University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

Scene I.

The Louvre.
The King, Queen-Mother, Brantôme, Tavannes, La Rochefoucauld, Teligny, and Attendants.
Charles.
Put up the dice; you do not play me fair.

Ca.
Indeed the cast did lie too much his way.

La R.
Do me right, sir; the chance so thrown on me
May come to serve your hand.

Ch.
Nay, God forbid!
I would not fare so well, lest men should scent
The sudden savour of sharp-relished ills
To snuff my luck behind. Put them away.

La R.
So I may take my leave, my lord, I will.

Ch.
Abide a little.

La R.
Sir, in pure faith, I may not.

Ch.
Lay down your chariness; I pray you stay;
I am your friend that do entreat you stay
To help me use my better humours well.

La R.
This grace of yours doth jar with time in me.

Ca.
Fair son, put no dispute in marriage; think,
Our noble friend is yet i' the green of time,
The summer point of wedlock; cross him not.

Ch.
No, he shall stay.

Ca.
I love him none the less
That would enfranchise his obedience,
Saying “let pass.”

Bra.
I have known an honest lady
That would have bit her lips atwain for spite
Sooner than slip her lord's obedience so
And slacken the remitted service of him
For such light points; I do remember me—

Ca.
This tale will hold you, sir.

Bra.
I bade her choose a friend,
She seeming bare of any courtesy
That is well done to such; I bade her choose—

La R.
I take a second leave.

Bra.
As 'twere for form—
“Seeing, look you,” said I, “a lady's office is
To endure love and wear a good man's name
As the lace about her wrist”—

Ch.
You shall not go.

La R.
Sir, needs I must; you shall well pardon it.

Bra.
She with a face, as thus, let sideways down,
Catching her page i' the eye—a thing so bearded
As are a woman's lips—

Ca.
My lord Bourdeilles,
I pray you take my way, I'll hear this out.

Bra.
Please you so suffer me—

Ca.
Fair son, good night.

[Exeunt Cath., Brant., and Attendants.
Ch.
Good night, sweet mother.—Is she truly gone?
Then I will pray you leave not me to-night;
I'll not to bed; I would not have you go;
Yea, by God's blood, I put my heart indeed
Into this prayer of mine. Come, pleasure me;
It might avail you; what, by God's own face,
I think I sue to you. Is this much alms
That you should please me?

La R.
Sir, for my poor half,
I must tie thanks upon the neck of No
And turn him forth of me.

Ch.
Then you keep here?

La R.
Good faith, I cannot so; and I well think
This lord speaks with me.

Tel.
Even your sense, indeed.

Ch.
You use me hardly, but my wish to you
Lives none the less a good and honest wish;
So, if my meaning tastes not sweet to you,
Farewell, yea well. One see my dear friends out.

La R., Tel.
Good night, fair lord.

[Exeunt La Roch. and Tel.
Ch.
I would have kept them yet.
So, if a man have sight of a big stone,
And will needs trip and sprawl with a bruised head,
Is it my fault that show him such a stone?
Or say one filches a fair sword of mine
To rip himself at side, is my sin there?
Nay not that much, but walking with my sword
It galls him in the thigh; am I his hurt?
Twice, yea now thrice, if you shall mark me, sir,
Yea, God knows well I sued three times to them,
I would have had all scars keep off their flesh,
But God's will is not so.

Tav.
You do the wiser
To let them pass.

Ch.
Why truly so I think.
But I am heart-stung for these; this Téligny
That might have laid a word of help my way
And kept such sullen lips of doubtfulness,
I have loved him well. The other, see you, sir,
I have twined arms with him, fed from his eyes,
Made a large pleasure out of usual things
Wherein his lot fell evenly with mine,
Laid my heart on him; yea, this singled man
Was as the kin made closest to my flesh
And in the dearest of my secret will
Did as a brother govern. But he may go;
I were fallen wrong too far to pity him;
So, though they mainly mar him with their pikes,
Stab till the flesh hath holes like a big net,
I will not think I am compassionate;
Yea, though my thought of him pricks me at brain,
I will believe I do not pity him.
Show me the matter of your place, your way,
The measure of your men; nay, my sweet lord,
Pray you hold fast on this; be not made pitiful.
Nay, but stand sure; nay, I beseech you, sure.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

