ACT I
Reading edition
The Château of Morbec in Brittany. A formal garden and a wide terrace with stone balustrade. In the background the château, white and peak-roofed, with great arched doors. Beyond it a distant prospect of a Breton village and of the sea beating against a dangerous coast. To the left a thick wood, to the right a perspective of garden alleys, fountains, and flowering trees. On the terrace a small table set with bread, fruit, and wine. In the angle formed by the level of the terrace and the wide stone steps leading into the garden the statue of a nymph, its high and broad pedestal draped with ivy. Scattered on the terrace and steps a litter of stones, broken cudgels, rusty and uncouth weapons. The sun shines, the trees wave in the wind, the birds sing, the flowers bloom. It is a summer morning in the year 1791.
Enter from one of the garden paths a lackey and Rémond Lalain. Lalain wears a riding dress with a tricolour cockade.
Lalain
Say to Monsieur the Baron of Morbec,
Rémond Lalain, the Deputy from Vannes,
In haste is riding north, but hath drawn rein—
2Hearing to-day of Baron Henri’s death—
And audience craves that he may homage pay
To Morbec’s latest lord!
The Lackey
I go, monsieur!
[Exit the lackey.
Lalain
These gloomy towers!
[He muses as he paces the garden walk before the
terrace.
Mirabeau is dead!
Gabriel Riquetti, dead, I salute thee,
Great gladiator! Who treads now the sand
That yesterday was trod by Mirabeau?
Barnave, Lameth, ye are too slight of frame!
There’s Lafayette. No, no, mon général!
Robespierre? Go to, thou little man!
Jean Paul Marat, dog leech and People’s Friend?
Wild beast to fight with beast! Faugh! Down, Marat!
Who stands this course, why, that man’s emperor!
Now how would purple look upon Marat?
Jacques Danton?—Danton! Hot Cordelier!
Dark Titan forging to a Titan’s end!
Shake not thy black locks from the tribune there,
Nor rend the heavens with thy mighty voice!
‘Tis not for thee, the victor’s golden crown,
The voice of France—
[The doors of the château open. Enter three lackeys
bearing a great gilt chair, which they place with
ceremony at the head of the steps which lead from
the terrace into the garden.
3First Lackey (stamping with his foot upon the terrace)
The gilded chair place here!
We always judge our peasants from this chair,
We lords of Morbec! North terrace, gilt chair!
Second Lackey
Baron Henri sat here the day he died!
First Lackey
Now Baron René takes his turn!
[They place the chair.
Lalain (as before)
Danton!
Why not Lalain? It is as good a name!
Mirabeau’s dead! Out of my way, Danton!
Third Lackey (gathering up the stones which lie
upon the terrace)
I’ll throw these stones into the shrubbery!
Second Lackey (lifting a rusty scythe from the steps)
This scythe I’ll fling into the fountain!
First Lackey (his hands in his pockets)
Hé!
One sees quite well that we have stood a siege!
[The lackeys gather up the stones, the sticks, the broken
and rusty tools and weapons.
Lalain
Where lives the man who doth not worship Might?
O Goddess All-in-All! make me thine own,
4As the bright moon did make Endymion;
And I will rim thy Phrygian cap with stars,
And give thee for thy cestus the tricolour!
Enter Grégoire.
Grégoire
Monsieur Lalain!
Lalain (waving his hand)
My good Grégoire!
Grégoire (to the lackeys)
Despatch!
Monseigneur will be here anon!
[He glances at the stones, etc.
Rubbish!
Away with’t!
[Passing the statue of the nymph, he strikes it with
his hand.
Will you forever smile?
Stone lips that long have smiled at bitter wrong!
You might, my dear, have lost that smile last night!
First Lackey
Last night was something like!
Second Lackey (throwing the stones one by one into
the shrubbery)
Sangdieu! last night
My heart was water!
Grégoire
Ah, poltroon; your heart!
5Third Lackey (making play with a broken stick)
Our baron’s a swordsman! His rapier flashed!
First Lackey
Keen as the blade of the Sieur de Morbec!
—And that is a saying old as the sea!
Second Lackey
Hard as the heart of the Sieur de Morbec!
—And that was said before the sea was made!
[They laugh.
Third Lackey (pointing to Lalain)
What’s he?
Grégoire
The advocate Rémond Lalain.
Third Lackey
A patriot?
Grégoire
Hotter than Lanjuinais!
Third Lackey
What does he at Morbec?
Grégoire
How should I know?
His home was once within the village there,
And now and then he visits the curé.
First Lackey
The curé! He visits Yvette Charruel!
Lalain (as before)
Mirabeau and I were born in the south.
6Oh, the orange flower beside the wall!
And the shaken olives when Mistral wakes!
Grégoire
Once they were friends, Baron René and he;
The Revolution came between—
First Lackey (He sends a pike whirling into the
shrubbery)
Long live
The Revolution!
Grégoire
My friend, ‘twill live
Without thy bawling!
Third Lackey (arranging the bottles upon the small
table)
So! The red wine here,
The white wine there!
(To a fallen bottle.) Stand up, Aristocrat!
Lalain
The sun is high!
[He approaches the terrace and addresses the nearest
lackey.
How long must I await
The pleasure of Monsieur the Baron here?
The Lackey
Monsieur?
Lalain
Go, fellow, go! and to him say,
Rémond Lalain—
7The Lackey
I go, monsieur!
[Exit the lackey.
Lalain
‘Tis well,
René de Vardes, to keep me waiting thus!
[Grégoire pours wine into a glass and descending
the steps offers it to Lalain.
Grégoire
The old vintage, Monsieur Lalain!
Lalain
Thanks, friend.
The day is warm.
[He raises the glass to his lips. Laughter and voices
from the winding garden paths.
What’s that?
Grégoire (shrugging)
More guests, no doubt!
The count, the vidame, and the young marquise!
All Morbihan felicitates Morbec,
And brings our baron bonbons and bouquets,
As if there were no hunger and no frost!
[A distant sound from the wood of harsh and complaining
voices.
Lalain
And that?
Grégoire
Soldiers and huntsmen beat the woods;
For half the village is in hiding there,
8Having assayed last night to burn Morbec!
As if ‘twould burn! This time the soldiers came!
Mon Dieu! the times are bad.
Lalain (abruptly)
All the village!
Did Yvette Charruel—
Grégoire (shrugging)
Yvette!
First Lackey (from the terrace)
Yvette!
Second Lackey
I warrant monseigneur will hang Yvette!
[Lalain pours the wine upon the ground and throws
the glass from him. It shatters against the balustrade.
Laughter and voices. Guests appear in the garden
walks, the women in swelling skirts of silk or muslin,
powdered hair and large hats; the men in brocade
and silk with cane swords, or in hunting dress.
