L'Aiglon

by Edmond Rostand

At the rise of the curtain Sedlinzky (the Prefect of the Police), the Usher, and a number of Lackeys are discovered.

Sedlinzky.
That's all?
First Lackey.
That's all.
Sedlinzky.
Nothing abnormal?
Second Lackey.
Nothing.
Third Lackey.
Eats little.
Fourth Lackey.
Reads a lot.
Fifth Lackey.
Sleeps very badly.
Sedlinzky.
[To the Usher.]
And can you trust his personal attendants?
The Usher.
Why, they are all professional policemen,
As you, the Prefect of Police, must know.
Sedlinzky.
Thank you. I fear the Duke may find me here.
First Lackey.
No, sir; he's out.
Second Lackey.
As usual at this hour.
Third Lackey.
In uniform.
Fourth Lackey.
And with his Aides-de-Camp.
The Usher.
There are manœuvres.
Sedlinzky.
Well, be keen and tactful.
Let him not know he's watched.
The Usher.
I'm very cunning.
Sedlinzky.
Not too much zeal! I dread a zealous man.
Don't listen at his keyhole in a crowd.
The Usher.
I've given that duty to a special man.
Sedlinzky.
To whom?
The Usher.
The Piedmontese.
Sedlinzky.
Ah yes; he's clever.
The Usher.
I place him every evening in this chamber
Immediately his Highness seeks his room
Sedlinzky.
Is he here now?
The Usher.
No. As he wakes all night
He sleeps by daytime, while the Duke is out.
He'll be here when the Duke is.
Sedlinzky.
Let him watch.
The Usher.
Trust me.
Sedlinzky.
[Glancing at the table.]
The papers—?
The Usher.
[With a smile.]
Searched.
Sedlinzky.
[Stooping under the table.]
The basket, too?
[Seeing scraps of paper under the table, he hastily
kneels to examine them.]
These scraps?
[He tries to read.]
Perhaps a letter?
[Urged by professional curiosity he creeps under
the table.]
But from whom?
[The Duke enters in the uniform of an Austrian
officer, followed by his Staff. The Lackeys
hurriedly range themselves.]
The Duke.
[Seeing Sedlinzky's legs protruding from under the
table; very simply.]
Why, how are you, Sedlinzky?
Sedlinzky.
[Emerging amazed on all fours.]
Highness!
The Duke.
An accident. Excuse me. Just come in.
Sedlinzky.
[Standing.]
You knew me? Yet I was—
The Duke.
Flat on your stomach?
Oh yes, I knew you.
[He sees the Archduchess, who enters hurriedly
carrying a large album.]
Ah, I feared as much!
They've frightened you.
The Archduchess.
They told me—
The Duke.
It was nothing.
The Archduchess.
But yet—
The Duke.
[Seeing Doctor Malfatti enter.]
The doctor! But I am not ill!
[To the Archduchess.]
Nothing. A choking. So I left parade.
I had been shouting.
[To the Doctor, who is feeling his pulse.]
Doctor, you're a nuisance!
[To Sedlinzky, who is sidling toward the door.]
'Twas very kind of you to sort my papers.
You're spoiling me. Indeed you are. You've chosen
Even my lackeys from among your friends.
Sedlinzky.
Your Highness does not think—!
The Duke.
I shouldn't mind
If only they performed their duties better.
But I am villainously groomed. My stock
Rides up. In short, since this is your department,
I wish you'd black my boots a little better.
[A Lackey brings a tray with refreshments, which
the Doctor takes.]
The Archduchess.
[Anxious to help the Duke from the tray.]
Franz—
The Duke.
[To Sedlinzky, who is again making for the door.]
You take nothing—?
Sedlinzky.
I have taken—
The Archduchess.
A Tartar!
The Duke.
Orders, Foresti!
Foresti.
Colonel!
The Duke.
We'll manœuvre
At early dawn the day after to-morrow;
Assemble at Grosshofen.
Foresti.
Good, my Colonel!
The Duke.
[To the Officers.]
I'll not detain you, gentlemen. Good-day.
[Foresti and the Officers go out.]
The Duke.
[To Sedlinzky, taking a letter out of his pocket, and
tossing it toward him.]
Dear Count, here is another you've not read.
[Sedlinzky and the Doctor go out.]
Dietrichstein.
[Who came in a moment ago.]
I think you treat him rather harshly, Highness.
The Archduchess.
Is not the Duke at perfect liberty?
Dietrichstein.
Of course the Duke is not a prisoner, but—
The Duke.
I like that "but," I hope you feel its value!
Good Lord, I'm not a prisoner, "but"—that's all!
"But"—not a prisoner, "but"—that is the word,
The formula! A prisoner? Oh, not a moment!
"But" there are always people at my heels.
A prisoner? Not I! You know I'm not;
"But" if I risk a stroll across the park
A hidden eye blossoms behind each leaf.
Of course not prisoner, "but" let anyone
Seek private speech with me, beneath each hedge
Up springs the mushroom ear. I'm truly not
A prisoner, "but" when I ride, I feel
The delicate attention of an escort.
I'm not the least bit in the world a prisoner,
"But" I'm the second to unseal my letters.
Not at all prisoner, "but" at night they post
A lackey at my door—look! there he goes.
I, Duke of Reichstadt, prisoner? Never! never!
I, prisoner? No! I'm not a prisoner—"but"—!
Dietrichstein.
I love to see this mirth—so rare—
The Duke.
Yes, devilish!
Dietrichstein.
[Taking his leave.]
Your Highness—
The Duke.
Serenissimus!
Dietrichstein.
Eh!
The Duke.
—issimus!
That is my title. My particular title
Kindly remember it another time!
Dietrichstein.
[Bowing.]
I leave you—
[He goes.]
The Duke.
[To the Archduchess.]
Serenissimus! how glorious!
[Pointing to the album.]
What's that?
The Archduchess.
The Emperor's herbarium.
The Duke.
Lord!
Grandpapa's botany!
The Archduchess.
He lent it me
This morning, Franz.
The Duke.
[Examining it.]
It's pretty.
The Archduchess.
You know Latin,
What is this withered black thing?
The Duke.
That's a rose.
The Archduchess.
Franz, there's been something wrong with you of late.
The Duke.
[Reading.]
Bengalensis.
The Archduchess.
Of Bengal?
The Duke.
That's right.
The Archduchess.
I find you nervous. What's the matter?
The Duke.
Nothing.
The Archduchess.
Yes, but I know, your bosom-friend Prokesch,
The confidant of hopes they think too vast,
They've sent him far away.
The Duke.
But in exchange
They give me Marshal Marmont as a friend.
Despised in France, he crawls to Austria
To gather praise for treason to my Father.
The Archduchess.
Hush!
The Duke.
And a man like that is here to set
The son against the Father!—Oh!—
[Reading.]
Volubilis.
The Archduchess.
Franz, when you promise do you keep your word?
The Duke.
You've been so good to me, I could not break it.
The Archduchess.
Besides, you liked my birthday present, Franz.
The Duke.
Ah, yes! These relics from the archducal trophy!
[He takes the things he mentions, which are on a
console between the doors on the right.]
A tinder box—a busby of the Guard—
An ancient musket—No! it isn't loaded!
And above all—
The Archduchess.
Oh, hush!
The Duke.
That other thing—
I've hidden it.
The Archduchess.
Where, you bandit?
The Duke.
In my den.
The Archduchess.
Well, promise then—your grandfather—you know
His kindness—
The Duke.
[Picking up a paper which has fallen from the herbarium.]
What is this? A sheet of paper?
[He reads.]
"And if the students still persist in shouting.
Let them be crimped and sent on active service—".
[To the Archduchess.]
You said—his kindness—
The Archduchess.
Yes; the Emperor loves you.
His goodness—
The Duke.
[Picking up another paper fallen from the herbarium.]
Here's another.
[He reads.]
"As the mob
Resist you, cut them down."
[To the Archduchess.]
His goodness—
The Archduchess.
He hates the ferment of the modern mind,
But he's an excellent old man.
The Duke.
Two-sided.
Flowers from whose leaves death-sentences are shed,
Good Emperor Franz is like these specimens.
[He closes the herbarium.]
However, he's beloved, he's popular,
I love him well.
The Archduchess.
How he could help your cause!
The Duke.
Ah! if he would!
The Archduchess.
Promise you'll never fly
Until you've tried your utmost with him.
The Duke.
Yes,
I promise that.
The Archduchess.
And I'll reward you now.
The Duke.
You?
The Archduchess.
Oh, one has one's little influence!
The astounding Prokesch they deprived you of—
I said and did so much—in short, he's here.
[She strikes the ground with her parasol. The
door opens and Prokesch enters. The Duke
rushes to him. The Archduchess goes out
quickly.]
The Duke.
At last!
Prokesch.
They may be listening.
The Duke.
Oh, they are!
They never tell, though.
Prokesch.
What?
The Duke.
I've tested them.
Uttered the most seditious sentiments;
They've never been repeated. Never.
Prokesch.
Strange!
The Duke.
I think the listener, paid by the police,
Pockets the cash and stops his friendly ears.
