FIRST CITIZEN [peering into the dim light]
Where is he? Murder him! [Noticing the Princess.] Come, where
is he?
PRINCESS
The Prince of Peace is gone. I know not wither.
SECOND CITIZEN
Who is this lady?
LIFE-GUARDSMAN
Manuel Godoy’s Princess.
CITIZENS [uncovering]
Princess, a thousand pardons grant us!—you
An injured wife—an injured people we!
Common misfortune makes us more than kin.
No single hair of yours shall suffer harm.
[The PRINCESS bows.]
FIRST CITIZEN
But this, Senora, is no place for you,
For we mean mischief here! Yet first will grant
Safe conduct for you to the Palace gates,
Or elsewhere, as you wish
PRINCESS
My wish is nought.
Do what you will with me. But he’s not here.
[Several of them form an escort, and accompany her from the room
and out of the house. Those remaining, now a great throng, begin
searching the room, and in bands invade other parts of the mansion.]
SOME CITIZENS [returning]
It is no use searching. She said he was not here, and she’s a woman
of honour.
FIRST CITIZEN [drily]
She’s his wife.
[They begin knocking the furniture to pieces, tearing down the
hangings, trampling on the musical instruments, and kicking holes
through the paintings they have unhung from the walls. These,
with clocks, vases, carvings, and other movables, they throw out
of the window, till the chamber is a scene of utter wreck and
desolation. In the rout a musical box is swept off a table, and
starts playing a serenade as it falls on the floor. Enter the
COUNT OF MONTIJO.]
MONTIJO
Stop, friends; stop this! There is no sense in it—
It shows but useless spite! I have much to say:
The French Ambassador, de Beauharnais,
Has come, and sought the King. And next Murat,
With thirty thousand men, half cavalry,
Is closing in upon our doomed Madrid!
I know not what he means, this Bonaparte;
He makes pretence to gain us Portugal,
But what want we with her? ’Tis like as not
His aim’s to noose us vassals all to him!
The King will abdicate, and shortly too,
As those will live to see who live not long.—
We have saved our nation from the Favourite,
But who is going to save us from our Friend?
[The mob desists dubiously and goes out; the musical box upon
the floor plays on, the taper burns to its socket, and the room
becomes wrapt in the shades of night.]