Baz. I trust not, sire.
Lou. You know the Mexicans. Tell me the truth.
Baz. I know the Mexicans. He will be shot.
Lou. God, no! That noble man!
Baz. Pray, sir, what fate
Had you in mind for Maximilian
When finding him too true to Mexico
For your proud aims, you sent such covered word
To one Bazaine he could but read therein
A revolution and the Emperor’s fall?
Lou. I would have spared his life.
Baz. (Taking out paper) Then what means this?
(Reads) ‘France weeps no death that brings her better fortune.’
Lou. You ’d spy a warrant in the alphabet
Did you but wish to find one! Think you that
Meant—death?
Lou. What dare you?