Prokesch.
The Countess Camerata? Any news?
The Duke.
Nothing.
Prokesch.
Oh!
The Duke.
Nothing. She's forgotten me;
Or else she's been discovered—or, perhaps—
What folly not to have fled last year! And yet
'Twas better; now I'm readier, but—forgotten.
Prokesch.
Oh, hush! Your work-room? Charming.
The Duke.
It's Chinese.
The hideous gilded birds! The nightmare faces
Sneering with scorpion-smiles from every corner!
They lodge me in the famous lacquered chamber
So that my uniform may seem more white
Against the blackness of its glowing walls!
Prokesch.
Prince!
The Duke.
They've surrounded me with fools and knaves.
Prokesch.
What have you done these last six months?
The Duke.
I've raged!
Prokesch.
I'd never seen this Schönbrunn.
The Duke.
It's a tomb.
Prokesch.
The Gloriette looks well against the sky.
The Duke.
Yes, while my heart is hungering for glory
I've that diminutive: the Gloriette!
Prokesch.
You've all the park to ride in.
The Duke.
Oh, the park
Is much too little.
Prokesch.
Well, then, the valley.
The Duke.
The valley is too little for a gallop.
Prokesch.
What do you want for galloping?
The Duke.
All Europe!
Prokesch.
Oh, hush!
The Duke.
When from the glowing page of history
I lift dazed eyes, a forehead splashed with glory,
Closing my Plutarch, leap with thee, O Cæsar,
Upon a conquered land, with Alexander,
With Hannibal, with thee, my Father—
A Lackey.
[Entering.]
What
Will your Highness please to wear to-night?
The Duke.
[To Prokesch.]
There!
[To the Lackey.]
I'm not going out.
[The Lackey disappears.]
Prokesch.
[Who has been turning over some books.]
They let you read?
The Duke.
Oh, anything. The days are past when Fanny,
That I might learn, learnt history by heart.
And, later, books were handed me in secret.
Prokesch.
The good Archduchess—?
The Duke.
Every day a book.
Locked safe all night I read it. I was drunk!
When it was finished, to conceal my crime,
I tossed it on the tester's canopy,
And there the heap grew, hidden in the darkness;
I slept beneath a dome of history.
All day the heap lay quiet, but at night,
When I was sleeping, it began to stir,
And from the pages clamorous with battles.
The battles issued, stretching torpid wings;
And laurels showered upon my slumbering eyes.
Austerlitz gleamed among my curtains, Jena
Glowed in the gilded tassels holding them
And on a sudden lapsed into my dream.
Till once, when Metternich was gravely telling
His version of my father's history,
Down comes my canopy crushed by the glory;
A hundred volumes with their fluttering pages
Shouting one name!
Prokesch.
Metternich started?
The Duke.
No.
He smiled benignantly, and said, "My Lord,
Why keep your library so out of reach?"
And since that day I've read whate'er I choose.
Prokesch.
Even "Le Fils de l'homme?"
The Duke.
Yes.
Prokesch.
Hateful book!
The Duke.
Yes; but it's French and blinded by its hate.
It says they're poisoning me; hints at Locusta
Who poisoned Claudius. If thy Prince is dying,
Wherefore, O France, belittle his disease?
It is no poisoned cup of melodrama
That kills the Duke of Reichstadt! 'Tis his soul!
Prokesch.
My Lord—!
The Duke.
It is my soul! it is my name!
That mighty name, which throbs with guns and bells,
Clashes and thunders, ceaselessly reproaches
Against my languor with its bells and guns!
Silence your tocsins and your salvos! Poison?
What need of poison in the prison-house?
I yearn to broaden history!—I am
A pallid visage watching at a window.
If I could only rid myself of doubt!
You know me well! what do you think of me?
Suppose I were what people say we are
And what we often are, we great men's sons!
Metternich feeds this doubt with frequent hints:
He's right; it is his duty as an Austrian.
I shiver when he opes the bonbonnière
They call his wit, to find some honeyed venom.
You! tell me honestly what is my worth?
You know me; can I be an Emperor?
From this pale brow may God withhold the crown
Unless its pallor's that of Bonaparte!
Prokesch.
Prince—!
The Duke.
Answer me! Must I despise myself?
Speak out! What am I? Are my wits too dull,
And are my wrists too feeble for the sceptre?
What do you think of me?
Prokesch.
Prince, if all Princes
Struggled with half these torments, doubts, and fears
There would be none but admirable kings.
The Duke.
I thank you, Prokesch. Ah! that word consoles me.
To work, my friend!
[A Lackey brings in a tray full of letters, places
them on the table, and goes out.]
Prokesch.
Your mail has just arrived.
A load of letters.
The Duke.
Yes; from women. These
Reach me unopened.
Prokesch.
What successes!
The Duke.
Yes;
That's what it is to wear the fatal halo.
[He opens one letter after another; reads the beginning
and tears them up.]
"I saw you in your box last night, how pale—!"
Destroyed! "Oh, that while brow!" Destroyed! "My Prince,
I saw you riding in the Prater yesterday—"
Destroyed!
Prokesch.
What, all?
The Duke.
"Your youth—" The Canoness.
Destroyed!
[The door opens gently and Theresa comes in.]
Theresa.
Forgive me.
The Duke.
Little Brooklet. You?
Theresa.
Why do you always call me that?
The Duke.
'Tis sweet,
'Tis pure. It fits you.
Theresa.
Prince, I go to Parma
To-morrow with your mother.
The Duke.
I am sorry.
Theresa.
Parma—
The Duke.
The land of violets.
Theresa.
Ah, yes!
The Duke.
And if my mother knows not what they stand for
Tell her.
Theresa.
Farewell, my Lord.
The Duke.
Go, little Brooklet,
Go on your innocent course.
Theresa.
Why "Little Brooklet"?
The Duke.
Because the slumbering depths within your eyes,
The murmur of your voice, so oft refreshed me.
Theresa.
You've nothing more to say?
The Duke.
No, nothing more.
Theresa.
Good-bye, my Lord.
[She goes.]
The Duke.
Destroyed!
Prokesch.
Ah! I perceive!
The Duke.
She loves me—and perhaps—but I must deal
In history and not romances! Come!
To work, my friend! We will resume our tactics.
Prokesch.
I'll plan an action: you shall criticise it.
The Duke.
First give me yonder box upon the couch,
The wooden box with all my wooden soldiers.
I'll work the problem much more easily
Upon our little military chess-board.
Prokesch.
[After giving the box to the Duke.]
You have to prove my plan is hazardous.
The Duke.
[Putting his hand on the box.]
These are the soldiers of Napoleon's son!
Prokesch.
Prince!
The Duke.
I'm surrounded with such loving care,
They even paint my soldiers—take them out—
They even paint my wooden soldiers Austrian!
Well! hand me one. We will deploy our left.
[He takes the soldier Prokesch hands him, and
starts on seeing it.]
Prokesch.
What is't?
The Duke.
One of my father's Grenadiers!
[Prokesch hands him another.]
A Cuirassier!
[He takes others out of the box.]
Light Infantry! A scout!
They're all become good Frenchmen! Someone's painted
Each of these little wooden combatants!
[He takes them all out.]
They're French! French! French!
Prokesch.
What miracle is this?
The Duke.
I tell you, someone's carved and painted them!
Prokesch.
Who?
The Duke.
And the artist was a soldier!
Prokesch.
Why?
The Duke.
Each coat of regal blue has seven buttons,
The collars are correct, the linings faithful,
The tunics, brandenburghs, and forage-caps,
All's there! The painter never had to pause
To get the edgings and the facings right!
The lace is white, the flaps are triple-pointed!—
Oh, friend, whoe'er you are, with folded hands
I thank you, nameless soldier of my father!
I know not how you worked, nor whence you came.
How you found means, here, in our dismal gaol,
To paint these little mannikins for me.
Who is the hero, little wooden army—
Only a hero would have been so childish—
Who is the hero who equipped you thus
That now you smile at me from all your trappings?
Whose was the loving, microscopic brush
Which gave each tiny face its grim mustache,
Stamped cannon cross-wise on each pouch, and gave
Each officer his bugle or grenade?
Take them all out! The table's covered with them.
Here are the skirmishers, the fugle-men,
The Infantry with shoulder-straps of green.
Take them all out! They're little conquerors!
Oh, Prokesch, look! locked in that little box
Lay sleeping all the glorious Grande Armée!
Here are the Mamelukes—I recognize
The crimson breast-piece of the Polish Lancers.
Here are the Sappers with their purple breeches,
And here at last, with different colored leggings.
The Grenadiers of the line with waving plumes

Who marched into the battle with white gaiters;
The Conscripts here, with green and pear-shaped tufts.
Who marched to battle with their gaiters black.
Like a poor prisoner, who falls a-dreaming
Of vast and murmuring forests, with a tree
Fashioned of shavings, taken from a doll's house,
I build my Father's Epic with these soldiers.
[He moves away from the table.]
Why, yes, from here I cannot see at all
The little rounds of wood that keep them upright!
This army, Prokesch, when you move away
'Tis but the distance makes it look so small!
[He comes back quickly.]
