THE FIRST ACT (continued 2)

THE FOURTH ACT

The Park at Schönbrunn. Ruins of a Roman Arch in the centre, in front of which is a fountain. Entrances on the right and on the left. Towards the right, in front, is a pile of stones, parts of columns, a head of Neptune, a broken urn, the whole covered with ivy and shrubs. Orange-trees in boxes, bearing fruit and blossom, are dotted about, with lamps hanging in their foliage. At the rise of the curtain a gay throng of Lords and Ladies in dominos and other disguises are moving about the stage.

First Mask. Who is the clown? Second Mask. Don't know. Third Mask. The Cardinal? First Mask. Don't know. Second Mask. The Punchinello? Third Mask. I don't know. Fourth Mask. It's too delicious. Fifth Mask. All incognito. The Punchinello. [To a lady in a domino.] Your ear— The Domino. What for? The Punchinello. Ah, hush! My secret! First Mask. Watteau— The Punchinello. [To another Domino.] Your ear— First Mask. Would have delighted in these figures— The Domino. [To the Punchinello.] What for? The Punchinello. Ah, hush! My secret! First Mask. And these ruins. Another Mask. All is uncertain, tremulous, and vague— Our hearts, the music, moonbeams, and the water. Metternich. And so, dear Attaché of the French Embassy, Here I've contrived half-darkness and half-silence, And yonder in the music and the light The ball— The Attaché. It's really— Metternich. Rather good, I think. This way— The Attaché. You condescend to be my guide? Metternich. Dear friend, I'm prouder of this little ball, Of having mingled all these courtly perfumes With the wild odors of the midnight woods, Than ever of the Congress of Verona. That is the vestiary and the way out So that in leaving you may find at once Your Polish mantle or your overcoat. Lastly, the theatre which I've contrived On yonder bowling-green, near Cupid's fountain, Where, in a set-piece made of natural foliage, Some princely amateurs will play "Michel And"—I don't know—some dainty little piece By a French author: Eugène—what's-his-name? The Attaché. And—supper? Metternich. Here. The Attaché. What? Metternich. Every box will blossom With snowy tablecloths and golden dishes. The Attaché. The orange-trees? Metternich. My own idea. They'll bring All they can find. Under each leafy ball Two couples will be seated, starved and laughing. The Attaché. Supper in short at separate orange-trees? Splendid. Metternich. Why, yes.—And as for grave affairs— [To a Lackey.] Tell them to play no more Slavonic dances— [To the Attaché.] I do not put them off. Not I. I leave Ere supper-time to meet the Hospodars— They are awaiting me— [To a Lackey.] Those wreaths are skimpy. My hobby's organizing balls like this; And when the revelry is at its highest Back to the everlasting Eastern Question! I love to rule a people and a ball: The Arbiter of Europe— The Attaché. And its elegance! Gentz. Arbiter Elegantiarum! Metternich. Ah, You're talking Latin; you've been drinking? Gentz. Rum. Metternich. Fanny has kept you very late at table; Oh, this liaison! you're as good as lost. Gentz. What? I and Fanny? Off. Metternich. What? Gentz. Off. Metternich. [Seeing the Prefect of Police.] Sedlinzky. Sedlinzky. One word. Gentz. [To Metternich.] It's off. [To a Domino.] 'Twas wrong to bring you, Fanny. If they discovered you! What an imprudence! A public dancer! Fanny. Oh, I'll dance discreetly. Gentz. They'll find you out. For heaven's sake be clumsy. Metternich. A plot? Sedlinzky. Yes; for the Duke!—and at this ball! Metternich. [Lightly.] Here! you alarm me! Gentz. Be an angel, Fanny, And tell me why you wished to come. Fanny. Caprice. Metternich. I fear the Duke no more. I've killed his pride. And he's in mourning for it. He'll not come. Sedlinzky. But there's a plot! Metternich. Bah! Sedlinzky. Women— Metternich. Featherbrains. Sedlinzky. No! Noble ladies. Metternich. Really? Sedlinzky. Poles and Greeks: Princess Grazalcowitch. Metternich. Grazalcowitch! That's terrible! [To a Lackey.] Pray let me have a sandwich. Sedlinzky. You laugh?—Hush!—Here they come. They've fled the light And seek a nook to whisper in. [Enter several Dominos.] One of the Dominos. My dear, How sweet it is to run a risk for his sake. Second Domino. Let us conspire! Third Domino. His hair's such lovely auburn. Fourth Domino. It's like a pretty little halo, dear, Through which a regal crown is dimly seen. Fifth Domino. He has a doubly-fascinating charm:— A fair Napoleon! Hamlet dressed in white! First Domino. Let us conspire! Second Domino. First, I suggest we order A golden bee from Stieger in Vienna. Another Domino. Vienna! Why? That would be idiotic! We'll have it made by Odiot in Paris. Fourth Domino. I move we always wear with every dress A very striking bunch of violets. First Domino. That's it, Princess! Another Domino. And let us risk returning To Empire fashions. Second Domino. For evening: not for day. Third Domino. Dear, don't forget the horrible short waists. All. And all the puffs!—and ruches!—Dearest! Metternich. Ladies— All. Good heavens! Metternich. Go on with your delicious plotting. Conspire! conspire! Ha-ha! [He goes out, laughing heartily.] First Domino. And now That thanks to idle chatter we've removed Whatever doubts Sedlinzky had aroused, We'll prove that after female Machiavellis The Metternichest Metternich's a baby. All. Yes! First Domino. Each remembers what she has to do? All. Yes! First Domino. Mingle with the dances. Several Masks. [Pursuing another.] He's so funny! A Mask. It must be Sandor! Another. No! it's Fürstenberg! Another. And who's the bear, dancing to Schubert's waltz? A Mask. What's sad Elvira's dress? A star? Gentz. A night-light. A Mask. Thecla, the hypocrite—? Gentz. Disguised as Truth. Tiburtius. [Entering with Theresa.] Not gone to Parma, sister? Theresa. No. To-morrow. The Duchess put it off to see this ball. [Pointing to a Domino who passes at the back accompanied by a Mask.] She's yonder with Bombelles: the greenish cape. Tiburtius. I'm glad you're going, for Noblesse oblige; I couldn't stand much more of those asides Between the little Bonaparte and you. Theresa. What? Tiburtius. 'Tis our glory that our ancestors Have not been over-prudish with our kings; It is no fall to pick up handkerchiefs When on the handkerchief a lily's broidered. But honor never will accept a rag Which bears the Bonapartist weed and hornet, Woe to the Ogre's brat—! Theresa. What! Tiburtius. If he touched you! Theresa. You use expressions, brother— Tiburtius. They are warnings. A Bear. [Passing with a Chinese woman.] How do you know I am a diplomat? The Chinese Woman. Why, by the skilful way you hide your claws. The Attaché. [Pursuing Fanny.] Is there no way of knowing who you are? Now, are you English? Fanny. Ja. The Attaché. Or German? Fanny. Oui. Prokesch. [Entering with the Duke.] My Lord, is not the ball beyond compare? The Punchinello. [To a Domino.] Your ear—! The Domino. What for? The Punchinello. My secret! Hush! [To another Domino.] Your ear! Prokesch. This corner's charming, given up to shadows— The Chinese Woman. [To the Bear.] What are you carrying on your arm? The Bear. My nose-ring. Prokesch. Charming, those scattered blocks, the broken god, The ivied urn, and, in its frame of stone, Yonder the water. It is like— The Duke. A mirror! Prokesch. What had Prince Metternich to say last night? [Seeing the Duke unmask.] You take your mask off? The Duke. And, alas, that's all A stone. Prokesch. What for? The Duke. To cast into the pond— All's vanished. Only circles on the water. Prokesch. You are depressed, and yet to-night the plot Must come to a head if I may trust the symptoms. These lines were slipped into my hand this morning: [He takes a note out of his pocket.] "Ask him to be there early, and to wear His uniform beneath a violet cloak." The Duke. Oh, 'twere too criminal— Prokesch. The note— The Duke. The note Is from a woman anxious not to miss me. I've taken her advice, for I am here Only for love's adventure. Prokesch. No! The Duke. That's all. Prokesch. But then—the plot? The Duke. Oh, 'twere too criminal, Dear country, made of sunshine and of laughter, To raise upon the high seat of thy glory A child of night, misfortune, and the Escurial! What if, when I were seated there, the past, Plunging its yellow hands into my soul, With hideous claws unearthed some ancestor: Some Rudolph or some Philip? Ah! I dread Lest at the humming of Imperial bees The monster sleeping in me should awake. Prokesch. [Laughing.] Prince, this is madness! The Duke. [With a shudder and a look which makes Prokesch start back with horror.] Madness! Do you think so? Prokesch. Good heavens! The Duke. Buried in their fastnesses, Cowering in Bohemia or Castile, Each had his madness. What is mine to be? Come! We'll decide! You see I am resigned. 