University of Virginia Library

IV.

Marseilles and Beaucaire.
Scene—An Apartment.
Jeanne de Vendôme
(seated).
What, if I say 'twas not from thanklessness,
But thoughtlessness, I wronged the merchant Cœur?
To think not, is to thank not. Thought is memory
Of the perpetual gifts that Time leaves with us.
Yet thought I, too;—but, it would seem, not well.
It is an art to think, as we should think;
And to think well—is to think well of all,
And without doubt—of nature, man, or God.
Yet are the enemies of Cœur not men?
And is not nature in their bosom human?
Howbeit the Church—Heaven's representative,
Has still defended Cœur, and censured them.
Yet there were prelates 'mongst his debtors, too;
Who were not the least rancorous! O this skein
Unravels not itself for such as I
—When comes Village? 'Tis past the day, the hour,
Announced hereby— (showing a letter)
—for his return
[A bell sounds without.
Ha! sure,
'Tis he—the honest steward! Here he is!
[Rising
Enter Jean du Village.
Welcome, Village!

Village.
You're here, to welcome me?
I am glad of that, at least.

Vendôme.
What fear had you,
Here, in Marseilles, protected as we are
By good King René?

Village.
Why—Provençe—. No more!
I'll tell you, by and bye. First, tell you me,
What, since I parted, chanced with Cœur? Distinctly!
Nor care for repetition: ... for I seek
To put some hints together, so to find
Where now they hide him?

Vendôme
(greatly alarmed).
Know you not? Good Heaven!
Macée will, sure, go mad when hearing this!

Village.
We must be calm. I'll help you to begin.
—At his desire, Cœur's last commands received,
Ere he was dungeoned, I departed straight
For Languedoc, commissioned in his name,
There to take charge of stores of merchandize
And vessels, which the harpies of the law,
Their master absent, else had plundered. This
I did. Not a bale 'scaped into their hands!
Now—tell your story.

Vendôme.
All of it I cannot.
For to imprison me, as well as Cœur,
'Twas needful held, on charge of Agnes' death.
Whereof acquitting him, on my amende,
Demanded and conceded, they released me:
But to my utter wonder did not him.

Village.
Let's see!—let's see! I've correspondence, here,
Upon that point— (seats himself at table, and takes out papers)
—the strangest point of all;
That most illegal of all stratagems.
Something may come of that. Yes, Jeanne Vendôme!
They wanted but excuse for capturing him;
Which, having done, they added to that charge
A thousand accusations, as more reasons
For holding him still thralled. I have them, here.
“He had sent armour to the Saracens,
Been guilty of extortion”—and so forth—
Which “the Grand Council should investigate!”
So held they him confined, in Taillebourg,
Transported thence to Lusignan, Maillé,
And Tours;—thence whither I not know! One failed,
Another—still they charged him with new crimes;
Leze majesté, force and imprisonment,
Public and private, without law in both.
It had been vain, had Cœur pled to the facts;
He therefore sought for refuge in the Church,
Whereof he was a tonsured clerk, and pled
His order's privilege. Her bishops urged it;
His impious judges heeded not their voice,
Nay, after months of false imprisonment,
Sought to subdue their victim by the question.

Vendôme.
Tortures for him—for me, and for Macée!
How she survived that anguish I can think not:
'Twas madness too sublime for life to hold!
And she has since been rather like the dead
Than living. Anon, came the last disgrace;
When Cœur, condemned as worthy death, but pardoned
Of the king's grace, . . his treasures confiscate, . .
Was doomed, without or chaperon or girdle,
In sign he was deprived of all his goods,
To suffer penance in the public eye;
The which he did, as purchase for his life,
Bare life alone—and not his liberty!—

Village.
And this was royal gratitude! O Charles!
Charles, king of France! thou needest honest hearts,
Even now, to guard thee from the Dauphin's aims;
Yet, by such foul ingratitude as this,
Thou'dst lose them all! But, soft! Here comes the mourner,
With Chartier, whom I met upon the threshold.

Macée and Chartier enter.
Macée.
Gone from Tours?—taken thence? You know not whither?

Chartier.
Even so.

Village.
I, too, have vainly sought.

Macée.
You?—You?
Then is the world as good as searched in vain!
Nor need I argument for great despair,
But find it in thy honesty writ large!

Village.
Still have I faith in Providence and Virtue.

