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Title: The Goddess of Reason
A Drama in Five Acts
Author: Mary Johnston
Release Date: December 27, 2016 [eBook #53817]
Language: English
Character set encoding: UTF-8
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THE GODDESS OF REASON
A DRAMA IN FIVE ACTS
THE
GODDESS
OF
REASON
BY
MARY JOHNSTON
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
MDCCCCVII
COPYRIGHT 1907 BY MARY JOHNSTON
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Published May 1907
TO
THE HOUSEHOLD AT WOODLEY
THIS DRAMA
IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED
vii
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
- René-Amaury de Vardes, Baron of Morbec
- Rémond Lalain, Deputy from Vannes
- The Abbé Jean de Barbasan
- Count Louis de Château-Gui
- Captain Fauquemont de Buc
- Melipars de L’Orient
- Enguerrand La Fôret
- The Vidame de Saint-Amour
- The Englishman
- Grégoire
- Raôul the Huntsman
- A Sergeant of Hussars
- Yvette
- The Marquise de Blanchefôret
- Mlle. de Château-Gui
- Mme. de Vaucourt
- Mme. de Malestroit
- Mme. de Pont à L’Arche
- viiiSister Fidelis
- Sister Simplicia
- Sister Benedicta
- Nanon
- Céleste
- Angélique
- Séraphine
- An Actress
Guests of De Vardes; Peasants; Lackeys; Soldiers;
Nuns; Young Girls; The Mob at Nantes; Participants
in the Fête of the Goddess of Reason; Republican
Commissioners; National Soldiers; Women of the Revolution;
Royalist Prisoners; Gaolers; Judges; Executioners;
etc., etc.
TIME 1791–1794
| Act |
I. |
The Château of Morbec in Brittany. |
| |
| Act |
II. |
The Garden of the Convent of the Visitation in Nantes. |
| |
| Act |
III. |
A Square in Nantes. |
| |
| Act |
IV. |
A Church in Nantes used as a Prison. |
| |
| Act |
V. |
Scene I. A Judgment Hall in Nantes. |
| |
| |
|
Scene II. The Banks of the Loire. |
1
ACT I
The Château of Morbec in Brittany. A formal garden and a
wide terrace with stone balustrade. In the background the
château, white and peak-roofed, with great arched doors.
Beyond it a distant prospect of a Breton village and of the
sea beating against a dangerous coast. To the left a thick
wood, to the right a perspective of garden alleys, fountains,
and flowering trees. On the terrace a small table set with
bread, fruit, and wine. In the angle formed by the level
of the terrace and the wide stone steps leading into the
garden the statue of a nymph, its high and broad pedestal
draped with ivy. Scattered on the terrace and steps a
litter of stones, broken cudgels, rusty and uncouth weapons.
The sun shines, the trees wave in the wind, the birds
sing, the flowers bloom. It is a summer morning in the
year 1791.
Enter from one of the garden paths a lackey and Rémond
Lalain. Lalain wears a riding dress with a tricolour
cockade.
Say to Monsieur the Baron of Morbec,
Rémond Lalain, the Deputy from Vannes,
In haste is riding north, but hath drawn rein—
2Hearing to-day of Baron Henri’s death—
And audience craves that he may homage pay
To Morbec’s latest lord!
[He muses as he paces the garden walk before the
terrace.
Mirabeau is dead!
Gabriel Riquetti, dead, I salute thee,
Great gladiator! Who treads now the sand
That yesterday was trod by Mirabeau?
Barnave, Lameth, ye are too slight of frame!
There’s Lafayette. No, no, mon général!
Robespierre? Go to, thou little man!
Jean Paul Marat, dog leech and People’s Friend?
Wild beast to fight with beast! Faugh! Down, Marat!
Who stands this course, why, that man’s emperor!
Now how would purple look upon Marat?
Jacques Danton?—Danton! Hot Cordelier!
Dark Titan forging to a Titan’s end!
Shake not thy black locks from the tribune there,
Nor rend the heavens with thy mighty voice!
‘Tis not for thee, the victor’s golden crown,
The voice of France—
[The doors of the château open. Enter three lackeys
bearing a great gilt chair, which they place with
ceremony at the head of the steps which lead from
the terrace into the garden.
3First Lackey (stamping with his foot upon the terrace)
The gilded chair place here!
We always judge our peasants from this chair,
We lords of Morbec! North terrace, gilt chair!
Baron Henri sat here the day he died!
Now Baron René takes his turn!
Danton!
Why not Lalain? It is as good a name!
Mirabeau’s dead! Out of my way, Danton!
Third Lackey (gathering up the stones which lie
upon the terrace)
I’ll throw these stones into the shrubbery!
Second Lackey (lifting a rusty scythe from the steps)
This scythe I’ll fling into the fountain!
First Lackey (his hands in his pockets)
Hé!
One sees quite well that we have stood a siege!
[The lackeys gather up the stones, the sticks, the broken
and rusty tools and weapons.
Where lives the man who doth not worship Might?
O Goddess All-in-All! make me thine own,
4As the bright moon did make Endymion;
And I will rim thy Phrygian cap with stars,
And give thee for thy cestus the tricolour!
Grégoire (to the lackeys)
Despatch!
Monseigneur will be here anon!
[He glances at the stones, etc.
[Passing the statue of the nymph, he strikes it with
his hand.
Will you forever smile?
Stone lips that long have smiled at bitter wrong!
You might, my dear, have lost that smile last night!
Last night was something like!
Second Lackey (throwing the stones one by one into
the shrubbery)
Sangdieu! last night
My heart was water!
Ah, poltroon; your heart!
5Third Lackey (making play with a broken stick)
Our baron’s a swordsman! His rapier flashed!
Keen as the blade of the Sieur de Morbec!
—And that is a saying old as the sea!
Hard as the heart of the Sieur de Morbec!
—And that was said before the sea was made!
Third Lackey (pointing to Lalain)
The advocate Rémond Lalain.
How should I know?
His home was once within the village there,
And now and then he visits the curé.
The curé! He visits Yvette Charruel!
Mirabeau and I were born in the south.
6Oh, the orange flower beside the wall!
And the shaken olives when Mistral wakes!
Once they were friends, Baron René and he;
The Revolution came between—
First Lackey (He sends a pike whirling into the
shrubbery)
Long live
The Revolution!
My friend, ‘twill live
Without thy bawling!
Third Lackey (arranging the bottles upon the small
table)
So! The red wine here,
The white wine there!
(To a fallen bottle.) Stand up, Aristocrat!
[He approaches the terrace and addresses the nearest
lackey.
How long must I await
The pleasure of Monsieur the Baron here?
Go, fellow, go! and to him say,
Rémond Lalain—
‘Tis well,
René de Vardes, to keep me waiting thus!
[Grégoire pours wine into a glass and descending
the steps offers it to Lalain.
The old vintage, Monsieur Lalain!
Thanks, friend.
The day is warm.
[He raises the glass to his lips. Laughter and voices
from the winding garden paths.
More guests, no doubt!
The count, the vidame, and the young marquise!
All Morbihan felicitates Morbec,
And brings our baron bonbons and bouquets,
As if there were no hunger and no frost!
[A distant sound from the wood of harsh and complaining
voices.
Soldiers and huntsmen beat the woods;
For half the village is in hiding there,
8Having assayed last night to burn Morbec!
As if ‘twould burn! This time the soldiers came!
Mon Dieu! the times are bad.
All the village!
Did Yvette Charruel—
First Lackey (from the terrace)
I warrant monseigneur will hang Yvette!
[Lalain pours the wine upon the ground and throws
the glass from him. It shatters against the balustrade.
Laughter and voices. Guests appear in the garden
walks, the women in swelling skirts of silk or muslin,
powdered hair and large hats; the men in brocade
and silk with cane swords, or in hunting dress.
9The Vidame (saluting a gentleman)
Count Louis de Château-Gui!
For laces I advise Louise. Fichus?
The Bleeding Heart above the flower shop.
—A lettre de cachet. To Vincennes he went!
But ah! what use of laces or fichus!
We emigrate so fast there’s none to see!
I quote a great man—my Lord Chesterfield:
“Exist in the unhappy land of France
All signs that history hath ever shown”—
The Queen wore carnation, Madame, pale rose,
The Dauphin—
What do I in this galley?
(To Grégoire.) I’ll walk aside!
Count Louis (to Grégoire)
It was, Monsieur le Comte.
The talked-of Deputy for Vannes?
Tribune
Eloquent as Antony!
I heard him in the Jacobins. He spoke,
And then they went and tore a palace down!
Enter, laughing, Mlle. de Château-Gui, Melipars de
L’Orient, and Captain Fauquemont de Buc. De
L’Orient has in his hand a paper of verses.
My daughter and De L’Orient,
Captain Fauquemont de Buc!
Messieurs, mesdames!
The poet and his verses!
Who is the fair, Monsieur de L’Orient?
Lalage or Laïs or little Fleurette?
Men sang of Célestine when I was young,—
Ah, Célestine, behind thy white rose tree!
I do not sing of love, Monsieur le Comte!
It is a Song of Welcome to De Vardes!
But yesterday poor Colonel of Hussars!
To-day Monsieur the Baron of Morbec!
Mars to Bellona leaves the tented field.
That’s Bouillé at Metz! Kling! rang our spurs—
De Vardes’ and mine—from Verdun to Morbec!
The warrior hastens to his native weald.
Would I might see again Henri de Vardes!
It would affright you, sir! The man is dead.
Ah, while he lived it was as did become
A nobleman of France and Brittany!
He was my friend; together we were young!
From dawn to dusk, from dusk to dawn again,
We searched for pleasure as for buried gold,
And found it, too, in days when we were young!
From every flint we struck the golden sparks,
We plucked the thistle as we plucked the rose,
And battle gave for every star that shone!
O nymphs that laughing fled while we pursued!
O music that was made when we were young!
O gold we won and duels that we fought!
On guard, monsieur, on guard! Sa! sa! A touch!
What shall we drink? Where shall we dine? Ma foi!
There’s a melting eye at the Golden Crown!
The Angel pours a Burgundy divine!
Come, come, the quarrel’s o’er! So, arm in arm!
O worlds we lost and won when we were young!
O lips we kissed within the jasmine bower!
O sirens singing in the clear moonlight!—
With Bacchus we drank, with Apollo loved,
With Actæon hunted when we were young!
The wax-lights burned with softer lustre then.
The music was more rich when we were young.
Violet was the perfume for hair powder,
13Ruffles were point and buckles were brilliant
And lords were lords in the old land of France!
We did what we would, and lettres de cachet,
Like cooing doves they fluttered from our hands!
Our tribute take, last of a noble line!
Women! There will come no more such women!
The laurel and the empress rose we twine.
And Henri’s gone! And now his cousin reigns,—
René de Vardes that hath been years away!
The King is dead. Well, well, long live the King!
They say he’s brave as Crillon, handsome too,
With that bel air that no De Vardes’s without!
Enter Mme. de Vaucourt followed by the Abbé Jean de
Barbasan.
Mme. de Vaucourt (with outspread hands)
You’ve heard? Last night they strove to burn Morbec!
Ah, I am vexed.
Messieurs, mesdames, the Baron of Morbec
Silence enjoined, or the tale I’d have told!
The abbé is so bold—
De Buc’s so proud!
And just because he brought us help from Vannes!
The red Hussars to hive the bees again!
The seigneur and his peasants are at odds?
Count Louis (complacently)
Henri was hated! Hate descends
With the land.
There is a girl of these parts—
She hath
The loveliest face!
I am unscathed.
De Vardes is slightly wounded!
Morbleu!
And how did it happen, Monsieur l’Abbé?
Behold us at our ease in the great hall,
De Vardes and I, a-musing o’er piquet!
Voltaire beside us, for we read “Alzire,”
A wine as well, more suave than any verse;
A still and starlit night, soft, fair, and warm;
Wax-lights, and roses in a china bowl.
He laid aside his sword and I my cap,
All tranquilly at home, the Two Estates!
He held carte blanche, I followed with quatorze.
The roses sweetly smelled, the candles burned,
At peace we were with nature and mankind.—
A crash of painted glass! a whirling stone!
16A candle out! the roses all o’erturned!
The thunder of a log against our doors!
A clattering of sabots! a sudden shout!
Morbec, Morbec, it is thy Judgment Night!
Admission, admission, Aristocrats!
Red turns the night, the servants all rush in.
Sieur! Sieur! the lackeys moan and wring their hands.
Give, give! the terrace croaks. Burn, Morbec, burn!
The great bell swings in the windy tower
Till the wolves in the forest pause to hear.
Fall, Morbec, fall! France has no need of thee!
Upsprings a rosy light! a smell of smoke!
Mischief’s afoot! The Baron of Morbec
Lays down his cards and takes his rapier up,
Hums Le Sein de sa Famille, shuts Alzire,
Resignedly rises—
Count Louis (rubbing his hands)
Expresses regret
That monsieur his guest—
Should be incommoded
And turns to the door. I levy the tongs.
The seneschal Grégoire hauls from the wall
An ancient arquebus! The lackeys wail,
And nothing do, as is the lackey’s wont!
Again the peasants thunder at the door!
Open, De Vardes! Oh, hated of all names!
The new is as the old! Death to De Vardes!
The log strikes full, and now a panel breaks;
In comes a hand that brandishes a pike;
17A voice behind, We’ve come to sup with thee!
For thou hast bread and we have none, De Vardes!
I like calmness myself. Calm of the sea,
Calm skies, the calm spring, and calmness of mind!
A tempest’s plebeian! So I admired
René de Vardes when he walked to the door
And opened it! Behold the whole wolf pack,
As lean as ‘twere winter! canaille all!
Sans-culottes and tatterdemalions,
Mere dust of the field and sand of the shore;
Humanity’s shreds would follow the mode,
And burn the château of their rightful lord!
De Vardes’ peasants in fine. Mort aux tyrans!
À bas Aristocrat! Vive la patrie!
Vive la Révolution! In they pressed,
Gaunt, haggard, and shrill, and full in the front—
Young and fair, conceive! dark-eyed and red-lipped—
A fury, a mænad, a girl called—
So they named her, the peasants of Morbec,
Named and applauded the dark-eyed besom!
18When, De Vardes’ drawn rapier just touching
Her breast-knot of blue as she stood in his path,
Up went her brown hand, armed with a sickle!—
De Vardes is a known fencer,—‘tis lucky!
His wound is not deep, and in the left arm!
She may hang for that! How high I forget
The gallows should be—
Count Louis (offering his snuff-box)
Monsieur le Vidame,
Thirty feet, I believe!
De Vardes, with Liancourt and Rochefoucauld,
Holds that the peasant doth possess a soul!
I think it hurt him to the heart that he,
New come to Morbec, and unknown to these,
His vassals of the village, field, and shore,
Should be esteemed by them an enemy,
A Baron Henri come again, forsooth!
But since ‘twas so, out rapier! parry! thrust!
Diable! he’s a swordsman to my mind!
19The mænad with the sickle he puts by;
Runs through the arm a clamourer of corvée,
Brings howling to his knees a sans-culotte,
And strikes a flail from out a claw-like hand!
They falter, they give way, the craven throng!
The women cry them on; they swarm again.
His bright steel flashes, rise and fall my tongs!
But the lackeys are naught, and Grégoire finds
A flaw in his musket; he will not fire!
Pardieu! the things this Revolution kills!
There is no faithfulness in service now!
Our peasants grow bold. Ma foi! we’re at bay!
De Vardes and De Barbasan, rapier, tongs!
Wild blows and wild cries, blown smoke and a glare,
And the girl Yvette with her reaping hook
Still pushed to the front by the women there!
Upon De Vardes’ white sleeve the blood is dark,
And his breath comes fast! I see the event
As ‘twill look in print in Paris next week,
In L’Ami du Peuple or Journal du Roi!
“The Vain Defence of an Ancient Château!
When we Burn so Much, why not Burn the Land?”
And I break with my tongs a young death’s-head
That’s bawling—What think you?—Vive la République.
So I said! And then,
Quite, I assure you, in time’s very nick,
The saint De Vardes prays to smiled on him!
20A thunder clap!—Pas de charge! En avant!
Captain Fauquemont de Buc and his Hussars!
Warned by the saint, we galloped from Auray!
Like the dead leaves borne afar on the blast,
Or like the sea mist when the sun rises,
Or like the red deer when the horn’s sounded,—
Like anything in short that’s light o’ heel,—
Vanished our peasants! The women went last;
And last of all the mænad with the eyes!
Jesu! She might have been Jeanne d’Arc, that girl!
The man who captures her has a hand full!—
To the deep woods they fled, are hunted now.—
De Vardes and I gave welcome to De Buc,
Put out the fire, attended to our wounds,
Resumed our cards, and finished our Alzire—
The Château of Morbec stands, you observe!
Enter De Vardes. He is dressed in slight mourning and
carries his arm in a sling.
Monsieur the Baron of Morbec!
Welcome,
The brave and the fair, my old friends and new!
Welcome to Morbec!
Ah, your wounded arm!—
Our regret is profound!
It is nothing.
The fraternal embrace of the people!
My friend, permit us to hope you will make
Of the people a signal example!
Monsieur le Baron,
Let your soldiers talk with a bayonet’s point,
Your bailiffs with a rope—
But what good saint
Brought warning to Auray?
[A lackey appears upon the terrace.
Madame la Marquise de Blanchefôret!
My neighbour fair,
And to De Barbasan and me last night
A guardian angel—
Monsieur le Baron!
(To the company.) Messieurs, mesdames!
From Blanchefôret to Auray through the night
This lady rode—
The Marquise (with gayety)
Ah, how I rode last night,
To Auray through the dark! This way it was:
I overheard two peasants yestereve
As in a lane I sought for eglantine.
“How long hath Morbec stood?” said one. “Too long!
But when to-morrow dawns ‘twill not be there!
And we were born, I think, to burn châteaux!—
Ten, by the village clock—forget it not!”
Ah, ay, the while I dealt the clock struck ten.
It was already dusk.—Like grey death moths
They slipped away! I knew not whom to trust,
For in these times there’s no fidelity,
No faithful groom, no steadfast messenger!
My little page brought me my Zuleika.