Denise's Apartment.
Enter Denise.
Den.
It is the time; had but this solid earth
A capable sense of peril, it should melt
And all disjoint itself; the builded shape of things
Should turn to waste and air. It is as strange
As is this perilous intent, that men
Should live so evenly to-night; talk, move,
Use contemplation of all common times,
Speak foolishly, make no more haste to sleep
Than other days they do; I have not seen
A man to-day seem graver in the mouth,
Wear slowness on his feet, look sideways out,
Make new the stuff and subject of his speech,
Reason of things, matter of argument,
For such a business. I see death is not feared,
Only the circumstance and clothes of death;
Or else men do not commune more with time
Nor have its purpose in them larger writ
Than a beast has. Why, I did surely think
Such ill foreknowledge would have mastered me
Quite beyond reason; wrenched my sense away,
Brought it to dull default. But I do live and stir;
Have reasonable breath within my lips:
Keep my brain sound, and all my settled blood
Runs the right way. Perhaps I sleep and dream
That such things are as my fear dotes upon.
Why then I should be mad; and being mad
I might hold sound opinion of my wit
When it were truly flawed. If I not dream
And have no passionate mixture in my brain,
Large massacre to-night should fill itself
With slaughtered blood and the live price of men.
Why this? forsooth because of that and that,
For this man's tongue and that man's beard or gait,
For some rank slip of their opinion.
I see full reason why men slay for hate,
But for opinion or slack accident
I get no cause at all. Then I am mad
That I do think what works so much awry
And is past reason so, the natural sense
Doth sicken in receiving it for news,
To be the absolute act and heart of truth.
I will not credit this. Yet wherefore am I
So used as prisoner here? why taxed with sin?
Why watched and kept so hard? called murderess?
I'll be assured of it. You gaoler, you—
And yet I am afraid to call her forth.
O, she is come.

Enter Yolande.
Yol.
Did you not call for me?

Den.
I think I did cry out, being moved in sleep:
I had a dream of you.

Yol.
Ay, had you so?
And I had set a waking thought on you.

Den.
What time is it?

Yol.
Just hard upon eleven.

Den.
I have slept four hours. I pray you tell me now,
As you are gentle—I do love you much—
Is it my dream I am a prisoner?

Yol.
Did you not call me gaoler?

Den.
True, I did.
Now I begin to patch my dream again
And find the colours right. I dreamed I was
Some sort of evil beast that loved a man
And the man's heel did bruise it in the neck.

Yol.
Take heed of it; you were a snake by this.

Den.
I do not know; it may be such I was.
I dreamed of you too; for you took me up
And hid me in a cage and gave me food—
I think I was a kind of dismal bird—
And having eaten of your seed and drunk
Water more sharp than blood, I waxed all through
Into a dull disease of overgrowth
And so was choked to death; and men there came
That roasted me for food, and having eaten
All suddenly did break in twain and die.
That was the dream.

Yol.
It was a foolish one.

Den.
Then I fell back to dream of one like you
Who held me prisoner; which was dangerous;
For I, being grown to mad rebellion,
Took thought to kill you.

Yol.
That dream was not so good.

Den.
Why do I say all this? Let me get hence,
Only the little part in heaven I have
I'll kill myself; nay, by God's name I will.

Yol.
Do your own way.

Den.
You shall be taxed with it,
(As I, more harmless, am) being guard of me;
I will find ways to leave the tax on you.

Yol.
Pleasure yourself; I bid you not refrain.

Den.
It is a most poor mercy that I ask.

Yol.
Too much for me.

Den.
O, it is less in worth
Than God spares barest men; the most base need on earth
Is richer in his pity than you are
In charitable use of me, who am
Too little for your scorns.

Yol.
I will not do it.

Den.
Some prayers, long while denied, are sweeter held
For being late granted; do not so with mine;
I will be thankful more than beggars are,
Made rich with grant too soon.

Yol.
Plead not to me;
I have no patience in my ears for you.

Den.
Think how you use me; even kings do leave
Some liberty to the worst worm alive,
Some piece of mercy; but you, more hard than kings,
Show no such grace as the great gaolers do
That wear at waist the keys of the world. You know
'Tis better be whole beggar and have flesh
That is but pinched by weather out of breath,
Than a safe slave with happy blood i' the cheek
And wrists ungalled. There's nothing in the world
So worth as freedom; pluck this freedom out,
You leave the rag and residue of man
Like a bird's back displumed. That man that hath not
The freedom of his name, and cannot make
Such use as time and place would please him with,
But has the clog of service at his heel
Forbidding the sound gait; this is no man
But a man's dog; the pattern of a slave
Is model for a beast.

Yol.
What do you mean by this?

Den.
To show you what unworthy pain it is
Your office lays on me.

Yol.
It is my place;
My faith is taken to assure you thus,
And you have bought such usage at my hands
By your own act.

Den.
No, by your life, I have not.

Yol.
You are impeached and must abide the proof.

Den.
The proof—ay, proof; do, put me to the proof.
There is not proof enough upon me known
To stop a needle's bore. The man now dead
I held my friend, was sorry for his death,
Not pricked for guilt of it. Poor fool, I would
That I had borrowed such a death of him
And left him better times to boot than do
Keep company with me.

Yol.
I would you had.
Were one no better dead than stained so much?
I think so; for myself, in such a scale
The weights were easy to make choice of.

