 | Uxmal |  |
III.
Jumièges.Scene—The Abbey Cloister.
King Charles, Cœur, Jean du Village and Jeanne de Vendôme.
Charles.
How fares your patient, Jeanne?
Vendôme.
Still weak, and weaker.
Charles.
Now, by the Sanctities we worship here!
I rather had lost Harfleur, than mishap
Should come to Agnes. Perilous, say you?
Vendôme.
Most perilous, assuredly, her case;
Perhaps, as certain mortal.
Charles.
Saints in heaven!
184
Recount once more the process.
Cœur.
Would the story
Were nothing but the fable, there an end.
But 'tis too sure a truth! From her retirement,
Called by her Majesty's commands to Court,
No sooner came Sorel, than, with that tact,
Which serves her to unthread all policies,
And ken what makes them, she detected there
Conspiracy, foul spider! spinning webs
Whose meshes were for us, but chief for thee.
Instant, with express sanction of the queen,
Hither to Jumièges, this Abbey here,
Flew Agnes, like an angel, sent to warn
Her monarch and her friend of coming doom.
Charles.
O lovely prophet! loving, faithful Agnes!
How came she ill?
Cœur.
Of that same love, I guess—
Of that same faith—to thee. That it should be so,
Even on this day, when we a banquet hold
For our success at Harfleur, grieves and irks me.
My wife is now attendant on her couch;
Already to her confessor has Agnes
Her soul unburthened of its malady,
Lamenting, in contrition most sincere;
Her fate might have been happier but for that!
Charles.
Alas! What “might have been?” What could be—was!
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You speak, as you were wounded by my words!
Charles.
Stabbed to the heart!—nay, more, sir! to the soul,
O pang intolerable—immedicable—
My spirit's wounded! Cœur! why were you rich,
To make me so!—poor, I had not been tempted!
'Tis mammon bribes us with the means of guilt,
So are we sold to sin! Wealth—Power and Sin!
Of all the wine that most intoxicates,
Power soonest maddens—fierceliest, blindliest rages,
And murders or is murdered, as it may be!
Cœur.
Slain by a smile, or tortured by a tear!
'Tis ever thus. France must be thought of now!
Jeanne, to your mistress. Bid her send us word
Of any change in Agnes. Please you, sire,
By this the captains wait us, in the camp.
[Cœur conducts the King out.
Village.
A storm of passion now afflicts the king.
Nor has our master much less cause of grief.
The lady oft has by persuasion won,
What his cool judgment would in vain enforce,
And soothed to yielding mood the royal mind.
Vendôme.
Her influence with the king was great, indeed;
And his with her:—'Tis therefore she is sick—
Most hopeless sick.
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What mean you, wench?
Vendôme.
Who tends her?
Our master's wife? Note her distracted visage,
Whose jealous soul turned pale, at Agnes' coming,
On this so sudden errand. Now, Agnes is sick,
Mysterious sick—and groweth still more sick.
Village.
Hush, wench! you speak in malice.
Vendôme.
Malice? psha!
Wherefore should I bear malice? Once, indeed,
My master chid me for my mistress' sake,
Because to Agnes I betrayed her words,
Whence strife arose between them: then, he said,
I was ungrateful. Never so to him!
'Twere a good turn to free him from a shrew.
'Twere service he might thank me for, as much
As he expects me to thank him for his.
Village.
Such speeches make you ugly as a witch,
Like some malignant crone, or beldam wild,
Swart imp, or dwarf misshapen. I have seen you
Conversing oft with Otto Castellani,
And other of my master's enemies,
The agents of Chabannes and Trémouille,
Who hate because they owe him love. His debtors,
They are devising means (I know it well)
Their debts to cancel even with his life.
I know you, Jeanne! You have a wicked heart!
Yes! hide your face for shame! Look not at me!
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Your duty to your mistress! There's your path.
Begone! Adieu! Heaven send you better thoughts.
