THE DRAMAS 
 
 OF 
 
 VICTOR HUGO 
 
 THE TWINS AMY ROBSART 
 
 TORQUEiVlADA
 
 HOLLAND PAPER EDITION 
 
 OF WHICH THERE HAVE BEEN PRINTED 
 
 1000 COPIES 
 
 NoJ^6
 
 NATIONAL EDITION 
 
 VICTOR HUGO 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 r ^"3 
 
 THE TWINS AMY ROBSART 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 G. BURNHAM 
 
 ) 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: GEORGE BARRIE & SON
 
 COPYRIGHTED, 1 896, BY G. B. & SON
 
 
 THE TWINS
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 PAGB 
 
 The Twins 5 
 
 Notes 65 
 
 Translator's Note to The Twins 66 
 
 Amy Robsart 67 
 
 Note to Amy Robsart 152 
 
 Torqiiemada 153 
 
 " Second Part 195 
 
 Note to Torquemada 238
 
 ,'/,■./,./
 
 PREFACE 
 
 8HIV/T HHT 
 
 BY THE EDITORS 
 
 The drama contained m ttelsiiwing ^^^3l3Si w^DAitten in 1839, between Riiy 
 Bias and the Burgraves, unfortunately was never completed. The author wrote but two 
 comple$ooaQt6;^ito^hjs6kq^#,9n|ifiilj^«<Jo, ffej^ge^jf ^j)p}^,jypiy^g^^ ^i^t ^j^^^^s^lj^ acts as 
 well are unfinished. The first act, whicH^RHStjpJnsnnearly nine hundred lines, would necessarily 
 have been abridged and condensed by the poet. Victor Hugo had a hail:a&i<&& ^©ginning one 
 of his ^Si'kV' Vf ^vi-ft|pll ^'i^' r¥toi t!!PJ[rig(Iiffidxisa4istii}iaqi$«9ginaj<joj^af tJM Sf^jji^qW^^ supera- 
 bundanc1^oVmmu\Tlie'tI?l?'an(f"ai'!amf'=a^-8^^ 
 
 revise, simplifying, rectifying, modifying. We have here only thfe ^r°t^ ^'k'i^fi', something 
 analogous to the "first proof" of one of Rembrandt's eaiiJ{-?6'rt^'^lTRfH9ii^ali^y connoisseur 
 prefers to the f.uk^'m^r&sxd^f'^ t^h^Rmmr^M'^k^m^^'mil^hnd look on at the 
 
 creation of a chef-d' ceuvre. 
 
 7
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 ,^^: ACT SECOND SCENE 1 
 
 THE MASK (on his knccs, with liis l:i' '- (iirned toward the tire-phice whence the song 
 
 seen I- to cuine i. 
 
 O come ! 
 
 (The j.Iale al the had .-I" tlie lire-place turns slowly upon itself, liWe a door. A ray of light 
 shines through the <i|.enini,', upon which the Mask gazes steadfastly as if fascinated, saying 
 in a low voice:) 
 (.)h ! come, come now I 
 
 (A wunian dressed in white appears in ihe opening. It is Ahx.) 

 
 PREFACE 
 
 BY THE EDITORS 
 
 The drama contained in the following pages, which was written in 1839, between Ruy 
 Bias and the Burgraves, unfortunately was never completed. The author wrote but two 
 complete acts ; the third is unfinished. Indeed it may well be said that the first two acts as 
 well are unfinished. The first act, which contains nearly nine hundred lines, would necessarily 
 have been abridged and condensed by the poet. Victor Hugo had a habit of beginning one 
 of his works by giving a free rein to his inexhaustible imagination ; the result was a supera- 
 bundance of minute details and of minor developments of the plot, which he would afterward 
 revise, simplifying, rectifying, modifying. We have here only the first sketch, something 
 analogous to the "first proof" of one of Rembrandt's eaux-fortes, which many a connoisseur 
 prefers to the final impression ; in them we surprise genius at work, and look on at the 
 
 creation of a chef-d'oeuvre. 
 
 7
 
 y
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON/E 
 
 THE KING 
 
 THE MASK 
 
 COMTE JEAN DE CREQUl 
 
 CARDINAL MAZARIN 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU 
 
 TAGUS 
 
 COMTE DE BUSSY 
 
 DUC DE CHAULNE 
 
 COMTE DE BREZE 
 
 VICOMTE D'EMBRUN 
 
 MASTER BENOIT TREVOUX, Lieutenant of Police 
 
 M. DE LA FERTE-IRLAN 
 
 CHANDENIER 
 
 A CITIZEN 
 
 A CAPTAIN OF THE GUARD 
 
 A JAILER 
 
 THE QUEEN MOTHER 
 ALIX DE PONTHIEU 
 DAME CLAUDE 
 
 CITIZENS, PEASANTS, SOLDIERS, POLICE
 
 ACT FIRST 
 
 A small deserted square near the Porte Bussy. Two or three narrow streets lead into the square. In the 
 background, above the roofs, can be seen the three spires of Saint-Germain-des-Pres. 
 
 As the curtain rises two men are standing near the front of the stage ; one of them, Guillot-Gorju, is just 
 completing the task of dressing the other in a costume like his own ; that is to say in the fantastic, ragged 
 costume of the comedians of Callot. The other has already donned the yellow stockings, shoes of ex^gerated 
 proportions, doublet and short-clothes of old black silk. The costumes and accessories of the two men are 
 exactly alike, so much so that they might easily be mistaken for each other. On the ground are the clothes 
 taken off by the one assuming the disguise — clothes of sober hue, but of rich material. 
 
 A few steps away another man, also dressed as a Merry-Andrew, is putting the finishing touches to a 
 juggler's booth, constructed of poles set up in the interstices of the pavement, covered with pieces of straw 
 mattings and odds and ends of damask and other old cloths ; outside the booth is a platform upon trestles, and 
 inside, a table with glasses, a card-table, a large drum, two dilapidated chairs, and a valise filled with drugs and 
 phials. 
 
 At one side is a small hand-cart. During the first three scenes citizens pass back and forth across the stage 
 at the rear. 
 
 SCENE 1 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU, THE MAN, TAGUS, at work on the booth. 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU. 
 Agreed. And now you are transformed. 
 
 (He examines with satisfaction the man whom he is 
 assisting to disguise himself. ) 
 
 In sooth you do resemble me! 't is mar- 
 velous. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Dost think so ? When will the lady come ? 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU. 
 
 Toward twilight. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Is she young?
 
 12 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU. 
 Oh, yes ! You '11 think yourself in luck. 
 
 (Mysteriously.) 
 When all is quiet, about eight o'clock at 
 night, 
 
 (He poinls to the farthest corner of the square.) 
 
 you '11 hear three blows in yon dark corner. 
 
 (He strikes the palm of his hand three times.) 
 
 Thus. — Then you must say aloud : God 
 
 ALONE IS MASTER. COMPiEGNE AND PlERRE- 
 
 FONDS. With that she will appear. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Above all, keep my secret ! 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU (protesting with a gesture). 
 Ah ! my friend, rely on me ! 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Thou dost not know her name? 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU (continuing to perform the func- 
 tions of a valet-de-chambre). 
 
 I know it not. 
 
 (He points to a hovel at the right.) 
 
 In front of yonder hovel once, at niglit, 
 and with no light, I saw her. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 'T is a daring scheme ! 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU. 
 The lady 's of high rank ! 
 
 THE MAN. 
 What motive has she? 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU. 
 At that age ? Mon Dieu ! wherever God 
 may lead us, we do seek occasion to display the 
 generous impulses with which our hearts are 
 filled ; we long to show our zeal in every way, 
 and so we seize on any pretext in default of 
 motives. The first passing breeze removes 
 our thin disguise. Do not alarm her, do not 
 raise her veil. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Knows she the prisoner's name? 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU. 
 Oh, no ! Beside tlie queen and cardinal 
 that awe-inspiring name is known to no one. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 Friend, how came she to apply to you for 
 this affair ? 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU. 
 
 We are renowned for managing escapes. For 
 us, high walls and bolts and bars are but child's 
 play. Schomberg I set free from the Bastile, 
 the Admiral of Castile from Vincennes, Gif 
 from the temple, and Lescur from the old 
 chateau of Amiens. We never lack accom- 
 plices ! Thieves, gipsies, we have friends even 
 among the Jesuits. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 I may employ thee if aught comes of the 
 
 affair. And so, the lady unsuspectingly will 
 
 tell me all her plans, believing that she speaks 
 
 with thee? 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU. 
 I think so. 
 
 THE MAN (handing him a purse which he takes 
 from the clothes lying on the ground). 
 
 Here are the hundred louis. 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU. 
 Thanks, my captain. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Oh ! the letter stolen from the queen's 
 courier. 
 
 (Guillot-Gorju hands him a letter which he examines, 
 then carefully bestows in his pocl<et.) 
 
 How didst thoH do it, pray ? 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU. 
 'T is very simple and as clear as daylight. 
 Yesterday Tagus and I went out to take the 
 air upon the road to Spain. A gentleman
 
 ACT I—SCENE I 
 
 13 
 
 rode by and halted at the Croix-de-Berny. 
 Tagus is no fool ; he said to me : " He stops 
 to take a drink; it 's very hot." The man 
 in fact sat down beside the church. Thereon 
 did Tagus make a hole in his valise, whence 
 came the letter out with divers ducats. If we 
 had been seen, 't was a hard case ; but luckily 
 the man set off again without suspicion. 
 
 THE MAN (aside). 
 On what trifling accidents the fate of 
 
 "empires depends ! 
 
 (Aloud.) 
 
 Thinkst thou that yonder citizens assembled 
 on the square will readily take me for thee ? 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU (handing him a surtout of old 
 black velvet, and a great cloak of yellow mohair). 
 
 Pardieu ! Put on my Algiers coat and mohair 
 cape. You have, as I have, a black beard and 
 wig. Your height and bearing are the same, 
 and your melodious voice. Talk loud and 
 shout, and they will be deceived. 
 
 THE MAN (putting on the surtout and cape). 
 But what of thy man Tagus ? 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU. 
 
 'T is his instinct to see everything and say 
 
 naught. Tagus will follow blindly where you 
 
 choose to lead. Croix-Dieu ! Yon courtiers 
 
 know full well the art of training men like 
 
 dogs. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 Retz could not talk more shrewdly. God, 
 who dost govern us, Almighty God ! of what 
 avail to live in caves, if man doth sink as low 
 in every point, in every sense, among thieves 
 as among courtiers ? 
 
 (To Guillot-Gorju. ) 
 
 Before all things do not betray me, and 
 return anon ! 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU (with theatrical emphasis). 
 My doublet ne'er concealed a traitor's skin ! 
 
 THE MAN (smiling). 
 In truth thy doublet doth conceal the skin 
 
 but sparingly. 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU. 
 Fear naught ! 
 
 (He picks up from the ground underneath the rags an 
 old broken, dilapidated felt hat, adorned with a 
 yellow plume, and presents it to the man, with a 
 majestic air. ) 
 
 Your lordship's hat. 
 
 (Calling Tagus, who has been at work on the booth 
 throughout the scene. ) 
 
 Tagus ! Behold thy master ! 
 
 (Tagus bows.) 
 
 Obey, be docile. He is another I. 
 
 (He dismisses Tagus with a gesture.) 
 (To the man.) 
 And do you set your mind at rest. How- 
 ever, I will not conceal from you that I am 
 going hence. For men of our profession 
 Paris is becoming hot. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Damnation ! Can it be, Gorju, that thou 
 dost stop half-way on such a glorious road ? 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU. 
 The gentry at the Chatelet do make them- 
 selves ridiculous. Oh ! by the way, are you 
 a chiromancist ? 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 Just a little. 'T is a noble art. 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU. 
 Aye, very noble, very ancient too. The 
 art of reading in the hand what the soul hides. 
 It often happens that great ladies — very great 
 — come hither to consult me on the future. 
 
 THE MAN (astonished). 
 
 Often ? 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU. 
 
 Very often. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 In the street ?
 
 14 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU. 
 
 Upon this very spot. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 In broad daylight ? 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU. 
 They drop their veils. I draw the curtain 
 close. 
 
 (He points to a hideous rag hanging on the poles.) 
 And then I improvise. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Come on ! I '11 make the trial. 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU (pointing to the valise filled with 
 phials). 
 
 Here are the elixirs. 
 
 (He opens the table drawer.) 
 And ink and paper if you choose to write a 
 
 word or two. 
 
 (He picks up the clothes left by the man upon the 
 floor, and makes a bimdle of them which he puts 
 under his arm, after selecting an ample brown cloak 
 in which he envelops himself. He also puts on the 
 man's new felt hat with waving plumes.) 
 
 The hour is near at hand at which the 
 citizens will pass. I go. Ah ! now I think 
 of it, I ought to give you warning. With my 
 name you have a chance of being hanged, my 
 noble lord. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 Indeed ? And you with mine, my friend, 
 of being decollated. 
 
 GUILLOT-GORJU. 
 In that case, God guard you ! 
 
 THE MAN. 
 As thou seest, he has quite a task. Good- 
 night. 
 
 (Exit Guillot-Gorju. Left by himself the man sits 
 down upon a block of stone, takes from his pocket 
 the letter handed him by Guillot-Gorju, and reads it 
 with apparent attention which soon changes to deep 
 abstraction. Tagus meanwhile is putting the phials 
 in order and sewing together the old rags that make 
 the walls of the booth. )
 
 ACT I— SCENE II 
 
 15 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 THE MAN (alone, with his eyes fixed upon the letter). 
 
 A fleet in Gascony ; an army in Piedmont ; 
 
 agents at Madrid. 
 
 ( Raising his head. ) 
 
 The queen has projects brewing in her 
 
 mind. 
 
 (Musing.) 
 
 But this young girl ! a star outside her 
 sphere, what part has she in this tenebrious 
 affair? This Mazarin is good for naught save 
 to pollute whatever he doth touch. No, naught 
 save that ! How well these kings do choose 
 their ministers ! If anywhere, in some mean 
 hovel, there exists a black-souled varlet, 
 dreaming of the red barretta of a cardinal, a 
 cheating knave, who licks at first the hand 
 he '11 bite anon, false priest, false noble, with 
 a dastard's heart, who forces king and people 
 
 to pass through his sieve, whose mind is no 
 more than a potent menstruum, — if such a 
 man there be, 't is he they seek. Bourbons as 
 well as Valois ! To sustain the people with 
 just laws, to give vitahty to everything, to 
 throne and kingdom, they give o'er the state 
 to him, from top to bottom, from the palace 
 to the hovel, and make a chef de cuisine of a 
 poisoner ! 
 
 (Musing, with his eyes upon the letter.) 
 
 If we succeed, certes, we may obtain from 
 
 Spain Franche-Comte, without war, without a 
 
 single battle. 
 
 ( He continues his perusal of the letter with an air of 
 abstraction. Enter at the back of the stage the 
 Due de Chaulne and the Comte de Bussy, talking 
 together in low tones, with an air of mystery ; they 
 do not see the man and are not seen by him.)
 
 i6 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 DUC DE CHAULNE, COMTE DE BUSSY, both in street costume. In a corner of the stage, THE MAN. 
 
 TAGUS, still in the booth. 
 
 COMTE DE BUSSY. 
 Oh ! 't is a curious tale, upon my word. It 
 was two years before the king was born. 
 
 DUC DE CHAULNE. 
 In thirty-six ? 
 
 COMTE DE BUSSY. 
 E'en so. There is near Compiegne an old 
 chateau built to deceive some stern duenna or 
 some jealous husband, in a lover's interest, 
 so cunningly the artist multiplied mysterious 
 passages and secret doors, to give free play to 
 subterranean intrigues ! 
 