Den.
I would not die.

Yol.
Did you not say his share were easier borne?

Den.
'Tis like I said so; yet I would live long.

Yol.
Why would you so? is there such grace in you
To wear out all the bar and thwart of time
And take smooth place again? The life you have,
Like a blown candle held across the wind,
Dies in the use of it; you are not loved,
Or love would kiss out shame from either cheek,
New-join the broken patience in your eyes,
Comfort the pain of your so scarred repute
Where the brand aches on it; honoured you are not,
For the loud breath of many-mouthed esteem
Cries harsher on you than on common thieves
When they filch life and all; you are not secure,
For the most thin divisions of a day
That score the space between two breaths, to you
Are perilous implements edged with all hate
To use upon your life; you are not happy either,
For guilty, shame doth bruise your side with lead,
Or clean, why rumour stabs you in the face,
Spits in your mouth. What sweet is in this life
That you would live upon?

Den.
I do not know;
But I would live; though all things else be sharp,
Death stays more bitter than them all; I would not
Touch lips with death.

Yol.
No? I have no such doubt.

Den.
Is it your place to make me friends with death?

Yol.
It is my pity.

Den.
I should find it so
Were I the cushion for a fool's feet, or
A fool indeed of yours.

Yol.
I called you none.

Den.
I were the bell i' the worst fool's cap alive
If I rang right to this wrong breath of yours.
You talk to get me harmed.

Yol.
Put off that fear.

Den.
I will not, truly; you would talk me out,
Be rid of me this whispering way, this fashion
That pulls on death by the ear; I feel your wisdom;
'Tis craft thick-spun, but I shall ravel it.

Yol.
This is your garment that you thrust me in.

Den.
It must not be so late; there will be time;
I was a fool to call it over late.
Give up your keys.

Yol.
What madness bites you now?

Den.
She called you gaoler; give me up the keys;
You have the keys; the outer door is fast;
If this be madness I am friends with it;
Give me the keys.

Yol.
Will you put hands on me?

Den.
I'll have them out, though God would make you man
To use me forcibly.

Yol.
I have none such;
Threaten me not, or you shall smite yourself.

Den.
I say, the keys.

Yol.
What will you do to me?

Den.
Keep there, you get not out.

Yol.
Are you stark crazed?

Den.
It may look like enough. What chain is that?
Give me the chain.

Yol.
I swear I have them not.

Den.
I do not ask for them. Give me the chain;
Pray you now, do; good truth you are not wise
To use me so; I know you have no keys.
Give me the chain; soft, soft—

Yol.
Here are the keys.
Take them and let me pass.

Den.
I thank you, no;
If I be mad I must do warily,
Or they will trap me. Get you into my chamber;
Now am I twice the sinew of all you
And twice as wise. I say, get in; God's love!
How you do pull my patience! in sound wits
It were too hard to bear. Make haste, I say.

[Exeunt severally.

Scene III.

A Cabinet.
Enter the Queen-Mother and Tavannes.
Ca.
So, you did see them forth?

Tav.
Madam, I did;
The king doth fare by this more temperately.

Ca.
If he turn white and stagger at his point,
It is too late. The mortal means of danger
Are well abroad; and this sole work o' the world
Fit to set hands to. How do you feel by this?

Tav.
Why, well; as if my blood were full of wine.

Ca.
I am hot only in the palm of the hands.
Do you not think, sir, some of these dead men,
Being children, dreamed perhaps of this? had fears
About it? somewhat plucked them back, who knows,
From wishing to grow men and ripen up
For such a death to thrust a sickle there?

Tav.
I never found this woman mixed in you.

Ca.
No.—I am certain also that this hour
Goes great with child-birth and with fortunate seed,
Worth care to harvest; sons are born and die,
Yea, and choke timeless in the dead strait womb,
Of whom we know not; each day breeds worse; it is
The general curse of seasons.

Tav.
Well, what help?

Ca.
True.—It hurts little for a man to die,
If he be righteous. Were I a swordsman born,
A man with such red office in my hands
As makes a soldier—it would touch me not
To think what milk mine enemy's mouth had drunk,
When both were yearlings a span long. My God!
It is too foolish that conceit of blood
Should stick so on the face; I must look red;
Give me the little mirror-steel; now see;
Here is no painting.

Tav.
Yea, but let me go.

Ca.
It is man's blood that burns so deep and bites
No crying cleans it. If one kill a dog,
The spot sticks on your skirt as water might;
The next rain is a worse thing. Humph! I see;
We have some hot and actual breath in us
That blood lets out; we feed not as they do;
So the soul comes and makes all motion new;
One guesses at it.

Tav.
Will you go mad for this?

Ca.
No.—If one strike me on the mouth or breast,
And I am hurt and bleed to death—is that
Murder? I would not kill them for their blood;
God's mercy! wherein can their blood serve me?
Let all go through.

