Chapter 4
[_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, Marching along and never getting further, Too simple and too ignorant to covet The famous marshal's baton in our knapsacks? What about us, who marched through every weather, Sweating but fearless, shivering without trembling, Kept on our feel by trumpet-calls, by fever, And by the songs we sang through conquered countries? Us upon whom for seventeen years--just think!-- The knapsack, sabre, turn-screw, flint, and gun, Beside the burden of an empty belly, Made the sweet weight of five and fifty pounds? Us, who wore bearskins in the burning tropics And marched bareheaded through the snows of Russia, Who trotted casually from Spain to Austria? Us who, to free our travel-weary legs, Like carrots from the slough of miry roads, Often with both hands had to lug them out? Us, who, not having jujubes for our coughs, Took day-long foot-baths in the freezing Danube? Who just had leisure when some officer Came riding up, and gayly cried "To arms! The enemy is on us! Drive him back!" To eat a slice of rook--and raw at that, Or quickly mix a delicate ice-cream With melted snow and a dead horse's blood? Us, who--
THE DUKE.
At last!
THE LACKEY.
At night had little fear Of bullets, but a holy dread of waking Cannibals; us--
THE DUKE.
At last--!
THE LACKEY.
Who marched and fought Fasting, and only stopped--
THE DUKE.
At last I see one!
THE LACKEY.
To fight--and then stopped fighting, four to one, Only to march; and stopped again to fight! Marching and fighting, naked, starved, but merry-- Don't you suppose we, too, were sick of it?
MARMONT.
But--
THE LACKEY.
Though we owed him precious little thanks, Nevertheless 'twas we whose hearts were true, While you were ambling at the King's right hand. In short, your Highness, in the great canteen, Where souls are fed on glory, he may find
[_Pointing to_ MARMONT.]
His laurels are not worth our small potatoes.
MARMONT.
Who is this Lackey with the veteran's growl?
THE LACKEY.
John Seraph Peter Flambeau, called Flambart-- "The glowing coal"--ex-sergeant grenadier. Mamma from Picardy; Papa a Breton. Joined at fourteen, two Germinal, year Three. Baptised, Marengo; got my corporal's stripes The fifteenth Fructidor, year Twelve. Silk hose And sergeant's cane, steeped in my tears of joy. July fourteenth, year Eighteen hundred and nine, At Schönbrunn, for the Guards were here to serve The sacred person of your Majesty. Sixteen years' service, seen sixteen campaigns, Fought Austerlitz, fought Eylau, Somo-Siera, Eckmühl, Essling, Wagram, Smolensk, and so forth. Thirty-two feats of arms, a lot of wounds, And only fought for glory and dry bread.
MARMONT.
Surely you will not listen to him thus?
THE DUKE.
No, sir, I will not listen thus, but standing!
MARMONT.
My Lord!
THE DUKE.
For in the volume whose sublime Chapters are headed with proud capitals You are the titles and you catch the eye; But these--these are the thousand little letters-- You're nought, without the black and humble army That goes to make a page of history. Oh, my brave Flambeau, painter of my soldiers, To think while you were near me all this month, I only looked upon you as a spy.
FLAMBEAU.
Oh, our acquaintance dates much further back!
THE DUKE.
How so?
FLAMBEAU.
Can't you recall me?
THE DUKE.
Not at all.
FLAMBEAU.
One Thursday in the garden of Saint Cloud Marshal Duroc stood with a maid-in-waiting, Watching your Highness at his nurse's breast-- Its whiteness, I remember, startled me. Marshal Duroc exclaimed, "Come here!" I came. But there were lots of things to make me nervous: The Imperial child, the gorgeous rosy sleeves The Maid of honor wore, Duroc, the breast-- In short, the tuft was shivering on my bearskin; So much so that your Highness noticed it. You gazed upon it pensively: what was it? And while you hailed it with a milky laugh You seemed uncertain which to admire the more About this moving scarlet miracle: Its motion, or the fact that it was scarlet. Suddenly, while I stooped, your little hands Began lo pull the precious tuft about. Seeing my plight, the Marshal cried severely, "Don't interfere"--I didn't interfere; But having sunk upon my knees I heard The nurse, the marshal, and the lady laughing. And when I rose the grass was strewn with red: As for my tuft, that was a beardless wire. "I'll sign an order," said Duroc, "for two." Back to my quarters then I strutted radiant; "You there! hulloa!" exclaimed the Adjutant, "Who's plucked you?" And I cried: "The King of Rome!" And that is how one Thursday morn I met Your Majesty. Your Highness has developed.
THE DUKE.
No, not developed: that is why I grieve. My "Majesty" has shrivelled to my "Highness."
MARMONT.
[_To_ FLAMBEAU.]
But since the Empire fell, what have you done?
FLAMBEAU.