 DUC DE CHAULNE. 
 I know the place, my friend ! Plessis-les- 
 Rois. A ruined manor-house, deep-hidden in 
 the woods, which, so 't is said, communicates 
 with the chateau of Compiegne by a long 
 passage underground, constructed during the 
 last reign, then filled, and then by Mazarin 
 reopened. The queen and he, alone, have 
 access to the passage. There, by virtue of a 
 dispensation got from Rome, the secret mar- 
 riage that doth bind her to that man was 
 celebrated. 'T is deserted, so that they can 
 talk there undisturbed. Sometimes, they say, 
 they hie them there to quarrel. 
 
 COMTE DE BUSSY. 
 True. At the time of which I speak 
 there was at Compiegne a nobleman, whose 
 
 name I fear is now extinct, one Jean de 
 Crequi. 
 
 DUC DE CHAULNE. 
 Pardieu ! he was a pretty fellow ! 
 
 COMTE DE BUSSY. 
 
 On the other hand the garrison at Plessis 
 consisted of a sweet and lovely dame who 
 lived in strict retirement. Jean knew the 
 approaches to the manor, and by stratagem, 
 love aiding, for he was no fool, he forced an 
 entrance one fine evening to the fair one's 
 citadel, and took her captive by assault. 
 Later he learned, how 't was I hardly knew, 
 that the same fair one was his brother's wife. 
 I give thee facts, make of them what you 
 will. For better or for worse, it is the fact 
 that, nine months from that time, a child 
 was born, a daughter, born legitiiiiately and 
 justifiably, the lady being duly married. 
 But Comte Jean — thou seest, 't is a delicate 
 affair. 
 
 DUC DE CHAULNE. 
 
 The fair one's name ? 
 
 COMTE DE BUSSY. 
 Alix de Ponthieu. Methinks that she is now 
 an orphan. 
 
 DUC DE CHAULNE. 
 Where 's her home ?
 
 ACT I—SCENE HI 
 
 17 
 
 COMTE DE BUSSY. 
 She lives a hermit's life, no one knows 
 where. 'T is a rare thing at seventeen. 
 
 DUC DE CHAULNE. 
 And is she beautiful ? 
 
 COMTE DE BUSSY. 
 As day. Thenceforth Jean's only passion 
 was that child. His fate is ancient history". 
 Ten years since he vanished from the scene, 
 exiled for a conspiracy ... 
 
 DUC DE CHAULNE. 
 Ah ! I remember ; Mazarin proscribed him, 
 and the Luynes had his property. 
 
 COMTE DE BUSSY. 
 
 And, if he were to reappear to-morrow, the 
 
 Greve would have his head. 
 
 (The two gentlemen walk on, talking, and leave the 
 stage. Some moments since Tagus has drawn near 
 to the man trj'ing in vain to attract his attention ; 
 at last he decides to accost him.)
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 THE MAN, TAGUS; afterward, CITIZENS, men and women. 
 
 Master ! 
 
 Well? 
 
 TAGUS. 
 THE MAN. 
 
 TAGUS. 
 Shall I put everything in readiness ? 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 Aye. 
 
 TAGUS. 
 
 Soon the citizens will come, thou knowest, 
 
 from the March6 Saint-Germain. So lend a 
 
 hand, I prithee. 
 
 (The man assists him to lift the great drum upon the 
 platform.) 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 Beat the drum. 
 
 (Tagus begins to beat the drum. A few persons appear 
 at the rear of the stage. After a few lusty blows 
 Tagus stops, all out of breath.) 
 
 THE MAN (leaning against the platform, musing). 
 
 A woman in the plot ! Mysterious ! 
 
 (He turns to Tagus.) 
 Tell me, art thou the man to do a kindly 
 deed one of these days ? 
 
 TAGUS. 
 We should be fools, my master. Do what 
 we may, a kindly deed, performed by men 
 like us, casts an uncertain light, and ends too 
 often in a slip-noose. Nor do I see that much 
 is to be gained by it. However, do your will ! 
 So long as I have food to eat, I am content. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Who thinkst thou that I am ? 
 
 TAGUS. 
 A thief. To me it matters little ! 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Tagus, knowest thou that, living as we do, 
 some day we shall be strung up by our necks? 
 We 're outlaws, brother ! 
 
 TAGUS (seizing the drum-stick once more). 
 
 Let us not think of it ! 
 
 ( He beats the drum with great violence. A considera- 
 ble crowd gathers around the booth, women, chil- 
 dren, a few old men, and innumerable beggars.) 
 
 TAGUS (mounted on the platform, and .shouting at 
 the top of his lungs). 
 
 Hola ! all ye who 'd lead a calm and peace- 
 ful life in this great city, peasants and bour- 
 geois, come this way ! come, nobleman and 
 page ! Who longs for health ? who seeks good 
 luck ? we have them both to sell. Who does 
 not know that pride, vice, love and fever, 
 lawyers and nurses, ribald talk and foolish 
 visions, interrupt the action of the constella- 
 tions ? Come to us ! By our aid every man 
 may trim his sails for happiness ! Friends, 
 nothing is so rare as a reliable astrologer. 
 Manilas is obscure, Firmique is venturesome, 
 the Arabian's wild talk is odious, Jtinctin 
 would tell you everything, and Spina nothing, 
 Cardan went all astray touching the King of 
 England, Pontan is too Roman, Argolus too
 
 ACT I— SCENE IV 
 
 19 
 
 Greek, and Lconice and IV-zel follow on 
 behind. 
 
 (With .1 tremendous accession of energy.) 
 To find the hidden clue to nature's 
 secrets, draw your horoscopes and tell your 
 fortunes, to disclo.se to all the future, like 
 Apollo, by the air, the earth, the water, by 
 dead bodies, to bring down the manna and 
 the dew from heaven, to fashion Ormuzd, wipe 
 out Ahrimanes, cause a baron's wife to be 
 enamored of a beggar, and recite the verses 
 of the famous Scarron ; to foretell to every- 
 one complete success, for hyleg, antiste and 
 triplicity, to change copper into gold before 
 your very eyes ! to sell for a mere song 
 nn'raculous phylacteries ! plumbago, storax, 
 sublimate and mithridate; to guess a day, 
 a date, an epoch, nobody, messieurs, no, 
 nobody 's the equal of the great Guillot- 
 Gorju, my master, here before you ! Jean 
 Triteme is good for nothing but to kiss his 
 slipper. Ptolemy 's a fool, and Calchas is a 
 knave ! 
 
 (Sensation among the bystanders. Tagus, out of 
 breath, steps down from the platform, and speaks in 
 an undertone to the man.) 
 
 'T is thy turn, master. I will go mean- 
 while, and see what yonder clowns have in 
 their pockets. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Look you ! 
 
 (He steps npon the platform. While he is haranguing 
 Tagus circulates among the spectators, and feels 
 deftly in their pocl;ets, taking advantage of their 
 close observation of the booth. ) 
 
 THE MAN (with the tone and accent of an empiric). 
 Gossips, I have traveled far o'er land and 
 water I atlases, world-maps and charts make 
 mention of no country that I have not sought 
 and found, roamed over and surveyed, and 
 eke described ! 
 
 (Tagus, having finished his first round, steps upon the 
 platform, and, taking shelter behind his cloak, shows 
 the man a handful of small coins.) 
 
 I TAGUS (in an undertone). 
 
 They 've naught but sous and liards, master ! 
 
 (Turning indignantly toward the audience.) 
 
 Canaille ! 
 
 (He steps down again and recommences his explora- 
 tions.) 
 
 THE MAN (continuing). ' 
 
 The Indies I have seen, and China, and the 
 great wall. I 've seen the King of Algiers, 
 seated in his arm-chair, laugh and play at 
 dice. Two beautiful embroidered birds sit on 
 the chair-back, the gorgeous colors of their 
 pluinage mingling with the fringe. 
 
 TAGUS (emptying a pocket with each hand). 
 One drinks, the other eats. 
 
 (Aside.) 
 Still naught but sous I 
 
 THE MAN (taking a phial and showing it to the 
 spectators). 
 
 Observe ! a love elixir ! 
 
 (To a rag-picker.) 
 
 Were you at Vienna, at the late court festi- 
 val, madame ? 
 
 TAGUS. 
 
 We were the darlings of Vienna ! We were 
 
 there I 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 The Infante, as I now remember, was, 
 upon my word, adorable in Hebe's guise. 
 She wore a skirt of flaming silk of Tours ; she 
 went and came and laughed and filled the 
 glasses round, and did most gallantly befud- 
 dle an Olympus of kings, dukes and arch- 
 dukes, with a wine that was not taken from 
 the aqueducts ! 
 
 (He displays his phials to the crowd.) 
 
 Elixirs for the teeth, for fever and for 
 syncope ! 
 
 TAGUS (in falsetto). 
 
 Who '11 have a flagon ? Who will have his 
 horoscope ?
 
 20 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 THE MAN. 
 I come from Portugal ! They have a 
 youthful king — he 's but sixteen — and of a 
 joyous humor, by my faith ! When the 
 Alcalde Obregon, now in disgrace, asked him 
 this question: "How are we to rid your 
 Grace of Count Valverde ?" he said : " By 
 killing him !" and said it with the glee befit- 
 ting that sweet age. 
 
 ( In a melancholy tone. ) 
 
 O youth ! O springtime ! O the azure sky ! 
 
 (To the crowd.) 
 Who '11 have the oil of beauty? 
 
 (Leaning over toward his audience.) 
 Lily? jasmine? almond? rose? 
 
 TAGU.S (with energy). 
 
 Speak out ! ! ! 
 
 ( While the spectators crowd around the platform, 
 selecting, purchasing and paying, Tagus takes one 
 of the citizens aside and leads him to the front of 
 the stage by one of the huge buttons on his coat.) 
 
 TAGUS (confidentially, to the citizen). 
 
 My friend ! my master is a sorcerer so 
 
 skillful that . . . 
 
 (He points into the air with his finger, as if to call his 
 attention to some object far away among the clouds.) 
 
 D' ye see yon bird ? 
 
 THE CITIZEN (looking up). 
 No. 
 
 TAGUS. 
 
 Even so ; my master, if it pleases him, will 
 
 guide his flight according to the straight, the 
 
 parallel or oblique sphere. 
 
 (He takes the citizen's purse from one of the pockets 
 of his waistcoat.) 
 
 THE CITIZEN. 
 I do not see the bird. 
 
 TAGUS. 
 Look. Yonder in the sky ! 
 
 (He takes his watch from the other pocket.) 
 
 THE CITIZEN (looking up). 
 
 No. 
 
 TAGUS. 
 
 You must have poor eyes, my man. 
 
 (Great tumult among the crowd. Enter a number of 
 police officials, archers, gendarmes, exempts, footmen 
 of the watch and provostry, led by a district captain. 
 The crowd makes way. Tagus seems ill at ease.) 
 
 THE CAPTAIN (in a loud voice). 
 Which of the villains screeching yonder is 
 Guillot-Gorju ? 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 L 
 
 THE CAPTAIN. 
 Thou ? Then we arrest thee, knave ! 
 
 THE MAN (unmoved). 
 
 Aha ! messieurs, you might speak more 
 
 politely. 
 
 THE CAPTAIN (to Tagus). 
 
 Thou, begone ! 
 
 (Three archers suiTound Tagus and drag him away 
 struggling.) 
 
 THE MAN. 
 My servant too ! Why ? How ? 
 
 THE CAPTAIN. 
 
 Monsieur Trevoux, Lieutenant of Police, 
 
 intends to question thee himself and he can 
 
 tell thee. He is close upon us. Here he is. 
 
 (Enters Master Benoit Trevoux, Lieutenant of Police, 
 dressed in black, with a guard of sergeants. ) 
 
 THE MAN (still upon the platform, to the crowd). 
 
 Gossips, be off. Monsieur le Lieutenant de 
 
 Police Trevoux coines hither to consult me 
 
 and to offer me his custom. \St have matters 
 
 of high import to discuss. 
 
 (He steps down from the platform, and .salutes the 
 Lieutenant of Police, then turns to the archers.) 
 
 Soldiers ! introduce Monsieur le Lieutenant 
 de Police, and close the doors. 
 
 ( He draws aside the old rags which serve the purpose 
 of a curtain. Benoit Trevoux enters the booth. The 
 soldiers disperse the crowd.)
 
 ACT I— SCENE V 
 
 21 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 THE MAN, MASTER BENOIT TREVOUX. 
 
 (Two or three exempts inside the booth ; outside, the 
 police officers, stationed at the entrances to the 
 square.) 
 
 THE MAN (eyeing the Lieutenant of Police from 
 head to foot). 
 
 Are you mad, monsieur? 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX (dumfounded). 
 A civil question that ! 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Monsieur le Lieutenant de Police et de ville, 
 
 ( Pointing to the archers. ) 
 
 be pleased to send away these officers. 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX. 
 They are well placed. 
 
 THE MAN (courteously). 
 Your pardon. They are in the way and 
 they are ugly. Well I know that one must 
 take one's fortune as it comes. But pray, 
 monsieur, what will my capture profit you ? 
 
 M\STER TREVOUX. 
 The king will be obliged to me therefor. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Nay, not to you, dear sir. Monsieur le 
 Cardinal will take unto himself the honor. 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX. 
 He says tnie, the knave ! 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Now, Mazarin detests you. He it is you 
 serve thereby, and not yourself. . 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX. 
 
 It may be so. However, I perform my 
 duty. That 's enough. I must maintain 
 good order, succor honest citizens, guard 
 every door, and have an eye to every purse, 
 eradicate thieves, beggars and brigands, and 
 purge the public squares of bandits of thy 
 kidney ! 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 These be wild words ! 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX. 
 Go to ! to prison, knave ! 
 
 THE MAN. 
 You are a vandal ! 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX. 
 To the Chatelet ! 
 
 THE MAN. 
 So be it ! I will cause a pretty scandal to 
 avenge myself. Consider, ere you drive me 
 to extremities, that I, Guillot-Gorju, know 
 everything, see everything. For fifteen years 
 have I lived, a man without fear and without 
 reproach, iny eyes deep in your secrets . . . 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX. 
 And thy hands deep in our pockets. Out 
 upon thee, gallows-bird ! thou shalt be tried. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Such is your pleasure ? Good ! in open 
 court, before the Chatelet, will I cry out upon
 
 22 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 the housetops, 'mid a hundred epigrams, all 
 that your wives are doing day and night. 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX. 
 Thou 'It be convicted; thou wilt be con- 
 demned ! 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 Look you, I '11 say that you are . . . 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX. 
 Gorju ! 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Proof in hand ! 
 
 (Lowering his voice.) 
 
 You may be made to suffer for three rubies 
 filched from the queen's treasure chest. 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX. 
 The thieves we 've caught have all been 
 hanged. 
 
 THE MAN (in Tr^voux's ear). 
 
 The rubies that you 've caught have never 
 been returned. 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX (aside). 
 The devil ! 
 
 (Aloud.) 
 Prithee what 's thy proof . . . 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 Of what ? 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX. 
 Of this thou dost advance. 
 
 THE MAN (with a majestic smile). 
 I never dwell on matters of this sort ; 't is 
 execrable taste. I leave such pedantry, for 
 my part, to the king's attorney. 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX (to the exempts). 
 Stand you back a little. 
 
 (To the man.) 
 
 Let US talk more at our ease. How dost 
 
 thou know this ? 
 
 THE MAN. 
 'Faith . . . 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX (with interest). 
 Pray take a chair. 
 
 THE MAN (seating himself). 
 
 I know it, monsieur, as I know about a 
 
 certain plot . . . 
 
 ( Master Tr^voux with a wave of his hand dismisses 
 the exempts, who leave the booth.) 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX (anxiously). 
 A plot ! good fellow, you astonish me ! 
 
 THE MAN (unmoved). 
 Li which you are concerned. 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX (with increasing alarm). 
 
 I! no! 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 'T is a great mystery. A prisoner . . . 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX (hastily). 
 Hold thy peace ! 
 