Scene changes.—An Interior in the Abbey: An Oratory.
Agnes Sorel (sleeping on a couch, a table or altar with a chalice by) and Macée de Léodepart.
Macée
(seated).
She has made confession like a Magdalene,
And been absolved. The priest, too, has departed
And left me to my office. Cœur! blind Cœur!
The sympathy between us, sure, is lost,
Or thou wouldst purposely offend my pride,
By dooming me to this. No confidence!
I understand him not. For her he cares—
But not for me. No!—nothing cares for me!
Her judgment—beauty; nothing like to them.
These must be cherished, failing him by me:
I am his proxy, here. Perchance, he loves her
Beyond what he would own to—not alone
For that her wit and wisdom serve him well,
But as he should love me. O agony!
Burn on, my heart!—spontaneously ignite,
And, like a willow, perish of combustion;
Disdaining more to weep, consume with fire!
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Who's there? What, Jeanne? Why creep you so on me?
Vendôme.
'Tis at my lord's command, I should bring word
Of lady Agnes' health from you. He'd know
Each change that happens.
Macée.
'Twere incredible!
Tell him, she sleeps!
Vendôme.
She is not, then, yet dead?
Macée.
Dead? No! She rests with sleep, and not with death.
Little we know of sleep, but nought of death.
Nothing we know of death: too much of life,
In that we live, self-conscious—still the same.
Vendôme.
There is no change, then?
Macée.
No!—no change. The fool
Misunderstands my words. To her they seem
(I note it well, and it has long been so)
Strange and fantastic, as the ancient trunks
Of olive trees in an Italian grove,
Beheld by moonlight. Go, watch you the lady.
[Jeanne de Vendôme goes to the couch.
By the invincibility of death!
And by the everlastingness of love!
And the divineness of eternal truth!
I feel as though I could speak oracles:—
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As reverend as the millenial pine,
And tuneful as its music, heard at dusk.
Vendôme.
She wakes!
Macée.
Who shrieks so harshly?
Vendôme.
No one shrieks.
Is it unwelcome news for you to hear,
That lady Agnes wakes?
Macée.
Unwelcome? Yes!
All is unwelcome now, that would disturb
The dreamy slumber of my stagnant soul!
Sorel
(waking).
Vendôme! is't you? Rest has not strengthened me:
I need my cordial. Vendôme, give it me.
I grow still weaker—weak, I fear, to death!
Macée.
What has she said?
Vendôme.
She doth desire her potion.
Macée.
'Tis well! I will administer it myself.
Vendôme
(going to the table or altar, and looking into the chalice).
I'd spare you trouble. Tell me where to find it.
Macée.
What asp is in your mind? What slimy worm,
That creeps into the features of your face,
And makes each line a poisonous reptile's lair?
Hence, insolence!—nor question me again!
Suspicion? ha!—straight bear my lord the tidings!
[Exit Jeanne de Vendôme.
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'Tis more than her suggestion makes a void
Where I would fain find substance: space is empty!
Nay, space itself is gone!—Where is it hid?
In time? Where time? In thee, eternity!
Doomsday is every day, and, therefore, this.
Sorel.
I'm left to languish.
Macée.
I keep watch on you.
Sorel.
Is't you, most noble lady? I had dreamed
'Twas Vendôme watching by me. It befits not
That you should have such labour.
Macée.
It befits
A wife should be submissive.
Sorel.
This reply
Comports not well with honour.
Macée.
How is that?
Sorel.
Thou art coerced to do what thou wouldst not.
Macée.
No! willingly I do what now I do.
Sorel.
Is't possible?
Macée.
Ay, very possible;
And wherefore not? Art thou not worthiest?
Sorel.
Worthiest? Alas!
Macée.
Ay, worthiest.
Sorel.
Alas!
'Tis well if my contrition cleanse my sin!
Macée.
Can one so wise have sinned?
Sorel.
Oh, most of all—
Against conviction, sinned!