I think I've acted like a decent beggar. I know Fournier and Solignac. In May Eighteen-sixteen Didier and Sarlovèze Conspire and fail. I see the child Miard Perish, and David the old man, and weep; They'd have beheaded me, but I am missing. Good. I come back to Paris with an alias; I smash a footstool on a royal guard Because he'd trodden on my favorite corn. I take the chair at noisy drinking bouts, Spend thirty pence a month. I nurse a hope That in the Var that Other still may land. I swagger in a Bonapartist hat And call whoever stares at me a vampire. I fight some thirty duels. I conspire At Béziers; fail. They'd have beheaded me, But I am missing. Good. I join at once The plot at Lyons. All are seized. I fly. They'd have beheaded me, but I am missing. So I come back to Paris, where, by chance, I find myself mixed up in the Bazaar plot. Lefèvre-Desnouettes is in America. I join him there. "What's up, my General?" Says I. Says he, "Come back." We start; we're wrecked. My General's drowned, but I know how to swim; And so I swim, bewailing Desnouettes. Good. Very good. Sun--azure waves--and sea-mews. A ship. They fish me up. I land in time To be among the plotters of Saumur. We fail again. They'd have beheaded me, But I am missing. So I make for Greece, To rub the rust off, thrashing dirty Turks. One morning in July I'm back in France. I see them heaping paving stones. I help. I fight. At night the tricolor is hoisted. Instead of the while banner of the King, But as I think there still is something lacking To crown the point of that disloyal staff; You know--the golden thing that beats its wings. I leave, to plot in the Romagna. Fail. A relative of yours--
THE DUKE.
Named?
FLAMBEAU.
Camerata-- Makes me her fencing master--
THE DUKE.
Ah!
FLAMBEAU.
In Tuscany. So we conspire with singlestick and rapier. Next there's a post of danger vacant here; They give me forged credentials; here I am. I'm here; but every day I see the Countess, For I have found the cave your Highness dug With your preceptor Colin in the garden To play at little Robinson. All right! I hide in it. I find it has two openings: This in an ant-heap; that, a bed of nettles. I wait. Your cousin brings her sketch-book, and There in the shadow of the Roman thingummies, She on her camp-stool, I amid the mud, She looking like an English tourist sketching, I whispering from my cavern like a prompter, We plan the means to make you Emperor.
THE DUKE.
And for such loyalty, so long maintained, What do you ask of me?
FLAMBEAU.
Just pull my ear.
THE DUKE.
What?
FLAMBEAU.
As your Father used to when we'd pleased him.
THE DUKE.
But I--
FLAMBEAU.
I'm waiting. Come. The thumb and index.
[THE DUKE _pulls his ear._]
That's not the way to pull an ear, my Lord! You don't know how: you're much too gentlemanly.
THE DUKE.
Ah, do you think so?
MARMONT.
Clumsy thing to say!
FLAMBEAU.
Well, in a French Prince that's but half a fault.
THE DUKE.
But can you see I'm French in these surroundings?
FLAMBEAU.
Yes, you don't match. It's rich; it's heavy.
MARMONT.
What! Can you see that?
FLAMBEAU.
My brother's an upholsterer. He works in Paris for Fontaine and Percier-- They try to imitate us here; but, Lord! They've got a curious kind of Louis-Quinze! I'm not an expert, but I've got an eye.
[_He lifts up a chair._]
Just look how finnicking this wood-work is.
[_He puts it down and looks at it._]
But then the tapestry! What taste! what mystery! It sings. It laughs. It crushes all the room. Why? Don't you know? Why, these are Gobelins! How plain it is that cunning craftsmen made them. This taste, this elegance swears with the rest-- And you my Lord, were also made in France!
MALMONT.
He must go back.
FLAMBEAU.
And on the Cross of Honor Once more engrave a little Emperor.
THE DUKE.
Whom have they put there now?
FLAMBEAU.
Henry the Fourth-- Well, damn it all, it had to be a fighter! But, _basta_! How Napoleon must laugh To wear King Henry's mask upon his face! Haven't you ever seen the cross?
THE DUKE.
In shops.
FLAMBEAU.
My Lord, it must be seen upon a breast. Here on the cloth, a gout of ardent blood, Which fell, and falling turned to burnished gold And to enamel with an edge of green; 'Twas like a jewel pouring from a wound.
THE DUKE.
It must have looked magnificent, my friend. Here on your bosom.
FLAMBEAU.
I?--I never had it.
THE DUKE.
What! After all your modest heroism?
FLAMBEAU.
One had to do far greater deeds to win it.
THE DUKE.
You made no claim?
FLAMBEAU.
The Little Corporal Didn't bestow it; so I hadn't earned it.
THE DUKE.
Then I, who have no power, no throne, no title, I, who am but a memory in a phantom, That Duke of Reichstadt who with helpless grief Can only wander under Austrian trees, Carving an N upon their mossy trunks, Wayfarer, only noticed when I cough; Who have no longer even the little piece Of watered silk so scarlet in my cradle; I, on whose woes they vainly lavish stars, Who only wear two crosses, not the One! I, exiled, prisoner, sick, who may not ride Along the front of pompous regiments Scattering stars among my heroes; yet I hope--I think--the son of such a father-- Into whose hands a firmament was given-- I think, in spite of shadows and dead days, A little of the star clings to my fingers:-- John Seraph Peter Flambeau, I adorn you!