I knew the red Hussars were at Auray,
And that ‘twas said they loved their colonel well!
So to Auray came Zuleika and I!
We thought it was Dian in huntress dress!
How deeply am I, Goddess, in thy debt!
No gold is coined wherewith I may repay!
Give me a rose from yonder tree!
More guests,
They’re on the south terrace!
Violins too!
Ah, the old air—
There lived a king in Ys,
In Ys the city old!
Beside the sounding sea
He counted o’er his gold.
[He gives his hand to The Marquise. Exeunt
Count Louis, The Abbé, De Buc, De L’Orient,
etc. Grégoire approaches De Vardes.
Monseigneur—Monsieur the Deputy!
Ah!
Say to monsieur I’m not at leisure now.
[Exeunt De Vardes and The Marquise. The
terrace and garden are deserted save for Grégoire,
who seats himself in the shadow of the balustrade.
Humph!—Monseigneur’s not at leisure.
[He draws a Paris journal from his pocket and
reads, following the letters with his forefinger.
What news?
What says Jean Paul Marat, the People’s Friend?
[A cry from the wood and the sound of breaking
boughs. Yvette and Séraphine enter the garden.
Raôul the Huntsman’s voice within.
[Yvette and Séraphine turn towards one of the
garden alleys. Laughter and voices.
The terrace there! Behind the stone woman!
[They cross the garden to the terrace.
Séraphine (She stops abruptly and points to the table)
[Yvette and Séraphine turn from the table and
hide behind the tall, ivy-draped pedestal of the
statue. Grégoire looks up from his paper and sees
them.
Enter Raôul the Huntsman.
Grégoire (jerking his thumb over his shoulder)
Down yonder path!—plump to the woods again!
The Hussars from Auray have twenty rogues!
These two and my bag’s full!
Weary at last of intolerable wrong,
The peasants of Goy in Normandy rose
And burned the château. Who questions their right?
Saint Yves! this stone is much harder than Goy!
[He looks fixedly at the statue and raises his voice.
Ma’m’selle who would smile at the trump of doom,
27I think that all the village will be hanged!
And at its head that brown young witch they call
Yvette—
Reënter De Vardes and The Marquise.
[Exit Grégoire. De Vardes and The Marquise
rest beside the statue, Yvette listening.
Why, what’s a soldier for?
But pity me, pity me, belle Marquise!
Since pity is so sweet!
I’m sure it is
A fearful wound!
A fearful wound indeed!
But ‘tis not in the arm!
No!
The heart! I swear that it is bleeding fast!
And I have naught wherewith to stanch the wound.
Your kerchief—
The Marquise (giving her handkerchief)
Well, there!—Now tell me of last night.
Last night!
Why, all this tintamarre was but a dream,
Fanfare of fairy trumpets while we slept.
A night it was for love-in-idleness,
And fragrant thoughts and airy phantasy!
There was no moon, but Venus shone as bright;
The honeysuckle blew its tiny horn
To tell the rose a moth was coming by.
Clarice-Marie! sang all the nightingales,
Or would have sung were nightingales abroad!
Hush, hush! the little waves kept whispering.
The ivy at your window still was peeping;
You lay in dreams, that gold curl on your breast!
No, no! You cheat me not, monsieur! Last night
I did not sleep!
No, not brigands! Just wretched flesh and blood.
Were I a seigneur,
Lord of Morbec—
Were I a poor fisher,
Sailing at sunrise home from the islands,
Over the sea, and all my heart singing!
And you were a herd girl slender and sweet,
With the gold of your hair beneath your cap,
And you kept the cows and you were my douce,
And you waved your hand from the green cliff head
When the sun and I came up from the sea!—
And there was a seigneur so great and grim
Who walked in his garden and said aloud,
“How many fish has he taken for me?
Which of her cows shall I keep for myself?
I leave him enough to pay for the Mass
The day he is drowned, and the girl shall have
The range of the hills for her one poor cow!
Why should the fisher fret, the herd girl weep?
There is no reason in a serf’s dull heart!
I might have taken all. It is my right!”
La belle Marquise, what would the herd girl do?
And should the fisher suffer and say naught?
There is no fisher nor no herd girl here.
How fair the roses of Morbec, monsieur!
Ay, they are lovely queens. They know it too!
I better like the heartsease at your feet.
It is a peasant flower!—Sieur de Morbec,
Have you never loved?
How fair is the day!
For loving how fit! ‘Tis the Eve of Saint John.
Last year I loved on this very day.
Take the omen, madame!
We had not met,
You and I!
Ah, ‘tis true! We had not met!—
And so, fair as you are, you were not there,
In Paimpont Wood, on the Eve of Saint John?
In Paimpont Wood!
It is haunted!
On the Eve of Saint John
I rode from Morbec here to Chatillon,
And through the wood of Paimpont fared alone.
It is a forest where enchantments thrive,
And a fair dream doth drop from every tree!
The old, old world of bitterness and strife
Is remote as winter, remote as death.
It was high noon in the turbulent town;
But clocks never strike in the elfin wood,
And the sun’s ruddy gold is elsewhere spent.
The light was dim in the depths of Paimpont,
Green, reverend, and dim as the light may be
In a sea king’s palace under the sea.
The wind did not blow; the flowering bough
Was still as the rose on a dead man’s breast.
On velvet hoof the doe and fawn went by;
In other woods the lark and linnet sang;
A stealthy way was taken by the fox;
The badger trod upon the softest moss;
And like a shadow flitted past the hare.
Without a sound the haunted fountain played.
The oak boughs dreamed; the pine was motionless;
Its silver arms the beech in silence spread;
The poplar had forgot its lullaby.
It was as still as cloudland in the wood,
For in a hawthorn brake old Merlin sleeps,
And every leaf is hushed for love of him.
There through the years they sleep and listless dream,
The wood of Paimpont and the wizard old.
They dream of valleys where the lilies blow;
They dream of woodland gods and castles high,
32Of faun and Pan and of the Table Round,
Of dryad trees and of a maiden dark—
That Vivien whom old Merlin once did love,
Vivien le Gai whose love was poisonous!
I’ve heard it said by women spinning flax,
“Who wanders in Paimpont wanders in love;
Let him who loves in Paimpont Wood beware!”
Ah, idle word! Oh, many silver bells
Since Vivien’s day have rung, Beware, beware!
And rung in vain, for in every clime
Lies Paimpont Wood, dawns the Eve of Saint John!
And in the forest there whom did you love?
I do not know. I have not seen her since,
Unless—unless I saw her face last night!
Yvette (behind the base of the statue)
Did you not hear a voice?
‘Tis the wind.—
You’re riding through the wood to Chatillon.
It was a lonely forest, deep and vast,
A secret and a soundless trysting-place,
33Where one might meet, nor be surprised to meet,
From out his past, or from his life to come,
A veilèd shape, a presence bitter-sweet,
A thing that was, a thing was yet to be!
It seemed a fatal place, a destined day.
Down a long aisle of beechen trees I rode,
And came upon a small and sunny vale,
And there I met a face from out a dream,
An ancient dream, a dark and lovely face.—
Give me your fan of pearl and ivory!
[He takes the fan from The Marquise.
I’ll turn enchanter, use it for my rod,
And make you see, Marquise, the very place!
Here sprang the silver column of a beech;
There, mossy knees of a most ancient oak;
Yonder a wall of thickest foliage rose;
And here a misty streamlet flowed
With a voice more low than the dying fall
Of a trouvère’s lute in Languedoc,
And on its shore the slender flowers grew;
Upon a foxglove bell hung papillon;
And all around the grass was long and fine.
Within this sylvan space, ah, ages since!
The white-robed Druids in the cold moonlight
Had reared an altar stone of wondrous height;
The fane was there, the Druids were away.
All fragrant was the air, and sunny still,—
On the Eve of Saint John ‘tis ever so!
Above, the sky was blue without a cloud;
The sun stood sentinel o’er the haunted wood.
And there she lay, the woman of a dream,
34Against the Druid Stone, amid the bloom;
Her eyes were on the stream; she leaned her ear;
From far away the trouvère played to her;
In flakes of gold the sunlight blessed her hair;
Her lips were red; she seemed a princess old;
Mid purple bloom she lay and gazed afar,
In the magic wood on a magic day,
Listening to hear the mighty trouvère play.
Was she a princess or a peasant maid?
I do not know, pardie! She may have been
That Vivien who wrought old Merlin wrong.
I cannot tell if she were rich or poor;
I only saw her face; I only know
I loved the dream I met in Paimpont Wood
As I did ride last year to Chatillon
On Saint John’s Eve.—
[He lays the fan upon the table.
So I have loved, Marquise!
What did your pretty dream?
As other dreams;
She fled!
Yes, but in vain!
Trouble no dream that is dreamed in Paimpont!
The wood closed around her; she vanished quite.
It must have been that evil Vivien,
Since you, Marquise, have never trod the wood!
Why, then, without doubt
It was Vivien! But yet do you know
‘Tis the Eve of Saint John, and here, last night,
I dreamed that I saw my dream again!
[The hand and arm of the statue fall, broken, to the
ground at the feet of The Marquise.
De Vardes (pushes the marble aside with his foot)
It is nothing! The stone was cracked last night.
Some crack-brained peasant had no better mark!
‘Tis a présigne!—I feel it.—
One trod near my grave! I’m suddenly cold!
The sun never shines on this terrace!
No!
‘Twas an air from the Forest of Paimpont
Came over me!
[Voices within. De L’Orient sings.
In Ys they did rejoice,
In Ys the wine was free;
The Ocean lent its voice
Unto that revelry!
Oh, come away!
Let us find the violins and the sun!
There are other woods than Paimpont. Come away!
[Exeunt De Vardes and The Marquise.
Yvette (leaves the shadow of the statue)
‘Twas he! That horseman who did waken me
That Saint John’s Eve I strayed in Paimpont Wood!
O Our Lady—
Séraphine (from the statue)
Saint Yves! There is bread!
[Yvette takes from the table a loaf of bread and
throws it to Séraphine, who springs upon it like a
famished wolf.
[Setting her teeth in the loaf.
[Yvette, about to lay her hand upon another round of
bread, sees the fan lying upon the cloth. She leaves
the bread and takes up the fan. It opens in her hand.
[She sits in the great chair and waves the fan slowly
to and fro.
Were I a lady fair and free,
I would powder my hair with dust of gold,
37I would clasp a necklace around my throat,
Of jewels rare, and a gown I would wear,
Blue silk like Our Lady of Toute Remède!
My shoes should be made of golden stuff,
And a broidered glove should dress my hand,
My hand so white that a lord might kiss!
I would spin fine flax from a silver wheel,
I would weave a web for my bridal sheets,
I would sing of King Gradlon under the sea,
Were I a lady fair and free!
Séraphine (from the statue)
A fan.
So long I’ve wanted one!
A fan, forsooth!
You cannot eat a fan, drink it, wear it!
I would look on’t.
One day at Vannes the deputy’s sister
Showed me a fan, but it was not like this!
38Oh, not like this with these wreaths of roses,
These painted clouds, this fairy ship!
The price
Would keep a peasant from starvation!
And belike it fell from the lifted hand
Of Madame la Marquise de Blanchefôret!
[The fan breaks in Yvette’s hand.
Séraphine (leaving the statue)
Diantre!
Now you will be beaten as well as hanged!
She called us miserable brigands!
Saint Yves! Saint Hervé! Saint Herbot!
The fan of Madame la Marquise.
De Vardes (perceiving Yvette and Séraphine)
What will you have, good people?
Saint Guenolé! Saint Thromeur! Saint Sulic!—
He did not see us in the dark last night!
[De Vardes regards them more closely.
Séraphine Robin—Yvette Charruel—
They are not bad folk, monseigneur!
[De Vardes studies the name written upon a playing
card which he holds in his hand.
Say to Monsieur the Deputy from Vannes
That I await him here.
[Exit Grégoire. De Vardes looks intently at
Yvette.
It was so beautiful,
The fan—I took it in my hand—it broke!
All that she touches breaks!
Wast ever thou
In the Forest of Paimpont?
Oh, monseigneur!
Last Eve of Saint John, by the Druid Stone!
[He takes the fan from Yvette’s hand and examines it.
Beyond all remedy!—Well, ‘tis done.
Do not tremble so!
A moment, pray,
Until I’ve spoken with these worthy folk!
Monsieur the Baron’s pleasure!
[He moves aside, but in passing speaks to Yvette.
Too fair art thou!
Beware! This is the Seigneur of Morbec!
Our business, monseigneur?—
Oh, give me help, Saint Yves le Véridique!—
Our business?—Saint Michel!—Well, since we’re here!—
Monseigneur, was the pullet plump and sweet?
And Lisette, monseigneur?
May we enquire for Lisette’s health?
She followed me
Through the green lanes, and o’er the meadows salt.
Her breath was sweet as May!
It would please you
To have your cow again?
Oh, monseigneur!
Monseigneur, I’m the herd girl of Morbec!
They gaze into each other’s eyes!
Ay, ay, ‘tis so!—Yvette.
Called also The Right of the Seigneur!—
The Right of the Seigneur!
Recall
Just one of a great seigneur’s privileges!
Baiser des mariées, in short, my friend!
O holy Saints! the night that she was born!
The thunder pealed, the sea gave forth a cry,
The forked lightnings played, the winds were out
And in the hut her mother lay and wailed,
And called on all the saints, the while Jehan
(That was her mother’s husband, monseigneur),
He stood and struck his heel against the logs.
Up flew the sparks, for all the wood was drift,
Salt with the sea, and every flame was blue.
I held the babe—Yvette, show monseigneur
The mark beneath the ear!
Stubbornness!
‘Tis there!
A birthmark—a small blue flower!
Ay! a little mark.—Jehan Charruel!
He was a violent man,—the sea breeds such!
He cursed Yvonne upon her pallet there,
So pale she was, and dying with the tide!
He cursed the saints, the purple mark, the babe,
And some one else I dare not name—
I dare!
Henri-Etienne-Amaury de Vardes,
Late Baron of Morbec!
Then out he goes,
A-weeping hard—Jehan—into the night.
Ouf! how it blew!—
The sea ran high, he met it in the dark,
Was drowned! Yvonne went with the ebb. Behold
Yvette!
[Séraphine retreats to the table, where she furtively
drinks from a half-emptied wineglass. Lalain follows
her and the two talk together.
That purple flower, that violet
By nature limned upon thy slender throat,—
From north to south, from east to west ‘tis known!
A De Vardes bore that mark at Poitiers.
The marshal, Hugues the Fair, and black Arnaud,
The late baron—Why, what hast thou to do
45With burning down châteaux to make a light
To show the Morbihan that purple flower?
Herd girl too fair!
And vision of Paimpont, fair as I dreamed!
How fair was thy errand last night?
In the ashes of Morbec what shouldst thou find?
We only wished to make a little light—
A little light to let the neighbours know
That we were hungry!
What neighbours hast thou?
Normandy and Maine, Anjou and Poitou,
The sea, the sky, and somewhat far away,
The Club of the Jacobins at Paris.
Thy father was a nobleman of France!
I never had a father, monseigneur!
I had a mother, and she loved, they say,
46She dearly loved the fisherman Jehan!
When for the dead I pray, I pray for them.
[She counts upon her fingers.
The year the hailstones fell and killed the wheat;
The year the flax failed and we made no songs;
The year I begged for bread; the bitter year
We buried Louison who died of cold,
And Jacques was hanged who shot the seigneur’s deer;
The Pardon of Sainte Anne I had a gown;
Came Angélique from Paris, told us how
The wicked Queen was smiling, smiling there;
Justine pined away, they shot Michel If,
Down fell the Bastille, I learned Ça ira;
The deputy came to the curé’s house,
Beside the deep blue sea I walked with him.
A day there was at Vannes, a glorious day,
When music played, and every banner waved,
And all the folk went mad and rang the bells!
Vive la Révolution! Vive Mirabeau!
Vive Rémond Lalain! I wept when ‘twas o’er,
Last summer was so fair! I wandered far,
One day I wandered through a darksome wood—
‘Twas on the Eve of good Saint John, I know!
The summer fled, the light, the warmth did go,
47The winter came that was so cruel cold,
Cold as the dead! And hunger, monseigneur,
With bread at the château!—Died Baron Henri.—
The summer came again, the roses bloomed,
The roses bloomed, but they were not for us!
For us the dank seaweed, the thorny furze.
The lark sang well, but ah, it sang too high!
We could not lift our hearts to heaven’s gate;
We only heard the wind moan at our door.
We cried to the saints, but they took no heed!
One told us what they did at Goy and Vannes,
At Goy and Vannes, pardieu! they helped themselves!
We heard there had come a new lord to Morbec,
A soldier and a stranger to us all!
Three days have gone since I did sit alone
Upon the cliff edge in the waving grass;
The mew and curlew cried, the night wind blew,
And in the sunset glow red turned Morbec!
I thought of my mother, I thought of France,
I looked at the château cruel and high,
And as I was hungry I ate my black bread!—
I think, monseigneur, that I am nineteen.
My mother’s were darker, they say!
Thy face is the face of a picture there.
I know—the Duchess Jeanne, who died for love.
Did Vivien teach thee magic in the wood?
O Our Lady!
The roses smell so sweet—
I pardon crave,
But I must sup to-night at Rennes. Please you,
Release this peasant girl! Affairs there are
Of which I’d speak—
Citoyen René-Amaury Vardes—
Is that, monsieur, the latest Paris mode?
Citoyen René-Amaury Vardes,
The De left off, our hats (Glances at Lalain) left on!
Lalain (removing his hat)
Monsieur
The Baron of Morbec!
Monsieur
The Deputy for Vannes!
[Laughter and voices within.
Enter from the château The Marquise and Mlle. de
Château-Gui with De L’Orient and De Buc.
Then spake the king of Ys
Above the song and shout,
Bring here the golden key
That keeps the ocean out!
Monsieur le Baron,
My lost fan!
Madame la Marquise,
I will give you a fan that’s to my taste;
By Watteau painted, mounted by Laudet,
50Fragile and fine, an Adonis of fans!
This that I broke I will keep for myself.
Forgive the mere accident!
