University of Virginia Library

SECOND YEAR, 1731.—KING CHARLES.

1. Part I.

Enter Queen Polyxena and D'Ormea.—A pause.
Polyxena.
And now, sir, what have you to say?

D'Ormea.
Count Tende . . .

Polyxena.
Affirm not I betrayed you; you resolve
On uttering this strange intelligence
—Nay, post yourself to find me ere I reach
The capital, because you know King Charles
Tarries a day or two at Evian baths
Behind me:—but take warning,—here and thus
[Seating herself in the royal seat.
I listen, if I listen—not your friend.
Explicitly the statement, if you still
Persist to urge it on me, must proceed:
I am not made for aught else.

D'Ormea.
Good! Count Tende . . .

Polyxena.
I, who mistrust you, shall acquaint King Charles
Who even more mistrusts you.

D'Ormea.
Does he so?

Polyxena.
Why should he not?

D'Ormea.
Ay, why not? Motives, seek
You virtuous people, motives! Say, I serve
God at the devil's bidding—will that do?
I'm proud: our people have been pacified,
Really I know not how—

Polyxena.
By truthfulness.

D'Ormea.
Exactly; that shows I had nought to do
With pacifying them. Our foreign perils
Also exceed my means to stay: but here
'T is otherwise, and my pride's piqued. Count Tende
Completes a full year's absence: would you, madam,
Have the old monarch back, his mistress back,
His measures back? I pray you, act upon
My counsel, or they will be.

Polyxena.
When?

D'Ormea.
Let's think.
Home-matters settled—Victor's coming now;
Let foreign matters settle—Victor's here
Unless I stop him; as I will, this way.

Polyxena
[reading the papers he presents].
If this should prove a plot 'twixt you and Victor?
You seek annoyances to give pretext
For what you say you fear.

D'Ormea.
Oh, possibly!
I go for nothing. Only show King Charles
That thus Count Tende purposes return,
And style me his inviter, if you please!

Polyxena.
Half of your tale is true; most like, the Count
Seeks to return: but why stay you with us?
To aid in such emergencies.

D'Ormea.
Keep safe
Those papers: or, to serve me, leave no proof
I thus have counselled! When the Count returns,
And the King abdicates, 't will stead me little
To have thus counselled.

Polyxena.
The King abdicate!

D'Ormea.
He's good, we knew long since—wise, we discover—
Firm, let us hope:—but I'd have gone to work
With him away. Well!

[Charles without.]
In the Council Chamber?

D'Ormea.
All's lost!

Polyxena.
Oh, surely not King Charles!
He's changed—
That's not this year's care-burthened voice and step:
'T is last year's step, the Prince's voice!

D'Ormea.
I know.

[Enter Charles:—D'Ormea retiring a little.
Charles.
Now wish me joy, Polyxena! Wish it me
The old way!
[She embraces him.
There was too much cause for that!
But I have found myself again. What news
At Turin? Oh, if you but felt the load
I'm free of—free! I said this year would end
Or it, or me—but I am free, thank God!

Polyxena.
How, Charles?

Charles.
You do not guess? The day I found
Sardinia's hideous coil, at home, abroad,
And how my father was involved in it,—
Of course, I vowed to rest and smile no more
Until I cleared his name from obloquy.
We did the people right—'t was much to gain
That point, redress our nobles' grievance, too—
But that took place here, was no crying shame:
All must be done abroad,—if I abroad
Appeased the justly-angered Powers, destroyed
The scandal, took down Victor's name at last
From a bad eminence, I then might breathe
And rest! No moment was to lose. Behold
The proud result—a Treaty, Austria, Spain
Agree to—

D'Ormea
[aside].
I shall merely stipulate
For an experienced headsman.

Charles.
Not a soul
Is compromised: the blotted past's a blank:
Even D'Ormea escapes unquestioned. See!
It reached me from Vienna; I remained
At Evian to despatch the Count his news;
'T is gone to Chambery a week ago—
And here am I: do I deserve to feel
Your warm white arms around me?

D'Ormea
[coming forward].
He knows that?

Charles.
What, in Heaven's name, means this?

D'Ormea.
He knows that matters
Are settled at Vienna? Not too late!
Plainly, unless you post this very hour
Some man you trust (say, me) to Chambery
And take precautions I acquaint you with,
Your father will return here.

Charles.
Are you crazed,
D'Ormea? Here? For what? As well return
To take his crown!

