Chapter 6
The famous little hat--how very ugly! They called it little--is it really little? No; it is big; enormous; it's the hat A little man puts on to increase his inches. For 'twas a hatter set the legend going: The real Napoleon, after all, was Poupart. Ah, never think my hatred of thee slumbers! 'Twas for thy shape's sake first I hated thee, Thou vampire-bat of bloody battle-fields, Hat that seemed fashioned out of raven's wings. I hated thee for pitilessly soaring Above the fields which witnessed our defeats, Half-circle, seeming on the ruddy sky The orb half-risen of some sable sun! And for thy crown wherein the devil lurks, Thou juggler's hat, laid with a sudden hand Upon a throne, an army, or a nation-- When thou wert lifted all had disappeared. I hated thee for the salutes I gave thee, For thy simplicity--mere affectation-- Thy insolent joy, thou piece of common beaver Amid the glittering diadems of gold; For staying firmly on his haughty head When I sought flattering epithets to please thee. Conqueror, new, acclaimed, I hated thee! I hate thee now, old, conquered and betrayed! I hate thee for thy haughty shadow, cast Forever on the wall of history; I hate thee for thy Jacobin cockade, Staring upon me like a bloodshot eye; For all the murmurs sounding in thy shell, That huge black shell the waves have left behind Wherein the shuddering listener may hear The rumor of a nation on the march. I hate thee for the pride of France, whose bounds Thou hast enlarged until she scorns the world; For Béranger I hate thee, and Raffet, For all the songs and all the pasquinades, And for the halo of Saint Helena. I hate thee, hate thee. I shall not be happy Until thy clumsy triangle of cloth, Despoiled of its traditions, is again What it should ne'er have ceased to be in France-- The headgear of a village constable. I hate--but suddenly--how strange!--the present Sometimes with impish glee will ape the past!-- Seeing thy well-known shape before me thus Carries my mind back to a distant day, For it was here he always put thee down When twenty years ago he sojourned here. This room was then the ante-chamber; here, Waiting till graciously he showed himself, Dukes, Princes, Magyars, huddling in a corner, Fixed from afar their humbled eyes upon thee, Like lions, dreading with a helpless fury The tamer's hat forgotten in the cage. 'Twas thus he placed thee, and here lay, as now, Weapons and papers. One might say 'twas he Had tossed thee carelessly upon the map, That this were still his home, this Bonaparte! And that by turning, on the threshold--there-- I should behold the Grenadier on--
[_He starts on seeing_ FLAMBEAU _standing rigid before the_ DUKE'S _door; he rubs his eyes._]
Ha! No! no! I'm feverish; my _tête-à-tête_ With the old hat plays havoc with my nerves!
[_He looks and draws near._ FLAMBEAU _does not move._]
Or have the moonbeams conjured up a spectre? What is it, then? Let's see--let's see--let's see!
[_He strides furiously toward_ FLAMBEAU.]
Who are you, fellow?
FLAMBEAU.
[_Presenting his bayonet._]
Who goes there?
METTERNICH.
[_Recoiling._]
The devil!
FLAMBEAU.
[_Coldly._]
Pass, devil.
METTERNICH.
[_With a forced laugh, coming toward him again._]
Yes,--a very clever jest, But--
FLAMBEAU.
[_Presenting his bayonet again._]
Who goes there?
METTERNICH.
[_Recoiling._]
But--
FLAMBEAU.
Move and you are dead.
METTERNICH.
But--I--
FLAMBEAU.
Quiet!
METTERNICH.
Let me pass!
FLAMBEAU.
The Emperor sleeps!
METTERNICH.
What!
FLAMBEAU.
Silence!
METTERNICH.
I'm the Austrian Chancellor! I am all-powerful! I'm--
FLAMBEAU.
Shut your mouth!
METTERNICH.
I want to see the Duke of Reichstadt!
FLAMBEAU.
Out!
METTERNICH.
How--out?
FLAMBEAU.
What's Reichstadt? Never heard of Reichstadt! Auerstadt, Elchingen, they're dukes I know. Reichstadt's no duke. There's been no victory there.
METTERNICH.
But, we're at Schönbrunn!
FLAMBEAU.
I should rather think so! Thanks to our new success we're quartered here; And here we're getting ready at our leisure To give the world another drubbing! See?
METTERNICH.
What's that you say? A new success?
FLAMBEAU.
Colossal!
METTERNICH.
This is July the ninth in Eighteen--
FLAMBEAU.
