SCENE III.
An apartment in the Governor's House.
Enter Julia and Ribaumont.
Ribau. Yet, hear me, Julia——
Julia. Pr'ythee, good my lord,
Press me not thus: my father's strict command—
I must not say 'tis harsh—forbids me listen.
Ribau. Is then the path of duty so precise,
That 'twill not for a little deviate?
Sweet, let it wind, and bend to recollection.
Think on our oaths; yes, lady, they are mutual:—
You said you loved; I treasured the confession,
As misers hoard their gold: nay, 'twas my all.—
Think not I chatter in the idle school
Of whining coxcombs, where despair and death
Are words of course; I swell not fancied ills
With windy eloquence: no, trust me, Julia,
I speak in honest, simple suffering:
And disappointment, in my life's best hope,
So feeds upon my life, and wears me inward,
That I am nearly spirit-broken.
Julia. Why, why this, my lord?
You urge me past a maiden's modesty.
What should I say?—In nature's course, my lord,
The parent sits at helm, in grey authority,
And pilots the child's action: for my father,
You know what humour sways him.
Ribau. Yes, court policy;
Time-serving zeal: tame, passive, blind, obedience
To the stern will of power; which doth differ
As wide from true, impulsive loyalty,
As puppet work from nature. O, I would
The time were come!—our enemy, the English,
Bid fairest first to show a bright example;
When, 'twixt the ruler and the ruled, affection
Shall be reciprocal: when majesty
Shall gather strength from mildness; and the subject
Shall look with duteous love upon his sovereign,
As the child eyes its father. Now, by Heaven!
Old John de Vienne is turn'd a temporiser;
Making his daughter the poor topmost round
Of his vile ladder to preferment. 'Sdeath!
And you to suffer this! O, fie, fie, Julia!
'Twould show more noble in you to lay bare
Your mind's inconstancy, than thus to keep
The semblance of a passion; meanly veiling
Your broken faith with the excuse of duty.
Out on't! 'tis shallow—you ne'er loved.
Julia. My lord, my cup of sorrow was brimfull; and you,
I look'd not for it, have thrown in a drop,
Which makes it overflow. No more of that:
You have reviled my father: me, too, Ribaumont;
Heaven knows, I little merit it!—My lord,
Upon this theme we must not meet again.—
Farewell! and do not, do not think unkindly
On her, you, once, did call your Julia.
If it will sooth your anguish, Ribaumont,
To find a fellowship in grief, why think
That there is one, while struggling for her duty,
Sheds many a tear in private.—Heaven be with you!
[Exit.
Ribau. Stay, stay, and listen to me. Gone! and thus too!
And have I lost thee—and for ever, Julia?
Now do I look on life as the worn mariner,
Stretching his eyes o'er seas immeasurable,
And all is drear and comfortless. Henceforward,
My years will be one void; day roll on day,
In sameness infinite, without a hope
To chequer the sad prospect. O! if death
Came yoked with honour to me, I could, now,
Embrace it with as warm and willing rapture,
As mothers clasp their infants.
Enter La Gloire.
Now, La Gloire! what is the news?
La Gloire. Good faith, my lord, the saddest that ever tongue told!
Ribau. What is't?
La Gloire. The town has surrendered.
Ribau. I guessed as much.
La Gloire. Upon conditions.
Ribau. What are they?
La Gloire. Very scurvy ones, my lord.—To save the city from sacking, six citizens must swing for it, in Edward's camp. But four have yet been found; and they are——
Ribau. Who?
La Gloire. Oh lord!—all of my own family.—There's John d'Aire, Jacque, and Pierre Wissant; my three good cousins german, my lord: and the fourth, who was the first that offered, is—is——
Ribau. Who, La Gloire?
La Gloire. [Wiping his Eyes.] I crave your pardon, my lord, for being thus unsoldier-like; but 'tis—'tis my own father.
Ribau. Eustache!
