University of Virginia Library

V.

Beaucaire.
Scene—Interior of Convent Chapel. Altar illuminated.
Macée discovered by the altar-rail.
Macée.
I would my spirit should continue hushed,
Grief quenched by the Immortal Sacrifice
Which makes of none account all mortal loss.
From midnight to the morn I matin keep,
In silence, which, in solemn music, late
Ascended high, and on the wing of sound
Transported me to heaven: . . no prisoner, then;
And now, if one, a temple, lo! my prison;
And its celestial presences are set
For comforters to those whom penance bows,
The best physicians to the broken heart,
That by self-immolation would make whole
And be restored unto its perfect self.
Here find I peace:—and if they take my life,
To die were but as I should choose to sleep
In some sweet bower of Paradise, where he
I die for lies expecting me, awake!
But better death like this—for absence is
To loving bosoms nothing less than death!—
Than that immortal widowhood of soul,
Which, but for that I suffer now, had been
Our lot eterne. Now, we shall meet again,
Belovèd Cœur! if not on earth, in heaven!
These tears anew baptize me, and the root
Of life they water bears again the bloom
Of love and hope.
Enter Jeanne de Vendôme.
Who's there?—Vendôme?

Vendôme.
Morn breaks.

Macée.
It grieves me much, Vendôme! your foolish faith
Has made you prisoner with me.

Vendôme.
Scarcely so.
You are alone in danger: I fear none.
But as a witnesss here detained—no more—
Charged, by Village, with letters from the Queen,
That gave her royal sanction to your lord's
Escape, from his malignant enemies;
As what the King desired, though under influence,
He had no power to order. These, produced
To the good Abbot, might—so thought Village—
Move him to set you free, to follow Cœur.

Macée.
Ye little knew L'Ecole. The father acts
Solely by rule. To deed irregular,
Even though an angel vouched it, nought might tempt him.
The intervention of her majesty,
Having no legal warrant, to his mind
Was or impertinence or treason. Straight
He sent, mark you, a messenger to court,
And thus gave notice to my husband's foes.
Hence have we here Trémouille, who breaths malign,
Against me death and vengeance. I am doomed!

Vendôme.
Take counsel.

Macée.
Well rebuked. I shall do so.
Trémouille, it seems, awaits the fierce Chabannes,
Gone forth on expedition to Fargeau,
And elsewhere—vehement to possess himself
Of my dear lord's estates. Such impious haste
Those cormorants make, to gorge them with the wealth
That once their victim owned. What hear you, Jeanne?

Vendôme.
Not half an hour ago, a horseman came,
The avant-courier of the so-feared Chabannes,
Saying his master followed speedily,
With an armed train, picked from the royal guard,
Though for awhile detained by some strange news.

Macée.
Strange news? All news is strange!

Vendôme.
But this most strange.

Macée.
What is it?

Vendôme.
Something of the Dauphin. All
I know not clearly. This alone I heard;
That, taking 'vantage of these traitors' absence,
Prince Louis' friends were Charles' attendants now,
Who, shut up in the castle of Mehun,
Suspecting poison, sustenance hath refused.

Macée.
That's news, indeed. This heavenly justice answers
What suffering might pray for, and has virtue
To make me strong to bear or to inflict.
Mathieu D'Ecole, Duclerc, Simonet, Trémouille, and others enter.
They come whom I must baffle or endure.

D'Ecole.
Here, daughter, watch ye?

Macée.
And protection seek.

Trémouille.
Protection, lady?

Macée.
From your malice, which
You miscal justice.

Trémouille.
'Tis justice, when the law's
Insulted, to avenge it on the peccant.

Macée.
What seems may not be guilt; . . but circumstance
May oft excuse an act, though not in rule:
As when the innocent do hold the sword,
That kills but murders not, in self defence,
Or guards the old and feeble, or sets free
The unjustly captive, though by mortal means.
This last I did—the victim but myself!
Force is repelled by force, and craft by craft.

Trémouille.
'Twas legal force and authorizèd craft.

Macée.
Yes, legalized by robbers for their gain,
And authorized by traitors for their safety;
From whose insidious wiles or violence,
All modes of quittance justice does permit.

Trémouille.
Robbers and traitors?

Macée.
Ay—no less!

Trémouille.
You rave.
Heaven save your reason!

Macée.
So it will—it doth!
'Tis you are idiot . . blinded, by the veil
Of custom, to those inner laws that, born
With us, we may suppress, but not repeal:
Not taught, derived, but living in our life
Cogenial and inherent. By these laws,
I judge your laws, and find that I have acted
On the defensive only:—therefore am guiltless
Of any act of treason against the State.
So of this Abbot, here, I make demand,
He set me straight at large.