Macée.
Think you, thereon I've never thought? Then, know,
I number, 'mong my faults and errors, this:—
That, ignorant and presumptuous, I still urged
More holy motives, than were warranted
By the world's market, on my husband, Cœur;
Thinking that Merit ruled, not Destiny;
Deeming the offspring of his own caprice,
What were the Titan progeny of Time.
The power he wielded was of recent growth,
And had to combat ancient enmities,
Which it must conquer, or be conquered by,
And by his martyrdom will conquer yet.
Now, would I take defiant attitude,
And let blind Fate do what it list with me,
Using my natural force to stead myself,
Resenting the injustice, whosesoe'er,
That mocks us with the shows of liberty,
And cheats us with illusions into folly,
Which needs must be, whether we act or no,
Till death forecloses on our mortgaged hopes,
And banquets bravely on our bankrupt hearts!

Village.
These words offend religion.

Macée.
May be. Earth!
Were she a ship that blasphemy might sink!
Who pilots her? What captains walk her deck,
That have not merited anathema?
Is't Charles of France? My curse on him was wordless!
Not whispered!—the suggestion of my thought
Was charged, yet as a cloud, and burst in silence!
The miracle was signal. Puppet Charles!
—My lord was king, not he: the puppet said.
The jealous puppet smote its maker's pride!
Then, was the puppet king? Vile, thankless slave!
The slave of slaves more thankless and more vile!
His arm was broken with the blow he dealt!
And now the Dauphin strikes his pate across,
With reckless insolence, in wanton sport!

Chartier.
True, madam! 'Tis not he that acts, but they—
'Tis not his act, the act that brought me here.

Macée.
We must remove? Nay, let me pause on that!
From the false Government of France, you tell me,
A requisition most peremptory
Has reached king René, to withdraw his sanction
For our remaining here; . . and the Provençal,
Too weak for the French court, must hunt us forth.
Where would they banish us? Where have they banished
Him, for whose sake, they make us exiles, too?
I'll be no more deceived, but rest at once
On that which tramples hope! My Cœur's an exile!
An exile from the world! Him whom they prisoned,
Condemned unjustly, they've unjustly slain!

Village.
Nay, madam! We've no warrant to say that.

Macée.
[She sits.

Chartier.
O fearsome phrensy, madam!

Macée.
No word more!

Village
(to Jeanne de Vendôme).
It must not be! 'Twas what I had to say—
The thing that Chartier has informed her of—
That we are hunted hence. I knew not how
To say it! But this mood! It must not be!

Jeanne.
If she delays, thus obstinate, the hounds,
That hence should hunt us, will be here!

Chartier.
[Exeunt.

Gymart.
Jean du Village, the steward,
Late of the Merchant Cœur.

Chartier.
Ay, so I feared!
Wait yet . . for see where sits the wife of Cœur,
Fixed in the horror of a hopeless grief,
We will depart anon.

Gaillardet.
Depart! I think, sir,
You are the poet Chartier? Know us, then,
We be two factors, late from Bourges, of Cœur.

Chartier.
Pri'thee, your pardon! Bring ye news of Cœur?

Gymart
(presenting tablets).
Here, on these tablets, have we writings by him.

Chartier.
In his own hand? Is Cœur alive?

Gaillardet.
He was
When last we left him.

Chartier.
At Tours?

Gaillardet.
No, at Beaucaire.

Chartier.
Cœur lives! Here is the proof! Wake up, Macée!
Here, take his tablets in thy hands! Their touch,
Having been felt by him, may thus inform thee,
(Such sympathies are vouched for), that he lives.
Cœur lives! Read—read what he has writ!

Macée
(slowly).
It thrills!
Something would make me feel! Disturb me not!
The sun has died:—who'd live in darkness? O!
Would I had not survived!

Chartier.
'Tis daylight still!
Hope's in the world! Cœur lives! Read—read, I say,
His tablet's in thy hands.

Macée
(in a low tone).
Where are my eyes?
Can, then, my fingers see? (Shrieking)
These? Ha! From Cœur?—
You said, from Cœur?

Chartier.
His own handwriting.

Macée.
'Tis!
It is! It is! O, ne'er was scripture dearer.
Yet, he is dead—and these are sent from heaven,
By you, his angels.

