ACT IV.
Scene I.—Council.
Charles, &c. Joan.
Cha. A monarch now confirmed by holy rite,
Our earliest duty is to recompense
All those who in our cause have been most zealous.
Thee above all, (to Joan,) to thee our realm we owe.
We would thy merit mark as may become
Ourself and thee: but pause to name award
As to thyself shall be most pleasing. Louvel,
'Tis thine to learn her wish, our joy to grant it.
Lou. Such gracious speech may well embolden thee.
Name freely thy desire. Is wealth thy wish?
Cha. How her eye kindles!
Joan. Sell my heart's blood for gold!
Hazard each desperate chance, die ev'ry hour,
Deprive poor nature of her due, food—rest,
Make the vile flesh lord of the daring mind,
For sordid heaps of dross! Perish the thought!
I am not to be bought e'en by my country—
Toil, hardship, life, all she approved in me,
A free gift was bestowed, and must remain—
If she the present scorn, I scorn them too.
Lou. Then, wherefore, peril life? Hope of reward,
The state's high honours, riches, rank, and greatness,
Justly make spirits bold, and wake brave action.
Joan. The voice of Heaven first drew me from obscurity,
And no reward I seek but its approval.
Oh! never, for the hope of gain, could I
Have served my country. Claims she not by right,
All love, disinterested faith, all service?
Not hers the debt to recompense her sons,
Though, like fond mother, she delights to grant it;
But theirs the debt of gratitude first due
To her, which only thus can be discharged.
Then mark eternal shame upon his brow,
Though brave his deeds, though prodigal of toil,
Who honour, glory, high renown, or wealth,
Seeks for himself alone, and sheds the blood
She justly claims for selfish hope or aim.
Lou. Ambition is the offspring of all hearts
In which a germ of noble passion dwells.
None who in secret feel themselves above
The sphere of those with whom they move, but sighed
For greatness—rank.
Joan. What is it to be great?
To live in tapestried halls, beneath gay domes,
To sleep on beds of down, eat costly food,
Midst trembling slaves, who watch the stern command;
To call those friends who bow and cringe and fawn,
And flatter loud the vice they should condemn?
This is dependence, nought but servile pomp,
And this I scorn. To rise above the wants
Of this low state, to hold each appetite
In justest bounds, in native freedom both
Of mind and frame to dare all ills but vice,
And fear no danger but a tainted name;
Glory's own self to love, and not th' applause
Which follows open-mouthed amongst her train;
To walk the earth as one whose home is heaven,
And prizing life, yet view in death a friend,
Or clothed in frowns, or robed in smiles,—this, this
Alone is to be great:—then needs there rank
To make me such?
Alen. The brave lives not for to-day.
He thinks of generations yet to come,
And trusts his ashes e'en will speak his praise,
And bid his memory live.
Joan. No eye must read,
On tablet proud, what recompense were mine,
Lest it mistake the cause which prompted me.
In history's living page let me appear,
Simply as Joan of Arc, the Maid of Orleans.
Cha. And wilt thou have it seen in that same page
Thy king ungrateful proved?
Joan. Stain thy fair name!
Cha. Then be our will obeyed, and this day's grant,
In rank, as erst in deed, shall make thee noble.
Countess of Lys, with fair demesnes and wide,
Assume thy proper seat, and grace a court
Which yet upon thyself confers no lustre—
To night a splendid fête we give, and there
Thy king, and all who honour him, shall show
Their just respect.
[Rises. Joan throws herself at his feet.
Joan. My leige.
Cha. What wouldst thou? Speak.
Joan. Forgive my suit. Oh! deem me not ungrateful:—
Cancel the word, and let me sink again
Into obscurity.
Cha. It cannot be.
Still with our host remain, and lead us forth
To victory. Of this anon. Pleasure
Now claims the hours. All here must join the fête.
Scene II.—Palace.
Alençon. Du Nois.
Alen. Met in good time! If I may augur right,
The maid, our nation's pride, will need, ere long,
Support from her best friends.
Du N. What hath she done?
Alen. Awoke the bitter malice of the base,
Who dare not emulate a noble deed,
And feel its just reward their own reproach.