A Lady (curtseying)
Monsieur le Vicomte!
A Gentleman (bowing)
Madame la Baronne!
Mme. de Malestroit
A heavenly day.
Enguerrand La Fôret
No cloud in the sky.
9The Vidame (saluting a gentleman)
Count Louis de Château-Gui!
Count Louis
Ah, monsieur!
[Presents his snuff-box.
Mme. de Pont à L’Arche
For laces I advise Louise. Fichus?
The Bleeding Heart above the flower shop.
The Vidame
—A lettre de cachet. To Vincennes he went!
Mme. de Malestroit
But ah! what use of laces or fichus!
We emigrate so fast there’s none to see!
The Englishman
I quote a great man—my Lord Chesterfield:
“Exist in the unhappy land of France
All signs that history hath ever shown”—
Mme. de Pont à L’Arche
The Queen wore carnation, Madame, pale rose,
The Dauphin—
Lalain
What do I in this galley?
(To Grégoire.) I’ll walk aside!
[Exit Lalain.
Count Louis (to Grégoire)
Was that Rémond Lalain?
10Grégoire
It was, Monsieur le Comte.
Count Louis
Ah, scélérat!
The Vidame
The talked-of Deputy for Vannes?
La Fôret
Tribune
Eloquent as Antony!
Count Louis
Demagogue!
The Englishman
I heard him in the Jacobins. He spoke,
And then they went and tore a palace down!
Count Louis
Stucco!
Enter, laughing, Mlle. de Château-Gui, Melipars de
L’Orient, and Captain Fauquemont de Buc. De
L’Orient has in his hand a paper of verses.
My daughter and De L’Orient,
Captain Fauquemont de Buc!
Mlle. de Château-Gui
Messieurs, mesdames!
The poet and his verses!
The Company
Ah, verses!
11Count Louis
Who is the fair, Monsieur de L’Orient?
Lalage or Laïs or little Fleurette?
Men sang of Célestine when I was young,—
Ah, Célestine, behind thy white rose tree!
De L’Orient
I do not sing of love, Monsieur le Comte!
Mlle. de Château-Gui
He sings of this day—
De Buc
The Eve of Saint John.
De L’Orient
It is a Song of Welcome to De Vardes!
De Buc
But yesterday poor Colonel of Hussars!
Mlle. de Château-Gui
To-day Monsieur the Baron of Morbec!
De L’Orient
Mars to Bellona leaves the tented field.
De Buc
That’s Bouillé at Metz! Kling! rang our spurs—
De Vardes’ and mine—from Verdun to Morbec!
De L’Orient
The warrior hastens to his native weald.
12Count Louis
Would I might see again Henri de Vardes!
De Buc
It would affright you, sir! The man is dead.
Count Louis
Ah, while he lived it was as did become
A nobleman of France and Brittany!
He was my friend; together we were young!
From dawn to dusk, from dusk to dawn again,
We searched for pleasure as for buried gold,
And found it, too, in days when we were young!
From every flint we struck the golden sparks,
We plucked the thistle as we plucked the rose,
And battle gave for every star that shone!
O nymphs that laughing fled while we pursued!
O music that was made when we were young!
O gold we won and duels that we fought!
On guard, monsieur, on guard! Sa! sa! A touch!
What shall we drink? Where shall we dine? Ma foi!
There’s a melting eye at the Golden Crown!
The Angel pours a Burgundy divine!
Come, come, the quarrel’s o’er! So, arm in arm!
O worlds we lost and won when we were young!
O lips we kissed within the jasmine bower!
O sirens singing in the clear moonlight!—
With Bacchus we drank, with Apollo loved,
With Actæon hunted when we were young!
The wax-lights burned with softer lustre then.
The music was more rich when we were young.
Violet was the perfume for hair powder,
13Ruffles were point and buckles were brilliant
And lords were lords in the old land of France!
We did what we would, and lettres de cachet,
Like cooing doves they fluttered from our hands!
De L’Orient
Our tribute take, last of a noble line!
Count Louis
Women! There will come no more such women!
De L’Orient
The laurel and the empress rose we twine.
Count Louis
And Henri’s gone! And now his cousin reigns,—
René de Vardes that hath been years away!
The King is dead. Well, well, long live the King!
They say he’s brave as Crillon, handsome too,
With that bel air that no De Vardes’s without!
Enter Mme. de Vaucourt followed by the Abbé Jean de
Barbasan.
Mlle. de Château-Gui
Monsieur l’Abbé!
De Buc
Madame de Vaucourt!
Mme. de Vaucourt (with outspread hands)
You’ve heard? Last night they strove to burn Morbec!
All
What?
14Mme. de Vaucourt
The peasants!
Count Louis
Again!
De Buc
Ah, I am vexed.
Messieurs, mesdames, the Baron of Morbec
Silence enjoined, or the tale I’d have told!
The abbé is so bold—
The Abbé
De Buc’s so proud!
And just because he brought us help from Vannes!
The red Hussars to hive the bees again!
The Englishman
The seigneur and his peasants are at odds?
The Abbé
Slightly!
Count Louis (complacently)
Henri was hated! Hate descends
With the land.
De L’Orient
There is a girl of these parts—
Count Louis
Eh?
De L’Orient
She plays the firebrand.
15Count Louis
Bah!
De L’Orient
She hath
The loveliest face!
Count Louis
Hm!
The Abbé
I am unscathed.
De Vardes is slightly wounded!
All
Oh!
Count Louis
Morbleu!
And how did it happen, Monsieur l’Abbé?
The Abbé
Behold us at our ease in the great hall,
De Vardes and I, a-musing o’er piquet!
Voltaire beside us, for we read “Alzire,”
A wine as well, more suave than any verse;
A still and starlit night, soft, fair, and warm;
Wax-lights, and roses in a china bowl.
He laid aside his sword and I my cap,
All tranquilly at home, the Two Estates!
He held carte blanche, I followed with quatorze.
The roses sweetly smelled, the candles burned,
At peace we were with nature and mankind.—
A crash of painted glass! a whirling stone!
16A candle out! the roses all o’erturned!
The thunder of a log against our doors!
A clattering of sabots! a sudden shout!
Morbec, Morbec, it is thy Judgment Night!
Admission, admission, Aristocrats!
Red turns the night, the servants all rush in.
Sieur! Sieur! the lackeys moan and wring their hands.
Give, give! the terrace croaks. Burn, Morbec, burn!
The great bell swings in the windy tower
Till the wolves in the forest pause to hear.
Fall, Morbec, fall! France has no need of thee!
Upsprings a rosy light! a smell of smoke!
Mischief’s afoot! The Baron of Morbec
Lays down his cards and takes his rapier up,
Hums Le Sein de sa Famille, shuts Alzire,
Resignedly rises—
Count Louis (rubbing his hands)
Expresses regret
That monsieur his guest—
The Abbé
Should be incommoded
And turns to the door. I levy the tongs.
