 | Uxmal |  |
163
II.
Rouen.Scene—Near the Gates of the Town.
Otto Castellani and Jean du Village enter.
Otto Castellani.
Or I mistake, or you, my friend, are steward
To the rich merchant, the king's argentier,
The great Jacques Cœur.
Village.
Your memory is as true
As dial to the sun.
Otto.
Your name is Jean
Du Village.
Village.
Yours is Otto Castellani,
The Florentine, the Treasurer of Toulouse.
You owe the place unto my master's favour.
Otto.
Ha! well reminded!— (Aside)
Smite him dumb for it,
St. Zachary!— (Aloud)
Shake hands! We both are leagued
In the same purpose, as I guess. You come,
To witness his triumphal entry?
Village.
Say,
Rather, our good king Charles.
Otto.
Nay, be not modest—
Charles were not king, but for his treasurer!
164
From Normandy. It makes me feel ambitious,
Village, to be like Cœur in wealth and power,
As in pursuit. A merchant prince, forsooth?
A merchant KING is he! It makes us proud—
It makes us hope—who are of the merchant-craft;
It makes us equal with the lords o'th'soil.
Village.
Nay, Cœur is lord of many fine estates,
In Bourges to wit, Montpellier and Fargeau;
Not less than forty, as I reckon. Look!
The crowd increases. Who comes hither? Joy!
'Tis Alain Chartier!
Alain Chartier enters.
Chartier.
'Tis I, Village!
Ha! ha! They'll enter soon! Our good king Charles,
With all his court and army, to possess
His own good town of Rouen. Rejoice, kind Jean!
Your master will be honoured. For his largess
To the great cause of France, the grateful king
Makes him conspicuous. Equally he rides
With Count Dunois, Varenne and De Gaucourt,
Alike each dressed, their steeds caparisoned.
Our Charles himself precedes, armed at all points,
His palfrey decked with azure, golden strewed,
Attended by the King of Sicily,
165
You'll see them enter. Come with me along,
Of special grace, I have gained you standing-room.
[The procession passes over.
Scene changes—Corridor of the Palace.
Jacques Cœur and Antoine de Chabannes, Comte de Dammartin, enter.
Chabannes.
I've called you thus aside to buy your favour.
I owe thee many sums of golden crowns—
Yet, stung with spleen, have fallen from your cause,
And joined the Dauphin's to despite king Charles.
Cœur.
It was an idle quarrel.
Chabannes.
Why, the king chid me
For my écorcherie; he called it pillage—
I was, forsooth, a “skinner,” écorcheur!
Well, be it so! What wrong I did as such
Was well redeemed. The power I wildly raised,
I had wielded in his cause, and that of France.
Cœur.
Suffice it, there is one cool head i'th' realm.
Um!—So you joined the Dauphin 'gainst the King.
Evil the son that wars against his sire.
Chabannes.
Heaven has declared against the unnatural strife,
Upheld the father, and depressed the son.
166
Had I remained with Louis; . . hence, I am here.
To Charles's fortune I'd myself ally,
The which are you, unless I grossly err—
To him in you I would be reconciled.
Cœur.
In Charles's name, Chabannes, I pardon you.
The king has grown a warrior, as you know,
And, plumed with conquest, can be generous.
Still need you?
Chabannes.
Yes.
Cœur.
A thousand crowns, Chabannes,
I'll lend you from my store. Will that content you?
Chabannes.
It will.
Cœur.
What more?
Chabannes.
La Trémouille, with me
Revolted, would return to favour.
Cœur.
Ay!
He did insult the “King of Bourges:”—the King
Of France knows nothing of it. Would he guerdon,
For his desertion of the Dauphin's cause?
Chabannes.
He asks but mercy.
Cœur.
Mercy he shall have.
He need not fear—no more than we fear him.
Chabannes.
He has already made his peace, I find,
With dame Sorel. Here, in her suite, he comes.
Cœur.
'Twas overprudent. Still, perhaps, 'tis well.
167
Cœur.
Welcome, Sorel! The soul you breathed in Charles
Hath of a languid lover made a hero,
Active and bold: he's quite a Mars in battles—
In feats of personal prowess, an Achilles.
France has her king and leader in the field.