Tav.
Madam, I take my leave;
All shall run out ere we two speak again.

Ca.
Hark, I hear shots; as God shall pity me,
I heard a shot. Who dies of that? yea now,
Who lies and moans and makes some inches red?

Tav.
Not for an hour yet; the first dial-rim
Makes the first shot.

Ca.
The noise moves in my head,
Most hotly moves; pray you keep clear of me.
God help my woman's body for a fool's!
I must even sit.

Tav.
Be patient with your cause;
Give it all room, then you get heart again;
I know those ways.

Ca.
Too sharp to drink, too sharp,
Sweet Christ of mine; blood is not well to drink,
God put this cup some little off my mouth.
Yea, there it catches in mine eyes like smoke,
The smell of blood, it stings and makes one weep;
So, God be patient till I breathe again.

Tav.
Are you fallen foolish? woman—madam—thou!
Take heart to speak at least.

Ca.
I will take heart.
What is there in it that should bar my breath,
Or make me babble stark across the sense
As I did then? can the flesh merely prate
With no mind in it to fall praying, ha?
Give me some wine. Go out and cheer your men;
Bid them be bold; say, work is worth such pains;
Be quick and dangerous as the fire that rides
Too fast for thunder. Tell them the king, the king
Will love each man, cherish him sweetly, say,
And I will hold him as that brother is
Whom one flesh covered with me.—Will it rain?

Tav.
No; the wide ends of the sky are clear with stars;
It is broad moon-time.

Ca.
I would fain see rain.
Art thou so slow of purpose, thou great God,
The keenest of thy sighted ministers
Can catch no knowledge what we do? for else
Surely the wind would be as a hard fire,
And the sea's yellow and distempered foam
Displease the happy heaven; wash corn with sand
To waste and mixture; mar the trees of growth;
Choke birds with salt, breach walls with tided brine,
And chase with heavy water the horned brood
Past use of limit; towers and popular streets
Should in the middle green smother and drown,
And havoc die with fulness.—I should be mad,
I talk as one filled through with wine; thou, God,
Whose thunder is confusion of the hills
And with wrath sown abolishes the fields,
I pray thee if thy hand would ruin us,
Make witness of it even this night that is
The last for many cradles, and the grave
Of many reverend seats; even at this turn,
This edge of season, this keen joint of time,
Finish and spare not. If no thunder came
When thou wert full of wrath to the fierce brim,
Next year would spit on worship.—I am faint yet;
See you, I have to chatter these big words
To keep my head straight; each small nerve it hath
Is like a chord pulled straight to play upon
Till the string ache at sound. Sir, bear with me.

Tav.
Keep but soft speech. Nay, pray you let me go;
Open the door; I should be hence in time.

[The King of Navarre passes over the stage.
Ca.
Good night, lord marshal. You come late, fair sir,
To bear my daughter commendations.
I doubt she looks for you; I have had pains
To bring her safe and presently your way;
She had some will to watch.

Hen.
I am the more bound to you.

Ca.
Let my praise sleep to-night, unless you do
Speak well of me to her. See, the white stars
Do burn upon the fair blue weather's waste
Thick as a lulled wind carries the marred leaves;
Yea, see how grey my likenesses are grown,
That grow on my grey years!

Hen.
Madam, good night.

[Exit.
Ca.
That gives one heart; and yet I seem to choke,
I shall feel weak till I do hear them shoot.
Pray you take order that the watch be sharp
Upon this boy.

Tav.
I shall take order.

Ca.
Yea,
But go with me till I have seen the king.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.

A Street.
Enter Guise with Soldiers.
Gui.
Keep in, let no man slip across of you;
Hold well together; what face I miss of mine
Shall not see food to-morrow; but he that makes
So dull a mixture of his soul with shame
As spares the gold hair or the white, shall be
Dead flesh this hour. Take iron to your hands,
Fire to your wills; let not the runagate love
Fool your great office; be pity as a stone
Spurned either side the way. That breast of woman
That suckles treason with false milk and breeds
Poison i' the child's own lip, think not your mother's:
Nor that lank chin which the grey season shakes
Hold competent of reverence. Pluck me that corn
Which alters in the yellow time of man;
And the sick blade of ungrown days disroot,
The seed makes rot the flower. There's no such use
But reason turns to holy, and keen right
Washes as pure as faith; therefore be swift, and let
Cold mercy choke on alms.

A Captain.
We shall not fail.

Gui.
Some ten go with me to the admiral's house;
You shall be one—and you; pluck him from bed,
And use his body as your edges please,
Then hale him through the street. The rest of you,
As you see time, fire either way; then draw,
And strike across the thickest ends of flight,
God helping you. Say “Guise” now and set on.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.

