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 Saum
ur.
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
&nbs
p; 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?