Sorel.
France has what I have lost. Yet, willingly,
Surrender I my happiness to hers.
Here rests he now?
Cœur.
No rest as yet, for him
Or me. We must pursue success, or lose it.
Harfleur must yet be won, Caen, Cherbourg;
Nor may we give advantage to the foe,
Until the sea divides us from each other.
Sorel.
War has its charges. Is the cost defrayed?
Cœur.
There's not a month's arrear in all the army.
For every soldier's need I have disbursed
His punctual wages. 'Tis my proper service.
Owe I not all unto the king and land,
By whose protection I have won my wealth?
Because I was a Frenchman, and his subject,
The Soldan oft has granted me safe-conduct,
For my stored galleys and my factors both,
Exposed to peril both on sea and land.
Whate'er I have belongs to France and Charles.
168
Whate'er I am belongs to both!
Cœur.
Most true.
Our state-craft is believed in, now, by all.
La Trémouille, even, is no sceptic.
Trémouille.
Sir!
What said you? I was troubled! Pray you, pardon!
Sorel.
I'm glad he heard it not. I boast no craft:
I make my heart a patriot offering—
Nor more, nor less!
Trémouille.
There's witchcraft at the bottom.
There's no resisting magic; so I yield!
Cœur.
And so do I, in such an argument.
(To Jeanne de Vendôme.)
Fair demoiselle! a word!
[They retire.
Sorel.
Witchcraft and magic!
La Trémouille!
Trémouille.
I charge not you.
Sorel.
Whom, then.
Trémouille.
There is a stone called the Philosopher's,
Which whoso hath may have what else he would.
It can transmute all metals into gold;
And this, they say, Jacques Cœur has long possessed.
And hence his wealth arises.
Sorel.
Trémouille!
Who tell you so, abuse you. Not the stone,
But the philosophy steads Cœur so well!
His knowledge is the magic that he wields:
169
Has seen them with his eyes, and, from afar,
Being absent from them, reaches them with ships.
As many months as hath the year, so many
Of his brave vessels sail upon the sea,
Bound to the Levant; Egypt, that old power,
Has commerce with him; while, at various ports,
More than three centuries of his agents dwell,
In Asia and in Europe. Wheresoe'er
His navies travel, they command respect,
Such homage as to sovran things pertains.
From the remotest East; their ribs full-stuffed
With silk, and cloths of gold, furs, spices, arms,
Ingots of gold and silver; they return,
Like jolly victors all whose triumphs had been
Doubled by Bacchus.
Trémouille.
And Cœur's brain, methinks,
Has caught the influence. Were he sane or sober,
He would not shew his wealth to such excess.
The proud, luxurious merchant! Why—his board
Is more than royal; . . not a cup, nor bowl,
No common platter, but of precious metal.
His horses, even, they say, are shod with silver.
Cœur
(coming forward).
I am vexed to hear my wife is discontent
At our proceedings. I would know the cause.
Pray you, step in—and say, I wait her here.
[Exit Jeanne de Vendôme
170
Not naturally disposed, too stern of mind
For weakness, yet by circumstance deceived,
I fear, beloved Macée! doubt of my faith
Hath, like an alien, in thy ample heart,
Set up his tent, though not yet built his house.
But I'll expel him from the soil!
(Aloud)
Fair dame,
And nobles! Will it please you, be advised?
The king expects you. Pardon me, Sorel!
I may not be your usher—but Chabannes.
Chabannes.
O, willingly.
Sorel.
Chabannes can be gallant,
But Cœur—
Cœur.
Lady, be counselled.
Sorel.
He is troubled!
What means it? Ha! here comes his wedded pride!
Enter Macée, attended by Jeanne de Vendôme. She passes by Agnes Sorel, with a marked and haughty gesture, almost of scorn or disdain.
Pride? Something worse, methinks! Seek we the king.
Cœur, Macée and Jeanne remain.
Cœur.
Is this our welcome? Then the forehead flushed
Of conquest grows like fear's, and triumph's cheeks
Are pallid as your own, as sunken wild,
171
The trumpet at her mouth. How now, dear wife?
Macée.
Am I yet dear?—your wife? Your widow, rather!