La Gloire. He, my lord! He! old Eustache de St. Pierre:—the honestest, kindliest soul!—I cannot talk upon't.—Grief plays the hangman with me, and has almost choked me already.
Ribau. Why, I am courted to't.—The time, example,
Do woo me to my very wish.—Come hither.
Two, it should seem, are wanting, to complete
The little band of those brave men, who die
To save their fellows.
La Gloire. Ay, my lord. There is a meeting upon't, half an hour hence, in the market-place.
Ribau. Mark me, La Gloire: and see, that you obey me,
Ev'n to the very letter of my orders.
They are the last, perhaps, my honest fellow,
I e'er shall give thee. Seek thy father out,
And tell him this from me: his gallant bearing
Doth school his betters; I have studied o'er
His noble lesson, and have learnt my duty.
Say, he will find me in the market-place,
Disguised in humble seeming; and I fain
Would pass for one allied to him: and thence—
Dost mark me well?—I will along with him,
Ev'n hand in hand, to death.
La Gloire. My lord,—I—I—[Bursts into tears, falls on his Knees, takes hold of Ribaumont's Hand, and kisses it.]—I shall lose my father; when he was gone, I looked you would have been my father. The thought of still serving you was a comfort to me.—You are my commander; and I hope I have, hitherto, never disobeyed orders; but, if I now deliver your message, drum me out for ingratitude, as the greatest rascal that ever came into a regiment.
Ribau. Pr'ythee, no more, La Gloire? I am resolved;—
My purpose fix'd. It would be bitter to thee,
To see me die in anger with thee: therefore,
Do thou my bidding; close thy service up,
In duty to my will. Go, find thy father;
I will prepare within the while.—Obey me,—
Or the last look from thy expiring master,
Darting reproach, shall burst thy heart in twain.
Mark, and be punctual!
[Exit.
La Gloire. O, the Virgin! Why was I ever attached to man, woman, or child?
Enter Eustache de St. Pierre.
Eust. Where's thy commander, boy—Count Ribaumont?
La Gloire. O father!——
Eust. Peace!—I must a word with him.
I have a few short thanks I would deliver,
Touching his care of thee: it is the last
Of all my worldly packages; that done,
I may set forward on my journey.
La Gloire. Oh, father! I shall never go to bed again in peace as long as I live. Sorrow will keep my eyes open half the night; and when I drop into a doze at day-break, I shall be hanged with you, father, a score of times every morning.
Eust. I could have spared this meeting.—Boy, I will not—
Nor would I, had I time for't, ring a chime
Of drowsy document, at this, our parting.
Nor will I stuff the simple plan of life,
That I would have thee follow, with trim angles,
And petty intersections of nice conduct;
Which dotards, rotten in their wisdom, oft
Will mark, in mathematical precision,
Upon a stripling's mind, until they blur
The modest hand of nature. Thou'rt a soldier;
'Tis said a good one;—and I ne'er yet knew
A rough, true soldier, lack humanity:—
If, then, thou canst, with one hand, push aside
The buffets of the world, and, with the other,
Stretch'd forth, in warm and manly charity,
Assist the weak,——be thankful for the ground-work,
And e'en let impulse build upon't;—thou needst
No line, nor level, formal age can give thee,
To raise a noble superstructure. Come;
Embrace me;—when thy father sleeps in honour,
Think that—[Embracing him, he bursts into Tears.]—my son, my boy!—Psha! pish! this nature—
Conduct me to——
La Gloire. [Catching hold of him.] Hold! hold!—We shall leap here, from bad to worse. I—I am bidden, father, to deliver a message to you.
Eust. Be quick, then; the time wears.
La Gloire. No, truly, 'twill not come quick. I must force it out in driblets. My captain bids me say, that—that brave men are scarce. Find six in the town, and you find all;—so he will join you at the market-cross, and—go with you—to——
Eust. The scaffold!