FLAMBEAU.
You!
THE DUKE.
Oh, this ribbon is not real.
FLAMBEAU.
The real Is that we weep in taking. I have wept.
MARMONT.
Besides, it must be legalized in Paris.
THE DUKE.
But how to get to Paris?
FLAMBEAU.
Pack your trunk.
THE DUKE.
Alas!
FLAMBEAU.
No more "Alas." To-day's the Ninth, And if you'd like to be on the Pont-Neuf The Thirtieth--you'll be there if you like-- Come to the ball to-morrow given by Nepomuk.
THE DUKE AND MARMONT.
By whom?
FLAMBEAU.
Prince Metternich (Clement Lothair Wenceslas Nepomuk). Come. No more "Alas!"
MARMONT.
You utter dangerous secrets in my presence!
FLAMBEAU.
You'll not betray a plot in which you share.
THE DUKE.
Not Marmont!
MARMONT.
Yes, I'm with you.
[_To_ FLAMBEAU.]
All the same You didn't use much flattery to win me; You gave me quite a warm reception.
FLAMBEAU.
Yes; And won a warm reception for myself.
MARMONT.
Very imprudent.
FLAMBEAU.
True, but then my failing Is ever overdoing things a little. I always add a trifle to my orders And wear a rose-bud when I go to battle: My little joke.
MARMONT.
So if the Camerata Cares to employ me--
THE DUKE.
No! not Marmont!
FLAMBEAU.
Pooh! Let him redeem himself!
THE DUKE.
No!
MARMONT.
I have lists Carefully made, of all the malcontents; Maison, the French Ambassador, is my friend.
FLAMBEAU.
Oh, he can serve us.
THE DUKE.
Compromises! No! I'll not let Marmont consecrate himself!
MARMONT.
When you are crowned, my Lord, I will obey you. Meanwhile I'll go at once to General Maison.
[MARMONT _goes out._]
FLAMBEAU.
That venerable rascal's in the right.
THE DUKE.
So be it, then! I'll come. But where's the proof That France still feels herself my Father's widow? Oh, Flambeau, time has passed; the ancient love These worthy people bore us must have died.
FLAMBEAU.
Their love of you, my Lord? Why that's immortal!
[_He takes from about his person the various articles mentioned in the following scene._]
THE DUKE.
Why, Flambeau, what is that?
FLAMBEAU.
A pair of braces.
THE DUKE.
Have you gone mad?
FLAMBEAU.
Just look and see what's on 'em!
THE DUKE.
My portrait!
FLAMBEAU.
Worn by quite a decent class.
THE DUKE.
But Flambeau--
FLAMBEAU.
Will you take a pinch of snuff?
THE DUKE.
I--
FLAMBEAU.
On the box a little curly head.
THE DUKE.
'Tis I!
FLAMBEAU.
And what about this handkerchief? Eh! Not so bad, the little King of Rome?
THE DUKE.
But--
FLAMBEAU.
Colored print to paste upon your walls.
THE DUKE.
Again! on horseback!
FLAMBEAU.
Yes, and caracolling. How d'you like this pipe?
THE DUKE.
But tell me, Flambeau--
FLAMBEAU.
You cannot say they haven't drawn you handsome!
THE DUKE.
I--
FLAMBEAU.
A cockade, to tease the government.
THE DUKE.
What's that?
FLAMBEAU.
A medal. Trivial fancy goods.
THE DUKE.
Still I?
FLAMBEAU.
Still you. Look here, what words are ground Upon this tumbler?
THE DUKE.
"Francis, Duke of Reichstadt."
FLAMBEAU.
Of course you can't get on without a plate--
THE DUKE.
A plate?
FLAMBEAU.
A knife, a napkin-ring, an egg-cup. They've made you look so happy on the egg-cup! The table's laid, my Lord: my Lord is served!
THE DUKE.
[_With increasing emotion._]
Flambeau--
FLAMBEAU.
On everything. Here's a cravat In which you're woven riding in the clouds; And playing cards of which you're Ace of Spades--
THE DUKE.
Flambeau!
FLAMBEAU.
And Almanacs--
THE DUKE.
Flambeau!
FLAMBEAU.
And everything!
THE DUKE.
Flambeau!
FLAMBEAU.
What, weeping? Take this handkerchief And dry your eyes upon the King of Rome!
[_He kneels by the_ DUKE'S _side and wipes his eyes with the handkerchief._]
I bid you strike the iron while it's hot: You've got the people and you've got the Marshals, The King, the King himself, is only King On one condition: that he's Bonapartist. Vainly the Gallic cockerel spreads his wings That, from a distance, he may seem an eagle. We Frenchmen cannot breathe inglorious air; The crown must slip from off a pear-shaped head. The youth of France will rally to your side Merrily shouting songs of Béranger-- The street has shuddered and the pavement trembled, And Schönbrunn's not so pretty as Versailles!
THE DUKE.
I will accept.
[_Military music is heard._]
Ha!
FLAMBEAU.