Think not I envy France, or dread Bellona
Hath been too much your bride:—so long divorced,
I might have mourned the absent as the dead,
Had none heard from you. But to me while few
And frigid your replies, with trifles baited,
Agnes Sorel received your soul in letters,
Making her wise in every circumstance,
Wherein myself was but an idiot.
Cœur.
Trust me, dear wife, such caution was required.
Macée.
Fine caution!—from a wife that would conceal,
What to a mistress freely was avowed!
Cœur.
'Tis you avow too freely what you should
Give scarcely thought to, never words at all—
Slandering the king, . . or me. 'Twere shame of you,
To be the tongue of scandal.
Macée.
Shame not me—
The honest blush not what they think to say,
And truth, albeit called scandal, still is truth.
Cœur.
Truth may be spoke untruly. But your motives
I trust are true; . . else were your words—
172
What were they?
Cœur.
Nay—be not rash! Nor try too far my patience!
A woman swears submission at the shrine,
And, after marriage, 'tis the attribute
That consecrates her most. Shall all my care,
My labour in the service of the State,
The ambition that on wealth should set the crown,
Dissolve to vapour, become dreams again,
Because a peevish will would dominate,
And a proud wife direct a husband's course?
Much as I love thee, let us henceforth meet
Only to wrangle, as the vulgar do,
Ere I yield aught in this.
Macée.
Cœur! I was born
To at least equal privilege with you;
And might, perhaps, in manners and in morals,
Be your instructor.
Cœur.
Fond one! not in either.
Macée.
In both.
Cœur.
Nay, by your leave, in neither.
Macée.
You
Too much concede to the gay law of the time,
And countenance wandering appetite for love,
That's only lawful, wedded.
Cœur.
Granted. Leave me.
Macée.
No more than this?
173
How now? my wayward sceptic!
Must I explain my policy, ere you
Confide in it? Has't been so little proved,
That I must give my reasons, ere you trust me?
Macée.
Because I am your wife, I am your slave,
And so but have to do with your commands;—
Were I your mistress, I might share your counsels.
Cœur.
Nay, now, dear wife! you fret me! To thy soul,
As to a temple, nought should enter in,
But what is holy. We men in the world,
Do that, in traffic, we'd ourselves not scan;
Yet deem it not dishonour. Better, wives
Should of such things be ignorant; seeing they
Must of the laws that govern them be so.
'Troth, none can apprehend these matters, but
The workers in them; and even they scant well;
Where more of instinct and sagacity,
Than reason guides. Be then, the mart the mart:
Let home be home, and all be hallowed there!
Macée.
What words are these? What sin, what guilt define they?
Dare I interpret?
Cœur.
Dare, but cannot. You,
Who lack experience, talk of teaching manners?
Modes of convention, creeds of right and wrong,
That differ with the clime, the colour, age?
174
You mock me, and, I think, insult me, too,
Else wherefore should I tremble, as if conscience
Were shaken on her throne?
Cœur.
Mock you? Not I!
Macée.
Not thus my father, in my childhood, taught me.
Cœur.
Good man! he had no knowledge of the world.
Macée.
How happy in his ignorance of evil!
Cœur.
It may be—
Macée.
Nay, he was: ... both wise and happy.
Cœur.
Not wise, though happy. You have granted it.
Macée.
No, Cœur! not so. Men may be largely wise,
Whose evil knowledge is much circumscribed:
Whereof who knows the least, the wisest he.
Cœur.
Be you content, and be the very wisest
By knowing nought at all. But knowing nought,
Think not to teach. Let ignorance be dumb!
Yet let it learn! Learn you, to keep a secret.
I wrote you one in my first letter to you;
You told it to our Jeanne de Vendôme, here;
She to Sorel—who thence conceived suspicion;
I sported with her passion for King Charles,
To my own profit. Heaven knows otherwise!
It was for France! My influence, through hers,
Half lost by your imprudence; . . first, I chid you,
And next, resolved on silence.
175
'Twas no secret!
Cœur.
It was!
Macée.
Not marked as such. Jeanne was in fault,
Repeating my discourse. O, Cœur!—O, husband!—
Who would your wife should live in innocence,
Yet blame her for that self-same innocence!
Cœur.