The seneschal Grégoire hauls from the wall
An ancient arquebus! The lackeys wail,
And nothing do, as is the lackey’s wont!
Again the peasants thunder at the door!
Open, De Vardes! Oh, hated of all names!
The new is as the old! Death to De Vardes!
The log strikes full, and now a panel breaks;
In comes a hand that brandishes a pike;
17A voice behind, We’ve come to sup with thee!
For thou hast bread and we have none, De Vardes!
The Englishman
Ha, ha! ha, ha! ha, ha!
Count Louis
You laugh, monsieur?
The Abbé
I like calmness myself. Calm of the sea,
Calm skies, the calm spring, and calmness of mind!
A tempest’s plebeian! So I admired
René de Vardes when he walked to the door
And opened it! Behold the whole wolf pack,
As lean as ‘twere winter! canaille all!
Sans-culottes and tatterdemalions,
Mere dust of the field and sand of the shore;
Humanity’s shreds would follow the mode,
And burn the château of their rightful lord!
De Vardes’ peasants in fine. Mort aux tyrans!
À bas Aristocrat! Vive la patrie!
Vive la Révolution! In they pressed,
Gaunt, haggard, and shrill, and full in the front—
Young and fair, conceive! dark-eyed and red-lipped—
A fury, a mænad, a girl called—
De L’Orient
Yvette!
The Abbé
So they named her, the peasants of Morbec,
Named and applauded the dark-eyed besom!
18When, De Vardes’ drawn rapier just touching
Her breast-knot of blue as she stood in his path,
Up went her brown hand, armed with a sickle!—
De Vardes is a known fencer,—‘tis lucky!
His wound is not deep, and in the left arm!
The Vidame
She may hang for that! How high I forget
The gallows should be—
Count Louis (offering his snuff-box)
Monsieur le Vidame,
Thirty feet, I believe!
The Vidame
But not in chains—
Count Louis
No! It was the left arm.
De L’Orient
What did De Vardes?
The Abbé
De Vardes, with Liancourt and Rochefoucauld,
Holds that the peasant doth possess a soul!
I think it hurt him to the heart that he,
New come to Morbec, and unknown to these,
His vassals of the village, field, and shore,
Should be esteemed by them an enemy,
A Baron Henri come again, forsooth!
But since ‘twas so, out rapier! parry! thrust!
Diable! he’s a swordsman to my mind!
19The mænad with the sickle he puts by;
Runs through the arm a clamourer of corvée,
Brings howling to his knees a sans-culotte,
And strikes a flail from out a claw-like hand!
They falter, they give way, the craven throng!
The women cry them on; they swarm again.
His bright steel flashes, rise and fall my tongs!
But the lackeys are naught, and Grégoire finds
A flaw in his musket; he will not fire!
Pardieu! the things this Revolution kills!
There is no faithfulness in service now!
Our peasants grow bold. Ma foi! we’re at bay!
De Vardes and De Barbasan, rapier, tongs!
Wild blows and wild cries, blown smoke and a glare,
And the girl Yvette with her reaping hook
Still pushed to the front by the women there!
Upon De Vardes’ white sleeve the blood is dark,
And his breath comes fast! I see the event
As ‘twill look in print in Paris next week,
In L’Ami du Peuple or Journal du Roi!
“The Vain Defence of an Ancient Château!
When we Burn so Much, why not Burn the Land?”
And I break with my tongs a young death’s-head
That’s bawling—What think you?—Vive la République.
Count Louis
Death and damnation!
The Abbé
So I said! And then,
Quite, I assure you, in time’s very nick,
The saint De Vardes prays to smiled on him!
20A thunder clap!—Pas de charge! En avant!
Captain Fauquemont de Buc and his Hussars!
De Buc
Warned by the saint, we galloped from Auray!
The Abbé
Like the dead leaves borne afar on the blast,
Or like the sea mist when the sun rises,
Or like the red deer when the horn’s sounded,—
Like anything in short that’s light o’ heel,—
Vanished our peasants! The women went last;
And last of all the mænad with the eyes!
Jesu! She might have been Jeanne d’Arc, that girl!
The man who captures her has a hand full!—
To the deep woods they fled, are hunted now.—
De Vardes and I gave welcome to De Buc,
Put out the fire, attended to our wounds,
Resumed our cards, and finished our Alzire—
The Château of Morbec stands, you observe!
[The company applauds.
Mlle. de Château-Gui
But who was the saint?—
De Buc
Ah, here is De Vardes!
Enter De Vardes. He is dressed in slight mourning and
carries his arm in a sling.
The Guests
Monsieur the Baron of Morbec!
21De Vardes
Welcome,
The brave and the fair, my old friends and new!
Welcome to Morbec!
Count Louis
Ah, your wounded arm!—
Our regret is profound!
De Vardes
It is nothing.
The fraternal embrace of the people!
Count Louis
Oh, the people!
Mme. de Vaucourt
The people!
De L’Orient
The people!
Count Louis
My friend, permit us to hope you will make
Of the people a signal example!
De Vardes
They are misguided.
Count Louis
Misguided! Morbleu!
De Vardes
I will talk to them.
22Count Louis
Monsieur le Baron,
Let your soldiers talk with a bayonet’s point,
Your bailiffs with a rope—
Mme. de Vaucourt
But what good saint
Brought warning to Auray?
De L’Orient
I guess that saint!
[A lackey appears upon the terrace.
The Lackey
Madame la Marquise de Blanchefôret!
The Guests
Ah!
La belle marquise!
Enter The Marquise.
De Buc
The saint!
De Vardes
My neighbour fair,
And to De Barbasan and me last night
A guardian angel—
[He greets The Marquise.
Madame la Marquise!
The Marquise
Monsieur le Baron!
(To the company.) Messieurs, mesdames!
23De Vardes
From Blanchefôret to Auray through the night
This lady rode—
The Marquise (with gayety)
Ah, how I rode last night,
To Auray through the dark! This way it was:
I overheard two peasants yestereve
As in a lane I sought for eglantine.
“How long hath Morbec stood?” said one. “Too long!
But when to-morrow dawns ‘twill not be there!
And we were born, I think, to burn châteaux!—
Ten, by the village clock—forget it not!”
The Abbé
Ah, ay, the while I dealt the clock struck ten.
The Marquise
It was already dusk.—Like grey death moths
They slipped away! I knew not whom to trust,
For in these times there’s no fidelity,
No faithful groom, no steadfast messenger!
My little page brought me my Zuleika.
I knew the red Hussars were at Auray,
And that ‘twas said they loved their colonel well!
So to Auray came Zuleika and I!