The Admiral's House.
Enter Coligny and La Noue.
La N.
That this is true we have clean proofs; she hath made us
Pawns of her game; this very France of ours
Is as a cloth to wipe her feet upon,
Her bed and stool of lust; and hath put on
The naked patience of a beaten face
And sufferance of a whore.

Co.
I think so. Sir,
I have believed this marriage of Navarre
Began our waste.

La N.
That stings me not so hard
As that men mix us in their mouths with fools
Who are not worth our slight esteem of them,
And yet have sewn religion on their sleeve
And badged their caps with us.

Co.
They have done more harm;
There is no lean or lesser villainy
That war or peace-time saddles them withal,
But it must be our blame, the fault of it
Throws dirt on us and each man's several hand
That wets no finger in the Catholic way;
That bites the nearest.

La N.
We are imperilled; well,
Danger should be the coat across my back,
Meat in my lips, if I saw clear and good
The choice and shape of our necessity;
But here to blunder the chance out—my lord,
No help for us then here?

Co.
I see no help.
Nay too, I bind not all the weight on them;
In me and you the plague is well at work
That rots all chances. We have let go the times
That came with gold in the hands; and that slow snake,
Impotent patience of pernicious things,
Hath won upon us, and blown murderous breath
Between the wide unwardered lips of sleep.
Come, talk no more. Is the night fair? methinks
I heard some humming rumours run through it.

La N.
Sir, fair enough; there goes a little wind
Among the roofs, but slow as a maimed man;
The skies burn sharp with point of the lit stars,
Even to the larger cope of all there is
No air but smooth.

Co.
'Tis a good night for sleep;
Fair time to you.

La N.
I pray God set such peace
Upon the seasonable eyes of sleep
As may well comfort you. Dear lord, good night.

[Exit.
Co.
Farewell.—Now might I put lean patience in my prayers
If I should pray to-night; I have no will
To leave my witness against men and pray
That God would suffer them. Surely I think he bears
Somewhat too much with such side-working sins
As lame the labouring hope of men, and make
Endurance a blind sort of sleepy lie
To confute God with. This woman here grows old,
As I am old; we have drawn this way and that
So long, the purpose lessens from the doing,
Turns to a very function of the flesh
So used for custom. She carries France her way,
And my way breaks. Then if one sees the end,
The goal that shuts the roadway sheer across,
The builded limit of a complete will,
All these side-briars and puddled rain-shallows
That rend or drench us, are but nought thereto.
Well, here I tire for one, and fain would use
This winter of bleached hair and fallen flesh
To make me quiet room.—Shut up the house;
Let nothing wake the windows.—I will to bed.—
The wind gets thick indeed. What noise is there?
[Firing outside.
Get me a light.

Gui.
(Within.)
Nay, but get you first in;
Throw the knave out at window.

Co.
Yea, my Guise?
Then are the sickles in this corn, I doubt.

Gui.
(Within.)
This way, men, this!

Co.
Not so; the right hand, sirs.

Scene VI.

Outside the Louvre.
Enter Denise.
Den.
I cannot find a man; the cries are thick;
I come too late. Alas, I fear the king
Hath put the order forward; I may see him
And so prevent some peril; and though they slay me,
I die of my misdoing. Yet I fear death
Most piteously, wear passion on my cheek
White as a coward's. I'll yet forth and look;
For in the temper of this bloody time
Must sleep my help or end; I may discover him
And that may be some grace; now God be good,
Or I am so far bruised this way, as death
Can bite no sharper.

[Exit.

Scene VII.

A Balcony of the Louvre.
Enter many Ladies.
1 La.
Did you not see him?

2 La.
Give me place, place, place;
I have the news.

3 La.
Not you; I can say more.

2 La.
How your sides push! let me get breath—O Mary!
I have seen such things—

4 La.
As should wear silence.

2 La.
Nay,
For they felt sweet.

3 La.
See, there goes one—and there;
O well run, you! now trip him—'ware stones, ho!
Or you may catch a bruise.

1 La.
Now is he down.

5 La.
Not so; you have no eyes.

3 La.
Had I a bow,
I would take four myself. Look, look, a chase!
O, now you thrust.

4 La.
Way, sirs! make way for him!

5 La.
There's a child slain; I will not look that side;
They thrust him in the back.

2 La.
Go and sew threads;
Go sew; you are a fool.

1 La.
Who has that side?

4 La.
Do him no hurt, sirs; yea, the point now, yea,
Not the edge—look you! just the nape across—
Down with him, there!

3 La.
Is the old man yet slain?

2 La.
Ay, by the Guise; they took him in his bed,
Just in a fumbled sheet.

1 La.
No, he was risen.

Enter Renée.
Renée.
Why are you here? next room serves best for show;
There they have drawn to head, that all the street
Swells up and cries; Soubise and Marsillac
Hold off their pikes.

