Gentz.
Knight o' the Swedish Seraphs,
The Danish Elephant, the Golden Fleece—
Flambeau.
If Nepomuk has one or two more titles—
Gentz.
Curator of the Fine Arts, Czechish Magnate—
The Duke.
She's overdoing it: I move more quickly.
Gentz.
Bailiff of Malta—
The Duke.
Ha! She stops!
Gentz.
Grand Cross
Of Charles the Third, the Falcon, Bear, and Lion—
Phew—!
The Archduchess.
[To the lady seated next to Gentz.]
He's fainting! Fan him quickly, someone!
Gentz.
Fellow of all the Academies on earth—!
All.
Hurrah!
Flambeau.
And while they clash their glasses, Prince,
She's starting—she has started—
The Archduchess.
[To the false Duke.]
Franz! Not going?
The Duke.
All's lost!
Flambeau.
Damnation!
The Archduchess.
[To the false Duke.]
Wait!
The Duke.
The Archduchess
Knew nothing of the plot—
The Archduchess.
You grieved me, Franz;
Just now you—
[She recognises the Countess.]
Ah!
The Duke.
All's lost.
The Archduchess.
But—
[Offering her hand to the Countess.]
Well, good-night.
The Countess.
Ah, Madam—How—?
The Archduchess.
Why don't you kiss my hand?
[The Countess goes out.]
A Mask.
The Duke already gone?
Another.
He's whimsical.
The Duke.
[Meaningly, to the Archduchess.]
Your hand—as to the Duke?
The Archduchess.
Yes, gentle mask.
Gentz.
And now—
Several.
Again?
Gentz.
One word—-
Voices.
Oh, go ahead!
Gentz.
I wanted to complete my little toast,
But while the Duke was here I couldn't name
The proudest title Metternich can boast of;
But now we're rid of him, I have the honor:—
Ladies and gentlemen, here's the destroyer
Of Bonaparte!
All.
Hurrah!—To the Destroyer!
The Duke.
[To Flambeau.]
What are you doing?
Flambeau.
[Who is pouring his wine into his gun-barrel.]
Lest it might go off!
A Mask.
This Bonaparte—
Second Mask.
Wasn't marble.
Third Mask.
Stucco.
The Duke.
What!
Flambeau.
Have a care! An Empire is at stake!
A Mask.
Much overpraised—
Flambeau.
Take care!
Tiburtius.
A middling soldier,
But then he rode a camel while in Egypt;
What more do you want?
A Mask.
Gentz imitates him.
Flambeau.
Lord!
Another Mask.
Do it!
Flambeau.
[To the Duke.]
Remember, you're not here at all!
Gentz.
[Arranging his hair, and striking the conventional attitude.]
Curl—eye—hand—There!
Flambeau.
Old fool!
The Duke.
He mocks him, yet
Even the mockery's great, for it evokes him.
Tiburtius.
You know he used to tumble off his horse?
Flambeau.
That's what the Ultras always said about him.
A Mask.
His talk was poor.
Flambeau.
Go on!
The Duke.
Oh, that's the rule.
What could these worms and insects talk about
If they had not the eagle to abuse?
Tiburtius.
His name was not Napoleon at all.
Flambeau.
What!
Tiburtius.
That was manufactured. It's so simple!
You want to make a sounding name—
Flambeau.
You idiot!
Tiburtius.
Which shall creep into history by and by:
Take three bright, simple vowels: Na—po—le—
And add a nasal sound: On—
A Mask.
Wonderful!
Tiburtius.
Yes: Na—po—le, the lightning; On, the thunder.
Flambeau.
That's all!
A Mask.
What was his name?
Tiburtius.
What? Don't you know?
A Mask.
Why, no.
Tiburtius.
His name was Nicholas.
Flambeau.
[Bursting out.]
Be damned!
Several Masks.
[Laughing.]
Bravo the Veteran!
Gentz.
[To Flambeau.]
Nicholas!—Have a quail.
Flambeau.
[Taking the dish.]
But Nicholas was good at winning battles.
A Mask.
And what a funny court he scraped together!
Second Mask.
If you talked titles, pedigrees, precedence,
There wasn't a soul who had a word to say.
Flambeau.
Wasn't Cambronne at Court to say the word?
A Mask.
But—in war—
Flambeau.
Oh—!
Second Mask.
What did he do?
Another Mask.
Why, wrote reports.
A Mask.
And always stood about on distant hills.
Flambeau.
By God—!
The Duke.
Hush!
Tiburtius.
Once a ball was good enough
To wound him in the foot at Ratisbon:
Enough to make a subject for a picture.
Flambeau.
[To the Duke.]
Be calm—!
The Duke.
Be calm—!
Flambeau.
Just take away this knife.
Tiburtius.
In short—
The Duke.
He'd best be careful what he says.