Place them in line for Wagram and for Eylau!
This naked yatagan shall be the water—
[He takes a sword from the panoply.]
It is the Danube.
[He arranges the soldiers.]
Essling! Yonder's Aspern.
Throw out a paper bridge across the steel.
Pass me a mounted Grenadier or two.
Prokesch.
We want a little hillock.
The Duke.
[Handing him a book.]
The "Memorials."
Here stands Saint Cyr, here Molitor of Bellegarde
And on the bridge—
Metternich.
[Who has come in unperceived and is standing behind
him.]
And on the bridge?
The Duke.
The Guards.
Metternich.
So all the army's French to-day, it seems!
Where are the Austrians?
The Duke.
They've run away.
Metternich.
Tut, tut—who daubed them over for you?
The Duke.
No one.
Metternich.
'Twas you. That's how you spoil the toys we give you.
The Duke.
Sir—!
[Metternich rings—a Lackey appears.]
Metternich.
[To the Lackey.]
Take these soldiers; throw them all away.
[To the Duke.]
I'll send you new ones.
The Duke.
I'll not have your new ones!
If I'm a child, my toys shall be a giant's!
Metternich.
What gadfly—what Imperial bee has stung you?
The Duke.
As irony is little to my liking—
The Lackey.
[Aside to the Duke.]
Silence, my Lord! I'll paint 'em over again.
Metternich.
Well, Highness?
The Duke.
Nothing. Just a fit of temper.
Forgive me.
[Aside.]
I've a friend; I can be patient.
Metternich.
I came to bring your friend—
The Duke.
My friend?
Metternich.
Yes; Marshal
Marmont.
The Duke.
Oh! Marmont!
Metternich.
[With a look at Prokesch.]
He's among the few
I like to see about you—
Prokesch.
[Mutters.]
I should hope so!
Metternich.
He's here.
The Duke.
Why, let him come!
[Metternich goes out. The Duke throws himself
wildly on the couch.]
My father! Glory!
The Eagles! The Imperial throne! The purple!
[Suddenly calm, he offers his hand to Marmont,
who enters with Metternich.]
Ah, Marshal Marmont! How are you to-day?
Marmont.
My Lord—!
Metternich.
[Anxious to get Prokesch away.]
Come, Prokesch, come and see how well
The Duke is lodged.
[He takes him by the arm and leads him off.]
The Duke.
[After a pause.]
You've told me all you know
About my Father's youth?
Marmont.
I have.
The Duke.
We'll sum it up
You'd call him great?
Marmont.
Oh, very.
The Duke.
But 'twas you
Who helped—
Marmont.
I helped him to avoid—
The Duke.
Disaster?
Marmont.
Well, he believed so stoutly—
The Duke.
In his star?
Marmont.
We perfectly agree in our conclusions.
The Duke.
And I suppose he was, as we were saying—
Marmont.
He was a General of some importance;
Yet it were hardly fair to call him—
The Duke.
Wretch!
Marmont.
What?
The Duke.
Now I've learnt whatever you could teach me,
Whatever memories of him you had,
All that, in spite of you, was splendid in you.
I cast you off: a useless sponge!
Marmont.
My Lord!
The Duke.
Duke of Ragusa, you betrayed him! You!
Ah, yes, I know, when you beheld your comrade
Climbing the throne you all said, "Why not I?"
But you, whom even in the ranks he loved,
And loved so well his men grew discontented,
Created Marshal at the age of thirty—
Marmont.
No; thirty-five.
The Duke.
You, traitor of Essonnes,
The mob has found new uses for your name
And coined a verb "Raguser," to betray!
Why do you stand there silent? Answer me.
'Tis not alone Prince Francis Charles, it is
Napoleon the Second speaking to you.
Marmont.
[Listening.]
They come—Prince Metternich—I know his voice.
The Duke.
Well! you know what to do. Betray us twice!
Metternich.
[Entering with Prokesch.]
Don't interrupt your chat. I'm taking Prokesch
Across the park to see the Roman ruins
Where I propose to give a ball. I am
The last survivor of a crumbling world.
I like the idea of dancing over ruins.
Good-night.
[He goes out with Prokesch.]
Marmont.
My Lord, you see I held my peace.
The Duke.
It only needed that you should raguse.
Marmont.
Oh, conjugate the verb! I'll take a seat.
The Duke.
What!
Marmont.
I will let you conjugate the verb
Because you were magnificent just now.
The Duke.
Sir!
Marmont.
I have spoken evil of your Father
These fifteen years. I do so still; 'tis true.
Can you not guess I seek to excuse myself?
I never saw your Father after Elba—
If I had seen him I should have returned.
Others betrayed him, thinking to save France;
But these beheld his face again, and fell
Under the spell, as I have fallen to-night.
The Duke.
Why, sir?
Marmont.
I also have beheld his face.
The Duke.
How?
Marmont.
In that frown, and in that haughty gesture;
The sparkling eye! Insult me. I remain.
The Duke.
Almost you have atoned if that be true,
Saved me from self-distrust which these exploit.
What? With my gloomy brow and narrow chest—?
Marmont.
I have beheld him!
The Duke.
Dare I hope again?
Dare I forgive you? Why did you betray him?
Marmont.
My Lord—!
The Duke.
Why? You—and others?
Marmont.
We were weary.
Can you not understand? No peace in Europe.
It's well to conquer, but one wants to live!
Berlin, Vienna, never, never Paris!
Beginning and beginning and beginning,
Again, and yet again as in a nightmare;
Forever and forever in the saddle
Till we were sick of it!
The Lackey.
[Having taken out the wooden soldiers and come back.
What about us?
The Duke and Marmont.
Eh?
The Lackey.
Us, the men, the mean, the rank and file?
Us, tramping broken, wounded, muddy, dying,
Having no hope of duchies or endowments,
Marching along and never getting further,
Too simple and too ignorant to covet
The famous marshal's baton in our knapsacks?
What about us, who marched through every weather,
Sweating but fearless, shivering without trembling,
Kept on our feel by trumpet-calls, by fever,
And by the songs we sang through conquered countries?
Us upon whom for seventeen years—just think!—
The knapsack, sabre, turn-screw, flint, and gun,
Beside the burden of an empty belly,
Made the sweet weight of five and fifty pounds?
Us, who wore bearskins in the burning tropics
And marched bareheaded through the snows of Russia,
Who trotted casually from Spain to Austria?
Us who, to free our travel-weary legs,
Like carrots from the slough of miry roads,
Often with both hands had to lug them out?
Us, who, not having jujubes for our coughs,
Took day-long foot-baths in the freezing Danube?
Who just had leisure when some officer
Came riding up, and gayly cried "To arms!
The enemy is on us! Drive him back!"
To eat a slice of rook—and raw at that,
Or quickly mix a delicate ice-cream
With melted snow and a dead horse's blood?
Us, who—
The Duke.
At last!
The Lackey.
At night had little fear
Of bullets, but a holy dread of waking
Cannibals; us—
The Duke.
At last—!
The Lackey.
Who marched and fought
Fasting, and only stopped—
The Duke.
At last I see one!
The Lackey.
To fight—and then stopped fighting, four to one,
Only to march; and stopped again to fight!
Marching and fighting, naked, starved, but merry—
Don't you suppose we, too, were sick of it?
Marmont.
But—
The Lackey.
Though we owed him precious little thanks,
Nevertheless 'twas we whose hearts were true,
While you were ambling at the King's right hand.
In short, your Highness, in the great canteen,
Where souls are fed on glory, he may find
[Pointing to Marmont.]
His laurels are not worth our small potatoes.
Marmont.
Who is this Lackey with the veteran's growl?
The Lackey.
John Seraph Peter Flambeau, called Flambart—
"The glowing coal"—ex-sergeant grenadier.
Mamma from Picardy; Papa a Breton.
Joined at fourteen, two Germinal, year Three.
Baptised, Marengo; got my corporal's stripes
The fifteenth Fructidor, year Twelve. Silk hose
And sergeant's cane, steeped in my tears of joy.
July fourteenth, year Eighteen hundred and nine,
At Schönbrunn, for the Guards were here to serve
The sacred person of your Majesty.
Sixteen years' service, seen sixteen campaigns,
Fought Austerlitz, fought Eylau, Somo-Siera,
Eckmühl, Essling, Wagram, Smolensk, and so forth.
Thirty-two feats of arms, a lot of wounds,
And only fought for glory and dry bread.
Marmont.
Surely you will not listen to him thus?
The Duke.
No, sir, I will not listen thus, but standing!
Marmont.
My Lord!
The Duke.
For in the volume whose sublime
Chapters are headed with proud capitals
You are the titles and you catch the eye;
But these—these are the thousand little letters—
You're nought, without the black and humble army
That goes to make a page of history.
Oh, my brave Flambeau, painter of my soldiers,
To think while you were near me all this month,
I only looked upon you as a spy.
Flambeau.
Oh, our acquaintance dates much further back!
The Duke.
How so?
Flambeau.
Can't you recall me?
The Duke.
Not at all.
Flambeau.