De Buc
We thought it was Dian in huntress dress!
De Vardes
How deeply am I, Goddess, in thy debt!
No gold is coined wherewith I may repay!
[Music within.
24The Marquise
Give me a rose from yonder tree!
[Laughing voices within.
Mlle. de Château-Gui
More guests,
They’re on the south terrace!
De L’Orient
Violins too!
Ah, the old air—
[He sings.
There lived a king in Ys,
In Ys the city old!
Beside the sounding sea
He counted o’er his gold.
De Vardes
Let us meet them.
[He gives his hand to The Marquise. Exeunt
Count Louis, The Abbé, De Buc, De L’Orient,
etc. Grégoire approaches De Vardes.
Grégoire
Monseigneur—Monsieur the Deputy!
De Vardes
Ah!
Say to monsieur I’m not at leisure now.
[Exeunt De Vardes and The Marquise. The
terrace and garden are deserted save for Grégoire,
who seats himself in the shadow of the balustrade.
25Grégoire
Humph!—Monseigneur’s not at leisure.
[He draws a Paris journal from his pocket and
reads, following the letters with his forefinger.
What news?
What says Jean Paul Marat, the People’s Friend?
[A cry from the wood and the sound of breaking
boughs. Yvette and Séraphine enter the garden.
Raôul the Huntsman’s voice within.
The Huntsman
Hilloa!—Hilloa!—Hilloa!
[Yvette and Séraphine turn towards one of the
garden alleys. Laughter and voices.
Yvette
Go not that way!
Séraphine
There is no way!
The Huntsman (within)
Hilloa!—Hilloa!
Séraphine
We’re caught!
Yvette
The terrace there! Behind the stone woman!
[They cross the garden to the terrace.
Séraphine (She stops abruptly and points to the table)
Bread!
26The Huntsman (nearer)
Hilloa!—Hilloa!
[Yvette and Séraphine turn from the table and
hide behind the tall, ivy-draped pedestal of the
statue. Grégoire looks up from his paper and sees
them.
Enter Raôul the Huntsman.
The Huntsman
This way they came!
Grégoire (jerking his thumb over his shoulder)
Down yonder path!—plump to the woods again!
The Huntsman
The Hussars from Auray have twenty rogues!
Grégoire
Indeed!
The Huntsman
These two and my bag’s full!
[Exit The Huntsman.
Grégoire
Diable!
[He reads aloud.
Weary at last of intolerable wrong,
The peasants of Goy in Normandy rose
And burned the château. Who questions their right?
[He folds his paper.
Saint Yves! this stone is much harder than Goy!
[He looks fixedly at the statue and raises his voice.
Ma’m’selle who would smile at the trump of doom,
27I think that all the village will be hanged!
And at its head that brown young witch they call
Yvette—
Reënter De Vardes and The Marquise.
De Vardes (to Grégoire)
Begone!
[Exit Grégoire. De Vardes and The Marquise
rest beside the statue, Yvette listening.
Why, what’s a soldier for?
But pity me, pity me, belle Marquise!
Since pity is so sweet!
The Marquise
I’m sure it is
A fearful wound!
De Vardes
A fearful wound indeed!
But ‘tis not in the arm!
The Marquise
No, monsieur?
De Vardes
No!
The heart! I swear that it is bleeding fast!
And I have naught wherewith to stanch the wound.
Your kerchief—
The Marquise
Just a piece of lace!
28De Vardes
‘Twill serve.
The Marquise (giving her handkerchief)
Well, there!—Now tell me of last night.
De Vardes
Last night!
Why, all this tintamarre was but a dream,
Fanfare of fairy trumpets while we slept.
A night it was for love-in-idleness,
And fragrant thoughts and airy phantasy!
There was no moon, but Venus shone as bright;
The honeysuckle blew its tiny horn
To tell the rose a moth was coming by.
Clarice-Marie! sang all the nightingales,
Or would have sung were nightingales abroad!
Hush, hush! the little waves kept whispering.
The ivy at your window still was peeping;
You lay in dreams, that gold curl on your breast!
The Marquise
No, no! You cheat me not, monsieur! Last night
I did not sleep!
De Vardes
Nor I!
The Marquise
Miserable brigands!
De Vardes
No, not brigands! Just wretched flesh and blood.
The Marquise
You pity them?
29De Vardes
Ay.
The Marquise
Were I a seigneur,
Lord of Morbec—
De Vardes
Were I a poor fisher,
Sailing at sunrise home from the islands,
Over the sea, and all my heart singing!
And you were a herd girl slender and sweet,
With the gold of your hair beneath your cap,
And you kept the cows and you were my douce,
And you waved your hand from the green cliff head
When the sun and I came up from the sea!—
And there was a seigneur so great and grim
Who walked in his garden and said aloud,
“How many fish has he taken for me?
Which of her cows shall I keep for myself?
I leave him enough to pay for the Mass
The day he is drowned, and the girl shall have
The range of the hills for her one poor cow!
Why should the fisher fret, the herd girl weep?
There is no reason in a serf’s dull heart!
I might have taken all. It is my right!”
La belle Marquise, what would the herd girl do?
And should the fisher suffer and say naught?
The Marquise
There is no fisher nor no herd girl here.
How fair the roses of Morbec, monsieur!
30De Vardes
Ay, they are lovely queens. They know it too!
I better like the heartsease at your feet.
The Marquise
It is a peasant flower!—Sieur de Morbec,
Have you never loved?
De Vardes
How fair is the day!
For loving how fit! ‘Tis the Eve of Saint John.
The Marquise
Yes.
De Vardes
Last year I loved on this very day.
Take the omen, madame!
The Marquise
We had not met,
You and I!
De Vardes
Ah, ‘tis true! We had not met!—
And so, fair as you are, you were not there,
In Paimpont Wood, on the Eve of Saint John?
The Marquise
No!
De Vardes
I wonder who was!
The Marquise
In Paimpont Wood!
It is haunted!
31De Vardes
On the Eve of Saint John
I rode from Morbec here to Chatillon,
And through the wood of Paimpont fared alone.
It is a forest where enchantments thrive,
And a fair dream doth drop from every tree!
The old, old world of bitterness and strife
Is remote as winter, remote as death.
It was high noon in the turbulent town;
But clocks never strike in the elfin wood,
And the sun’s ruddy gold is elsewhere spent.
The light was dim in the depths of Paimpont,
Green, reverend, and dim as the light may be
In a sea king’s palace under the sea.
The wind did not blow; the flowering bough
Was still as the rose on a dead man’s breast.
On velvet hoof the doe and fawn went by;
In other woods the lark and linnet sang;
A stealthy way was taken by the fox;
The badger trod upon the softest moss;
And like a shadow flitted past the hare.
Without a sound the haunted fountain played.