D'Ormea.
He will return for that.

Charles
[to Polyxena].
You have not listened to this man?

Polyxena.
He spoke
About your safety—and I listened.

[He disengages himself from her arms.
Charles
[to D'Ormea].
What
Apprised you of the Count's intentions?

D'Ormea.
Me?
His heart, sir; you may not be used to read
Such evidence however; therefore read [Pointing to Polyxena's papers.

My evidence.

Charles
[to Polyxena].
Oh, worthy this of you!
And of your speech I never have forgotten,
Though I professed forgetfulness; which haunts me
As if I did not know how false it was;
Which made me toil unconsciously thus long
That there might be no least occasion left
For aught of its prediction coming true!
And now, when there is left no least occasion
To instigate my father to such crime—
When I might venture to forget (I hoped)
That speech and recognize Polyxena—
Oh worthy, to revive, and tenfold worse,
That plague! D'Ormea at your ear, his slanders
Still in your hand! Silent?

Polyxena.
As the wronged are.

Charles.
And you, D'Ormea, since when you have presumed
To spy upon my father? I conceive
What that wise paper shows, and easily.
Since when?

D'Ormea.
The when and where and how belong
To me. 'T is sad work, but I deal in such.
You ofttimes serve yourself; I'd serve you here:
Use makes me not so squeamish. In a word,
Since the first hour he went to Chambery,
Of his seven servants, five have I suborned.

Charles.
You hate my father?

D'Ormea.
Oh, just as you will! [Looking at Polyxena.

A minute since, I loved him—hate him, now!
What matter?—if you ponder just one thing:
Has he that treaty?—he is setting forward
Already. Are your guards here?

Charles.
Well for you
They are not! [To Polyxena].
Him I knew of old, but you—
To hear that pickthank, further his designs! [To D'Ormea.

Guards?—were they here, I'd bid them, for your trouble,
Arrest you.

D'Ormea.
Guards you shall not want. I lived
The servant of your choice, not of your need.
You never greatly needed me till now
That you discard me. This is my arrest.
Again I tender you my charge—its duty
Would bid me press you read those documents.
Here, sir!

[Offering his badge of office.
Charles
[taking it].
The papers also! Do you think
I dare not read them?

Polyxena.
Read them, sir!

Charles.
They prove,
My father, still a month within the year
Since he so solemnly consigned it me,
Means to resume his crown? They shall prove that.
Or my best dungeon . . .

D'Ormea.
Even say, Chambery!
'T is vacant, I surmise, by this.

Charles.
You prove
Your words or pay their forfeit, sir. Go there!
Polyxena, one chance to rend the veil
Thickening and blackening 'twixt us two! Do say,
You'll see the falsehood of the charges proved!
Do say, at least, you wish to see them proved
False charges—my heart's love of other times!

Polyxena.
Ah, Charles!

Charles
[to D'Ormea].
Precede me, sir!

D'Ormea.
And I'm at length
A martyr for the truth! No end, they say,
Of miracles. My conscious innocence!

[As they go out, enter—by the middle door, at which he pauses—Victor.
Victor.
Sure I heard voices? No. Well, I do best
To make at once for this, the heart o' the place.
The old room! Nothing changed! So near my seat,
D'Ormea? [Pushing away the stool which is by the King's chair.