Flambeau.
You must put up with it!
The Duke.
Not for an Empire!
Tiburtius.
In short this hero was—
Flambeau.
Take care! Take care!
Tiburtius.
He was a coward.
The Duke.
Oh!
The French Attaché.
No! That's a lie!
All.
Eh? What?
Tiburtius.
What's that?
All.
Who spoke?
Gentz.
I love a quarrel!
Flambeau.
Aha! Thank God, there was a man among them!
Tiburtius.
Who dared—?
The Attaché.
I dared, sir!
Gentz.
He's the Attaché
Of th
e French Embassy.
Tiburtius.
You challenge me!
You represent the King, sir!
Gentz.
Quite amusing!
The Attaché.
The King is not in question, but my country.
You are insulting France, when you insult
The man she loved through many glorious years.
Tiburtius.
Buonaparte—
The Attaché.
Please say Bonaparte.
Tiburtius.
Well, Bonaparte—
The Attaché.
The Emperor!
Tiburtius.
Your card?
Flambeau.
[Who has disappeared for a moment, and has come back cloaked.]
Come! I've got Gentz's cloak. It's lined with fur.
[Tiburtius and the Attaché have exchanged
cards. Tiburtius steps forward and nervously
lights a cigar.]
Tiburtius.
[To a Lackey.]
A light.
The Lackey.
You hate the Corsican?
Tiburtius.
What's that?
The Lackey.
Your sister loves his son. Would you surprise them?
Tiburtius.
When?
The Lackey.
Now.
Tiburtius.
Where?
The Lackey.
Where I know—
Tiburtius.
Wait for me here.
Austria shall be relieved.
The Duke.
[Placing his hand on the Attaché's shoulder.]
I thank you, sir.
The Attaché.
[Turning.]
What for, sir?
The Duke.
Hush.
The Attaché.
The Duke!
The Duke.
A plot.
The Attaché.
Amazement!
The Duke.
I've nothing but my secret. Now it's yours.
We meet to-night at Wagram. Be there.
The Attaché.
I!
The Duke.
Are you not one of us?
The Attaché.
I am the King's.
The Duke.
But you're to fight a duel for my Father.
And so we're somewhat brothers. Fare-you-well.
The Attaché.
You hope to win me?
The Duke.
I am sure to win you.
Did not my Sire win Philippe de Ségur?
The Attaché.
To-morrow I return to France. I warn you—
The Duke.
You are a future Marshal of the Empire.
The Attaché.
I warn you, if my regiment meets yours
I shall not hesitate to fire.
The Duke.
Of course not.
Shake hands before we cut each other's throats.
The Attaché.
If you have any messages for Paris,
I get there on the fourth; I should be happy—
The Duke.
I hope to be there, sir, ahead of you.
The Attaché.
Yet, if I reach the—kingdom—ere you come?
The Duke.
Salute for me the Column of Vendôme!
Curtain.
THE FIFTH ACT
The battle-field of Wagram. Night. A small hill running off toward the left. A sign-post stands on the hill.
The Duke is standing on the summit of the hill gazing across the battle-field. Prokesch and Flambeau are talking together in undertones near the front.
Flambeau.
WAGRAM!
The Duke.
[Dreaming.]
"My son shall reign—a mighty sovereign—"
Flambeau.
Capital bit of country for the harvest.
The Duke.
"His task to foster whatsoe'er is good."
Flambeau.
What solemn prayer is he reciting?
Prokesch.
Hush!
The Duke.
"Complete my work, and not avenge my death—
All patriots—"
[To Prokesch.]
The horses?
Prokesch.
No, not yet.
The Duke.
"He would but ape me, if he made great wars—"
Prokesch.
He is rehearsing all his Father's counsels.
Flambeau.
Hush!
The Duke.
"He shall scorn all parties—"
[To Prokesch.]
Well? The horses.
Prokesch.
Too soon, my Lord.
The Duke.
Like an impatient lover
I've come too early to my tryst with France.
[He takes a few strides and finds himself in front
of a sign-post.]
Their sign-post! Is it true that I shall move
Unhindered by their hideous black and yellow?
How good to read upon the gleaming white
"Road to Saint Cloud" instead of "Grosshofen."
Grosshofen? Now I think of it, I ordered
My regiment to Grosshofen at dawn.
Flambeau.
What!
The Duke.
Yes; I gave the order yesterday,
Before I knew.
Flambeau.
We shall be far away.
[An old man comes out of the cottage.]
The Duke.
Who's that?
Flambeau.
He's ours. His hut our meeting-place.
Old soldier. Shows the battle-field to strangers.
The Old Man.
There—on the left—
Flambeau.
No, thanks. I know it.
The Duke.
Why
Does he serve us?
The Old Man.
I was dying yonder;
The great Napoleon passed—