Nine!
METTERNICH.
Can I be mad?
FLAMBEAU.
Who are you? Where d'you spring from? Why aren't you snug in bed? It's very fishy--
METTERNICH.
I--
FLAMBEAU.
Who let this braggart pass? The Mameluke?
METTERNICH.
The Mameluke?
FLAMBEAU.
All's going to the dogs!
METTERNICH.
But--
FLAMBEAU.
You here in the ante-room at night!
METTERNICH.
But I--
FLAMBEAU.
You calmly cross the Rosa chamber Unchallenged by the sentinel on guard!
METTERNICH.
What?
FLAMBEAU.
When you ventured through the small rotunda, Was there no yatagan to shave your cheek? Were there no sergeants in the white saloon Brewing their punch upon the golden stove? No bristling veterans in the china-room? And in the galleries? The Grenadiers Saw you come strolling as a matter-of-course? A man may cross the oval cabinet And not be turned to mince-meat by Duroc?
METTERNICH.
The Marshal--?
FLAMBEAU.
Is the bulldog turned to lapdog?
METTERNICH.
I come here--
FLAMBEAU.
So the palace is an inn? And when you'd managed all the sentinels, Where were the rest? The porter? Gone to bed? The valet? Absent? And the secretary? Where was he hidden? In his own portfolio?
METTERNICH.
But I--
FLAMBEAU.
Instead of being after you, No doubt the Aide-de-Camp was after women!
METTERNICH.
But--
FLAMBEAU.
And the Moor was saying prayers to Allah? At any rate it's lucky I was here. What discipline! If he looks into this I'll bet my head he'll let the beggars know!
METTERNICH.
I'm going--
FLAMBEAU.
Ah! don't stir! You'll wake him! He's sleeping on his little bed of laurels.
METTERNICH.
[_Falling into an arm-chair._]
Was never such a dream! 'Twill make an epic!
[_His hand touches the flame of one of the candles._]
Well, but this candle--
FLAMBEAU.
Burns.
METTERNICH.
[_Feeling the point of_ FLAMBEAU'S _bayonet._]
This weapon--
FLAMBEAU.
Stings!
METTERNICH.
Then I'm awake! I'm--
FLAMBEAU.
Hold your tongue!
METTERNICH.
And what of Waterloo?
FLAMBEAU.
Of water--what? [_Listening_.]
The Emperor stirred.
METTERNICH.
The Emperor?
FLAMBEAU.
Oh, my stars! Now you turn whiter than a bugler's horse!
METTERNICH.
It is the Duke of Reichstadt! I'm not scared! It is the Duke! I'm sure of it!
FLAMBEAU.
The Emperor!
[_The_ DUKE _enters, with the reading lamp in his hand_.]
METTERNICH.
Aha! Tis you! 'Tis you! It is your Highness! Ah, but how glad I am!
THE DUKE.
[_Puzzled_.] Why are you glad?
METTERNICH.
The joke was played so well, I really thought Another might come out!
FLAMBEAU.
[_As if waking from a dream._]
Faith, so did I!
THE DUKE.
[_To_ FLAMBEAU.]
What's this?
FLAMBEAU.
My little joke.
METTERNICH.
[_Ringing_.]
Help!
THE DUKE.
Fly!
FLAMBEAU.
The window!
THE DUKE.
The sentinel will shoot you!
FLAMBEAU.
If he can.
THE DUKE.
Your livery!
METTERNICH.
[_Putting his foot on it._]
No!
FLAMBEAU.
Bah!
[_Aside to the_ DUKE, _while_ METTERNICH _rings again_.]
I will seek my cavern.
THE DUKE.
But I--
FLAMBEAU.
The ball to-morrow!
THE DUKE.
Are you mad?
FLAMBEAU.
You'll find me.
THE DUKE.
Quiet!
[FLAMBEAU _goes out by the window._]
METTERNICH.
If he'd only break His neck--He's singing!
THE DUKE.
[_On the balcony._]
Hush!
FLAMBEAU'S VOICE.
My little joke!
[_A shot is heard._]
THE DUKE.
Missed!
METTERNICH.
With what ease he finds his way about.
THE DUKE.
He knows it; he has been here once before.
METTERNICH.
[_To the_ LACKEYS _who show themselves at the door._]
Too late. Begone. I do not need your help.
[_The_ LACKEYS _disappear._]
THE DUKE.
And not a word of this to the police!
METTERNICH.