Séraphine (from the table)
At Blanchefôret, monsieur,
The Watteau, Laudet, Adonis of fans,
I’ll take from your hand—
I ride there anon,
(Aside.) But not through the Forest of Paimpont
And not on the Eve of Saint John.
Come soon,
My garden is sweetest in June.
In Ys they sing no more,
In Ys the city old!
The waves are rolling o’er
The king and all his gold.
Look at my fan, Monsieur le Baron!
[Lalain crosses to Yvette.
Hast thou forgot, hast thou forgot, Yvette,
Thy part, thy lot, the very name they give thee?
This is Morbec, this is the brazen castle!
There are no roses here.
Generous! Oh, well are you called
The Right of the Seigneur!
Give me not that
Detestable name!
La patrie—
Sworn oaths—the tricolour—
On your lips Ça Ira! but in your heart
O Richard, O mon Roi!
You gaze at that man! I tell you he wooes
Madame la Marquise de Blanchefôret!
[Yvette crosses to The Marquise, De Vardes,
and the guests.
Madame!
I broke the fan! I would pay if I might.
I would keep your cows, or spin your flax—
The fan!
You broke the fan—not monsieur there!
53Enter Count Louis, The Vidame, Mme. de Vaucourt,
etc.
[Séraphine draws Yvette back to the base of the
statue. Count Louis, The Marquise, and the
guests talk together. Lalain crosses to De Vardes.
This day I bury our friendship of old!
I owe to you a thousand louis
Which I’ll repay, monsieur!
Touch not the girl Yvette!
At last the heart of the matter! I see
You have been through the Forest of Paimpont.
Oh, if
You lay your hand upon your sword, monsieur,
I’m for you there!
Art mad, or drunk with power,
Monsieur the favourite of the Jacobins?
There’ll come a day when to be Jacobin
Is something more, monsieur, than to be king!
[A Sergeant of Hussars appears on the terrace and
salutes.
My Colonel, wood and shore we’ve searched since dawn,
And twenty bitter rogues we’ve found, no less!
55They crouched behind the tall grey stones, or lay
Prone in the furze, or knelt at Calvaries!
Two women remain—
[He stares at Yvette and Séraphine.
O Saint Thégonnec!
Saint Guirec! Saint Servan!
De Vardes, your precious peasants—
Who is here?
The De Méricourt, the mænad, I swear!
Who wounded De Vardes!
Monseigneur, monseigneur, she’s none of mine!
Ah, mademoiselle, it is
The innocentest creature!
56The Abbé (touches Yvette upon the cheek)
Certainly the gallows
Should be thirty feet high.
Hm—m—m! Something less,
Monsieur le Vidame!
De Vardes (to the sergeant)
My Colonel,
I have them safely here! Ha! you within!
[Enter from the hall of the château soldiers and
huntsmen with peasants, men and women; some
sullenly submissive, others struggling against their
bonds. They crowd the terrace before the great
doors. The guests of De Vardes to the right and
left upon the terrace, the stairs, and in the garden.
Yvette and Séraphine beside the statue; Lalain
near them; De Vardes with his hand upon the
great chair.
57Count Louis (rubbing his hands)
Here, Sergeant, range them here,
Upon the terrace! And take the great chair,
De Vardes! Ma foi! We will teach them, the rogues!
Monsieur l’Anglais, have you peasants at home
Plague you at times?—Word of a gentleman!
It seems like old days and Henri again!
[The soldiers thrust their prisoners forward with
the butts of their muskets.
Madame la Marquise!
My father was your father’s foster brother!
Is that a reason you should burn châteaux?
Séraphine (aside to Angélique)
Of course! Betray the girl! I knew you would.
Yvette said God would have mercy! I faint—
58De Vardes (to Grégoire)
See! There is Rémond Lalain!
Patience, compatriot! Thursday I speak
In the Jacobins!
Ah, monseigneur!
Ah, monseigneur, there’s she who led us here!
There’s she who said the shadow of Morbec
Blackened the land as sin blackens the soul!
That same Yvette, who said, monseigneur,
That delving the earth, the peasants of France
In a long age had delved up a thought!
She said that we were never born to starve!
She said the seigneur’s dues were all infâme!
Monseigneur,
She said the forest deer, the hare, the birds,
Were just as much the peasant’s as the lord’s!
She said the saints they wished no tithes!
Monseigneur, monseigneur,
She said that all our hope was the tricolour!
Yvette said bitter hunger, cold, and want
Came with noblesse and with noblesse would go!
Yvette said the Queen was an Austrian!
Yvette said the King was a fainéant!
Yvette said the princes were traitors!
Yvette said the armies would turn to us!
Yvette heard the drums of the Republic!
Monseigneur!
Saint Yves le Véridique knows it is truth!
She ever rings the tocsin in our hearts!
[Several of the women laugh.
Why, you are all cowards!
So they are, monseigneur, so they are!
De Vardes (to the peasants)
[They break off. De Vardes stands waiting for
them to speak, his hand upon the chair.
[They break off. They make a sighing sound. The
old woman begins to say her beads.
Monseigneur,
They are so hungry! Monseigneur, ‘tis said
You are a soldier and have been to war!
Oh, to us all there comes one battle-field
When we must look into a conqueror’s eyes!
Think then upon that last dark plain and show
Mercy to us who in the shadow stand!
We are your enemies!
Faith of an officer!
De Vardes—
The children are crying at home,
Monseigneur!
O Sainte Vierge, have pity!
With bowed heads the old men wait!
The young men hear the ravens crying!
The nets are dry, the red sails laid away,
And all the boats lie idle by the shore.
Star of the Sea! Pray for poor fisherfolk!
I left my sickle in the standing corn.
The wheat must fall, the flax be gathered soon,
Or else we’ll sing no songs in Morbihan!
Aie! The songs of the diskanerien!
The hearths are cold and the wheels turn not,
And Hunger sits on every doorstep!
To-morrow is the Pardon of the Birds.
The birds go free—the birds go free, monseigneur!
And so I swear should you!
Give her, monsieur,
Another fan to break!
Not one of yours,
Madame la Marquise!
De Vardes (to the sergeant)
Cut their bonds; set them free!
Make way for them there!
(To the peasants.) Peasants of Morbec!
Last night you rose against your lord and strove
To burn his house, to slay his guest and him.
How shall he speak to you to-day? Poor fools!
Distraught and blind you struck ere that you looked,
And struck at one who fain would be your friend,
Who has his vision of a seigneur’s right!
These are the towers of Morbec, but I
Am not Baron Henri, blind that ye are!
64I am Baron René, remember my name.
Bread you shall have, I will think of your wrongs.
No foe am I! There are the open doors.
Back to the village go! but look you well.
Mistake no more, it will be dangerous!
Creep not this way again in the dark night,
Or you may meet an ancient Lord of Morbec!
More loyal grow, cease all your traitorous talk,
Raise not Rebellion’s head or it will find
A soldier of the King with armèd heel!
Mistake no more! This once I pardon you.
Begone! The fields await you and the wind
Sits fair for Quiberon! Begone.
(To Yvette and Séraphine.) Stay!
[The peasants press in confusion toward the doors
of the château.
[Yvette does not answer. She looks at De Vardes.
The Marquise (with strained laughter)
Mille diables!
The wretches all go free!
Is this Morbec?
65Mort de ma vie! What is it that you do,
Monsieur le Baron de Morbec?
My pleasure,
Monsieur le Comte de Château-Gui, upon
My peasants of Morbec!
67
ACT II
The garden of the Convent of the Visitation at Nantes.
Long lines of fruit trees which appear to sleep in the sunshine.
In the middle of the garden a stone fountain, where
rises and falls a little jet of water. To the left the white
buildings of the convent; in the background, between the
convent and the street, a high garden wall, the tops of
trees, and the roof and spire of a church. There is a
barred door in the wall. The doors and windows of the
convent parlour giving upon the garden are open. It is
the summer of 1792.
A nun appears for a moment at the door of the convent,
then vanishes, and De Vardes and Yvette enter the
garden.
What hast thou learned to-day?
In history:
The battles of Rossbach and of Minden!
The Peace of Paris—
Philosophy:
Man is born free—but who will break his chains?
Theology:
God is the father of us all—and yet
I think I know how feels an orphan child!
Defeat of France, Rousseau, and Modern Doubt!
And hast thou learnt all this in convent walls?
They are good to thee, the Sisters all?
When I did place thee here
After that day thou didst not burn Morbec!
I gave the Reverend Mother straitest charge,—
This convent oweth much to the De Vardes.
They have enriched it oft, and it in turn
Refuge hath given unto noble dames.
Oft did she sit beside the fountain there,
That Duchess Jeanne whose look thou wearest now!
How mournfully thou sighest! Yet
69How glorious are thine eyes this lovely day!
Thou’rt well, and thou art happy, art thou not?
There is no hunger here, no cold, no care!
I ever wished to learn and here I learn,
Here where the Duchess Jeanne did sit forlorn,—
And then I pray within the chapel there,
And then I count the stars as they are lit,—
And then I think of all the lights of Nantes!
It hath been many days I’ve been away,
To Morbec and to Vannes and to Vitré.
I thought that thou wouldst never come again!
Didst think the night had ceased to long for day?
Didst think the tide no more obeyed the moon?
The reed no longer bowed unto the wind?
Ah, do not jest!—There’s blood upon thy coat!
‘Tis nothing!—We have had hard words to-day,
My men and I!
[He gazes around at the quiet garden.
O holy peace! O balm!
O green and sunny quietude! Outside
There’s tumult, heat, confusion, enmity!
Here is a haven, here ‘tis blissful sweet!
[They sit upon the marge of the fountain.
70All is dismay and doubt in France to-day.
With troubled eyes men question destiny!
Outside I front the storm as best I may,
But here is anchorage profound and fair—
There fruit trees drifting bloom, this fountain marge!
I better love the wild and desolate shore!
What is that ribbon closed within thy hand?
[Yvette opens her hand and shows a ribbon cockade.
It was my favour—Fare you well, monsieur!
I might not wear that ribbon, no, not if
It were thy favour truly, Vivien!
Ah, when will cease this discord of our minds?
Wilt thou forever be a Jacobin?
[A distant bugle, followed by a roll of drums and
martial music.
Aux armes, Citoyens!
Formez vos bataillons!
Where learned’st thou the Marseillaise?
‘Tis in the air! Oh, on these moonlight nights
I dream of France and how he spoke to me
Of all the wrongs of France we should redress!
Rémond Lalain was once my closest friend.
He travels now a dark and winding way!
Where is she now, that lady bright and fair
Who’s named La Belle Marquise in Morbihan?
Monsieur le Baron de Morbec,—
A courier, in haste, foam-flecked and spent,
Demands to speak with you.
What tidings now?
Ill news like ravens to a cumbered field!
I come, my Sister!
(To Yvette.) I’ll return.
[Exeunt De Vardes and Sister Benedicta.
Alas!
She is in Nantes! He sees her every day.
What is this pain that’s tearing at my heart?
[Laughing voices of young girls. Enter from the
convent Sister Fidelis and Sister Simplicia
with a cluster of young girls, pupils of the nuns or
refugees from Royalist families. They seat themselves
upon the wide steps of the fountain. Yvette
leans against the basin and plays in the water with
her hand.
‘Tis told. The beau prince wed the belle princesse,
And they lived happily ever after!
Yvette (turning from the fountain)
Beneath the halfway tree,
‘Tween Josselin and Pontivy,
Suddenly, out of the dark,
I heard a grey wolf bark!
Hoée! Hoée! Hoée!
The snow was on the ground,
The shadows all around,
Laid a finger on my lip,
As I stood, hand on hip,
Listening the grey wolf bark.
Hoée! Hoée! Hoée!
Beneath the halfway tree,
‘Tween Josselin and Pontivy!
A little child came by.
“Yvette, the wolf is nigh!
Yvette, take thou me up,
I’ve neither bite nor sup!”
Hoée! Hoée! Hoée!
The child came to my arm.
He was so fair and warm!
74The child came to my arm,
I kept him safe from harm!
Hoée! Hoée! Hoée!
A light grew round his head,
I felt all cheered and fed.
“Yvette, have thou no fear!
Who giveth aid, to me is dear!”
Hoée! Hoée! Hoée!
The child no longer pressed,
White snow lay on my breast!
The grey wolf ran away,
Hoée! Hoée! Hoée!
There broke a splendid day,
Beneath the halfway tree,
‘Tween Josselin and Pontivy!
I liked best
The beau prince and the belle princesse.
Oh,
Thou’rt an Aristocrat!
[The young girls return to their embroidery. Yvette
plays in the water of the fountain with her hand.
Gold fish, gold fish,
How are the fish of Quiberon?
Were I
A fairy prince, then my princess should be
Madame la Marquise de Blanchefôret!
If I
Were a princess, I would have for my prince
Monsieur le Baron de Morbec.
[Yvette turns from the fountain.
They say
That in all France there’s none more brave than he!
And far and near she’s called La Belle Marquise!
A little while and there’ll a wedding be!
But then, the poor Yvette! He is, you know,
Her prince!
Hush, children, hush!
Monsieur le Baron is her benefactor!
He plucked her from the dreadful world outside!
He placed her here beneath Our Lady’s care.
In everything he is her truest friend!
But for his condescension, ah, who knows
What in these fearful days might be her lot!
Here in this fold she’s safe.
Oh, she is fairer than the fairy queen!
Clarice de Miramand and Blanchefôret!
Is she so fair? Is she so fair indeed?
I broke her fan—now she will break my heart!
He is a knight like Lancelot!
Oh me!
She is the Queen, she is that Guinevere!
[Distant music. The noise of footsteps and voices in
the street beyond the wall.
Oh, outside the wall what is there passing?
77Sister Fidelis (severely)
We have nothing to do with outside the wall.
A Young Girl (indicating the door in the wall)
Might we open the door a little way?
The blessed saints forbid!
[From the street are heard the drums and fifes of
passing National troops. The bayonets of the soldiers
are visible above the wall.
Allons, enfants de la patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrivé!
[The circle about the fountain breaks. The young
girls walk up and down beneath the trees. The Sisters
watch them from a garden bench. The music
dies away. Yvette sits upon the stone marge of the
fountain.
What is this pain that’s tearing at my heart?
What matters it to me whom he doth love?
And what concern of mine that she is fair?
I would she were not so!—Oh, misery!
She is in Nantes, she is La Belle Marquise!
I would that she were dead!
O Seigneur Dieu!
78Her death! I do not wish her death! Not I!
O Our Lady! let not ill thoughts possess me!
I would I were at Morbec this still eve,
Herding the cows amid the golden broom,
Above a sea of glass without a wind,
As stagnant calm as is this prisoned water!
I would gather the musk rose in the lane,
I would tread the wet sand and count the ships,
My brow would not burn, my heart would not ache,
No tears from my eyes would I wipe away!
Why should they not fall like the winter rain?
I am the herd girl here as at Morbec,
And she’s a great lady, loved for herself!
O love! is it love that stifles me so?
O love! is it love that makes me weep?
I thought that love was all splendour and light,
The bow in the sky, the bird at its height,
The glory and state of an angel bright!
What is this pain that burdens all my heart?
[She bows her head upon her knees. The hum of the
street deepens to a continuous and sinister sound.
In the distance a roll of drums. Yvette raises her
head.
I sit by this fountain, he’ll not return!
He cares not for me,—he’s the Sieur de Morbec,
And I a herd girl wandering through his fields!
Mother, my mother, did you sit and wait,
By the wild sea rim on a glowing eve,
Mid the brown seaweed on the shining sands?
Your heart did it beat, and your senses swim?—
But your lover, the fisher, he came, he came!
[The voice of the street deepens.
79I will not have this pain! I’ll tear it out!
[Her hand touches the purple mark on her throat.
Ha! how burns this hateful mark to-day!
[There comes from the church towers of Nantes a
sudden and violent crash of bells.
The Young Girls (They flutter forward to the
fountain)
The tocsin! Oh, the tocsin!
Like a hive of bees hums the street without!
Oh, all ye iron bells! ring on! ring on!
Enter Mlle. de Château-Gui and Sister Benedicta.
Here is Mademoiselle de Château-Gui!
She’ll tell us why the bells are ringing!
O Ciel!
Would you believe it? O blessed saints above!
The country is in danger!
Oh! we thought
You brought us news!
Mlle. de Château-Gui (joyously)
Do you not hear the bells?
80Oh, such a day outside! It is proclaimed!
La patrie est en danger!
Well you may wail,
You brazen trumpets of the Revolution!
The Duke of Brunswick he is marching now,
And with him all our nobles back from Coblentz!
O bliss! La patrie est en danger!
Oh, hush!
The very walls have ears!
My father says
The King shall have his own again, and all
Will go as merry as a wedding bell!
La patrie est en danger!
Enter Count Louis, Melipars de L’Orient, and the
Abbé de Barbasan.
Oh, here are
My father and Monsieur de L’Orient!
So sweet the flowers here—
Count Louis (to the young girls)
Mesdemoiselles,
One garden of rosebuds time hath not touched!
(To the Sisters.) In your prayers, my Sisters, name Château-Gui!
[The young girls curtesy, then exeunt between the
trees. Yvette remains beside the fountain. Count
Louis looks at her through his glass.
I have eyes,
De L’Orient!
Monsieur de L’Orient, you promised me
My father should not walk abroad to-day!
What could I do? He is so young and rash!
Count Louis (taking snuff)
‘Tis true that Nantes is dangerous to-day
To all save those wild beasts the sans-culottes!
But that’s no reason I should stay at home.
Where is De Vardes? His man said he was here.
It is his wont, pardieu!
Monsieur le Comte,
Monsieur the Baron of Morbec did come
To see that all was well with this our charge—
A peasant girl, monsieur, whom he did save
From cold and hunger and ill company.
82But now she prospers and we think that he
Will come no more.
Count Louis (with satisfaction)
Ma foi!
He is a soldier is De Vardes! He camps
One day beside the hedgerow in the field!
The next he’s for some royal mount of love,
High as the snow and splendid in the sun!
Since he’s not here I know where else he is!
Mignonne, Mignonne!
Kiss me, rose of to-day!
O heart! O world! O hedgerow in the field!