D'Ecole.
I cannot, lady.
My office is specific:—to the letter,
I will perform its duties.

Macée.
Office!—duties!—
O spiritless and most insensate clod!
O tablet, for a cenotaph designed,
But uninscribed as yet! O void of faith,
Of charity, and yet ordained to both.
Their minister, who shutst the gate of Hope
On Hope herself, yet at the portal standst
As if thou wert her guard, her servitor,
But art her enemy, yet knowst it not,
So brutal in thy pious ignorance,
Thou slayest her on the threshold of her dwelling,
Then claimest guerdon for defending her,
Thy murdered mistress! Strip thee of thy office,
And take to duties that befit thee better.
These principalities become thee not;—
Some servile task is more within thy scope!

D'Ecole.
Lady, you are too bold. Besides, you know not,
'Tis heresy you utter.

Macée.
Heresy!
What, then, is truth, if this be heresy?
Is it not truth for woman to be true
To him she loved and wedded? Is it not truth,
When on the judgment seat corruption sits,
And by the altar ignorance adores,
That to the sanctities which guard the hearth
She should appeal, and worship? Or that barred,
As mine is now from me, she should for truth
Dig deep into her heart, and, in its promptings,
Thus recognize the verities of Heaven!

D'Ecole.
Beware—lest, to the censure of the State
You suffer now, you should provoke the Church
To couple hers.

Macée.
Now, by these saintly shrines!—
Now, by the awful holiness above!—
That Providence which, though invisible,
Watches o'er nations, and avenges wrongs,
Public or private—plants, or else displants
Altars and thrones!—speak your anathema!
'Tis not on me, but on yourselves, ye pour
The dreadful burthen of your dolorous curse;
Which, though it blast me standing in its way,
Dismantles your own altars, overthrows
Your rites, to pieces breaks your images,
And shatters thrones! Poor wretches, blind to fate;
Before the great emotions of the soul,
Ye perish; like the idolatries of old
Before the whirlwind of the wrath of God;—
I scorn—despise; unpitied, pity you!

[The Convent bell rings loudly.
Trémouille.
That is a peal indeed, bespeaks impatience.

[Simonet goes out.
Macée.
It sounds as it would hurry on my doom!
It sounds as 'twere indeed my passing-bell.
Forgetting to be solemn, in the haste
Of your desire to send my soul to bliss!—
Ye would commit a murder—do it now!

Simonet
(returning).
It is the Count Chabannes.

Macée.
I knew it was!
Trémouille expects him, see you not he doth?
I know he brings my sentence from the king,
As men still call the puppet, Charles by name.
These words are treasonous? I'd have them be so!
Forms without power, shews that are substanceless—
Away with them, or with ourselves away!
Better annihilation, than to suffer
The tyrannous yoke of mock authority
That order turns to chaos!

Trémouille.
Here's Chabannes.

D'Ecole.
Lady, be silent now, and hear the Count.

Macée.
I shall, be sure!

Enter Chabannes, attended with Guards.
Chabannes.
Hail, to the Consistory!
I bear with me the rescript from king Charles,
Touching this lady.

Macée.
Well—the matter?

Chabannes.
This.
By the advice of the Grand Council, sitting
Upon the trial of the Argentier,
His Majesty pronounces that the guilty
By his escape hath pardon forfeited,
And merits death; . . but being now in Rome,
And shielded by the Pope, cannot be reached.
Yet, having left in pledge his wife, Macée,
On her must fall the sentence due to him.

Macée.
You have made speed from Mehun to Fargeau;
Maurice, besides:—thence, hither, to Beaucaire!

Chabannes.
I am not wont to loiter.

Macée.
'Tis well known!
Eager and rapid in all enterprise,
No province, hardly kingdoms, could confine
Chabannes' impetuosity, when moved!
The écorcheur is still the écorcheur;
Rapine and plunder, as of yore, his trade,
And death the meed of whatsoe'er opposed.
Death, too, his own, when justice overtakes.

Chabannes.
When overtaken, be it so with us!
Behoves yourself regard your proper state!

Macée.
I'm past all fear. Do with me as you list.
I plead not for your mercy. Spare me but
Vain pageantry and hypocritic hymns;—
No show—no pomp—no praise; unwailed, unwept;
I would depart; seeing convention's self
Has crumbled to its base, and faith on earth
Has not a name to live!

Chabannes.
No more remains
But in this holy Abbot's hands to place
The mortal writ, under the royal seal.