Du N. That she is envied can provoke no wonder;
Nothing may shine without attendant shade:
But that she yielded to receive such honour,
This indeed surprises me.
Alen. It need not.
Hardly the point was gained, if gained at all:
Still she entreats permission to depart,
Lowly as when she left her native vale.
Du N. And what is there in this to waken malice?
Whose heart is large enough to envy it?
Alen. You do forget, no words give more offence
Than those which mark the speaker's higher worth.
Her noble sentiments this day expressed,
Have wrought her many foes; nor does the fête,
Proposed this eve, yield greater satisfaction.
Du N. The news I bring must break upon these joys:
I seek the king, and must not pause a moment!
[Exeunt.
Enter Valancour.
Val. He here! and wherefore come? To own his love,
No doubt, since now in rank she equals him.
There's madness in the thought! Accursed chance!
Why did I slight the counsel Richemont gave,
Withheld by paltry fears of blighted honour!
Shall I turn villain? disappoint his hopes?
I want the resolution to be base,
Yet have not courage to be just.
Scene III.—Gardens illuminated.
Xaintrailles. Lords.
First Lord. What vain extravagance! None may deny
That she hath served the state; but truest service,
Suppose hers such, may yet be overpaid.
Second Lord. Others have nobly planned, and nobly fought;
But all their glory is eclipsed in hers.
I sicken of the name!
Xaint. For shame! true glory
Never can be eclipsed. Is not yon planet
Distinct in its own splendour, though the moon
Sheds more and brighter beams? Well hath she earned
The honour she receives: a soul like hers
Has nature's patent, fairer than a monarch's.
First Lord. Soon will she feel she hath uneasy place
Among the nobles of the land, and find
Wide difference between a court and camp.
Xaint. Away with such surmise! Let us not mar
The gay festivities by churlish murmurs.
Many our toils to come, and if we slight
The present, pleasure in despite may shun us.
Enter Valancour and Bertha.
Ber. Urge me no more.
Val. Nay, hear what I would say.
Such is the madness of my passion for her,
She must, and shall be mine! and thou must aid me!
This night decides my fate!
Ber. Oh! ask me not!
Val. In tears! and why? Loves she then another?
Ber. Look not so wildly!
Val. Speaks she of Du Nois!
Ber. Who does not speak of him! the brave! the noble!
Val. She loves him, then?
Ber. I said not so!
Val. What trifling!
Has then Du Nois declared?
Ber. I may not break
The confidence reposed in me.
Val. Most cruel!
Wilt thou do nought for me? Hast thou forgot
A brother, once my friend?
Ber. Alas! that name,
I may not dare withstand!—begone! Oh! spare me!
Val. Thou wilt comply then? Go—I'll wait thee yonder.
[Exit Bertha.
Enter Richemont and Attendant.
Riche. Thou knowst the wretch who followed us
When late we passed to Baugenci?
Att. But now I saw her.
Riche. Lead her hither.
[Exit Attendant.
Val. Earl Richemont here!
Riche. He is!
But would be known by none. Thou hast my secret:
Silence I demand!
Val. It is thine, but much
I marvel to behold—
Riche. The sovereign's scorn
Infects thee, then?
Val. None owns respect
More deep than I; my wonder only rose
To see thee here, whom I believed in Normandy;—
So the maid besought!
Riche. The maid besought!
Is insult then annexed to gross injustice?
The charge was mean enough, without such aid.
Where will the folly end? But well it suits
With that which now so speedily will follow.
Thou hast companion been in arms, and fought
With Orleans' bastard son, and knowst, no doubt,
That he, forsooth, must shortly play the fool,
And wed, to please the royal will, the maid.
The prospect charms thee, sure!
Val. (The royal will,
It is his own request! aside.) The proud Du Nois?
It cannot be. Not so. (Has hell worse torture? aside.)
Riche. Du Nois! the proud, unbending, stern Du Nois!
He with Alençon now is with the king,
On weighty news from Compeigne, which he brings:
The governor beseeches instant aid,
And who but the redoubted maid must lead it?
Val. She has resigned her arms, and has declared
Her mission closed.