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She owns it, too!
Owns it to me—as if such wrong, to such
An one, had small significance for any;
Herself the doer!—
Thou hast burthened conscience,
Which now afflicts thee for it. What was the sin,
That, in my presence, makes thee thus to writhe,
As I had part in it? Why fall those tears,
A shower, upon my hand? They make me pity,
Where else I meant to punish. If 'twill ease thee,
Unveil the mystery, that, perchance, is anguish
Only unspoken. Speak—in accents dear,
As native words heard in a foreign land!
Sorel.
I've still revered you.
Macée.
You revered me still?
I've heard we best describe what we have lost,
And honour most what ne'er we hope to gain.
Our notions and our practice have so differed,
I should have thought else, you had spurned the spurner.
—If what you say be sooth, you're better fit
For death than I.
Sorel.
Nay, you are every ready.
The virtuous always are so. For Vendôme
I am sorry her imprudence gave you cause
Of grievance, touching me.
Macée.
She meant no harm.
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'Tis not by meaning harm that harm is done;
The inconsiderate do the most.
Macée.
'Tis true.
We should think well, before we act at all.
Sorel.
Poor Jeanne Vendôme has still to learn that lesson.
Macée.
Let us, too, learn it—nor repent too late!
Sorel.
Prithee, my cordial.
Macée
(partly exhibiting the phial, from her bosom).
Here it is—anon!—
Were there a poison could annihilate,
Not only kill!—Nay, 'twere too terrible!—
Back to my bosom, asp!—I'll parley further!
Yet without fear, she'll not herself convict.
Thought hoarded long holds permanence for truth—
Hath time's vouch for it—truth's discoverer!
— (Pausing, then solemnly)
Bethink yourself.—Is there no deeper wrong,
That you have done me? Answer, as your soul
Must shortly answer heaven's own Judge himself!
Sorel.
Why am I thus adjured? A deeper wrong,
That I have done thee? Why, what deeper wrong?
We all may do more wrong than all we know,
From not reflecting duly. Where's the mortal
That has not erred? Yet tax me not with guilt,
Where I am only chargeable with error!
I pray thee, do not!
193
Pray not!—not to me!
Unless you make confession! Your denial
Brings back on me that unrelenting mood,
Wherein I feel like some destroying angel,
Commissioned to stern duty. I was melting—
You make me granite. My heart grows, again,
As hard as Pharaoh's!
Sorel.
O, beseech you, madam!
Press not upon the fallen! Kill me not
With words that fright me in this feeble state,
Whereat my innocence trembles.
Macée.
Innocence!
Sorel.
Then, ignorance. Not knowing my offence,
I feel as I were free.
Macée.
You will not know it—
Albeit you shall!
Sorel.
I cannot know of that
Whereof my sense is pure.
Macée.
Now, patience.
Sorel.
Pity!
Beware thou slanderest not my memory
With accusation false. When undeceived,
Idle remorse will do the work of fiends,
And, in his wanton mischief, make a sport
Of thy condemnèd soul!
Macée.
O, wretched me!
Sorel.
To know that thou wert author of a lie,
194
That, spite of thee, the lie is still believed,
That rumour spreads, the echoes double it,
And still for ever it exists apart,
As it were consecrated unto hell!
O, such remorse as helplessness begets,
Is utter loss and absolute perdition!
Macée.
What! thinkst thou I would condescend to this?
Or now have spoken without proof? Thinkst thou,
That thou hast been so cunning with Jacques Cœur,
That none your loves suspected? Am I blind,
Fond, credulous, that no mutation shewed
Itself to me, in my all-changèd lord?
So dull of soul, so non-intelligent,
That I should suffer not, yet suffer on,
Having no more perception than a stone?
Of me regardless, still regarding thee,
Thy name aye on his lips, and never mine;—
O, heaven and earth!—'twas orblike palpable!
Firm as the centre, perfect as the arch!
Sorel.