'Tis time to choose—and I have choice enough: My thoughtful forebears left a catalogue! Shall I be melomaniac or astrologer? Catch birds, bend o'er alembics, mumble prayers? Prokesch. Too well I see what Metternich has done! The Duke. Grandfather, shall I carry on your great Herbarium, where the hellebore is missing? Or shall I, living, play at being dead? Which ancestor will godfather my madness? The living-dead, the alchemist, or bigot? You see, they took their madness rather sadly, But mingled perfumes make a novel scent; My brain, mixed of these gloomy brains, may start Some pretty little madness of its own. Come! What shall my peculiar madness be? By heavens! My instincts, conquered till to-day, Make it quite simple: I'll be mad with love! I'll love and love, and crush, with bitter hate, This Austrian lip under a passionate kiss! Prokesch. Prince! The Duke. As Don Juan I am all my race! Snarer of hearts, astrologer of eyes; I'll have herbaria full of blighted names, And the philosopher's stone I seek is love! Prokesch. My Lord! The Duke. Why, if you think of it, dear friend, Napoleon's son, Don Juan, is strict logic. The soul's the same: ever dissatisfied; The same unceasing lust of victory. Oh splendid blood another has corrupted, Who, striving to be Cæsar, was not able; Thy energy is not all dead within me. A misbegotten Cæsar is Don Juan! Yes, 'tis another way of conquering; Thus I shall know that fever of the heart Which Byron tells us kills whom it devours; And 'tis a way of being still my father. Napoleon or Don Juan!—They're decision, The magic will, and the seductive grace. When to retake a great unfaithful land, Calm and alone, sure of himself and her, The adventurer landed in the Gulf of Juan, He felt Don Juan's thrill; and when Don Juan Pricked a new conquest in his list of loves, Did he not feel the pride of Bonaparte? And, after all, who knows whether 'tis greater To conquer worlds, or be a moment loved? So be it? 'Tis well the legend closes thus, And that this conqueror is the other's son. I'm the fair shadow of the dusky hero, And, as he conquered nations, one by one, So will I conquer women, one by one. Moonbeams shall be my sun of Austerlitz! Prokesch. Ah, silence! for your irony's too bitter. The Duke. Oh, yes; I know. I hear the spectres crying— Blue-coated spectres torn along the whirlwind— "Well? What about the Imperial tale of triumph? Our toil? our wounds? our glory?—What about The snow, the blood, the history, the dead We left on all the fields of victory? What will you do with these?"—I'll charm the ladies! It's fine, among the people in the Prater, To ride a horse that cost three thousand florins, Which one can christen Jena. Austerlitz Is a sure bait to catch a fair coquette. Prokesch. You'll never have the heart to use it thus. The Duke. Why, yes; why, yes, my friend. And in my scarf— For 'tis a thing looks well upon a lover— I'll wear a dainty eaglet for a pin. There's music!—Now, O Cæsar's son, you're but Mozart's Don Juan! Nay, not even Mozart's! Strauss's! I'll waltz; for now I must become Charming and useless: Austrian fancy-goods! My aunt?—Why—! Prokesch. Oh, not that! The Duke. I want to see— [Prokesch goes out.] The Duke. How deep the linden's perfume is to-night. The Archduchess. Notice my salver. I'm so proud of it. The Duke. You represent? The Archduchess. The "Chocolate-girl," the famous Picture in Dresden. The Duke. [Affectedly.] Cha'ming. But your chocolate Must be a nuisance. The Archduchess. No. The Duke. Do put it down. The Archduchess. Well, Franz? A little bit in love with life? The Duke. Glad to be nephew of a pretty aunt. The Archduchess. And I am glad to have so big a nephew. The Duke. Too pretty. The Archduchess. And too big. The Duke. For such a game. The Archduchess. What game? The Duke. The game of tender intimacy. The Archduchess. I fear your eyes to-night—! The Duke. But I love yours! The Archduchess. Ah, now I see! As all the court is masked, Even friendship wears the domino of love. The Duke. Oh friendship—auntie with a cousin's eyes— Friendship and love are always much too near 'Twixt aunts and nephews, god-sons and god-mothers— Oh! do but smell the fragrance of the lindens!— 'Twixt pretty chocolate-girls and officers, And frontier incidents are bound to happen. The Archduchess. Our friendship's lost its bloom. The Duke. I dearly love This sentiment one cannot understand, Where all's confused and mingled— The Archduchess. No, let be. [She moves away.] The Duke. Oh, if you put on airs of an Archduchess—! The Archduchess. Farewell; you've pained me deeply, Franz. [She goes.] The Duke. Ah, bah! Into our friendship I let fall a drop, And friendship turns to troubled love. I'll wait. [He sees Theresa.] Why! What is this? How comes it you are here? So you're not hastening toward the skies of Parma? And all this grass? What are you? Theresa. "Little Brooklet." The Duke. Ah, yes, I know. An exile on his rock, My father had a brooklet for his friend To drown the gaoler's voice, and that is why At Schönbrunn, which is my Saint Helena, My soul must not be left deprived of comfort. Having the gaoler I've the brooklet too. Theresa. But you will never stoop to look at me. The Duke. Because I dreamed of flying from my rock; But that's all over. Theresa. How? The Duke. All hope is gone. I wake from dreams. Theresa. You suffer? The Duke. Little Brooklet Must give her murmuring freshness. Theresa. Here it is. The Duke. What if I trouble its waters? Theresa. Trouble them. The Duke. Come to the little house among the trees— My hunting lodge—to-night! Theresa. I am to come—! The Duke. Say neither yes nor no.—I'll wait— Theresa. Alas! The Duke. Think how unhappy I shall henceforth be! I've lost all hope of playing a great part; I can but weep; I need a heart to weep on. Away! A Mask. [Seeing a stout lady dressed as a shepherdess.] That shepherdess has eaten her flock! The Bear. If you'll but love me— The Chinese Woman. You will sell your skin? A Domino. [Passing on Gentz's arm.] The Viscount's here as Doge in grand dalmatic. Gentz. Then is the Baroness the Adriatic. The Duke. [Who has scribbled a note; to a Lackey.] This for my lackeys. I shall not come in. I'm sleeping at the hunting-lodge. Make haste! Let me have word they've read and understood. The Lackey. Nought else, my Lord? The Duke. To-morrow the bay mare. Fanny Elssler. His uniform beneath a— The Duke. [Turning.] Violet cloak. Prokesch! I said your note was from a woman! Fanny. [Pointing to the Attaché, who has followed her.] Let me get rid of this importunate mask. And I'll come back. The Duke. I'll wait. 'Tis fate. I yield. I'll love, with stormy April in my heart. I'll love—like these—like all! Bombelles. [Who has come in with Maria Louisa. She sits on the stone bench.] Was he in love? Maria Louisa. What! must you still be harping on him? Bombelles. Yes. The Duke. My mother and Bombelles—! Bombelles. Speak! Maria Louisa. I don't know. He was intimidated in my presence. Even on his throne, beneath his golden laurels, He felt his inequality of birth; And then, to keep a countenance, he'd call me His "Good Louisa." Yes! such shocking taste! For I love sentiment. I am a woman. Bombelles. And queen of all! Maria Louisa. A little thing I said When Saint Aulaire came to my room at Blois With news of his disasters, made them furious. I was in bed. My naked foot peeped out, And, lying on the polished wood, as if Thomire had carved it, seemed at once to turn The Medicean bed into an Empire bed. And seeing the Envoy furtively look down, I smiled and said, "You're looking at my foot." And so he was. In spite of all misfortunes, Indeed the man was looking at my foot. Was this coquettish? Well, what of it? Heavens! Where was the crime if I remained a woman? For, after all, amid the crash of France, The beauty of my foot had some importance! The Duke. Would I could fly! but I am glued to the spot! Bombelles. What's the grey pebble in your bracelet? Maria Louisa. That? Ah, I can never see it without tears. That is a fragment— Bombelles. Of the Pyramids? Maria Louisa. What nonsense! 'Tis a fragment of the tomb Where Juliet sleeps beside her Romeo— I had this souvenir— Bombelles. For pity's sake Don't mention Neipperg! Maria Louisa. If he irritates you, Why speak about the first? Bombelles. That's different, But did you love him? Maria Louisa. Whom? Bombelles. The—first. Maria Louisa. Again? Bombelles. So great a man! You must— Maria Louisa. Oh, as for that, No man is ever loved because he's great. Let's talk of him no more: let's talk of us. Will you like Parma? Bombelles. Tell me, was he jealous? Maria Louisa. So much so that he drove away Leroy, Because the poor man-milliner cried out With admiration when he saw my shoulders, While trying on a peplum. Bombelles. Then Napoleon— Maria Louisa. Oh, hush! Bombelles. Would not have liked to hear me say How fair they are? Would not have liked— Maria Louisa. Bombelles! Bombelles. To hear me whisper to your Majesty— The Duke. Father, forgive me for the things I hear! Bombelles. That you are like our own Arlesian maids But, ah! how much more beautiful!