Chartier
(to Gai. and Gymart).
Step aside, awhile;
And give her time for judgment.

Macée
(laughing hysterically).
Ha! ha! ha!

[She kisses the tablets, and then bursts into a flood of tears.
Chartier.
I pray thee, read the tablets.

Macée.
Wait!—I will!
[Reads.
“Beaucaire.” Describe what quarter of the skies,
Beaucaire emparadises. More! (Reads)
“The Convent
Of Cordeliers.” That's earthy. Pah! (Reads)
“The King.”
What King? “King Charles.” It is King Charles of France.
Ne'er thought I more to hear his name with joy,
Or syllable it myself but with a curse!—
(Reads)
“Under his safeguard, prisoner at large;
“Yet for the love of God and love of man,
“Let not thy imprisoned master, faithful friend,
“Pine in his bonds. Achieve his liberty!”
Signed “Cœur.” 'Tis for Village. 'Tis not for me!
Yet why should this rebuke me? Cœur is living.
That is enough for me—should be enough!
If love be dead in him, he's dead to love.
O, cankerous doubt, that withers love's true rose!
Come, famine! then.

Chartier.
Nay, this is wilful, lady.
Cœur's motives are apparent. He is guarded
With such strict charge, though in a convent, lady
(As now I hear from these two honest factors),
'Twill need most perilous enterprise to free him.

Macée.
There's comfort in your news. Thanks, gentlemen!
I'm glad of it. Fain would I venture death!
Look, here's another tablet. (Reads)
“Son,” he calls him—
Entreating “instant action”—for, “I learn
“My death is meditated by my foes.”
—I knew 'twas so—that meditated death
Cœur since has suffered; and again I yield,
Myself to desolation.

Chartier.
Wife of Cœur!
“Hope yet—thou canst do much!”

Macée
(abstractedly).
So Agnes said—
The dying prophet said it!

Chartier.
Where's the courage
That once upheld thee in thy great resolve,
To save him, spite all loss? Let not despair
Baffle prophetic instinct—grant the danger,
How imminent soever; speed may snatch
The expected victim from the threatened snare.

Macée
(recovering).
And, not the less for my despair will I
Do this, and more—armed now for either issue.
Let me see Cœur I would win back his love,
His love I must win back; or myself perish,
Though the work prosper which I go to do.
Grant, heaven! some difficulty to surmount!
O, let it be the wager of my life!
I'll make such large atonement for my fault,
Extreme devotion shall regain his love.
(Calling)
Village! Vendôme!—Come, we must speed away.
I am as swift, now, in my new desire,
As I of late was tardy! Gentlemen,
We needs must leave Marseilles within an hour,
But secretly, or we shall ne'er escape.
We'll join our friends within. My mind grows clear.
Take comfort, heart! Away with doubt or fear!

Scene changes.—Exterior Collonade. Convent of the Cordeliers. Midnight. Matin music heard from the Chapel.
Mathieu D'Ecole, Duclerc and Simonet enter.
Mathieu D'Ecole.
Keep ye good watch. Be ye not too secure.
Ye have no common prisoner. Merchant Cœur
Has head, and hands: is apt, and wise, and brave.
He has had visitors.

Duclerc.
A brother or twain
Of our own Order, from the opposite town
Of Tarascon—no more.

Mathieu D'Ecole.
They should be faithful.

Simonet.
Are, doubtless. Easier to escape, Jacques Cœur
Would find it, from a dungeon, than Beaucaire.
'Tis not alone the Convent's guarded strictly;
The town is circled in by barrier-walls,
Prohibiting attempt with silent scorn.
Then there's the Rhone to cross. All these are bars
Most formidable.

Mathieu D'Ecole.
I am satisfied.

Simonet.
The matins now are over, and Cœur comes forth
For his accustomed meditation. We
Respect his privacy.

Mathieu D'Ecole.
At such an hour,
The sleeping world has nought to send us fear.
Be vigilant.

Duclerc and Simonet.
We shall observe your orders.