What hear I now? Of me have you been jealous?
Had I known that, how had I pitied you!
Yet am I blessed in this,—weak as I am,
That with my dying words. I may be potent
To exorcise the fury, and set free
195
Your husband has been faithful. Love with me
Was an ambition. Not the man alone,
My heart might fill;—it was the crownèd king,
Whose nothing less than adoration I
Would fain secure—and did.
Macée.
But of my husband?
Sorel.
His wealth was needful to my royal lover,
And so by me was worshipt:—in his turn,
My aid was needful to the merchant's aims,
And so by him was sanctioned.
Macée.
Nothing more?
Sorel.
Nor always sanctioned;—for of late has he
Rebuked me for too much magnificence,
As being of bad example to the king,
And to the court, whose rude extravagance,
In sooth, fell on himself, the creditor
Of all.
Macée.
Did Cœur do this?
Sorel.
With reason,—for
Hereof the danger grew that brought me here.
His benefactions to uphold this State,
Made foes—not friends. His debtors have conspired;
They seek his ruin, and his king's with his,
Unless he cast him off.
Macée.
Had I known this
Before! O mockery! I knew it well!
196
And near their grave I wander, spirit lost!
Sorel.
Hope yet! You may do much. Once, you restrained
His anger wisely: . . Cœur himself confessed it.
And since that time indeed, did they but know it,
His enemies would know they need not fear.
The debts, so much to them, are nought to him:
And here, at court, the merchant he's no more,
But all the noble you would have him be.
Macée.
What! thus has Cœur revered my counsel most,
When least he seemed to do so! Wonder starks me!
And thou—
Sorel.
Weak—weak—and weary!
Macée.
Swooning! Heaven!—The potion!
[Disclosing the phial from her bosom.
O most fatal substitute!
[Casting it away.
Not that! not that! There is no other here,
And that were certain death! She's fainted! Well!
There's hope from nature—only fear in that!
—The terror of the dream that now hath past
Still shakes me! (Sits.)
I must sit. My limbs so tremble,
'Twere vain to think of their supporting me.
Yet, hush! she, sure, is stirring. Grant, O God,
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Thought of it
Renews my strength. Speak, Agnes!
Sorel.
I am dying!
Farewell! I can no more! Exhausted—faint—
Pray for, and pardon me!
Macée.
Another word!—
No! not an accent! Crept a cold wind to her,
That so she quivers? I'll wrap my mantle o'er her.
Ha! now she's still:—so very still, she breathes not.
Can she be dead? If so, 'tis terrible!
'Twere well that I should follow her—with means
At hand, I'm strongly tempted! No! I've work—
How much of work—to do! My lord's in peril—
How much through me I scarcely dare reflect!
She's surely dead! Let me becalm myself.
I am not guilty, though I might have been,
And cannot be too thankful; gracious heaven!
—Something's to do! Yes—first, I'll hence for help:
Thereafter to such meditations, as
May make me wise for action. Who's there? Help!
Scene changes.—The Abbey Cloister.
Chabannes, Trémouille and Castellani.
Chabannes.
Your news is welcome. You have thriven apace.
Giac—Beaulieu—both dead? Ye slew them both?
198
Let Cœur now take it as he list! He would not
The wont of chivalry should arbitrate.
Be he content with rougher means!
Chabannes.
The manner?
Trémouille.
To Issoudun, at night, we sped in secret,
Pierced to their chambers, took them from their beds,
Placed them, ere dressed, upon two wretched steeds,
And drove them to the fosse, and drowned them there.
Chabannes.
Summary executioners, indeed!
'Tis well! Now for the King and Argentier.
Know, first, Agnes is dying.
Castellani.
May be, dead.
Vendôme has her suspicions.
Trémouille.
Her suspicions?
Castellani.
The merchant's wife!
Trémouille.
Ha! ha! I know it all.
A pact with you my friends. Vengeance on Cœur!