 THE MAN. 
 So be it; I am well content to hold my 
 peace. 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX. 
 No, speak. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 To what end did you take that prisoner one 
 day by Compiegne, where the court was then 
 in residence ? 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX. 
 Pure chance ! 
 
 THE MAN. 
 But all things go to show that you had 
 secret dreams of a strange meeting. For, 
 albeit Mazarin 's the object of your scheming, 
 the explosion may perchance reach higher. 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX. 
 Hush ! How know you that ? 
 
 (Aside.) 
 This man is to be feared.
 
 ACT I— SCENE V 
 
 23 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 I know what you all say in bed, at table 
 
 and at church. 
 
 (He takes from his pocket the letter handed him by 
 Guillot-Gorju. ) 
 
 Look at this letter. Do you know the 
 hand ? 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX (glancing at the letter and 
 turning pale). 
 
 I do not know it. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 Yes, you do. 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX (aside). 
 It is the queen's ! 
 
 THE MAN (smihng). 
 Go to ! fear not ; what holds you back ? 
 Say boldly, as I do: "It is the queen's!" 
 Examine the address. 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX (reading). 
 "To the King of Spain, my brother." 
 
 (Aside.) 
 Methinks this man must be the very devil. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Read it, pray. 
 
 ( He hands the letter to Trevou.x.) 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX. 
 " I have received an onyx from the Pope, 
 whereon is graven a monk's head. I have 
 therewith made me a ring which I wear con- 
 stantly ..." 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Read on. 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX (reading). 
 " I count upon your kindly succor. To 
 insure success to our designs, a squadron in 
 the Gulf of Gascony, an army in Savoy will 
 be enough." 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 Read on. 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX (whose voice becomes more 
 and more agitated). 
 
 "No one hath aught to say to me touch- 
 ing the prisoner. But Mazarin hath said, in 
 bitter wrath, that rather than that child should 
 reappear, he would himself, with his own hand, 
 although a priest, and old and ill, put him to 
 death . . ." 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Read on. 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX. 
 
 " Naught happens as I 'd have it, but I 
 
 have upon my side Thoiras and Monsieur 
 
 de Souvre. Trevoux, Lieutenant of Police, is 
 
 with us . . ." 
 
 ( Interrupting himself, pale as death.) 
 Whence hadst thou this letter? 
 
 THE M.\N (replacing the letter in his pocket). 
 
 Bah ! I have a many others. If aught should 
 
 befall me, mark my words, someone would 
 
 publish them, and then beware ! So do not 
 
 anger me, but guard my life. 
 
 (Master Tr(5voux, as if a violent contest were raging in 
 his mind, stands musing for a few seconds, then 
 turns abruptly to him, and offers his hand.) 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX. 
 Let us be friends ! 
 
 THE MAN (taking Tr^voux's hand, and putting on 
 his hat). 
 
 Cinna, 't is my request to thee.' 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX (aside). 
 
 These charlatans have eyes that see through 
 everything ! 
 
 (.Aloud, with an engaging smile.) 
 
 Tell me, my friend, art thou in need of 
 money ? 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 Truly, my doublet has a many gaping 
 mouths which say as much, for, 'neath the 
 ample cloak whose folds envelop me, the 
 devil doth with mocking finger cause my
 
 24 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 linen to protrude through holes undreamed of 
 by the tailor. 
 
 ( Master Trevoux takes out his portfolio, writes a few 
 words in pencil, tears out tlie page and liands it to 
 the man.) 
 
 Here is an order for eight hundred livres 
 upon my privy purse, if thou wilt give me 
 all the names, if thou 'It disclose to me all 
 the state secrets in thy knowledge ; dost thou 
 understand ? 
 
 THE MAN (talcing tlie paper). 
 
 A thief, it may be ; but no spy, my friend. 
 
 ( He tears the paper.) 
 
 (Master Trevoux draws aside the curtain of the booth, 
 and dismisses the oflicers who have remained on the 
 square. ) 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX (to the officers). 
 Begone ! 
 
 (They obey in silence. The square is once more 
 deserted. Master Trevoux approaches the man with 
 an expansive air.) 
 
 Now let us talk, where none can overhear. 
 
 (Sound of footsteps in the neighboring street.) 
 
 Great Heaven ! someone comes ! 
 
 THE MAN. 
 'T is pity, you were waxing very loving. 
 
 (From a narrow street at the left, opposite to that taken 
 by the officers, a woman comes into the square ; she 
 is dressed in black and heavily veiled. She looks 
 behind for an instant with evident uneasiness, as if 
 she dreaded being seen, then rushes hastily into the 
 booth.)
 
 ACT I— SCENE VI 
 
 25 
 
 SCENE VI 
 
 THE MAN, THE VEILED WOMAN, MASTER TREVOUX. 
 
 (As the woman enters. Master Tr^voux wraps himself 
 in his cloak and takes his seat upon Tagus's stool in 
 the farthest corner of the booth, with his back turned 
 to the light, like one who is not anxious to be recog- 
 nized.) 
 
 THE VEILED WOMAN (to the man, not noticing 
 Trdvoux). 
 
 My friend, a single word. Pray look and 
 see if any come behind me? 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 No. 
 
 THE VEILED WOMAN. 
 I am not followed ! 
 
 THE MAN. 
 No, madame . . . 
 
 THE VEILED WOMAN. 
 'T is well. 
 
 THE MAN (aside). 
 Who is this woman ? 
 
 THE VEILED WOMAN. 
 
 Thou dost draw their horoscopes for all who 
 
 call upon thee ? 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Yes, madame. 
 
 THE VEILED WOMAN. 
 'T is well ! in that great science, and 't is 
 that whereof I stand in need, the lowlier the 
 man, the higher doth his vision soar. He 
 points our course though he knows not our 
 names. I come to seek thy counsel. I am to 
 be pitied. Listen . . . 
 
 (Spying Master Trevoux.) 
 Who is yonder man ? 
 
 THE MAN. 
 He is my servant. Have no fear. Your 
 hand, so please you. 
 
 THE VEILED WOMAN (giving him her hand). 
 Look. What seest thou there ? 
 
 THE MAN (aside, scrutinizing a ring which glistens 
 on her hand). 
 
 Ah ! can it be ? the onyx whereon a monk's 
 head is graven ! 'T is the queen ! 
 
 THE VEILED WOMAN (intensely excited). 
 
 Seek and ponder well, O subtle intellect ! 
 Conceive a haughty brow bowed down beneath 
 a most degrading yoke ! 
 
 THE MAN (removing his hat, and going to the cur- 
 tains at the back of the booth, and drawing them 
 together). 
 
 Allow me to draw close these curtains for 
 your Majesty. 
 
 THE VEILED WOMAN (turning as if acted upon 
 by electricity). 
 
 How canst thou know me? 
 
 THE MAN (unmoved). 
 'T is your hand that doth betray your 
 Majesty. 
 
 THE VEILED WOMAN. 
 My hand that doth betray me? how, I 
 prithee?
 
 26 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 THE MAN. 
 By its beauty. 'T is a royal hand. A 
 vvliite and rosy hand. 
 
 (Aside.) 
 The ony.\ ring was a great help. 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 'T is well ; say on ! 
 
 THE MAN. 
 You have a hundred reasons for your suffer- 
 ing, O queen ! being the link that joins two 
 families which draw you constantly in opposite 
 directions at the same time, unable to shake 
 off their yoke. Spain has your ancestors, 
 and Trance your progeny. You suffer with 
 the vanquished e'en as with the victors 
 you rejoice. The Louvre contains more 
 poignant sorrow still for you ; for you 
 did foster him who now doth rend you. 
 Mazarin, by you created, now doth plot your 
 ruin. Day by day you fall to pieces, stone 
 by stone and noiselessly. The mind of 
 Mazarin 's the only window through which 
 the king looks. With that vile traitor's eyes 
 doth he view everything, and, filled with mad 
 infatuation for the precious cardinal, he fain 
 would wed his niece, Olympe Mancini. You 
 are cast aside, your bitter plaints are laughed 
 at, and those joyous feet are walking o'er the 
 ruins of your power. You would be revenged, 
 however, you would become once more the 
 queen and mother, you would strive and strike 
 and punish ; but your days are haunted by 
 depressing visions, and your dreams at night 
 do drive the color from your cheeks. 
 
 THE QUEEN (gazing at the man with a mixture of 
 fear, curiosity and profound wonder). 
 
 Wretch ! who hath told you this? 
 
 THE MAN. 
 I see it. Know, madame, that in a little 
 time the secrets of the great fall down by 
 
 their own weight. The people have an eye 
 wide open at the bottom of your soul. 
 
 THE QUEEN (raising her veil). 
 Then pity me ! my tears in very truth do 
 scald me. Ere the month is past, the king, 
 ray son, will reach his sixteenth year, and 
 they will conclude this shameful marriage. 
 
 THE MAN (in an undertone). 
 At the same hour another will attain his 
 sixteenth year, madame ! 
 
 THE QUEEN (turning pale). 
 Of whom, in God's name, dost thou speak? 
 My friend, you dream. 
 
 THE MAN (lowering his voice more and more, and 
 speaking with deep meaning). 
 
 'T is said that his resemblance — to someone 
 you know — is fairly terrifying. 
 
 (He gazes fixedly at the queen, who turns her head 
 away in dismay.) 
 
 THE QUEEN (aside). 
 Who is this man ? O God, those eyes 
 would pierce the darkness of the tomb ! 
 
 (She turns suddenly toward him, and looks him in the 
 face. ) 
 
 E'en so, dost thou, dread seer, who knowest 
 everything, know what Monsieur le Cardinal 
 did say to me the other day ? 
 
 THE MAN (impassively, emphasizing every word). 
 He said that — he, an old man, — ill, — a 
 priest, — rather than see him reappear in life, 
 — albeit an old man must shudder to lay hand 
 upon a child, — that he with his own hand 
 would kill . . . 
 
 THE QUEEN (interrupting him, in dire alarm). 
 One whom I bid thee not to name ! 
 
 THE MAN (continuing). 
 A captive !
 
 ACT I— SCENE VI 
 
 27 
 
 THE QUEEN (beside herself). 
 Hush ! thou dost appall me. Saw I not thy 
 gleaming eyes, I well might think that I do 
 dream, and hear the awful voices of the dead, 
 who sometimes speak ! Who art thou, in 
 God's name ? 
 
 THE MAN. 
 You see. A juggler in the public streets. 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 But tell me, pray ! hast thou seen visions ? 
 Knowest thou what kings do say . . . 
 
 THE MAN. 
 And what they do. My skill is boundless. 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 I have faith in thy keen, searching glance. 
 What shall I do ? 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Time serves the man who waits. Be ever 
 ready for what may befall. Possess your soul 
 in patience. Let things take their course ; 
 let God's hand, filled to overflowing with 
 events to come, open and pour them forth 
 upon these many brows, awake or sleeping ! 
 You will have your share therein. Each one 
 will have his share. 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 
 Mon Dieu ! time flies, I must return ! 
 Relieve me from my dire perplexity. I fain 
 would make my way back, by the gate that 
 opens on the wood, to the chateau, incognito, 
 that no one may have knowledge of my flight. 
 That gate by Trevoux's men is guarded. 
 What to do ? 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 I can assist you. 'Twixt ourselves, my ser- 
 vant counterfeits Trevoux's safe-conduct. 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 Can it be ? 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Know you his writing ? 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 (The man opens the table-drawer, takes therefrom the 
 pen and paper to which Guillot-Gorju called his 
 attention and gives them to the Lieutenant of Police, 
 who has maintained his original position throughout 
 the scene, sitting upon Tagus's stool with his back 
 turned and now and then glancing furtively at the 
 queen.) 
 
 THE MAN (to Trevoux). 
 
 • Quick ! Write : Allow this lady and her 
 
 suite to pass. 
 
 (The Lieutenant of Police writes, the man takes the 
 paper and hands it to the queen, who examines the 
 handw^riting with astonishment.) 
 
 THE QUEEN (reading). 
 ' ' Signed, Trevoux ! ' ' 
 
 (Aside.) 
 I verily believe the man 's a sorcerer. 
 
 (She takes the onyx ring from her finger, and gives it 
 to him.) 
 
 Look, keep this ring in memory of me. 
 When thou wouldst speak with me, at Saint- 
 Germain, the Louvre or Corapi^gne, wherever 
 I may be, show this to gain admission. 
 
 (The man, with his knee on the groimd, takes the ring 
 and places it on his finger. The queen motions to 
 him to look out into the square. During the scene 
 it has grown dark.) 
 
 Is no one passing by ? 
 
 (The man raises the curtain, then returns.) 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Madame, 't is evening, and the bourgeois 
 have retired to their homes. 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 Adieu. 
 
 ( She leaves the booth in haste. As soon as she has 
 gone, the man goes straight to Master Trevou-x, who 
 rises.) 
 
 THE MAN (in a grave, stem voice). 
 
 Monsieur, it must be clear to you, that one 
 
 of us, without pretense of virtue, holds in the 
 
 hollow of his hand the other's head, and you 
 
 are not that one. I can undo you. So,
 
 28 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 begone, you and your spies, and come not 
 here again. If I espy a gendarme, I denounce 
 you. Go, I deign to say to you, monsieur, 
 that I Hke you have secret projects of my own, 
 and I am not the man you seek. Your secrecy 
 will be the gauge of mine. Keep silence 
 therefore, upon every point ! Remember, 
 too, that traitors ever come to grief in their 
 own trap. So, no sly tricks. Is it agreed ? 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX (with a bewildered air). 
 
 Agreed. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 Then give me back my servant. 
 
 MASTER TREVOUX (aside, with a terrified glance 
 at the man). 
 
 I have achieved a masterstroke ! I thought 
 to lay my hand upon a worm, and caught a 
 snake. Who is this demon of a man ? 
 
 THE MAN (dismissing him with a gesture). 
 
 Begone. 
 
 (Exit the Lieutenant of Police. The man looks after 
 him for a few moments, then sits down pensively 
 upon the block of stone. At the back of the stage 
 the Due de Chaulne and Comte de Bussy re-enter at 
 the point where they left the stage. They come 
 forward, talking together, without noticing the man, 
 and unseen by him.) 
 
 THE MAN. 
 The night has fallen. 
 
 DUG DE CHAULNE (to Comte de Bussy). 
 The strange story of thy Jean de Crequi 
 haunts me, and my brain is filled with thoughts 
 of this Alix de Ponthieu. 
 
 COMTE DE BUSSY (pointing to the street leading 
 into the square on the left). 
 
 Look, look, 't is Breze, roaring like a 
 tempest. ' 
 
 DUC DE CHAULNE (looking). 
 Ah ! meseems he 's in a howling rage ! 
 
 COMTE DE BUSSY. 
 He did not read until to-day the libel that 
 has gone abroad, wherein 't is said that, when 
 he was at Nimes, he stole. 
 
 DUC DE CHAULNE. 
 Ah, yes ! 't was Mazarin, they say, who first 
 
 did whisper the anonymous report. 
 
 (Enter the Comte de Br^ze and Vicomte d'Embrun in 
 street dress. M. de Brize is apparently in a towering 
 r.ige. He holds in his hand a pamphlet, with which 
 he gesticulates violently. At his noisy entrance the 
 man turns and espies the four gentlemen, but is not 
 observed by either of them. )
 
 ACT I—SCENE VII 
 
 29 
 
 SCENE VII 
 
 The Same: COMTE DE BREZE, VICOMTE D'EMBRUN. 
 
 COMTE DE BREZE (to M. d'Embrun). 
 What care I for the picture of the vices of 
 the present day? My only thought, a keen 
 and biting grief, 
 
 ( He crumples tlie pamphlet angrily in his hands. ) 
 is this Strange, infamous, degrading, stupid 
 insult, for which I cannot take revenge, — and 
 yet for which I needs must take revenge ! 
 