4 La.
Show us the way to that.

Renée.
This way—I pray you hurt me not—this way;
Do not push close. God's love, what heat is here!

[Exeunt.

Scene VIII.

The Streets.
Enter Guise, Tavannes, with Soldiers; Marsillac, Soubise, Pardaillan, and others confusedly.
Sol.
Guise, Guise! down with them! for the king, the king!
Guise, Guise!

1 Sol.
Here, dog, take this to choke upon.

Mar.
Sirs, stand by me; hew down that knave at right,
I pray you, sir. Nay, we shall spoil them yet;
Stand but a little fast.

A Huguenot.
Mercy! God help!

Tav.
Thrust me a steel nail in that tongue and throat;
So, sir; prate now as you do love such nails.
Set on; this August serves for reaping-time;
Bleed the plague out with your incisions.

Mar.
Guise, if thou hast a man's mark left on thee,
Do me this right. I thank you, sir; the office
Spares me some work.

Gui.
Stand to me, men; down with him!
My heel hath rent a better face to-night.

Tav.
Kill me this scapegate harlot in her smock,
The child to water. Charge their face again;
Make a clean way and we shall smite them all.

Par.
Yea, devil's dog, wilt only snarl at me?
Prithee, but room to die in and take breath,
One stifles this way stupidly—ah beasts!

[Dies.
Tav.
(crossing Soubise.)
Ah thing, what set thee on such work to do?
Die, fragment, and turn carrion fit for use.
[Stabs him.
There's not a man the less.

Sol.
Tavannes! Tavannes!

Others.
Guise, Guise! upon them for the king, the king!

[Exeunt.

Scene IX.

The Louvre.
The Queen-Mother, Yolande, Margaret, Duchess of Lorraine, and Attendants.
Ca.
Where is the king?

Yol.
Madam, gone forth I think.

Ca.
Are you whole yet? you look half slain with fear;
Quiet yourself.

Mar.
You know not what I saw.
No, not your hand; let me sit here.

Ca.
Yea, sit.—
O, are you there?

Yol.
Madam, it is no fault
To say she is escaped.

Ca.
No fault!
What, have you let her go? how came she out?

Yol.
Do your best will with me; I will speak truth.

Ca.
How came she forth? you are a worthy guard—
Do, as you love the better chance of time.
I have a will to smite you by the cheek;
Answer to that.

Yol.
By heaven I speak all pure;
By heaven I do; she had the key of me.

Ca.
Do not you mock; I may turn sharp with you.

Yol.
Alas, I do not; she put force on me
To let her forth; I could not please you; do not
Lay your great wrath my way.

Ca.
O fool—fool—fool!
Were you so much compassionate of her?
I was bewitched to give you such a charge.
Where is she now? speak still.

Yol.
I have not seen.

Ca.
If these be lies I'll find a bitter way—
I'll do—I have no time to think of it,
But I'll make shame as wide as your desert
To show you penitence. Find me this girl,
Or punishment shall reach beyond your deed,
Put pity out of service. Look for her;
Bring her to me; if I so miss her—Go.
[Exit Yolande.
How does my daughter?

Duch.
Madam, well by this.

Mar.
But shaken to the brain.

Ca.
Poor child; what cause?

Mar.
I was unclothed for sleep, heavy at eyes,
And fit for my bed's heat, when thus at point
There comes a cry and beating of two hands
Hard at my door; then snaps the hinge from it,
And a man comes, smeared shamefully and red
With a new wound i' the side; flings him on me,
Plucks me half slain with fear across the bed,
Cries for some pity, hales me by the hand,
And so clings hard; when my great fear got strength
To wellnigh wrench me clear and throw off him,
Begins such piteous prayer and puts rebuke
To such a tune, so bitter, I did even
Make mercy wet with tears; whereon (as peril
Would outgrow its own face and turn like death,
Doubling my fear) the soldiers after him,
Some three or four, flecked murderously with blood,
All weaponed for their work, and crying out,
Broke in on us; he twisting with sore fright
Obscures himself with me; and thus in doubt
He shuffled this side death; for as they bore on him
Still holding to me, comes their captain in,
Chides the knave off that had a hand on us,
And plucks him loose; then with mixt laughter did
Swear the man safe; he could not choose but laugh
To see me harried so, so haled and drawn,
Nor I to see him laugh; and so our laughter
Got off my friend.

Enter the King with an arquebuse, and Tavannes.
Ch.
O, are you here? I have
Some three—some six—by God I have some six
Already to my share.

Ca.
(To Tav.)
Sir, what is this?

Tav.
The king has slain some six of them, he says;
I saw him shoot indeed.

Ch.
Ay, did I not?
Hear you, he says I did; hear him a little.
One—two—see, I can take them either hand,
The place is wide.