The upstart! But Macée's of noble blood!
'Twas needful to our plans she should be piqued
To desperate issues. Whatsoe'er her guilt,
She is acquitted. Let the punishment
On him alone descend! In this be just.
Chabannes.
Content! (To Castellani)
Time is with you to meet Vendôme.
199
Fare you well!
[Exeunt Chabannes and Castellani.
Trémouille
(alone).
I have wrought it, then to this. When first I dared
To whisper danger, she disdained the thought;
But she has heard it since from other lips,
Which mine have tutored. Time's a wizard; makes,
From smallest seed, things giant-like to teem
By gradual change. Be absent but awhile,
When we return—lo, what we left a mite
Has grown a monster. Wonderful! she comes—
She sees me, and approaches. On her brow
A darkness lowers, yet luridly lit up,
As something there were flashing in her eyes,
Wherewith the brain was burning.
Enter Macée.
Macée
(aside).
Tempter!—Slanderer!
Trémouille.
Fair greeting, gentle dame.
Macée.
Gentle, forsooth—
But for a certain sorrow and remorse,
I might be gentle, now my mind is free
From that most cruel yoke, which thou, and others,
Had burthened it withal.
Trémouille.
What yoke, fair lady?
Macée.
Why dost thou question me, who wert the first
200
That whatsoever was most innocent,
In Cœur, still seemed more cunning? Not again
Can I be tempted, now, or he be slandered!
Trémouille.
You are, then, a happy wife?
Macée.
I might have been—
What now may be I doubt. I will not doubt!
But welcome faith reborn, and welcome hope,
Welcome serenest thoughts, and that high love
Which blesses whom it visits! Welcome home
Ye sacred feelings, human sympathies,
The heart's religion, the soul's confidence,
The intuitions and the sentiments,
That hovering wait upon fidelity,
As she descends to earth! O welcome truth,
Thus finding thee, I find myself again.
The mourned-for exile is at length returned.
Trémouille.
A sudden change, indeed!
Macée.
Deride me not!
But rather think how thou mayst prudently
Atonement make to Cœur, ere I betray
Thy baseness to him—think of it, betimes!
Both for thyself and those who plot with thee;—
'Twere better done at once
Trémouille.
Such arrogance!
Macée.
Thou standst within his danger, . . if his wrath
201
Lest his resentment kindle.
Trémouille.
What do ye mean?
Macée.
Thou hast defamed the dead!—and wronged the living!
Hence, fear to sleep; thou shalt be haunted for it.
Dare scarce to breathe, for every word of thine
Shall seem defiance and provoke revenge.
Be humble, or my tongue shall ring a peal
Fatal as thunder.
Trémouille.
To yourself or me?
Where is your prudence . . reason . . self-respect?
You better were a man! Make terms with thee?
First, let me know the cause? Am I less brave,
Than I was yesterday, or thou less weak?
If 't please you to interpret, be it so;
If not, to guess your mystery will content me!
Macée.
Then learn, Agnes is dead.
Trémouille.
No need to learn—
I knew so, without teaching.
Macée.
Knew you, too,
What of my Cœur she spake, and how her words,
Her dying words, acquitted him of all
You charged him with? Nay—now I come to terms—
Will bribe you, if a man, to terms of peace.
You have conspired against him, in your fears—
(Would passion had not shut me from his counsel!
202
The debts ye owe him, all are gifts to you,
And every courtier else who is his debtor.
Thus Cœur forestalls your plots and grants their issue.
Trémouille.
Were you not blinded so with ignorance,
You'd seen this were an insult, worse than all.
Wouldst have us grateful?
Macée.
If ye would be noble.
Trémouille.
Would be! We are! 'Tis ours to give, not his.
The privilege we inherit he usurps,
And so must fall!
Macée.
Audacious! Fall? You dare.
Trémouille.
Be an historian, though perhaps no prophet.
If I mistake not, here arrives my witness.
Enter Castellani.