Well, well, her mother was as fair as she!
Clarice de Miramand, long-dead Clarice!
Her hair was golden too.—Old times, old times!
And now it is De Vardes and the Marquise!
[Count Louis, Mlle. de Château-Gui, and De
L’Orient walk up and down beneath the trees. De
L’Orient sings.
Mignonne, Mignonne!
The red rose fades away!
Mignonne, Mignonne!
The white rose will not stay!
My dear, that is a pretty wrist of thine!
Hast said thy rosary to-day?
Dame! She is only good to burn châteaux!
[He joins Count Louis, etc. They walk and talk
beneath the trees.
The high of heart bide no man’s scorning! I
Will break these bonds! I will be free! I will!
O royal mount of love, snow-high, sun-kissed,
Kissed by the sun which once did shine on me!
If I am of the fields—
[Her hand touches the mark upon her throat. She
laughs.
O hated flower,
Which grew beneath no hedgerow on this earth!
Teach me, thou poison blossom, pride of heart!
Where is that Duchess Jeanne whom I am like?
They say for love her heart did rive in twain,
84But now she smiles beside a shadowy stream
In some far land where none do die of love!
And where is he, Jehan the fisherman,
Who loved Yvonne, who met the sea and died?
They died for love who should have lived for hate!
I’ll live—
Enter De Vardes. Count Louis, etc., come forward.
Oh, here’s the soldier! Now we’ll know
How blow the winds around the camp of love!
What is it, René de Vardes? What is it, man?
The King hath left the Tuileries! The mob
Forced the château and put his life in danger.
The Swiss are murdered, cut down to a man!
The Grenadiers joined with the Marseillaise!
De Maillé writes—the courier’s just arrived—
All is distraction, danger, and despair!
The Swiss all murdered—the stanch Swiss!
The King hath left the Tuileries!
To-night
I ride to Paris.
To Paris!
As well say that you ride to death, De Vardes!
Ah, were I young again, I’d ride with you!
Alas, they say it is a fearful place!
Ah, my Sister,
Because it is so safe in Nantes I go!
Once I did love this people; once I thought
Beyond this Revolution lay the morn,
The dewy morn of a most noble day!
It may be so; I know not; but I am
A soldier of the King. Needs must I go,
My bugles call; I’m breaking camp. Farewell!
[The noise in the street increases. The tocsin rings.
The sky begins to darken before an approaching
storm.
Ring on!
Ye bells! ring on to the deaf sky! O France,
Of old thou wast a pleasant land and free,
In palace and in field a courteous place!
Now thou art desolate! Come, Austria, come!
Come, D’Artois, come, Brunswick, and come, Provence!
Rend the tricolour from the breast of France
And plant the fleur-de-lis where stood the Jacobins!
Quoi! ces cohortes étrangères
Feraient la loi dans nos foyers!
Hast said farewell to the Marquise?
Not yet,
As far as Vannes I ride beside her coach.
Soon or late, she’ll draw you back to Nantes!
Now will she not?
Monsieur, if you must go, oh, rest you sure
Jealously will we guard and spotless keep
The soul you stooped and drew from the foul mire!—
Yvette, come make your reverence to your lord!
I kiss your hand, monseigneur!
There will be
A storm to-night!
Come, come, René de Vardes!
I’d see the courier who brought this news!
I’ll follow you, Monsieur le Comte!
[Exeunt Count Louis, his daughter, De L’Orient,
The Abbé, and the Sisters.
Why must thou go?
88To-day the kingdom fell! Oh, in the dust
Of old things let it rest for evermore!
Take up the Revolution!
Oh, see!
The flaming sword before the gates of Eden!
Thou’rt safe within the garden! Go not forth.
Go not to Paris! Stay in Nantes, ah, stay!
Wear the tricolour—
Hark! It is the voice,
The menacing voice of the Republic!
It threatens thee, it threatens all who pass
That flaming sword, to lift the thing that was
And is not any more! Oh, let it lie!—
Thou’lt not to Paris?
To-night, Citoyenne!
Ah, thou art skilful at betraying!
Monsieur le Baron de Morbec, the page
Of Madame la Marquise de Blanchefôret
Attends—
The Abbé (appearing in the door behind Sister
Benedicta)
De Vardes, De Vardes!
You gather the furze while the red rose waits!
(To Yvette.) Ah, not in anger,
Must thou and I part for this little while!
If I’m in life I will return, be sure,
To Nantes and all this garden loveliness,
Those fruit trees and this fountain!—Fare thee well.
The nuns will care for thee; I’ve ordered all.
Too fierce of aspect is the world without!
Here is fair peace, security, and calm;
Here thou art fenced from storm and violence.
Abide thou here until I come again!
Hearest thou not, Yvette,
How sings the lark in Paimpont Wood to-day?
I hear the dirge of the salt sea!
And there,
Seest thou not through yonder trees the stone,
The Druid Stone where thou didst lie in sleep?
Abide thou here
90And dream of Paimpont Wood until I come.
I too will dream, I too will dream, Yvette!
Is not Clarice a lovely name?
Why, yes,
A very lovely name.—Farewell, farewell!
I’ll see thy face, be sure, this very night,
Upon the road before me as I ride.
Oh, fare you well beneath the silver moon
As slow you ride beside a lady’s coach,
Discoursing of the dazzling, snowy heights!
I kiss your hand, monseigneur! Fare you well!
[The Abbé’s voice is heard from the doorway.
Farewell, thou spirit of Paimpont!
Ah, ah! ‘tis worth all else—the Marseillaise!
She is dead: cold and dead!
Aux armes, Citoyens!
Formez vos bataillons!
Over Ys, the sunken town,
When thou sailest look not down,
Mariner, mariner!
What wine hast thou drunken?
For there dwells a fairy there
Will drag thee down by the long hair,
Mariner, mariner!
92Yvette (to the fish in the fountain)
Gold fish, gold fish, how are the fish of Quiberon?
Thou sullen witch, adieu!
Monseigneur! ah!
He’s gone! He’s gone to meet the fairy queen!
He’s for the roses and the dazzling peaks!
The seaweed and the furze he’s left behind!
He’s left the storm, he’s left the storm and me!
Toll, toll! as though thou’d toll my soul away!
Thou canst not toll him back! Oh, woe is me!
[The nuns sing in the chapel.
O salutaris Hostia!
Quae coeli pandis ostium:
Bella premunt hostilia,
Da robur fer auxilium!
[Above the wall where it is shadowed by a fruit
tree, appear the head and shoulders of Lalain. He
draws himself up to the coping, watches Yvette
for a moment, then swings himself down to the garden.
He has a rose in his hand.
Where is the sunshine gone? Where is the gold?
It was a lovely day! ‘Tis cold and dead;
No light, no warmth, no cheer!—Oh, presently
Those two will take the summer road to Vannes!
93Ha! does he think that I will meekly stay
Within this convent close, will kneel and pray,
Day in, day out, for all true lovers’ weal?
What is there now to do?—O Jealousy!
I dream of Paimpont Wood in June! I’ll dream
Of sunlit peaks, of roses named Clarice;
I’ll dream of furze that’s set about with thorns
And clings unto the common earth which bore it!
On, on! It suits my mood, the crashing sound!—
Jehan the fisherman! rise from the sea,
Lay thy cold hand upon the heart of her
Who’s not thy child, and teach her how to hate!
Yvonne who parted from the earth one night,
Come through the storm that darkens overhead
And teach thy daughter how to hate! Thou too,
Thou other one, thou seigneur high and grand
Whose signet burns upon my aching throat,
Whose nature stirs within me suddenly,
Arise from hell and teach me how to hate!
Tantum ergo sacramentum
Veneremur cernui—
O Our Lady! O Our Lady! O Our Lady!
[Lalain throws the rose. It falls beside Yvette.
[She raises the flower to her lips. Lalain comes
forward.
Thou! I thought it was—I thought it was.
94Go! No rose of thine would I have kissed,
Rémond Lalain!
[With a wild petulance she throws down the flower
and treads upon it.
Now for that deed of thine
I will not spare him when the day is mine!
The Citoyenne Blanchefôret.
‘Tis said the two will shortly wed—
A fitting match!—She’s fair and nobly born.
Thou mightst have seen, thou mightst have seen last night,
Walking by moonlight beside the Loire,
A lady the fairest and a great lord!
Beneath the trees, beside the flood,
Toying and whispering, the sword and fan!
Out and alas! Begone, thou torturer!
Oh, those old days when by the shore we walked
While sank the sun beneath the emerald waves,
And wild sea birds flashed all their silver wings,
And long we talked of France and liberty!
How thou art tamed, Yvette, Yvette Charruel!
Thou carest not now for France and liberty!
It is not true! Thou knowest that I care!
This sultry night I speak to patriot hearts
Of War, Dumouriez, Brunswick, Capet!
All Nantes will throng to hear me where I stand,
In the Church of Saint Jean, who’s now become,
From crypt to spire, one mighty Jacobin!
High in the gilt tribune beneath the roof,
The starry roof where the archangels live!
Faces me Michael with his flaming sword,
And Raphael watches me with widened eyes,
And Gabriel frowns between his splendid wings
Because there’s no more incense! When I speak,
The painted walls all vanish like a mist!
On distant plains the drum begins to beat,
The great dome lifts—above the angel heads
I see the stars—
There are no stars to-night!
There are! There are! Eternally they shine
Beyond this din, beyond these sulphurous clouds!
And there’s a stairway, red and white and blue,
By which to climb to some most famous star
Of glory and of love! Yvette! Yvette!
Climb thou with me unto that golden star!
Come thou with me, Yvette!
Come thou with me from out this sluggish place!
Come thou with me into the furious storm!
What dost thou here, thou spirit of the wind,
Restless, with deep eyes and with parted lips?
Thou knowest thou hast naught to do with holy things.
Tear off that white headdress! Red is thy colour!
Last night, the while
I spake of War and all the place was still,
A sudden vision blazed above the lights—
I saw thee dance the Carmagnole!
Now, now!
What whispers he to her upon the road?
To-night—ah, should I raise my eyes to-night
97And see thee smiling there, Yvette, Yvette!
Beside thy sisters in the galleries!
Upon thy twilight hair the bonnet-rouge,
At thy small waist a pistol and a dirk—
Only the Revolution in thy soul
And in thy heart my name, my name, Yvette!
It thunders now, but ‘twill be clear to-night.
The moon will shine, the roads will all be white.
The roads will all be white, the moon will shine,
The poplars quiver and the eglantine,
The broom and honeysuckle will be sweet,
Upon the road to Vannes—
[Lightning and thunder. Lalain walks to the door
in the wall, tries it, then with a stone from the
ground beats back the rusty bolt.
I’ll go this way, ma foi!
Not by the wall!
René de Vardes, once I did call thee friend
And took a deal of pride in that possession!
How runs the world away! ‘Twas long ago!
Ah, ah, that fearful dream I had last night!
And while I dreamed they walked beside the Loire!
This night he rides away. Didst know?
He’s said farewell to thee, but not to her!
Ay, through this door, Yvette!
‘Tis easy, as thou seest. And ah, to-night—
The storm o’er past and shining bright the moon
And the cold nuns all telling o’er their beads,
How simple ‘twere—O priceless liberty!
Thou wouldst not be the only one, I trow,
Who may not walk beside the silver Loire!
Adieu, adieu! To-night
I’ll see thee sitting in the galleries—
Ah, how the thunder shakes the air!
[She moves to the door in the wall and replaces the
bolt, then returns to the fountain.
99‘Tis so!
He is her lover! Oh, he loves her true!—
What will they say and whisper all the night
Through light and shadow on the road to Vannes?
Despair!—But I’ll not stay within these walls!
[Knocking at the door in the wall. Yvette crosses
the stage to the door.
[She draws the bolts. The door opens. Enter Séraphine
and Nanon. The former is dressed in complete
carmagnole: short skirt, rolled-up sleeves, sash
of tricolour, and a bonnet-rouge. Pistols at her belt.
100Nanon is more soberly attired but wears the bonnet-rouge.
The door closes behind them.
How gay you are! What of the Revolution?
We have a new song!
Faith! ‘Tis a greater song than Ça Ira!
Aux armes, Citoyens!
Formez vos bataillons!
Nanon (looking about her)
So very triste it is in here!
So gay outside! All Nantes is dressed in red!
There’s a procession, and then to-night
101We sit in the galleries to hear Lalain!
Hark to the fife! Formez vos bataillons!—
And your feet keep not time to the music!
But my heart, Séraphine, my heart keeps time.
Ho! Your heart is in barracks, says Céleste.
Angélique is in feather now you’re gone!
Cries Vive la République! here in Nantes.
Rides on the cannon and handles a pike;
Thinks she’s in Paris and plays Théroigne,
And high from the galleries applauds Lalain!
He thinks not of her; he thinks of Yvette!
I care not of whom he thinks!
On a fête day,
102In a car triumphal see her appear!
Dressed like a goddess just down from the skies,
All crowned with green oak leaves, borne shoulder high—
Ah, you see you are not there!
But between you and me, red does not become her!
I should think not!—little blonde!
Monseigneur’s gone from Nantes.
Yes, faith! I saw him ride away—
He’s gone!
Rememb’rest thou that lady fair and proud,
Madame la Marquise de Blanchefôret?
Ho!
(To Nanon.) Rememb’rest thou the Citoyenne Blanchefôret?
The proud piece! We are mire beneath her feet!
Last eve her coach threw mud upon my gown!
Let her beware! One day she’ll walk afoot.
Let her beware! And let him too beware
Who rode last eve beside her golden coach!
[Music and voices in the street. Impatient knocking
at the door in the wall.
Holà, Aristocrats!
Nanon! Séraphine!
We have business with the smith upon the quai,
Where by the old dovecot he fashions pikes!
Allons, enfants de la patrie!
Come, come away! We’ll leave the nun alone
To say her beads for black Aristocrats!
How triste to be for aye in prison here!
Prison! I am no prisoner, I!
Then come with us into the merry streets!
‘Twill be a heavy storm—all are within.
How easy ‘twere to slip away with us!
Well—kept by an Aristocrat—
Saint Yves! I lie! Do I? O Seigneur Dieu!
This is Yvette, the herd girl of Morbec!
This is Yvette, the daughter of Yvonne!
This is that same Yvette who swore one day
That rather would she meet the blight of hell
Than take one favour from a seigneur’s hand!
Once you were hungry! Go you hungry now?
105You went in rags. Where is your ragged gown?
Barefoot—what’s that about that throat of thine?
I swear it is a jewel!—and we pine
For bread, we women of the Revolution!
[Yvette unclasps the jewel from her neck and lets
it fall.
I lie, do I? Diable! Just prove I lie!
This night we make a little noise in Nantes
Shall show Aristocrats who is in danger!
Lalain will speak and all the bells will ring,
And Angélique will deck herself in red!
Steal through yon door, be of us evermore!
I lie, do I? Then show me that I lie!
In Nantes where do you lodge?
With Angélique
Under the Lanterne, Sign of the Hour Glass.
Nanon! Nanon! You are missing the sights!
Allons, enfants de la patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrivé!
[Séraphine unbars the door in the wall. It swings
open.
Faith! One can see the Loire!
‘Tis fine to walk beside it ‘neath the moon!
Tremblez, tyrans! et vous perfides,—
I’ll go—I’ll go with you.
Ye fruit trees and thou fountain, fare ye well!
[Exeunt Yvette, Séraphine, Nanon. The door
swings to. Lightning and thunder. Sister Fidelis
appears in the convent door.
Aux armes, Citoyens!
Formez vos bataillons!
107
ACT III
A square in Nantes. On the left the deep porch of a church
with pillars. To the right and in the background, a perspective
of streets with tall, many-windowed houses. Opposite
the church a great plaster statue of Liberty. Over
the church door is written in white lettering: “The Republic
One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity
or Death. National Property.” A distant view of the
Loire. Men and women in holiday garb, wearing liberty
caps and great tricoloured cockades, cross and recross the
square. Life, movement, colour. Red the dominant note.
It is the year 1794.
Hoarse voices within. Hawkers of Revolutionary journals
cross the square.
Le Discours
De la Lanterne!
Le père Duchesne! Le Père Duchesne!
108Grégoire (stopping him)
And what to-day says Père Duchesne?
He says
That Paris envies Nantes her Carrier!
I’ll buy the Bouche de Fer.
[Enter a man with a long brush and a pot of paste.
He proceeds to cover the wooden base of the Statue
of Liberty with placards.
The placards! The placards!
[He catches by the arm a man in a long cloak, with
a broad hat pulled low over his face.
Prithee, Citizen, what says the placard?
It says Duport is dead; Biron is dead;
Barnave is dead.
Through the little window they’ve looked at last!
À bas les Aristocrats! Vive la Guillotine!
Ah, here in Nantes we drown them in the Loire!
Vive Carrier! Vive Lambertye! Vive Lalain!
[The man with the brush affixes a second placard.
D’Alleray is dead;
Bailly is dead; Du Barry is dead.
Ho! ho! The courtesan, she’ll kiss no more!
[The man with the brush affixes the third placard.
The Man in the Cloak (reads)
The Republic One and Indivisible.
It is Decreed
There is no God. To-day we worship Reason.
That’s the Paris Reason!
Our Reason wears blue.
And oak leaves in her hair.
Ha! he says God! God is a word forbid!
[Singing within. A band of dancers, men and women,
whirl into the square.
Dansons la Carmagnole!
Vive le son, vive le son!
Dansons la Carmagnole!
Vive le son du canon!
[The crowd breaks and joins the dancers. They take
hands and with uncouth and extravagant gestures
circle once or twice around the statue, then with a
long cry exeunt.
The great procession forms upon the quai!
It winds and winds about and comes this way!
[Exeunt men and women. Grégoire and the man
in the cloak remain.
The priests are gone. It is Reason’s fête day.
Reason, being a woman, will have her way.
To serve
Monsieur, I had the honour at Morbec.
Monsieur le Baron’s seneschal, I think.
The same,—but I am gaoler now in Nantes.
That night in June your musket would not fire!
Diable! I’ve played and lost! Well, fellow?