Tav.
Here, by this balcony;
I saw him shoot myself.

Ca.
How goes the work?

Tav.
Even like a wave that turns; the thing opposed
Is as the weed it rends at root away,
Dies ere the touch for fear.

Ca.
It is well done.

Tav.
The king did summon me to speak with; there
I left them midways. Are you yet abashed?
I think it smirches you with half a red,
This pity; are you nothing plagued with it?

Ca.
Not I a jot; I would all such i' the world
Were here to be so rid.
Re-enter Yolande.
Now? have you her?

Yol.
She has been seen to-night; one found her late
Ranging the rooms and passage of the court
Like one distempered; now catching at this man
To pray him pity her, crying on him
To let her go; or poring in side ways
To follow up their feet, as she would trace
The consequence and graft of peril through
To know it thoroughly.

Ca.
This doth approve it like
That she is fled; where should she hide herself?

Yol.
Madam, the main half of your ladies are
Gone forth to gaze upon this slaughter.

Ca.
Ay!
May she be there? Lord marshal, have you seen
These ladies that she talks of?

Tav.
Madam, I have;
They were about the windows next the street
Searching each side with large and curious eyes;
I saw some twenty with sweet laughing mouths
And hair wherein the flame of lights did make
New colours red as blood, gathered upon
A corpse I slew myself, with fleers and gibes
Abusing the blind thing; it made me merry
To hear how they did mock the make of it,
As blood were grown their game.

Ca.
The king is sad;
I have a word like mercy in my mind,
But it doth wound itself; I see no use
That sorrow fails not in, where things are done
That will not be wept out.

Tav.
'Tis a strange night;
But not to me displeasing; I esteem
Our service wholesome. I will not forth again,
For I have watched into a weariness.

Ca.
How does our son?

Ch.
I think some runagates be
Yet by this passage. Give me that again;
I'll score them too. Nay, if one wet his knees,
Best over ears and all.

[Exit.
Ca.
They are too far to hit;
I'll wager them safe out. What do you see?

Tav.
They have escaped the points o' the guard; I doubt
He will not bear it so.

Yol.
O, that way—there—
Can you make out? a woman as I think—

Ca.
Some poor man's wife; I would she might get safe.

Tav.
See, the king thrusts out far; 'tis a brave king;
Look how his bowing body crooks itself
After the aim.

Ca.
Ten pieces to a doit
The issue scars not her.

Tav.
I take you, madam.
The king comes back.

Re-enter King.
Ca.
Have I waged wrong on you?

Ch.
I have slain seven. Mother, I could begin
To sicken of this way.

Ca.
What way, fair son?

Ch.
I did not think the blood should run so far.
There was a woman I saw lately slain,
And she was ript i' the side; at point to die,
She threw her on her child and there came one
Who clove it by the throat. Then I grew sick
And my head seemed to change as if the stroke
Had dulled it through the bone; the sense of that
Still aches in me.

Ca.
Set your thought otherwise.

Ch.
Why so I do; and cannot choose but think
How many that rose fresh with wholesome thoughts
And with my credit washed their faiths in me
Do sleep now bloodily.

Ca.
You hurt yourself
To lay repentance on such deeds as are
Necessity's mere proof. Put this away;
And tell yourself how many dead in war
Gave battle welcome and their time went out
Even in the wording of it; and but for this
(Though I confess the sense feels sick on it)
We should have had worse wars.

Ch.
I think we might.

Ca.
Bethink you too, what stings us in the seeing,
It is no new infection of the world
Corrupting all its usual office, or
The common blood of it, with some strange sore,
More gross being new; such things have chanced ere this,
Yea, many thousand times have men put hand
To a worse business, and given hire to death
To captain them i' the field and play their man,
Used him with fellowship. Who knows, sweet son,
But here, and in this very Paris, where
Our work now smells abhorred, some such may come
To try more bloody issues, and break faith
More shamefully? make truth deny its face,
Kill honour with his lips, stab shame to death,
Unseat men's thoughts, envenom all belief,
Yea, spit into the face and eyes of God
His forsworn promise? Such things may be; for time,
That is the patient ground of all men's seed
And ripens either corn alike, may bring
Deeds forth which shall as far outreach our act
As this doth common things; and so they wear
The clothes and cover of prosperity,
Those tongues where blame of us yet sticks shall put
Applause on them.

Ch.
It may be you say true;
I would believe you with a perfect will.

Enter Renée, Anne, and others, with Denise.
Ca.
What is this business? quick—

Ch.
O now, now, now—
This is the very matter of my thought
That was a ghost before; this is the flesh,
The bone and blood of that my thin surmise,
Palpably shaping fear. I will not see her.

Ca.
How fell this out? you, speak.

Renée.
We found her so—
Wounded I think to death.

Anne.
She hath besought us
To bring her to this presence.

