The Duke.
I thank you, Prokesch. Ah! that word consoles me.
To work, my friend!
[A Lackey brings in a tray full of letters, places
them on the table, and goes out.]
Prokesch.
Your mail has just arrived.
A load of letters.
The Duke.
Yes; from women. These
Reach me unopened.
Prokesch.
What successes!
The Duke.
Yes;
That's what it is to wear the fatal halo.
[He opens one letter after another; reads the beginning
and tears them up.]
"I saw you in your box last night, how pale—!"
Destroyed! "Oh, that while brow!" Destroyed! "My Prince,
I saw you riding in the Prater yesterday—"
Destroyed!
Prokesch.
What, all?
The Duke.
"Your youth—" The Canoness.
Destroyed!
[The door opens gently and Theresa comes in.]
Theresa.
Forgive me.
The Duke.
Little Brooklet. You?
Theresa.
Why do you always call me that?
The Duke.
'Tis sweet,
'Tis pure. It fits you.
Theresa.
Prince, I go to Parma
To-morrow with your mother.
The Duke.
I am sorry.
Theresa.
Parma—
The Duke.
The land of violets.
Theresa.
Ah, yes!
The Duke.
And if my mother knows not what they stand for
Tell her.
Theresa.
Farewell, my Lord.
The Duke.
Go, little Brooklet,
Go on your innocent course.
Theresa.
Why "Little Brooklet"?
The Duke.
Because the slumbering depths within your eyes,
The murmur of your voice, so oft refreshed me.
Theresa.
You've nothing more to say?
The Duke.
No, nothing more.
Theresa.
Good-bye, my Lord.
[She goes.]
The Duke.
Destroyed!
Prokesch.
Ah! I perceive!
The Duke.
She loves me—and perhaps—but I must deal
In history and not romances! Come!
To work, my friend! We will resume our tactics.
Prokesch.
I'll plan an action: you shall criticise it.
The Duke.
First give me yonder box upon the couch,
The wooden box with all my wooden soldiers.
I'll work the problem much more easily
Upon our little military chess-board.
Prokesch.
[After giving the box to the Duke.]
You have to prove my plan is hazardous.
The Duke.
[Putting his hand on the box.]
These are the soldiers of Napoleon's son!
Prokesch.
Prince!
The Duke.
I'm surrounded with such loving care,
They even paint my soldiers—take them out—
They even paint my wooden soldiers Austrian!
Well! hand me one. We will deploy our left.
[He takes the soldier Prokesch hands him, and
starts on seeing it.]
Prokesch.
What is't?
The Duke.
One of my father's Grenadiers!
[Prokesch hands him another.]
A Cuirassier!
[He takes others out of the box.]
Light Infantry! A scout!
They're all become good Frenchmen! Someone's painted
Each of these little wooden combatants!
[He takes them all out.]
They're French! French! French!
Prokesch.
What miracle is this?
The Duke.
I tell you, someone's carved and painted them!
Prokesch.
Who?
The Duke.
And the artist was a soldier!
Prokesch.
Why?
The Duke.
Each coat of regal blue has seven buttons,
The collars are correct, the linings faithful,
The tunics, brandenburghs, and forage-caps,
All's there! The painter never had to pause
To get the edgings and the facings right!
The lace is white, the flaps are triple-pointed!—
Oh, friend, whoe'er you are, with folded hands
I thank you, nameless soldier of my father!
I know not how you worked, nor whence you came.
How you found means, here, in our dismal gaol,
To paint these little mannikins for me.
Who is the hero, little wooden army—
Only a hero would have been so childish—
Who is the hero who equipped you thus
That now you smile at me from all your trappings?
Whose was the loving, microscopic brush
Which gave each tiny face its grim mustache,
Stamped cannon cross-wise on each pouch, and gave
Each officer his bugle or grenade?
Take them all out! The table's covered with them.
Here are the skirmishers, the fugle-men,
The Infantry with shoulder-straps of green.
Take them all out! They're little conquerors!
Oh, Prokesch, look! locked in that little box
Lay sleeping all the glorious Grande Armée!
Here are the Mamelukes—I recognize
The crimson breast-piece of the Polish Lancers.
Here are the Sappers with their purple breeches,
And here at last, with different colored leggings.
The Grenadiers of the line with waving plumes
Who marched into the battle with white gaiters;
The Conscripts here, with green and pear-shaped tufts.
Who marched to battle with their gaiters black.
Like a poor prisoner, who falls a-dreaming
Of vast and murmuring forests, with a tree
Fashioned of shavings, taken from a doll's house,
I build my Father's Epic with these soldiers.
[He moves away from the table.]
Why, yes, from here I cannot see at all
The little rounds of wood that keep them upright!
This army, Prokesch, when you move away
'Tis but the distance makes it look so small!
[He comes back quickly.]
Place them in line for Wagram and for Eylau!
This naked yatagan shall be the water—
[He takes a sword from the panoply.]
It is the Danube.
[He arranges the soldiers.]
Essling! Yonder's Aspern.
Throw out a paper bridge across the steel.
Pass me a mounted Grenadier or two.
Prokesch.
We want a little hillock.
The Duke.
[Handing him a book.]
The "Memorials."
Here stands Saint Cyr, here Molitor of Bellegarde
And on the bridge—
Metternich.