Macée.
The royal seal? I do remember now;
Among the charges brought against my lord,
Was one most foul—that he had caused be made
A forgèd seal with fleur de lis engraved,
To serve his merchant gains with Saracens.
Belike, 'tis such a counterfeit ye proffer;—
Who bring such charges falsely, we may deem
Willing, if safely, to incur the guilt.

D'Ecole.
If we thought so—

Chabannes.
Tush—tush! 'Tis the King's seal,
As with my sword I'll answer! Who gainsays it?

Trémouille.
None but the prisoner.

[Convent bell rings again. Simonet goes out.
Macée.
Some one else! He comes,
By intuition to my soul foretold,
In penitential prayer. Morn broke therewith;
It was hope's day-spring!

Simonet
(returning).
It is her lord, attended
With a legate of the Pope, and divers soldiers,
Who had forced their way with them within our walls,
But that the royal escort, under orders
Of Count Chabannes, prevented it.

Chabannes.
Meseems,
A meet precaution I came guarded well.

Simonet.
Cœur and the Legate.

Enter Cœur with the Legate.
Cœur.
Am I too late?

Macée.
No! No!
Here is thy living—thy unburied wife!
Now, living, though once dead to thee and love,
Raised from the dead by love to welcome thee,
Within these arms, now filled with love and thee!

Cœur.
My heart is full—amazed, enrapt, possessed
With thy incredible fidelity,
Divine Macée!—intrepid and devote—
Thou hast as 'twere laid down thy life for me!
—And now come I, to make like sacrifice,
Unless these men be pitiful to both.

Chabannes.
You'd taken means to force us into pity.
Your band of bravoes shewed no yielding mood!

Cœur.
You know, Chabannes, that you have troops without,
Outnumbering my poor crew.

Chabannes.
I am safe in that!
Nothing but magic had enabled yours
To overmaster mine. Not being so,
Thy pageant suite I scorn.

Macée.
I'll drop no tear—
Nor shall irresolution mar a feature;
And when I speak, my voice shall yet be firm.

Chabannes.
Sir, hear you me?

Cœur.
Right well, I thank thee.
What! wouldst thou have me plead? Then look at me,
Or her! If either flinch, contemn us! But
If both be stedfast, then—thyself being brave—
Respect in us the virtue thou hast shown.
Who most excite compassion, most disdain:
The gladiator who despises death,
The gazing vulgar clamour for his life.
Be not less generous than the herd thou leadest.

Chabannes.
Hast thou no more to urge?

Cœur.
No—not to thee!
But with Mathieu D'Ecole, the Abbot here,
The legate of his holiness the Pope
Is charged to speak in his great master's name.

D'Ecole.
Say on, right reverend legate.

Legate.
I am bid
By the most gracious Nicholas, to say,
That the good merchant Cœur, a tonsured clerk,
Has been unjustly, by the laic power,
Condemned; yet being prisoner held within
A convent's sacred walls, though innocent;
The guilt of his escape, being such a clerk,
Was greater made by that: ... in which same guilt,
Both he who fled and she who stayed behind,
Were subject unto censure. But his holiness,
On the premise consulting, by the force
Of apostolic mercy dealt to him,
On their repentance, has absolved the twain;
Commanding you by me, to let them go.

D'Ecole.
How shall I answer it to the King of France?

Chabannes.
Well said, D'Ecole! The King of France in us,
Forbids this interference. Here's his warrant
Upon the life of both.

Trémouille.
Foes of such craft
Should have the speedier riddance.

Cœur
(passing over with Macée to Chabannes).
Let us pass!

Chabannes.
You would not brawl within this holy place?

Cœur.
Therefore, I say, let us pass forth together!
Your troops exceed in strength and number mine—
The Church absolves, and gives us passage free—
Let the State's quarrel be without decided;
We'll prove the issue, when beyond these walls.
It is a little grace, if you accord,
May bring you larger gain.

Chabannes.
I'll not accord it.
Poor trafficker in promises, who'd trade
On credit now substantial means are gone!

Cœur.
For your own good be counselled.

Macée.
Dearest Cœur!
Why supplicate you thus? Here we can die,
As well as there! Let them accumulate
Crime on their crime;—the sin of sacrilege
Add to the number they commit in thought,
As they already have that murder added
To most unparalleled ingratitude!

Chabannes.
That word has stoned my heart! Thy debtor, Cœur,
Is now thy creditor. What once was thine
Is mine. For that arrest once meant for me,
I can repay you now in kind.
What shouts
[Shouts heard without.
Are those?
Enter Michelet.
Hoa, there! 'Tis Captain Michelet!
Doubtless (to Cœur)
he has seized upon your coward crew!
(To Michelet)
I saw you enter—you are vigilant!
You've come in time, good Captain Michelet.
Bring in your guard.