 VICOMTE D'EMBRUN. 
 Be calm. Look, pardieu, here are Chaulne 
 and Bussy, who are likewise out of humor 
 with thy Mazarin. 
 
 COMTE DE BRfiZE. 
 Bah ! out of humor ! I am incensed beyond 
 endurance ! 
 
 COMTE DE BUSSY. 
 
 So are we, no less than thou. 
 
 VICOMTE D'EMBRUN. 
 We nobles have been so humiliated, that 
 to-day the Mazarin doth smite us with im- 
 punity. Chaulne has lost his office. 
 
 COMTE DE BUSSY. 
 I, my regiment. 
 
 COMTE DE BREZE. 
 But, Embrun, the most deadly insult, 
 a-" thou liest !" or a blow is nothing, on my 
 oath, when one can take his critic by the 
 collar, as is meet 'tvvixt well-born enemies, 
 and say to him : " Come !" Sure it is that, 
 should Uz^s insult Elbceuf, or Gontaut make 
 
 sport of La Tremouille, or Albret treat Fon- 
 traille with disrespect, no one of them is tongue- 
 tied afterward ; they are brave men, and what 
 they 've said is said. And on the morrow, in 
 the teeth of laws and regulations, and of 
 Master Jean, the headsman of the marshals' 
 court, they hie them to the fields, with gleam- 
 ing eye, the purple flush of anger on their 
 brow, with head erect and naked sword ; and 
 there deal blow for blow, take blood for 
 blood ; 't is well ; — thou dost reprove them, I 
 applaud ; — lions they are and tigers, terrible 
 but great, magnificent to look on in the reek- 
 ing hippodrome, where they do gallantly give 
 back the blows they gallantly endure ! But a 
 mere clown ! a blackguard ! a vile rascal who 
 picks up a stone wherewith to break my 
 windows ! An Italian monk, a base befrocked 
 adventurer, a gallant who would fear to face 
 the laundresses upon the quay, and who, his 
 wondrous courage to display in all its vast 
 sublimity, borrows another's claw, and there- 
 with scratches me 1 A wearer of the cope ! 
 a beggar, by my halidome ! who vents his 
 filthy slaver on me in the dark, the while he 
 says his pater, and insults me with the sense- 
 less drivel of a scurvy pamphleteer, paid at 
 three sous the page ! Aha ! the mitred villain, 
 the vile shaven traitor, who doth set his dog on 
 me, and \\<t perdu himself, — may I be deemed 
 a heartless, soulless clown, and I do not to- 
 morrow cause him to be castigated like the
 
 30 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 blackguard that he is, by six stout lackeys 
 armed with nerfs de bceiif, before the statue of 
 King Henri on the Pont Neuf ! 
 
 DUG DE CHAULNE. 
 A noble thought, upon my word. I 'm 
 with you. 
 
 COMTE DE BUSSY. 
 I will go and take my stand upon the foot- 
 way to applaud, with beggars, citizens and 
 passers-by ! 
 
 DUG DE CHAULNE. 
 I will supply the lackeys. 
 
 COMTE DE BUSSY. 
 I the weapons. 
 
 (Some moments before, the man has left his seat and 
 softly approached the gentlemen from belaind, unseen 
 by them ; as their excitement increases he lays his 
 hand familiarly upon M. de Br^zi's shoulder.) 
 
 THE MAN (with a smile, to M. de BrSz6, who turns 
 about in amazement). 
 
 To chastise a cardinal of the Church of 
 
 Rome, a minister who holds France in his 
 
 hand and leads her where he will, to break a 
 
 ncrf de bosuf across his back-bone, Breze, is a 
 
 noble, yes, a royal thing to do but 't is by 
 
 no means easy to be done. 
 
 (The four noblemen gaze at one another in amaze- 
 ment.) 
 
 COMTE DE BUSSY. 
 Whom doth this villain with his yellow 
 cloak address ? 
 
 VICOMTE D'EMBRUN. 
 I prithee, Chaulne, lend me thy stick. To 
 be accosted thus by knaves one knows not is 
 too much. 
 
 THE MAN (unconcernedly). 
 I am Jean, Cotnte de Crequi, Baron de 
 Vaize ; my 'scutcheon or with a wild plum- 
 tree gules. In time of war, my family, with- 
 out resorting to the arriere-ban, gathered 
 
 beneath its standard Blanchefort, Vaize, 
 Agoust, Montlor and Montauban. On my 
 mother's side, — a Farnese — a grandee of 
 Spain, and admiral under King Louis Treize ; 
 such was I formerly. But now, of less irnpor- 
 tance in the kingdom than the lowliest 
 peasant, banished by Mazarin ten years since, 
 the wreck of a great nobleman, whereon the 
 Dues de Luynes grow fat, a price upon my 
 head, in hiding, all alone, a wanderer, with- 
 out supporters, friends or kindred ; such am I 
 to-day. That said, is it your pleasure that 
 we talk together? 
 
 (The gentlemen approach him with great eagerness of 
 manner. ) 
 
 COMTE DE BREZE. 
 Cr6qui, thy hand ! Great God ! the same 
 hard lot brings us together. Me they dare 
 insult, they dare to banish thee ! 
 
 COMTE DE BUSSY (scrutinizing M. de Crequi with 
 the air of a man searching his memory). 
 
 Yes, 't is Crequi in good sooth. Thy 
 memory is not yet dead among us. 
 
 (All shake hands warmly with Comte Jean.) 
 
 DUG DE CHAULNE. 
 We were speaking but a moinent since of 
 
 thee. 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 
 Gramercy, messieurs. 
 
 VICOMTE D'EMBRUN (examining Comte Jean's 
 costume with admiring gestures). 
 
 Comte Jean ! if one would recognize you, 
 may I die ! You are disguised ! 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 Nay. Aged. To turn a poor man gray, 
 Breze, ten years of exile equal twenty years of 
 life. Messieurs, what would you have, what 
 is your aim? Revenge? I bring it you. For 
 God's sake make less noise and play a stronger 
 game ! I hold for a consummate ass the
 
 ACT I— SCENE VII 
 
 31 
 
 gambler who at every word thumps with both 
 fists tlie table, foams with rage, and curses 
 brelan or quinola, shrieking about the gold he 
 loses and the cards he holds. Through all 
 this din the hidden blade is sharpening. A 
 Henri Third need never languish for a Guise. 
 And so, by stealth or manifestly as the case 
 requires, attack a Richelieu in broad daylight, 
 a Mazarin at night. To-day the mine, to- 
 morrow the sword-thrust. One-half the battle 
 must be fought in ambush. Therefore, Breze, 
 calm thyself, make no disturbance, but take 
 my advice, say nothing and retain thy post in 
 the king's household. Have no fear, 't will 
 be a mighty struggle. If some one of you 
 should ask what end is served by these vile 
 rags I borrow from the birds of night, that is 
 my secret. I intend to keep it. Further- 
 more, this costume is the type of this ignoble, 
 cozening, deceitful age ! an age wherein 
 naught waxes great except the public shame ! 
 wherein our eyes, whichever way we look, see 
 none but jugglers, charlatans, buffoons ! A 
 farce wherein the honor of all men is forfeited ! 
 mine, yours ! Retz is upon one trestle of the 
 stage and Mazarin upon another. Austria, as 
 prompter, holds the manuscript. And so, 
 messieurs, since France, lost to all sense of 
 shame, is in the hands of low-born actors, 
 
 (He goes to the table on which are the glasses.) 
 I, Jean de Cr^qui, nobly born and outlawed, 
 do turn mountebank ! So far as there is need 
 I will, like any reprobate, cause scandal and 
 commotion on the public highways ; and, as 
 if I were in my own person court and parlia- 
 ment and treasury, the Fronde, the clergy, 
 the Sorbonne, the University, aye, and his 
 Eminence himself, will terrify you all with my 
 bold, shameless laugh ! Ah well ! think you, 
 messieurs, that this insulting parody is my 
 true object ? No. My heart is stout, I succor 
 the oppressed, I flout th' oppressor, but the 
 
 censor's taste for cutting I have not ; and 
 though sufficiently enamored of my grotesque 
 role, I shall to-morrow, if I can, throw off this 
 mask. "But," you will say, " certes, it is 
 your purpose, from a cloudless sky to cause a 
 thunder-bolt to fall and strike down Mazarin, 
 to give us our revenge, and, lastly, to 
 recover your inheritance ?" Not so, messieurs. 
 .Although the blood flows swiftly 'neath my 
 doublet, I am too far gone in years for my 
 wrath to mount so high ; and, although 
 Mazarin is like to fall because of what I do, — 
 at least, I hope so, and I so believe,- — revenge 
 is not my object. Victor or vanquished, this, 
 in a word, is what I have at heart. Although 
 ten years in banishment, my heart was here in 
 France, yes, my whole heart, alas ! and all my 
 hope, — a child, — my happiness, my duty, my 
 remorse, a ray which shone long since upon 
 my gloomy brow, and which was true to my 
 bowed head when every other light was veiled ! 
 A child, to-day a maiden. But why weary 
 you with details, which concern myself alone? 
 Moreover, this sad secret is imprisoned in the 
 tomb. The humble, spotless dove herself 
 knows not, nor ever will, why I do love her 
 so. Messieurs, 't is ten long years, ten years 
 this very month, since I have seen that angel ! 
 But now, ah me ! I cannot live if I hear not 
 her voice, sweet music that doth stir my soul, 
 if I see not her eyes, the torches that do guide 
 my straying glances, — if, in short, I have her 
 not. Ah ! pity the poor exile ! All about 
 her have deserted her. Methinks I told you 
 that she is an orphan ? She has need of me. 
 For four years past my letters have been 
 intercepted — I have lost trace of her, I know 
 not how. Where dwells she at this hour ? I 
 cannot say. O God ! to see her once again, — 
 I weep for her ! That I might be allowed to 
 live in France, — to be with her, I begged, 
 implored, aye, did a hundred craven things ;
 
 32 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 I told Mazarin that he was a great man, and 
 wrote a letter to the king from Rome and 
 from Madrid. But no ! they did not choose 
 to give me leave to come. Thereon I said in 
 my own mind: "'t is time that this were 
 ended!" That is why, an outlaw, I have 
 come to Paris, why, in this strange garb, 
 degrading livery, I have embarked upon a 
 grim and arduous enterprise, wherein God 
 helps me on, and which, perchance, will 
 change in one brief moment, with a terrible, 
 far-reaching shock, the shape of France, the 
 face of the whole world. 
 
 (A moment of silence. ) 
 Now I have done. Ask me no questions. 
 Recognize me not, nor follow where I go. 
 But cloak your wrath in silence and be ready 
 for the day when, from the darkness bursting 
 suddenly upon your frightened eyes, I shall 
 
 cry out: "Come! all is finished. Hasten! 
 for the work is done." 
 
 COMTE DE BREZE. 
 Rely on us. 
 
 (The four gentlemen press his hand anew, in silence, 
 with renewed warmth.) 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 
 I do rely on you. Adieu. The hour has 
 
 come when I must be alone. 
 
 (He escorts tlie four gentlemen to the street leading 
 from the square, then returns to the front of the 
 stage, and rehapses into a state of profound absorp- 
 tion. The lamplighter enters, lights the lamp, and 
 passes on.) 
 
 COMTE JEAN (musing, with his head in his hands). 
 This unknown woman ! 
 
 (It has become quite dark. Lights appear in the win- 
 dows of the houses. Tagus enters at the back of 
 the stage, and rushes up to Corate Jean with an 
 expression of joy, not unmixed with awe.)
 
 ACT I— SCENE VIII 
 
 33 
 
 SCENE Vlll 
 
 COMTE JEAN, TAGUS. 
 
 TAGUS. 
 
 Thanks, master ! But for thee I had been 
 hanged. Thanks ! for to thee 1 owe my 
 liberty. They told me so ! And, master, 
 mark my words ; the gipsy, savage creature 
 that he is, lives for the man who gives him 
 life, and dies for him who saves him. So it 
 is that I am thine, and where thou goest I 
 will follow thee. Take one end of a red-hot 
 iron bar, and I will take the other, and I '11 
 say: " Behold this gallant gentleman ; I love 
 him, for had it not been for him I should be 
 now asleep for good and all ! Had it not 
 been for him, I should be swinging to and 
 fro upon the gallows in the evening breeze, as 
 if a tree had caught me by the hair as I passed 
 by, and brushing with my feet the shrubs 
 beneath me ! I belong to thee. 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 
 'T is well. And I do count on thee. Now go. 
 TAGUS. 
 
 The Louvre is the king's, the booth is ours. 
 I must take it with me. 
 
 (He sets about pulling the booth to pieces in great 
 haste, takes down the poles, unfastens the hangings 
 and bestows them all in the little hand-cart, where 
 he also piles up table, chairs, bass-drum, and all 
 the juggler's paraphernalia. Comte Jean pensively 
 watches him.) 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 Where shall I meet thee ? 
 
 TAGUS (still at work). 
 Near the door of the Ornie Sainte-Gene- 
 vieve. 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 Good ; hasten. 
 
 TAGUS. 
 By the way, the sergeants are a paltry lot. 
 Seen from afar they make a monstrous fine 
 appearance, but when one gets nearer to them, 
 
 (He takes from his breeches' pocket a letter, which he 
 hands to Comte Jean.) 
 
 master, I found naught but this in all their 
 
 pockets. 
 
 COMTE JEAN (unfolding the paper and reading it 
 by the light of the lamp at the street corner). 
 
 " You can safely trust the bearer of these 
 
 presents. Signed, Maz.4rin." Oho ! in an 
 
 emergency this may well be of service. 
 
 (He puts the paper in his pocket. Meanwhile Tagus 
 has completed his labors, and the booth with its 
 contents is upon the cart. He walks up to Comte 
 Jean and takes his hand.) 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 Go. 
 
 ( Tagus harnesses himself to the cart and exit dragging 
 it behind him. As soon as he has disappeared 
 Comte Jean looks toward the corner of the square 
 pointed out to him by Guillot-Gorju.) 
 
 Nothing as yet ! 
 
 (Returning to the front of the stage.) 
 
 Perchance — but no. 
 
 (Three hand-claps are heard in the darkness.) 
 
 At last ! It is the signal ! 
 
 (Raising his voice.) 
 
 God alone is master. Compiegne and 
 Pierrefonds ! 
 
 (A female, quite young, with a long veil of black lace, 
 enters, from the farther end of the square, at the 
 point designated by Guillot-Gorju, and comes for- 
 ward cautiously and slowly toward Comte Jean.)
 
 34 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 SCENE IX 
 
 COMTE JEAN, THE YOUNG GIRL (veiled.) 
 
 THE YOUNG GIRL (beneath her breath). 
 Is it you, my friend ? 
 
 COMTE JEAN (also lowering his voice). 
 
 'T is I, madame. 
 
 THE YOUNG GIRL. 
 Are you alone ? 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 Alone. Be not afraid. 
 
 THE YOUNG GIRL (walking up to him). 
 What news ? 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 All goes as well as we could wish. Fetters 
 and iron bars alike we '11 break. Since 
 Pierrefonds is his prison-house the prisoner is 
 saved ; for I know Pierrefonds well. Some 
 friends of mine, disguised as soldiers and as 
 harlequins will bear me aid. There is no risk. 
 If you are certain of the jailer you have 
 bribed, we may, with no great difficulty, set 
 him free. I will be answerable for our good 
 success. 
 
 THE YOUNG GIRL. 
 
 I shall be able to assist you to gain access 
 to the donjon. Tims : last week the doctors 
 said that, if he never looked upon a human 
 face, the prisoner, despite their watchful care, 
 would die of ennui ; that his close imprison- 
 ment is killing him, and that it is essential 
 that he be, at least, permitted to hear singing 
 in the room adjoining. For this duty, the 
 sole remedy to cure the grief that eats his life 
 
 away, I caused myself to be selected, thanks 
 to the jailer I have bribed, whose daughter I 
 am thought to be. On the appointed day, 
 myself within and you without, my friend, if 
 God is on our side, will crush those terrifying 
 walls, then we will fly, and give back home 
 and happiness and air and light and life and 
 courage to the prisoner. 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 Once free, we must look to it that he be not 
 taken. Where will you conceal him? 
 