Ca.
Can she speak still?

Anne.
Yea, and speak straight; I would not pawn my word
This touch were deadly to her.

Renée.
I say it is;
She has a wound i' the side.

Ca.
Set her down gently;
She will do well; deal softly with her; good;
Be heedful of your hands. So; look to her.

Den.
I thank you, madam; let me sit a little.

Mar.
Give her some wine.

Den.
Sir, are not you the king?
He was grown kind; let them not slay me then,
I'll swear you are no less. I think I am hurt;
Let me speak to you; my side hurts indeed.

Ch.
Nay, if hell come in sleep, then hell itself
Is like the face of a dream. Eh? this were quaint,
To find such hell at last.

Den.
I thank you too;
For I am well, so near the heart of quiet,
The most hushed inward of obscurèd peace,
I feel my spirit a light thing and sweet,
Evened with what it was.

Ca.
Hath she a hurt indeed?

Yol.
Yea, the right side; she holds her gown on it.

Ca.
I did believe this was the stab of fear.
Get her away.—My son, remove your arms.
Some one fetch help; but not too quickly, mark,
[Aside to Yolande, who goes out.
Lest speed undo itself.—Release her, sir.

Den.
No, let him hold me safe; your hand that side,
I shall breathe better. Do they still slay? Alas,
It is a night shall mark you red for ever
I' the honest eyes of men.

Ca.
Will she talk now?

Ch.
How came this hurt on you?

Ca.
Make that no question.

Ch.
Will you teach me? Here, sweet, this way; you know
I always loved you.—Give us room; she will
Get present breath.

Den.
It was a window-shot—
A side-shot striking by the wall; oh God!
It pains me sore; but ease me with your arm.

Ch.
Is God fallen old at once, that he is blind
And slays me not? I am beneath all hell,
Even past the limit and conceit of reach
Where fire might catch on me. Why, I have slain
The chiefest pearl o'the world, the perfect rule
To measure all sweet things; now even to unseat God
Were a slight work.

Den.
Was it your aim indeed?

Ch.
O no, no aim. Get me some help; all you
That gape and shiver on this act enstaged,
You are all parts of murder.

Ca.
Sir, be patient;
This cross is not your sin.—He heeds us not;
Do not speak to him.

Ch.
Is she yet warm? I'll give
That man that will but put an hour in her
My better part of kingdom. Nay, look up;
This breath that I do speak to thee withal
Shall be the medicine to restore thine own
Though I spend all. Sweet, answer me; I'll make thee
Queen of my present power and all that earth
Which hangs upon it.

Den.
Disquiet not yourself;
I do not chide you; nay I know too, sir,
You never hated me; nor did I ever
Make such a fault as should have plucked me thus
Into your hate or stroke. I am dead indeed;
And in this flesh hath God so scourged your act
As I now bleed for it; so I do think
That from this time his adverse hand will not
Push your loss further.

Mar.
This is a bitter sight.

Ca.
A pitiful; but come you not into't;
You have no part.

Den.
I tax you not for it.
I have good hope that you have done herein
Mere blind man's work, not put upon your hands
Murder's own wear; which ministry of yours
God punishes in me. Too much of that.
Do not you yet for this my foolish sake
Make dull your better seasons; let remorse,
If such will bite, feed otherwise than here;
For me, indeed I leave no blur of it
To blot your love at all. For my grace given
Give me grace back; change mercy with me, for
I have wronged you too. In this large world, dear lord,
I have so little space I need use time
With most scant thrift; yet that my love holds out
Let me catch breath to say. No, stir not yet;
Be but two minutes patient of me; keep
Your arm more straight. Say I have slain myself
And the thought clears you; be not moved thereat;
For though I slew a something that you loved
I did it lovingly.

[Dies.
Ca.
Ay, there it breaks;
I am sorry for her, she was fair enough.
Doth she not breathe?

Ch.
No whit; the lips are dull.
Now could I rail God out of pity, change
The blessed heaven with words; yea, move sphered souls
Into a care of me; but I'll say nothing;
No reason stands I should say anything,
Who have this red upon my soul. Yea, dead?
She is all white to the dead hair, who was
So full of gracious rose the air took colour,
Turned to a kiss against her face. Sirs, help;
I would fain have her hence; I am bound to you;
Sirs, hurt her not to touch her side; yea, so.

[Exit, with some bearing out the body.
Ca.
(To Tav.)
Come hither, sir; as you respect my grace,
Lay your good care on him, that in waste words
His mood gall not himself. For this girl slain,
Her funeral privacy of rite shall be
Our personal care; though her deserts were such
As crave no large observance, yet our pity
Shall almost cover the default in them
With all smooth grace that grace may do to her.
You to my son, and you this way with me;
The weight of this harsh dawn doth bruise my sense,
That I am sick for sleep. Have care of him.