Michelet.
I was about to do so.

[Exit, after speaking to Chabannes' guards.
[Shouts again.
Trémouille.
Ha! that sounds well!—they're zealous in our cause.

Macée
(apart).
Now I can smile at this. O, fondly thought—
That to be virtuous was to be revered!
And Cœur still thinks, as he has ever thought,
'Tis not ingratitude, but fear sins in them.
'Tis well the brave and wise for motive own
Virtue, not guerdon. Well for me, I share
The noble consciousness which now I note,
From his calm brow, unflushed, unmovèd cheek,
Supports his soul—that he no act hath done,
But what partook of greatness—that to him,
His country owes deliverance—that to him,
His monarch was indebted for his crown—
And not a citizen but benefits
By his undaunted enterprize; whereby
France has received new life-blood, vigour new,
Power that was not, till Cœur created it.
And if for this the lightning that destroys,
But consecrates, strike him again; and now
For ruin ultimate, without reprieve;
Let it be so!—For glory shall descend,
And fill the space should clip his statue in!

[Shouts again heard without.
Cœur.
Fear not those shouts, Macée! Them, on sure grounds,
I otherwise interpret than my foes.

Jean du Village, Alain Chartier, Michelet, Troops and Monks enter.
Chartier.
Stay, Michelet! To all now present greeting,
In me the bearer own of royal power.
Chabannes, Trémouille, must both yield place to me.

Chabannes.
Not without further warrant.

Chartier.
Rightly pleaded.
Then, Michelet, there are your prisoners!

[Michelet arrests Chabannes and Trémouille.
Chabannes.
What mean you, captain?

Trémouille.
Take you us for them!

[Pointing to Macée and Cœur.
Michelet.
In am no speaker, count. I but obey
King Louis' orders.

Macée.
Louis, king?

Chartier.
He is.
Self-starved, King Charles has died; and Louis reigns.

Macée.
O, mystery of justice! Yet instruct me—
How bears it on Chabannes and on Trémouille?

Chartier.
Might they not better tell you?

Chabannes.
Not a word.

Trémouille.
Unless it were a wizard's spell, to harm!

Macée.
Their lips have not such music, Chartier!
I should prefer their utterance to yours.

Chartier.
I'll speak, then. Louis, being king, will reign:
And that he may do so, at once disgraces
George la Trémouille and Antoine de Chabannes;
For their offences proved against himself,
Of every office that they once possessed
They are deprived; and, in the Louvre, condemned,
First to imprisonment:—next, banishment:—
And confiscation absolute of all.

Macée.
And what for Cœur?

Chartier.
Ask of your faithful steward,
Whose vigilance has brought much good about.

Village.
Most honoured lady, here is the decree,
The letters-patent under Louis' hand:
“That, on remonstrance made, his majesty,
“Touching the life and welfare of Jacques Cœur,
“Sometime his royal father's argentier,
“Who, by the false reports of his ill-wishers,
“Had been unrighteously despoiled of all;
“To him just restitution should be made,
“Both of the lands that De Chabannes had seized,
“And other the estates whereof he was
“Rightful possessor and true lord.”

Cœur.
Rejoice,
Beloved Macee!

Chartier.
This Jean Village has done—
And 'twas his speed kept measure with my own.
So when arrived, I found him there before me,
Even in the court of Louis, with credentials
Won from the new-made king. To which credentials,
Even now, the troops Chabannes brought hither yielding,
At once allegiance swore to royal Louis.
Doubtless, you heard their shouts.

Cœur.
Ay, did we, sir;
As likewise did Chabannes, and you, Trémouille!
—Unworthy men! had ye but shown remorse,
How slight soever, for your cruelties,
For your evasion means had I provided,
Which now would come too late.

Chartier.
'Tis better so.
Captain! you have your orders: take your prisoners,
And hold them in safe custody.

[Chabannes and Trémouille are led out, guarded.
Cœur.
Their silence
Bespeaks profound despair. Macée! beshrew me,
Compassion for their doom, despite their guilt,
Afflicts me more than I had thought it would.

Macée.
And I, too, may rejoice, but not exult.
Sin leaves its scars upon the pardoned soul;
Forgiveness woundeth more than punishment.
Had I died for you, I had triumphed more,
Than now I may. But this more sober joy
Heals more than wilder transport. Death heals all!
The bruisèd spirit which I bear within
Is prescient of departure. Better, Cœur!
A few few days of love and confidence,
Than many years of jealousy and doubt.

[Macée buries her face within Cœur's bosom.