Riche. What then? she may be gained,
And will be gained. Who trusts a woman's word,
Which varies with her varying mood? The hand
Of Count Du Nois will be the recompense
Of her consent; and is not this a prize
To tempt the breaking of a word she ne'er
Intended to observe? If this concern thee,
Meet me at midnight by yon temple. (Fool!
He yet shall prove a useful instrument. Aside.)
[Exit.
Val. Some fiend, but just escaped his doom, hath cast
His brand into my heart. Whom do I see?
Herself and Bertha! In this shade I'll hide me,
And there from her own lips the truth discover.
Enter Joan and Bertha.
Joan. Forbear!
Ber. Hear me. Where native worth exists,
Esteem will surely kindle into love,
And gently ripen into purest bliss!
Joan. Beware that fallacy. The solemn vow,
Before the altar pledged, but sanctifies
The love which first was gendered in the heart,
But ne'er creates; a golden link to bind
The fonder heart—a chain that galls the cold!
Ber. But thou wert born to bless! ay, to be blessed!
A heart like thine must find—
Joan. I do believe
That nought on earth may hold fond thought from me.
The love which in another would have nourished
What most it prized, has but in me proved fatal,
And wrought its ruin.
Ber. Thou dost chase a shade,
To wither ev'ry flower within thy path.
No bliss can rise through him, while Valancour—
Joan. I cannot love, and therefore will not wed him.
What noise was that?
Val. Cursed be the ear that heard,
The tongue that uttered such determination.
I'll hear no more! Now, hate, revenge befriend me.
[Exit.
Ber. 'Twas but the rustling of the scattered leaves,
Or bird disturbed. Ah! tears are in those eyes,
And I perhaps the cause. Come, chase past thought
By sweet enjoyment of this lovely scene.
Sound, fragrance, air, celestial seems, and wakes
A gentle bliss.
Joan. I'm sick at heart: the bird
Hath lost its melody, the flower its scent,
Creation's self to me is now a blank.
Ber. That tone! those words! say, what has caused this change?
Joan. The agony the firmest e'en must feel,
Who having crushed, with desperate hand, his bliss,
Stands o'er the wreck, and in destruction reads
What he has lost. I leave for Domremie
To-morrow.
Ber. Leave the court! refined society?
Joan. Society has charms alone for one
Whose heart's at ease. All converse to the sad
Is as the pressure of the felon's fetter,
Pricking the deadened sense to active pain.
The glare of lights, gay sounds, and voice of men,
Mock misery's sense, and shock as knell of death.
Ber. Can lonely woods and dells restore then peace?
Joan. Alas! I may not so deceive myself.
Too well I know what I must soon endure.
My charm of life is gone. My full, bold pulse
Has learnt to swell with mighty hopes, my mind
On food of such excitement has been fed,
That common, quiet life will be a load
Too heavy for endurance. Mem'ry too
Will goad with bitter thoughts!
Ber. Oh! say not so;
Joy is the rainbow of this weeping life,
From deepest gloom of sorrow first awoke:
But mem'ry is that secondary arch
Where each bright shade is seen distinct and clear,
Though softened and subdued, and dear to sight,
As faithful copy of the dearer truth.
Be but thyself—forget but him!
Joan. Forget!
As clings the woodbine to the new-felled tree,
I cling to him, though not a hope remains.
But how shall I forget? My very prayers
Are holy thoughts of him. Leave me awhile.
Ber. I obey thee. Ah, why should this be so?
Alas! the heart is e'er a wayward thing,
Loving too oft that most which loves it not.
[Exit.
Joan. For the last time I see you, beauteous scenes!
The last! oh, word of heaviest sense,
Where all that's lovely finds one common grave.
Light footsteps soon shall tread these gay parterres,
And sighs, but not like these, shall mingle bliss
With bliss. None will regret me here; the proud
Who envied, or the brave who shared my fame,
Alone will recollect that I have lived.
And he!—he'll never give one thought on me
When I am gone:—the great, the beautiful
Will share his smiles, or soothe his cares, while tears
Shall stagnate in these eyes; and lovely forms
Shall charm his gaze, when the pale eye of night
Alone shall view the spot where I am laid,
And weep for me.