One Thursday in the garden of Saint Cloud
Marshal Duroc stood with a maid-in-waiting,
Watching your Highness at his nurse's breast—
Its whiteness, I remember, startled me.
Marshal Duroc exclaimed, "Come here!" I came.
But there were lots of things to make me nervous:
The Imperial child, the gorgeous rosy sleeves
The Maid of honor wore, Duroc, the breast—
In short, the tuft was shivering on my bearskin;
So much so that your Highness noticed it.
You gazed upon it pensively: what was it?
And while you hailed it with a milky laugh
You seemed uncertain which to admire the more
About this moving scarlet miracle:
Its motion, or the fact that it was scarlet.
Suddenly, while I stooped, your little hands
Began lo pull the precious tuft about.
Seeing my plight, the Marshal cried severely,
"Don't interfere"—I didn't interfere;
But having sunk upon my knees I heard
The nurse, the marshal, and the lady laughing.
And when I rose the grass was strewn with red:
As for my tuft, that was a beardless wire.
"I'll sign an order," said Duroc, "for two."
Back to my quarters then I strutted radiant;
"You there! hulloa!" exclaimed the Adjutant,
"Who's plucked you?" And I cried: "The King of Rome!"
And that is how one Thursday morn I met
Your Majesty. Your Highness has developed.
The Duke.
No, not developed: that is why I grieve.
My "Majesty" has shrivelled to my "Highness."
Marmont.
[To Flambeau.]
But since the Empire fell, what have you done?
Flambeau.
I think I've acted like a decent beggar.
I know Fournier and Solignac. In May
Eighteen-sixteen Didier and Sarlovèze
Conspire and fail. I see the child Miard
Perish, and David the old man, and weep;
They'd have beheaded me, but I am missing.
Good. I come back to Paris with an alias;
I smash a footstool on a royal guard
Because he'd trodden on my favorite corn.
I take the chair at noisy drinking bouts,
Spend thirty pence a month. I nurse a hope
That in the Var that Other still may land.
I swagger in a Bonapartist hat
And call whoever stares at me a vampire.
I fight some thirty duels. I conspire
At Béziers; fail. They'd have beheaded me,
But I am missing. Good. I join at once
The plot at Lyons. All are seized. I fly.
They'd have beheaded me, but I am missing.
So I come back to Paris, where, by chance,
I find myself mixed up in the Bazaar plot.
Lefèvre-Desnouettes is in America.
I join him there. "What's up, my General?"
Says I. Says he, "Come back." We start; we're wrecked.
My General's drowned, but I know how to swim;
And so I swim, bewailing Desnouettes.
Good. Very good. Sun—azure waves—and sea-mews.
A ship. They fish me up. I land in time
To be among the plotters of Saumur.
We fail again. They'd have beheaded me,
But I am missing. So I make for Greece,
To rub the rust off, thrashing dirty Turks.
One morning in July I'm back in France.
I see them heaping paving stones. I help.
I fight. At night the tricolor is hoisted.
Instead of the while banner of the King,
But as I think there still is something lacking
To crown the point of that disloyal staff;
You know—the golden thing that beats its wings.
I leave, to plot in the Romagna. Fail.
A relative of yours—
The Duke.
Named?
Flambeau.
Camerata—
Makes me her fencing master—
The Duke.
Ah!
Flambeau.
In Tuscany.
So we conspire with singlestick and rapier.
Next there's a post of danger vacant here;
They give me forged credentials; here I am.
I'm here; but every day I see the Countess,
For I have found the cave your Highness dug
With your preceptor Colin in the garden
To play at little Robinson. All right!
I hide in it. I find it has two openings:
This in an ant-heap; that, a bed of nettles.
I wait. Your cousin brings her sketch-book, and
There in the shadow of the Roman thingummies,
She on her camp-stool, I amid the mud,
She looking like an English tourist sketching,
I whispering from my cavern like a prompter,
We plan the means to make you Emperor.
The Duke.
And for such loyalty, so long maintained,
What do you ask of me?
Flambeau.
Just pull my ear.
The Duke.
What?
Flambeau.
As your Father used to when we'd pleased him.
The Duke.
But I—
Flambeau.
I'm waiting. Come. The thumb and index.
[The Duke pulls his ear.]
That's not the way to pull an ear, my Lord!
You don't know how: you're much too gentlemanly.
The Duke.
Ah, do you think so?
Marmont.
Clumsy thing to say!
Flambeau.
Well, in a French Prince that's but half a fault.
The Duke.
But can you see I'm French in these surroundings?
Flambeau.
Yes, you don't match. It's rich; it's heavy.
Marmont.
What!
Can you see that?
Flambeau.
My brother's an upholsterer.
He works in Paris for Fontaine and Percier—
They try to imitate us here; but, Lord!
They've got a curious kind of Louis-Quinze!
I'm not an expert, but I've got an eye.
[He lifts up a chair.]
Just look how finnicking this wood-work is.
[He puts it down and looks at it.]
But then the tapestry! What taste! what mystery!
It sings. It laughs. It crushes all the room.
Why? Don't you know? Why, these are Gobelins!
How plain it is that cunning craftsmen made them.
This taste, this elegance swears with the rest—
And you my Lord, were also made in France!
Malmont.
He must go back.
Flambeau.
And on the Cross of Honor
Once more engrave a little Emperor.
The Duke.
Whom have they put there now?
Flambeau.
Henry the Fourth—
Well, damn it all, it had to be a fighter!
But, basta! How Napoleon must laugh
To wear King Henry's mask upon his face!
Haven't you ever seen the cross?
The Duke.
In shops.
Flambeau.
My Lord, it must be seen upon a breast.
Here on the cloth, a gout of ardent blood,
Which fell, and falling turned to burnished gold
And to enamel with an edge of green;
'Twas like a jewel pouring from a wound.
The Duke.
It must have looked magnificent, my friend.
Here on your bosom.
Flambeau.
I?—I never had it.
The Duke.
What! After all your modest heroism?
Flambeau.
One had to do far greater deeds to win it.
The Duke.
You made no claim?
Flambeau.
The Little Corporal
Didn't bestow it; so I hadn't earned it.
The Duke.
Then I, who have no power, no throne, no title,
I, who am but a memory in a phantom,
That Duke of Reichstadt who with helpless grief
Can only wander under Austrian trees,
Carving an N upon their mossy trunks,
Wayfarer, only noticed when I cough;
Who have no longer even the little piece
Of watered silk so scarlet in my cradle;
I, on whose woes they vainly lavish stars,
Who only wear two crosses, not the One!
I, exiled, prisoner, sick, who may not ride
Along the front of pompous regiments
Scattering stars among my heroes; yet
I hope—I think—the son of such a father—
Into whose hands a firmament was given—
I think, in spite of shadows and dead days,
A little of the star clings to my fingers:—
John Seraph Peter Flambeau, I adorn you!
Flambeau.
You!
The Duke.
Oh, this ribbon is not real.
Flambeau.
The real
Is that we weep in taking. I have wept.
Marmont.
Besides, it must be legalized in Paris.
The Duke.
But how to get to Paris?
Flambeau.
Pack your trunk.
The Duke.
Alas!
Flambeau.
No more "Alas." To-day's the Ninth,
And if you'd like to be on the Pont-Neuf
The Thirtieth—you'll be there if you like—
Come to the ball to-morrow given by Nepomuk.
The Duke and Marmont.
By whom?
Flambeau.
Prince Metternich (Clement Lothair
Wenceslas Nepomuk). Come. No more "Alas!"
Marmont.
You utter dangerous secrets in my presence!
Flambeau.
You'll not betray a plot in which you share.
The Duke.
Not Marmont!
Marmont.
Yes, I'm with you.
[To Flambeau.]
All the same
You didn't use much flattery to win me;
You gave me quite a warm reception.
Flambeau.
Yes;
And won a warm reception for myself.
Marmont.
Very imprudent.
Flambeau.
True, but then my failing
Is ever overdoing things a little.
I always add a trifle to my orders
And wear a rose-bud when I go to battle:
My little joke.
Marmont.
So if the Camerata
Cares to employ me—
The Duke.
No! not Marmont!
Flambeau.
Pooh!
Let him redeem himself!
The Duke.
No!
Marmont.
I have lists
Carefully made, of all the malcontents;
Maison, the French Ambassador, is my friend.
Flambeau.
Oh, he can serve us.
The Duke.
Compromises! No!
I'll not let Marmont consecrate himself!
Marmont.
When you are crowned, my Lord, I will obey you.
Meanwhile I'll go at once to General Maison.
[Marmont goes out.]
Flambeau.
That venerable rascal's in the right.
The Duke.
So be it, then! I'll come. But where's the proof
That France still feels herself my Father's widow?
Oh, Flambeau, time has passed; the ancient love
These worthy people bore us must have died.
Flambeau.
Their love of you, my Lord? Why that's immortal!
[He takes from about his person the various articles
mentioned in the following scene.]
The Duke.
Why, Flambeau, what is that?
Flambeau.
A pair of braces.
The Duke.
Have you gone mad?
Flambeau.
Just look and see what's on 'em!
The Duke.
My portrait!
Flambeau.
Worn by quite a decent class.