The wind blows cold in Nantes, and so I wear
This cloak! So long I’ve looked on fires of hell
I needs must have a hat to shade my eyes!—
But now I’ll cock it in the face of all—
Cold, wind, darkness, devils, and Republic!
I think the citizen has lost his head.
Ay, and my heart as well. Holà! what’s that?
[A noise without. Clash of steel and excited voices.
Enter De Vardes and Fauquemont de Buc pursued by
seven or eight red-capped men armed with pikes. De
Vardes and De Buc use their swords.
Aristocrats! Aristocrats!
Here’s wine!
Have at you, brow-bound galley slaves!
De Vardes (over his shoulder)
We’re at our last château!
I’ve shut Voltaire! Here goes the candle out!
[He throws his long cloak over the head of one of
the red caps and makes at another with his dagger.
[He sends the pike flying from a red cap’s hand.
Take warning, sans-culottes!
Fight with your left.
I saw you do it at Nanci!
Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira!
Les Aristocrats à la Lanterne!
O Richard, O mon Roi,
L’univers t’abandonne!
Grégoire (from the statue)
[The red caps, De Vardes, The Abbé, and De Buc
fight across the stage and exeunt. Grégoire follows
them.
Enter women and children of the Revolution.
Upon the church steps I will take my stand!
I have brought my knitting.
We are the tricoteuses!
Dyed wool we knit while rumbles by the cart.
Knit! knit! all knitting in the sun.
We are the tricoteuses!
Red wool we knit while soul and body part.
Knit! knit! the knitting now is done!
[They seat themselves upon the church steps.
Maman! Maman! how many carts will pass?
None, sweeting, none! It is a holiday.
Enter Céleste, Angélique, and Nanon.
It was the very night of the great storm
From those dull convent walls she ran away!
Ah, then,
You had been Goddess, Angélique!
The witch!
With her dark skin and with her purple flower!
Let her beware! I know a thing or two!
I know who comes from Paris back to Nantes!
This morning on the quai I saw him!
Is’t
That ci-devant, that black Aristocrat,
De Vardes?
The man your brother loves? The same.
The set of sun
Will see him so, or my name’s not Nanon!
The Loire—the Loire will close above his head!
Monseigneur!
He’s in the prison of La Force at Paris!—
One truly told me so—He’s not in Nantes.
And if he were,
You would not give him up! I know you well!
I know you, Séraphine!
And if you do,
You know no ill of me, Citoyenne!
Yvette
Would not give him up either.
No, i’ faith!
I’ll take my oath on that!
Your oath, lint-locks!
It’s worth a deal, your oath! Your mind I know!
You would be Goddess, you and not Yvette!
Yvette! She’s coming now!
Bright as the star that’s highest in the night!
And all the men have turned astronomers!
Faith! ‘tis easy work to worship Reason,
When Reason is a woman, and that fair!
I’ve seen her gather seaweed on the shore!
And now she gathers hearts in her two hands.
Would that my brother hated her!
Disdainful prude!
Oh, love may turn to hate.
She’s Goddess now, but wait, but wait, but wait!
I join my brother at the Olive Tree.
Come, Angélique, Céleste!
[Exeunt Nanon, Angélique, Céleste.
Were’t not too late,
I’d warn monseigneur just for old time’s sake!
When all is said and done, old times are best;
He gave us back Lisette, he fed us all—
Eh! ‘twere a pity. What now? Who’s this?
Enter hurriedly The Marquise. She looks over her shoulder
as if fearing pursuit, then, drawing her cloak and hood
closely about her, attempts to cross the square unobserved.
Enter a rabble of men and women.
Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira!
Les Aristocrats à la Lanterne.
119Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira!
Les Aristocrats on les pendra!
She draws her cloak about her!
Ho!
Her hand is white and there’s a jewel on’t!
A Man (accosting The Marquise)
Citoyenne, come!
Join our ronde patriotique, our carillon!
A Woman (her hand upon The Marquise)
[They tear from The Marquise her hood and cloak.
I’ll give you gold!
There, there!—My rings, my brooch—take all!
Ah! let me peaceably depart—
It is the emigrée
Clarice-Marie Miramand Blanchefôret!
Are not her gold locks known in Brittany?
O death!
(To a woman.) Citoyenne, your cockade! I’ll wear it gladly,
Ay, o’er my heart I’ll pin it—
[She takes the cockade from the woman and with
trembling fingers pins it to her gown.
With pleasure, Citoyenne.
[She places the bonnet-rouge upon her head.
Now cry
Vive la République!
[She strikes at The Marquise.
[The Marquise breaks through the ring of men and
women and runs to Séraphine.
I know your face!
You are a Morbec woman! Save me! Save!
Saint Servan! Saint Gildas! Saint Mériadek!—
Ay, madame, you should have stayed in England!
Enter De Vardes, torn and bleeding.
De Buc taken and De Barbasan! Dieu!
The day’s not old. I’ll see them ere its close.
We’ll meet, I think, at Carrier’s judgment bar,
Then the dark river,—and then peace at last—
À moi, Monsieur le Baron de Morbec!
[He forces his way to the side of The Marquise.
Séraphine (from the church porch)
To the Loire!
123Ho! ho! Les Noces Républicaines!
[The mob surges forward, but with his sword De
Vardes keeps a clear space about him and The
Marquise. They move slowly backward to the
church steps, which they mount.
De Vardes (to The Marquise)
[De Vardes sends a knife whirling from the hand of
a red cap.
Follow! Follow!
(To The Marquise.) I have been long in prison.
In England I!—And there I pined for France—
This sunshine dazzles me—
Hark! Hark, Citoyens, to the trumpets blowing!
She comes! Nantes’ goddess comes!
[Faces appear at the windows of the tall houses.
Citoyens, all!
We’ll see best by the statue there!
Another (pointing to De Vardes and The
Marquise)
They’re safe! Let them await our pleasure! Peste!
We waited once on theirs!
[The mob divides. Men and women cluster about
the base of the statue or upon the doorsteps of the
surrounding houses. Enter men with banners.
Look! Look!
The painted banners! Vive la patrie!
Séraphine (to The Marquise)
Hist!
Hist, madame! behind the pillar there!
[She points to the pillar of the church.
[The Marquise conceals herself behind the pillar.
A crash of music.
No blood to-day! I’d have clean sleep to-night,
Pure sleep and sweet, in which to dream of love!—
Hast seen her in her mantle blue?
Who stands
So steadfast there with a drawn sword?
[He makes as if to cross to the church steps, where
De Vardes, sword in hand, stands with his back
against a pillar. The crowd comes between.
Patience, he’ll not escape!
Lalain (with affected indifference)
It is as well,—
To her he’s but a ci-devant, and he,
O fool! shall see in her the Revolution!
Then, then, when she has passed, I’ll deal with him!
With sandals on her feet,
The Phrygian cap so red
Upon her sunny head,
126She comes, she’s coming sweet!
Reason, to whom we pay
All homage on this day!
[Enter actors and actresses of the Theatre of Nantes, dressed
as for the stage, and carrying garlands of paper flowers.
Way for Tartufe!
The Citizen Jourdain, Phèdre, Célimène,
Acaste, Armide, Aucassin, Nicolette!
Make way! Make way!
Upon her lofty car
She sits in solemn state!
Of day the lovely mate,
Of night the shining star!
Reason, to whom we pay
All homage on this day!
Voltaire, Rousseau, Franklin, Robespierre!
[Enter a band of students drawing a garlanded float.
Upon the float the busts of Voltaire, Rousseau, Franklin,
and Robespierre.
[The Marseillaise. Enter Republican soldiers.
[Enter four men wearing tricolour scarfs and plumes,
huge cockades, pistols and sabres.
[There crosses the stage a float upon which is fixed a
miniature guillotine.
Ha! ha!
Vive la Guillotine!
Cold
Are thy baths, O Apollo!
[Enter red-bonneted men and women dragging a tumbril
in which are heaped spoils of the church,—broken
images, crucifixes, candelabra, chalices, patens,
etc.
[Music. The great tricolour flag of the Republic is
borne across the stage.
La patrie! Vive la patrie!
[Stately music. Enter young men in Greek dress,
bearing a gilded framework upon which is fixed a
tall flambeau, wreathed with flowers. They advance
and place the structure before the church
steps.
The torch of Reason!
The Goddess lights it,—then we worship her!
[Enter young girls clad in white, linked together
with tricolour ribbons and carrying osier baskets
from which they scatter flowers. They are followed
by children swinging censers, then by a shouting
throng drawing a triumphal car upon which sits the
Goddess of Reason. She is clothed in a white tunic
and a blue mantle; upon her loosened hair is a
wreath of oak leaves and she has in her hand a
light spear.
Reason! Reason!—Yvette! Yvette!
[The car stops. Yvette rises.
Vive la déesse! Vive Yvette! (Lalain comes forward.) Vive Lalain!
People of Nantes! Citoyens! Patriots!
Old things are past. To-day we welcome new.
Gone are the priests, gone is the crucifix;
Chalice and paten whelmed beneath the Loire!
Kings, princes, nobles, priests, all crumbled down!
Death on a pale horse hath ridden o’er them,
The ravens and the sea mews pick their bones.
Theirs are the yesterdays, the ci-devants!
The red to-day is ours, the purple morrow!—
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity!
We worship Thee, Triune and Indivisible!—
O Mother Nature, pure, beneficent,
Redeemed from darkness of the centuries,
Smile on thy children, come to worship thee!
And thou, supernal Reason, Crown of Man,
Eyes of the blind, divine, ascending flame,
Pearl without price, rose, light, music, warmth!—
O gushing spring where else were desert waste!
O flooding light, celestial melody!
O flower that blooms on either side the grave!
O steadfast star that burns the night away!
We worship thee!
[He takes the censer from a boy and swings it to and
fro before the standing goddess. Clouds of incense
arise. The trumpets sound.
130The Crowd (with ecstasy)
We worship thee, Yvette!
Yvette! Yvette! Reason! Yvette Charruel!
O God! I knew not ‘twas like this!
Reason, descend!
Illume thy torch, among us mortals dwell.
O sweetest Reason! ne’er regret the skies!
Descend—
[He gives his hand to Yvette. She descends from
the car.
She is the fairest Reason!
Now
She’ll light the torch!
[A boy brings her lighted touchwood. Lalain fastens
it to the point of her spear, and kneeling presents it
to her. She advances to the church steps and raises
the flaming lance in order to light the torch. She
sees De Vardes. The spear falls to the earth. The
flame goes out.
Light the torch! Light the torch!
None, none!—Oh, see the heavens open!
I see
Hell gaping! What’s that man to thee?
Death and damnation! Dost still gaze at him?
Then to the winds, Irresolution!
See,
Patriots, see! The light of Reason dies!
Out went the sacred flame beneath the eyes,
The basilisk eyes of an Aristocrat!
Away with him to prison! Death! The Loire!
Death to the emigré!
[A rush toward the church steps. De Vardes
throws himself on guard. Yvette comes between
him and the mob.
Art mad?
Stand from between the lion and his prey!
Men of Nantes! leave women to one side!
(To Yvette with a gesture toward the car.) Goddess of Reason! Mount Olympus waits!
(To Lalain.) At last, Rémond Lalain!
[A man strikes at De Vardes with a long pike.
His sword arm falls, and the sword rattles to the
ground. A shout of triumph from the mob. The
Marquise’s cry from the pillar is not heard. The
mob moves forward.
Back, back, I say! You’ll do no murder here!
What! One man against a score!—All Bretons!
Not emigré!
Good folk, I’ve been in prison in La Force.
Released, I journeyed home to Brittany!
Thou’lt journey farther yet, Aristocrat!
Thy boat shall travel down the Loire!
Shall it?
Shall it, indeed, thou gold-locked leprous woman!
Thy bark shall be sucked down by black Ahès!
I see three Vannetois!—big Rubik, Yann,
And Rivarol who won the singer’s prize!
À moi, Vannetois!—Who is that standing there?
Huon! Rememberest thou the fields at dawn?
Rememberest thou the dim green hazel copse?
Rememberest thou one Pardon of Sainte Anne?
The sun went down, the stars shone out;
We wandered round the wreckage of a ship;
Beneath a shell we found a golden coin.
Rememberest thou, Hervé the Cornouillaise?
Baptiste! Michael! Monik! Ronan!
How loudly rang the bells of Quiberon!
To beat of drum we danced beside the sea!
Eh, who spoke to us there,
Of glory, of France, and of Liberty?
Citoyen Deputy Rémond Lalain!
134Red wine he gave to you, to me a flower!
Mon Dieu! I was so proud—
Margot!
‘Twas I who watched with thee one stormy night
When all thy seven sons were out at sea!
Ay, ay, and they came safely home to me!
O little Jeanne, where is the doll I gave thee?
Here!—‘tis named ‘Toinette!
She has another
Named Yvette!
Yvette (to a band of young women)
Fifine, Laure, and Veronique!
The moon shone bright, there was no wind at all,
Below the heights the violet shadows slept,
All sweetly smelled the gorse and white buckwheat,
And dewy was the grass beneath our feet,
And wet with dew the poppies in our hair!
There came a sound of singing from the sea,
Our hands we linked, we sped around Tantad,
Fair shone the moon—
Iou! Iou! An Tan! An Tan! An Tan!
Saint Ronan! Saint Primel!
Yvette! Yvette!
Yvette Charruel!
O folk of Nantes!
There is a thing I want so badly, I!
Call it a fairing from the Fête of Reason,
And give the trifle to the poor Yvette,
The poor Yvette who’s done her best to please you!
Oh, I’ve music made for you to dance by,
And for you held on high the great tricolour;
And in the night-time sung to you of dawn!
And for you, too, I’ve plucked the lilies up,
Fast locked a door and flung away the key,
And left the ravished garden evermore!—
A priest would say my soul I had imperilled.
No, no! No priests! Reason! Reason! Yvette.
This mantle blue, these oak leaves in my hair,
These sandals and this spear, this tunic white,
The wreathèd car, the music and the song!
136All, all a mockery, unless, unless—
There is a thing I want so badly, I!
Thine! Thine! Yvette Charruel!
Ah, I would play the goddess, that I would!
I’d have my pardon like a Breton saint,
And what I bound, it should be bound indeed!
And what I loosed, it should be loosed indeed!
Fast bind or freely loose, thy surety, I!
Command me, and the silver moon I’ll bring thee!
With what a sudden glory shines the sun!
It gilds the streets, it gilds the running Loire!
And from them both the blood-stains fade away!
Ah, let us rest from death in Nantes to-day,
And think how falls the eve in Bethlehem!—
There is a little village that I know,
A hungry village by a hungry sea,
As worn and grey as any calvary!
The hungry shadows ate the sunshine up;
The children cried, the women wailed at morn;
The very Christ looked hungry on the Cross;
When lo! a miracle! for suddenly
137The starving, haggard folk began to laugh,
The tender green put forth, the flowers bloomed,
Blue shone the sky, the lark sang overhead,
And mild the face of Christ and heavenly kind!
The little village had its fill of bread,
Yea, wine it drank, and cheerful breath it drew,
And, by the well, of this strange plenty talked,
Of tolls withdrawn, of perfect friendliness!
[She moves from before De Vardes.
And then it blessed the man who gave it bread,
Who had a heart to feel with wretchedness,
And a strong arm to drive the hunger forth
As Arthur drove the giants from the land!
O men of Nantes! you’ll keep your oath to me!
In Nantes to-day ‘tis mine to loose or bind!—
I loose this man—
Out, witch!
(To De Vardes.) Think not, think not,
René de Vardes, that she shall save thee thus!—
Mine, mine she is, she shall be, soul and all!
It is an emigré!
A traitor and a black Aristocrat,
The ci-devant De Vardes!
Rémond Lalain, stand from my path, I say!
(To the crowd.) Not emigré, but prisoner in La Force!
Not traitor! That’s a wretch who doth betray!
Aristocrat?—Who chooseth his birth star?
Crieth at Life’s gate, “Of such an house I’m heir!”
But in we drift from the great sea without;
A current takes us—“Of my house are ye!”
So you, so I, so this citoyen here,
Rémond Lalain, who is Lalain by chance,
And might have been Capet or Mirabeau!
And so this other, standing gravely there
Alone, a man alone upon a rock,
And the tide mounts!—The current swept him there!
Another drift, and he had been Lalain,
Orator and idol of the Jacobins!—
Names! They are the mist through which the man
Is scarce discerned, the sea-drift hides the pearl.
Ghosts of the past the present spurns! Dead leaves!
Masks for the pauper and the prince! Mere names!
I would not have them rule my spirit thus!—
Aristocrat! I know not, but I know
The man’s been known to lift a peasant’s load
And gather seaweed with a fisher’s child!
‘Tis true! And in my boat he’s been with me,
When Ahès and the storm made black the sea!
He walked beside me in the field and told
Name of the silver star above the fold!
I was a red Hussar! He fought like Mars.
Eh, my Colonel—
We know, we Morbec folk!
Vive Baron René!
Nantes! Nantes! you’ll keep the oath you’ve made to me!
My fairing I shall have this holiday,
And what I bind it shall be bound indeed,
And what I loose is loosed to me for aye!
I ask one gift—I shall not ask again!
This is my hour, no other hour I want.
I ask one life—is’t mine, is’t mine, Citoyens?
Thine, Goddess!
(To De Vardes.) Citoyen, thou art free!
Saint Iguinou! What of the pillar there?
Make way for the Citoyen Vardes!
Eh, eh, monseigneur; thou hadst best begone!
De Vardes (to the Commissioner)
Citoyen, thanks! but here I’ll watch awhile
These pleasing rites, this worship new of Reason!
‘Twill do thee good, Aristocrat!
Why takes he not his liberty? He stays!
To feast his eyes upon her face he stays!
Diable! He speaks to her—
Patience! Patience!—
What flutters there behind the pillar?
[She points. They move together to the base of the
statue.
I owe my life to thee, thou hapless child!
Ah, couldst thou make this throng depart the place!
Goddess of Reason! light the torch!
I’m faint!—The houses all are dancing there!—
Give me drink!
[He pours wine into a great gold cup.
Nom de Dieu! ‘Tis right good wine, indeed!—
Not now I’ll light the torch—‘Tis out for good!
