L'Aiglon Part 121

[_The_ THREE WOMEN _make a gesture of protest._]

Ah, yes! The child they pity, spoil, and shelter-- And with maternal fingers, on my brow Still sought the golden curls which Lawrence painted.

THE COUNTESS.

No, no! We knew the struggles of your soul!

THE DUKE.

And history itself will not record The Prince whose soul was seared with all ambitions, But see the solemn, rosy, fair-haired child Tricked out in laces in his little goat-cart, Holding the globe as 'twere an air-balloon.

MARIA LOUISA.

Speak to me! I am here! Give me a word To soothe remorse, for through no fault of mine I was too small beside your mighty dreams.

I have the thriftless conscience of a bird!

The tinkling bells that jangle in my brain Have never ceased till now. Look at me now!

Speak to me now! Forgive me now!

THE DUKE.

O G.o.d!

Inspire me with the deep, yet tender word With which a son forgives his mother.

MARIA LOUISA.

Franz, The cradle which you asked them for last night--

A LACKEY.

'Tis here.

[_He goes out to fetch it._]

THE DUKE.

[_Looking at_ METTERNICH.]

Ah, my Lord Chancellor, I die Too soon for you; and you should weep.

METTERNICH.

My Lord--!

THE DUKE.

I was your weapon and my death disarms you!

Europe, which never dared to say you nay, When you were he who could unchain the Eaglet, Listening to-morrow, will take heart, and say "I do not hear it stirring in its cage!"

METTERNICH.

My Lord! My Lord!

[_The great enamelled cradle is brought in._]

THE DUKE.

The cradle Paris gave me!

My splendid cradle, Prudhon's masterpiece!

Amidst its gold and mother-o'-pearl I slept, A babe, whose christening was a coronation.

Place it beside this little bed, whereon My Father slept when victory fanned his slumbers.

Closer! until its laces graze the sheets.

Alas! how near my cradle to my death-bed!

[ _He points to the gap between the cradle and the bed._]

And all my life lies in that narrow s.p.a.ce!

THERESA.

Oh!--

THE DUKE.

In that gap, too narrow and too dark, Fate ne'er let fall a single pin of glory.

Lay me upon the bed.

DIETRICHSTEIN.

How pale he grows!

THE DUKE.

Ah, I was greater in my cradle, than I am upon this bed; and women rocked me-- Yes, I had three to rock me, and they sang Their strange old songs: dear songs of Mistress Marchand!

Oh, who will lull me now with cradle-songs?

MARIA LOUISA.

Is not your mother here to sing to you?

THE DUKE.

Do you know any songs of France?

MARIA LOUISA.

Why--no.

THE DUKE.