I want that meeting over first,
I know not why. Tush, he, D'Ormea, slow
To hearten me, the supple knave? That burst
Of spite so eased him! He'll inform me . . .
What?
Why come I hither? All's in rough: let all
Remain rough. There's full time to draw back—nay,
There's nought to draw back from, as yet; whereas,
If reason should be, to arrest a course
Of error—reason good, to interpose
And save, as I have saved so many times,
Our House, admonish my son's giddy youth,
Relieve him of a weight that proves too much—
Now is the time,—or now, or never.
'Faith,
This kind of step is pitiful, not due
To Charles, this stealing back—hither, because
He's from his capital! Oh Victor! Victor!
But thus it is. The age of crafty men
Is loathsome; youth contrives to carry off
Dissimulation; we may intersperse
Extenuating passages of strength,
Ardour, vivacity, and wit—may turn
E'en guile into a voluntary grace:
But one's old age, when graces drop away
And leave guile the pure staple of our lives—
Ah, loathsome!
Not so—or why pause I? Turin
Is mine to have, were I so minded, for
The asking; all the army's mine—I've witnessed
Each private fight beneath me; all the Court's
Mine too; and, best of all, D'Ormea's still
D'Ormea and mine. There's some grace clinging yet.
Had I decided on this step, ere midnight
I'd take the crown.
No. Just this step to rise
Exhausts me. Here am I arrived: the rest
Must be done for me. Would I could sit here
And let things right themselves, the masque unmasque
Of the old King, crownless, grey hair and hot blood,—
The young King, crowned, but calm before his time,
They say,—the eager mistress with her taunts,—
And the sad earnest wife who motions me
Away—ay, there she knelt to me! E'en yet
I can return and sleep at Chambery
A dream out.
Rather shake it off at Turin,
King Victor! Say: to Turin—yes, or no?
'T is this relentless noonday-lighted chamber,
Lighted like life but silent as the grave,
That disconcerts me. That's the change must strike.
No silence last year! Some one flung doors wide
(Those two great doors which scrutinize me now)
And out I went 'mid crowds of men—men talking,
Men watching if my lip fell or brow knit,
Men saw me safe forth, put me on my road:
That makes the misery of this return.
Oh had a battle done it! Had I dropped,
Haling some battle, three entire days old,
Hither and thither by the forehead—dropped
In Spain, in Austria, best of all, in France—
Spurned on its horns or underneath its hooves,
When the spent monster went upon its knees
To pad and pash the prostrate wretch—I, Victor,
Sole to have stood up against France, beat down
By inches, brayed to pieces finally
In some vast unimaginable charge,
A flying hell of horse and foot and guns
Over me, and all 's lost, for ever lost,
There's no more Victor when the world wakes up!
Then silence, as of a raw battle-field,
Throughout the world. Then after (as whole days
After, you catch at intervals faint noise
Through the stiff crust of frozen blood)—there creeps
A rumour forth, so faint, no noise at all,
That a strange old man, with face outworn for wounds
Is stumbling on from frontier town to town,
Begging a pittance that may help him find
His Turin out; what scorn and laughter follow
The coin you fling into his cap! And last,
Some bright morn, how men crowd about the midst
O' the market-place, where takes the old king breath
Ere with his crutch he strike the palace-gate
Wide ope!
To Turin, yes or no—or no?

Re-enter Charles with papers.
Charles.
Just as I thought! A miserable falsehood
Of hirelings discontented with their pay
And longing for enfranchisement! A few
Testy expressions of old age that thinks
To keep alive its dignity o'er slaves
By means that suit their natures!
[Tearing them.]
Thus they shake
My faith in Victor!
[Turning, he discovers Victor.

Victor
[after a pause].
Not at Evian, Charles?
What's this? Why do you run to close the doors?
No welcome for your father?

Charles
[aside].
Not his voice!
What would I give for one imperious tone
Of the old sort! That's gone for ever.

Victor.
Must
I ask once more . . .

Charles.
No—I concede it, sir!
You are returned for . . . true, your health declines;
True, Chambery's a bleak unkindly spot;
You'd choose one fitter for your final lodge—
Veneria, or Moncaglier—ay, that's closed
And I concede it.

Victor.
I received advices
Of the conclusion of the Spanish matter,
Dated from Evian Baths . . .

Charles.
And you forbore
To visit me at Evian, satisfied
The work I had to do would fully task
The little wit I have, and that your presence
Would only disconcert me—

Victor.
Charles?

Charles.
—Me, set
For ever in a foreign course to yours,
And . . .
Sir, this way of wile were good to catch,
But I have not the sleight of it. The truth!
Though I sink under it! What brings you here?

Victor.
Not hope of this reception, certainly,
From one who'd scarce assume a stranger mode
Of speech, did I return to bring about
Some awfulest calamity!

Charles.
—You mean,
Did you require your crown again! Oh yes,
I should speak otherwise! But turn not that
To jesting! Sir, the truth! Your health declines?
Is aught deficient in your equipage?
Wisely you seek myself to make complaint,
And foil the malice of the world which laughs
At petty discontents; but I shall care
That not a soul knows of this visit. Speak!

Victor
[aside].
Here is the grateful much-professing son
Prepared to worship me, for whose sole sake
I think to waive my plans of public good!
[Aloud.]
Nay, Charles, if I did seek to take once more
My crown, were so disposed to plague myself,
What would be warrant for this bitterness?
I gave it—grant I would resume it—well?