Nay, start not, Castellani! There's Macée—
'Tis fit she hear what you would utter. Speak!
But as I know the news must pain her much,
And she will need sincerest pity, grant me
To state beforehand, much as she may doubt it,
We are her friends, and vow to help her through
The straits of sudden peril. Now, say on
Macée.
What can have happened? Here stand I, like Death.
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Chabannes went hence to visit Agnes, led
By Jeanne Vendôme, he sought the Abbey-chamber.
Alone, the lady rested on her couch,
That was her bier: . . for she indeed was dead—
Unwatched, untended; but beside her lay
A phial, such as once her potion held,
But which, for sundry reasons, raised suspicion.
Chabannes seized on it, suddenly unsealed it,
And poured the liquid down a mastiff's throat,
The watch-dog of the Abbey;—the poor brute
Died on the instant.
Macée.
Not more mortal, that,
Than is thy tale to me!
Trémouille.
You know, then, of the draught?
Macée.
I scorn to lie. I do.
Trémouille.
Did Agnes taste it?
Macée.
Agnes did not: her death was uncompelled.
Trémouille.
Go on. The sequel?
Castellani.
Forth Chabannes and I
Straight went to seek the King, at banquet with
His Argentier. We found them not o'er merry:
A gloom was on the monarch, and the merchant
Anxiety o'ermastered. When we entered,
“Agnes is dead!” he cried, expectantly.
Macée.
But in the course of nature—nothing more.
Castellani.
It might be so; but it seemed otherwise.
Chabannes then told his tale, produced his proofs,
204
While pale Vendôme confessed her doubts and fears.
Macée.
Regarding me!
Castellani.
Ay, madame. But Chabannes
Soon brought her to a pause. “'Twas Cœur,” he said,
“Who needed Agnes' absence; and had charged
His wife with deadly task and instrument,
For his advantage; that he might enjoy
That influence, undivided, o'er the king,
Which erst he shared with Agnes.”
Macée.
But the king
Believed not the false charge?
Castellani.
Indeed, he did.
Conviction flashed across him, ere reflexion.
A gush of tears relieved him; then, exclaiming,
“O matchless traitor!” he the chamber fled.
Macée.
What then, did Cœur?
Castellani.
Surprised; enforced, surrendered
To capture.
Macée.
What! dared they profane his person?
Castellani.
The accused must yield to legal violence.
Macee.
The crime of their unthankfulness ascend
And drag the unwilling justice down. So, so!
'Tis true, that Cœur has fallen! Yet, Trémouille,
Think not we're at thy mercy. No! I can
Clear him by my confession.
Trémouille.
Humph! You can
205
All you can say will strengthen proof against him.
For a wife's faults the law still mulcts the husband.
Macée.
I know—I know. Still will I not despair.
“Hope yet!” the dying said. “You can do much!”
I will do all!—nay, more than can be done!
Impossibility shall be a phrase,
A vain articulation of the air,
That has no potence in the life of things.
I will save Cœur—'tis well that I should perish!
To his redemption from this cursèd charge,
I do devote myself—my life—my fame—
Ay, honour's self, a sacrifice for him!
Trémouille.
This resolution we must needs approve.
You know that Otto was your husband's friend,
And said I not, anticipant of this,
I had resolved on serving you? My reasons
Are private, yet most cogent. We will help you.
(Aside to Castellani)
By humouring we may control her mood!
Macée.
What shall I do?
Castellani.
Vendôme's hard by. Till she's
Consulted with, the merits are not known:
What's to be done? What not? Moreover, Cœur
Left her a message to be told to you.
Macée.
That word has charmed me forward. Sirs, conduct me!
Trémouille.
We're glad you yield to counsel.
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Not to your's.
The wife, once rebel, now obeys her lord's.
Scene changes.—Palatial Interior.
Cœur, Chabannes and Jeanne de Village, Officers guarding Cœur.
Cœur.