— Maria Louisa. Oh, Charles! Bombelles. Would not have liked to see me bend and press—- The Duke. [Breaking in upon them.] Not that! I will not have it! I forbid you!— Thank God, I'm saved! Maria Louisa. Franz! The Duke. For this cry, this movement Were not my own. Within me still remains A reverence for my mother and her freedom! 'Twas he—'Twas he by whom my soul's possessed, Who sprang upon you with this tragic force! Thank God! I'm saved! The Corsican leapt out! Bombelles. Sir—! The Duke. Nothing, sir! [To Maria Louisa.] My humble duty, Madam! Return to Sala, spend your days in peace. The castle has two wings, as I am told: One is a theatre and one a chapel. Thus dwelling in the middle, you shall feel Evenly balanced 'twixt the world and God. My humble duty! Maria Louisa. Franz! The Duke. Why, truly, Madam, It's your prerogative to be mere woman. Go, be a woman in the Sala palace; But tell yourself, Ah! tell yourself—and this Shall be your sad atonement for his glory, Widow who cast aside her widow's weeds!— Tell yourself this: Men only gaze upon you For the immortal fame he robed you in, And only whisper praises of your beauty Because of old he conquered all the world! Maria Louisa. I'll hear no more! Bombelles, let us begone! The Duke. Return to Sala. I am saved. Thank God! Maria Louisa. Farewell! The Duke. O hands, cold hands within the tomb, Sad hands because the Imperial ring slipped from you, Hands that have held her brow who years ago Shed bitter tears that I was not her son, Hands laid in blessing on my orphaned soul, Weeping I kiss you, hands of Josephine! Maria Louisa. The Creole! Do you think at Malmaison—? The Duke. Silence! If it be true, all the more reason! All the more reason why I should be faithful! [Maria Louisa and Bombelles go out.] [Enter Metternich and Sedlinzky.] Metternich. [To Sedlinzky.] Yes, yes; I humbled that rebellious child! [He sees the Duke.] You here? And in this uniform? What means? The Duke. Were we not asked to come here in—disguise? Sedlinzky. The pride your Excellency broke last night Even in its fragments keeps its insolence. [To the Duke.] What are you dreaming of, far from the ball, My little Colonel? The Duke. Of my Little Corporal! Metternich. [On the point of breaking out.] Oh, I— [Mastering himself.] But I must go to my despatches. 'Tis all to do again! [He and Sedlinzky go out.] [Enter Fanny Elssler.] Fanny. Prince! The Duke. No! that woman! I will not—! Fanny. [Unmasking.] Fly? The Duke. [Recognising her.] Fanny! Fanny. The plot! The Duke. What's that? Fanny. I'm in it. Let me tell you— The Duke. Ah! Fanny. Look innocent. Sit down. Pretend you're very much in love. You on the rock. I on the Neptune's head. [Speaking to the stone head.] May I sit down, good Neptune? The Stone Head. If you like. Only I warn you, it's all over ants. Fanny. Lord! Neptune's talking! The Duke. [Understanding and remembering.] Ah! beneath the ivy! Flambeau. The entrance to my cavern through an ant-heap. The Duke. You! Flambeau! Flambeau. In the cave of Rob— Masks. Ho hi! Fanny. Hush! Masks! Masks. Oh, very funny! [They pass out.] Flambeau. —inson Crusoe! The Duke. What! Since last night? Flambeau. Oh, yes; I smoke my pipe— The Duke. There in the hole? Flambeau. You copied from the beggar Who first invented bearskins, so they say, And had a funny Mameluke called Friday. The Duke. I cannot find the spot. Flambeau. It's on the right. Here, where I blow a cloud out of my pipe. Fanny. The small Vesuvius! The Duke. You must be— Flambeau. Uncomfortable. But then—I said you'd find me at the ball. Fanny. If they should catch us talking to a smoke! Flambeau. Ouch! The Duke. What's the matter? Flambeau. An attack of ants. Since yesterday we've had the bloodiest battles. Fanny. But— Flambeau. They outnumber me, but I've tobacco, I blow a blast— The Duke. You bring your heavy guns? Flambeau. May I lift up my rock a bit? The Duke. Yes. Flambeau. [Seeing Masks approaching.] Nuns! The Duke and Fanny. Hush! Flambeau. Now I look as if I took the air On the tomb's balcony. The Duke. And in the moon Beside the urn, uplifting thus the stone, You're rising to the ghostly night-review. Flambeau. I'm very hungry. Fanny. Hush! The Duke. [To some Servants who enter bearing dishes.] What's that you carry? [The Servants stop. The Duke takes a little of everything.] Thank you. Fanny. [Stopping them.] One moment. [She takes what is left. The Servants pass out.] The Duke. [Giving Flambeau the cakes.] Take them. Flambeau. Enough. My strength returns. [To Fanny.] Explain. We've little time. Fanny. [Nervously.] Well, then—the Countess—she is here—the Countess— That's how my nerve goes when I have to dance— She wears beneath a russet cloak your uniform, With which the Eaglet's turned into a sea-mew. She was already like you in the face, But since she's dyed her sable tresses fair Your glass could not distinguish you from her. So, while they play their "Michel and Christine," You'll change your mantle quickly with your cousin— The Duke. Put on a mask—! Fanny. And disappear like magic! The Duke. My double takes my place— Fanny. And openly Leaves the assembly— The Duke. Sets me free of spies— Fanny. Goes home to Schönbrunn— The Duke. Locks the door with care— Fanny. Forgets to wake— The Duke. Till I am miles away. Only— Fanny. What "only" is there? The Duke. Quite a big one. Suppose the false Duke's spoken to? Fanny. Impossible. It's all stage-managed like a ballet. Ladies Will flutter round him, keep intruders off, And as a ball from racket flies to racket Hell pass from hand to hand until he's safe. Masks. [Running across at the back.] Who is the wolf? Wow! Wow! Who is the bear? There! There! Fanny. You leave the Gardens— The Duke. By the Hietzing gate— Fanny. No. The Duke. Where, then? Fanny. Listeners. I fan myself. Glance at your humble servant's pretty fan. The Duke. What for? Fanny. I've drawn a sketch-map of the park. Observe the road; it's red; it makes a bend; Do you see? The little squares of white are statues; The little dots of apple-green are trees; Thus you elude the evil-minded spies; Turn to the left; pass by the pheasantry— The Duke. What are the scratches? Fanny. Where the hill goes up. Then you go down again; pass by the Triton And come out Emperor at this little gate. All clearly understood?—I shut my fan. The Duke. Emperor! Flambeau. That's right. Get out your robes and crown! Don't go so fast! The Duke. What's at the gate? Fanny. A cab. The Duke. A cab? Fanny. With spanking horses; have no fear. The Duke. Where does it take me? Fanny. To the rendezvous. The Duke. Where's that? Fanny. Out of your way, but so the Countess Would have it:—Wagram. The Duke. What a Bonaparte! Fanny. Well? Are you pleased? The Duke. Dear little Tanagra, I'll recompense your zeal— Fanny. Ungrateful monster! The Duke. And Prokesch? Fanny. He'll be waiting for you there. The Duke. The only man whose eye we had to fear— Prince Metternich—has left. All will go well. Flambeau. Metternich gone! You never said a word! The Duke. Well— Flambeau. And you let me catch my death, beneath This beastly urn—! Fanny. Masks coming! Masks. Sandor! Zichy! It's Thalberg!—Never!—Thalberg is a Turk! It's Cocica!—Not he!—He's fled!—Oh! catch him! Flambeau. Gone? The Duke and Fanny. Gone. Flambeau. [Emerging, dressed as in the previous act.] Then— The Duke and Fanny. Are you mad? Flambeau. We'll shut the trap. The Duke. But if they see you—! Fanny. Vanish! This is frightful! The Duke. What will they say? Flambeau. I'll tell you what they'll say— Masks. [Seeing Flambeau.] And this one! Oh! a veteran of the Empire! Flambeau. [To the Duke.] Well, there you are, you see! That's what they'll say. Masks. Capital! Capital! Flambeau. I take my ease. A Mask. [To another.] Come and admire the veteran! The Other. First rate! Third Mask. Look at his earrings! Fourth Mask. And his bushy eyebrows! Flambeau. But how shall I get out without a cloak? Fanny. Here's Gentz's ticket: such a handsome mantle. A Mask. Hail, Veteran! Flambeau. The honor's mine. [The Usher enters, followed by Servants who push on orange-trees, the boxes laid as tables.] The Usher. Make room! The Lackey. [Who took the Duke's note.] They understand, my Lord. The hunting-lodge. Fanny. What's that? The Duke. I had forgotten. I gave orders— I was to spend the night there. Warn the Countess. Run! Run and say 'tis thither she must go! [Fanny goes out quickly.]