I had not spoke of it, had you not forced me.
Macée.
Have I grown hateful?
Cœur.
No!—more loved than ever!
Macée.
Then, you would trust me more!
Cœur.
'Tis for your sake—
Share you my triumphs. I would bear alone
The troubles that lead to them.
Macée.
O, Cœur! Cœur!
You love me not! you love me not, indeed!
Alas! lost heart! I am no summer fly,
That when the winter comes sleeps in the ingle.
I'd bear the cold with thee—the heat with thee—
Extremes of both! Ah! how can I be happy.
Not knowing thou art so? Calamity
May be this moment hovering o'er thy head,
And I—thus blinded by thy wilful act—
May play, sing, talk, and be most blithe of mood,
While thou art on the torture! Cœur! Cœur! Cœur!
I may no more be glad, not even gay,
While this is possible. You break my heart.
176
Cheer up. There is no harm. Jeanne de Vendôme,
Haste!—help your lady! See what you have done,
In blabbing of her talk. I've served you well,
You, and your family; . . thus you serve me!
Beware how you transgress a second time!—
—Cheer up, dear wife! Mere shadows of your fancy!
My fortune's at the highest.
Macée.
Be it so!
Would I had died, ere distance grew between us;
Ere you had cause to chide, or put me off
With trifles, like a girl too humoursome
For confidence.
Cœur.
No more of this:—no more!
Be calm. We've stayed too long. His majesty
Will shew you in what favour we are held!
Scene changes—State apartment, opening into a suite of apartments, illuminated for a ball.
King Charles and his Queen, Agnes Sorel, Beaulieu, Giac, Chartier, Chabannes, Trémouille, Otto Castellani, Jean du Village, and numerous others, enter.
Charles.
Thanks, gracious queen. Such welcome puts the favour
Of victory to the blush: . . She droops the head,
177
Your counsel helped our arms, and now your smiles
Enhance their lustre. Valour in our Court,
May choose his mate of beauty.
Queen.
Still away,
In chase of glory? May not I, nor Agnes,
Keep you from Harfleur?
Charles.
Cœur shall answer you.
Behold him, there, with his right noble lady.
Sorel.
Her brow at such a time might be less grave.
Giac.
Mon Dieu! methinks it might!
Beaulieu.
It were unseemly,
Even were she Juno's self.
Cœur, Macée, and Jeanne de Vendôme enter.
Cœur presents Macée to Charles.
Charles.
A debt we owe,
Thus honoured.
Macée.
Wherefore, sire? France in my bosom,
As in my husband's, beats, instead of heart.
His faithful wife is still your loyal subject,
And Heaven, I hear, has sanctioned your great cause.
A sainted maiden hath her mission proved,
In her success, to rescue injured France.
Charles.
Meanst “La Pucelle”? fair dame.
Macée.
Jeanne d'Arc, my liege.
Charles.
Her inspiration, and your husband's gold,
178
Nor should we now forget to render thanks
For the great gifts, good hands, and better hearts,
That Providence has blessed our France withal.
La Belle Agnes comes in for much of praise:
Upon the altar of her country's cause,
She laid her store of wealth—her gems, her plate,
Setting ensample of like offerings
To others richer still.
Macée.
Let me complete
With her a little. To your righteous cause
I give, what in my sense of all that's rich,
I hold to be a gift unparallelled—
My husband's love, his heart's entire devotion.
Charles.
Spoke like a wife, indeed! In grace whereof,
Lead you the dance.
Macée.
Nay, let Sorel. She is
Lighter of foot and heart.
Charles.
Then, be it so;
Unless our Queen insist upon her right.
[They withdraw into the suite of apartments. Dancers appear in the distance. Music.
Trémouille enters, followed by Beaulieu, Giac and Chabannes.
Giac.
Nay, Trémouille! your hand.
179
And why my hand?
Giac.
The issues of the sport disliked you once,
Have been as stern as you would wish them be.
You have returned to us. We should be friends.
Trémouille.
Yes, when we are equal. With our rhyming monarch,
You have the advantage now. I am returned!
What then? Your taunt was true: so are my blows!
Chabannes! bear witness I throw down the gauntlet.
This boaster may disdain to pick it up.
Chabannes.
