, Thy hand is heavy on this realm!
When will the measure of Thy wrath be full,
And horrible portents cease?

Sicily.
Who did it? Who?
Who did this murder?

Burgundy.
Ay, Sir, speak; who did it?

Chamberlain.
I know not who, but they are more than one,
And running different ways.

Berri.
Send for the Provost!
Set double guards upon the city gates,
And let none pass.

Chamberlain.
The Provost is astir
And the whole city in the streets. The gates
Are closely guarded, and 'twas seen by some
Whither the murderers fled. With these for guides
The Provost tracks them.

Bourbon.
Nephew, are you ill?

Burgundy.
Ill? No! who says I'm ill?

Bourbon.
You're deadly pale.

Burgundy.
Who can abide so terrible a blow
And keep the crimson in his cheeks? Who's safe,
If thus the very gutters of our streets
Run with the blood of Princes? Who's secure?
Which of us next? Send for the Provost.

Berri.
Nay,
It were but hindering him to call him hither;
He's hot upon the quest.

Burgundy.
Then God forbid
That we should hinder him.

Berri.
Why lo! he's here.

Enter the Provost of Paris.
Sicily.
Speak; hast thou found them? Hast thou found the fiends
That did this execrable deed?

Provost.
My Lords,
Some of their number tried the Gate Barbette,
But found it shut?

Berri.
And whither fled they then?

Provost.
I think, my Lords, I know; and might I search
Whose house I will, high, low, or rich or poor,
Or though the noblest in the city, then
I'll stake my head these traitors shall be caught.

Bourbon.
Search where thou wilt; in Paris none, thou know'st,
May dare to shut his door against the Provost,
Save only Princes of the Blood.

Provost.
My Lords,
The powers I crave are such as bear no note
Of reservation.

Bourbon.
Take them to the full.
What say ye, my good Brothers and my Cousin?

Sicily.
All privilege push'd by, break every bar
That stays thee.

Berri.
Even as we would ourselves;
Hut, hovel, royal palace, all alike,
Enter and search.

Burgundy.
Nay, hold ye there. For me,
I'll have no nuzzling catchpole cross my door,
As though misdoubting that a royal roof
Should harbour cut-throats.

Bourbon
Cousin!

Provost.
In your hands,
My Lords, I place my office. 'Tis for you
To do your pleasure.

Berri.
Nephew, should thy door
Be solely barr'd, when all stand open else,
There were a second slaughter done this day,
And thy good name the victim.

Sicily.
By God's death,
I would myself impeach thee. And behold!
I see thy plain impeachment in thy face;
And if thy Cousin's ghost should rise before thee
And say thou didst it, I were not more sure
Of thy most damnable guilt; and with my sword
I'll probe and search and prove it.

Burgundy.
Spare thy threats,
Good Uncle. It was I that did this deed.

Bourbon.
Too well I knew it from the first.

Sicily.
And I.

Berri.
And dar'st thou say thou didst it, thou that satt'st
Pledging him at my board but yesternight,
And with him at Christ's table didst partake
A pledge more sacred still? Dar'st say 'twas thou!

Sicily.
Oh shame to knighthood and our Royal House!
Pluck from thy miscreant crest the Fleur de Lys
And stick the deadly hellebore in its place;
For from this hour attainted is thy blood,
And from the Royal Tree of France thy branch
Is lopp'd and on a dunghill cast to rot
With all that's base and abject. Hence! begone!
Get hence, or I will spurn thee with my foot
And push thee out of door.

Burgundy.
Beware, good Sirs,
The day we meet again.

[Exit.
Sicily.
Pursue him, Provost,
Arrest him.

Berri.
Be not hasty. First take note
Which way the people tend.

Bourbon.
Tis well advised;
Let's muster each of us our several guards
And draw them to a head; the people else
May turn upon us.

Sicily.
Then why sit we here?
Up and be doing! for each minute lost
May give him wings to fly. Get we to horse.

Scene V.

—The Convent of the Celestines.—Iolande kneeling beside the body of the Duke of Orleans. In front Raiz de Vezelay and Flos de Flavy.
Flos.
She hears us not. Vex not her ears with words;
They do no good.

De Vezelay.
But if she linger here
Her death is sure.

Flos.
Thou know'st her not; I do;
She will not fly.

De Vezelay.
Alas, then she is lost!

Flos.
Her soul is hardly with her. 'Tis with his.
Since she took water and with her kerchief wash'd
The blood-stains from his face, she hath not stirr'd.
How grand he looks! Death's grandeur and his own.

Iolande.
Not cold—not yet.

De Vezelay.
Did she not speak?

Flos.
To us?
No, not to us.

Iolande.
(springs to her feet).
Great God! Look there, look there!
The blood is gushing freely from the wound.

De Vezelay.
Then is the murderer near.

Enter the Bastard of Montargis.
Montargis.
(affecting to start back).
Oh piteous sight!
Oh woeful spectacle! What, lies he there,—
He that was yesterday so bold and gay!
At this even they that loved him not would weep,
And how should I forbear?