Enter Widow.
Wid. Where dost thou speed so fast?
Shall not the net be spread in vain before
The simple bird, and wilt thou rush to peril?
Seest thou yon star? Observe how dim it shines,
How its wan disk is overspread with spots.
Those spots are blood!—that fading star thine own!
Fainter and fainter still it quivers.—Now
'Tis gone! I've cast thy horoscope, and read
Thy fate is linked with mine! Beware thee, maiden!
If e'er on earth we meet again, 'twill be—
To meet the spectre king.
[Exit.
Joan. What may this mean?
Awe steals upon my mind, and my faint heart
Beats heavily!
Enter Attendant.
Att. Haste! the king calls thee!
The council is assembling—danger presses.
Joan. Hath then the unchanging voice of destiny
Indeed been heard, and I and death in league?
He hath bade farewell—shall I refuse?—no!—
Protect me, Heaven!—Lead on!
Scene IV.—Gardens.
Richemont. Attendant.
Riche. Hast found the wretch?
Att. She stands hard by.
Riche. Summon her!
I must be rid of thee, maid of Orleans!
The cup or poniard were an easy way!
But this were simple vengeance—poor revenge!
Disgrace! yes infamy must stain her glory,
Shame, public hate. But much I fear her firmness,
High belief of Heaven's consenting will.
Yet shall she yield! To Compeigne, not to Domremie
Must she depart. The hag must aid me then.
Persuade her to depart—their meeting known,
Shall stamp suspicion first of foulest crime;
And in the event of victory or defeat
Shall work her ruin!
Enter Widow.
Wid. Am I then so near him?
Lie still, my heart, lest these convulsive throbbings
Mar my last wish.
Riche. Time wears—dares she delay?
(perceives her,) I sent for thee.
Wid. And I, at risk of life,
Am come. What wouldst thou have from me?
Riche. Respect.
Wid. I give it where 'tis due: never where not.
Riche. Wretch! knowst of what thou art accused?—of arts
Which make obedient slaves and friends of devils.
Wid. And thou of hell's worst crimes—of pride, of murder.
Richemont, I know thee, who thou art and what!
Put up thy ready dagger; I despise it—
Ay, mock thy wrath! my misery is my safeguard;
None care, not even thou, to murder one
Who would most gladly die!
Riche. What thus unnerves
My arm and chains my tongue?
Wid. Thy wishes too,
Thy aim I know. The maid has roused thy hate,
And thou wouldst work her fall:—'tis worthy thee.
There is no need of aiding hand of thine—
Her lamp burns dim, to utter darkness dim.
Riche. (aside. Ha! that were worth belief! but true or false
They must be seen together, and report
Be spread the fiend himself had tempted her.)
Not hate, mine is good will. France needs her arm,
Yet doth she hesitate. Go, seek her quick!
(I will secure thee,) win her to comply,
And richly paint the glory which awaits her.
Wid. Thinkst thou that she will heed what I might say?
She cannot if she would; none may avoid
Their fated hour!—thine too is fixed, and mine!
And, oh, that it were come!
Riche. Dost thou refuse?
Wid. I neither do refuse nor promise thee;
My inclination is my law, and mark!
None else will I obey.
Riche. Dost seek a bribe?
If hunger pinch, or thirst provoke desire,
This purse—
Wid. Perish thy gold! back with thy dross!
Nor dare again insult the misery
That thou and thine have wrought. I called thee murderer!
And such thou art! Will gold redeem the dead?
Bribe the cold grave? Have these poor weeds so changed me,
Has frenzy so deformed what once was fair,
That recollection of me has escaped thee?
Then thus I'll shriek into thy ears—I was
Camouse's wife—was mother of his sons;
Those sleepers in the bloody grave thou gav'st them.
What am I now?—suspected and a wanderer!
Am mad—and worse than all,—I know I'm mad!
Look not on me—thy glance inflames my brain,
And dries the curses on my parched tongue
I long have sought to utter to thy face.
Blasted of Heaven! I will not meet thee more
Till I shall meet thee there. (pointing to heaven.)
[Exit Widow.
Riche. Ho! seize the wretch!