 THE YOUNG GIRL. 
 Friend, among the woods near Compiegne 
 — from Pierrefonds north a league — I have an 
 old chateau, of vast extent, and filled with 
 secret hiding places, Plessis-les-Rois ; a man- 
 sion far from any town, built as a place of 
 refuge in the civil wars. There was I born, 
 and there, alas ! my mother died. Since 
 then no one has lived there. We will take 
 him there by secret paths that I alone do 
 know. 
 
 COMTE JEAN (who has listened with constantly 
 increasing agitation). 
 
 Great God 1 madame, you are Alix de 
 
 Ponthieu ! 
 
 THE YOUNG GIRL. 
 
 I am. But how know you ? 
 
 COMTE JEAN (falling on his knees). 
 Madame ! in Heaven's name ! upon my 
 knees do I appeal to you. Madame ! the
 
 ACT I— SCENE IX 
 
 35 
 
 risk, I swear to you, is very great. Have 
 done witli tliis most perilous and tragic enter- 
 prise ! I am not he for whom you take me, 
 but a man who saw you born, alas ! and who 
 since then has suffered cruelly, consumed by 
 bitter thoughts ; a former servant of your 
 noble mother, who, keeping silent, as he must, 
 touching his rights, his mission, comes to make 
 atonement to her in your person ; a poor 
 wretch, whose wish it is, if God accepts his 
 services in your behalf, to take away your 
 suffering and give you joy instead ; whom you 
 can never call by any name ; a lion to defend 
 you, and a dog to worship you ! 
 
 THE YOUNG GIRL. 
 Monsieur ! 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 A moment since you called me friend ! I 
 am an old, gray-bearded soldier, and I weep ! 
 Judge then of that that 's in my heart. Oh ! 
 madame, trust me. Have a little pity and a 
 little faith. Come 'neath yon lamp that I 
 may look at you. 
 
 (Alix draws near the lamp, and he gazes at her with 
 a something very like adoration.) 
 
 How you have grown, and oh ! how fair 
 you are ! What joy to see you once again ! 
 Ten years have passed ! ten years of suffering ! 
 To-day you cannot recognize me. Aye, in 
 that self-same chateau, where no one dwells, 
 Mon Dieu ! I saw you as a child, a httle child, 
 no higher than my knee, with rosy cheeks, 
 running about among the flowers, in the fields, 
 in the bright sunlight ! Poor dear child ! 
 Oh ! pray deem me your friend ! Upon my 
 soul, I say naught but the truth ! Why, once 
 upon a time, madame, when gipsies and 
 Zingaris frightened you, you ran to me ! 
 
 ALIX. 
 
 Yes, I remember. 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 
 Ah ! you see ! So let my voice deter you ! 
 
 You, a mere girl ! Why, he who puts his 
 
 finger on the bolts and bars of a state-prison 
 
 risks his head ! It is a fatal scheme ! a crime ! 
 
 't is downright madness ! You, aim a blow 
 
 at Mazarin himself! And what 's this 
 
 prisoner to you ? 
 
 ALIX. 
 I love him. 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 
 You do love him ? 
 
 ALIX. 
 Think you I would act thus for reasons of 
 state ? 
 
 COMTE JEAN (aside). 
 
 Ah ! fate has seized me never to relax its 
 hold, e'en as a tiger seizes on his prey ! 
 
 ALIX. 
 'T is true, I love him ! and I feel that I am 
 sent to succor him. Abandoned, in my 
 childhood, to paid guardians, an orphan, 
 friendless, with no loving hand to foster and 
 protect me, I had but the fields and skies to 
 study, and I passed my life dreaming in soli- 
 tude. 'T was thus that God, far from the 
 busy haunts of men, my heart so moulded as 
 to make of it the fit recipient of a strange 
 love. Do you, who love me so, and whom 
 God sends to me, hear what I have to tell. . 
 The road from Montdidier to Roye passes a 
 manor where I lived last year. One night the 
 escort of a certain prisoner, whom I had seen 
 approaching, made demand upon me for my 
 dungeon, that their charge might pass the 
 night therein. As mistress of the manor, all 
 my keys are at the service of my suzerain, and 
 I obeyed. Impelled by curiosity I ventured, 
 in the night, to glide unnoticed to the 
 dungeon, by a passage way of which I knew 
 the issue. Through the barred wicket came
 
 36 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 a ray of light. I never shall forget what I 
 then saw. The prisoner was walking back and 
 forth beneath the low arched ceiling. Doubt- 
 less, although you ne'er have seen him, you 
 have heard how awful is the aspect he 
 presents ? In the half-light I could distin- 
 guish four gaunt keepers. No one spoke. 
 'T was like a tomb. I, paler than the brow 
 of him on whom the axe is soon to fall, gazed, 
 paralyzed with horror, through the bars. How 
 long a time did I remain upon that spot ? I 
 cannot say. At daybreak guards and prisoner 
 had vanished like a dream. What more have 
 I to tell ? Delusion though it be or madness, 
 and my project wise or fatal, 't is the fact that 
 since that day one thought has lived in my 
 devoted heart. Where'er I go that prisoner 
 like a shadow follows, passes close to me and 
 stretches out his arms, then fades away into 
 the darkness. I will set him free. Who is 
 the wretched victim ? Surely he is young ; 
 and he is guilty of no crime. By what right 
 do the executioners who have him in their 
 midst change his existence to a hideous dream ? 
 What is the mystery ? To be quite frank 
 with you, by dint of taking pity on him 
 I have come to love him. I have learned 
 that he has been transferred to Pierrefonds, 
 and I choose to rescue him and I will rescue 
 him. A hundred times I 've told myself all 
 this that you would tell me ; that 't is madness, 
 down-right lunacy, that I know nothing of him, 
 that I might select some young and handsome 
 nobleman. And then ! I love him ! Yes, to 
 set him free is my one aim, an ardent, feverish, 
 unalterable purpose that doth fill my heart ! 
 My God, I see him always there before me ! 
 By what name you call my state of mind I 
 know not, but I feel that I do love him ! 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 Pitiful illusion ! Alas, my poor, dear heart, 
 you never knew a mother's counsel. 
 
 ALIX. 
 Oh ! he suffers so ! Have pity on him. 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 'T is not possible that you have ever seen 
 his face. 
 
 ALIX. 
 I dream of it. 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 
 And dream you also of the scaffold and the 
 Grdve, the frowning judges, grim purveyors 
 for the tomb, and the death sentences read out 
 by torchlight? 
 
 ALIX. 
 
 I must save him, or succumb myself. Such 
 is God's will. His dungeon I will open, — 
 or my tomb. 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 
 Oh ! go no farther — for full well I know 
 you go to death, — in this impossible, insane, 
 pernicious plan ! By your dead parents, by 
 their souls and yours, by the hidden bond that 
 binds us to each other, you, still a child, to 
 me, who soon shall be an aged man, I do 
 beseech you, Alix, — and forbid you ! 
 
 ALIX. 
 But there is a voice from heaven that bids 
 me persevere. Whoever you may be, I can- 
 not disobey. Your prohibition is of no avail. 
 Hark ye, my friend : even if my father. Mon- 
 sieur le Marquis Paul de Crequi, and my 
 mother, that dear innocent who fell asleep 
 before her time, should come forth from the 
 grave to bid me pause, may God forgive me, 
 I would not obey ! 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 Ah, well ! go forward ! God alone knows 
 where your steps will lead you. I have naught 
 to do henceforth but follow you, assist you, 
 love you, give my life to you, and not survive 
 you.
 
 ACT I— SCENE IX 
 
 2>7 
 
 ALIX. 
 
 I shall look for you to-morrow. 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 At what hour ? 
 
 ALIX. 
 At midnight. 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 
 And the place ? 
 
 ALIX. 
 
 Behind the arsenal. 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 I will be there. 
 
 ALIX (offering him her hand, which he tal:es and 
 presses to his lips). 
 
 'T is well. 
 
 (Exit Alix. He falls upon his knees.) 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 , O God, who art the hope of every storm- 
 tossed bark, protect this child whom fate doth 
 whirl away into the darkness !
 
 ACT SECOND 
 
 A very dark room, with ogive arches and floor of large flagstones, hung with scarlet velvet with gold fringe ; 
 furniture consisting of great arm-chairs with gilded arms and backs upholstered in tapestry ; the appearance of 
 the room is gloomy and at the same time magnificent. At the left, in a jog-piece, a large bed with ciurtains of 
 red damask and tapestry in alternate stripes, a canopy supported by posts, and a head-piece of carved gold, and 
 covered with a lace coverlid. At the right, in another jog-piece, a high chimney-piece, with a backing consisting 
 of a plate of iron adorned with fleurs-de-lis. This plate is so large that it entirely fills the back of the fire-place. 
 Also at the right, a table with a velvet cloth, standing upon a square Gobelins carpet. On the table a Venetian 
 mirror. Above the bed a large figure of Christ in ebony, not of the shape aflected by the Jansenists, that is to say, 
 with outstretched arms. 
 
 In a corner at the right, close by the table, a part of the hangings has been torn aside, disclosing the bare 
 wall, on which can be seen strange figures cut in the stone ; a long nail lies upon the table. 
 
 The chamber is lighted by a single long-barred window at the back, to which three high stone steps lead. 
 The ray of light coming through this window is distinctly marked upon the floor. The embrasure of the window 
 shows the enormous thickness of the wall. 
 
 As the ciutain rises a strange figure is seen standing by the table. At first glance there is nothing to give a 
 clue to the age or sex of this figure, which is enveloped in a long gown of violet velvet, the head being entirely 
 encased in a black velvet mask which hides the hair as well as the features, and reaches to the shoulders. A 
 small iron padlock secures the mask behind. When the gown is thrown partly open, it discloses garments of 
 black satin and a youthful shape. The prisoner seems to be absorbed in a sorrowful reverie. 
 
 At the back of the stage, above the window, in a small, dark gallery which runs all around the dungeon just 
 where the arch begins, and which communicates with the dungeon by a sort of ladder-stairway of gilded wood 
 against the hangings at the left, can be indistinctly seen the form of a white-haired, gray-bearded halberdier, with 
 a black bandage across his face, which covers one eye. This man, standing motionless and silent as a statue in 
 the shadow, holds in his right hand a long pistol, in his left a naked sword; his halberd, resting against one of 
 the ribs of the arch, glistens in the half-light behind him. 
 
 Above the stairway, at the left, an iron door, half-hidden by a rich portiere. 
 
 2.9
 
 40 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 THE MASK; THE SOLDIER (in the background). 
 
 THE MASK (raising his head heavily, and speaking 
 with an eft'ort). 
 
 For life ! • 
 
 (He turns his head as if looking about him.) 
 
 A tomb ! And I but sixteen years of age ! 
 
 (He walks with dragging steps toward the back of the 
 stage, and apparently directs his attention to the 
 light from the window reflected on the floor at his 
 feet. ) 
 
 How pale this ray of light, how slowly doth 
 
 it crawl across the floor ! 
 
 (He seems to count the flagstones, and take some 
 measurement with his eyes.) 
 
 Ah me ! the fifth flag is still far away ! 
 
 (He listens.) 
 No sound. 
 
 (He returns hurriedly to the front of the stage, and 
 continues with an outburst of despair.) 
 
 To live in two dark cells at once, both day 
 and night ! For so it is : my keepers — what 
 is thy design, O Lord ? — have placed in one 
 my body, my face in the other. Oh ! this 
 mask is the most frightful of the two. 
 
 (He seems to view himself in the Venetian mirror on 
 the table. ) 
 
 Sometimes a hideous phantom terrifies me 
 in this mirror as I pass, and walk to meet my 
 image. 'T is myself! And so, when I do 
 show myself behind the window-bars I see the 
 laborer in terror fly. 
 
 (He sits down and muses.) 
 
 Not even sleep doth set my soul at liberty. 
 E'en in my dreams no friend doth ever call 
 
 me by my name. When, in the morning, I 
 go out, I am no man who goes and comes and 
 talks and laughs, instinct with joy and pride, 
 but just a pensive dead man living in my 
 coffin. Oh ! 't is horrible ! Long, long ago 
 — when I was yet a child — I had a spacious 
 garden, where I used to go at dawn, and 
 where I saw the sunbeams and bright colors, 
 and the birds and golden butterflies at play 
 among the flowers ! Now ! . . . 
 
 (He rises.) 
 Oh ! I am forced to suffer a most shameful 
 martyrdom ! God help me ! there be tigers 
 who have said : " We will lay hands upon this 
 feeble, innocent and comely child, and put a 
 mask upon him, and confine him in a tomb ! 
 There he will grow to manhood, feeling the 
 instinct of a man instilled into his being drop 
 by drop, e'en through the massive walls. The 
 coming of the spring will make his pulses 
 throb within his tower of granite, like the 
 tree, the plant, the young bird in its nest ; 
 with pallid face will he, from his dark cell, 
 watch the barefooted women passing in the 
 plain ; and then, to banish ennui, he will pass 
 his time in picturing his dreams by figures 
 carven with a nail upon old walls, and thus 
 will wear away his heart in futile things ; ye, 
 wrinkles, will plough furrows on his brow for 
 naught ! The weeks, the months, the years 
 will flow on, his eyes will sink into his head, 
 his hairs will whiten; and by slow degrees,
 
 ACT II— SCENE I 
 
 41 
 
 beneath his never-changing mask, will he 
 become the puny spectre of a man ! So that 
 the day will come, when, having ne'er been 
 young, he will awake to find himself an old, 
 old man, a terrifying thing to his own eyes!" 
 Ah me ! I am an old man even now. My 
 heart is weary ! Child in my childish terror, 
 old in thought, never a man ! O God, thou 
 hast no pity ! 
 
 ( He throws himself into a chair, spreads his arms upon 
 the table and rests bis head upon them, as if in a 
 frenzy of despair. After a moment's silence he rises 
 with difficulty, and goes once more to examine the 
 patch of light, which has meanwhile moved imper- 
 ceptibly across the floor.) 
 
 It has not yet made half the journey. 
 
 (He lets his head fall forward on his chest in deep 
 dejection, and falls to musing again. ) 
 
 O my mother ! how I would have loved 
 
 you ! — I am stifling ! 
 
 (He goes to the window, ascends the steps and looks 
 out) 
 
 God ! how joyously yon white-wreathed 
 
 smoke mounts upward in the sky ! How now ! 
 
 man binds his sheaves, the bee distills its 
 
 honey, the river flows, the clouds sail by, 
 
 the tower-swallows fly where'er they will, and 
 
 nature thrills and sings in the deep forests ; 
 
 everything is filled with melody and murmuring 
 
 voices, everything is sweet and lovely on this 
 
 earth of ours ; and no one tells the world, and 
 
 no one cries aloud to men: "You all are 
 
 happy ! you are free ! But yonder in that 
 
 donjon keep, confined behind grim bolts and 
 
 bars, deprived of the fresh breeze and the 
 
 warm sunlight, envying the poorest hut its 
 
 smoke, a prisoner languishes whom prison 
 
 walls will kill, whose name is known to none, 
 
 whose face no one has seen, a living mystery, 
 
 a ghost, a riddle, with no glance for others, 
 
 no sunshine for himself ! A sad and hopeless 
 
 prisoner, O height of woe ! who weeps and 
 
 cannot even wipe away his tears ! 
 
 (He returns to the front of the stage.) 
 Oil ! for a single day to bathe my hair, my 
 breast, and my uncovered face in the free air 
 which fills all space, and then to die ! But 
 no, that can be never ! Execrable mask ! 
 
 (He tries to tear away his mask with his hands.) 
 