Charles.
I should say simply—leaving out the why
And how—you made me swear to keep that crown:
And as you then intended . . .

Victor.
Fool! What way
Could I intend or not intend? As man,
With a man's will, when I say “I intend,”
I can intend up to a certain point,
No farther. I intended to preserve
The crown of Savoy and Sardinia whole:
And if events arise demonstrating
The way, I hoped should guard it, rather like
To lose it . . .

Charles.
Keep within your sphere and mine!
It is God's province we usurp on, else.
Here, blindfold through the maze of things we walk
By a slight clue of false, true, right and wrong;
All else is rambling and presumption. I
Have sworn to keep this kingdom: there's my truth.

Victor.
Truth, boy, is here, within my breast; and in
Your recognition of it, truth is, too;
And in the effect of all this tortuous dealing
With falsehood, used to carry out the truth,
—In its success, this falsehood turns, again,
Truth for the world. But you are right: these themes
Are over-subtle. I should rather say
In such a case, frankly,—it fails, my scheme:
I hoped to see you bring about, yourself,
What I must bring about. I interpose
On your behalf—with my son's good in sight—
To hold what he is nearly letting go,
Confirm his title, add a grace perhaps.
There's Sicily, for instance,—granted me
And taken back, some years since: till I give
That island with the rest, my work's half done.
For his sake, therefore, as of those he rules . . .

Charles.
Our sakes are one; and that, you could not say,
Because my answer would present itself
Forthwith:—a year has wrought an age's change.
This people's not the people now, you once
Could benefit; nor is my policy
Your policy.

Victor
[with an outburst].
I know it! You undo
All I have done—my life of toil and care!
I left you this the absolutest rule
In Europe: do you think I sit and smile,
Bid you throw power to the populace—
See my Sardinia, that has kept apart,
Join in the mad and democratic whirl
Whereto I see all Europe haste full tide?
England casts off her kings; France mimics England:
This realm I hoped was safe. Yet here I talk,
When I can save it, not by force alone,
But bidding plagues, which follow sons like you,
Fasten upon my disobedient . . .
[Recollecting himself.]
Surely
I could say this—if minded so—my son?

Charles.
You could not. Bitterer curses than your curse
Have I long since denounced upon myself
If I misused my power. In fear of these
I entered on those measures—will abide
By them: so, I should say, Count Tende . . .

Victor.
No!
But no! But if, my Charles, your—more than old—
Half-foolish father urged these arguments,
And then confessed them futile, but said plainly
That he forgot his promise, found his strength
Fail him, had thought at savage Chambery
Too much of brilliant Turin, Rivoli here,
And Susa, and Veneria, and Superga—
Pined for the pleasant places he had built
When he was fortunate and young—

Charles.
My father!

Victor.
Stay yet!—and if he said he could not die
Deprived of baubles he had put aside,
He deemed, for ever—of the Crown that binds
Your brain up, whole, sound and impregnable,
Creating kingliness—the Sceptre too,
Whose mere wind, should you wave it, back would beat
Invaders—and the golden Ball which throbs
As if you grasped the palpitating heart
Indeed o' the realm, to mould as choose you may!
—If I must totter up and down the streets
My sires built, where myself have introduced
And fostered laws and letters, sciences,
The civil and the military arts!
Stay, Charles! I see you letting me pretend
To live my former self once more—King Victor,
The venturous yet politic: they style me
Again, the Father of the Prince: friends wink
Good-humouredly at the delusion you
So sedulously guard from all rough truths
That else would break upon my dotage!—You—
Whom now I see preventing my old shame—
I tell not, point by cruel point, my tale—
For is 't not in your breast my brow is hid?
Is not your hand extended? Say you not . . .

Enter D'Ormea, leading in Polyxena.
Polyxena
[advancing and withdrawing Charles—to Victor].
In this conjuncture even, he would say
(Though with a moistened eye and quivering lip)
The suppliant is my father. I must save
A great man from himself, nor see him fling
His well-earned fame away: there must not follow
Ruin so utter, a break-down of worth
So absolute: no enemy shall learn,
He thrust his child 'twixt danger and himself,
And, when that child somehow stood danger out,
Stole back with serpent wiles to ruin Charles
—Body, that's much,—and soul, that's more—and realm,
That's most of all! No enemy shall say . . .

D'Ormea.
Do you repent, sir?