And while we linger here the sunlight goes!
Let’s to the quai, let’s to the quai and dance—
And dance the Carmagnole!
[Men and women take hands and begin to dance.
Away! Down the long street, and to the quai!
Take hands! Away! Dansons la Carmagnole!
[She snatches from a boy a tambourine and strikes it.
Vive le son, vive le son,
Vive le son du canon!
[The crowd disperses. De Vardes remains standing
before the pillar behind which crouches The Marquise.
Séraphine watches from the church steps;
Lalain and Nanon from the base of the Statue
of Liberty.
Now, now while the lark sings,
And while the fairy wood is green, begone!
Oh, ‘tis not safe in Nantes! They gave thy life,
But oh, they’re fierce and fickle! Back they’ll come!
I’ve enemies in Nantes, and there’s Lalain,
Rémond Lalain who’ll work me woe at last!
Thou must begone, but list, ah, list to me!
I know a secret place where thou mayst bide,
So safe! so safe! and I will bring thee food,
White bread and wine, and find for thee a way
Forth from the town—
Ah, I may trust thee, sure!
I never knew thou wast in prison there!
So sad, so dark the prison life, they say!
My cagèd bird I freed the other day.
There are so many prisoners in Nantes,
I would not have it one!—
The spring draws on; ‘twill soon be June again!
Now for another life I make my suit—
In Paimpont Wood the trees are greening now,
In sun and shade the purple violets blow!
In those old convent days, ah, ages gone!
Beneath the fruit trees, by the fountain there,
I’ve seen thee nurse a little fluttering bird,
Wounded and frightened, fallen from the blue,
But yet God’s bird, and with a life to save!
And thou didst stroke its plumage tenderly,
And gently fostered it between thy hands
Awhile, and up it soared into the blue;
A moment since and thou didst save my life.
Lo now, there is another thing to do!
Before my own life, I’ve a life in charge,
144And to thee now I turn, and plead for help.
In this wild town thou rulest o’er the hour;
Be now the goddess and the woman too,
Pitiful, tender, generous, and true!—
Lo! here a wounded bird—
[He moves aside. The Marquise leaves the shadow
of the pillar.
Oh, guard me, all ye saints!
[Lalain comes forward from the statue.
So! Thou hast returned,
Beneath the trees, along the moonlit road!
And in thine arms the rose and eglantine,
And on thy lips the song of all the birds!
Back! There is a furze field bars thy way!
Hast thou another fan to break?
Ha! shrinkest thou?
Yvette (raising her voice)
[An answering cry from within.
À moi! Citoyens! Patriots!
Citoyens!
This ci-devant, this black Aristocrat!
Oh! all this while she was in hiding here!
146Beside the pillar there she kneeled and laughed.
Do I not know her laughter, rippling sweet
Or o’er a broken fan or broken heart,
Or in green Morbec and a garden fair,
Or on the moonlit road to ancient Vannes?—
She, she the ci-devant, the emigrée!
Who to false England with her jewels fled,—
Rubies, emeralds, and long strings of pearls!
The while in barren fields her peasants starved!—
I denounce the Citoyenne Blanchefôret!
Thy hand in mine, Clarice!
What of, what of the dark line of De Vardes?
What tales are told of Morbec’s black château?
More wicked and more lost than sunken Ys!
Wolves were they all, the seigneurs of Morbec!
Henri, Philippe, Gil, René, Amaury—
All, all were wolves who lurked, who sprang, who tore,
No heart of lamb, but just the heart of man!
Heart of a man, heart of a woman too!
Morbec! De Vardes! No direr names in France!
Right hands of kings, priests, soldiers, cardinals,
Courtiers and lovers of the fleur-de-lis!
Passionate, proud, a whirlwind and a flame!
147Morbec! De Vardes! ‘Ware all who came between
The whirlwind and its goal, the stubble and the flame!
De Vardes! De Vardes! The name comes on the blast
Up from the gulf where lie the thrones of kings.
Battle, oppression, tyranny and wrong—
Miramand, Blanchefôret! on sea winds in they float
From that dim palace where that lost Ahès
Down to her emerald windows beckons man
And spreads the bridal bed in sunken Ys!
Mon Dieu! The bridal bed!
By all the wrongs
That both their houses through the ages long
Have wrought us! By the blood that they have shed,
The tears, the groans, the sweat, the servile knees,
The bitter bread they gave us, and the cry
From lonely graves of anguish and of wrath!
By all the hunger and the freezing cold!
By all the toil and all the hopelessness,
The smitten cheek, the taunt, the burning heart!
By all the Rights of all the Lords of Wrong!
By Corvée and Gabelle and Gibier,
148Quintaines, Milods, Ban d’Août and Bordelage,
Fouage, Leide, Corvée à miséricorde,
Banvin, Chansons, Baiser des Mariées!
I do denounce these two Aristocrats:
La Force’s prisoner, and the emigrée,
La belle Marquise, the Hussar of the King,
Citoyen Vardes, Citoyenne Blanchefôret!
Away! Away! Prison! Death! The Loire!
Down, down, Aristocrats.
[They close around De Vardes and The Marquise.
Saint Maturin!
Saint Corentin! Saint Jean!
I am thy death, who thought to save thee so!
[The soldiers lay hands upon De Vardes and The
Marquise and force them from the church steps
and across the square.
That’s the Church
Of Saint Eustache!
Away! They shall be judged
By Carrier!
Ha, ha! Le Mariage Républicain!
Eh, they’re lovers, are they not?
The Loire shall marry them, the ci-devants!
Yvette has made the wedding, eh, Yvette?
Ha, ha! Le Mariage Républicain!
[Exeunt the mob, soldiers, De Vardes, and The
Marquise, guarded, etc.
Le Mariage Républicain! Ha, ha!
Ha, ha! ha, ha! The Loire!
151
ACT IV
The interior of a church in Nantes used as a prison. Great
broken windows of stained glass, purple and crimson,
through which streams the sunlight. Prisoners of both
sexes and all ages and conditions of life move to and fro,
or lean against the pillars which support the vaulted roof.
Some rest or kneel upon the steps before the altar rail.
Three children play beside a broken font. Against a door
at the left of the great altar lounge several turnkeys
dressed in blue woollen with red liberty caps. The Marquise
sits beside a pillar. She talks with De Buc and
Enguerrand La Fôret. Near her are Count Louis
and Mlle. de Château-Gui. De L’Orient stands
upon a bench beneath a shattered window. De Vardes
sits at a rude table writing.
A butterfly enters at the broken window and flutters through
the church.
The butterfly! The butterfly!
Oh, see
Its painted wings!
It comes my way!—I’ve caught it!—No!
152An Actress (dressed as a shepherdess)
I!
I have it fast, the pretty prisoner!
It soars into the roof!
No! down again on yon long ray of light!—
Give chase!
Oh, oh! It sails this way,
The fairy boat—
With freight of heart’s desire!
[The butterfly lights upon his hand.
[The butterfly brushes his shoulder.
[The butterfly touches her outstretched arm, then
rises again.
[The butterfly rests upon the fair hair of The Marquise.
As I was saying, then I felt despair—
[The butterfly rises, flutters in a shaft of sunshine,
then passes out of the window. The prisoners watch
its flight.
‘Tis for
The blue skies and the sunny fields!
The flowers
We shall not gather any more!
High hills,
The water running in the sun and shade!
A garden old beside a winding stream—
Oh, death in life!
It was a soul set free.
By now a thousand shining leagues it’s mounted!
[The door at the left of the altar opens.
Ah, this place, Grégoire!
It is so triste! Shall we forever stay
Imprisoned in a church?
Oh, gayer far
The Bastille or Vincennes!
These frowning saints!
The wind that whistles in!
The Church will make us martyrs ere our time!
And did you buy, Grégoire, the cards for ombre?
I’ve nothing bought—
The judges sit to-day. Complain to them.
The church is cold! ‘Tis not so cold as Loire!
The prisons are too crowded! Well, to-day
We’ll weed them out!
You are warned! Prepare!
Make your farewells—the time is very short!
Our comedy!—we cannot have it now!
Oh, we will rearrange the parts!
[De Vardes folds his letter and rises from the table.
We’ll play,
Though all the world is sliding ‘neath our feet!
De profundis clamavi
Ad te Domine!
Enter the Abbé Jean de Barbasan, pale, wounded, and with
disordered dress.
Ah!
De Barbasan, we feared for you!
Morbleu!
I am reprieved! Lambertye proved my friend!
It seems that once I saved the villain’s life!—
Pure accident!—stumbled on him in a ditch,
Played the Samaritan!—so now I’m spared,
Come forth like Daniel from the lions’ den,
That Judgment Hall of theirs across the way!
Lions! They are not lions, they are wolves,
Hyenas, tigers, and baboons. Faugh!
Oh, they are portents!
And portents are the folk that fill that hall!
Not women they who sit aloft and knit;
Not men, those scarecrow visages below;
For robed judges, wolves at Lammas tide,
And Nantes the winter forest for the pack!—
But ah, the deer at bay, the little lambs!—
The earth gives ‘neath their feet, they face the Loire!
[A confused sound from the square without the window;
voices, menacing and execrating, a cry, then
silence.
One has not gained the Loire!
Ah, oftentimes,
They fall before they reach the Judgment Hall!
158There in the street, before that fatal door—
Both youth and age, fair women and brave men.
Their blood cries to another judgment seat!
From yonder window you may see it all!
Fie, fie, De Barbasan!
There is a time for everything! Not now,
Nor in this place is’t meet or debonair
To speak of ravening wolves or stricken deer!
To work, my friend! You find us much concerned
About this play of Molière’s! We give
Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme.
You’ll play Jourdain?
Béjart had promised us, but then he went.
He’s not returned.
Nor will, I think. But, yes,
I’ll take the part; I’ll speak in prose to you
To whom I else would speak in poetry!
The Marquise (with a curtesy)
Monsieur Jourdain, your prose is ravishing!—
I’m Dorimène.
I am, Monsieur Jourdain, your wife!
Your son-in-law the Turk!
Behold, monsieur,
Your fencing master!
Your maître de danse.
Imagine, pray, you hear my violin:
La, la—The minuet!—La, la, la!
[He plays an imaginary violin. The prisoners hesitate,
laugh, then begin to step a minuet. The children
and the gaolers watch them. De Vardes does
not dance. He leans against a pillar to the left.
Enter a turnkey, Céleste, Angélique, Nanon, and
Séraphine.
Séraphine (crossing herself)
Eh! Eh! They dance!—Well, what a thing it is
To be a noble born!
‘Tis a swifter dance!
160Why came we here? I never liked this church,
They are too gay of heart, these ci-devants!
Let’s to the Judgment Hall, or to the Loire.
Patience, Citoyennes,
No haste! I’ve just a little word to speak
Unto monseigneur there.
Oh,
The Citoyen Vardes! You know my tripping tongue.
Where is that ci-devant men once did call
La belle Marquise?
‘Tis she who dances there,
Fair-haired and dressed in violet.
Awhile
I’ll watch her dance.
They smile.
I would not smile if I were they.
[Nanon, Céleste, and Angélique watch the
dancers. Séraphine approaches De Vardes.
Séraphine (in a low voice)
Séraphine Robin, I believe?
Saint Yves!
Now just to think! Monseigneur knows my name!—
Eh! Morbec was my home for many a year.
When all is said and done, Home is just Home,
Hut or château—and always the De Vardes
Were lords of Morbec did they good or ill!
Most like ‘twas ill—but they were proper men!
And when they smiled we always said ‘twas day;
And old men say—but it was long ago—
A baron lived was named René the Good!
Saint Gil! Monseigneur gave us back Lisette.
Saint Maudez! ‘Tis a dangerous thing, but see!
[She takes from her bosom a silken purse.
Eh, monseigneur, ‘tis yours! Take it! Quick, quick,
Before Céleste—the baggage!—turns her head!
[She thrusts the purse into his hand.
Look in it! You will see. ‘Tis gold.
And something more.—Here is Angélique!
Aristocrat—That ring upon thy finger—
Then afterwards!
I’ll have it at the trenches or the Loire!
[She rejoins Céleste and Nanon. They watch the
dancers.
My errand’s done—
Look in the purse, monseigneur, look at once!
I have no friend in Nantes. Take back thy purse!
It is not mine, the pretty, silken thing!
I swore that I would leave it, so I will!
And I was told to tell you, “Look within.”
In Nantes one is Suspect when one is seen
Whispering in shadows with Aristocrats!
Nothing I said you might not hear, Nanon!
Come, come away!
(To De Vardes as she turns from him.) Monseigneur, have a care!
[Séraphine, Nanon, Céleste, and Angélique
watch the dancers. A grating sound is heard without
the door to the left of the altar. The turnkeys
move aside, the door opens and discloses a passage
lined with gaolers and soldiers.
Enter Grégoire with three or four Patriots. They wear
great boots, plumed hats, sashes of tricolour, sabres and
pistols.
Now, now we’ll see the birds drop one by one!
Grégoire (He descends the step from the choir)
The list, Citoyens!
You whom I name pass out at yonder door.
Across the square the judges sit—
Promotion, by God!—
Messieurs, mesdames, I have marching orders!
(To the Actress and Mlle. de Château-Gui.) I cannot play Dorante! Is’t not a shame?
De L’Orient there must take my part—Adieu!
(To The Marquise.) Ah, Dorimène, you’ll let me kiss your hand?
Ma foi!
We’ll meet at the end of the march, my friend!
Meantime I’ll tell thee that Bouillé once said,
“Brave as a Gascon, or Fauquemont de Buc!”
[De Buc mounts the step into the choir and passes
out of the door, between the lines of soldiers. There
is heard the voice of the mob in the square without.
Away with Melancholy!
The curtain’s up, the play begins! Grégoire,
My name is Thalia! Is’t on thy list?
Grégoire (his eyes upon the paper in his hand)
A golden louis to a paper franc,
The next is Château-Gui!—
No, Château-Gui,
You are reserved.
166Count Louis (taking snuff)
Why, that is welcome news!
Eh, my daughter, we will not miss the play!
The Citoyen Charles Le Blanc.
What damned star
Flared and went out the night that I was born?
Hervé Rauderendec, called the Breton!
Good people all, it has been pleasant here,
But now the tide draws to the full—Adieu!
I must make sail!
Oh, I knew, I knew
The butterfly that touched me was ill luck!
I named it Hope,—it fled, it fled away!
We’re loth to let you go, Delphine Gérard.
There is no choice—I have my cue, you see!—
And after all the play’s a tragedy.
‘Tis better worth our while across the square!
‘Tis so! Let’s to the Judgment Hall.
Do not delay. We’ll keep a place for you!
[Exeunt Nanon, Céleste, and Angélique.
Children, children!
Your father’s calling me from Paradise!—
Thérèse, Philippe, farewell, farewell, farewell!
Oh, clasp me close and kiss!—Forget me not!—
Yes, yes, I’ll buy the bonbons and the doll!
I’ll not forget—
168Mme. de Vaucourt (wildly)
With me! He’s but a babe! Not eight till June!
The Boy (clinging to her)
Oh, yes, child, yes!
To the toy-shop!
Maria Innocenta Sombreuil!
[A young girl in the habit of a Carmelite novice
leaves the shadow of a pillar, with raised face and
hands crossed upon her breast mounts the step and
passes out between the soldiers.
[Hysterical and continued laughter. Grégoire and
the turnkeys look stolidly on, but the prisoners are
disturbed.
For shame, Enguerrand La Fôret!
Before women!—Die like a gentleman!
169La Fôret (He leans against the balustrade of the choir)
Fie, fie! You shame us all!
Ha, ha!
I laugh because—ha, ha!—‘tis such a joke!
[He mounts the step still laughing, then suddenly
recovers himself and turns with fury.
Who calls me coward? I laughed because I laughed!
[He wrests a musket from the nearest soldier and
stabs him with the bayonet.
Take that!—There’s one at least will laugh no more!
[Oaths and confusion among the gaolers and soldiers.
A sigh of satisfaction from the prisoners. La Fôret
is dragged out. Grégoire looks at his list, then at
De Vardes. The latter advances.
Grégoire (hurriedly to himself)
To-morrow—not to-day! I’ll risk that much,—
Just for the way he fought that Morbec night!
(Aloud.) Stand back, Citoyen Vardes! Your time’s not yet.
[A murmur of pleasure and congratulation from the
prisoners.
We are so pleased, Monsieur le Baron!
Citoyens Rochedagon and Pincornet!
[The men named go out. There is heard from the
square without and from the passage a sound of
acclamation. The door is flung open and the Actress
enters.
They harmed me not! “No, no!” they said. “No, no!
Delphine Gérard must play for us in Nantes.”
Oh, the people! Oh, the dear good people!
Oh, blessed fortune!
Welcome, mademoiselle!
You see the play is still a comedy!
The leaves fall fast,
The tree will soon be bare!
The Citoyenne
Clarice-Marie Miramand Blanchefôret.
It is my name!—
I had no thought I would be called to-day!—
171Unwarned! That’s horrible! Ah, good Grégoire!
A little while—
[He slips into Grégoire’s hand the purse of gold.
Grégoire hesitates a moment, then his hand closes
upon the purse. He thrusts it into his bosom.
[De Vardes comes to The Marquise and they speak
together. Grégoire turns to another group of prisoners.
Montfauçon and Guistelles.
Saint Guenolé!
He hath the purse! The paper in it too!
He’s rock; he, black Grégoire! Alack the day!
Saint Huon! What’s to do?—
Saint Yves le Véridique! I will away!
172De Vardes (to The Marquise)
Would I might die for thee!
How long have we been friends! And now—
Alas! Alas, ‘tis true
We are good friends—in life and death good friends!
‘Tis much—though there are lovers too in Nantes,
And when one loves ‘tis not so hard to die!
Or so I’ve heard, monsieur.
The jasmine is my flower—a luckless bloom!
Wear not the too-sweet jasmine flower,
For then one loves, but is not loved again!
The rose unloved! Ay, ay!
Last night I dreamed of roses and of lights,
Beside a water still they burned and bloomed—
Lit candles and pale roses with gold hearts,
Like those that bloomed within my garden once,
When you rode by, when you rode by, my friend!