 Never, to spread my wings and proudly soar 
 aloft toward heaven through the boundless 
 azure sky, could I break thee in twain, thou 
 ghastly chrysalis ! O hell and fury ! 
 
 (He sits down and lets his head fall upon the table, 
 and sobs audibly. After a few montents he raises 
 his head once more.) 
 
 But that angel voice ! oh ! let me not 
 blaspheme ! The hour draws near. 
 
 ' {^^ goss again to see what progress the patch of light 
 has made.) 
 
 The ray of light will soon have reached the 
 mark I made on the fifth flagstone. 
 
 (Returning.) 
 
 Her approach soothes all my dark imagin- 
 ings to sleep, and in my heart I feel a bound- 
 less love ! 
 
 (A few chords are struck upon a lute, apparently in 
 the adjoining room. ) 
 
 'T is she ! I hear her ! 
 
 (He falls upon his knees.) 
 
 Blessed be thou, O God ! 
 
 (Profound silence. A voice is heard from the same 
 direction singing to the accompaniment of the lute. 
 The prisoner listens, kneeling, in a sort of ecstasy.) 
 
 THE VOICE. 
 
 In the gloom where thou dost languish 
 Heavenly choirs thine ear greet. 
 Let not grief augment thine anguish ! 
 Thy mind doth form a dream so sweet, 
 That thy heart will soon complete ! 
 
 E'en the darkness hath its gladness 
 For the soul in agony ; 
 Stars and roses, foes to sadness, 
 Bloom at once in earth and sky. 
 Blest by the same God on high !
 
 42 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 O'er the hillside, wrapped in slumber, 
 Where by day the sun hath shone, 
 Hear the sweet sounds without number ! 
 Music of the night, my own. 
 Floating upwards to God's throne. 
 
 Cease, O cease thy sad repining, 
 That thou canst not see the light. 
 For the sun will soon be shining, 
 Morning ever follows night ; 
 Darkness veils true love from sight. 
 
 THE MASK (on his knees, with his face turned to- 
 ward the fire-place whence the song seems to come). 
 
 O come ! 
 
 (The plate at the back of the fire-place turns 
 slowly upon itself, like a door. A ray of light 
 shines through the opening, upon which the Mask 
 gazes steadfastly as if fascinated, saying in a low 
 
 Oh ! come, come now ! 
 
 (A woman dressed in white appears in the open- 
 ing. It is Alix. Behind her is a jailer holding a 
 lantern, the light from which shines into the dun- 
 geon. The Mask, still kneeling, gazes at the 
 female form surrounded with light, as if it were a 
 vision. )
 
 ACT 11— SCENE II 
 
 43 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 THE MASK, ALIX ; at the back of the stage, in the fire-place, THE JAILER ; above, in the gallery, 
 
 THE SOLDIER. 
 
 (Alix gazes at the prisoner, her eyes overflowing with 
 love and compassion.) 
 
 THE MASK. 
 She comes ! how beautiful she is ! And oh ! 
 for Hght and life and joy with her ! 
 
 (Clasping his hands.) 
 Oh ! fascinating creature, woman, appari- 
 tion, let me worship thee, for a celestial ray, 
 as of a meteor that flashes through the sky, 
 shines from thy lustrous eyes upon my awe- 
 struck heart ! for as I look on thee I see my 
 God ! Thy head that dares to visit this ill- 
 omened spot is crowned in my eyes with a 
 wondrous aureole ; for thou must be an angel, 
 aye, the most angelic of all angels, thou who dost 
 come day after day to this abhorrent dungeon, 
 and, a gentle presence 'mid these frowning 
 walls, dost breathe into the heart of the poor 
 captive, masked and fettered, such great store 
 of love, despite the hate that doth encompass 
 him ! 'T is now a month since first thou didst 
 come hither, and each day I am more ravished 
 than the last ! 
 
 ALIX (walking toward him). 
 My friend ! 
 
 THE MASK (without rising). 
 Come now, O lovely maiden, undefiled, 
 come, let me gaze upon thee, let me kneel to 
 thee ! Before all, swear that thou wilt come 
 
 to-morrow ! Give me thy hand ! Oh ! would 
 that I might kiss thy hand ! thy fascinating 
 hand, so pretty and so white ! 
 
 (He presses Alix's hand to his breast.) 
 
 Ah ! but the Lord hath placed a mouth 
 behind this mask, a heart beneath this shroud. 
 
 (He rises.) 
 
 I am well fitted to alarm thee, am I not ? 
 I was alone just now, awaiting the glad hour 
 when God doth send thee to me. Forgive 
 me ! I have cursed that God to whom I owe 
 my only joy ! It seemed to me — thou seest I 
 did count the seconds, — that the strip of light 
 took much more time than usual to reach yon 
 flag. And then this hateful mask — these 
 hellish walls. One who had seen me then 
 might well have deemed me mad. My mind 
 strayed off I know not where, in search of 
 lovely visions, gardens, flower-strewn fields, 
 where swarm the bees, whose wings I envy 
 them ; I wept and listened for thy steps ; 
 and now I laugh ! But thou dost see it 
 not. Madame, you are most beautiful and 
 fascinating. 
 
 (He leads her to the arm-chair.) 
 
 Sit you there and let us talk. If all the 
 livelong day, my heart, I had thee by my side, 
 e'en here in my dark tower, I 'd laugh the 
 livelong day. You are my love ! In very 
 truth I felt that I must see thy face !
 
 44 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 ALIX. 
 
 misery! Whene'er I enter here, my 
 heart is sore oppressed. Unhappy man ! 
 
 THE MASK. 
 Nay. Say not so. No more sad words, for 
 I am happy now. O thanks ! I see thee. Is 
 it not enough that I do see thee? Ah ! I fear 
 that something may occur to scare away the 
 joy that sings in my sad heart when I do hear 
 thy voice, e'en as a bird that takes its flight 
 at the least sound ! 
 
 ALIX. 
 How I would like to see thy face ! 
 
 THE MASK (taking her hand). 
 
 Thy hand ! I claim it for my own ! 
 
 (Alix, spying the soldier stationed in the gallery, 
 rises, runs to the jailer who has remained on guard 
 in the fire-place, and points to the soldier with evi- 
 dent anxiety. ) 
 
 ALIX (in an undertone, to the jailer). 
 That man ? 
 THE JAILER (inleiTupling her, in an undertone). 
 Is with us. He is yours, madame. 
 
 THE MASK (leading Alix back to the chair, and 
 making her resume her seat). 
 
 1 know not why she constantly doth leave 
 me thus. I love thee and I fain would look 
 at thee ; stay there. 
 
 ALIX. 
 But we must talk of graver matters. Listen. 
 It is time. My visits, long mysterious, yet 
 have a purpose. 
 
 THE MASK. 
 And that purpose ? . . . 
 
 ALIX. 
 Is to set you free. 
 
 THE MASK. 
 O Heaven ! 
 
 ALIX. 
 And I have the means. 
 
 THE MASK (falling on his knees). 
 
 O God ! my prayer is granted ! Liberty and 
 
 love ! 't is all of life ! They are the two rays, 
 
 denied to the accursed, with which thou dost 
 
 illume thy paradise ! 
 
 ( He rises. ) 
 
 A free man ! I, a free man ! O entrancing 
 
 thought ! 
 
 (To Alix.) 
 
 But how wilt thou proceed ? The tower is 
 well guarded. Nay ! tell me nothing ! What 
 care I ? I trust thee, for to angels such as 
 thou art nothing is impossible ! Oh ! will it 
 be soon ? 
 
 ALIX. 
 
 Perhaps. I hope so. 
 
 (She goes to the jailer and speaks in an undertone.) 
 
 When will be the time ? 
 
 THE JAILER (in an undertone). 
 Not yet. 
 
 ALIX (in the same tone). 
 But when, my master? 
 
 THE JAILER (in the same tone). 
 The court 's at Compiegne. We might 
 spoil everything. 'T is not the time for such 
 a stroke. Anon. 
 
 ALIX. 
 You will assist me ? 
 
 THE JAILER (aside, after a gesture expressive of his 
 
 fidelity to her interests). 
 
 Have no fear ! I 'm no such fool ! The 
 lady gives me everyday for every t&te-a-tgte, 
 ten louis. I propose to earn them for a long 
 while yet to come. The man 's an idiot who 
 wrings the goose's neck that lays him golden 
 eggs! 
 
 ALIX (to the Mask). 
 You err in thinking me the daughter of 
 this man. No, I am nobly born, and of the 
 house of Crequi. My name is Jeanne-Alix de
 
 ACT II— SCENE II 
 
 45 
 
 Ponthieu. I am akin to Chateaupers, to 
 Rohan, and to Guise. Among ray ancestors 
 were dukes and peers, marshals and admirals, 
 and constables of France. 
 
 THE MASK (as if speaking to himself). 
 And mine were great men too ! 
 
 ALIX (joyously). 
 So much the better ! 
 
 Woe is me ! 
 
 THE MASK. 
 
 ALIX. 
 
 Methinks, now that you speak of ances- 
 tors . . . 
 
 THE MASK (as if suddenly roused from his reverie). 
 
 I? no! 
 
 ALIX. 
 
 You always said that you knew not your 
 name. 
 
 THE MASK. 
 
 'T is true, I know it not. 
 
 ALIX. 
 
 Nay, do not lie ! 
 
 THE MASK. 
 
 My angel ! 
 
 I would know 
 
 ALIX. 
 
 THE MASK (interrupting her). 
 Nay ! nay ! hell wreaks its vengeance on 
 me ! Ask me nothing. On the day when I was 
 born into the world, my crime was consum- 
 mated and I was condemned ! Question me 
 not ! I come of an ill-fated family, and even 
 as I speak to thee I feel that I grow pale. 
 
 ALIX. 
 This secret . . . 
 
 THE MASK. 
 Is so heavy that it well might crush thee. 
 
 ALIX. 
 Let us share it. 
 
 THE MASK. 
 Never ! One should not impose such bur- 
 dens upon those he loves. 
 
 ALIX. 
 This vault may fall and crush me ! I 
 would know thy name ! 
 
 THE MASK (rising, in a state of intense excitement). 
 
 Listen. I will not tell it thee ! thou shall 
 not know it I 'T was for having whispered it 
 to me an old and faithful servant lost his life ; 
 this martyrdom I undergo for having heard 
 him whisper it ! Ah me ! why was the fatal 
 secret ever told to me ? I lived beneath the 
 starry sky, a lowly child ; I had no name, but I 
 had liberty, the fields and the green trees and 
 nature and the sunlight ; I had God before 
 my eyes, upon my brow and in my heart ! 
 As soon as this dark secret, like a bitter 
 draught, was poured into my soul, my heart 
 was filled with gloom. They saw that I had 
 learned my name, for I was sad ! One night, 
 I was in bed, men came to take me, and I 
 fled barefooted from the room ; I swooned. 
 When I awoke, my memory returned but 
 slowly, but I had a sense of something press- 
 ing on my face. Soon after, passing near a 
 mirror, I recoiled in horror; I had seen 
 myself! And ever since that day I dwell in 
 darkness. Ever since that day with mournful 
 cries I pray to God to give me back the 
 vanished light ! 
 
 (Wildly.) 
 
 Am I a man ? Have I a name ? No other 
 than myself can answer yes, and I say no ! 
 
 (To Alix.) 
 Art thou, who comest to my dwelling-place, 
 full sure that thou hast now before thy eyes 
 aught else than an unreal vision ? Who dares 
 speak to me, to me, of flight? Ye living, 
 leave the dead in peace in their dread realm !
 
 46 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 This mask 's my face, I am a phantom ! Oh ! 
 I die ! air ! air ! 
 
 (He falls in a swoon upon the chair. ) 
 
 ALIX (supporting him in her arms). 
 This ghastly mask doth stifle him. 
 
 (To the jailer.) 
 Have pity on the wretched man ! 
 (Pointing to the band held in place by the padlock.) 
 Unlock this padlock ! 
 
 THE JAILER. 
 'T is a capital offense, madame ! 
 
 ALIX. 
 What ! to remove the mask an instant ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 'T is infamous ! 
 
 THE JAILER. 
 
 ALIX. 
 
 THE JAILER. 
 
 And then Monsieur le Gouverneur will be 
 here presently upon his round. 
 
 ALIX (feeling in the pocket of her skirt). 
 O God be praised ! I have my purse. 
 ( She takes out a purse and offers it to the jailer. ) 
 
 Twenty louis d'or to let him breathe at ease 
 a single instant ! 
 
 THE JAILER (taking the purse after some hesi- 
 tation). 
 As you please. 
 
 (He selects a small key from his bunch, and is about to 
 insert it in the padlock.) 
 
 ALIX (leaning over the prisoner, who is still uncon- 
 scious). 
 
 Oh ! oh ! this mask is more oppressive to 
 myself than him. At last I am to see him ! 
 to release him ! 
 
 (For some moments the soldier stationed in the gallery 
 has seemed to be watching more closely what is 
 taking place below him. As the jailer inserts the 
 key in the lock, while Alix, filled with joy, mingled 
 with anxiety, holds the prisoner's head in her hands, 
 the soldier suddenly leans over the balustrade of the 
 gallery and discharges his pistol at the prisoner; the 
 bullet shatters the mirror on the table at his side. 
 At the report, all turn about in dismay, and at the 
 same moment the iron door of the dungeon is heard 
 to open. ) 
 
 THE JAILER (turning toward the soldier). 
 
 Ah ! traitor ! 
 
 (The door is thrown open. Enters M. de la Fert4- 
 Irlan, Governor of Pierrefonds, attended by turnkeys 
 and soldiers. )
 
 ACT II— SCENE III 
 
 47 
 
 SCENE 111 
 
 The Same: M. DE LA FERTE-IRLAN, TURNKEYS, SOLDIERS. 
 
 THE SOLDIER (in the gallery). 
 
 To arms ! help ! search the jailer ! 
 
 ( At a sign from the governor the soldiers surround the 
 jailer and search him.) 
 
 ALIX (aside). 
 
 God in heaven ! 
 
 THE SOLDIER. 
 
 In his pocket is a purse containing twenty 
 
 louis — count and see ! — which he received 
 
 before my eyes from madame, for removing 
 
 the man's mask. I had my orders and I fired 
 
 on him. 
 
 (The soldiers find the purse.) 
 
 A SOLDIER (after counting them). 
 Twenty louis d'or ! 
 
 M. DE LA FERTE-IRLAN. 
 A woman here ! what means ? . . . 
 
 THE JAILER (in deadly terror, to Alix, under his 
 breath). 
 
 A man you bought ! so much for trusting 
 to such knaves ! 
 
 THE SOLDIER (to the governor, pointing to Alix). 
 I let her enter. To perform my duty 
 thoroughly I wished to hear all, that I might 
 know all. But when I saw that 't was their 
 purpose to unmask his face, I thought it better 
 to cry halt. 
 
 M. DE LA FERT6-IRLAN. 
 
 'T was most judicious. 
 
 (He hurriedly closes the padlock, and puts the key in 
 his pocket ; then he turns to the soldiers who sur- 
 round the prisoner. ) 
 
 Put this man in close confinement ; leave 
 the woman here, that we may question her. 
 
 THE .SOLDIER (to the governor). 
 I would be glad to say a word in private to 
 monseigneur. 
 
 ( He comes down from the gallery as the soldiers are 
 removing the jailer.) 
 
 THE JAILER (shaking his fist at him). 
 
 Traitor ! 
 
 (Exeunt the jailer and his guards. M. de la Fert6- 
 Irlan dismisses the other turnkeys with a gesture, 
 and turns to the soldier who has taken his stand 
 beside him at the front of the stage. ) 
 
 M. DE LA FERTE-IRLAN. 
 Well ? 
 
 THE SOLDIER (pointing to the barred window). 
 
 Be pleased to walk to yonder window, 
 monseigneur. 
 