The oak boughs dreamed; the pine was motionless;
Its silver arms the beech in silence spread;
The poplar had forgot its lullaby.
It was as still as cloudland in the wood,
For in a hawthorn brake old Merlin sleeps,
And every leaf is hushed for love of him.
There through the years they sleep and listless dream,
The wood of Paimpont and the wizard old.
They dream of valleys where the lilies blow;
They dream of woodland gods and castles high,
32Of faun and Pan and of the Table Round,
Of dryad trees and of a maiden dark—
That Vivien whom old Merlin once did love,
Vivien le Gai whose love was poisonous!
The Marquise
I’ve heard it said by women spinning flax,
“Who wanders in Paimpont wanders in love;
Let him who loves in Paimpont Wood beware!”
De Vardes
Ah, idle word! Oh, many silver bells
Since Vivien’s day have rung, Beware, beware!
And rung in vain, for in every clime
Lies Paimpont Wood, dawns the Eve of Saint John!
The Marquise
And in the forest there whom did you love?
De Vardes
I do not know. I have not seen her since,
Unless—unless I saw her face last night!
Yvette (behind the base of the statue)
Oh!—
De Vardes
Did you not hear a voice?
The Marquise
‘Tis the wind.—
You’re riding through the wood to Chatillon.
De Vardes
It was a lonely forest, deep and vast,
A secret and a soundless trysting-place,
33Where one might meet, nor be surprised to meet,
From out his past, or from his life to come,
A veilèd shape, a presence bitter-sweet,
A thing that was, a thing was yet to be!
It seemed a fatal place, a destined day.
Down a long aisle of beechen trees I rode,
And came upon a small and sunny vale,
And there I met a face from out a dream,
An ancient dream, a dark and lovely face.—
Give me your fan of pearl and ivory!
[He takes the fan from The Marquise.
I’ll turn enchanter, use it for my rod,
And make you see, Marquise, the very place!
[He points with the fan.
Here sprang the silver column of a beech;
There, mossy knees of a most ancient oak;
Yonder a wall of thickest foliage rose;
And here a misty streamlet flowed
With a voice more low than the dying fall
Of a trouvère’s lute in Languedoc,
And on its shore the slender flowers grew;
Upon a foxglove bell hung papillon;
And all around the grass was long and fine.
Within this sylvan space, ah, ages since!
The white-robed Druids in the cold moonlight
Had reared an altar stone of wondrous height;
The fane was there, the Druids were away.
All fragrant was the air, and sunny still,—
On the Eve of Saint John ‘tis ever so!
Above, the sky was blue without a cloud;
The sun stood sentinel o’er the haunted wood.
And there she lay, the woman of a dream,
34Against the Druid Stone, amid the bloom;
Her eyes were on the stream; she leaned her ear;
From far away the trouvère played to her;
In flakes of gold the sunlight blessed her hair;
Her lips were red; she seemed a princess old;
Mid purple bloom she lay and gazed afar,
In the magic wood on a magic day,
Listening to hear the mighty trouvère play.
Was she a princess or a peasant maid?
I do not know, pardie! She may have been
That Vivien who wrought old Merlin wrong.
I cannot tell if she were rich or poor;
I only saw her face; I only know
I loved the dream I met in Paimpont Wood
As I did ride last year to Chatillon
On Saint John’s Eve.—
[He lays the fan upon the table.
So I have loved, Marquise!
The Marquise
What did your pretty dream?
De Vardes
As other dreams;
She fled!
The Marquise
And you pursued?
De Vardes
Yes, but in vain!
Trouble no dream that is dreamed in Paimpont!
The wood closed around her; she vanished quite.
It must have been that evil Vivien,
Since you, Marquise, have never trod the wood!
35The Marquise
Would I have fled?
De Vardes
Why, then, without doubt
It was Vivien! But yet do you know
‘Tis the Eve of Saint John, and here, last night,
I dreamed that I saw my dream again!
[The hand and arm of the statue fall, broken, to the
ground at the feet of The Marquise.
The Marquise
Ah!
De Vardes (pushes the marble aside with his foot)
It is nothing! The stone was cracked last night.
Some crack-brained peasant had no better mark!
The Marquise
‘Tis a présigne!—I feel it.—
De Vardes
You shudder!
The Marquise
One trod near my grave! I’m suddenly cold!
De Vardes
The sun never shines on this terrace!
The Marquise
No!
‘Twas an air from the Forest of Paimpont
Came over me!
[Voices within. De L’Orient sings.
36De L’Orient
In Ys they did rejoice,
In Ys the wine was free;
The Ocean lent its voice
Unto that revelry!
The Marquise
Oh, come away!
Let us find the violins and the sun!
There are other woods than Paimpont. Come away!
[Exeunt De Vardes and The Marquise.
Yvette (leaves the shadow of the statue)
‘Twas he! That horseman who did waken me
That Saint John’s Eve I strayed in Paimpont Wood!
O Our Lady—
Séraphine (from the statue)
Saint Yves! There is bread!
[Yvette takes from the table a loaf of bread and
throws it to Séraphine, who springs upon it like a
famished wolf.
Ah—h—h!
[Setting her teeth in the loaf.
[Yvette, about to lay her hand upon another round of
bread, sees the fan lying upon the cloth. She leaves
the bread and takes up the fan. It opens in her hand.
Yvette
Oh!—
[She sits in the great chair and waves the fan slowly
to and fro.
Were I a lady fair and free,
I would powder my hair with dust of gold,
37I would clasp a necklace around my throat,
Of jewels rare, and a gown I would wear,
Blue silk like Our Lady of Toute Remède!
My shoes should be made of golden stuff,
And a broidered glove should dress my hand,
My hand so white that a lord might kiss!
I would spin fine flax from a silver wheel,
I would weave a web for my bridal sheets,
I would sing of King Gradlon under the sea,
Were I a lady fair and free!
Enter Grégoire.
Séraphine (from the statue)
Yvette!
Yvette!
Yvette
Peace, peace!
Grégoire
What have you there?
Yvette
A fan.
So long I’ve wanted one!
Grégoire
A fan, forsooth!
You cannot eat a fan, drink it, wear it!
Yvette
I would look on’t.
One day at Vannes the deputy’s sister
Showed me a fan, but it was not like this!
38Oh, not like this with these wreaths of roses,
These painted clouds, this fairy ship!
Grégoire
The price
Would keep a peasant from starvation!
And belike it fell from the lifted hand
Of Madame la Marquise de Blanchefôret!
[The fan breaks in Yvette’s hand.
Séraphine (leaving the statue)
Thou evil-starred!
Yvette
What have I done?
Grégoire
Diantre!
Now you will be beaten as well as hanged!
Yvette
She called us miserable brigands!
Enter De Vardes.