They’re dead, my garden roses, dead!
They’ll bloom no more, nor wilt thou ride that way;
Nor, Sieur de Morbec, dost thou love the rose.
For once thou said’st to me upon a day
174When I did find the Morbec roses fair,
“I better love the heartsease at thy feet.”
The peasant flower! Rememb’rest thou that day?
‘Twas Saint John’s Eve—
[A roar from the square. De L’Orient turns from
the window.
Carrier! Lalain!
Oh, they judge quickly! Vive la République!
It was a summer day when first we met,
And now we part within a prison here,
And never shall we see each other more!
Oh, briefer than the fairest summer day
175The little hour before we meet again!
Soon, soon I’ll follow thee, and all of these!
The reaper hath his sickle in the corn.
He is a madman, but the field is God’s,
And God will garner up the fallen ears,
And in another life we two shall meet!
And wilt thou love me then? Ah, no! Ah, no!
Thou art a lady brave and fair—
The Nun Benôite, an Ursuline!
[A nun rises from her knees, makes the sign of the
cross, and passes out between the soldiers.
Ah me!
The unknown land, just guessed at and no more,
To which this loud wind sends my cockle boat!—
Where are my beads? Lost, lost with all things else!
Jewels and gold and friends and lovers too!—
Ah, short my shrift with Grégoire glowering there.
My hatred of Madame la Maréchale,
I’m sorry for’t. The Captal de Montgis
Once did me wrong. Well, well, I can forgive!—
Sieur de Morbec, where’s she that flung us down,
Lifted her finger and behold us here!
176Her face is fair—ah, very fair her face.
She was your mistress, yes?
Cold that I warmed, and hunger that I fed.
O strike her, Frost! O Hunger, with her wed!
Ah, curse her not! She knew not what she did!
The women go—He’ll call my name! Ah, look!
The purple saints within the windows there,
See how they wave their palms and smile at me!
They wave their palms, they strike their golden harps,
Their aureoles are brighter than the sun!
The Citoyenne Blanchefôret!
Fatal is my name
And hated through long years in Brittany.
Perhaps I shall not live to cross the square!
[The noise of the mob without.
From the window there,
Wilt watch me on my way?
Farewell! Ah, not my hand, my friend!
De Vardes (He kisses her upon the brow)
[The Marquise turns to the remaining prisoners.
Messieurs, mesdames, ‘tis with regret
I take my leave of this fair company!
My part of Dorimène—it must be played
178By some more able, not more willing, one;
For me—I’m bidden to a wider stage.
Adieu! Adieu! Adieu!
[Exit The Marquise. De Vardes crosses to the
window. De L’Orient gives him place, and he
stands upon the bench and watches the square without.
There are three names that most of all they hate:
De Vardes and Château-Gui and Blanchefôret!
Pasquier, Harlebeque, and Damazan.
[There is heard from the street without a confused
sound of execration and triumph. The now small
company of prisoners exchange glances.
De Vardes (at the window)
[The sound without grows to a roar.
[A cry without. De Vardes, at the window, raises
his voice.
[There is a faint answering cry, followed by a roar
from the mob, then silence.
‘Tis done—‘tis past—she’s dead.
O God who makest man, forbear, forbear!
[He covers his face with his hands. There is a
silence. Grégoire folds his papers.
Count Louis (with a shaking voice)
‘Tis well with her at last; we need not weep.
We all must die, for so the play goes on!
Her father was a lord of Gascony;
A golden spur he wore, and loved the chase!
Her mother was more fair than Montespan.
A thousand times we’ve hunted with the King,
De Miramand and I; a thousand times
We’ve watched the moon, that first Clarice and I!
To-morrow, at this hour, another list!
Meantime, Citoyens, you and you and you,
And you, Citoyennes, who petitioned so,
Your prayer is heard. Lalain is merciful!
You shall not sleep on these cold stones to-night,
Another gaol’s provided. Follow me!
The stones were very cold!
And can we have our play there just the same?
[The prisoners move toward the door. De Vardes
touches Grégoire on the arm.
I find the stones no colder than their wont,
Time moves no heavier here than everywhere,
And here, Grégoire, I will remain. The Church
Will give me up when Carrier calls my name!
As you will—
To-morrow you’ll be called—you have one night.
(To the other prisoners.) Follow me.
[Exeunt all but De Vardes and De L’Orient.
The latter flings himself upon the bench beneath the
window; De Vardes paces to and fro. A silence,
then De L’Orient sings.
There is an herb, they say,
Gives light to all the blind.
181’Twill be a gracious day
When I that herb shall find.
And lighten all the blind!
There is a leaf that springs.
Will heal the very sad.
Ah, would that I had wings
To find that leaf so glad,
And heal the very sad!
There is a bloom o’ grace
Will bring the dead again.
Ah, for the flowret’s face!
Ah, for an end to pain!
Ah, for the dead again!
Why, that’s a mournful thing!
It was so meant.
Oh, happy days we sing the saddest things!—
My heart is eased. I’ll sleep awhile and dream.
[He pillows his head upon his arm and sleeps. De
Vardes walks slowly to and fro.
Sleep!—How long has it been since Sleep and I
Met in the heavy road and laid us down,
Took our dear ease, and let the world go by?—
I well remember in the north one time,—
Beside Moselle, where all the live-long day
Upon a stairway old we stood on guard,
182De Buc and I, and looked on Mutiny,
Brazen and bold, Death visible and dark!—
And all the night before in council spent,
After a day’s forced march from Lunéville,
And a wild night of wine and rapiers drawn.—
As the sun set we heard a bugle blown,
Beat of the drums, and thunder of the guns,
And Bouillé’s voice, assurance of relief!—
Another night of council, then at dawn
We slept. The moon was crescent and a star
Shone on to guide the white, enchanted boat
Through seas of ether coloured like a shell;
The trees were dark beneath; there was no sound;
The air was cold,—we laid us down and slept.
Saint Gris! No dreams did trouble us that day!—
[He rests upon the choir step.
To bring the dead again! No flowret blooms,
No herb, no leaf, shall bring the dead again.
No garden is there where for all one’s gold,
The weightiest sceptre or the keenest sword,
Might one obtain the happy gardener’s place,
And find the bloom that brings the dead again.
It grows not here, and there is naught will serve,
No rain of tears, no delving earnestly,
No lift of hope, no squandered treasury,
Love nor remorse, nor longing nor great pain.
The star has shot. The dead come not again.
[He rises and again walks to and fro.
Happy the dead.—Ah, what of one who lives?
What of that mask in this fantastic dance
Who crowned herself with poison flowers and laughed
To see the lilies fade before her breath?—
183O death! O love! O blasting treachery!
O face that in the prison of La Force
Visited my dreams—
[The door opens. Yvette leans against it, panting,
then comes forward.
The letter to the judges!
Folded and hidden in the purse I sent—
By Séraphine! You have it, sure?
Where is she?—The Citoyenne Blanchefôret?
They called her name—She said adieu and went.
They slew her in the street.
She’s dead,
Who was so fair. Why do you say alas?
Too late!—O God, I thought that all was well!
Why, so it is! With her ‘tis well. She’s dead.
They say the dead are happy.
Goddess of Reason, no! Mere friends were we.
But I’ve a preference for my friends alive!
Thou hast what thou didst seek.
Return to Olympus and hear “All hail,
Well done, and like a deity!”
Thou dream of Paimpont Wood!—
Thou picture of the Duchess Jeanne!
The purse!—I gave it to Grégoire.
It bought five minutes—I did not know
‘Twas thine.
To Grégoire! You did not open it!
Thou standest there!
Still, still the herd girl on the green cliff head
Who waves her hand to a lost boat at sea!
Still, still the vision of a haunted wood
186Soulless as is the stone thou leanest on,—
Vivien musing on the thing she’s done!
A slip of paper in a silken purse—
Wilt thou begone? The Mountain waits.
I know not. He’s away;
He has thy gold—I’m sorry for’t.
No hope?—
I thought the bridge was built and both were o’er.
Then as I passed I heard “To-morrow morn
Carrier himself will judge that ci-devant”
She is dead; I’m lost. But thou—But thou—
Farewell! Farewell!
Thou said’st, I’ll to Lalain.
I do forbid it utterly.
Obey!
It is thy seigneur’s last command.
(To himself.) Thou fool!
Touch not her hand. ‘Tis red!
Why art thou both so fair and foul a thing?
Ay, call me that—I care not!
I’ll call thee “Death,
Sweet Death—fair Treachery!”
There’s blood upon thy hand.
I would that I were dead
In Paimpont Wood, beside the Druid Stone!
I would that I had never strayed that way!
I won that paper in that purse of gold!
And it was life, I tell thee, life for both!
O God! how all things here miscarry!
I would that I had never seen thy face!
Oh, much I hated her, la belle Marquise,
And yester morn I did betray her there,
Just in the moment God gave o’er my soul!
And she is dead—I cannot bring her back.
Oh, swift the madness passed and came remorse,
And I did hate myself, and strove to save!—
Oh, woe, and double woe! He promised me!
Oh, I have striven with a fiend from hell
And not prevailed, though sorely I did strive!
O God! O God! I’m weary of the light!
Now, now thou too wilt die unless—unless—
Ah, let me go—Farewell, a little while!
Not till I know where thou dost go, and why.
Rémond Lalain gave me that paper.
It was an order, written by himself,
Whom even Carrier would not offend—
A secret paper not for every eye.
Reward he asked for certain services,—
Two lives, your life and hers—and hers, I swear!
He does not leave his villa all this day,
But at the judgment bar you were to show
That paper to Lambertye or Sarlat,
And both were saved—both, both, I swear it, both!
And now she’s dead—‘Twas life you flung away
Shut in that purse! You gave it to Grégoire!
Grégoire! He serves the Revolution,
Is flint to all beside! Oh me! Oh me!
I could not come myself, I could but send.
I won it not till cockcrow of this morn!
The dawn came slowly on.
The cock crew and I drew the curtain by
And saw the morning star above the Loire!
‘Twas like the eye of God!
I used to watch it from the fields at dawn;
This morn ‘twas watching me!
‘Twas all in vain. She’s dead—ah, ages since!
You’ll not forgive—So fare you well again!
Where goest thou, Yvette?
To Séraphine,
Beneath the Lanterne, Sign of the Hour Glass!
Hear and obey! It is a dying man
Speaks to thee now and with authority!—
Thy seigneur too, and head of all thy house.
When I am dead, the last of the De Vardes
Will be thyself, my cousin!—All song doth say
That Duchess Jeanne who lived so long ago,
Whose pictured face and thine are counterparts,
E’en to the shadowy hair, the cheek’s soft curve,
The light of eye, the slow, enchanting smile,—
All song doth say she had a bruisèd heart,
But in God’s sight a height of soul! So thou.
Go thou to Morbec. Leave this Babylon.
Back! from the travelled road thy foot’s upon!
List not unto the music that is played;
Touch not the scarlet flowers, the honey-sweet,
They’ll poison thee! Think not the light is fair,
It is false dawn. Take thou the darkling way
Shall lead thee to white light and lasting bloom!
191Go thou to Morbec. Take thy distaff up,
Spin thou thy flax and listen to old tales,
Peacefully, with that smile upon thy lip!
Or in the dewy dawn lift up thy head
From dreamless sleep and drive thy cows afield,
Stand mid the golden broom and mark the mist
Rise from the hidden sea, and hear the lark
Singing afar his strain of heavenly hope,—
So wear thy years away, ah, tranquilly!—
Thou art so young—All this will come to seem
A dream of yesternight—
And at the last when Death shall take thy hand,
Smile at the due caress, and lightly come—
If I am I, I’ll meet thee on the strand!
Where is the music playing?
Long ago,
192To Paris and my King I rode away,
Long ago, in the freshness of the world!
I left thee there, all safe in convent fold—
Fair were the fruit trees in that garden old,
Warm shone the sun, the silver fountain played.
I left thee there and thought to find again,
When King and Crown were saved and devoir done,
The battle o’er, the bugles sounding peace!—
The King he is in heaven, the Crown is lost,
The battle’s to the strong, the war drum rattles on.
Long lay I in the prison of La Force;
A dream I had that thou wouldst wait for me,
Beside the fountain, by the bright fruit trees.
Thou must have known that bars kept me from thee!
Thou must have known that I did love thee true!
Thou must have known that I did longing wait
The rainbow after storm, the halcyon time
When, stilled the jar and discord of the mind,
The all unfettered heart might speak of love!
But ah, the garden’s sealed. Thou art not there!
Thou wouldst not wait the while—
Outside I kneel;
Outside the garden, outside Paradise!
Oh, woe! Oh, bliss!
Paimpont! Paimpont! I feel thy magic wind!
Grégoire, Grégoire! the purse—
The purse of gold!—
Let be! Let be!
No purse was there! Dost hear, dost hear, Yvette?
No purse, no gold, no paper, no Lalain!
Thou dost not think that I would take my life?
Well said, and like the Duchess Jeanne!
Let not Grégoire mistake thee either!
I said I know not what, Grégoire, nor why!
Sometimes a woman says she knows not what.
Why should I talk of purses, faith, now why!
What do you here, Citoyenne?
I know not.
I strayed this way, a gaoler let me in.
‘Tis of the sights of Nantes, this church, this gaol!
194Grégoire (to De Vardes)
I have in charge to guard you through the street
To the old Prison of the Séminaire.
They who lodge there go onward to the Loire!
[He turns to De L’Orient.
Oh, sunken eyes! Oh, cheek so deadly pale!
Oh, rest thee, rest thee, child, in still Morbec!
Our Lady guard thee, guide thee with her hand.
Farewell—
I’ll walk upon the banks of Loire.
Grégoire (He touches De L’Orient upon the shoulder)
Awake, poet, and go along with us!
I am awake! ‘Tis trudge again, De Vardes!
Come, Fanchon and Babette,
Olympe and Joséphine!
The dancers all are met
Within the forest green!
Cerise to me,
Denise to thee,
But none to Léontine!
[He turns with Grégoire to the door at left of the
altar.
Farewell—my fisherman!
Oh—
The dancers all are met
Within the forest green!
[Exeunt De Vardes, De L’Orient, and Grégoire.
The church darkens. Yvette moves to the choir
step.
Oh, love in my heart! Oh, splendour and light!
The bow in the sky, the bird at its height!
The glory and state of the angels bright!
[She kneels and stretches out her arms to the altar.
197
ACT V
SCENE I
A Judgment Hall in Nantes. A dais upon which at a heavy
table sit several members of the Revolutionary Committee.
Behind them soldiers and a great tricolour flag. To one
side a tribune draped with tricolour; opposite the tribune
a gallery filled with women of the Revolution. Upon the
floor of the hall a throng of red-capped men. To the right
of the dais a number of the accused, men and women. To
the left a small group of the condemned.
Uproar in the hall. An accused who has been standing before
the judges rejoins the right-hand group of prisoners.
One of the judges rings the bell on the table before him.
Silence, Citoyennes in the gallery!
You disturb judgment!
Céleste (leaning from the gallery)
We would know up here
Why you did free that man?
Ah, Citoyenne!
He’s not free—he’s but acquitted!
Ah, well!
198That’s different!
(To the women about her.) He’s but acquitted!
The Women (They nod their heads)
Enter Lalain with Nanon and Angélique.
[Nanon and Angélique make their way through
the press to the gallery stairs.
Thy place is here, Lalain!
Make way, my friends.
The Levée’s thronged to-day.
Ha, ha, ‘tis so!
Levée of the Citoyen Carrier!
Vive la République! Vive Rémond Lalain!
[Lalain sits beside the judges.
[The Abbé approaches the bar.
On yesterday,
Messieurs the Judges, you acquitted me.
I give thee o’er—I give thee o’er—
Parbleu!
Samaritan! Would I had played Levite!
And left thee in the ditch with every wound
Till Satan came to hale his minion forth!—
Well, with this life I’ve done!
A Tricoteuse (from the gallery)
Hé! Citoyen, below there!
I’ve dropped my knitting. Throw it here to me!
Thou hast been heard to scorn and to lament
That which the Revolution hath achieved!
Scorn and lament! Why, no, I’ve wept with joy
To see the things the Revolution hath achieved!
As—
Why, thou death’s-head, many things!
It did achieve, for one, my brother’s death!
Achieve! I like the word. Achieve, achieve!
Ruin and downfall, death and waste of fame!
Achievement of the Revolution! Ha,
I’ll tell thee, farceur, what it hath achieved:
It hath achieved the death of the Gironde,
Death of Marat, and death of D’Orléans,
Death of great part of its abhorrèd brood!
It hath achieved the Company of Marat;
It hath achieved Jacques Carrier in Nantes;
It shall achieve more death and infamy!
Death! The word you are so fond of. Death!
And Infamy, the thing you can’t bestow!
It shall achieve the death of Carrier,
The death of Lambertye and of Lalain,
The death of Danton and of Robespierre!—
Nature will give a grave obscene and dark,
And Time will see that docks and darnels grow!
Death,—stand aside, condemned.
Ah, Séraphine,
Come up here, Séraphine!
[Séraphine mounts the stair and sits beside Céleste,
Angélique, and Nanon.
I saw her gliding by,
Beneath the moon, last night when all was still.
Against a cannon in the empty square
She leaned, and on the river looked.
Céleste (her eyes upon the prisoners below)
Ha, ha! it is the old man’s turn!
Unclasp thy hands, my child!
What is it, Lambertye?
Thou ci-devant,
Thou art accused, imprimatur, of this:
Once thou didst serve Capet!
I served the King of France.
Twice over, death! For thou didst serve Capet;
For thou dost dare say the King of France!
All titles, terms of honour and of state,
Majesty and reverence are forbid,
204Not to be spoken! They are ci-devants,
They are condemned.
Ha, ci-devants,
Titles and symbols, names and attributes,
Condemned for splendour and for high estate!
Ha, Croix de Saint Louis! Ha, Château-Gui!
Thou goest to heaven in famous company:
King, Saint, Martyr, Reverence, Majesty.—
Best make the company a regiment—
Regiment du Roi, in vestments gorgeous!
Forbidden words! Who says to me “forbid”?
Ye sans-culottes, ye bourgeois, creeping things,
Adders and asps that slew a king and queen!