 (M. de la Fertelrlan goes to the window and ascends 
 the steps. ) 
 
 Now shake the centre bars. 
 
 (M. de la Fert6 Irian shakes the bars indicated by 
 the soldier; they come away in his hand and leave 
 a wide open space.) 
 
 What say you to it?
 
 48 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 M. DE LA FERTfi-IRLAN (examining the bars 
 which seem to have been neatly sawed, and artisti- 
 cally replaced). 
 
 But for thee ! . . . 
 
 THE SOLDIER (going to the window). 
 Send for the soldier to come hither whose 
 halberd you see shining at the tower's foot, 
 down yonder. 
 
 M. DE LA FERT£-IRLAN (looking out). 
 'T is the sentinel. 
 
 THE SOLDIER. 
 Stationed beneath this window. Yes. 
 
 (M. de la Ferte-Irlan opens the door of the dungeon, 
 and gives an order in a low voice to the turnkeys 
 who have remained outside the door, then returns to 
 the soldier, who has come back from the window 
 to the front of the stage.) 
 
 M. DE LA FERTE-IRLAN. 
 My worthy friend, the king is much in- 
 debted to thee. Tell me, dost thou know the 
 woman's name ? 
 
 THE SOLDIER. 
 
 No. 
 
 M. DE LA FERTfe-IRLAN. 
 'T is — a plot ! 
 
 THE SOLDIER. 
 I think as much. 
 
 M. DE LA FERTfe-IRLAN. 
 I will take care that thou art paid and well 
 rewarded. 
 
 THE SOLDIER. 
 
 Ah ! here is the soldier. 
 
 (Enters Tagus, in uniform, a knapsack on his back, 
 surrounded by the turnkeys.)
 
 ACT II— SCENE IV 
 
 49 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 The Same: TAGUS. 
 
 THE SOLDIER (to M. de la Fert^-Irlan) 
 Permit me, monseigneur. 
 (To Tagus.) 
 Come hither, knave ! 
 
 (Tagus comes forward, gazing at the soldier in the 
 utmost amazement.) 
 
 Let him be searched before Monsieur le 
 Gouverneur. At once and without pity. In 
 his sack he has a rope-ladder. 
 
 TAGUS (whose wonder seems to increase). 
 I do not understand. 
 
 (They search his knapsack, in which tliey find a rope- 
 ladder provided with holdfasts.) 
 
 M. DE LA FERTfi-IRLAN. 
 'T is as thou sayest. 
 
 THE SOLDIER (uncoiling the ladder, to M. de la 
 Ferte-Irlan). 
 
 If it pleases you to try it for a moment, you 
 will find that it 's just long enough to reach 
 the ground from yonder opening. 
 
 TAGUS. 
 I understand but little of all this. 
 
 THE SOLDIER (to the turnkeys, turning toward 
 Tagus). 
 
 Perchance he may escape. Secure the 
 beggar better. Bind him fast. 
 
 (Hitherto the Mask has seemed to be in a sort of 
 stupor ; at this point he turns his head as if looking 
 about.) 
 
 THE MASK (as if he were speaking in a dream). 
 Great God ! What does this mean ? 
 
 (The jailers bind Tagus's arms behind his back. He 
 makes no resistance but seems dazed. ) 
 
 M. DE LA FERTE-IRLAN (pointing to Tagus). 
 To the dungeons ! 
 
 THE SOLDIER. 
 Monseigneur, permit him to remain. 
 
 (To Tagus.) 
 
 Thou shalt be hanged within the hour, 
 
 villain ! 
 
 TAGUS. 
 
 Excellent. I understand it less and less. 
 
 (At a sign from the governor the jailers lead Tagus to 
 a corner of the stage, whence he looks on with an 
 anxious air. Alix is completely crushed. The Mask 
 seems turned to stone.) 
 
 M. DE LA FERTE-IRLAN (taking the soldier aside, 
 in an undertone). 
 
 My friend, it was their plan to set the 
 prisoner free, 't is clear. 
 
 THE SOLDIER (in an undertone). 
 
 The garrison is purchased to a man. His 
 
 Eminence had warning of the peril yesterday, 
 
 and sent me hither instantly. The danger 's 
 
 imminent. 
 
 (He takes from his pocket a folded paper which he 
 hands to the governor to read. ) 
 
 M. DE LA FERT6-IRLAN (reading). 
 "You can safely trust the bearer of these 
 presents. Mazarin." Enough. What wouldst
 
 50 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 thou have me do ? Speak for thyself. In my 
 name give such orders as thou wilt. 
 
 ALIX (aside, looking upward). 
 O God, have mercy ! ^ 
 
 THE SOLDIER (to the turnkeys, in a loud voice). 
 
 In the king's name, let all the garrison, at 
 once and for good reason, be ordered to 
 return to the chateau. Secure the entrance to 
 the donjon. Venture not to leave a single 
 sentinel vifithout. Up with the drawbridge, 
 lower the portcullis. Bring us the keys. 
 Your heads will answer for it. 
 
 M. DE LA FERTfi-IRLAN (to the turnkeys). 
 
 Do you hear ? Obey. 
 
 (Exeunt the turnkeys.) 
 
 THE SOLDIER (to M. de la Fert^-Irlan). 
 The garrison, who are all armed and numer- 
 ous, must be secured with care. It may be 
 that to-night they will attempt a coup de main 
 to carry off the prisoner by force. To-mor- 
 row we shall have a reinforcement. 
 
 M. DE LA FERTE-IRLAN. 
 Thinkst thou so ? 
 
 THE SOLDIER. 
 His Eminence doth send us thirty archers 
 of his own guard. At break of day they will 
 be here. Meanwhile we two must keep the 
 tower. We have still full many schemes to 
 guard against, and we may be compelled, per- 
 chance, to undergo a siege. 
 
 M. DE LA FERTfi-IRLAN. 
 'T is well. Let us entrench ourselves here 
 in this room, my friend. 
 
 THE SOLDIER (pointing to the iron door). 
 Is yonder door secure ? 
 
 M. DE LA FERTE-IRLAN. 
 To burst it in they must have cannon. 
 
 ALIX (aside). 
 Woe is me ! all hope has vanished ! 
 
 (Enter the turnkeys with lanterns. Night has fallen 
 during the foregoing scene. ) 
 
 A TURNKEY (handing a bunch of keys to the 
 governor). 
 
 Every door is locked. Here are the keys. 
 
 M. DE LA FERTE-IRLAN (taking the keys and 
 attaching them to his belt). 
 
 Let no one leave the chateau. 
 
 THE TURNKEY. 
 They all are under lock and key. 
 
 M. DE LA FERTE-IRLAN (in an undertone, to the 
 soldier). 
 
 What wouldst thou now that we should do ? 
 Are these men to remain ? 
 
 THE .SOLDIER. 
 No. I distrust them. By your leave we 
 will interrogate this rascal. 
 
 (He points to Tagus.) 
 
 M. DE LA FERTE-IRLAN (to the turnkeys). 
 Go. 
 
 (The turnkeys obey. The governor closes the iron 
 door and throws the bolts with his own hand, then 
 returns to the soldier.) 
 
 We are alone. No one can reach us here. 
 Thus we are safe . . . 
 
 THE SOLDIER (pointing to the fire-place, which has 
 remained open since Alix's entrance). 
 
 Ah ! pardon me. Someone might come 
 upon us through that opening. 
 
 M. DE LA FERTE-IRLAN (walking to the fire- 
 place). 
 
 'T is true. Ah, yes ! through here the lady 
 entered. Let us inake it fast. 
 
 THE SOLDIER (detaining him). 
 
 The plate is a thick sheet of metal. No 
 one save the jailer knows how it is made to
 
 ACT II— SCENE IV 
 
 51 
 
 open, but the conspirators might well have 
 recourse to it. 
 
 M. DE LA FERT£-IRLAN. 
 Whither does it lead ? 
 
 THE SOLDIER (peering through). 
 
 To a dark chamber, with no fire-place or 
 
 window ; in the shadow I can see an open 
 
 door. 
 
 M. DE LA FERTE-IRLAN. 
 
 So ! go and close it. 
 
 (The soldier obeys and passes through the opening. 
 A noise as of a key turning in a lock is heard in the 
 darkness beyond the opening, then the soldier reap- 
 pears with two keys in his hand. ) 
 
 THE SOLDIER. 
 The keys were in the lock. 
 
 M. DE LA FERTE-IRLAN. 
 What of the bolts ? 
 
 THE SOLDIER (going through the motion of throw- 
 ing bolts ) . 
 
 Well home ! 
 
 M. DE LA FERTE-IRLAN. 
 I fear some trap, some stratagem. Didst 
 thou securely fasten everything ? 
 
 THE SOLDIER. 
 I did. But go yourself and look. 
 
 M. DE LA FERTE-IRLAN. 
 
 That will I. 
 
 ( He passes out of sight through the opening into the 
 darkness beyond.) 
 
 ALIX (aside). 
 
 All is lost ! 
 
 (The soldier follows closely upon the governor's heels, 
 and as soon as the latter has disappeared, he hurriedly 
 pulls the plate back into place ; it closes with much 
 noise. Then he tears off his white wig and black 
 bandage and faces Alix, Tagus and the Mask, who 
 gaze at him in stupefaction. It is Comte Jean.) 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 
 Nay, all is saved. 'T is I ! The jailer was 
 
 not true to you, and broke his word. Last 
 
 night, 
 
 (To the Mask.) 
 
 while you were sleeping, with my faithful 
 Tagus here, I sawed the bars through and pre- 
 pared the ladder. Now all is done. The 
 garrison is under lock and key ; the governor 
 the same ; the jailer in a dungeon ; 
 
 (To the Mask.) 
 and you at liberty. Now let us go. 
 
 (Wild outburst of joy. Alix runs to Comte Jean, seizes 
 his hands and presses tbem to her heart.) 
 
 THE MASK (with effusive gratitude, to Comte Jean). 
 May God reward you ! 
 
 TAGUS. 
 Ah ! I understand. 
 
 ALIX. 
 Accept my thanks ! 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 My joy 's as great as yours. 
 
 ALIX (kissing his hands). 
 
 Dear friend ! 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 
 But we must hasten, for time flies. 
 
 (He cuts Tagus's bonds with his dagger, then picks up 
 the ladder which is still lying on the floor.) 
 
 The ladder to the window ! 
 
 ( He runs to the window, fastens the ladder to the bars, 
 and drops the end outside.) 
 
 TAGUS (taking from the table the keys of the room in 
 which the governor is confined). 
 
 The keys into the moat ! 
 
 (He throws the keys through the window.) 
 
 THE MASK (to Comte Jean). 
 Remove the mask ! oh ! quickly ! 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 First of all, I conjure you, let us go hence. 
 The night is very dark. We have to walk
 
 52 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 two hours through the woods. I will not take 
 it off until we reach Plessis-les-Rois. Your 
 safety first of all. Oh ! let us go ! 
 
 (To Tagus, who is busy securing the ladder.) 
 
 The clothes? 
 
 TAGUS. 
 Are down below. 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 Where ? 
 
 TAGUS. 
 In a thicket. 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 
 Good. Now hasten we. 
 
 (The governor can be heard pounding violently on the 
 plate at the back of the lire place. ) 
 
 Aye, pound ! 
 
 ALIX (gazing joyfully at the Mask). 
 O bliss ! he 's free. 
 
 COMTE JEAN. (He takes from his pocket a port- 
 folio and a pencil, .and writes upon his knee.) 
 
 Here you will find Monsieur le Gouverneiir. 
 
 ( That done, he tears out the leaf and fastens it to one 
 of the nails riveted into the metal. Then he goes to 
 the window and examines the ladder. ) 
 
 (To Tagus.) 
 Is it firm? 
 
 TAGUS. 
 
 Oh, yes ! 
 
 THE MASK (to Comte Jean). 
 Your name ? 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 That you shall know anon. 
 (The governor continvies to hammer upon the plate.) 
 Aye, good man, hammer on ! 
 (He motions to them all to go to the window.) 
 
 (To Tagus. ) 
 Do thou go first. 
 
 (Pointing to Alix.) 
 
 You next. 
 
 (To the Mask.) 
 And you. I will go last. 
 
 (Tagus climbs over the window-sill, places his foot on 
 the ladder and passes down out of sight. Alix fol- 
 lows him, assisted by Comte Jean.) 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 O God, have Alix in thy keeping ! 
 
 ALIX (descending, and half out of sight behind the 
 wall). 
 
 Save the prisoner, O God ! 
 
 (The Mask descends in turn, and just as Comte Jean 
 places his foot on the lad<ler the curtain falls. )
 
 y/'tchel • 
 
 ,v;/,/.;,. ,„.
 
 gi^IWT 3HT 
 
 I 31/1332 QHIHT TOA 
 
 .bfiBfl K'>(383ifiI/[ iijov fx'rA I briB 
 
 AC"E'^^'^ii"H I RD 
 
 .tijaianom .arnoD 
 A salon, once magnificent, now dilapidated ; rich draperies, torn and threadbare. Architecture and furniture 
 of the time of HeD(§riM.9fft)M-%^W#htoijl)ig)>Hj9icl4^ficfeSjrjjsTOAlfe^p ggf^j^Tvgfl -pff. Great cobwebs are 
 hanging to the carved and painted timbers of the ceiling. Two large full-length portraits, covered with dust, one 
 of Louis XIII., the other of Cardinal de Richelieu, face each other on the wall. The hangfi^sVre blue, covered 
 with ihrtliMar HEab(J;feeldi)fls(Hii»dst(listAnte«eri})fs|i|)rssshEtfes>l«f^hrf)fettJ^ 'srtqBaoB(^cffe<hl^%Sl^K?^the stage a 
 wide door surmounted by the wild plum-tree (^'r^^tl^BJIi ^Sljeath a ducal crown. At the right, in a jog-piece, 
 folding-doors. At the back a table stands at the corner of the opposite jog-piece. At the left a window, beside 
 which is an old screen ; at tl^flsBii^bift «bJfio»Bi4rfli flbmtj .Jtei9I(Sw^l'ffB'l« damp and gloomy aspect of an 
 apartment many years uiiinliabited. , , ., , 
 
 As the cM flsW^e^i^eel MM?!'i?i!^¥.oX^'>^m^mSm^mSh^W\.0the stage. The 
 queen Uriii»tsediitivbl&^39dJt;j^fisianfeal3l(:UbB£CM4iMlvwt^t*(»fl<S)g;t%'\I^B^^p^§|%^tqfi^ has no 
 
 hood ; he has the blue ribbon about his neck^ .)r^if<%ilf i^ii^iiisite young; he wears a magnificent coat of gold 
 brocade, with the blue ribbon, hat with white plumes, sword with diamond hilt, lace ruff and sleeves. He is a 
 well-favored youth. The cardinal, who coughs constantly, and is pale and shattered by illness, has the appear- 
 ance of an old man, although he is really less than sixty. 
 Two candelabra are upon the table. 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 THE QUEEN MOTHER, THE KING, CARDINAL MAZARIN. 
 (The queen is standing by the table with her bent ] (He examines the dusty arm-chairs.) 
 
 forefinger resting upon it. The cardinal stands 
 behind her in an attitude of respect. The king is 
 looking about in amazement at the dilapidated con- 
 dition of the salon. ) 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 Madame, you call this place Plessis-les-Rois ? 
 
 Why, I should say it had been uninhabited 
 for nigh a hundred years. 
 
 (Turning again to the queen.) 
 If your Majesty has aught to say, I listen. 
 Monsieur le Cardinal of course may hear. 
 
 S3
 
 .[azarmappiitiaches the it)i;- .ndT^ 
 
 L-i ciiv ''. -fick. ..I the same time h- lo ns over In 
 
 the Miinn 
 
 THE CARI>1;NAL (in an undertone to the queen). 
 We needs iimst have an explanation, undisturbed. I will' reti. m :i non. 
 
