L'Aiglon Part 41

When it was finished, to conceal my crime, I tossed it on the tester's canopy, And there the heap grew, hidden in the darkness; I slept beneath a dome of history.

All day the heap lay quiet, but at night, When I was sleeping, it began to stir, And from the pages clamorous with battles.

The battles issued, stretching torpid wings; And laurels showered upon my slumbering eyes.

Austerlitz gleamed among my curtains, Jena Glowed in the gilded ta.s.sels holding them And on a sudden lapsed into my dream.

Till once, when Metternich was gravely telling His version of my father's history, Down comes my canopy crushed by the glory; A hundred volumes with their fluttering pages Shouting one name!

PROKESCH.

Metternich started?

THE DUKE.

No.

He smiled benignantly, and said, "My Lord, Why keep your library so out of reach?"

And since that day I've read whate'er I choose.

PROKESCH.

Even "_Le Fils de l'homme_?"

THE DUKE.

Yes.

PROKESCH.

Hateful book!

THE DUKE.

Yes; but it's French and blinded by its hate.

It says they're poisoning me; hints at Locusta Who poisoned Claudius. If thy Prince is dying, Wherefore, O France, belittle his disease?

It is no poisoned cup of melodrama That kills the Duke of Reichstadt! 'Tis his soul!

PROKESCH.

My Lord--!

THE DUKE.

It is my soul! it is my name!

That mighty name, which throbs with guns and bells, Clashes and thunders, ceaselessly reproaches Against my languor with its bells and guns!

Silence your tocsins and your salvos! Poison?

What need of poison in the prison-house?

I yearn to broaden history!--I am A pallid visage watching at a window.

If I could only rid myself of doubt!

You know me well! what do you think of me?

Suppose I were what people say we are And what we often are, we great men's sons!

Metternich feeds this doubt with frequent hints: He's right; it is his duty as an Austrian.

I s.h.i.+ver when he opes the bonbonniere They call his wit, to find some honeyed venom.

You! tell me honestly what is my worth?

You know me; can I be an Emperor?

From this pale brow may G.o.d withhold the crown Unless its pallor's that of Bonaparte!

PROKESCH.

Prince--!

THE DUKE.

Answer me! Must I despise myself?

Speak out! What am I? Are my wits too dull, And are my wrists too feeble for the sceptre?

What do you think of me?

PROKESCH.

Prince, if all Princes Struggled with half these torments, doubts, and fears There would be none but admirable kings.

THE DUKE.

I thank you, Prokesch. Ah! that word consoles me.

To work, my friend!

[_A_ LACKEY _brings in a tray full of letters, places them on the table, and goes out._]

PROKESCH.

Your mail has just arrived.

A load of letters.

THE DUKE.

Yes; from women. These Reach me unopened.

PROKESCH.

What successes!

THE DUKE.

Yes; That's what it is to wear the fatal halo.

[_He opens one letter after another; reads the beginning and tears them up._]

"I saw you in your box last night, how pale--!"

Destroyed! "Oh, that while brow!" Destroyed! "My Prince, I saw you riding in the Prater yesterday--"

Destroyed!

PROKESCH.