BUSSY
He did, your Majesty.
NAPOLÉON
H’m....You may go.
[Exit BUSSY. The Secretary reads letters aloud in succession.
He comes to the last; begins it; reaches a phrase, and stops
abruptly.]
Mind not! Read on. No doubt the usual threat,
Or prophecy, from some mad scribe? Who signs it?
SECRETARY
The subscript is “The Duke of Enghien!”
NAPOLÉON [starting up]
Bah, man! A treacherous trick! A hoax—no more!
Is that the last?
SECRETARY
The last, your Majesty.
NAPOLÉON
Then now I’ll sleep. In two hours have me called.
SECRETARY
I’ll give the order, sire.
[The Secretary goes. The candles are removed, except one, and
NAPOLÉON endeavours to compose himself.]
SPIRIT IRONIC
A little moral panorama would do him no harm, after that reminder of
the Duke of Enghien. Shall it be, young Compassion?
SPIRIT OF THE PITIES
What good—if that old Years tells us be true?
But I say naught. To ordain is not for me!
[Thereupon a vision passes before NAPOLÉON as he lies, comprising
hundreds of thousands of skeletons and corpses in various stages
of decay. They rise from his various battlefields, the flesh
dropping from them, and gaze reproachfully at him. His intimate
officers who have been slain he recognizes among the crowd. In
front is the DUKE OF ENGHIEN as showman.]
NAPOLÉON [in his sleep]
Why, why should this reproach be dealt me now?
Why hold me my own master, if I be
Ruled by the pitiless Planet of Destiny?
[He jumps up in a sweat and puts out the last candle; and the
scene is curtained by darkness.]