I never raise a laugh against myself. What's the importance of a veteran's joke? You're not Napoleon?
THE DUKE.
Who has settled that?
METTERNICH.
You have his hat, perhaps, but not his head!
THE DUKE.
Ah, yes, an epigram to damp my ardor. 'Tis not the pin-prick this time, 'tis the lash That drives me headlong toward the wildest dreams. I've not the head, you say? How do you know?
METTERNICH.
[_Takes the candelabrum in his hand and leads the_ DUKE _to the cheval glass._]
How do I know? Just glance into this mirror. Look at the sullen sadness of your face, The grim betrayal of your fair complexion, This crushing golden hair--I bid you look!
THE DUKE.
[_Struggling to get out of his grasp._]
No!
METTERNICH.
You're environed with a fatal mist!
THE DUKE.
No!
METTERNICH.
Though you know it not, 'tis Germany, 'Tis Spain, for ages dormant in your blood, Make you so haughty, sorrowful, and charming.
THE DUKE.
No! no!
METTERNICH.
Bethink you of your self-distrust! You--reign? Come, come! You would be pale and wan; One of those timid, introspective kings Who are imprisoned lest they abdicate.
THE DUKE.
No, no!
METTERNICH.
Not yours the energetic brow! Yours is the brow of languor and of yearning.
THE DUKE.
[_Shaking, passes his left hand across his brow._]
My--brow?
METTERNICH.
And drearily your Highness passes Over an Austrian brow a Spanish hand!
THE DUKE.
My--hand?
METTERNICH.
Observe the frail and tapering fingers Seen fair and jewelled in long lines of portraits!
THE DUKE.
No!
METTERNICH.
And those eyes through which your ancestors Look forth!
THE DUKE.
The eyes--?
METTERNICH.
Ay! note them well! The eyes Wherein how many eyes we've seen before Dream of the fagot, weep for perished squadrons! Dare you, whose conscience is so sensitive, Ascend the throne of France with eyes like those?
THE DUKE.
Ah! but my Father!--
METTERNICH.
Naught of him is in you! Search! Search again! Come closer to the light! He stole our ancient blood to mix with his, That his might grow more ancient. But he stole Only the racial melancholy, and The feebleness, and--
THE DUKE.
I beseech you!
METTERNICH.
Look! Look in the mirror! You turn pale?
THE DUKE.
Enough!
METTERNICH.
And on your lips you recognize the pout As of a doll, of Marie Antoinette, Her whom your France beheaded; for your Father, While stealing glory, stole mishap as well! Nay! raise the chandelier!
[_He forces the chandelier into the_ DUKE'S _right hand, and holds him by that wrist_.]
THE DUKE.
I am afraid.
METTERNICH.
You cannot gaze into this glass at night, But all your race will gibber at your back! Look--in the gloom--that shade is Mad Johanna, And yonder Thing, that moves so deathly slow, Is the pale sovereign in his crystal coffin.
THE DUKE.
No! 'Tis the radiant pallor of my Father!
METTERNICH.
Yonder, recoiling, Rudolph and his lions!
THE DUKE.
The clash of steeds and weapons! 'Tis the Consul!
METTERNICH.
Lo! in a noisome crypt one fashions gold.
THE DUKE.
He fashions glory on the sands of Egypt.
METTERNICH.
Aha! Here's Charles the Fifth, with hair cropped close, Dying for having sought self-burial!
THE DUKE.
Help! Father!
METTERNICH.
The Escurial! Grisly phantoms And frowning walls!
THE DUKE.
Ah, hither! smiling visions: Compiègne and Malmaison!
METTERNICH.
You see them! see them!
THE DUKE.
Roll, drums of Arcola, and drown his voice!
METTERNICH.
The mirror's teeming!
THE DUKE.
[_Twisting his wrist loose, but still holding the chandelier._]
I will shatter it!
METTERNICH.
Others, and others yet, arrive!
THE DUKE.
[_Hurling the chandelier into the mirror._]
'Tis shattered! Not one remains! Not one!
METTERNICH.
[_Pointing at the_ DUKE _with a terrible gesture._]
Yes!--One!
THE DUKE.
No, no! It is not I! Not I!--My Father!--Help!
CURTAIN.