Victor
[resuming himself].
D'Ormea? This is well!
Worthily done, King Charles, craftily done!
Judiciously you post these, to o'erhear
The little your importunate father thrusts
Himself on you to say!—Ah, they'll correct
The amiable blind facility
You show in answering his peevish suit.
What can he need to sue for? Thanks, D'Ormea!
You have fulfilled your office: but for you,
The old Count might have drawn some few more livres
To swell his income! Had you, lady, missed
The moment, a permission might be granted
To buttress up my ruinous old pile!
But you remember properly the list
Of wise precautions I took when I gave
Nearly as much away—to reap the fruits
I should have looked for!

Charles.
Thanks, sir: degrade me,
So you remain yourself! Adieu!

Victor.
I'll not
Forget it for the future, nor presume
Next time to slight such mediators! Nay—
Had I first moved them both to intercede,
I might secure a chamber in Moncaglier
—Who knows?

Charles.
Adieu!

Victor.
You bid me this adieu
With the old spirit?

Charles.
Adieu!

Victor.
Charles—Charles!

Charles.
Adieu!

[Victor goes.
Charles.
You were mistaken, Marquis, as you hear.
'T was for another purpose the Count came.
The Count desires Moncaglier. Give the order!

D'Ormea
[leisurely].
Your minister has lost your confidence,
Asserting late, for his own purposes,
Count Tende would . . .

Charles
[flinging his badge back].
Be still the minister!
And give a loose to your insulting joy;
It irks me more thus stifled than expressed:
Loose it!

D'Ormea.
There's none to loose, alas! I see
I never am to die a martyr.

Polyxena.
Charles!

Charles.
No praise, at least, Polyxena—no praise!

2. Part II.

D'Ormea, seated, folding papers he has been examining.
Enter Charles and Polyxena with Attendants.
D'Ormea
[rises].
Sir, in the due discharge of this my office—
This enforced summons of yourself from Turin,
And the disclosure I am bound to make
To-night,—there must already be, I feel,
So much that wounds . . .

Charles.
Well, sir?

D'Ormea.
—That I, perchance,
May utter also what, another time,
Would irk much,—it may prove less irksome now.

Charles.
What would you utter?

D'Ormea.
That I from my soul
Grieve at to-night's event: for you I grieve,
E'en grieve for . . .

Charles.
Tush, another time for talk!
My kingdom is in imminent danger?

D'Ormea.
Let
The Count communicate with France—its King,
His grandson, will have Fleury's aid for this,
Though for no other war.

Charles.
First for the levies:
What forces can I muster presently?

[D'Ormea delivers papers which Charles inspects.
Charles.
Good—very good. Montorio . . . how is this?
—Equips me double the old complement
Of soldiers?

D'Ormea.
Since his land has been relieved
From double imposts, this he manages:
But under the late monarch . . .

Charles.
Peace! I know.
Count Spava has omitted mentioning
What proxy is to head these troops of his.

D'Ormea.
Count Spava means to head his troops himself.
Something to fight for now; “Whereas,” says he,
“Under the sovereign's father” . . .

Charles.
It would seem
That all my people love me.

D'Ormea.
Yes.
[To Polyxena while Charles continues to inspect the papers.
A temper
Like Victor's may avail to keep a state;
He terrifies men and they fall not off;
Good to restrain: best, if restraint were all.
But, with the silent circle round him, ends
Such sway: our King's begins precisely there.
For to suggest, impel and set at work,
Is quite another function. Men may slight,
In time of peace, the King who brought them peace:
In war,—his voice, his eyes, help more than fear.
They love you, sir!

Charles
[to Attendants].
Bring the regalia forth!
Quit the room! And now, Marquis, answer me!
Why should the King of France invade my realm?

D'Ormea.
Why? Did I not acquaint your Majesty
An hour ago?

Charles.
I choose to hear again
What then I heard.

D'Ormea.
Because, sir, as I said,
Your father is resolved to have his crown
At any risk; and, as I judge, calls in
The foreigner to aid him.

Charles.
And your reason
For saying this?

D'Ormea
[aside].
Ay, just his father's way!
[To Charles.]
The Count wrote yesterday to your forces' Chief,
Rhebinder—made demand of help—

Charles.
To try
Rhebinder—he's of alien blood: aught else?

D'Ormea.
Receiving a refusal,—some hours after,
The Count called on Del Borgo to deliver
The Act of Abdication: he refusing,
Or hesitating, rather—

Charles.
What ensued?