I am a courtier of the olden time
Who served le Grand Monarque, knew Mazarin,
And in a Court shall still be courtier,
Croix de Saint Louis, with the grande entrée,
While ye do prowl in filthy ways of hell,
Nor hardly see its red-lit Œil-de-bœuf
Where everlasting Terror, groaning, reigns,—
But, being lackeys, keep the lackeys’ place!
O Kings of France!
O sons of Clovis and of Charlemagne!
Louis the Pious and the Debonair!
Philippe August and Fair, and Charles the Wise!
And thou the sainted King, the Blessed Louis!
And Charles Bien-Aimé, Victorieux,
Crowned by the maiden of Domrémy!
And the good King Henri, Henri the Great!
Louis the Just, Louis le Grand Monarque!
Louis the Loved, and Louis lately dead,
The Martyr King, the Martyr, Martyr King!—
O Kings of France in that fair land ye be,
To your châteaux and to your palaces
Prepare to welcome dying loyalty!
For knightly faith is marching forth from France.
Throne, sceptre, orb, and majesty have passed,
Ermine and coronet and spur of gold,
Renown and splendid honour, valiant sway,
Ancien Régime, noblesse of old France!
The oriflamme upon its golden stem,
The banner of the lilies waving high!—
The lily banner and the oriflamme!
Forgotten yonder stripes of shame and woe!
The tricolour! Death! The Loire!
Nightshade, mandrake, and hemlock o’er ye wave!—
But I am going where, I make no doubt,
The favourite flower is still the fleur-de-lis!
And the word forbid is république!
Princes and peers of France!
[Uproar in the hall. Mlle. de Château-Gui
clings to her father’s arm.
Forbidden words! Well, well, my child, I’m done!
My breath is out.—Forbidden words! Ma foi!
‘Tis to my taste to deal in contraband!
[The First Judge rings the bell violently. The tumult
subsides.
Château-Gui, take place beside the priest!
[He offers his snuff-box.
Enter Yvette. The crowd murmurs as it makes way.
[Yvette mounts the stair to the gallery and sits beside
Séraphine.
Oh, oh,
Thy voice! ‘Tis like a violin playing!
I know thou didst not sleep.—How looked the Loire
Beneath the moon last night?
Much as ‘twill look
Beneath the moon to-night.
[With her chin upon her hand she studies the throng
below.
Thou ci-devant, De Vardes!
De Vardes! De Vardes! Aristocrat! De Vardes!
This court—
Pray you conceive it is some greensward trim,
My cartel sent, received, the duel fought,
And thou the victor, since so wags the world,
Heart’s blood of mine upon thy rapier dark!
And I the vanquished in the sight of men,
Drowsing to death upon the bloody sod.
And all this folk but seconds, witnesses,
209They are not here, nor there; we are the men!
Now, seeing death hath some prerogative,
I charge thee stand, antagonist! nor leave
This sunny field with thy triumphant friends
Until I bid thee go!
I hear!
(To the crowd.) Silence!
When I do think that once I called thee friend,
My wonder grows! The orchard’s blooming now
Where we did lie at length on summer eves
The while the mavis sang and sea winds blew,
And to the nodding clover droned the bee,—
Two striplings couched beneath an apple tree,
Talking of knights at arms and paladins
And what we each would dare in worthy cause!
That brow of thine was not so swarthy then,
Thine eyes were frank, we read from the same book
The deeds of Palmerin and Amadis.
Then up we lightly rose and went our way,
Hand touching hand,—Orestes, Pylades!
I, Jonathan the Prince, and David thou!
The figure holds, for Jonathan will die,
But wilt thou mourn him, David? No, I say!—
Nor o’er his kingdom shalt thou reign, Rémond!
I am, monsieur, the Baron of Morbec!
Silence!
(To De Vardes.) As thou wilt! He is long dead
That youth thou namest David.
Ay, Citoyen,
He slew himself. I see his punishment.
Wretched man! What hast thou done? I know,
And thou, Rémond, dost know I know! Enough.
O better far to lie upon this sod
And hear the wings of death above my head,
Than to be thou, thou stainèd conqueror!
Dishonoured thou from helm to bloody heel!
Enough! When the cock crows and the morning star
Shines steadfast over Loire I shall be gone.
One stays, that’s God. Do thou beware, Rémond,
For God will hearken unto Jonathan—
Thou canst not hurt a flower that he loved!
Thou mightst have had thy life—
Air!
You hem me in, Citoyennes! Air! De grâce!
The air is good enough for us, Yvette!
Why do you grow so pale, so pale, Yvette?
[Yvette takes from her hair the bonnet-rouge.
Psst! Little fool! Put on the cap again!
The duel’s o’er; the night is drawing on;
Dark is thy form against the crimson sky,
Rémond Lalain! Stand further off, my foe!
And now I think I see thee not at all,
And that is well! I would forget thee quite.
Live out thy life unto its sordid close!
Live on, and in the future find the past!
But while thou treadest earth touch not again
That flower I spoke of! Touch it not, Lalain!
I’ll bathe me in the Loire!
Death has been ever called a River wide.
This ford I fear not!—Soldier of the King,
I’ll pass the stream, though cold, though cold and dark!
The bivouac lights are shining through the trees,
He waits within my tent, my General!
Now sheath thy sword, Rémond!
The field of honour leave to death and me!
[He crosses to the condemned.
Monsieur le Comte, Monsieur l’Abbé, again
I find myself in best of company!
[The judges whisper together. Lalain, his eyes
upon the floor, drums upon the table with his hand.
Yvette unpins the tricolour cockade from her breast,
gazes upon it for a moment, then throws it from her.
The women about her watch her greedily.
Saint Gildas! Saint Maudez!
I ever loved
The fleur-de-lis!
[Uproar in the hall. All turn toward the gallery.
Sainte Vierge!
Yvette Charruel!
Saint Servan! Saint Linaire!
I denounce the Citoyen Rémond Lalain!
Citoyens!
Heed her not—she’s mad!—The next prisoner!
I denounce Carrier and Lambertye!
Chicanneau, Sarlat, Petit-Pierre, and Gaye,
The Company of Marat, the hideous deaths,
The Noyades and the Dragonades of Nantes!
I tell you that the blood you shed must stop!
One cannot sleep at night with thinking on’t.
You put to sleep, O God! too many!
There is no God! nor ever was in Nantes!
She has spoken against the Republic!
There was a glory in the morning sky,
Where now is naught but miserable red!
A trumpet blew, but we have listened since
215To the false jingle of a tambourine!
There stood a mighty judge, robed, calm and proud,
Where is he now? I see but murderers!
Oh, harlotry!—No, blasphemy!—Down, down!
The Bar! the Judgment Bar!—The river!—Death!
The Loire!
[She descends the stair. Men and women clutch her
and thrust her forward to the bar.
I am here!
I am Yvette, called Right of the Seigneur.
My mother was the peasant girl, Yvonne;
My father was the Baron of Morbec.
I am tired of Ça ira, Carmagnole,
I would sleep with the Loire for my pillow!
A head beside thine on that pillow!
I denounce
Yvette Charruel!
SCENE II
The banks of the Loire. Night. Branching trees; between
their trunks is seen the river. There is a full moon, but a
drifting mist obscures the scene. In the background, upon
the river bank, dimly appears a crowd of the condemned,
men, women, and children, soldiers and executioners of the
Company of Marat. From this throng comes a low, continued,
confused sound of command, entreaty, distress, and
lamentation. In the foreground the condemned form into
groups or move singly to and fro.
Enter Yvette from the shadow of the trees.
A Soldier (following her)
Holà! Give us not the slip!
Thou soldier!
There is no gold could make me flee this place!
How long dost think before they throw me in?
[He returns to the river. Yvette sits upon the
earth at the foot of a tree, and with her chin upon
her hand watches those who come and go.
He comes not yet! O Our Lady!
I would not drown till I have seen him once!
A Woman (passing with a man)
How shines the moon! Did we not always say,
We two would die by such a moon as this?
Rememberest thou—
Rememberest thou that night,
That Versailles night within the Orangerie?
A Soldier (calling to another)
To bind them hand and foot,
We need more rope!
Just thrust them in the stream
With bayonets!
[A child with flowers in her hand speaks to Yvette.
Rest here, thou little bird!
My name’s Aimée.
I did not know that flowers grew at night.
Is that the moon?
It is the silver moon!
Aimée’s a pretty name. My name’s Yvette.
Kiss me, Yvette—I’ll look now for Ursule!
Hélas! Hélas! Miséricorde!
[A nun advances from the shadow. She is in ecstasy,
her hands clasped, her eyes raised.
The skies open: heaven appears!
Heaven my home!
O for the wings of the dove,
The eagle’s speed!
The gates of pearl are opening,
My harp is strung.
The Virgins come to meet me.
Sainte Agnès, Sainte Claire!
Our Lady stoops to greet me.
219My father smiles.
My brothers two I see there!
Who is that one
Who kneels and to me beckons?
‘Tis he I loved!
What radiance grows, what splendour?
Who waiting stands?
Light! O Light! O Christ my Lord!
Heaven my home!
O Love! O Death, come quickly!
I would be gone!
[A soldier touches her on the arm.
[The nun regards him with a radiant and dazzling
smile, then turns and moves swiftly before him to the
river.
Heaven my home! Shall I see heaven then?
Oh me! so much of ill thou’st done, Yvette!
Alas! Alas! What if I cannot win
To heaven! but must ever weeping stand
With all the lost and strain my eyes to see
The form I love move ‘neath the living trees,
And all in vain, so great the distance is!—
Not see him! O Our Lady, let me in!
Woe, woe!—I die!—I die!—O countrymen!
O God, and is it true I murdered her,
That lady high, that fair, so fair Clarice?
O God! I would that she were happy here,
Alive and laughing, gay of heart again!
O God! I do repent me of my sin!
[From a group of the condemned is heard the voice
of The Abbé.
Miserere mei Deus
Secundum magnam misericordiam tuam!
In manus tuas Domine commendo spiritum meum,
Redemisti me Domine Deus veritatis!
O God, receive our souls!
That one is swimming there! Your musket! Fire!—
Dulcissime Domine Jesu Christe,
Per virtutem sanctissimae Passionis tuae
Recipe me in numerum electorum tuorum!
O Christ, receive our souls! O Christ who died!
Maria, Mater gratiae, Mater misercordiae,
Tu me ab hoste protege, et hora mortis suscipe!
Omnes sancti Angeli, et omnes Sancti
Intercedite pro me, et mihi succurrite!
Petit-Pierre!—André!
‘Tis time for yonder folk beneath the trees!
Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis,
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.
Amen!
[The condemned arise from their knees.
[The Abbé and the condemned vanish into the mist
upon the river bank.
[Yvette rises from her knees. She plucks the yellow
broom that grows beneath the trees.
And if I may I will her servant be,
And I will bring her posies every day!
[There appears in mid-stream on the river Carrier’s
festal barge. It is lit from stem to stern. There is
music aboard, singing and revelry of men and women.
[A sound of singing from the passing barge.
Fair Chloris bathed her in the flood,
Young Damon watching, trembling stood,
Behind the frailest hawthorn wall!
The month was May—
Her ivory limbs they gleamed and turned,
Young Damon’s heart so hotly burned,
Into the stream he leaped therefor!
It seemed July—
[An old woman speaks to Yvette.
They’ve drowned my son, my sailor son Michel!
Oh, oh, my heart! he’s drifting out to sea!
Oh, to and fro he sailed, he sailed!
The Indies knew him and the Northern Seas!
He’d bide at home a bit, then off he’d go,
Another voyage make, strange things to see!
Then home he’d come and of his travels tell.
Oh, oh, my son, my sailor son Michel!
[The old woman passes on.
I’ve sought her here, I’ve sought her there, in vain!
And perilous it is to seek one here!
I know not, I!—Saint Lazaire and Saint Jean!
I nursed thee ere thou wast so high!
Poor Séraphine! Dear Séraphine!
Alack!
They’re watching there!
Oh, then away!
‘Tis death to weep for one who dies! Away!
Oh, oh! When thou wast but a little thing
Thou hadst the coaxing ways! Alack! Alack!
Dost mind the sunny path
Up the steep cliff to chapel in the woods?
I mind—I mind—To thy warm hand I clung,
A little child. Now I must walk alone!
Oh, oh! And thou wast Goddess yesterday,
The fairest Goddess ever seen, they say!
It warns, that voice! Adieu, adieu, adieu!
Thou must begone!
If I do look at thee
I’ll stay forever here! Adieu! Adieu!—
Oh well-a-day! Oh well, oh well-a-day!
So late it grows, so long I’ve waited here!
I feel the morning air!—Will he not come?
O God! what if they’ve slain him otherwhere?
Ha! Death is busy far and near to-night!
They may have shot him yonder by the sea!
He may have sunk above, below this place!
226Though Grégoire swore to me it would be here,
Here where they brought me would they bring him too,
And ere the set of moon we would be gone!—
O God! The cries of drowning men I’ve heard,
But not his voice among them! No, no, no!
He’ll make no moan, he will die loftily!—
Ah, God! only to see him ere I drown!
I die who fought for France in bloody fields;
At Lille I fought, at Bordeaux, Avignon!
[Another voice sings hoarsely.
Tremblez, tyrans! et vous perfides,
L’opprobre de tous les partis!
Tremblez, vos projets parricides
Viennent enfin recevoir leur prix!
Tout est soldat pour vous combattre—
Diantre! A whiff of grapeshot now,
227A sabre-cut, or e’en a trampling charge!
But this cold death—
Baste! I’ll tell
The Duc de Biron—
Enter De Vardes and Grégoire.
I tell you truth, monsieur—
So dense the throng
I have looked up and down for this long hour,—
This hour so long, this hour so fatal short,
Seeing it is my latest hour of life,
And that I cannot find her whom I seek!
She is not dead, monsieur!
Some æons past thou wast
A serviceable fellow! Get thee gone!
And if thou findest her, I’ll give thee thanks,
I have no gold—
And if I find her not, if time shall fail,
Then through thy labyrinth, Eternity,
Love’s silken clue shall lead me safe at last—
[Two soldiers of the Company of Marat pass beneath
the trees.
‘Tis near the cockcrow!
What devil’s work we’ve had, and have!
Courage!
There are not so many now! Then home and sleep!
Oh, rest thee on thy lover’s breast, my heart!
229My life, my love, my dear, my Duchess Jeanne!
Oh, ‘neath the moon thou’rt like a lily flower!
No, no, thou’rt not
That Vivien whom I did call thee once.
She was an evil fay; thou’rt pure and good!
Nor art thou that fair piteous Duchess Jeanne
Who died for love, whose look thou wearest now!
Thou never wast that woman star-begirt,
Whom they did hail as Goddess here in Nantes.
No Goddess thou, thou wan and broken flower!—
This is green Morbec, thou’rt the herd girl there
And I thy fisher, home from out the west.
My heart, my love, my silver rose, my douce!
The flowers drifting from the fragrant trees!
Unearthly light—
It is so sad to die!—No, no, ‘tis sweet!
Adieu, adieu!
So, down! Ha, ha! Les Noces
Républicaines!
‘Tis what they call this death—
So near the dawn!
Here are the tricoteuses.
Not yet they’ve done!
Diantre! So many weddings in one night!
Here are the girls from Carrier’s barge at last!
Céleste—Nanon!
Zephine, ‘Toinette!
Vive le son! vive le son!
Dansons la Carmagnole!
‘Tis light enough to knit! I’ll sit me down.
Fi! how the grass is trampled here!
We left them there
Upon the barge, Lalain and Lambertye;
231And they were drinking deep, and dicing too,
And Lalain had his arm round Angélique!
Seest thou not through yonder trees the stone,
The Druid Stone where I did see thee first
When thou didst lie asleep upon the grass?
How long I stood and looked, thou dost not know!
Beside the stream I slept and dreamed of thee!
I knew it not, but sure I dreamed of thee,
For in my sleep I thought I saw a king!
It is Morbec arises there!
The sands that stretch above the idle waves,
And all the little shells upon the shore!
The convent bell is ringing! Seest thou not
The fountain old, the fruit trees in the sun?
Oh, life was never made for happiness!
The hour’s too short, the wine spills from the cup,
The blossom’s shaken ere we know ‘tis sweet!
Those two have waited long!
Hi! Petit-Pierre, ‘tis time to marry them—
This Saint John’s Eve we’ll walk in other woods!
And we will find and name a castle fair,
And rose and heartsease we will plant thereby!
Here ends this road, but we must onward go.
There is a longer hour, a deeper cup!
The blossom’s gone, but we shall see the fruit.
And life was made for happiness, my douce!
Mourir pour la patrie,
Mourir pour la France.
It is a hymn of Chénier’s.—France! France!
Not since the days of Clovis hast thou lacked
Strong sons to die for thee, thou Lioness!
But now thy own brood hast thou eaten up,
And in the desert shalt thou roar alone,
Seeing the hunters nearer, nearer creep!
They’ll snare thee fast, they’ll make of thee a show!
France, France!—and yet thy sons shall ransom thee!
‘Tis not their way!
They’ll bind us fast together, throw us in
Bound fast together—
Is it so? Why, then
We are together still, my heart, my life!
We will not struggle as we sink to rest.
Man and woman, come your ways!
The river
Waits, your marriage bed is spread!
[The knitting women sing from the river bank.
We are the tricoteuses!
Our wool we knit beneath the sun and moon!
Knit! knit! knitting every one!
We are the tricoteuses!
The skein we knit is ravelled out full soon!
Knit! knit! the knitting now is done!
The light is growing in the east! My heart
It is so full I cannot speak to thee!
Put thou thine arms about my neck, Yvette,
And lay thy head upon thy lover’s heart,
And veil thine eyes with all thy shadowy hair.
Now let them bind us with what cords they will,
The spirit moves unbound, triumphant, free,
Not through the Loire, but through a vaster stream!
Oh, it is something dimly great to die!
And then to die together, is’t not sweet?
And not through illness, age, decrepitude,
But the armed man is ready for new wars.
And thou—
[Yvette and De Vardes move together towards
the river, into the mist and the shadow of the trees.
236The Riverside Press
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