[Exeunt at different sides.
Enter Jacques Cœur, alone.
Cœur.
Were I not strong in my integrity,
Inconstant fortune! thou hadst broken me
Upon thy treacherous wheel. O, thou hadst vaunted,
How Cœur, in slavish bonds, thy triumph graced.
But now, roll on thy chariot; still erect
I walk apart, unconquered, unsubdued.
The pious service of this midnight hour
Sheds o'er my soul a customary peace,
By repetition but more soothing made.
And I to ye can upward look, O stars!
Oblivious of ungrateful injury;
Faith broken, lawless trial, doom unjust,
And heartless cruelty sanctioned with the name
Of royal privilege and grace unbought,
The terrible compassions of the proud.
One sorrow yet afflicts me, that, Macée!—
That thou, Madonna of this living shrine,—
That thou shouldst of this temple, where alone
Thou wert adored, conceive so wrongfully
And gender mischief in thy jealous soul;
This pierces—this torments—this maddens me!
Soft, footsteps!
Enter Macée, disguised as a Cordelier.
Ha! perhaps the friendly monk
To whom, on his last visit, I confided
My tablets to Village. That honest name
The breath makes odorous that names it kindly.

Macée.
I never deemed that I should shrink away
Into myself, and dread his near approach—
Thus trembling!

Cœur.
Welcome, monk! Pray, do I know you?
Are you from Tarascon?

Macée.
From Tarascon

Cœur.
That voice! 'Twas strangely like! From Tarascon!
Instinct of love! I pierce through her disguise;
But love offended mails itself in steel—
No rock so hard—so sharp! What wouldst thou say?

Macée.
Does he not know—will he not know—my voice?

Cœur
(going).
Thou art not the Cordelier I thought I knew?
I thank thee, monk! I must beware espial.

Macée
(rushing up to him).
Wouldst thou go hence? Dear Cœur! this must not be.
Macée implores thee!

Cœur
(coldly).
Wherefore seekst thou me?

Macée.
Whom should I seek but thee? Whom should the soul
Seek but its God? Whom should Macée, but Cœur?

Cœur.
Macée! Here, kneeling?—weeping? Stand thou up!
I have been humbled, and have drunk more tears
Than I have shed. Therefore, stand up, Macée,
Nor act the passion of a Niobe,
Unless, like her, astonied; jealous heaven,
Author alone of thy calamity!

Macée.
I've so charged heaven; . . but, then, thou wert not by
To check the impious thought.

Cœur.
I check thy thought?—
I know not when such mastery was mine.

Macée.
Thine? Ever, Cœur!

Cœur.
Most strangely manifest!
In ever thinking, doing, what thou wouldst,
Thy husband's ruler in his prosperous hour,
And his main grief in this adversity.

Macée.
To heaven, and thee, I would acknowledge all—
Be thou like that: . . absolve me from my sin!
Thou wert a man, whose pardon still outran
Offences, like the herald of good powers,
On whose impassive essences serene
No stain may fix, and no dishonour come.
Unhappy me, the sole exception made!

Cœur.
Thou knowst the cause?

Macée.
I do. Not to extenuate
The error of my love—for such it was—
(Jealousies are to love as dreams to sleep)
Nor tax thee with neglect—for none was thine—
(Still rapt in trance broods creant enterprise)—
I dare avouch, there ne'er was in my soul
An impulse thou wert not the mover of
Thy profit—credit—glory—pleasure—power—
These were my inspirations; . . these the stars
That shone upon me in my solitude;
Whilst thou abroad wert doing, in the field
Of life, the battle that the brave must dare,
Even though they perish. These are thoughts of thine;
They lived with me even when estrangement cast
Its casual shadows 'twixt two anxious hearts,
Perplexed with high responsibilities.
And what if such were vexed, and one was wrecked,
Judgment thrown overboard, and the poor barque
Left to the mercy of the waves and winds.
Is Cœur less merciful than they have proved,
And the spent swimmer would forbid the shore?

Cœur.
'Tis music such as this, the seas have solaced,
When they were angry.

Macée.
Would my Cœur deny,
When on the beach the breathless swimmer sank,
The wine of comfort to the penitent?

Cœur.
I would not, and I will not! Dear Macée,
Close to my heart! I, too, have been to blame!
A faithful heart, like thine, should have been trusted;
And what might not be so, been left undone.
'Twas a plain guide, but the trim voyager
Would not consult it; . . So the vessel stranded!

Macée.
But I am vowed for its salvation, Cœur!

Cœur.
Thou, fond Macée? We'll talk less wildly now.
Yet, saidst thou not, thou camest from Tarascon?

Macée.
Time wears: I'll tell thee all, without a pause!
There are no listeners?