D'Ormea.
At midnight, only two hours since, at Turin,
He rode in person to the citadel
With one attendant, to Soccorso gate,
And bade the governor, San Remi, open—
Admit him.

Charles.
For a purpose I divine.
These three were faithful, then?

D'Ormea.
They told it me.
And I—

Charles.
Most faithful—

D'Ormea.
Tell it you—with this
Moreover of my own: if, an hour hence,
You have not interposed, the Count will be
O' the road to France for succour.

Charles.
Very good!
You do your duty now to me your monarch
Fully, I warrant?—have, that is, your project
For saving both of us disgrace, no doubt?

D'Ormea.
I give my counsel,—and the only one.
A month since, I besought you to employ
Restraints which had prevented many a pang:
But now the harsher course must be pursued.
These papers, made for the emergency,
Will pain you to subscribe: this is a list
Of those suspected merely—men to watch;
This—of the few of the Count's very household
You must, however reluctantly, arrest;
While here's a method of remonstrance—sure
Not stronger than the case demands—to take
With the Count's self.

Charles.
Deliver those three papers.

Polyxena
[while Charles inspects them—to D'Ormea].
Your measures are not over-harsh, sir: France
Will hardly be deterred from her intents
By these.

D'Ormea.
If who proposes might dispose,
I could soon satisfy you. Even these,
Hear what he'll say at my presenting!

Charles
[who has signed them].
There!
About the warrants! You've my signature.
What turns you pale? I do my duty by you
In acting boldly thus on your advice.

D'Ormea
[reading them separately].
Arrest the people
I suspected merely?

Charles.
Did you suspect them?

D'Ormea.
Doubtless: but—but—sir,
This Forquieri's governor of Turin,
And Rivarol and he have influence over
Half of the capital! Rabella, too?
Why, sir—

Charles.
Oh, leave the fear to me!

D'Ormea
[still reading].
You bid me
Incarcerate the people on this list?
Sir—

Charles.
But you never bade arrest those men,
So close related to my father too,
On trifling grounds?

D'Ormea.
Oh, as for that, St. George,
President of Chambery's senators,
Is hatching treason! still—
[More troubled.]
Sir, Count Cumiane
Is brother to your father's wife! What's here?
Arrest the wife herself?

Charles.
You seem to think
A venial crime this plot against me. Well?

D'Ormea
[who has read the last paper].
Wherefore am I thus ruined? Why not take
My life at once? This poor formality
Is, let me say, unworthy you! Prevent it
You, madam! I have served you, am prepared
For all disgraces: only, let disgrace
Be plain, be proper—proper for the world
To pass its judgment on 'twixt you and me!
Take back your warrant, I will none of it!

Charles.
Here is a man to talk of fickleness!
He stakes his life upon my father's falsehood;
I bid him . . .

D'Ormea.
Not you! Were he trebly false,
You do not bid me . . .

Charles.
Is 't not written there?
I thought so: give—I'll set it right.

D'Ormea.
Is it there?
Oh yes, and plain—arrest him now—drag here
Your father! And were all six times as plain,
Do you suppose I trust it?

Charles.
Just one word!
You bring him, taken in the act of flight,
Or else your life is forfeit.

D'Ormea.
Ay, to Turin
I bring him, and to-morrow?

Charles.
Here and now!
The whole thing is a lie, a hateful lie,
As I believed and as my father said.
I knew it from the first, but was compelled
To circumvent you; and the great D'Ormea,
That baffled Alberoni and tricked Coscia,
The miserable sower of such discord
'Twixt sire and son, is in the toils at last.
Oh I see! you arrive—this plan of yours,
Weak as it is, torments sufficiently
A sick old peevish man—wrings hasty speech,
An ill-considered threat from him; that's noted;
Then out you ferret papers, his amusement
In lonely hours of lassitude—examine
The day-by-day report of your paid spies—
And back you come: all was not ripe, you find,
And, as you hope, may keep from ripening yet,
But you were in bare time! Only, 't were best
I never saw my father—these old men
Are potent in excuses: and meanwhile,
D'Ormea's the man I cannot do without!