A Mask. [To Flambeau.] Well, Sergeant? So you served— Flambeau. The gr-reat— Several Masks. [Laughing.] The gr-reat! Flambeau. They didn't laugh when we were quartered on 'em! Exclamations. A picture by Raffet!—Charlet!—Vernet! Several Masks. How worn his coat is!—And how singed!—And dusty!— Who's your costumier?—Tell us! Flambeau. They are ladies:— The ancient firm of War and Victory Sisters. A Mask. That's good. Flambeau. It's not the firm you patronize. First Mask. I'll swear it's Zichy. Offering his hand.] Count, your hand. Flambeau. [Blowing a puff of smoke in his face.] Get out. First Mask. [Going out, to the others.] He's masked his language as he's masked his face. Flambeau. [Singing.] When we marched to Krasnoï, Cold and hungry, too, were we! A Mask. He's really excellent. In Russia, old 'un, 'Twas pretty cold? Flambeau. Yes; till we gave 'em hell. [Sings.] By Jingo, but it keeps you warm Merely to see his uniform! A Mask. His uniform wants patching now, though; what? Flambeau. So did your breeches when he'd kicked you; what? Several. Ha! Very funny! First Mask. Natural. Second Mask. Exact. Third Mask.. But doubtful taste. The Usher. The comedy's begun! Fanny. [To the Duke.] I'm back again. The Countess understands. Flambeau. [To Theresa.] Will you accept a veteran's arm? Theresa. No. Flambeau. Why? Theresa. I'm leaving, sir. Apart from that, I'm French, And see no humor in a parody Of heroes whom by chance you conquered. Flambeau. You— Ah! I adore you! [She runs away. Just as she is disappearing the Duke makes a movement toward her.] The Duke. Ah!—the tryst. Theresa. The tryst—? The Duke. No—nothing. [Theresa passes on.] She must keep it. She must show Whether she would have been sublimely weak, And given herself unthinking—without hope— Only because she saw me sad to-night. Fanny. [To Flambeau.] Watch where they've got to in the comedy. [Flambeau goes to the entrance of the theatre.] [To the Duke.] The time has come. Flambeau. All eyes are running over With grief for Stanislas, the mournful Pole. Fanny. Here is the Countess, Duke. The Duke. My very image! I'm coming toward myself as in a glass. [The Countess Camerata enters, dressed exactly like the Duke, with the exception of her cloak, which is brown.] The Countess. Well met, Napoleon! The Duke. And Napoleone! The Countess. I'm very calm—and you? The Duke. I see the risks You'll run for my sake. The Countess. Not for your sake. The Duke. Ah? The Countess. No! For the name, the glory, and our blood! The Duke. You bravely clash your arms, fair Amazon! The Countess. The deed were nothing, were it done for love. The Duke. Speaking of love, if, when you've taken my place In yonder hunting-lodge, by any chance A woman came— The Countess. Ah! I felt sure of it! The Duke. Tell her about my flight—and swear to me— Flambeau. [At the entrance to the theatre, describing the play.] The soldier holds his tongue! The Countess. Good. Flambeau. Doesn't murmur. The Duke. Swear you will tell me later if she comes. The Countess. Thinking of hearts, when Empire is at hand! The Duke. It is because I mount a throne to-morrow I lay such value on a heart to-night. O God! to feel respect in every kiss, Snares in avowals, in embraces dread, And in fair eyes, more dazzled than in love, See laurel-wreaths about me as on coins! I was to pluck my last real love to-night! Flambeau. [As before.] He's telling them about his pocket-book. The Duke. I would she kept this white and spotless tryst, She who has not yet studied to dissemble; 'Twere well she came, for nevermore, perchance, Whatever later trysts I yet may keep, Shall I be waiting with such eager love, As at the tryst to-night I may not keep. The Countess. I find your Highness very deeply stirred. The Duke. Less than I shall be if you say "She came." Flambeau. [As before.] We must make haste, for with his eyes turned up, He's singing something to his colonel. The Countess. Change! Flambeau. Wait for the signal. Have no fear; I'm watching. Attention! By the magic of my wand! The Countess. Think well! Perhaps you turn him into Cæsar! Flambeau. That's why my wand is fashioned of a ramrod. [Noise of people leaving the theatre.] They're coming! Now! [The Duke and the Countess exchange cloaks.] Masks and Dominos. [Entering.] They've dressed the orange-trees! All. Oh! Fanny. [To the Duke, pointing to the Countess.] There's our swarm of women buzzing round him. Ladies. [Around the false Duke.] Prince!—Duke—! My Lord—! Your Highness—! Gentz. No one else Has any chance to-night! Cries. [From the tables.] Sandor! Zichy! Mina! The Domino Called Mina. How did you know me? A Mask. By your opal necklace. Another Mask. We'll gather oranges for our dessert. A Lady. [To the false Duke.] Duke— Masks. Danube sterlets! Caviar from the Volga! [All are seated.] Gentz. [Rising, glass in hand.] Ladies and gentlemen— All. Hear! Hear! The Duke. Now comes The trying moment. Gentz. I have filled this bumper In honor— The Duke. She is going— Gentz. Of our friend, Who, having organized the feast, has left us Amid the music, flowers, delicious ices, To toil till dawn dictating his despatches. Fanny. How well she imitates your careless stride! Gentz. To the Prince-chancellor, Counsellor, Chamberlain, Ladies and gentlemen, drain brimming glasses! Metternich, Austrian Prince, Grandee of Spain, Duke of Portella, Lord of Daruvar— Fanny. She's coming forward! Look how calm she is! Gentz. Knight of Saint Ann— Fanny. He helps us with his chatter, And doesn't know it. Gentz. Knight o' the Swedish Seraphs, The Danish Elephant, the Golden Fleece— Flambeau. If Nepomuk has one or two more titles— Gentz. Curator of the Fine Arts, Czechish Magnate— The Duke. She's overdoing it: I move more quickly. Gentz. Bailiff of Malta— The Duke. Ha! She stops! Gentz. Grand Cross Of Charles the Third, the Falcon, Bear, and Lion— Phew—! The Archduchess. [To the lady seated next to Gentz.] He's fainting! Fan him quickly, someone! Gentz. Fellow of all the Academies on earth—! All. Hurrah! Flambeau. And while they clash their glasses, Prince, She's starting—she has started— The Archduchess. [To the false Duke.] Franz! Not going? The Duke. All's lost! Flambeau. Damnation! The Archduchess. [To the false Duke.] Wait! The Duke. The Archduchess Knew nothing of the plot— The Archduchess. You grieved me, Franz; Just now you— [She recognises the Countess.] Ah! The Duke. All's lost. The Archduchess. But— [Offering her hand to the Countess.] Well, good-night. The Countess. Ah, Madam—How—? The Archduchess. Why don't you kiss my hand? [The Countess goes out.] A Mask. The Duke already gone? Another. He's whimsical. The Duke. [Meaningly, to the Archduchess.] Your hand—as to the Duke? The Archduchess. Yes, gentle mask. Gentz. And now— Several. Again? Gentz. One word—- Voices. Oh, go ahead! Gentz. I wanted to complete my little toast, But while the Duke was here I couldn't name The proudest title Metternich can boast of; But now we're rid of him, I have the honor:— Ladies and gentlemen, here's the destroyer Of Bonaparte! All. Hurrah!—To the Destroyer! The Duke. [To Flambeau.] What are you doing? Flambeau. [Who is pouring his wine into his gun-barrel.] Lest it might go off! A Mask. This Bonaparte— Second Mask. Wasn't marble. Third Mask. Stucco. The Duke. What! Flambeau. Have a care! An Empire is at stake! A Mask. Much overpraised— Flambeau. Take care! Tiburtius. A middling soldier, But then he rode a camel while in Egypt; What more do you want? A Mask. Gentz imitates him. Flambeau. Lord! Another Mask. Do it! Flambeau. [To the Duke.] Remember, you're not here at all! Gentz. [Arranging his hair, and striking the conventional attitude.] Curl—eye—hand—There! Flambeau. Old fool! The Duke. He mocks him, yet Even the mockery's great, for it evokes him. Tiburtius. You know he used to tumble off his horse? Flambeau. That's what the Ultras always said about him. A Mask. His talk was poor. Flambeau. Go on! The Duke. Oh, that's the rule. What could these worms and insects talk about If they had not the eagle to abuse? Tiburtius. His name was not Napoleon at all. Flambeau. What! Tiburtius. That was manufactured. It's so simple! You want to make a sounding name— Flambeau. You idiot! Tiburtius. Which shall creep into history by and by: Take three bright, simple vowels: Na—po—le— And add a nasal sound: On— A Mask. Wonderful! Tiburtius. Yes: Na—po—le, the lightning; On, the thunder. Flambeau. That's all! A Mask. What was his name? Tiburtius. What? Don't you know? A Mask. Why, no. Tiburtius. His name was Nicholas. Flambeau. [Bursting out.] Be damned! Several Masks. [Laughing.] Bravo the Veteran! Gentz. [To Flambeau.] Nicholas!—Have a quail. Flambeau. [Taking the dish.] But Nicholas was good at winning battles. A Mask. And what a funny court he scraped together! Second Mask. If you talked titles, pedigrees, precedence, There wasn't a soul who had a word to say. Flambeau. Wasn't Cambronne at Court to say the word? A Mask. But—in war— Flambeau. Oh—! Second Mask. What did he do? Another Mask. Why, wrote reports. A Mask. And always stood about on distant hills. Flambeau. By God—! The Duke. Hush! Tiburtius. Once a ball was good enough To wound him in the foot at Ratisbon: Enough to make a subject for a picture. Flambeau. [To the Duke.] Be calm—! The Duke. Be calm—! Flambeau. Just take away this knife. Tiburtius. In short— The Duke. He'd best be careful what he says. Flambeau. You must put up with it! The Duke. Not for an Empire! Tiburtius. In short this hero was— Flambeau. Take care! Take care! Tiburtius. He was a coward. The Duke. Oh! The French Attaché. No! That's a lie! All. Eh? What? Tiburtius. What's that? All. Who spoke? Gentz. I love a quarrel! Flambeau. Aha! Thank God, there was a man among them! Tiburtius. Who dared—? The Attaché. I dared, sir! Gentz. He's the Attaché Of the French Embassy. Tiburtius. You challenge me! You represent the King, sir! Gentz. Quite amusing! The Attaché. The King is not in question, but my country. You are insulting France, when you insult The man she loved through many glorious years. Tiburtius. Buonaparte— The Attaché. Please say Bonaparte. Tiburtius. Well, Bonaparte— The Attaché. The Emperor! Tiburtius. Your card? Flambeau. [Who has disappeared for a moment, and has come back cloaked.] Come! I've got Gentz's cloak. It's lined with fur. [Tiburtius and the Attaché have exchanged cards. Tiburtius steps forward and nervously lights a cigar.] Tiburtius. [To a Lackey.] A light. The Lackey. You hate the Corsican? Tiburtius. What's that? The Lackey. Your sister loves his son. Would you surprise them? Tiburtius. When? The Lackey. Now. Tiburtius. Where? The Lackey. Where I know— Tiburtius. Wait for me here. Austria shall be relieved. The Duke. [Placing his hand on the Attaché's shoulder.] I thank you, sir. The Attaché. [Turning.] What for, sir? The Duke. Hush. The Attaché. The Duke! The Duke. A plot. The Attaché. Amazement! The Duke. I've nothing but my secret. Now it's yours. We meet to-night at Wagram. Be there. The Attaché. I! The Duke. Are you not one of us? The Attaché. I am the King's. The Duke. But you're to fight a duel for my Father. And so we're somewhat brothers. Fare-you-well. The Attaché. You hope to win me? The Duke. I am sure to win you. Did not my Sire win Philippe de Ségur? The Attaché. To-morrow I return to France. I warn you— The Duke. You are a future Marshal of the Empire. The Attaché. I warn you, if my regiment meets yours I shall not hesitate to fire. The Duke. Of course not. Shake hands before we cut each other's throats. The Attaché. If you have any messages for Paris, I get there on the fourth; I should be happy— The Duke. I hope to be there, sir, ahead of you. The Attaché. Yet, if I reach the—kingdom—ere you come? The Duke. Salute for me the Column of Vendôme! Curtain.

THE FIFTH ACT

The battle-field of Wagram. Night. A small hill running off toward the left. A sign-post stands on the hill.

The Duke is standing on the summit of the hill gazing across the battle-field. Prokesch and Flambeau are talking together in undertones near the front.