The Duke.
But Flambeau—
Flambeau.
Will you take a pinch of snuff?
The Duke.
I—
Flambeau.
On the box a little curly head.
The Duke.
'Tis I!
Flambeau.
And what about this handkerchief?
Eh! Not so bad, the little King of Rome?
The Duke.
But—
Flambeau.
Colored print to paste upon your walls.
The Duke.
Again! on horseback!
Flambeau.
Yes, and caracolling.
How d'you like this pipe?
The Duke.
But tell me, Flambeau—
Flambeau.
You cannot say they haven't drawn you handsome!
The Duke.
I—
Flambeau.
A cockade, to tease the government.
The Duke.
What's that?
Flambeau.
A medal. Trivial fancy goods.
The Duke.
Still I?
Flambeau.
Still you. Look here, what words are ground
Upon this tumbler?
The Duke.
"Francis, Duke of Reichstadt."
Flambeau.
Of course you can't get on without a plate—
The Duke.
A plate?
Flambeau.
A knife, a napkin-ring, an egg-cup.
They've made you look so happy on the egg-cup!
The table's laid, my Lord: my Lord is served!
The Duke.
[With increasing emotion.]
Flambeau—
Flambeau.
On everything. Here's a cravat
In which you're woven riding in the clouds;
And playing cards of which you're Ace of Spades—
The Duke.
Flambeau!
Flambeau.
And Almanacs—
The Duke.
Flambeau!
Flambeau.
And everything!
The Duke.
Flambeau!
Flambeau.
What, weeping? Take this handkerchief
And dry your eyes upon the King of Rome!
[He kneels by the Duke's side and wipes his eyes
with the handkerchief.]
I bid you strike the iron while it's hot:
You've got the people and you've got the Marshals,
The King, the King himself, is only King
On one condition: that he's Bonapartist.
Vainly the Gallic cockerel spreads his wings
That, from a distance, he may seem an eagle.
We Frenchmen cannot breathe inglorious air;
The crown must slip from off a pear-shaped head.
The youth of France will rally to your side
Merrily shouting songs of Béranger—
The street has shuddered and the pavement trembled,
And Schönbrunn's not so pretty as Versailles!
The Duke.
I will accept.
[Military music is heard.]
Ha!
Flambeau.
[At the window.]
In the Court of honor
The trumpets of the Guard. The Emperor
Is coming home.
The Duke.
My grandfather! My promise!
[To Flambeau.]
No; before accepting—
Flambeau.
Damn it!
The Duke.
Listen!
I must make one attempt with him; but if
When you are here on guard to-night, you see
Something—that you're not used to seeing here—
It is a signal! I will fly.
Flambeau.
Latude!
What will the signal be?
The Duke.
You'll see.
Flambeau.
But if—
[An officer of the Noble Guard enters.]
The Officer.
My Lord—
Flambeau.
[Taking stock of him.]
The beggars! Aren't they gorgeous swells!
The Duke.
Well?
The Officer.
As the Emperor passed, they came and said,
"O Sire, this is the one day in the week
Whereon your Majesty receives his subjects;
Many have come from far—" "I'd thought of it,"
Replied the Emperor, smiling; "and I hope
To see them. I'm at Schönbrunn as a grandfather,
I shall be with the Duke from five to six:
Let all my children be beside my grandson."
May they come up?
The Duke.
Yes! open all the doors!
[The Officer goes out.]
The Duke.
[To Flambeau.]
Now quickly make a bundle of these treasures.
I'll look at them at leisure in my room.
Flambeau.
I make the bundle in the handkerchief.
But tell me what the signal is to be.
The Duke.
Oh, never fear! you will not fail to know it.
But—do you hear them? That's the Austrian Hymn.
Flambeau.
My word! It isn't worth the Marseillaise!
The Duke.
The Marseillaise—well? have you tied the ends?
My father used to say it wore mustachios.
Flambeau.
Their blessed national hymn has scented whiskers.
The Duke.
It wouldn't be bad fun to enter France,
Thus, with my bundle on my back, on foot.
Flambeau.
How cheerful and how funny you can be!
This is the first time I have seen you so.
The Duke.
What? Rather young and merry? Thank you, Flambeau.
Curtain.

THE THIRD ACT

Scene: The same as in the previous act.

A miscellaneous crowd of men, women and children are discovered on the rising of the curtain. They are being placed in order by an Officer.

The Officer.
Line up. Be quiet. Boy, behave yourself.
The Emperor enters here; so leave a passage.
You, giant Highlander, don't scrape your feet.
A Man.
Will he pass here?
The Officer.
Yes; and he'll take your papers.
Hold your petitions so that he can see them.
No tedious twaddle—Ah!—and you're forbidden
To kneel when he comes in.
A Woman.
Forbidden or not,
That won't prevent us—
[The Emperor enters quite simply, without being
announced. All the people, in spite of the warning,
fall on their knees.]
The Emperor.
Rise, my children, rise.
[He passes from one to the other, taking their
papers. To a Woman.]
Your pension's doubled.
The Woman.
Sire!
The Emperor.
[To a Man.]
What? What? A team
Of oxen? That's expensive!—Granted.
The Man.
Father!
The Emperor.
[Reading another paper.]
Granted.
A Woman.
Father Franz—
The Emperor.
What, you? All well
At home?
The Woman.
Oh, so-so.
The Emperor.
Well, old woman? Well?
The Old Woman.
Why, don't you see, the wind has killed my chickens.
The Emperor.
Granted.—A vocalist?
The Vocalist.
I yodle.
The Emperor.
Come
And yodle to the Court at Baden.
The Chamberlain.
Name?
The Vocalist.
Schnauser.
The Emperor.
A Highlander?
The Highlander.
Out yonder
My home is, on the mountains, in the skies.
I want to be a cabman in Vienna.
The Emperor.
Well, so you shall.
[Taking another paper.]
A wealthy husbandman
Begs Franz to give him back his daughter's love
Which a Bohemian glass-blower has stolen.
[Handing back the paper.]
You'll wed your child to her Bohemian lover.
The Husbandman.
But—
The Emperor.
I'll endow him.
The Chamberlain.
Name?
The Husbandman.
Johannes Schmoll.
I kiss your hands.
The Emperor.
[Taking another paper.]
"A shepherd of the Tyrol,
A friendless orphan, robbed of all his land,
Driven from his homestead by his father's foes,
Yearns for his native woods and skies"—how touching!—
"And his paternal meadow." 'Tis restored.
The Chamberlain.
What is the shepherd's name, who asks for help?
The Shepherd.
The Duke of Reichstadt! And the meadow's France!
The Emperor.
[To the Petitioners.]
Begone!
[All go.]
What's this?
The Duke.
It seems if I were only
A mountain shepherd or a forester,
With nothing to attract your notice, Sire,
Save a cock's feather in my huntsman's hat,
You would have drawn me to your melting heart.
The Emperor.
But Franz—!
The Duke.
Ah, now I know why all your subjects,
All those who are unhappy, call themselves
Your sons as much as we; but is it just,
Sire, is it just, that I, when I'm unhappy,
Have less of kinship than the least of these?
The Emperor.
But why just now—for I must scold you, sir—
When I was busy with these wretched people—
Why come to me just now, and not in private?
The Duke.
I wished to find you when your heart was open.
The Emperor.
My heart—my heart!—You're somewhat over-bold!
The Duke.
I know that you can do the thing I ask,
That I am wretched almost past endurance,
And that you are my Grandfather—that's all.
The Emperor.
But there is Europe—England—above all,
There's Metternich.
The Duke.
You are my Grandfather.
The Emperor.
You don't know half the difficulties.
The Duke.
But
I am the grandson of your Majesty.
The Emperor.
But—
The Duke.
Sire, in whom alone I place my trust,
Be Grandfather a little while!
The Emperor.
But I—
The Duke.
Just for a moment drop the Emperor.
The Emperor.
Ah, what a coaxing way you always had.
The Duke.
You know I cannot bear you when you look
Like the great portrait hanging in the throne-room,
With the ermine cloak and Golden Fleece upon you;
But here, like this, I like you very much.
With the dear silver of your floating hair,
Your kindly eyes, your simple coat and waistcoat;
For now you're just a dear old gentleman,
By whom a grandchild might be petted.
The Emperor.
Petted!
The Duke.
Are you not bored to see the heavy jowls
Of Louis-Philip on the coins of France?
The Emperor.
Hush! hush!
The Duke.
Do you adore these podgy Bourbons?
The Emperor.
You are not like your cousins the Archdukes.
The Duke.
Indeed?
The Emperor.
Where did you learn your saucy tricks?
The Duke.
I learnt them playing in the Tuileries.
The Emperor.
Ah, you come back to that?
The Duke.
I wish I could.
The Emperor.
Can you recall those days?
The Duke.
Oh, only vaguely.
The Emperor.
Can you recall your father?
The Duke.
I remember
A man who pressed me hard against a star,
And as he pressed I felt with tears of fright
The diamond star was stamped upon my heart:
Sire, it has stayed there!
The Emperor.
Do I blame you for it?
The Duke.
Yes, let the goodness of your nature speak!