Polyxena.
Charles—

Charles.
Ah, no question! You against me too!
You'd have me eat and drink and sleep, live, die
With this lie coiled about me, choking me!
No, no, D'Ormea! You venture life, you say,
Upon my father's perfidy: and I
Have, on the whole, no right to disregard
The chains of testimony you thus wind
About me; though I do—do from my soul
Discredit them: still I must authorize
These measures, and I will. Perugia!
[Many Officers enter.]
Count—
You and Solar, with all the force you have,
Stand at the Marquis' orders: what he bids,
Implicitly perform! You are to bring
A traitor here; the man that's likest one
At present, fronts me; you are at his beck
For a full hour! he undertakes to show
A fouler than himself,—but, failing that,
Return with him, and, as my father lives,
He dies this night! The clemency you blame
So oft, shall be revoked—rights exercised,
Too long abjured.
[To D'Ormea.]
Now sir, about the work!
To save your king and country! Take the warrant!

D'Ormea.
You hear the sovereign's mandate, Count Perugia?
Obey me! As your diligence, expect
Reward! All follow to Moncaglier!

Charles
[in great anguish].
D'Ormea! [D'Ormea goes.

He goes, lit up with that appalling smile! [To Polyxena, after a pause.

At least you understand all this?

Polyxena.
These means
Of our defence—these measures of precaution?

Charles.
It must be the best way; I should have else
Withered beneath his scorn.

Polyxena.
What would you say?

Charles.
Why, do you think I mean to keep the crown,
Polyxena?

Polyxena.
You then believe the story
In spite of all—that Victor comes?

Charles.
Believe it?
I know that he is coming—feel the strength
That has upheld me leave me at his coming!
'T was mine, and now he takes his own again.
Some kinds of strength are well enough to have;
But who's to have that strength? Let my crown go!
I meant to keep it; but I cannot—cannot!
Only, he shall not taunt me—he, the first . .
See if he would not be the first to taunt me
With having left his kingdom at a word.
With letting it be conquered without stroke,
With . . . no—no—'t is no worse than when he left!
I've just to bid him take it, and, that over,
We'll fly away—fly, for I loathe this Turin,
This Rivoli, all titles loathe, all state.
We'd best go to your country—unless God
Send I die now!

Polyxena.
Charles, hear me!

Charles.
And again
Shall you be my Polyxena—you'll take me
Out of this woe! Yes, do speak, and keep speaking!
I would not let you speak just now, for fear
You'd counsel me against him: but talk, now,
As we two used to talk in blessed times:
Bid me endure all his caprices; take me
From this mad post above him!

Polyxena.
I believe
We are undone, but from a different cause.
All your resources, down to the least guard,
Are at D'Ormea's beck. What if, the while,
He act in concert with your father? We
Indeed were lost. This lonely Rivoli—
Where find a better place for them?

Charles
[pacing the room].
And why
Does Victor come? To undo all that's done,
Restore the past, prevent the future! Seat
His mistress in your seat, and place in mine
. . . Oh, my own people, whom will you find there,
To ask of, to consult with, to care for,
To hold up with your hands? Whom? One that's false—
False—from the head's crown to the foot's sole, false!
The best is, that I knew it in my heart
From the beginning, and expected this,
And hated you, Polyxena, because
You saw thro' him, though I too saw thro' him,
Saw that he meant this while he crowned me, while
He prayed for me,—nay, while he kissed my brow,
I saw—

Polyxena.
But if your measures take effect,
D'Ormea true to you?

Charles.
Then worst of all!
I shall have loosed that callous wretch on him!
Well may the woman taunt him with his child—
I, eating here his bread, clothed in his clothes,
Seated upon his seat, let slip D'Ormea
To outrage him! We talk—perchance he tears
My father from his bed; the old hands feel
For one who is not, but who should be there,
He finds D'Ormea! D'Ormea too finds him!
The crowded chamber when the lights go out—
Closed doors—the horrid scuffle in the dark—
The accursed prompting of the minute! My guards!
To horse—and after, with me—and prevent!

Polyxena
[seizing his hand].
King Charles! Pause here upon this strip of time
Allotted you out of eternity!
Crowns are from God: you in his name hold yours.
Your life's no least thing, were it fit your life
Should be abjured along with rule; but now,
Keep both! Your duty is to live and rule—
You, who would vulgarly look fine enough
In the world's eye, deserting your soul's charge,—
Ay, you would have men's praise, this Rivoli
Would be illumined! While, as 't is, no doubt,
Something of stain will ever rest on you;
No one will rightly know why you refused
To abdicate; they'll talk of deeds you could
Have done, no doubt,—nor do I much expect
Future achievement will blot out the past,
Envelope it in haze—nor shall we two
Live happy any more. 'T will be, I feel,
Only in moments that the duty's seen
As palpably as now: the months, the years
Of painful indistinctness are to come,
While daily must we tread these palace-rooms
Pregnant with memories of the past: your eye
May turn to mine and find no comfort there,
Through fancies that beset me, as yourself,
Of other courses, with far other issues,
We might have taken this great night: such bear,
As I will bear! What matters happiness?
Duty! There's man's one moment: this is yours!