Flambeau. WAGRAM! The Duke. [Dreaming.] "My son shall reign—a mighty sovereign—" Flambeau. Capital bit of country for the harvest. The Duke. "His task to foster whatsoe'er is good." Flambeau. What solemn prayer is he reciting? Prokesch. Hush! The Duke. "Complete my work, and not avenge my death— All patriots—" [To Prokesch.] The horses? Prokesch. No, not yet. The Duke. "He would but ape me, if he made great wars—" Prokesch. He is rehearsing all his Father's counsels. Flambeau. Hush! The Duke. "He shall scorn all parties—" [To Prokesch.] Well? The horses. Prokesch. Too soon, my Lord. The Duke. Like an impatient lover I've come too early to my tryst with France. [He takes a few strides and finds himself in front of a sign-post.] Their sign-post! Is it true that I shall move Unhindered by their hideous black and yellow? How good to read upon the gleaming white "Road to Saint Cloud" instead of "Grosshofen." Grosshofen? Now I think of it, I ordered My regiment to Grosshofen at dawn. Flambeau. What! The Duke. Yes; I gave the order yesterday, Before I knew. Flambeau. We shall be far away. [An old man comes out of the cottage.] The Duke. Who's that? Flambeau. He's ours. His hut our meeting-place. Old soldier. Shows the battle-field to strangers. The Old Man. There—on the left— Flambeau. No, thanks. I know it. The Duke. Why Does he serve us? The Old Man. I was dying yonder; The great Napoleon passed— The Duke. He always rode Over a battle-field. The Old Man. The Emperor stopped And had me cared for by his leach— The Duke. Ivan. The Old Man. So, if his son is weary of Vienna, I'll help him go.—My arm—before his eyes! Flambeau. It isn't everybody has the honor Of having limbs off in Napoleon's presence. The Old Man. 'Twas war-time; so we fought. Flambeau. We died. The Old Man. We died. Flambeau. We marched. The Old Man. We marched. Flambeau. We fired into the haze. The Old Man. We fired. Flambeau. Some grimy officer rode up. And roared, "We've conquered!" The Old Man. So he roared to us. Flambeau. What?—So he did. [Pointing to the Duke.] Suppose he heard! The Duke. I hear. The Old Man. Bah! My geraniums flourish. Flambeau. Shouldn't wonder. For on this spot eleven drummer-boys— The Duke. Eleven drummer-boys—? Flambeau. I see them now! Eleven bullet-heads, as like as peas, Between the flapping of their foolish ears, Who marched, they knew not whence, nor why, nor whither, But gayly marched and rolled their rataplan! We used to chaff them, for their funny ways Made them the darlings of the sutler's wife. But when they beat the charge like little rabbits— Eleven drums with two-and-twenty sticks— They set our bayonets thrilling with their thunder; The quivering zigzags seemed to cry aloud, "Our lightning's not in vain!"—Well, on this spot, A brazen devil hiccoughed fire and steel And took them in the flank; yes! all the eleven! But, by the Lord! you should have seen the woman! She gathered up her apron like a gleaner, And madly gleaned the little ebony drumsticks. [He clears his throat.] Only to speak of it gives me a cold—! [He picks a red geranium.] Here's how to make a mere geranium A ribbon of the Legion: keep one petal. What? You look well upon my velvet lining? [To the Duke.] Is this what you bestowed upon me, Sire? The Duke. I gave a phantom— Flambeau. And I wear a flower! The Duke. [Seeing the conspirators enter.] Those shadows—? Marmont. Friends. The Duke. [Turning.] Marmont? Marmont. Good luck, my Lord! The Duke. Why do the others stand so far away? Marmont. Because they fear they may disturb your Highness, And, Sire, you are already Emperor! The Duke. The word strikes strangely on my wondering ear— The Emperor! What Emperor is here? This youth of twenty on the throne? As through a casement now myself I see Pass down the shouting street; 'tis good to be Young, and the first Napoleon's son! All Notre Dame invades my dreaming soul, I see the incense, hear the organ roll, A nation offers up a prayer! God! what great causes may be served by kings! How they can love! Achieve what righteous things! Prokesch, the Future shows too fair! O France, who with thy blood didst write our name, With happy days I will repay the fame; I come, triumphant in my pride. Sun on my flags; the air with shouts is rent. The Champs Elysées, with their chestnut scent, Waft me fair welcome as I ride. Flambeau. The women stand on chairs to see your face, Each the fair symbol of Parisian grace, The guns in wreaths of flowers are dressed; Fierce Paris madly hails your sovereignship. The Duke. It were like kissing France upon the lip If Paris took me to her breast. Flambeau. And you will hear the sufferer's complaint; Do you not feel your hand already faint Signing so many an amnesty? The Duke. The lies they've told me make the truth more dear, Oh, Freedom, Freedom, thou hast nought to fear From one so late from bonds set free! What can I do to foster noble aims? Treviso, Montebello, these are names Their sons inherit without fear, But other names are glorious, and since My Father would have made Corneille a Prince I'll make our Victor Hugo Peer! I'll do—I'll do—I'll be the poor man's shield! The heroic savour, rising from this field, Gives me a foretaste of my home; Wagram! 'Twas well I hither came to drain The stirrup-cup upon thy glorious plain! Oh, my beloved France!—I come—! Ah—! Flambeau. What is it? The Duke. Nothing. Prokesch. You are suffering! The Duke. Yes, to the marrow, but a gallop cures me. Stars twinkle in the skies like golden rowels. Here are the steeds, and we're to ride to France! Embrace me, friend! Prokesch. Emotion strangles me. The Duke. Brother! Prokesch. My Lord! The Duke. Ah, hush!—The saddle-girth!— Oh, it's delicious to escape on horseback Through such a night, in dancing-pumps! Prokesch. [To Marmont, pointing to the Conspirators.] Those youths— Why have they come? Marmont. Why, that the world may know They also were conspirators! The Duke. A whip! A Conspirator. [Introducing himself to the Duke.] The Viscount of Otranto— The Duke. Fouché's son! Flambeau. [To the Duke.] No matter now. [Arranging the horse.] The stirrup long? The Duke. No; short. Second Conspirator. [Bending low to the Duke.] Goubeaux, the Countess Camerata's agent. Your humble servant Goubeaux— The Duke. Very well. Goubeaux. [Bowing once more.] The Countess's chief agent. Third Conspirator. [Advancing eagerly.] Pionnet— I'm Pionnet. I represent King Joseph; On his behalf I brought the subsidies. The Duke. [To Flambeau, busy with the horse.] Only the snaffle— Fourth Conspirator. I arranged the guides And relays, and at yonder village, Sire, Disguises—Morchain. Flambeau. All right, Whatsyourname. Fourth Conspirator. Morchain! Fifth Conspirator. I got the passports. Thankless task! See how the seals are forged! Guibert. All. [Each mentioning his name.] Goubeaux— Morchain—Otranto—Pionnet— Flambeau. We know. One of the Conspirators. Your Father had a memory for names. Sixth Conspirator. [Hurrying up.] Borowski, Sire! It was my glorious task To hire the uniform the Countess wears! The Duke. Enough! Enough! I shall remember all, And best of all the one who has not spoken! Your name? [The man spoken to turns, and the Duke recognises the Attaché.] What! You here! The Attaché. Not as partisan. Only as friend. Indeed no slight occasion Was needed— Flambeau. [To the Duke.] Mount! The Duke. The dawn is in the east, I seize the reins, and—Alea jacta est! The Attaché. My Lord, if I have sought this rendezvous, 'Twas to defend you— The Duke. To defend me, sir? The Attaché. I feared you were in danger— The Duke. Danger?—What? The Attaché. The rogue Tiburtius, whom I hope to pink, Sneaked from the ball and never sent his seconds, So I ran after him, and saw him meet Another rogue, and heard the two conspire To kill you at some rendezvous. The Duke. The Countess! The Attaché. The rendezvous was here, as you had told me. I came. All's well. I go. The Duke. The rendezvous Was in the hunting-lodge. They'll kill the Countess! We must go back! All. No! No! A Conspirator. Oh, why? Marmont. The Countess—? Prokesch. She can unmask. The Duke. Alas, you little know her. She'd die ten times to let me win ten minutes. Come back! Voices. No! The Duke. But I cannot—Ah, come back!— I cannot let them kill her in my absence! Otranto. Our efforts wasted! Marmont. If we re-conspire They will not let you fly. Another Conspirator. And France? Another. The Empire? The Duke. Back! Marmont. Forward! The Duke. Back! Marmont. You cast away the crown! The Duke. To leave her were to cast my soul away! Marmont. One sometimes has to sacrifice— The Duke. A woman? Marmont. Risk—for a woman—all the chance of triumph—! Flambeau. He's a French Prince! That's certain, anyhow! Otranto. We must abduct him! Flambeau. Back! Otranto. My coach is here. Flambeau. I'll run you through the body if you touch him! The Duke. Back! or with whip uplifted I will charge After the fashion of Murat, my uncle! Prokesch. Stand back! The Duke. Help, Prokesch! Voices. We shall have to force him. The Duke. [To the Attaché.] And you, who say you came in my defence, It is by robbing me of faith and scruple, They would assassinate me truly! Now, defend me! The Attaché. No, Sire! begone! The Duke. What, you! this base advice? The Attaché. Go, Sire, I will defend the woman. The Duke. You? You cannot. The Attaché. Not as partisan; as friend. The Duke. It would ensure my flight. The Attaché. Begone, my Lord. Whate'er I do is for the Countess. The Duke. Yes, But I— Prokesch. I'll lead him. The Attaché. Prokesch knows the way. The Duke. [Still hesitating.] I cannot— Voices. Yes! Marmont. The better way! Voices. Begone. The Countess Camerata. [Entering, still in her disguise.] Unhappy boy! Not gone! The Duke. You!