THE FOURTH ACT
_The Park at Schönbrunn. Ruins of a Roman Arch in the centre, in front of which is a fountain. Entrances on the right and on the left. Towards the right, in front, is a pile of stones, parts of columns, a head of Neptune, a broken urn, the whole covered with ivy and shrubs. Orange-trees in boxes, bearing fruit and blossom, are dotted about, with lamps hanging in their foliage. At the rise of the curtain a gay throng of_ LORDS _and_ LADIES _in dominos and other disguises are moving about the stage._
FIRST MASK.
Who is the clown?
SECOND MASK.
Don't know.
THIRD MASK.
The Cardinal?
FIRST MASK.
Don't know.
SECOND MASK.
The Punchinello?
THIRD MASK.
I don't know.
FOURTH MASK.
It's too delicious.
FIFTH MASK.
All incognito.
THE PUNCHINELLO.
[_To a lady in a domino._]
Your ear--
THE DOMINO.
What for?
THE PUNCHINELLO.
Ah, hush! My secret!
FIRST MASK.
Watteau--
THE PUNCHINELLO.
[_To another_ DOMINO.]
Your ear--
FIRST MASK.
Would have delighted in these figures--
THE DOMINO.
[_To the_ PUNCHINELLO.]
What for?
THE PUNCHINELLO.
Ah, hush! My secret!
FIRST MASK.
And these ruins.
ANOTHER MASK.
All is uncertain, tremulous, and vague-- Our hearts, the music, moonbeams, and the water.
METTERNICH.
And so, dear Attaché of the French Embassy, Here I've contrived half-darkness and half-silence, And yonder in the music and the light The ball--
THE ATTACHÉ.
It's really--
METTERNICH.
Rather good, I think. This way--
THE ATTACHÉ.
You condescend to be my guide?
METTERNICH.
Dear friend, I'm prouder of this little ball, Of having mingled all these courtly perfumes With the wild odors of the midnight woods, Than ever of the Congress of Verona. That is the vestiary and the way out So that in leaving you may find at once Your Polish mantle or your overcoat. Lastly, the theatre which I've contrived On yonder bowling-green, near Cupid's fountain, Where, in a set-piece made of natural foliage, Some princely amateurs will play "Michel And"--I don't know--some dainty little piece By a French author: Eugène--what's-his-name?
THE ATTACHÉ.
And--supper?
METTERNICH.
Here.
THE ATTACHÉ.
What?
METTERNICH.
Every box will blossom With snowy tablecloths and golden dishes.
THE ATTACHÉ.
The orange-trees?
METTERNICH.
My own idea. They'll bring All they can find. Under each leafy ball Two couples will be seated, starved and laughing.
THE ATTACHÉ.
Supper in short at separate orange-trees? Splendid.
METTERNICH.
Why, yes.--And as for grave affairs--
[_To a_ LACKEY.]
Tell them to play no more Slavonic dances--
[_To the_ ATTACHÉ.]
I do not put them off. Not I. I leave
Ere supper-time to meet the Hospodars-- They are awaiting me--
[_To a_ LACKEY.]
Those wreaths are skimpy. My hobby's organizing balls like this; And when the revelry is at its highest Back to the everlasting Eastern Question! I love to rule a people and a ball: The Arbiter of Europe--
THE ATTACHÉ.
And its elegance!
GENTZ.
_Arbiter Elegantiarum!_
METTERNICH.
Ah, You're talking Latin; you've been drinking?
GENTZ.
Rum.
METTERNICH.
Fanny has kept you very late at table; Oh, this _liaison!_ you're as good as lost.
GENTZ.
What? I and Fanny? Off.
METTERNICH.
What?
GENTZ.
Off.
METTERNICH.
[_Seeing the Prefect of Police._]
Sedlinzky.
SEDLINZKY.
One word.
GENTZ.
[_To_ METTERNICH.]
It's off.
[_To a_ DOMINO.]
'Twas wrong to bring you, Fanny. If they discovered you! What an imprudence! A public dancer!
FANNY.
Oh, I'll dance discreetly.
GENTZ.
They'll find you out. For heaven's sake be clumsy.
METTERNICH.
A plot?
SEDLINZKY.
Yes; for the Duke!--and at this ball!
METTERNICH.
[_Lightly_.]
Here! you alarm me!
GENTZ.
Be an angel, Fanny, And tell me why you wished to come.
FANNY.
Caprice.
METTERNICH.
I fear the Duke no more. I've killed his pride. And he's in mourning for it. He'll not come.
SEDLINZKY.
But there's a plot!
METTERNICH.
Bah!
SEDLINZKY.
Women--
METTERNICH.
Featherbrains.
SEDLINZKY.
No! Noble ladies.