[Putting the crown on his head, and the sceptre in his hand, she places him on his seat: a long pause and silence.
Enter D'Ormea and Victor, with Guards.
Victor.
At last I speak; but once—that once, to you!
'T is you I ask, not these your varletry,
Who's King of us?

Charles
[from his seat.]
Count Tende . . .

Victor.
What your spies
Assert I ponder in my soul, I say—
Here to your face, amid your guards! I choose
To take again the crown whose shadow I gave—
For still its potency surrounds the weak
White locks their felon hands have discomposed.
Or I'll not ask who's King, but simply, who
Withholds the crown I claim? Deliver it!
I have no friend in the wide world: nor France
Nor England cares for me: you see the sum
Of what I can avail. Deliver it!

Charles.
Take it, my father!
And now say in turn,
Was it done well, my father—sure not well,
To try me thus! I might have seen much cause
For keeping it—too easily seen cause!
But, from that moment, e'en more woefully
My life had pined away, than pine it will.
Already you have much to answer for.
My life to pine is nothing,—her sunk eyes
Were happy once! No doubt, my people think
I am their King still . . . but I cannot strive!
Take it!

Victor
[one hand on the crown Charles offers, the other on his neck].
So few years give it quietly,
My son! It will drop from me. See you not?
A crown's unlike a sword to give away—
That, let a strong hand to a weak hand give!
But crowns should slip from palsied brows to heads
Young as this head: yet mine is weak enough,
E'en weaker than I knew. I seek for phrases
To vindicate my right. 'T is of a piece!
All is alike gone by with me—who beat
Once D'Orleans in his lines—his very lines!
To have been Eugene's comrade, Louis's rival,
And now . . .

Charles
[putting the crown on him, to the rest].
The King speaks, yet none kneels, I think!

Victor.
I am then King! As I became a King
Despite the nations, kept myself a King,
So I die King, with Kingship dying too
Around me. I have lasted Europe's time.
What wants my story of completion? Where
Must needs the damning break show? Who mistrusts
My children here—tell they of any break
'Twixt my day's sunrise and its fiery fall?
And who were by me when I died but they?
D'Ormea there!

Charles.
What means he?

Victor.
Ever there!
Charles—how to save your story! Mine must go
Say—say that you refused the crown to me!
Charles, yours shall be my story! You immured
Me, say, at Rivoli. A single year
I spend without a sight of you, then die.
That will serve every purpose—tell that tale
The world!

Charles.
Mistrust me? Help!

Victor.
Past help, past reach!
'T is in the heart—you cannot reach the heart:
This broke mine, that I did believe, you, Charles,
Would have denied me and disgraced me.

Polyxena.
Charles
Has never ceased to be your subject, sir!
He reigned at first through setting up yourself
As pattern: if he e'er seemed harsh to you,
'T was from a too intense appreciation
Of your own character: he acted you—
Ne'er for an instant did I think it real,
Nor look for any other than this end.
I hold him worlds the worse on that account;
But so it was.

Charles
[to Polyxena].
I love you now indeed.
[To Victor.]
You never knew me.

Victor.
Hardly till this moment,
When I seem learning many other things
Because the time for using them is past.
If 't were to do again! That's idly wished.
Truthfulness might prove policy as good
As guile. Is this my daughter's forehead? Yes:
I've made it fitter now to be a queen's
Than formerly: I've ploughed the deep lines there
Which keep too well a crown from slipping off.
No matter. Guile has made me King again.
Louis—'t was in King Victor's time:—long since,
When Louis reigned and, also, Victor reigned.
How the world talks already of us two!
God of eclipse and each discoloured star,
Why do I linger then?
Ha! Where lurks he?
D'Ormea! Nearer to your King! Now stand!
[Collecting his strength as D'Ormea approaches.
You lied, D'Ormea! I do not repent.
[Dies.