—but they told me— How could I go? The Countess. On horseback. The Duke. But your life—! The Countess. A woman's life! What loss would that have been? The Duke. But— The Countess. You should have abandoned me. The Duke. But think! The Countess. Think of the time you've lost! The Duke. Your risks—? The Countess. What risks? The Duke. And all our fears on your behalf— The Countess. What fears? Was not your Flambeau, there, my fencing-master? The Duke. The man—? The Countess. Begone! The Duke. What did you do? The Countess. Oh, nothing. Of course he drew his sword, and I drew mine. The Duke. You fought for me! The Countess. "I did not know," he muttered, "The Corsican's son had so much skill, I think He knew it not himself"—But then my voice— The Duke. Oh! You are wounded! The Countess. Scratched across the fingers. My voice betrayed me. Back he sprang! "A woman!" "Defend yourself!" said I, "I should be laughed at, For you are not the Chevalier d'Eon!" "Defend yourself, I'm a Napoleon!" Feeling my blade slip snake-like over his, He lunges, and I make— Flambeau. Our secret stroke! The Countess. One! Two! Flambeau. That must have been a rough surprise! The Countess. 'Twas a surprise from which he'll not recover. The Duke. Heavens! And the girl—! The Countess. What does she matter now? The Duke. But, did she come? The Countess. Well—No, then! When the door Was broken open by a furious fist, I was alone. She had not come. The Duke. That's well. The Countess. But servants came; and if I were arrested All would be known too soon. I lost my head. I stumbled out. I heard I know not whom Sending to fetch the Prefect of Police; And so I fled upon your saddle-horse. I've killed it—I'm exhausted— The Duke. Look! She swoons! The Countess. After what I had done I hoped at least To hear from witnesses that you were gone! A Conspirator. You were pursued—And in a moment— The Duke. Take care of her. Conceal her in the hut. A Conspirator. Yes. The Countess. Go! The Duke. But are you better? The Countess. Not yet gone? For God's sake, go! Ah! could your Father see you Waiting, enfeebled, tender, hesitating, With what contempt he'd shrug his epaulettes! The Duke. Good-bye! Flambeau. We're caught! Too late! Sedlinzky. [Entering with police officers; he advances to the Countess, whom he mistakes for the Duke.] Too late, my Lord. The Countess. [Furiously, to the Duke.] Ah, Temporizer! Dreamer! Cold Idealist! Sedlinzky. [Who has turned to the person addressed by the Countess and recognized the Duke, starts, and, addressing him.] Your Highness— [He turns to the Countess.] Your High— [To the Duke.] Your High— Flambeau. He's puzzled! Sedlinzky. So that's it! Flambeau. You've been drinking. You see double. Sedlinzky. Count Prokesch, I must ask you to retire. [Prokesch exit.] Flambeau. We shan't be crowned just yet by Uncle Fesch! Sedlinzky. [Indicating the Attaché.] Lead off this gentleman. You, sir, in this? Your Government shall hear of it. The Duke. I swear He was not of the plot! The Attaché. Forgive me, Sire, Since they're arresting us I take my share. The Duke. [To the Attaché, as he is led off.] Good-bye, then. [To Sedlinzky.] Now, policeman, show your zeal. Sedlinzky. [To his men, pointing to the Countess.] Take the false Prince wherever—she—belongs. The Duke. [Haughtily.] With all the honors due to me! The Countess. That voice! Ah, hapless child! You would have made a leader! [She is led off.] Sedlinzky. As for the rest, we'll shut our eyes: Verb. sap. A Conspirator. I think— Marmont. To serve the cause— Another Conspirator. We'd better go. Another. Reserve our strength— Another. For later— Another. Bide our time. [All disappear.] Flambeau. [To Sedlinzky.] Open your eyes again. Here's one more left. The Duke. Oh, fly for my sake! Flambeau. Yours? Sedlinzky. [To a policeman.] 'Tis he! Policeman. Perhaps. Wanted in Paris. Sedlinzky. How can we make sure! [The Policeman hands him a paper, which he reads.] "Nose ordinary, eyes ordinary, Mouth ordinary—" Extraordinary! [Watching Flambeau.] Two bullets in his—back. Flambeau. A lie! Sedlinzky. Of course. Flambeau. I'm lost. All right; I'll have my little joke, And deck myself in flowers ere dropping out. Sedlinzky. You answer to the name of Seraph Flambeau. Flambeau. No, sir! That name's not good enough to die with. I'll be drum-major in the Dance of Death; Not merely Seraph, nor Flambeau, the torch. I broaden! I'm Archangel Chandelier! The Duke. Will you deliver him to France? Sedlinzky. Yes. The Duke. Like a thief? You have no right, sir—! Sedlinzky. But we'll take it. The Duke. Heavens! Flambeau. 'Twas getting past a joke that I should never Be present when they wanted to behead me. Sedlinzky. Also his decoration is illegal. Take off that ribbon! Flambeau. Take it. But it grows As often as I choose on my old hide. [Unseen by the others he stabs himself.] Sedlinzky. Take off his cloak! [When the cloak is removed, the spot of blood shows like the ribbon of the Legion of Honor on Flambeau's shirt.] What's that? Flambeau. Looks rather well! Sedlinzky. Come! Make an end! Flambeau. [To the Duke.] My Lord, this leaves me not Till death! Sedlinzky. What! He has pinned another on! Flambeau. You cannot make an end! I've pinned another; And when that's gone, another, and another! The Duke. What will they do? Flambeau. What did they do to Ney? The Duke. Impossible—! Flambeau. A little firing-party— Rrrrrr! The Duke. Ah! Flambeau. I always laughed at bullets; But French ones? Never! None of that, Lisette! The Duke. You will not give him up? Sedlinzky. Without delay! Flambeau. Seraph, your wings are clipped; good-night, my friend! Sedlinzky. March! The Duke. Look! He staggers! Flambeau!—Look! Policeman. He's falling! Flambeau. [On his knees; knocking off the policeman's hat.] The Duke is speaking! Take that stovepipe off! The Duke. Flambeau, you've killed yourself! Flambeau. No! I've pinned on An everlasting ribbon of the Legion! The Duke. I'll not allow one of your men to touch him: What! the clean soldier touched by soiled policemen! Leave us alone together. Go!—Begone! Flambeau. My Lord—! Sedlinzky. [To a policeman, pointing to the old man of the hut.] Lead off that peasant. [The old man is led off.] The Duke. I'll await My regiment. 'Tis summoned here at dawn. The standards shall salute him, and the drums, And my own soldiers shall uplift his body. Sedlinzky. [To a policeman.] Where are the horses? The Policeman. [Aside to him.] Gone. Sedlinzky. Then let him be. [To the Duke.] Highness, we cede. The Duke. Begone! Sedlinzky. I understand— The Duke. I turn you out. Sedlinzky. My Lord! The Duke. I turn you out! For on the field of Wagram I'm at home! [Sedlinzky and the policeman go.] Flambeau. It's funny, all the same, that on this field Where I was wounded for the Father, now I perish for the son. The Duke. No! not for me! It is for him: I am not worth your death. Flambeau. For him? The Duke. For him! This is the field of Wagram. Flambeau. Ah, yes!—I die— The Duke. Do you not recognize Wagram, the field, the hill, the pointed steeple? Flambeau. Yes! The Duke. Do you see the Austrian cannon yonder All painted yellow, belching fire and smoke? Flambeau. The battle—! The Duke. Do you hear the noise of it? Flambeau. I die at Wagram! Ah! I die at Wagram! The Duke. Do you not see the wounded horse rush by, Dragging his slaughtered rider by the stirrups? We are at Wagram! 'Tis a solemn moment. Davoust has come to turn Neusiedel's flank; The Emperor has raised his little spy-glass; You have been wounded by a bayonet, And I have brought you to this little hill. Flambeau. But the light cavalry? Haven't they charged? The Duke. Yonder the blue, striped with white shoulder-belts: Those are the Infantry. Flambeau. With General Reille! The Duke. The Emperor should send Oudinot to help! He lets his left be crushed! Flambeau. Ah! that's his cunning! The Duke. They fight! They fight! Macdonald hastens up, And wounded Massena drives slowly by. Flambeau. If the Archduke deploys his right he's lost. The Duke. All's well! Flambeau. They fight? The Duke. The Prince of Auersburg Is taken by the Polish Lancers of the Guard. Flambeau. The Emperor? What's the Emperor doing? The Duke. Watching. Flambeau. Is the Archduke caught in the little 'un's trap? The Duke. The distant dust-cloud yonder is Nansouty. Flambeau. Has the Archduke not yet deployed his right? The Duke. The smoke is Lauriston— Flambeau. But the Archduke? The Duke. Now he deploys his right. Flambeau. His goose is cooked. The Duke. Here come the guns! Flambeau. I thirst!—I stifle—Drink! What—is—the—Emperor doing? The Duke. With a smile He shuts his little spy-glass. Flambeau. [Closing his eyes.] Victory! The Duke. Flambeau! [He looks at him, and moves away a little.] This dying soldier frightens me. Yet 'tis not strange a dying grenadier Should fall asleep upon this field of glory. The field is well acquainted with his likes. [He bends over him and cries.] Yes! Victory! The soldiers toss their shakos! Flambeau. [In his death-rattle.] I thirst—! Distant Voices. I thirst!—I thirst! The Duke. [Shuddering.] What are those echoes? A Voice. I thirst—! The Duke. O God! The Same Voices. [Very distant.] I die—I die! The Duke. [With horror.] His voice Reverberates beneath the lurid sky. The Voices. I die—! The Duke. I understand! His cries of death Are, for this vale which knows them all by heart, As the first measures of a well-known song. The plain takes up the moaning death has hushed. The Plain. Ah—! Ah—! The Duke. I understand! complaints and sobs!— 'Tis Wagram's field, remembering aloud! The Plain. Ah—! Ah—! The Duke. [Looking at Flambeau.] How still he lies!—I must begone! For 'tis as if he'd fallen in the battle! [And bending over him he murmurs.] Thus and no otherwise they must have looked! The uniform—the blood—! [He is about to go, but suddenly, with horror.] Another! There! There—! Everywhere—! The same accusing shapes! They're dying thus as far as eye can reach! The Plain. Alas—! The Duke. I hear them speaking in the gloom! Voices. My brow bleeds—! My leg is dead—! My arm hangs loose!