[Who has come in unperceived and is standing behind
him.]
And on the bridge?
The Duke.
The Guards.
Metternich.
So all the army's French to-day, it seems!
Where are the Austrians?
The Duke.
They've run away.
Metternich.
Tut, tut—who daubed them over for you?
> The Duke.
No one.
Metternich.
'Twas you. That's how you spoil the toys we give you.
The Duke.
Sir—!
[Metternich rings—a Lackey appears.]
Metternich.
[To the Lackey.]
Take these soldiers; throw them all away.
[To the Duke.]
I'll send you new ones.
The Duke.
I'll not have your new ones!
If I'm a child, my toys shall be a giant's!
Metternich.
What gadfly—what Imperial bee has stung you?
The Duke.
As irony is little to my liking—
The Lackey.
[Aside to the Duke.]
Silence, my Lord! I'll paint 'em over again.
Metternich.
Well, Highness?
The Duke.
Nothing. Just a fit of temper.
Forgive me.
[Aside.]
I've a friend; I can be patient.
Metternich.
I came to bring your friend—
The Duke.
My friend?
Metternich.
Yes; Marshal
Marmont.
The Duke.
Oh! Marmont!
Metternich.
[With a look at Prokesch.]
He's among the few
I like to see about you—
Prokesch.
[Mutters.]
I should hope so!
Metternich.
He's here.
The Duke.
Why, let him come!
[Metternich goes out. The Duke throws himself
wildly on the couch.]
My father! Glory!
The Eagles! The Imperial throne! The purple!
[Suddenly calm, he offers his hand to Marmont,
who enters with Metternich.]
Ah, Marshal Marmont! How are you to-day?
Marmont.
My Lord—!
Metternich.
[Anxious to get Prokesch away.]
Come, Prokesch, come and see how well
The Duke is lodged.
[He takes him by the arm and leads him off.]
The Duke.
[After a pause.]
You've told me all you know
About my Father's youth?
Marmont.
I have.
The Duke.
We'll sum it up
You'd call him great?
Marmont.
Oh, very.
The Duke.
But 'twas you
Who helped—
Marmont.
I helped him to avoid—
The Duke.
Disaster?
Marmont.
Well, he believed so stoutly—
The Duke.
In his star?
Marmont.
We perfectly agree in our conclusions.
The Duke.
And I suppose he was, as we were saying—
Marmont.
He was a General of some importance;
Yet it were hardly fair to call him—
The Duke.
Wretch!
Marmont.
What?
The Duke.
Now I've learnt whatever you could teach me,
Whatever memories of him you had,
All that, in spite of you, was splendid in you.
I cast you off: a useless sponge!
Marmont.
My Lord!
The Duke.
Duke of Ragusa, you betrayed him! You!
Ah, yes, I know, when you beheld your comrade
Climbing the throne you all said, "Why not I?"
But you, whom even in the ranks he loved,
And loved so well his men grew discontented,
Created Marshal at the age of thirty—
Marmont.
No; thirty-five.
The Duke.
You, traitor of Essonnes,
The mob has found new uses for your name
And coined a verb "Raguser," to betray!
Why do you stand there silent? Answer me.
'Tis not alone Prince Francis Charles, it is
Napoleon the Second speaking to you.
Marmont.
[Listening.]
They come—Prince Metternich—I know his voice.
The Duke.
Well! you know what to do. Betray us twice!
Metternich.
[Entering with Prokesch.]
Don't interrupt your chat. I'm taking Prokesch
Across the park to see the Roman ruins
Where I propose to give a ball. I am
The last survivor of a crumbling world.
I like the idea of dancing over ruins.
Good-night.
[He goes out with Prokesch.]
Marmont.
My Lord, you see I held my peace.
The Duke.
It only needed that you should raguse.
Marmont.
Oh, conjugate the verb! I'll take a seat.
The Duke.
What!
Marmont.
I will let you conjugate the verb
Because you were magnificent just now.
The Duke.
Sir!
Marmont.
I have spoken evil of your Father
These fifteen years. I do so still; 'tis true.
Can you not guess I seek to excuse myself?
I never saw your Father after Elba—
If I had seen him I should have returned.
Others betrayed him, thinking to save France;
But these beheld his face again, and fell
Under the spell, as I have fallen to-night.
The Duke.
Why, sir?
Marmont.
I also have beheld his face.
The Duke.
How?
Marmont.
In that frown, and in that haughty gesture;
The sparkling eye! Insult me. I remain.
The Duke.
Almost you have atoned if that be true,
Saved me from self-distrust which these exploit.
What? With my gloomy brow and narrow chest—?
Marmont.
I have beheld him!
The Duke.
Dare I hope again?
Dare I forgive you? Why did you betray him?
Marmont.
My Lord—!
The Duke.
Why? You—and others?
Marmont.
We were weary.
Can you not understand? No peace in Europe.
It's well to conquer, but one wants to live!
Berlin, Vienna, never, never Paris!
Beginning and beginning and beginning,
Again, and yet again as in a nightmare;
Forever and forever in the saddle
Till we were sick of it!
The Lackey.
[Having taken out the wooden soldiers and come back.
What about us?
The Duke and Marmont.
Eh?
The Lackey.
Us, the men, the mean, the rank and file?
Us, tramping broken, wounded, muddy, dying,
Having no hope of duchies or endowments,
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