Cœur.
None.

Macée.
At Tarascon
Thy friends assemble, led by Jean Village;
The Convent of the Cordeliers his lodging;
With him Gymart and Gillardet, assisted
By a good score or two of armèd men,
Soldiers in the late wars. At Tour de Boue,
A galley of thy own lies ready; then
At Nice another, which, with wind to serve,
Will Pisa reach in safety: thence to Rome,
Where good Pope Nicholas his palace gates
Throws wide, for thy reception.

Cœur.
Cheering news!
But how reach Tarascon?

Macée.
A hirèd boat
Awaits thee, on the Rhone. The night's auspicious;
Caution . . and silence . . and the river's crossed.

Cœur.
Impossible! The town is fenced with walls.

Macée.
Time has in one commenced a breach, which man
Is even now enlarging, easy task,
To let thee through.

Cœur.
Yet still impossible!
At every avenue, by day and night,
The Monks kept sentinel. I may not pass
The Convent's bounds.

Macée.
They may be bribed, perchance.

Cœur.
I know them well, an incorruptible
And pious brotherhood. There is no hope!

Macée.
“Hope yet,” said dying Agnes. By that name,
I'll charm you yet to listen. Much to do
Lies in my power—in mine, dear Cœur! And all,
Nay, more than can be, I have sworn to do,
By spiritual might! Prophetic words
Were those she uttered. Be in me fulfilled
Their purport; here devoted, lo, I stand
For thy deliverance, Cœur; called to the work
By sacred oracle, ordained, resolved!

Cœur.
What wonder, now, Macée? Thou art not phrenzied?

Macée.
List further, and then judge. I am prepared
For what I came to do. Beneath this habit
Lo, here my woman's gear. This habit take;
And, in return, give me thy merchant's robe;
In this same hood conceal thy visage, Cœur!
And give me, for my brows, thy turban, Cœur!
[Macée makes the exchange, while speaking:—he passively and abstractedly submits.
Here will I stay. The distant sentinel
Will mark me in the moonlight, sitting here,
And thence have no suspicion. Meanwhile, thou,
In this monk's garb, will pass securely by.
'Twill cost thee but a “Benedicite!”

Cœur.
But thee thy life! The Convent's laws are strict.
Morn comes—thou are detected: this disguise
Serving for proof, not shelter. No, Macée!
I cannot do it.

Macée.
It is done without thee.
Thou seemst to know not the exchange is made.
Behold, thou art the monk, the merchant I.

Cœur.
Surprise had, surely, reft me of my functions.
—Yet here stay I!

Macée.
And I—and thus attired!
Hence, when discovered, they'll imprison both;
And, for this cause, so thy confinement straighten,
That thy resuscitate love for me again
Will perish, when thou thinkst upon the fault,
This new one I've trangressed in; like the rest,
The child of a deep love, that no divorce
Admits but death. Love and my life are one!

Cœur.
Be it even so. I shall not blame Macée.

Macée.
Thou wilt—thou must! I will not peril it.
Or if thou do not, I am resolute
To shut myself from pardon utterly.
My own, and yours, and earth's, and Heaven's!—gaze on!
I am become a mystery to myself,
And capable of whatso most appals
Good men and angels! I will do the deed,
Shall make my soul an outcast! To my wish,
Therefore, at once surrender! Morn soon dawns,
And all this peril hastens. Yield at once!

Cœur.
Still thy imperative nature must prevail.

Macée.
Embrace me! Now, away!

Cœur.
Adieu! adieu!
Yet still I turn me back, in hope to soothe thee.
Thou lookest bravely in my turban, wife!
No, by this starlight, thou art beautiful.
I thank the moon for shining out so fair.
By heaven! I will not leave thee to this peril!
Give me again my garments! I will have them!

Macée.
I will not quit this gear, except by force;
Which, if thou use, I'll sudden scream so loud,
The Convent cells shall echo with my cry.

Cœur.
Thy will is dominant—thy mien commanding—
Thou art imperial as imperious.
I'm awed and spell-bound! I submit, constrained.
To obey thee, is to please thee. Well, I go.
And be the saints thy guardians!

Macée.
Hence! The Monk,
Thy guard, impatient of our conference, comes.
Away, or all is lost!

Cœur.
Adieu! adieu!

[Macée sinks upon a seat.