The Surrender of Calais Part 7

_Ribau._ Is then the path of duty so precise, That 'twill not for a little deviate?

Sweet, let it wind, and bend to recollection.

Think on our oaths; yes, lady, they are mutual:-- You said you loved; I treasured the confession, As misers h.o.a.rd their gold: nay, 'twas my all.-- Think not I chatter in the idle school Of whining c.o.xcombs, where despair and death Are words of course; I swell not fancied ills With windy eloquence: no, trust me, Julia, I speak in honest, simple suffering: And disappointment, in my life's best hope, So feeds upon my life, and wears me inward, That I am nearly spirit-broken.

_Julia._ Why, why this, my lord?

You urge me past a maiden's modesty.

What should I say?--In nature's course, my lord, The parent sits at helm, in grey authority, And pilots the child's action: for my father, You know what humour sways him.

_Ribau._ Yes, court policy; Time-serving zeal: tame, pa.s.sive, blind, obedience To the stern will of power; which doth differ As wide from true, impulsive loyalty, As puppet work from nature. O, I would The time were come!--our enemy, the English, Bid fairest first to show a bright example; When, 'twixt the ruler and the ruled, affection Shall be reciprocal: when majesty Shall gather strength from mildness; and the subject Shall look with duteous love upon his sovereign, As the child eyes its father. Now, by Heaven!

Old John de Vienne is turn'd a temporiser; Making his daughter the poor topmost round Of his vile ladder to preferment. 'Sdeath!

And you to suffer this! O, fie, fie, Julia!

'Twould show more n.o.ble in you to lay bare Your mind's inconstancy, than thus to keep The semblance of a pa.s.sion; meanly veiling Your broken faith with the excuse of duty.

Out on't! 'tis shallow--you ne'er loved.

_Julia._ My lord, my cup of sorrow was brimfull; and you, I look'd not for it, have thrown in a drop, Which makes it overflow. No more of that: You have reviled my father: me, too, Ribaumont; Heaven knows, I little merit it!--My lord, Upon this theme we must not meet again.-- Farewell! and do not, do not think unkindly On her, you, once, did call your Julia.

If it will sooth your anguish, Ribaumont, To find a fellows.h.i.+p in grief, why think That there is one, while struggling for her duty, Sheds many a tear in private.--Heaven be with you!

[_Exit._

_Ribau._ Stay, stay, and listen to me. Gone! and thus too!

And have I lost thee--and for ever, Julia?

Now do I look on life as the worn mariner, Stretching his eyes o'er seas immeasurable, And all is drear and comfortless. Henceforward, My years will be one void; day roll on day, In sameness infinite, without a hope To chequer the sad prospect. O! if death Came yoked with honour to me, I could, now, Embrace it with as warm and willing rapture, As mothers clasp their infants.

_Enter LA GLOIRE._

Now, La Gloire! what is the news?

_La Gloire._ Good faith, my lord, the saddest that ever tongue told!

_Ribau._ What is't?

_La Gloire._ The town has surrendered.

_Ribau._ I guessed as much.

_La Gloire._ Upon conditions.

_Ribau._ What are they?

_La Gloire._ Very scurvy ones, my lord.--To save the city from sacking, six citizens must swing for it, in Edward's camp. But four have yet been found; and they are----

_Ribau._ Who?

_La Gloire._ Oh lord!--all of my own family.--There's John d'Aire, Jacque, and Pierre Wissant; my three good cousins german, my lord: and the fourth, who was the first that offered, is--is----

_Ribau._ Who, La Gloire?

_La Gloire._ [_Wiping his Eyes._] I crave your pardon, my lord, for being thus unsoldier-like; but 'tis--'tis my own father.

_Ribau._ Eustache!

_La Gloire._ He, my lord! He! old Eustache de St. Pierre:--the honestest, kindliest soul!--I cannot talk upon't.--Grief plays the hangman with me, and has almost choked me already.

_Ribau._ Why, I am courted to't.--The time, example, Do woo me to my very wish.--Come hither.

Two, it should seem, are wanting, to complete The little band of those brave men, who die To save their fellows.