Séraphine
Saint Yves! Saint Hervé! Saint Herbot!
De Vardes (to Grégoire)
Voices?
Grégoire
Monseigneur?
De Vardes
The fan of Madame la Marquise.
39Grégoire
Monseigneur?
De Vardes (perceiving Yvette and Séraphine)
What will you have, good people?
Séraphine
Saint Guenolé! Saint Thromeur! Saint Sulic!—
He did not see us in the dark last night!
[De Vardes regards them more closely.
Grégoire
Séraphine Robin—Yvette Charruel—
They are not bad folk, monseigneur!
Séraphine
No, faith!
[De Vardes studies the name written upon a playing
card which he holds in his hand.
De Vardes (to Grégoire)
Say to Monsieur the Deputy from Vannes
That I await him here.
[Exit Grégoire. De Vardes looks intently at
Yvette.
Yvette
It was so beautiful,
The fan—I took it in my hand—it broke!
Séraphine
All that she touches breaks!
De Vardes (to Yvette)
Wast ever thou
In the Forest of Paimpont?
40Yvette
Oh, monseigneur!
Last Eve of Saint John, by the Druid Stone!
De Vardes
Ah!—
[He takes the fan from Yvette’s hand and examines it.
Beyond all remedy!—Well, ‘tis done.
Do not tremble so!
Yvette
I tremble not!
Enter Lalain.
Séraphine (to Yvette)
Here’s Monsieur Lalain!
Yvette
I care not, I!
De Vardes
Ah,
Rémond Lalain!
Lalain (stiffly)
Monsieur—
De Vardes
A moment, pray,
Until I’ve spoken with these worthy folk!
Lalain (coldly)
Monsieur the Baron’s pleasure!
[He moves aside, but in passing speaks to Yvette.
Yvette! Yvette!
41Yvette
Monsieur the Deputy?
Lalain
Too fair art thou!
Beware! This is the Seigneur of Morbec!
Yvette
I know.
Lalain
He is the foe of France!
Yvette
I know.
De Vardes (to Séraphine)
Your business, well?
Séraphine (stammering)
Our business, monseigneur?—
Oh, give me help, Saint Yves le Véridique!—
Our business?—Saint Michel!—Well, since we’re here!—
Monseigneur, was the pullet plump and sweet?
De Vardes
The pullet?
Yvette
Our pullet, monseigneur.
Lalain
Distrained for rent!
Séraphine
And Lisette, monseigneur?
May we enquire for Lisette’s health?
De Vardes
Lisette?
42Yvette
Our cow, monseigneur.
Lalain
Taken for taxes!
Séraphine
It was the best Lisette!
Yvette
She followed me
Through the green lanes, and o’er the meadows salt.
Her breath was sweet as May!
De Vardes
It would please you
To have your cow again?
Yvette
Oh, monseigneur!
Monseigneur, I’m the herd girl of Morbec!
Lalain (aside)
They gaze into each other’s eyes!
De Vardes
What is
Thy name?
Yvette
Yvette.
Séraphine
Ay, ay, ‘tis so!—Yvette.
Called also The Right of the Seigneur!—
43De Vardes
The Right of the Seigneur!
Séraphine (nodding)
Just so.
Lalain (aside)
Recall
Just one of a great seigneur’s privileges!
Baiser des mariées, in short, my friend!
Séraphine
O holy Saints! the night that she was born!
The thunder pealed, the sea gave forth a cry,
The forked lightnings played, the winds were out
And in the hut her mother lay and wailed,
And called on all the saints, the while Jehan
(That was her mother’s husband, monseigneur),
He stood and struck his heel against the logs.
Up flew the sparks, for all the wood was drift,
Salt with the sea, and every flame was blue.
I held the babe—Yvette, show monseigneur
The mark beneath the ear!
Yvette
No!
Séraphine
Stubbornness!
‘Tis there!
Lalain
A birthmark—a small blue flower!
44De Vardes
Ah!
Séraphine
Ay! a little mark.—Jehan Charruel!
He was a violent man,—the sea breeds such!
He cursed Yvonne upon her pallet there,
So pale she was, and dying with the tide!
He cursed the saints, the purple mark, the babe,
And some one else I dare not name—
Lalain
I dare!
Henri-Etienne-Amaury de Vardes,
Late Baron of Morbec!
Séraphine
Then out he goes,
A-weeping hard—Jehan—into the night.
Ouf! how it blew!—
The sea ran high, he met it in the dark,
Was drowned! Yvonne went with the ebb. Behold
Yvette!
[Séraphine retreats to the table, where she furtively
drinks from a half-emptied wineglass. Lalain follows
her and the two talk together.
De Vardes
That purple flower, that violet
By nature limned upon thy slender throat,—
From north to south, from east to west ‘tis known!
A De Vardes bore that mark at Poitiers.
The marshal, Hugues the Fair, and black Arnaud,
The late baron—Why, what hast thou to do
45With burning down châteaux to make a light
To show the Morbihan that purple flower?
Yvette
O Our Lady of Thorns!
De Vardes
Herd girl too fair!
And vision of Paimpont, fair as I dreamed!
How fair was thy errand last night?
Yvette
Monseigneur!
De Vardes
In the ashes of Morbec what shouldst thou find?
Yvette
We only wished to make a little light—
A little light to let the neighbours know
That we were hungry!
De Vardes
What neighbours hast thou?
Yvette
Normandy and Maine, Anjou and Poitou,
The sea, the sky, and somewhat far away,
The Club of the Jacobins at Paris.
De Vardes
Thy father was a nobleman of France!
Yvette
I never had a father, monseigneur!
I had a mother, and she loved, they say,
46She dearly loved the fisherman Jehan!
When for the dead I pray, I pray for them.
De Vardes
How old art thou?
Yvette
How old? Ah, let me see!
[She counts upon her fingers.
The year the hailstones fell and killed the wheat;
The year the flax failed and we made no songs;
The year I begged for bread; the bitter year
We buried Louison who died of cold,
And Jacques was hanged who shot the seigneur’s deer;
The Pardon of Sainte Anne I had a gown;
Came Angélique from Paris, told us how
The wicked Queen was smiling, smiling there;
Justine pined away, they shot Michel If,
Down fell the Bastille, I learned Ça ira;
The deputy came to the curé’s house,
Beside the deep blue sea I walked with him.
A day there was at Vannes, a glorious day,
When music played, and every banner waved,
And all the folk went mad and rang the bells!
Vive la Révolution! Vive Mirabeau!
Vive Rémond Lalain! I wept when ‘twas o’er,
Last summer was so fair! I wandered far,
One day I wandered through a darksome wood—
‘Twas on the Eve of good Saint John, I know!