And let fierce tortures—gone!—still do I hear her—
Still I shudder. Is conscience then no tale
To frighten coward hearts, and is there truth
In retribution?
Enter Valancour.
Ha! what has delayed thee?
Val. But now I've left the council.
Riche. The result!
The maid! has she then consented?
Val. She has!
Riche. 'Twas sure she would; and yet I guess not easily.
Val. Compliance was most hardly wrung from her.
Remonstrance, argument, entreaty failed:
Her constant answer was—"What Heaven gave charge
To do, is done—I may no more essay
In warrant of his will." In vain Du Nois
Appealed to love of martial fame: she heard,
Though not unmoved, yet resolutely firm:
But when the king, half angered, turned away
Half sorrowful, and thus reproachful said,
"Then thou too wilt desert me in my need,"
Sudden she stayed her step, (for she was passing,)
One look inexplicable cast on him,
Then springing to his feet she sobbed convulsed,
"Though all the world desert thee will not I!"—
She leaves at dawn.
Riche. Du Nois?
Val. Will follow us.
Xaintrailles, myself, are ordered to attend her.
Riche. Fortune doth smile on thee! the friend of both,
Sharer of their toils!—needs of their felicity:
The foe dispersed, the nuptial feast succeeds,
And grateful to thy heart the thought, thy arm,
Thy blood their fondest, gentlest wishes aided.
Val. Forbear, my lord! the subject is no jest.
Riche. What envy thou wilt raise! Friendship's just claims
Must too be thine—to aid in his espousals.
Val. (aside.) He racks my heart.
Riche. First in his train appear
With smiling face, yielding alone to him
In bliss.
Val. No more.
Riche. What joy to hear the vow
That makes her his, and read the rapt'rous look
Returned.
Val. Hold! hold! she never shall be his!
Riche. Then heed the counsel I have given thee.
Val. It is too late.
Riche. A better chance awaits thee;
She meets the foe!—meets!—when shall she return?
Val. Dip my hand in blood of her! I cannot.
Riche. Nor hast thou need. Du Nois must be detained:
My former counsel take. Thou knowst the plan.
Urge the attack—lead where escape is none!
Val. My soul recoils at such a damned deed!
Riche. Then play the gentler part—attune the lyre,
Forthwith prepare thy gayest suit—be first
To hail her bride of Count Du Nois! I leave thee,
Fully to enjoy the blissful prospect.
[Exit Richemont.
Val. Fierce madness fires my brain! Assist me, Heaven,
Or, better still, ye fiercest spirits aid me,
Bride of Du Nois! myself despised, or worse,
Pitied perhaps by both! held in contempt
By Richemont too, and taunted for my weakness!
Sooner shall earth engulph, or lightnings blast me!
Farewell remorse!—farewell to pity!
[Exit.
Widow at the back.
Wid. No!
Not by such villainy shall her career
Be ended. I'll follow her, and save her!
Scene V.—Compeigne in the distance. Troops pass. A distant storm.
Widow.
Wid. The city's walls are distant yet,
And weary with the way I sink exhausted.
How black the sky! a fearful storm is near.
That flash! hark! the low thunder threat'ning growls!
The trumpet's call I hear: and now bright swords
Gleam in the darkness! I must not tarry.
[Exit.
Field of Battle.
Joan, Xaintrailles, French Officers.
Xaint. The tide is fiercely set against our squadrons.
Thy presence only can restore the day.
Joan. A cloud is on my mind, a dreadful weight
Bears down my soul. Du Nois!
Enter Valancour.
Val. (aside,) Nought but Dunois.
That name decides thy fate.
Xaint. Far distant yet.
Joan. Alas! and Valancour?
Val. Here by thy side!
Joan. How goes the fight with thine?
Val. All is reversed!
A thousand furies arm the English bands,
While ours, so late extravagantly brave,
Appear irresolute, and struck with dread!
Joan. (aside,) They falter for my sin. The righteous One,
In wakened wrath, has turned away his face,
Since 'gainst conviction's voice I weakly yielded.
Val. Clouds have obscured the sun, and veiled the sky.
The omen is an evil one!
Xaint. To whom?