When I was small you loved me, did you not?
You loved to have me with you at your meals,
And so we used to dine together—
The Emperor.
Charming.
The Duke.
My hair was long, and I was Prince of Parma;
And when they punished me you let me off.
The Emperor.
Do you remember how you hated ponies?
The Duke.
One day they showed me one as white as snow;
I stamped with fury in the riding-school.
The Emperor.
You thought a pony was a deadly insult.
The Duke.
I cried with rage: I want a great, big horse!
The Emperor.
And now you want another great, big horse!
The Duke.
And how I used to beat my German nurses.
The Emperor.
And how with Colin you would calmly dig
Enormous holes about my park—
The Duke.
For Crusoe.
The Emperor.
He was Man Friday.
The Duke.
And I used to hide.
I had a gun, three hatchets and a bow.
The Emperor.
Then you stood sentinel before my door.
The Duke.
As a hussar.
The Emperor.
And ladies, coming late,
Found this excuse quite natural:—"Oh, Sire,
We only stopped to kiss the sentinel!"
The Duke.
You loved me then.
The Emperor.
I love you now.
The Duke.
Then prove it!
The Emperor.
My Franz! my grandson!
The Duke.
Is it true the King
Would simply disappear if I appeared?
The Emperor.
Well—
The Duke.
Is it true?
The Emperor.
I—
The Duke.
Don't tell lies!
The Emperor.
Perhaps!
The Duke.
I love you!
The Emperor.
Yes; if you appeared alone,
Without a drum, upon the bridge at Strassburg,
The King would vanish.
The Duke.
I adore you, Grandad!
The Emperor.
I'm stifled!
The Duke.
No.
The Emperor.
I should have held my tongue.
The Duke.
Besides, the climate of Vienna's bad:
I'm ordered Paris—
The Emperor.
Really?
The Duke.
For my cough.
If I'm to spend a season there, of course
I can't stop anywhere but at the Louvre.
The Emperor.
Indeed!
The Duke.
And if you liked—
The Emperor.
They've often begged us
To wink at your escaping—
The Duke.
Wink at once!
The Emperor.
Oh, for all me—
The Duke.
There's no one else.
The Emperor.
I'll think.
The Duke.
Don't think! Don't think those horrid second thoughts!
Consult your feelings only, and your heart,
'Twould be so pretty if an Emperor once
Upset all history to spoil his grandson.
And then it's something, something rather fine,
If you can just remark quite innocently,
You know: "My Grandson, Emperor of the French."
The Emperor.
Certainly.
The Duke.
And you'll say it! Say you'll say it!
The Emperor.
Well—
The Duke.
Speak, Sire!
The Emperor.
Yes, then—Sire!
The Duke.
Ah, Sire!
[They salute each other as equals.]
The Emperor.
Sire!
The Duke.
Sire!
[A door opens.]
The Emperor.
Metternich. Have no fear; I'll—
The Duke.
All is lost!
[Enter Metternich.]
The Emperor.
It is my will this child shall reign.
Metternich.
Delightful.
I'll tell your partisans at once.
The Duke.
I feared.
The Emperor.
What should you fear? Am I not master here?
The Duke.
Whom will you send me as Ambassador?
Metternich.
Delightful.
The Duke.
And you'll visit me in state?
The Emperor.
Yes, very likely; when the chambers rise.
Metternich.
We'll only ask some trifling guarantees.
The Duke.
Ask what you like.
The Emperor.
Well? are you happy?
Metternich.
First
We'll come to terms on trivial points of detail:
Certain seditious groups should be dissolved:
Our neighbors must not harbor thunderbolts.
The Duke.
Dear grandfather!
Metternich.
Ah—then we're very weary
Of hearing of the Heroes of July.
The Duke.
But—
Metternich.
Now the imperialists and radicals
Are linked: we'll cut the link; we cannot favor
The dangerous modern spirit. We'll expel
Lammenais.
The Duke.
But—
Metternich.
And Chateaubriand. Ah—
We'll also put a muzzle on the press.
The Duke.
Oh, there's no hurry.
The Emperor.
Pardon me, there is.
The Duke.
Pardon me, that's attacking freedom.
The Emperor.
Freedom!
Metternich.
Ah—we must have free hand in Italy.
Ah—not so much excitement about Poland.
The Duke.
Ah? And what else?
Metternich.
Well, we shall have to solve
The question of the names. You know, the names
Of battles, Sire, which you—well—did not win:
The Marshals must not wear them.
The Duke.
What is that?
The Emperor.
Perhaps—
Metternich.
Forgive me; but they must not think
They're lords of Austrian places; and you cannot
Approve their way of carrying off to France
Our villages by means of upstart titles.
The Duke.
Grandfather! Grandfather!
The Emperor.
Well—it's evident—
The Duke.
Yet you and I were in each other's arms!
[To Metternich.]
And have you nothing further to demand?
Metternich.
Yes; the suppression of the Tricolor.
The Duke.
Your Excellency wishes me to wash
The banner based in blood and crowned with heaven—
For it was dipped in horrors that bear fruit,
And it was bathed in universal hopes!—
Your Excellency asks me to efface
That gleam of heaven and that stain of blood,
And, having nothing but a blank sheet left,
To make a shroud for Freedom out of that!
The Emperor.
Freedom again!
The Duke.
Upon my father's side
I am related closely, Sire, to Freedom.
Metternich.
Yes, the Duke's grandsire was the eighteenth Brumaire!
The Duke.
Yes, and the Revolution was my granddam!
The Emperor.
Silence!
Metternich.
The Emperor a republican!
Utopia!—Play the Marseillaise in A
On trumpets, while the sentimental flute
Sighs "God preserve the Empire" in E flat.
The Duke.
The two go very well together, sir,
And make a tune that frightens Kings away!
The Emperor.
This to my face? How dare you, sir? How dare you?
The Duke.
Ah, now I know what is expected of me!
The Emperor.
What does it mean? What is the matter with him?
The Duke.
I am to be an Austrian Archduke
On a French throne!
The Emperor.
What has he read or seen?
The Duke.
I have seen egg-cups, handkerchiefs, and pipes!
The Emperor.
He's mad! The words he utters are a madman's!
The Duke.
Mad to have thought you'd help me to my own.
Metternich.
'Tis you alone obstruct your going home.
The Duke.
Yes, in a gig instead of on a gun!
The Emperor.
You shall not go at all!
The Duke.
A cage?
The Emperor.
We'll see!
The Duke.
For all your cages I am still the Eaglet!
The Emperor.
The eagle on my flag has many eaglets:
You're one of them: that's all.
The Duke.
Oh, gloomy eagle!
Sad, double-headed fowl, with heavy eye:
Eagle of Austria, cruel bird of night!
A glorious eagle of the dawn has passed
Athwart thine eyrie, and with ruffled feathers,
Raging and terror-stricken, thou beholdest
One of thine eaglets sprouting golden plumage!
The Emperor.
My heart was softening: I regret my tears.
These books and weapons shall be taken from you.
Dietrichstein!
Metternich.
He is not in the palace.
The Emperor.
Poor, morbid child, we will suppress whatever
Too much reminds you who your father was.
The Duke.
Then you must root up every violet,
Drive every single bee out of your park!
The Emperor.
Change all the servants!
Metternich.
I'll dismiss them all:
Otto, Fritz, Hermann, Albrecht—
The Duke.
Close the shutters,
Lest yonder star remind me of my father's.
The Emperor.
And as for Dietrichstein, I'll sign at once
New regulations—
[To Metternich.]
Write.
Metternich.
Where is the ink?
The Duke.
My inkstand's on the table; you may use it.
Metternich.
Where? I see nothing!
The Duke.
The Minerva's head,
In bronze and marble.
Metternich.
Still I cannot see it.
The Duke.
Then take the other, made of burnished gold,
On yonder console—
Metternich.
Where?
The Emperor.
What inkstands?
The Duke.
Sire,
Those which my father left me.
The Emperor.
What do you mean?
The Duke.
Yes! in his testament! And there, the pistols,
Four pistols of Versailles. Take them away.
The Emperor.
[Bringing his fist down on the table.]
What's this?
The Duke.
You must not hit the table, Sire!
Now you've knocked down the sword he wore as Consul!
The Emperor.
These things you speak of—
The Duke.
Are before my eyes!
"They are to be surrendered to my son
When he has reached sixteen." Despite the crime
Which holds them back, they're mine: I have their soul!
The soul of every cross, of every jewel,
And all is here: the three mahogany caskets,
And all the snuff-boxes, and all the spurs,
The golden garter-buckles and the gorgets,
I've all! The iron sword, the enamelled sword,
The sword in which a never-setting sun
Has left its fires imprisoned, so that none
May dare to draw it lest the sun leap forth;
I have the sword-belts also, all the six!
The Emperor.
Silence!
The Duke.
"To be surrendered to my son
When he has reached sixteen." Oh, Father, sleep.
For I have all; even your uniforms.
Oh, yes! To you my uniform looks white—
Well, it's not true—it's false—I am pretending!
Father, behold, it's blue and red, behold!
Colonel? Not so! Lieutenant in your Guard!