De Vardes
Ah—
Yvette
The summer fled, the light, the warmth did go,
47The winter came that was so cruel cold,
Cold as the dead! And hunger, monseigneur,
With bread at the château!—Died Baron Henri.—
The summer came again, the roses bloomed,
The roses bloomed, but they were not for us!
For us the dank seaweed, the thorny furze.
The lark sang well, but ah, it sang too high!
We could not lift our hearts to heaven’s gate;
We only heard the wind moan at our door.
We cried to the saints, but they took no heed!
One told us what they did at Goy and Vannes,
At Goy and Vannes, pardieu! they helped themselves!
We heard there had come a new lord to Morbec,
A soldier and a stranger to us all!
Three days have gone since I did sit alone
Upon the cliff edge in the waving grass;
The mew and curlew cried, the night wind blew,
And in the sunset glow red turned Morbec!
I thought of my mother, I thought of France,
I looked at the château cruel and high,
And as I was hungry I ate my black bread!—
I think, monseigneur, that I am nineteen.
De Vardes
Pauvre petite!
Yvette
Ah, poor indeed!
De Vardes
How dark
Thine eyes!
Yvette
My mother’s were darker, they say!
48De Vardes
Thy face is the face of a picture there.
Yvette
I know—the Duchess Jeanne, who died for love.
De Vardes
Did Vivien teach thee magic in the wood?
Yvette
Monseigneur?
De Vardes
Pauvre petite!
Yvette
O Our Lady!
The roses smell so sweet—
[Lalain comes forward.
Lalain
I pardon crave,
But I must sup to-night at Rennes. Please you,
Release this peasant girl! Affairs there are
Of which I’d speak—
De Vardes
Ay, presently!
Lalain
Now!
De Vardes
Monsieur!
Lalain
Citoyen René-Amaury Vardes—
49De Vardes
Is that, monsieur, the latest Paris mode?
Citoyen René-Amaury Vardes,
The De left off, our hats (Glances at Lalain) left on!
Lalain (removing his hat)
Monsieur
The Baron of Morbec!
De Vardes (bowing)
Monsieur
The Deputy for Vannes!
[Laughter and voices within.
Enter from the château The Marquise and Mlle. de
Château-Gui with De L’Orient and De Buc.
De L’Orient (sings)
Then spake the king of Ys
Above the song and shout,
Bring here the golden key
That keeps the ocean out!
The Marquise
Monsieur le Baron,
My lost fan!
Yvette (aside)
Oh me!
De Vardes
Madame la Marquise,
I will give you a fan that’s to my taste;
By Watteau painted, mounted by Laudet,
50Fragile and fine, an Adonis of fans!
This that I broke I will keep for myself.
[Pockets the fan.
Forgive the mere accident!
Yvette
Ah!
Séraphine (from the table)
Ah—h—h!
Lalain (aside)
Gods!
If I forgive!
The Marquise
At Blanchefôret, monsieur,
The Watteau, Laudet, Adonis of fans,
I’ll take from your hand—
De Vardes
I ride there anon,
(Aside.) But not through the Forest of Paimpont
And not on the Eve of Saint John.
The Marquise
Come soon,
My garden is sweetest in June.
De L’Orient (sings)
In Ys they sing no more,
In Ys the city old!
The waves are rolling o’er
The king and all his gold.
51Mlle. de Château-Gui
Look at my fan, Monsieur le Baron!
[Lalain crosses to Yvette.
Lalain
Hast thou forgot, hast thou forgot, Yvette,
Thy part, thy lot, the very name they give thee?
This is Morbec, this is the brazen castle!
There are no roses here.
Yvette
So generous
He was!
Lalain
Generous! Oh, well are you called
The Right of the Seigneur!
Yvette (passionately)
Give me not that
Detestable name!
Lalain
So meek under wrongs—
Yvette
Oh!
Lalain
So quick to forget—
Yvette
Oh!
Lalain
La patrie—
Sworn oaths—the tricolour—
52Yvette
Anger me not!
Lalain
On your lips Ça Ira! but in your heart
O Richard, O mon Roi!
Yvette
‘Tis false!
Lalain
And I—and I—Yvette!
Yvette
Speak not to me!
Lalain
You gaze at that man! I tell you he wooes
Madame la Marquise de Blanchefôret!
[Yvette crosses to The Marquise, De Vardes,
and the guests.
Yvette (to The Marquise)
Madame!
I broke the fan! I would pay if I might.
I would keep your cows, or spin your flax—
The Marquise
The fan!
You broke the fan—not monsieur there!
Yvette
No, I!
The Marquise
Sainte Geneviève!
53Enter Count Louis, The Vidame, Mme. de Vaucourt,
etc.
Séraphine
Yvette!
Count Louis
La belle Marquise!
[Séraphine draws Yvette back to the base of the
statue. Count Louis, The Marquise, and the
guests talk together. Lalain crosses to De Vardes.
Lalain
René de Vardes!
De Vardes
Rémond Lalain!
Lalain
This day I bury our friendship of old!
De Vardes
So!
Lalain
I owe to you a thousand louis
Which I’ll repay, monsieur!
De Vardes
I doubt it not.
Lalain
Touch not the girl Yvette!
De Vardes
At last the heart of the matter! I see
You have been through the Forest of Paimpont.
54Lalain
Or touch at your peril!
De Vardes
Monsieur!
Lalain
Oh, if
You lay your hand upon your sword, monsieur,
I’m for you there!
De Vardes
Art mad, or drunk with power,
Monsieur the favourite of the Jacobins?
Lalain
There’ll come a day when to be Jacobin
Is something more, monsieur, than to be king!
De Vardes
Indeed!
[A Sergeant of Hussars appears on the terrace and
salutes.
Sergeant!
The Sergeant
My Colonel!
De Vardes
Well, your report.
The Sergeant
My Colonel, wood and shore we’ve searched since dawn,
And twenty bitter rogues we’ve found, no less!
55They crouched behind the tall grey stones, or lay
Prone in the furze, or knelt at Calvaries!
Two women remain—
[He stares at Yvette and Séraphine.
Séraphine
O Saint Thégonnec!
Saint Guirec! Saint Servan!
Yvette
O Our Lady!
Enter The Abbé.
The Abbé
De Vardes, your precious peasants—
[He sees Yvette.
Who is here?
The De Méricourt, the mænad, I swear!
Who wounded De Vardes!
Yvette
Oh!—
Mme. de Vaucourt
The Egyptian!
Séraphine
Monseigneur, monseigneur, she’s none of mine!
Mlle. de Château-Gui
The poor girl!
Séraphine
Ah, mademoiselle, it is
The innocentest creature!
56The Abbé (touches Yvette upon the cheek)
Good-morning,
My dear!
Count Louis
Hm—m—m!—pretty!
The Vidame
Certainly the gallows
Should be thirty feet high.