Iolande.
Assassin, hence!
Profane not thou the presence of this corse,
Lest it arise and slay thee. Felon, hence!

Montargis.
What! charge you me with this unhappy deed?
And call you me a murderer?

Flos.
Yea, she doth.

Montargis.
Ha! doth she truly? she is ill advised.
Her pardon should I weigh but at its worth
The charge of one, who, if I read aright
The warrant in my hand, herself is charged
With deeds more terrible than she lays on me;
Foul witchcraft link'd with treason; for which crimes
I come, as by this warrant is commanded,
To take her to her doom.

Flos.
Fell miscreant, hold;
Approach her not.

Montargis.
Stand from me, or by Heaven
I'll shake thee from my path.

De Vezelay.
False child of Hell,
Home to thy dam!

[Stabs him, and he falls.
Montargis.
Perfidious Raiz, why this?
I never did thee wrong.

De Vezelay.
For all mankind,
Whom thou hast wrong'd in putting on the mask
Of manhood who wast born and bred a fiend,
I take this vengeance.

Enter the Provost of Paris followed by Officers of Justice.
Provost.
What new gap for life
Is open'd here? More blood? Without, within,
In streets and houses, ay in churches too,
Rage violence and slaughter, and this night
The very skies rain blood.
[Turning to the body of the Duke of Orleans.
Unhappy Prince!
I honour'd thee in life, and do I now
Forget to do thee reverence!—Ha! by Heaven,
Unless mine eyes play false, this writhing wretch
Is he whose malice slew thee, and my zeal,
Though hasting, is belated. Say, whose hand
Was his that balk'd the headsman of his due
And laid this traitor low?

De Vezelay.
That hand was mine.

Provost.
I blame thee not, but would not he should die
Till he be question'd at the Châtelet;
The rack shall bring some hidden truths to light
Which else were buried with him.

Montargis.
I appeal
From them that sent thee to my Sovereign Lord,
His Grace of Burgundy.

Provost.
Appeal to him!
His Grace hath fled the city.

Montargis.
Fled! So— Well—
Take thou my body; for the breath that's in't,
Beware that it take wing not by the way,
For now it flutters even as for a flight
More distant than the Duke's.

Provost.
(to the Officers).
Sirs, take him hence.

Montargis.
One moment, Sirs, I pray you. Ere I go,
Fain with this lady would I make my peace.
My purpose was that she should share my flight,
And of this warrant I possess'd myself
To save her, not to harm. This to attest
Behold what's here,—the hand and seal of Death.

Iolande.
Make thou thy peace with God, and not with me;
For in God's court and presence we shall stand,
Both thou and I, this night.

Provost.
Sirs, we lose time;
I say, convey him hence.

[Exeunt the Provost and his Officers, with Montargis. Clamour and tumult is heard without, and enter Robert the Hermit.
Robert.
Oh haste thee, haste!
A rolling mass of fury comes this way;
Fly by the wicket: Raiz de Vezelay,
Attend her, I beseech thee; I, the while,
Will from the window speak to them, and strive
To stem the torrent.

Iolande.
Hermit, it is I
Must speak, and vindicate the fame of him
Whose lips are silent.
[She advances to the window, is struck by an arrow shot from the crowd, and falls. At the same time the doors are forced and the crowd appears, but pauses at the sight of the Duke's body and of Iolande fallen.
Hermit, I am slain;
And that is well. Christ will receive my soul,
Knowing that though I fondly loved another,
I strove to love but Him. That other too
Christ will receive; for if he sorely sinn'd,
Deep was his penitence and large his love.
I seem to see the Citizens at the door,
But now mine eyes wax dim,—or else my mind,—
And all things swim and glimmer. Cease, dear Flos,
Thou vainly striv'st to staunch it; let it flow.
I see more clearly now. Ye that love truth,
And of these fearful miserable days
Would justly judge, accuse not in blind wrath
Him that lies there, whose true and generous soul
Was faithful to the King. 'Twas mine, 'Twas mine,
The fault was mine, that though I work'd in faith
And sought the King's deliverance, all was vain
Being I was not worthy. Lo! I die,
And bless the hand from which this arrow flew,
And ask forgiveness, first of God, and next
Of you, the People. Free among the dead.

[Dies.
Robert.
Back, Citizens; that which ye sought ye have;
Though now methinks ye would ye had it not;
And some are weeping. Hie ye to your homes.
[The people retire.
He turns to Flos and De Vezelay.
Arise, if horror have not stark'd your limbs,
And bear we to the Chapel reverently
These poor remains. In her a fire is quench'd
That burn'd too bright, with either ardour fed,
Divine and human. In the grave with him
I bury hope; for France from this time forth
Is but a battle-field, where crime with crime,
Vengeance with vengeance grapples; till one sword
Shall smite the neck whence grow the hundred heads,
And one dread mace, weighted with force and fraud,
Shall stun this nation to a dismal peace.