Right willingly.
Giac.
St. Denis! not so willingly,
As I now take it up.
Enter Cœur, followed by Jean du Village, Otto, Macée and Jeanne Vendôme.—Macée remains behind.
Cœur.
A feud? What, now,
When France needs both your helps? At such a time
And in the midst of our festivity
To forge a private quarrel? I forbid it!
Giac.
With all my heart. I came to be his friend.
O ciel! his folly alters not my purpose.
If he will be my foe, amen to that!
Beaulieu, be witness, I accept his glove.
We'll to the dance!
[Beaulieu and Giac pass in.
180
Scorn for his scorn! Chabannes,
You saw my challenge.
Chabannes.
Yes, and well approve it!
Cœur.
Have I not said that I prohibit it?
Chabannes.
Are you the king, or even something more,
That your imperative should carry it?
What hinders that our swords should tilt at you?
Cœur.
Why, that which is far mightier than the sword—
Your honour! and your interest, sirs, beside!
My office, and the power that I could wield,
And will, if needful—which my word alone,
But whispered in my private steward's ear,
Could put in act, and force you to submission!
Chabannes.
Is't possible? Mean you the debts I owe you
Make me your bondsman?
Trémouille.
Nothing less he means.
Chabannes.
Take my defiance, then!
Cœur.
Rein in your wrath,
Chabannes! Because Giac and he are angry,
Should we, like schoolboys, fight?
Trémouille.
Chabannes, away!
'Tis manhood lost to listen to his words!
[Dragging out Chabannes.
Cœur.
Here, Otto! Jean! There must be no delay!
181
Of me, that's owing by Chabannes. Good Jean!
He has my orders now to sell it you!
That done, arrest Chabannes! I must not be
As plaintiff in the suit: . . that you must be,
Good Otto! I have served you in my time;
Now, you serve me in this! I say, arrest him.
So, in this challenge, can he lend no aid
To Trémouille. For Trémouille himself,
I have, unknown to him, bought up a debt
He owed an armourer: . . that, too, is yours.
Him, then, as well arrest! No feud shall be
'Twixt him and Giac—I'm resolved on it!
Macée
(coming forward).
Cœur, list to me!
Cœur.
You, here?
Macée.
I have heard all!
The orders you have given Village remand!
The men you would coerce are noble men!
O, play not you the merchant creditor.
Is that a part to play at Court? A poor one!
Rather the baron play, by conduct proved
No less than patent made!
Cœur.
Now, is this well?
Macée.
Ay, Cœur! by all that's well! By what shall I
Adjure thee to be prudent—thou who hast been
In all thy dealings prudent? By thyself,
182
Let me speak loudly, Cœur, what men are whispering.
They say, thou art their benefactor, from
The king unto the peasant: this thou art;
But thou art also from the throne to the settle
The creditor of France! And worse—mark that!—
The envious court are debtors to thy bounty,
Mortgaged to thee for more than all are worth.
Wouldst grow a terror to thy friends and foes?
They say, thy benefits are gilded snares:
Hence now thy wealth's a danger to thyself,
Which, therefore, for thy safety, use as none.
Still art thou stubborn? Then, behold, dear Cœur,
Thy proud Macée doth bow the knee to earth;
[Kneels
Here, at thy feet, she makes her humble suit,
And will not rise, till thou hast granted it!
Cœur.
Rise, then! Persuaded, not convinced, . . I grant it.
[She rises.
Jean! I revoke my orders. Castellani!
You've lost percentage by it? (To Macée)
Bravely spoken;
Wisely, perhaps:—I am not assured of that!
To threat is dangerous: to act were safe.
The deed I have recalled—the words I cannot.
It had been better I'd ne'er spoken them,
Since, by your prohibition, they're no more.
'Tis thus, when women interfere with that
183
Well, I forgive thee, wife. Thanks for that smile!
There's nought I'd not surrender, dear Macée,
To have you always smiling! Here's the king.
Re-enter Charles and Court.
Charles.
We may not keep festivity up late,
As if the wars were at an end. Full half
Our victory's yet to come. To morrow morn,
Must see us march for Harfleur. Up betimes!
Till then, good night to all. Friend Cœur, a word!
| Uxmal | |