— I'm crushed beneath this gun! The Duke. The battle-field! I've willed it: it has risen. Voices. Water!—Water Upon my gash! Ah! tell me what I've broken! Ah! do not let me perish in this ditch! The Duke. Forests of arms are quivering in the plain; I tread upon a field of epaulettes. A Voice. Help! The Duke. And I slip on leather shoulder-belts! A Voice. Dragoon, reach me your hands! Another. They're shot away! The Duke. Ah! whither turn? Voices. The ravens! The Duke. Horrible! The wooden soldiers ranged upon my table! The Voices. Horses have trampled on me! Drink!—The ravens! I'm dying!—How I suffer!—God forgive me! The ravens!—Help! The Duke. Alas! Where are the Eagles? The Voices. Water!—This brook runs blood!—Yet let me drink! I thirst!—I die!—God's curse!—I'm hurt!—Mother! The Duke. Ah! A Voice. For God's sake! put a bullet through my head! The Duke. Ah! Now I understand my wakeful nights— A Voice. Curse the Light Cavalry! They're base assassins! The Duke. The racking cough that wakes me in a sweat! A Voice. I cannot drag my leg! Oh, wrench it off! The Duke. The blood I spit! I know whose blood it is! The Plain. Ah!—Ah—! The Duke. And all the arms! And all the arms I see! The handless wrists! The hands with shattered fingers! The monstrous harvest which a mighty wind Bends me-ward with a curse! Oh! Mercy! Mercy! Old Cuirassier, groaning with outstretched hands— Horrible agonized hands with bloody wrists!— Mercy! Poor little Private of the Guards, Who slowly raise your livid face to mine! Look not upon me with those glazing eyes! Why do you creep upon me through the gloom? God! 'Tis as though you strove to utter cries! Why do you all suck in a mighty breath? Why do you open horror-sated lips? What will you cry?—What?—What? All the Voices. Long live the Emperor! The Duke. Ah! Pardon, for the glory's sake!—I thank you. I understand. I am the expiation. All was not paid, and I complete the price. 'Twas fated I should seek his battle-field, And here, above the multitudinous dead, Be the white victim, growing daily whiter, Renouncing, praying, asking but to suffer, Yearning toward heaven, like sacrificial incense! And while betwixt the heavens and this field I am outstretched with all my soul and body, Father, I feel the shuddering furrows rise, I feel the hill upheaved beneath my feet To lift me gently to the stooping heavens! 'Tis meet and right the battle-field should offer This sacrifice, that henceforth it may bear Pure and unstained its name of Victory. Wagram, behold me! Ransom of old days, Son, offered for, alas! how many sons! Above the dreadful haze wherein thou stirrest, Uplift me, Wagram, in thy scarlet hands! It must be so! I know it! Feel it! Will it! The breath of death has rustled through my hair! The shudder of death has passed athwart my soul! I am all white: a sacramental Host! What more reproaches can they hurl, O Father, Against our hapless fate?—Oh, hush! I add In silence Schönbrunn to Saint Helena!— 'Tis done!—But if the Eaglet is resigned To perish like the innocent, yielding swan, Nailed in the gloom above some lofty gate, He must become the high and holy signal That scares the ravens and calls back the eagles. There must be no more meanings in the field, Nor dreadful writhings in the underwood. Bear on thy wings, O whirlwind of the plain, The shouts of conquerors and songs of triumph! [A proud and joyous clamor arises in the distance.] I've changed the meanings into trumpet blasts! [The wind wafts vague sounds of trumpet-calls.] I've earned the right to see what crawled and writhed, Suddenly leap into a phantom charge! [Noise as of a cavalcade. The Voices, which before were lugubrious, now call to each other with commands and signals.] The Voices. Forward! [The drums of the wind beat the charge.] The Duke. The pomp and pageantry of battle, The dust that's raised by charging cavalry! Voices. Charge! The Duke. The wild laughter of the fierce Hussars! Voices. [In a shout of epic laughter.] Ha! Ha! The Duke. Now, Goddess of the hundred mouths, Victory, from whose lips I've torn the gag, Sing in the distance! Voices. [Far away.] Form battalions! The Duke. [Upright in the first glow of dawn.] Glory! O God, to battle in this blaze! Voices. Fire!—Half-columns, by your right, advance! The Duke. To battle in this tumult you commanded! O Father! Father!— [Amid the noise of battle, which is dying away in the distance, a haughty, metallic voice is heard, preceded and followed by a roll of drums.] The Voice. Officers—and—men! The Duke. [In wild delirium, drawing his sword.] I come!—I fight!—Laugh, fife! and banners wave! Fix bayonets! Fall on the whitecoats! Forward! [And while the dream-sounds die away toward the right, swept by the wind, all of a sudden, on the left, a real military band bursts out; and abruptly, like the awaking out of a dream, there is the contrast between the furious battle-music of the French, and a tame march of Schubert's Austrian and dance-like, drawing near in the rosy glow of the morning.] The Duke. [Who has turned with a shudder.] What white thing marching through the dawning day? The Austrian Infantry! [Beside himself, and urging along imaginary Grenadiers.] Ha! Up! and at them! The enemy!—Fall on them!—-Crush them! Follow on! Follow on! We'll pass across their bodies! [With his sword high he rushes at the first ranks of an Austrian regiment which appears on the road.] An Officer. [Throwing himself on the Duke and stopping him.] For God's sake. Prince!—This is your regiment! The Duke. [As if awakening.] Ah—? This is my—? [He falls back; passes his hand across his forehead, and gazes wildly at the white soldiers who march past to the sound of the fife. He sees his destiny, and accepts it. The arm he had raised for the charge sinks slowly, his fist falls on his hip; his sword falls into the regulation position, and, stiff as an automaton, with a toneless and mechanical voice, the voice of an Austrian officer, he cries:] Halt! Front turn! Eyes right!

The Curtain Falls as the Drill Begins.

THE SIXTH ACT

The Duke's bedroom at Schönbrunn. The walls are covered with Gobelin tapestry. Through folding-doors on the left there is a glimpse of the china-cabinet. There are also folding-doors on the right and in the centre. Empire furniture. A little camp-bedstead stands almost in the middle of the room. Many bunches of violets are scattered about.

The Duke is discovered buried in a deep arm-chair, his fingers idly toying with a large bunch of violets. The Archduchess is offering him a glass of milk. Doctor Malfatti is seated at the back of the room.

The Duke. Again? Well, there, then. The Archduchess. No, you've left a little. The Duke. You?—Why, I thought you ill! The Archduchess. They've let me come. Thank heaven!—And you? The Duke. Why, if you leave your sick-bed I must be worse indeed. The Archduchess. Come, now, that's nonsense! You know you're better. [She examines the cup the Duke hands her.] There, that's finished. She calls the doctor, who has been seated at the back of the room.] His Highness drank his milk. The Doctor. I'm very glad. The Archduchess. How good it was of him! The Doctor. How good! The Duke. How hard— When I had dreamed of history's reward, And when ambition seared my soul—How hard, To be content with praise for drinking milk! [To the violets on his pillow.] Oh, ball of freshness laid upon my fever. Dear flowers that bring the Spring into my room—! The Archduchess. All bring you violets now? The Duke. Ah, yes! Already. The Archduchess. Hush! As an act of gratitude to God For saving us—since both of us are better— I am to take the Sacrament this morning, I think—I hope—Franz, will you not come, too? The Duke. [After a long look at her.] Ah, now I see the pious trick you'd play me! This is the end! [He rises.] The Archduchess. I knew you'd say so! [With forced playfulness.] Think! The etiquette—! The Duke. The—etiquette? The Archduchess. You know You cannot be deceived. When Austrian Princes Receive the— The Duke. Last—? The Archduchess. Oh! not that mournful word!— All the Imperial Family must be present. The Duke. That's true. The Archduchess. But we're alone! I've had an altar Placed in that cabinet; and look about you: No sign of an Archduke or an Archduchess. The Prelate says the Mass for you and me; 'Tis but the ordinary Mass; you see This Sacrament is not— The Duke. The last. 'Tis true. The Archduchess. Well? Are you coming? Hark! The Mass begins! The Duke. 'Tis true, the illustrious audience should be present. The Archduchess. We've but the Prelate and the Acolyte. The Duke. So, then, I am to have a respite—? [They go out.] [As soon as they have disappeared, the opposite door opens and General Hartmann ushers in the Court.] Hartmann. Come! Place yourselves here; and when, with humbled eyes The Duke is prostrate to receive the Host— One of the Princes. We'll place ourselves— A Princess. [To a child.] Hush! Hartmann. In that awful moment When nothing can distract a Christian's thoughts I'll softly ope the door. For one brief second Your Highnesses will see his golden head; Then I shall close the door, and thus he'll rise, Not knowing he received, before the Court, As usage dictates, the Viaticum. Metternich. Silence! Prokesch. [Who has just brought in the Countess and Theresa.] They have permitted me to place you Behind the Imperial Family, and thus, Above the heads of Princes bent in prayer, O'er whom mysterious fate is hovering, And pallid children clasping pitiful hands, For the last time you'll see the dying Duke. Theresa. Oh, thank you, thank you, sir! Hartmann. Let no one stir When the door opens! Maria Louisa. Ah! The sacring-bell! A Princess. It is the Elevation! [All kneel.] Hartmann. Gently! The Countess Camerata. [To Metternich.] Well, Prince? Is there nothing you regret? Metternich. No, nothing. I did my duty. Madam—often suffered While doing it—for my country's weal, my master's, And in defence of ancient privilege. The Countess. You've no regrets? Metternich. No. None. Maria Louisa. The Agnus Dei. [To Hartmann, who very gently opens the door a very little way and peers through.] Let not the door creak as you open it! Metternich. None. But he was a noble Prince. I kneel To-day not only to the Lamb of God! Hartmann. The Prelate has uncovered the Ciborium! All. Oh! Hartmann. Rigid silence! I'm about to open! All. [With emotion.] Oh! Hartmann. I open! [He silently thrusts the wings of the folding-doors open. All the Court is prostrate. There is a vague glimpse of candle light. A moment's pause of profound emotion and silence. Theresa slowly rises to look across the kneeling forms; she looks and sees.] Theresa. [Amid the sobs which overmaster her.] Oh! to behold him thus! [Movement. General Hartmann has swiftly closed the doors. Everybody has risen.] Hartmann. Retire! He heard the sobbing! [All have hurried toward the door on the right, but the door on the left opens quickly; the Duke appears on the threshold and sees them all standing before him. After a long look which takes in the situation:] The Duke. Ah!