What greater fury rent the vaulted sky
At Orlean's fight, or Patay's gallant field?
Let him his sentence read in signs who wills;
Brave men no omen fear but lukewarm hearts.
Val. That ill-timed taunt thou shalt repent ere long.
I'll lead where few shall dare to follow.
Joan. Cease!
Waste not the time in words! renew the attack!
These guard our rear—Xaintrailles must lead with me.
Val. Shall I then be forgot? E'en on this field
Must I receive fresh proof of hate?
Joan. Forbear!
Love is not ours, but hate thee, Valancour!
Oh! wrong me not so sorely.
Val. No matter,
Loved or despised I will be first in danger!
And if I meet with death I'll welcome him,
As sent from thee.
[Exit.
Joan. We must not lose such friend,
Nor let his gallant bearing shame ourselves!
Xaint. None here dispute thy wish: lead on!
[Exeunt.
Enter Du Nois, &c. &c.
Du N. She's lost
If but a single step she venture further.
Tenfold the force the enemy assembles.
A rescue!
[Exit Du Nois.
Enter Valancour.
Val. To the trench! Mark well the signal;—
Let the enemy approach—then retreat—
The gates that ope to us will close to her.
Enter Widow.
Wid. Back! ye proceed no further!
Val. Who art thou?
Wid. One who will be obeyed!
Val. What chains your feet?
Pass on!
Wid. Ye pass not here, unless ye force
A passage through my heart.
Val. Then take thy fate.
So perish all hell's crew! Forward! secure her!
Wid. And thou art come at last, O lovely death!
And I shall die as died my lord, my boys,
By bloody sword! there's joy in that. Strength fails,
Yet must I see her.
Enter Joan, &c.
Stay!
Joan. Thou on this field!
Release thy hold! one moment lost we lose
A friend!
Wid. A foe! tool of a baser villain!
He seeks thy death. A weary way I've sped
To gain thy speech, and now life ebbs so fast—
See! they have pierced my side—that scarce the tale—
Richemont has sold thy life, and Valancour—
I told thee, if we met——
[Dies.
Joan. Man, man abandons me,
Not Heaven! we are betrayed, but not by thee!
And see! the beauteous bow his hand hath bent,
And token made of peace, where mercy sits
To smile away despair. My spirit's free,
And my heart beats as formerly 'twas wont.
Forward, ye brave! Remember Orlean's walls,
And let us pluck, if not the conqueror's crown,
A wreath to deck the grave our land shall hallow.
For the last time, Xaintrailles, wilt follow me?
Xaint. Wherever thou shalt lead—be it to death!
[Exeunt.
Enter English Officers and Soldiers.
Make prisoner of the maid! touch not her life
Unless compelled. Ne'er quail and look aghast!
She waves no consecrated banner now!
See Valancour retreats!—now hem her round.
[Exeunt.
Enter Xaintrailles and Joan.
Xaint. Thou'rt wounded!
Joan. Heed it not! tarry no longer;
'Tis of slight moment. Du Nois!—this faintness—
Leave me here. Cut through thy way to join him,
And all may yet be well!
Xaint. 'Tis our last chance.
Joan. Save him, Heaven! never more shall I behold him!
Oh! I am faint almost to death!
[Leans on a tree.
Enter English Officers and Soldiers.
Off. 'Tis she!
Yield thee our prisoner!
Joan. Never whilst strength
Remains. (Shields herself.)
Off. Seize her!
Joan. Stand off! nor dare to touch me!
My life, if Heaven have so decreed, be yours;
Free have I lived! free will I die!
[As she is beaten on her knees Valancour enters.
Val. Forbear!
Joan. It is too late! deserved I this? I pardon—
[Faints—the Soldiers bear her off.
Enter Du Nois.
Du N. Turn, traitor! villain!
Stand on thy guard!
Val. Seekst thou revenge!—'tis thine!
Here in the shout that rings upon my ear,
Here in the glance that curst me with forgiveness.
I will not fight with thee, Du Nois! nor will
I face an honourable man again.
[Exit.
Du Nois. Go to thy fate!
While I will never sheathe this sword till I
Have rescued or avenged her!