_La Gloire._ Ay, my lord. There is a meeting upon't, half an hour hence, in the market-place.

_Ribau._ Mark me, La Gloire: and see, that you obey me, Ev'n to the very letter of my orders.

They are the last, perhaps, my honest fellow, I e'er shall give thee. Seek thy father out, And tell him this from me: his gallant bearing Doth school his betters; I have studied o'er His n.o.ble lesson, and have learnt my duty.

Say, he will find me in the market-place, Disguised in humble seeming; and I fain Would pa.s.s for one allied to him: and thence-- Dost mark me well?--I will along with him, Ev'n hand in hand, to death.

_La Gloire._ My lord,--I--I--[_Bursts into tears, falls on his Knees, takes hold of RIBAUMONT's Hand, and kisses it._]--I shall lose my father; when he was gone, I looked you would have been my father.

The thought of still serving you was a comfort to me.--You are my commander; and I hope I have, hitherto, never disobeyed orders; but, if I now deliver your message, drum me out for ingrat.i.tude, as the greatest rascal that ever came into a regiment.

_Ribau._ Pr'ythee, no more, La Gloire? I am resolved;-- My purpose fix'd. It would be bitter to thee, To see me die in anger with thee: therefore, Do thou my bidding; close thy service up, In duty to my will. Go, find thy father; I will prepare within the while.--Obey me,-- Or the last look from thy expiring master, Darting reproach, shall burst thy heart in twain.

Mark, and be punctual!

[_Exit._

_La Gloire._ O, the Virgin! Why was I ever attached to man, woman, or child?

_Enter EUSTACHE de ST. PIERRE._

_Eust._ Where's thy commander, boy--Count Ribaumont?

_La Gloire._ O father!----

_Eust._ Peace!--I must a word with him.

I have a few short thanks I would deliver, Touching his care of thee: it is the last Of all my worldly packages; that done, I may set forward on my journey.

_La Gloire._ Oh, father! I shall never go to bed again in peace as long as I live. Sorrow will keep my eyes open half the night; and when I drop into a doze at day-break, I shall be hanged with you, father, a score of times every morning.

_Eust._ I could have spared this meeting.--Boy, I will not-- Nor would I, had I time for't, ring a chime Of drowsy doc.u.ment, at this, our parting.

Nor will I stuff the simple plan of life, That I would have thee follow, with trim angles, And petty intersections of nice conduct; Which dotards, rotten in their wisdom, oft Will mark, in mathematical precision, Upon a stripling's mind, until they blur The modest hand of nature. Thou'rt a soldier; 'Tis said a good one;--and I ne'er yet knew A rough, true soldier, lack humanity:-- If, then, thou canst, with one hand, push aside The buffets of the world, and, with the other, Stretch'd forth, in warm and manly charity, a.s.sist the weak,----be thankful for the ground-work, And e'en let impulse build upon't;--thou needst No line, nor level, formal age can give thee, To raise a n.o.ble superstructure. Come; Embrace me;--when thy father sleeps in honour, Think that--[_Embracing him, he bursts into Tears._]--my son, my boy!--Psha! pis.h.!.+ this nature-- Conduct me to----

_La Gloire._ [_Catching hold of him._] Hold! hold!--We shall leap here, from bad to worse. I--I am bidden, father, to deliver a message to you.

_Eust._ Be quick, then; the time wears.

_La Gloire._ No, truly, 'twill not come quick. I must force it out in driblets. My captain bids me say, that--that brave men are scarce.

Find six in the town, and you find all;--so he will join you at the market-cross, and--go with you--to----

_Eust._ The scaffold!

_La Gloire._ Yes, the sca--that word sticks so in my throat, I can't squeeze it out, for the life of me.

_Eust._ Why, this shows n.o.bly now! our honest cause Is graced in the addition. Lead me--[_Observing LA GLOIRE, weeping_]--how now?

Out on thee, knave! thoul't bring disgrace upon me.

By Heaven! I feel as proud in this, my death;---- And thou, the nearest to my blood, to sully My house's name with womanhood--Shame! shame!

Where is the n.o.ble Ribaumont?

[_Going._