Count Louis
Hm—m—m! Something less,
Monsieur le Vidame!
Lalain
Diable!
De Vardes (to the sergeant)
Where are your captives?
The Sergeant
My Colonel,
I have them safely here! Ha! you within!
[Enter from the hall of the château soldiers and
huntsmen with peasants, men and women; some
sullenly submissive, others struggling against their
bonds. They crowd the terrace before the great
doors. The guests of De Vardes to the right and
left upon the terrace, the stairs, and in the garden.
Yvette and Séraphine beside the statue; Lalain
near them; De Vardes with his hand upon the
great chair.
Mme. de Vaucourt
Oh, the brigands!
57Count Louis (rubbing his hands)
Here, Sergeant, range them here,
Upon the terrace! And take the great chair,
De Vardes! Ma foi! We will teach them, the rogues!
Monsieur l’Anglais, have you peasants at home
Plague you at times?—Word of a gentleman!
It seems like old days and Henri again!
[The soldiers thrust their prisoners forward with
the butts of their muskets.
A Man
Monseigneur!
Another
Monseigneur!
A Woman
Madame la Marquise!
My father was your father’s foster brother!
The Marquise
Is that a reason you should burn châteaux?
A Young Woman
Where’s Yvette Charruel?
Yvette
Here, Angélique!
Séraphine (aside to Angélique)
Of course! Betray the girl! I knew you would.
An Old Woman
Yvette said God would have mercy! I faint—
58De Vardes (to Grégoire)
Give her wine!
A Peasant
See! There is Rémond Lalain!
Lalain
Patience, compatriot! Thursday I speak
In the Jacobins!
Angélique
Ah, monseigneur!
Ah, monseigneur, there’s she who led us here!
There’s she who said the shadow of Morbec
Blackened the land as sin blackens the soul!
The Guests
Ah!—
Angélique
That same Yvette, who said, monseigneur,
That delving the earth, the peasants of France
In a long age had delved up a thought!
The Guests
Ah!—
Angélique
She said that we were never born to starve!
She said the seigneur’s dues were all infâme!
The Guests
Ah!—
The Vidame
Burn the witch!
De Vardes
Have you done?
59Angélique
Monseigneur,
She said the forest deer, the hare, the birds,
Were just as much the peasant’s as the lord’s!
The Englishman
What? What?
Angélique
She said the saints they wished no tithes!
The Abbé
I give her up!
Angélique
Monseigneur, monseigneur,
She said that all our hope was the tricolour!
De Buc
O lilies of Bourbon!
Séraphine (to Angélique)
Thou little beast!
Angélique (shrilly)
Yvette said bitter hunger, cold, and want
Came with noblesse and with noblesse would go!
Yvette said the Queen was an Austrian!
Yvette said the King was a fainéant!
Yvette said the princes were traitors!
Yvette said the armies would turn to us!
Yvette heard the drums of the Republic!
The Guests
Out!
60Count Louis
Enough!
Séraphine
Thou hellicat!
A Peasant
Monseigneur!
Saint Yves le Véridique knows it is truth!
She ever rings the tocsin in our hearts!
Another
Yvette Charruel!
A Woman
She led us here!
Another Woman
Yvette!
Yvette Charruel!
Angélique
Yvette?—
[Several of the women laugh.
De Vardes
Why, you are all cowards!
Séraphine
So they are, monseigneur, so they are!
De Vardes (to the peasants)
Who speaks for you?
[A silence.
The Peasants
Monseigneur—monseigneur—
[They break off. De Vardes stands waiting for
them to speak, his hand upon the chair.
61An Old Woman
Yvette—
An Old Man
Yvette—
The Peasants
Monseigneur—
[They break off. They make a sighing sound. The
old woman begins to say her beads.
Yvette
Monseigneur,
They are so hungry! Monseigneur, ‘tis said
You are a soldier and have been to war!
Oh, to us all there comes one battle-field
When we must look into a conqueror’s eyes!
Think then upon that last dark plain and show
Mercy to us who in the shadow stand!
We are your enemies!
De Buc
Faith of an officer!
De Vardes—
Yvette
The children are crying at home,
Monseigneur!
A Woman
O Sainte Vierge, have pity!
Yvette
With bowed heads the old men wait!
62A Woman
Oh, my father!
Yvette
The young men hear the ravens crying!
The Peasants
Aie!—
Yvette
The nets are dry, the red sails laid away,
And all the boats lie idle by the shore.
A Fisherman
Star of the Sea! Pray for poor fisherfolk!
A Peasant
I left my sickle in the standing corn.
Yvette
The wheat must fall, the flax be gathered soon,
Or else we’ll sing no songs in Morbihan!
The Peasants
Aie! The songs of the diskanerien!
Yvette
The hearths are cold and the wheels turn not,
And Hunger sits on every doorstep!
The Peasants
Aie!—
Yvette
To-morrow is the Pardon of the Birds.
The birds go free—the birds go free, monseigneur!
63De Buc
And so I swear should you!
The Peasants
The birds go free!
A Woman
My little bird at home!
The Marquise
Give her, monsieur,
Another fan to break!
Yvette
Not one of yours,
Madame la Marquise!
De Vardes (to the sergeant)
Give them liberty.
The Sergeant
My Colonel?
De Vardes
Cut their bonds; set them free!
Make way for them there!
(To the peasants.) Peasants of Morbec!
Last night you rose against your lord and strove
To burn his house, to slay his guest and him.
How shall he speak to you to-day? Poor fools!
Distraught and blind you struck ere that you looked,
And struck at one who fain would be your friend,
Who has his vision of a seigneur’s right!
These are the towers of Morbec, but I
Am not Baron Henri, blind that ye are!
64I am Baron René, remember my name.
Bread you shall have, I will think of your wrongs.
No foe am I! There are the open doors.
Back to the village go! but look you well.
Mistake no more, it will be dangerous!
Creep not this way again in the dark night,
Or you may meet an ancient Lord of Morbec!
More loyal grow, cease all your traitorous talk,
Raise not Rebellion’s head or it will find
A soldier of the King with armèd heel!
Mistake no more! This once I pardon you.
Begone! The fields await you and the wind
Sits fair for Quiberon! Begone.
(To Yvette and Séraphine.) Stay!
[The peasants press in confusion toward the doors
of the château.
The Peasants
Live Baron René!
Lalain
O Breton fools!—Yvette!
[Yvette does not answer. She looks at De Vardes.
The Marquise (with strained laughter)
High justice at Morbec!
The Vidame
Mille diables!
The wretches all go free!
Count Louis
Is this Morbec?
65Mort de ma vie! What is it that you do,
Monsieur le Baron de Morbec?
De Vardes
My pleasure,
Monsieur le Comte de Château-Gui, upon
My peasants of Morbec!
CURTAIN
67