—I see. [He draws himself up, and comes toward them with sudden majesty.] I thank the breaking heart that broke the silence; Let her who wept feel no remorse for weeping: They had no right to rob me of my death. [To the Archdukes and Archduchesses, who withdraw respectfully.] But leave me now, my Austrian family! "My son was born a Frenchman; until death Let him remember that." And I remember. [To the Princes who are leaving.] Farewell. [To the others.] Whose was the breaking heart? Theresa. [Who has remained humbly on her knees in a corner.] My Lord—! The Duke. [Approaching her, and speaking with great tenderness.] You are not very reasonable! Once Over your book you wept to see me live An Austrian Prince with flowers in my coat; And now you weep because that life has killed me. Theresa. The tryst— The Duke. Well? Theresa. I was there. The Duke. Alas, poor soul! Theresa. Yes— The Duke. Why? Theresa. Because I love you. The Duke. [To the Countess.] Madam, You hid this from me. Why? The Countess. Because I love you. The Duke. [To Theresa and the Countess.] Who brought you both to see me? [Theresa and the Countess look at the Archduchess.] The Duke. [To the Archduchess.] You? The Archduchess. Myself. The Duke. Why so much thoughtfulness? The Archduchess. Because I love you. The Duke. Women have loved me as they love a child— [The Three Women make a gesture of protest.] Ah, yes! The child they pity, spoil, and shelter— And with maternal fingers, on my brow Still sought the golden curls which Lawrence painted. The Countess. No, no! We knew the struggles of your soul! The Duke. And history itself will not record The Prince whose soul was seared with all ambitions, But see the solemn, rosy, fair-haired child Tricked out in laces in his little goat-cart, Holding the globe as 'twere an air-balloon. Maria Louisa. Speak to me! I am here! Give me a word To soothe remorse, for through no fault of mine I was too small beside your mighty dreams. I have the thriftless conscience of a bird! The tinkling bells that jangle in my brain Have never ceased till now. Look at me now! Speak to me now! Forgive me now! The Duke. O God! Inspire me with the deep, yet tender word With which a son forgives his mother. Maria Louisa. Franz, The cradle which you asked them for last night— A Lackey. 'Tis here. [He goes out to fetch it.] The Duke. [Looking at Metternich.] Ah, my Lord Chancellor, I die Too soon for you; and you should weep. Metternich. My Lord—! The Duke. I was your weapon and my death disarms you! Europe, which never dared to say you nay, When you were he who could unchain the Eaglet, Listening to-morrow, will take heart, and say "I do not hear it stirring in its cage!" Metternich. My Lord! My Lord! [The great enamelled cradle is brought in.] The Duke. The cradle Paris gave me! My splendid cradle, Prudhon's masterpiece! Amidst its gold and mother-o'-pearl I slept, A babe, whose christening was a coronation. Place it beside this little bed, whereon My Father slept when victory fanned his slumbers. Closer! until its laces graze the sheets. Alas! how near my cradle to my death-bed! [ He points to the gap between the cradle and the bed.] And all my life lies in that narrow space! Theresa. Oh!— The Duke. In that gap, too narrow and too dark, Fate ne'er let fall a single pin of glory. Lay me upon the bed. Dietrichstein. How pale he grows! The Duke. Ah, I was greater in my cradle, than I am upon this bed; and women rocked me— Yes, I had three to rock me, and they sang Their strange old songs: dear songs of Mistress Marchand! Oh, who will lull me now with cradle-songs? Maria Louisa. Is not your mother here to sing to you? The Duke. Do you know any songs of France? Maria Louisa. Why—no. The Duke. [To Theresa.] And you? Theresa. Perhaps. The Duke. Oh, sing below your breath. "The rain falls, Shepherdess" and "May is come," And sing "Upon the bridge that spans the Rhone," That I may sleep, rocked on the people's fancy. There was a song I used to love; sing that:— There was a little man, And he was clad in gray— Theresa. Break, tender heart, as broke the heart of iron— The Countess. A crystal, shattered by a brazen echo— The Archduchess. A harp-string, shattered by a battle-song— Theresa. A lily sinking silently on laurels. The Doctor. My Lord is very ill. Stand more apart. Theresa. Farewell, François—! The Archduchess. Farewell, Franz! The Countess. Farewell, Bonaparte! Maria Louisa. Alas, his head grows heavy on my shoulder! The Archduchess. Duke of Reichstadt! The Countess. King of Rome! Theresa. Poor child! The Duke. [Deliriously.] The horses! horses! The Prelate [Wagner]. Let us fall to prayer! The Duke. Horses! that I may ride to meet my father! Maria Louisa. Will you not let me wipe away your tears? The Duke. No, for the Victories, my sisters—Lo! I see them! see them! in a headlong flight Draw nigh to lave their glory in my tears! Maria Louisa. What are you saying? The Duke. Nothing. Did I speak? Hush! Father, that's our secret: yours and mine!— My funeral will be ugly. Mumbling women; Lackeys with torches; droning Capuchins; And then they'll lock me in their crypt—and then— Maria Louisa. Tell me your sufferings, child! The Duke. Oh! Superhuman!— And then, official mourning for six weeks. The Countess. He snatches at the cradle's lace, as if To make a winding sheet— The Duke. It will be ugly— I must remember how they christen better In Paris than they bury in Vienna. General Hartmann! Hartmann. Prince! The Duke. Yes—while I wait For death, I'll rock my childhood— [He hands General Hartmann a book from under his pillow.] Here— [General Hartmann takes the book. The Duke falls to rocking the cradle.] I rock My past—I rock my past—As though The Duke of Reichstadt rocked the King of Rome. General—I marked a place— Hartmann. I see it. The Duke. Good. While I'm dying, read aloud— Maria Louisa. No, no! You shall not die! The Duke. You may begin to read. Hartmann. [Standing at the foot of the bed and reading.] "Toward seven o'clock the Calvary appear, Forming the head of the procession—" Maria Louisa. [Falling on her knees in a paroxysm of sobs.] Franz! Hartmann. "The people, shaken with great sobs of joy, Utter a shout:—'Long live the King of Rome!'—" Maria Louisa. Franz! Hartmann. "And the guns salute; the Cardinal Receives their Majesties, and so the pageant Moves up the aisle as ancient rules prescribe. The Ushers, Kings-at-Arms, their chief, the pages, The various officers of the staff, the—" [Noticing that the Duke has closed his eyes, he stops.] The Duke. [Opening his eyes.] Yes? Hartmann. "The Chamberlains, the Prefects of the palace, Ministers, Masters of the Horse—" The Duke. [With failing voice.] Go on. Hartmann. "Marshals of France, Grand Eagles; and Princess Aldobrandini holds the chrisom-cloth; The Countesses Vilain and de Beauvau Bring in the ewer and the salt-cellar—" The Duke. [Still paler and growing rigid.] Read on, sir. Mother—mother—lift me up. [Maria Louisa, assisted by the Prelate and Doctor Malfatti, raises him on his pillows.] Hartmann. "Then the Grand Duke, who took on this occasion The Austrian Emperor's place as Sponsor: then Queen Hortense, and the Imperial Godmother; Lastly, the King of Rome, borne by Her Grace, The Duchess of Montesquieu. His Majesty, Whose healthy mien the crowd observed with joy, Wore a great silver mantle, lined with ermine, Whose train His Grace the Duke of Valmy bore. Princes—" The Duke. Omit the Princes. Hartmann. [Turning over a page.] "Kings—" The Duke. Omit The Kings. The end, sir; read the end— Hartmann. [Turning over several pages.] "And when—" The Duke. I cannot hear you. Louder. Doctor Malfatti. [To Wagner.] The last agony. Hartmann. [Raising his voice.] "And when the Herald thrice within the choir Had cried 'Long live the King of Rome!' before They handed back the baby to its nurse, The Emperor gently took it from—" [He hesitates, with a glance at Maria Louisa.] The Duke. [With infinite nobility and placing his hand with tender forgiveness on the head of Maria Louisa, who is kneeling at his side.] The Empress! Hartmann. "And raised it to receive the acclamation. The loud—" The Duke. [Whose head drops.] Mamma! Maria Louisa. [Throwing herself across his body.] François! The Duke. [Opening his eyes.] Napoleon! [He sinks back.] Hartmann. "The loud Te Deum filled the sanctuary. And all that night, throughout the realm of France, With equal pomp, solemnity, and joy—" Doctor Malfatti. [Putting his hand on the General's arm.] Dead! [Silence. The General closes the book.] Metternich. Clothe him in his Austrian uniform. Curtain.