METTERNICH.
Really?
SEDLINZKY.
Poles and Greeks: Princess Grazalcowitch.
METTERNICH.
Grazalcowitch! That's terrible!
[_To a_ LACKEY.]
Pray let me have a sandwich.
SEDLINZKY.
You laugh?--Hush!--Here they come. They've fled the light And seek a nook to whisper in.
[_Enter several_ DOMINOS.]
ONE OF THE DOMINOS.
My dear, How sweet it is to run a risk for his sake.
SECOND DOMINO.
Let us conspire!
THIRD DOMINO.
His hair's such lovely auburn.
FOURTH DOMINO.
It's like a pretty little halo, dear, Through which a regal crown is dimly seen.
FIFTH DOMINO.
He has a doubly-fascinating charm:-- A fair Napoleon! Hamlet dressed in white!
FIRST DOMINO.
Let us conspire!
SECOND DOMINO.
First, I suggest we order A golden bee from Stieger in Vienna.
ANOTHER DOMINO.
Vienna! Why? That _would_ be idiotic! We'll have it made by Odiot in Paris.
FOURTH DOMINO.
I move we always wear with every dress A very striking bunch of violets.
FIRST DOMINO.
That's it, Princess!
ANOTHER DOMINO.
And let us risk returning To Empire fashions.
SECOND DOMINO.
For evening: not for day.
THIRD DOMINO.
Dear, don't forget the horrible short waists.
ALL.
And all the puffs!--and ruches!--Dearest!
METTERNICH.
Ladies--
ALL.
Good heavens!
METTERNICH.
Go on with your delicious plotting. Conspire! conspire! Ha-ha!
[_He goes out, laughing heartily._]
FIRST DOMINO.
And now That thanks to idle chatter we've removed Whatever doubts Sedlinzky had aroused, We'll prove that after female Machiavellis The Metternichest Metternich's a baby.
ALL.
Yes!
FIRST DOMINO.
Each remembers what she has to do?
ALL.
Yes!
FIRST DOMINO.
Mingle with the dances.
SEVERAL MASKS.
[_Pursuing another._]
He's so funny!
A MASK.
It must be Sandor!
ANOTHER.
No! it's Fürstenberg!
ANOTHER.
And who's the bear, dancing to Schubert's waltz?
A MASK.
What's sad Elvira's dress? A star?
GENTZ.
A night-light.
A MASK.
Thecla, the hypocrite--?
GENTZ.
Disguised as Truth.
TIBURTIUS.
[_Entering with_ THERESA.]
Not gone to Parma, sister?
THERESA.
No. To-morrow. The Duchess put it off to see this ball.
[_Pointing to a Domino who passes at the back accompanied by a Mask._]
She's yonder with Bombelles: the greenish cape.
TIBURTIUS.
I'm glad you're going, for _Noblesse oblige_; I couldn't stand much more of those asides Between the little Bonaparte and you.
THERESA.
What?
TIBURTIUS.
'Tis our glory that our ancestors Have not been over-prudish with our kings; It is no fall to pick up handkerchiefs When on the handkerchief a lily's broidered. But honor never will accept a rag Which bears the Bonapartist weed and hornet, Woe to the Ogre's brat--!
THERESA.
What!
TIBURTIUS.
If he touched you!
THERESA.
You use expressions, brother--
TIBURTIUS.
They are warnings.
A BEAR.
[_Passing with a Chinese woman._]
How do you know I am a diplomat?
THE CHINESE WOMAN.
Why, by the skilful way you hide your claws.
THE ATTACHÉ.
[_Pursuing_ FANNY.]
Is there no way of knowing who you are? Now, are you English?
FANNY.
_Ja._
THE ATTACHÉ.
Or German?
FANNY.
_Oui._
PROKESCH.
[_Entering with the_ DUKE.]
My Lord, is not the ball beyond compare?
THE PUNCHINELLO.
[_To a_ DOMINO.]
Your ear--!
THE DOMINO.
What for?
THE PUNCHINELLO.
My secret! Hush!
[_To another_ DOMINO.]
Your ear!
PROKESCH.
This corner's charming, given up to shadows--
THE CHINESE WOMAN.
[_To the_ BEAR.]
What are you carrying on your arm?
THE BEAR.
My nose-ring.
PROKESCH.
Charming, those scattered blocks, the broken god, The ivied urn, and, in its frame of stone, Yonder the water. It is like--
THE DUKE.
A mirror!
PROKESCH.