By the device your soldiers bore I know it,
Father, who gave me victories for sisters!
'Twas not in vain you wished me to possess
The alarm-clock of King Frederick of Prussia,
Which you magnificently stole from Potsdam,
For here it is! 'Tis ticking in my brain!
It is the clock which wakes me every morning,
Drives me exhausted by my midnight toil
Back to my narrow table, to my toil,
To be more fit by night-fall for the throne!
The Emperor.
The throne! the throne! Oh, never hope again
That you may reign in France, you—Upstart's son,
Because our nobler blood has made you look
Rather more kingly than your father was.
The Duke.
Forgive me, but at Dresden, you remember,
You all appeared like lackeys of my father.
The Emperor.
A common soldier!
The Duke.
He had but to ask
And Emperors gave their daughters to this soldier.
The Emperor.
Perhaps. I cannot say. Mine is a widow.
The Duke.
Pity I'm here as living evidence!
The Emperor.
Have you forgotten how we loved each other?
The Duke.
No! No! My birth is proof that you were beaten!
No! you can only hate me; for I am
Wagram personified before your eyes!
The Emperor.
Out of my sight! Begone!
[Exit the Duke.]
The child I loved!
Metternich.
Well, Sire, is he to have an empire?
The Emperor.
Never!
Metternich.
Do you perceive what I have saved you from?
The Emperor.
Ah! did you hear the monstrous things he said?
Metternich.
We must subdue him.
The Emperor.
For his own sake; yes,
Metternich.
For the world's peace and yours.
The Emperor.
We must subdue him.
Metternich.
I'll come and speak to him to-night.
The Emperor.
What grief
He gives me!
Metternich.
[Trying to lead him away.]
Come.
The Emperor.
You'll speak to-night?
Metternich.
This scene
Must never be repeated.
The Emperor.
It has hurt me.
Unhappy child!
Metternich.
[Leading him off.]
Come, Sire.
The Emperor.
[Without.]
The child—
[His voice dies away.]
[The Duke opens his door very gently, sees they
are gone, listens a moment, then enters quickly
and places one of Napoleon's little hats on the
table.]
The Duke.
The signal!
[He returns to his room.]
[Flambeau enters.]
Flambeau.
'Tis time. Well, signal? Are you here?—Perhaps.
[He hunts for it.]
"Flambeau," he said, "you cannot fail to find it."
Now, is it high or low, or black or white?
Or great or small?
[He sees the hat.]
The Emperor's—! Small and great!
[He goes toward the window.]
Oh, but the Countess watches in the park,
And if the signal's here I am to signal:
[He takes out his handkerchief.]
No! This won't do. A white flag makes her ill.
[A servant enters with a reading-lamp, which he
carries toward the Duke's room.]
The Servant.
The Duke of Reichstadt's reading-lamp.
Flambeau.
[Leaping upon him and seizing the lamp.]
You dolt!
It's leaking! It must have fresh air!
[He takes it out on the balcony.]
You wave it three times so: arrange the wick;
[He does as he says and gives the lamp back to
the Servant.]
That's it. See that?
The Servant.
Oh, aren't you clever?
[He carries the lamp into the Duke's room.]
Flambeau.
Rather!
To-morrow—flight!
[Sedlinzky enters.]
Sedlinzky.
The Duke?
Flambeau.
[Pointing to the room.]
In there.
Sedlinzky.
Watch here.
Flambeau.
I'm watching.
Sedlinzky.
Lock!
[He goes out.]
Flambeau.
[Locking the door after him.]
Locked!
Sedlinzky.
[Without.]
Take the key out.
Flambeau.
Out.
Sedlinzky.
None but the Emperor has the key. Be careful—
Watch.
Flambeau.
As I always do.
[He bends over the key-holes and arranges them
carefully.]
And for the night
I'll close the eyelids of the key-holes softly.
Sedlinzky's Voice.
Good-night, you Piedmontese.
Flambeau.
Good-night, my Lord.
Sedlinzky's Voice.
Remember! you're on duty.
Flambeau.
I'm on duty.
Sedlinzky's Voice.
Well, that's all right. Good-night.
Flambeau.
Good-night!
[He throws off his livery coat. Puts on the busby,
which is standing on the console, and shoulders
the musket. He is now in the full accoutrement
of a Grenadier of the Guards.]
And thus,
Suddenly upright, thin, unliveried,
Locked in till dawn, and safe against surprise,
Glowering with grizzled brows beneath his busby,
Straight in his ancient uniform, his gun
Firm in his arm, his hand on his right nipple,
The fixed and regulation attitude,
Standing thus every night before your threshold,
Giving himself a password full of pride,
Pleased with a deed that's grave, and yet a jest,
A Grenadier at Schönbrunn stands on guard
About the son as once about the Father.
'Tis the last time! You'll never hear of it.
'Tis for myself. A private luxury.
I must be mad to do a thing like this
For no one's eye, but just to say "By Jove,
That's rather good!" At Schönbrunn! In their teeth!
But I'm delighted!—I'm content!
[He hears the noise of a key in the door.]
I'm damned!
[The door opens gently.]
Who can have got the key?
[He retires into the shadow by the Duke's door.]
[Metternich enters, carrying a large candelabrum.]
Metternich.
No, no! This scene
Must never be repeated.
Flambeau.
Nepomuk!
Metternich.
Yes, I will speak to-night. We are alone.
[As he puts down the candelabrum he sees the hat.]
What's this? I never knew he had one like—
Ah! the Archduchess must have sent him this;
So there thou art, thou legendary hat!
'Tis many years—Good day!—What sayst thou? What?
No, from thy little sable pyramid
Twelve years of splendor gaze on me in vain,
I do not fear thee now.
The leathern tag
With which he constantly could take thee off,
And so win cheers yet leave thy shape unharmed.
With thee he fanned himself after each victory;
Thou couldst not fall from his unheeding fingers,
But straight a king would stoop to pick thee up.
To-day, my friend, thou art a reach-me-down,
And if I tossed thee through the casement yonder
Where wouldst thou end thy days?
Flambeau.
[To himself.] In a museum!
Metternich.
The famous little hat—how very ugly!
They called it little—is it really little?
No; it is big; enormous; it's the hat
A little man puts on to increase his inches.
For 'twas a hatter set the legend going:
The real Napoleon, after all, was Poupart.
Ah, never think my hatred of thee slumbers!
'Twas for thy shape's sake first I hated thee,
Thou vampire-bat of bloody battle-fields,
Hat that seemed fashioned out of raven's wings.
I hated thee for pitilessly soaring
Above the fields which witnessed our defeats,
Half-circle, seeming on the ruddy sky
The orb half-risen of some sable sun!
And for thy crown wherein the devil lurks,
Thou juggler's hat, laid with a sudden hand
Upon a throne, an army, or a nation—
When thou wert lifted all had disappeared.
I hated thee for the salutes I gave thee,
For thy simplicity—mere affectation—
Thy insolent joy, thou piece of common beaver
Amid the glittering diadems of gold;
For staying firmly on his haughty head
When I sought flattering epithets to please thee.
Conqueror, new, acclaimed, I hated thee!
I hate thee now, old, conquered and betrayed!
I hate thee for thy haughty shadow, cast
Forever on the wall of history;
I hate thee for thy Jacobin cockade,
Staring upon me like a bloodshot eye;
For all the murmurs sounding in thy shell,
That huge black shell the waves have left behind
Wherein the shuddering listener may hear
The rumor of a nation on the march.
I hate thee for the pride of France, whose bounds
Thou hast enlarged until she scorns the world;
For Béranger I hate thee, and Raffet,
For all the songs and all the pasquinades,
And for the halo of Saint Helena.
I hate thee, hate thee. I shall not be happy
Until thy clumsy triangle of cloth,
Despoiled of its traditions, is again
What it should ne'er have ceased to be in France—
The headgear of a village constable.
I hate—but suddenly—how strange!—the present
Sometimes with impish glee will ape the past!—
Seeing thy well-known shape before me thus
Carries my mind back to a distant day,
For it was here he always put thee down
When twenty years ago he sojourned here.
This room was then the ante-chamber; here,
Waiting till graciously he showed himself,
Dukes, Princes, Magyars, huddling in a corner,
Fixed from afar their humbled eyes upon thee,
Like lions, dreading with a helpless fury
The tamer's hat forgotten in the cage.
'Twas thus he placed thee, and here lay, as now,
Weapons and papers. One might say 'twas he
Had tossed thee carelessly upon the map,
That this were still his home, this Bonaparte!
And that by turning, on the threshold—there—
I should behold the Grenadier on—
[He starts on seeing Flambeau standing rigid
before the Duke's door; he rubs his eyes.]
Ha!
No! no! I'm feverish; my tête-à-tête
With the old hat plays havoc with my nerves!
[He looks and draws near. Flambeau does not
move.]
Or have the moonbeams conjured up a spectre?
What is it, then? Let's see—let's see—let's see!
[He strides furiously toward Flambeau.]
Who are you, fellow?
Flambeau.
[Presenting his bayonet.]
Who goes there?
Metternich.
[Recoiling.]
The devil!