Wait yet a little. Chartier soon will bring
His answer.
Enter Alain Chartier.
Will King Charles grant me a hearing?
Chartier.
He will not, worthy Cœur. An apathy
Has seized upon him with this sudden grief,
Which will not be disturbed.
Cœur.
Ah, me! Of late,
This weary mood, this listlessness of soul,
Has grown upon him daily more and more.
'Twas born with him. Awhile the war's excitement
Held in suspense the melancholy fiend;
Then came reaction—and his sloth increases.
For you, Chabannes! I think you've been ungrateful:
Yet will I not rebuke you with my words.
Rather my silence and my patience teach you
What wrong from you I suffer. Chartier,
My wife will doubtless seek me. Keep her back
Until to-morrow. I'm angry with her now,
207
I've bid Vendôme do this, and now bid you.
Chartier.
I will obey!
Cœur.
You'll see me, too, to-morrow.
'Till then, dear friend, adieu! My faithful steward,
Good Jean! attend me to my prison gates,
And take my last commands.
Chartier
(alone).
Adieu, great soul!
His resignation so exemplary
Would soften hearts of marble. His foes have none,
No hearts at all, whether of flesh or stone.
—Here comes his raving wife.
Enter Macée and Jeanne de Vendôme.
Macée.
Refuse to see me!
Deny himself to me?—expel me from him.
—To-morrow?—what's to-morrow? Still a debtor,
To-day still puts off duty till to-morrow;—
'Tis not Cœur's wont thus to procrastinate,
And I will not believe it, though you swear so.
It is a thoughtless falsehood, an excuse
To save yourself some trouble. I have pardoned,
On your repentance, many a fault to you;
And now this last, so big with fearful issue,
Growing from your surmises. Add not to it.
But, by confession, cheer me with the truth,
That Cœur forthwith would have me visit him.
208
Madame, indeed, I should be false to say so.
Macée.
Then all is false and contradictory.
The beatings of the heart, the pulse of life,
Ancient authority, and the dread oracles
That, from ancestral urns, examples teach,
Together with the starry dance in heaven,
Which men have thought to be wise harmony;
All these be discords, like the clank of chains!
Cœur cast me off? A wife so true as I,
Whose very error shewed how much she loved him.
This is the mocking garland to my grief,
A wreath of nettles but to sting my brows!
Chartier.
Madame, 'tis true; Cœur charged on me the same.
Macée.
Thou, Chartier!—whose lips are tuned to music,
Whose numbers grow voluptuous in their sweetness;—
What thou, O poet!—By thy cunning, swear,
If this be theme for lyric ecstasy?
O, I shall be an argument for song,
Perhaps, for satire and the scurril jest?
Hast thou no elegy on ruined hope,
That will befit the state of my despair?
Come, solemnize therein the wretched wife,
Who, by too much of love, made desolate
Herself and him she loved! Or are these sufferings,
Beyond experience as I think they be,
209
There is a penance of the human heart,
Imagination never yet conceived;
A state whereto poetic visitant
Has ne'er descended, to set free the thought,
Imprisoned in its self-created Hell!
So leave me to that thought. All else be dumb!
Chartier.
See the king's chamber opens!
Macée.
Ha! the king!
Cœur made him king. If he be king indeed,
He'll not be thankless. Still his love for Agnes—
I'm desperate!—and, as the wife of Cœur,
Were she the queen, I were a match for her,
And might command where yet I'll humbly sue!
[Goes out hastily.
Enter Trémouille.
Chartier.
You come from the king's chamber?
Trémouille.
Sir, I do.
Chartier.
Macée has entered?
Trémouille.
Sir, she has. With him,
There let her plead, since she must plead in vain.
Grief so has stunned his sense, that nought he hears,
Nought answers:—he is but the log i'th' fable!
'Tis we now reign; not he, no more than Cœur!
I seek Chabannes!
Chartier.
We follow her. Come on!
| Uxmal | |