What had Prince Metternich to say last night?
[_Seeing the_ DUKE _unmask._]
You take your mask off?
THE DUKE.
And, alas, that's all A stone.
PROKESCH.
What for?
THE DUKE.
To cast into the pond-- All's vanished. Only circles on the water.
PROKESCH.
You are depressed, and yet to-night the plot Must come to a head if I may trust the symptoms. These lines were slipped into my hand this morning:
[_He takes a note out of his pocket._]
"Ask him to be there early, and to wear His uniform beneath a violet cloak."
THE DUKE.
Oh, 'twere too criminal--
PROKESCH.
The note--
THE DUKE.
The note Is from a woman anxious not to miss me. I've taken her advice, for I am here Only for love's adventure.
PROKESCH.
No!
THE DUKE.
That's all.
PROKESCH.
But then--the plot?
THE DUKE.
Oh, 'twere too criminal, Dear country, made of sunshine and of laughter, To raise upon the high seat of thy glory A child of night, misfortune, and the Escurial! What if, when I were seated there, the past, Plunging its yellow hands into my soul, With hideous claws unearthed some ancestor: Some Rudolph or some Philip? Ah! I dread Lest at the humming of Imperial bees The monster sleeping in me should awake.
PROKESCH.
[_Laughing._]
Prince, this is madness!
THE DUKE.
[_With a shudder and a look which makes_ PROKESCH _start back with horror._]
Madness! Do you think so?
PROKESCH.
Good heavens!
THE DUKE.
Buried in their fastnesses, Cowering in Bohemia or Castile, Each had his madness. What is mine to be? Come! We'll decide! You see I am resigned. 'Tis time to choose--and I have choice enough: My thoughtful forebears left a catalogue! Shall I be melomaniac or astrologer? Catch birds, bend o'er alembics, mumble prayers?
PROKESCH.
Too well I see what Metternich has done!
THE DUKE.
Grandfather, shall I carry on your great Herbarium, where the hellebore is missing? Or shall I, living, play at being dead? Which ancestor will godfather my madness? The living-dead, the alchemist, or bigot? You see, they took their madness rather sadly, But mingled perfumes make a novel scent; My brain, mixed of these gloomy brains, may start Some pretty little madness of its own. Come! What shall my peculiar madness be? By heavens! My instincts, conquered till to-day, Make it quite simple: I'll be mad with love! I'll love and love, and crush, with bitter hate, This Austrian lip under a passionate kiss!
PROKESCH.
Prince!
THE DUKE.
As Don Juan I am all my race! Snarer of hearts, astrologer of eyes; I'll have herbaria full of blighted names, And the philosopher's stone I seek is love!
PROKESCH.
My Lord!
THE DUKE.
Why, if you think of it, dear friend, Napoleon's son, Don Juan, is strict logic. The soul's the same: ever dissatisfied; The same unceasing lust of victory. Oh splendid blood another has corrupted, Who, striving to be Cæsar, was not able; Thy energy is not all dead within me. A misbegotten Cæsar is Don Juan! Yes, 'tis another way of conquering; Thus I shall know that fever of the heart Which Byron tells us kills whom it devours; And 'tis a way of being still my father. Napoleon or Don Juan!--They're decision, The magic will, and the seductive grace. When to retake a great unfaithful land, Calm and alone, sure of himself and her, The adventurer landed in the Gulf of Juan, He felt Don Juan's thrill; and when Don Juan Pricked a new conquest in his list of loves, Did he not feel the pride of Bonaparte? And, after all, who knows whether 'tis greater To conquer worlds, or be a moment loved? So be it? 'Tis well the legend closes thus, And that _this_ conqueror is the other's son. I'm the fair shadow of the dusky hero, And, as he conquered nations, one by one, So will I conquer women, one by one. Moonbeams shall be my sun of Austerlitz!
PROKESCH.
Ah, silence! for your irony's too bitter.
THE DUKE.
Oh, yes; I know. I hear the spectres crying-- Blue-coated spectres torn along the whirlwind-- "Well? What about the Imperial tale of triumph? Our toil? our wounds? our glory?--What about The snow, the blood, the history, the dead We left on all the fields of victory? What will you do with these?"--I'll charm the ladies! It's fine, among the people in the Prater, To ride a horse that cost three thousand florins, Which one can christen Jena. Austerlitz Is a sure bait to catch a fair coquette.
PROKESCH.
You'll never have the heart to use it thus.
THE DUKE.