Flambeau.
[Coldly.]
Pass, devil.
Metternich.
[With a forced laugh, coming toward him again.]
Yes,—a very clever jest,
But—
Flambeau.
[Presenting his bayonet again.]
Who goes there?
Metternich.
[Recoiling.]
But—
Flambeau.
Move and you are dead.
Metternich.
But—I—
Flambeau.
Quiet!
Metternich.
Let me pass!
Flambeau.
The Emperor sleeps!
Metternich.
What!
Flambeau.
Silence!
Metternich.
I'm the Austrian Chancellor!
I am all-powerful! I'm—
Flambeau.
Shut your mouth!
Metternich.
I want to see the Duke of Reichstadt!
Flambeau.
Out!
Metternich.
How—out?
Flambeau.
What's Reichstadt? Never heard of Reichstadt!
Auerstadt, Elchingen, they're dukes I know.
Reichstadt's no duke. There's been no victory there.
Metternich.
But, we're at Schönbrunn!
Flambeau.
I should rather think so!
Thanks to our new success we're quartered here;
And here we're getting ready at our leisure
To give the world another drubbing! See?
Metternich.
What's that you say? A new success?
Flambeau.
Colossal!
Metternich.
This is July the ninth in Eighteen—
Flambeau.
Nine!
Metternich.
Can I be mad?
Flambeau.
Who are you? Where d'you spring from?
Why aren't you snug in bed? It's very fishy—
Metternich.
I—
Flambeau.
Who let this braggart pass? The Mameluke?
Metternich.
The Mameluke?
Flambeau.
All's going to the dogs!
Metternich.
But—
Flambeau.
You here in the ante-room at night!
Metternich.
But I—
Flambeau.
You calmly cross the Rosa chamber
Unchallenged by the sentinel on guard!
Metternich.
What?
Flambeau.
When you ventured through the small rotunda,
Was there no yatagan to shave your cheek?
Were there no sergeants in the white saloon
Brewing their punch upon the golden stove?
No bristling veterans in the china-room?
And in the galleries? The Grenadiers
Saw you come strolling as a matter-of-course?
A man may cross the oval cabinet
And not be turned to mince-meat by Duroc?
Metternich.
The Marshal—?
Flambeau.
Is the bulldog turned to lapdog?
Metternich.
I come here—
Flambeau.
So the palace is an inn?
And when you'd managed all the sentinels,
Where were the rest? The porter? Gone to bed?
The valet? Absent? And the secretary?
Where was he hidden? In his own portfolio?
Metternich.
But I—
Flambeau.
Instead of being after you,
No doubt the Aide-de-Camp was after women!
Metternich.
But—
Flambeau.
And the Moor was saying prayers to Allah?
At any rate it's lucky I was here.
What discipline! If he looks into this
I'll bet my head he'll let the beggars know!
Metternich.
I'm going—
Flambeau.
Ah! don't stir! You'll wake him!
He's sleeping on his little bed of laurels.
Metternich.
[Falling into an arm-chair.]
Was never such a dream! 'Twill make an epic!
[His hand touches the flame of one of the candles.]
Well, but this candle—
Flambeau.
Burns.
Metternich.
[Feeling the point of Flambeau's bayonet.]
This weapon—
Flambeau.
Stings!
Metternich.
Then I'm awake! I'm—
Flambeau.
Hold your tongue!
Metternich.
And what of Waterloo?
Flambeau.
Of water—what?
[Listening.]
The Emperor stirred.
Metternich.
The Emperor?
Flambeau.
Oh, my stars!
Now you turn whiter than a bugler's horse!
Metternich.
It is the Duke of Reichstadt! I'm not scared!
It is the Duke! I'm sure of it!
Flambeau.
The Emperor!
[The Duke enters, with the reading lamp in his
hand.]
Metternich.
Aha! Tis you! 'Tis you! It is your Highness!
Ah, but how glad I am!
The Duke.
[Puzzled.]
Why are you glad?
Metternich.
The joke was played so well, I really thought
Another might come out!
Flambeau.
[As if waking from a dream.]
Faith, so did I!
The Duke.
[To Flambeau.]
What's this?
Flambeau.
My little joke.
Metternich.
[Ringing.]
Help!
The Duke.
Fly!
Flambeau.
The window!
The Duke.
The sentinel will shoot you!
Flambeau.
If he can.
The Duke.
Your livery!
Metternich.
[Putting his foot on it.]
No!
Flambeau.
Bah!
[Aside to the Duke, while Metternich rings
again.]
I will seek my cavern.
The Duke.
But I—
Flambeau.
The ball to-morrow!
The Duke.
Are you mad?
Flambeau.
You'll find me.
The Duke.
Quiet!
[Flambeau goes out by the window.]
Metternich.
If he'd only break
His neck—He's singing!
The Duke.
[On the balcony.]
Hush!
Flambeau's Voice.
My little joke!
[A shot is heard.]
The Duke.
Missed!
Metternich.
With what ease he finds his way about.
The Duke.
He knows it; he has been here once before.
Metternich.
[To the Lackeys who show themselves at the door.]
Too late. Begone. I do not need your help.
[The Lackeys disappear.]
The Duke.
And not a word of this to the police!
Metternich.
I never raise a laugh against myself.
What's the importance of a veteran's joke?
You're not Napoleon?
The Duke.
Who has settled that?
Metternich.
You have his hat, perhaps, but not his head!
The Duke.
Ah, yes, an epigram to damp my ardor.
'Tis not the pin-prick this time, 'tis the lash
That drives me headlong toward the wildest dreams.
I've not the head, you say? How do you know?
Metternich.
[Takes the candelabrum in his hand and leads the Duke to the cheval glass.]
How do I know? Just glance into this mirror.
Look at the sullen sadness of your face,
The grim betrayal of your fair complexion,
This crushing golden hair—I bid you look!
The Duke.
[Struggling to get out of his grasp.]
No!
Metternich.
You're environed with a fatal mist!
The Duke.
No!
Metternich.
Though you know it not, 'tis Germany,
'Tis Spain, for ages dormant in your blood,
Make you so haughty, sorrowful, and charming.
The Duke.
No! no!
Metternich.
Bethink you of your self-distrust!
You—reign? Come, come! You would be pale and wan;
One of those timid, introspective kings
Who are imprisoned lest they abdicate.
The Duke.
No, no!
Metternich.
Not yours the energetic brow!
Yours is the brow of languor and of yearning.
The Duke.
[Shaking, passes his left hand across his brow.]
My—brow?
Metternich.
And drearily your Highness passes
Over an Austrian brow a Spanish hand!
The Duke.
My—hand?
Metternich.
Observe the frail and tapering fingers
Seen fair and jewelled in long lines of portraits!
The Duke.
No!
Metternich.
And those eyes through which your ancestors
Look forth!
The Duke.
The eyes—?
Metternich.
Ay! note them well! The eyes
Wherein how many eyes we've seen before
Dream of the fagot, weep for perished squadrons!
Dare you, whose conscience is so sensitive,
Ascend the throne of France with eyes like those?
The Duke.
Ah! but my Father!—
Metternich.
Naught of him is in you!
Search! Search again! Come closer to the light!
He stole our ancient blood to mix with his,
That his might grow more ancient. But he stole
Only the racial melancholy, and
The feebleness, and—
The Duke.
I beseech you!
Metternich.
Look!
Look in the mirror! You turn pale?
The Duke.
Enough!
Metternich.
And on your lips you recognize the pout
As of a doll, of Marie Antoinette,
Her whom your France beheaded; for your Father,
While stealing glory, stole mishap as well!
Nay! raise the chandelier!
[He forces the chandelier into the Duke's right
hand, and holds him by that wrist.]
The Duke.
I am afraid.
Metternich.
You cannot gaze into this glass at night,
But all your race will gibber at your back!
Look—in the gloom—that shade is Mad Johanna,
And yonder Thing, that moves so deathly slow,
Is the pale sovereign in his crystal coffin.
The Duke.
No! 'Tis the radiant pallor of my Father!
Metternich.
Yonder, recoiling, Rudolph and his lions!
The Duke.
The clash of steeds and weapons! 'Tis the Consul!
Metternich.
Lo! in a noisome crypt one fashions gold.
The Duke.
He fashions glory on the sands of Egypt.
Metternich.
Aha! Here's Charles the Fifth, with hair cropped close,
Dying for having sought self-burial!
The Duke.
Help!
Father!
Metternich.
The Escurial! Grisly phantoms
And frowning walls!
The Duke.
Ah, hither! smiling visions:
Compiègne and Malmaison!
Metternich.
You see them! see them!
The Duke.
Roll, drums of Arcola, and drown his voice!
Metternich.
The mirror's teeming!
The Duke.
[Twisting his wrist loose, but still holding the chandelier.]
I will shatter it!
Metternich.
Others, and others yet, arrive!
The Duke.
[Hurling the chandelier into the mirror.]
'Tis shattered!
Not one remains! Not one!
Metternich.
[Pointing at the Duke with a terrible gesture.]
Yes!—One!
The Duke.
No, no!
It is not I! Not I!—My Father!—Help!
Curtain.