La Gloire. Yes, the sca—that word sticks so in my throat, I can't squeeze it out, for the life of me.
Eust. Why, this shows nobly now! our honest cause
Is graced in the addition. Lead me—[Observing La Gloire, weeping]—how now?
Out on thee, knave! thoul't bring disgrace upon me.
By Heaven! I feel as proud in this, my death;——
And thou, the nearest to my blood, to sully
My house's name with womanhood—Shame! shame!
Where is the noble Ribaumont?
[Going.
La Gloire. Stay, father, stay! I can hold it no longer. I love Madelon too well to keep her waking o'nights, with blubbering over her for the loss of my father, and my captain:—another neck is wanting to make up the half dozen; so I'll e'en along, father, as the sixth.
Eust. [After a Pause.] I know not what to answer.—Thou hast shaken
My manhood to the centre.—Follow, boy!
Thy aim is honour; but the dreary road to't,
Which thou must tread, does stir the father in me.
'Tis such a nice and tickle point, between
The patriot and the parent, that, Heaven knows,
I need a counsellor.—I'll to thy captain.
With him, anon, you'll find me.
[Exit.
La Gloire. So! how many a lad, with a fair beginning of life, comes to an untimely conclusion!—My poor Madelon, too! she little thinks that——
Madelon peeping in.
Madelon. Hist! hist! La Gloire!
La Gloire. Eh?
Madelon. Why, where hast thou been, La Gloire? I have been seeking you all over the town. I feared you would get into danger. Finding the Governor's gate thrown open, and all the city in confusion, I e'en ventured in to look for you. Where hast thou been, La Gloire?
La Gloire. Been? no where—but I am going——
Madelon. Where, La Gloire?
La Gloire. A—a little way with my father. Hast heard the news, Madelon?
Madelon. Only in part. I hear the town has surrendered: and that six poor men are to be executed; and march from the town gates. But we shall then be in safety, La Gloire. Poor fellows! I would not see them go forth for the world!
La Gloire. Poor fellows!—a hem!—Ay, poor fellows! True, Madelon; I would not have thee shocked with the sight, I confess.
Madelon. But, pr'ythee, La Gloire, keep at home now with me. You are ever gadding. You soldiers are so wild and turbulent—How can you, La Gloire? You must be present, now, at this horrid ceremony?
La Gloire. Why, truly, I——I must be present;—but it will be for the last time, Madelon. I take little pleasure, in it, believe me.
Madelon. I would thou wouldst home with me! I have provided, out of thy bounty, a repast for us this evening. My father, who has ne'er stirred out these three weeks, is filled with joy for thy return;—he will sit at our table, La Gloire; he will give us his blessing, and wish us happy in marriage. Come, you shall not away, this evening, in sooth, now!
La Gloire. I must, Madelon; I must. The throng will press, and—and I may lose somewhat of value. 'Tis seldom a soldier's pocket is heavy; but I carry all my worldly goods about me. I would fain not lose it; so e'en be mistress on't till my return. Here is a casket;—with five years' wages from my captain; three quarters' pay from my regiment; and eleven marks, plucked from the boot of a dead English corporal: 'tis my whole fortune; keep it, Madelon, for fear of accidents: and if any cross accident ever should befall me, remember, you are heir apparent to the bulk of my property.
Madelon. But why thus particular? I would you would stay quiet with me!
La Gloire. But for this once, Madelon; and I shall be quiet ever after.—Kiss me. So;—Adieu!
Madelon. Adieu, La Gloire! Remember, now, at night——
La Gloire. Adieu!—At night!—Mercy on me!—should I stay three minutes longer, my heart would rescue my neck; for the breaking of one, would save the stretching of the other.
[Aside.—Exit.
Madelon. How rich my La Gloire has got in the wars! My father, too, has something to throw in at our wedding: and, when we meet, we shall be the happiest couple in Picardy.