 ,e U-ing kisses the queen's hand.l-.ws lowto.het and takes h,s I.ave, ,,rtc .der . ; 'He cardinal 
 
 carrying the light. 1
 
 ■=: F.'Hci.-iT- 
 
 ACT THIRD 
 
 A salon, once magnificent, now dilapidated; rich draperies, torn and threadbare. Architecture and furniture 
 of the time of Henri IV. Old-fashioned, high-backed chairs with the gilding worn off. Great cobwebs are 
 hanging to the carved and painted timbers of the ceiling. Two large full-length portraits, covered with dust, one 
 of Louis XIII., the other of Cardinal de Richelieu, face each other on the wall. The hangings are blue, covered 
 with the letter H and gold fleurs-de-lis, interwoven with the crest of the Cr^quis. At the back of the stage a 
 wide door surmounted by the wild plum-tree (crequier) beneath a ducal crown. At the right, in a jog-piece, 
 folding-doors. At the back a table stands at the corner of the opposite jog-piece. At the left a window, beside 
 which is an old screen ; at the right a table and a chair. Everything has the damp and gloomy aspect of an 
 apartment many years uninhabited. 
 
 As the curtain rises the Queen Mother, King Louis XIV. and Cardinal Mazarin are upon the stage. The 
 queen is dressed in black with jet ornaments ; the cardinal wears a long gown, red cap and stockings, but has no 
 hood ; he has the blue ribbon about his neck. The king is quite young ; he wears a magnificent coat of gold 
 brocade, with the blue ribbon, hat with white plumes, sword with diamond hilt, lace ruff and sleeves. He is a 
 well-favored youth. The cardinal, who coughs constantly, and is pale and shattered by illness, has the appear- 
 ance of an old man, although he is really less than sixty. 
 
 Two candelabra are upon the table. 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 THE QUEEN MOTHER, THE KING, CARDINAL MAZARIN. 
 
 (The queen is standing by the table with her bent 
 forefinger resting upon it. The cardinal stands 
 behind her in an attitude of respect. The king is 
 looking about in amazement at the dilapidated con- 
 dition of the salon.) 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 Madame, you call this place Plessis-les-Rois ? 
 
 (He examines the dusty arm-chairs.) 
 Why, I should say it had been uninhabited 
 for nigh a hundred years. 
 
 (Turning again to the queen.) 
 If your Majesty has aught to say, I listen. 
 Monsieur le Cardinal of course may hear. 
 
 53
 
 54 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 (The queen assents with a movement of her head.) 
 
 You brought us, such at least I understand 
 to be the case, to this deserted spot that we 
 might talk together without witnesses. 'T is 
 well. You might have chosen a more fitting 
 place, but I complain neither of place or hour, 
 nor of the very cold and grewsome passage- 
 way, through which we had to pass to reach 
 this charming spot. I listen to your Majesty 
 with filial submission. 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 Sire, I have, in truth, full many things to 
 say to you. And first of all, the treaty of 
 London and of Paris, though kept secret, hath 
 leaked out and doth disturb men's minds ; 
 the emperor doth marvel at it, and the 
 Catholic king is sore displeased. Let me 
 explain myself. The Genoese do cozen you, 
 and the Tunisian pirates do lay waste Prov- 
 ence and are not punished. A king should 
 be beloved at home and feared abroad. Do 
 not disturb yourself concerning your return to 
 Compiegne, if it be late. 
 
 (She points to the door at the right.) 
 
 There is a roomadjoining this which I gave 
 orders to make ready for your Majesty. I 
 resume. Money is lacking. We are ruining 
 ourselves in fetes. Monsieur de Richelieu 
 caused heads to fall, but as a great statesman 
 should, in broad daylight, with head erect. 
 (She points at Mazarin.) 
 
 But monsieur kills and hides his head ; and 
 I know many a pavement that is dyed with 
 blood and washed again while all is dark. 
 The Holy Father 's very old ; but no negotia- 
 tions have been entered into with the cardi- 
 nals, in preparation for a conclave. All are 
 for the English or the Huguenots. It is a 
 crying shame ! But I would fain explain my 
 meaning without wrath. To make a colonel 
 of a gallows-bird, 
 
 (Pointing at Mazarin.) 
 a kinsman of monsieur — a knave, a cur, he 
 hath aggrieved the Dauphin regiment. These 
 three days past they 've marched to the Louvre 
 barriers with lowered pikes, so sorely hurt are 
 they. This stirs all Paris to its centre. Well 
 it is, that you 're at Compiegne, and know 
 naught of it. But I tell you all. A flame is 
 smouldering in the provinces; nothing in 
 reason has been granted to the princes; 't is 
 a inere patched-up peace of theirs, and I do 
 greatly fear the crash. The dukes are angry 
 and the Parliament is out of patience. Even 
 over me an arm of iron, sire, is outstretched; 
 within my own four walls I am no longer 
 mistress. Boisthibaut, my valet, has been 
 taken from me. Bread is dear. In one word 
 everything goes ill. We aim at nothing great, 
 do nothing wise : your enemies are all looked 
 kindly on ; and so it is the state is ruined. 
 'T is beyond all doubt. Ask Monsieur the 
 First President ! 
 
 THE CARDINAL (in an undertone to the king, with 
 an imperceptible shrug). 
 
 Sieur Mathieu Mole ! 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 I seem to you o'er wrought ; but ask 
 Monsieur le Marechal d'Estrees ; Madame de 
 Targis, one of my maids of honor, whom the 
 late king, my lord, esteemed most highly ; 
 ask De Thou, of all men the most pure in 
 these distracting times ! Souvre ! or Councilor 
 Ledeau ! 
 
 THE CARDINAL (in an undertone to the king). 
 
 Poor fools ! 
 
 THE QUEEN (to the cardinal). 
 What are you saying there beneath your 
 breath? Insulting words? 
 
 THE CARDINAL (with a low reverence). 
 I say that they are very worthy men.
 
 ACT II I—SCENE I 
 
 55 
 
 THE QUEEN (pointing her finger at the cardinal). 
 
 But, sire, every day this man encroaches on 
 your rights ! All France is in commotion ! 
 Europe anxiously looks on ! The good coad- 
 jutor 's a man of mind ! See what is said ! 
 see what is writ ! The Due de Beaufort . . . 
 
 THE CARDINAL. 
 Retz and Beaufort ! Rebels both. 
 
 THE QUEEN (to the king). 
 Read Maynard, Coffier, Guy-Joli . . . 
 
 THE CARDINAL. 
 Libelers ! ^ 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 In God's name, hold your peace, monsieur! 
 a truce to your bold speech ! One cannot 
 say a word, for you talk all the time. 
 
 THE CARDINAL (bowing to the ground). 
 
 Speak. 
 
 THE QUEEN (furiously). 
 
 No, I say no more ! 
 
 THE CARDINAL. 
 Sire, may I reply ? 
 
 THE KING. 
 Say on. 
 
 THE CARDINAL. 
 
 We have no treaty with the English. Genoa ? 
 Three millions have been given back to us. 
 And Tunis? At this moment thrice one 
 hundred pirates hang trembling in the ocean 
 breezes on the coasts of France. The Parlia- 
 ment ? A hot-bed of anarchic aspirations ! 
 I maintain their privileges ; their decrees 
 have lost their force. As for the claims put 
 forward by the dukes and princes, let us 
 speak of them, I ask no better. Fine things 
 we shall see. Monsieur de Nevers would 
 appropriate the salt-tax of the Rethelais. 
 Beaufort aspires to raise regiments unhindered 
 in your Majesty's domains. Indeed, he even 
 
 now parades a corps of infantry at Nantes, who 
 march about with banners waving, trumpets 
 sounding. Elbceuf for his bastard son ha.s 
 dreamed of nothing greater than a duchy and 
 a seat in Parliament. The Comte de Sois- 
 sons, whom your power offends, aspires to 
 grant patents of nobility. Rohan has raised 
 your standard over Thouars, but beneath his 
 own. Monsieur de Bouillon demands Sedan, 
 and that the king do bind himself to force 
 Turenne to swear allegiance ; furtherrnore the 
 right of free assemblage for the Huguenots. 
 Monsieur le Prince's modesty doth give us 
 cause to tremble ; he but asks, after so many 
 civil wars, your pardon, with some two or 
 three poor towns. D'Epernon has his eye 
 on Poitiers ; D'Aiguillon on Nogent ; Ven- 
 dome would have exalted rank, and Conti 
 cash. Even to the younger branches the 
 whole tree is mercenary. " Pay my debts," 
 says to the king Monsieur de Mercceur. 
 Chabot, by virtue of a score of doughty deeds, 
 revives his captainry at the old chateau of 
 Blois. And, lastly, to conclude the catalogue. 
 Monsieur le Chancelier would have his wages 
 doubled, and the dear Due d'Agen intrigues 
 for nothing more than to secure a marshal's 
 baton for his brother, the order for his son. 
 So much for that. 
 
 (The king turns gravely toward the queen. ) 
 
 THE QUEEN (to the cardinal). 
 Pardieu ! monsieur, you triumph with great 
 ease. Dukes, princes, peoples, Paris, Tunis, 
 Genoa, Rome, which is left to go its way, and 
 London, which takes heart of grace, whatever 
 you may say and all that I have said, are all 
 the same to me ! — for death is in my heart ! 
 But this I say, this I proclaiin, that 't is a 
 monstrous thing that a mere nobody, a name- 
 less girl, your niece, God save the mark ! — 
 whose ancestors, methinks, were poor clerks
 
 56 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 at Palermo, should dare to cast her eyes upon 
 my King of France ! that never were such 
 horrors seen before ! that sixty kings and 
 forty emperors are smitten by this man upon 
 the cheek ! that Austria and Bourbon are by 
 him dragged in the mire ! that I shall be de- 
 spoiled against my will ! that 't is detestable, 
 impossible, incredible, that you should take 
 to wife a beggarly Mancini ; that I will not 
 have it so ! in fine, that 't is rank infamy ! 
 
 THE KING (with an offended air). 
 Madame . . . 
 
 THE QUEEN (partly facing Mazarin). 
 
 God ! that man ! Ah me ! What agony I 
 have endured ! To forward his ambition he 
 would go to hell ! Thus doth a viper climb 
 e'en to the eagle's nest ! O Jesus ! when I 
 think how great the shame, how many nights 
 I 've passed at Saint-Germain, alone upon my 
 balcony, my head upon my hand ! 
 
 THE KING. 
 Madame . . . 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 Ah ! those were wretched days. Such mar- 
 riages do always end in misery, believe me, 
 my dear son ! 
 
 THE CARDINAL (with a reverence). 
 
 1 know full well all that I owe the queen, 
 and hold my peace. Although my niece is 
 of good family, although her blood 's enriched, 
 in very truth, by the reflection of the Roman 
 purple, still I say with madame to my noble- 
 hearted king : " Such marriages sometimes do 
 end in misery." And yet they are sometimes 
 — from policy — contracted — 
 
 (He turns to the queen and bows low.) 
 
 as her Majesty may know. 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 Your Eminence has lied ! — Forgive me, 
 sire, he drives me to extremities. I was both 
 
 wrong and right, such is the fate of all. My 
 God ! Richelieu was much to be preferred to 
 him ! Your father caused me to be treated 
 with respect. That man doth drive me mad ! 
 I am a woman, and I know naught of affairs 
 of State, 
 
 (To Mazarin.) 
 
 as you are well aware. 
 
 (To the king.) 
 
 But I am queen, and I am cast aside ; I am 
 a mother, and he steals your heart from me, 
 my son ; O bitter woe ! 
 
 (She pauses ; her voice is choked by the tears which 
 she forces back into her throat,) 
 
 You will not wed this nameless girl who 
 
 makes soft eyes at Monsieur d'Epernon, will 
 
 you, my child ? 
 
 (She sits down, draws the king to her side, and throws 
 her arms about him. ) 
 
 Come hither. 
 
 (She points to the impassive Mazarin.) 
 His is a black heart. Yours is far too 
 tender. Search your memory. When you 
 were but a child, how harsh he was ! Do you 
 remember ? Shrewish, waxing angry at a 
 word, and niggardly, he left you without bed- 
 clothes, with no fire in your room, in mid 
 December. Fierce were the reproaches heaped 
 on me therefor, on me. One day you were 
 to go to Conflans, and he gave you such a 
 tumble-down old carriage that the very 
 people in the streets cried shame upon it. As 
 he wished to reign, and render no account, 
 he ordered, sire, that those things which 
 would expand your intellect should not be 
 taught you. 'T was his will that you should 
 know no history. He burdened Paris with 
 inglorious war, a civil conflict, impious and 
 pitiless, which forced you, a poor, frightened 
 child, to fly ! Your people sufl"ered. He 
 despoils them ! aye, he starves them ! Surely 
 you cannot forget that wretched girl who
 
 ACT III— SCENE I 
 
 57 
 
 died of hunger on the bridge at Melun. 
 Prince and duke he claimed to be, albeit 
 he was neither one nor t'other. He basely 
 took from you the money given you by 
 Monsieur de Vieuville. At night you slept 
 uneasily,because you felt him near you. Then 
 his senseless vanity so far o'er-reached itself as 
 to affect a retinue to rival yours. When he 
 appeared, attended by the noise of jangling 
 swords, do you remember? the audacious 
 uproar roused you from your sleep, all trem- 
 bling in the darkness, — you, the king, his king, 
 head of your family ! Said you : " He makes 
 much clatter when he passes ! ' ' 
 
 (She kisses the king, who submits to her caresses with 
 evident impatience, and keeps his eyes fixed upon the 
 cardinal, as if looking to him for inspiration and 
 counsel.) 
 
 Sire, you are king ! you must reflect that 
 
 here in France the people do not love a 
 
 stranger's yoke. He 's an Italian. 
 
 THE KING. 
 And you are a Spaniard. 
 
 THE QUEEN (raising her head, and wiping away a 
 tear). 
 
 I forgive you, child, that cruel word, which 
 
 issues from your mouth but from his heart. 
 
 (With an indignant glance at Mazarin. ) 
 
 He Stands there, smiling like a jeering 
 
 demon ! 
 
 (.She buries her face in her hands and weeps.) 
 Oh ! . . . 
 
 (The cardinal, toying with the great watch he wears 
 beneath his gown, causes it to strike as if by inad- 
 vertence. ) 
 
 THE KING (coldly). 
 Madame, 't is late. 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 True, so it is. The room is ready. Let us 
 retire. Come and we will minister to you. 
 My women shall attend upon the king. 
 
 (Turning to the cardinal.) 
 This is my right. 
 
 (Drawing the king between her knees.) 
 
 My own dear little Louis, as we used to do, 
 thou knowest ! . . . 
 
 THE KING. 
 No, I will return to the chateau. Mid- 
 night is striking. Monsieur de Villequier 
 will answer for my safety ; and I kiss your 
 Majesty's hand. 
 
 (To Mazarin.) 
 
 Come, monsieur. 
 
 THE QUEEN (gazing at the floor, without looking up 
 at the king). 
 
 Alas! 
 
 (Mazarin approaches the table and takes a candlestick. 
 At the same time he leans over to the queen. ) 
 
 THE CARDINAL (in an undertone to the queen). 
 
 We needs must have an explanation, undis- 
 turbed. I will return anon. 
 
 (The king kisses the queen's hand, bows low to her 
 and takes his leave, preceded by the cardinal carrying 
 the light.)
 
 58 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 THE QUEEN, alone; afterward DAME CLAUDE. 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 
 Rather than await tliee, viper, may I die ! 
 
 The traitor ! he would come and flout me to 
 
 my face ! Upon my word ! 
 
 (She rings. Dame Claude, one of her women, appears 
 at the door in the jog-piece at the right.) 
 
 Claude, is my bed made ready ? 
 
 DAME CLAUDE (pointing to the room from which 
 she came). 
 
 Yes, madame, in yonder room. 
 THE QUEEN (at the front of the stage, musing). 
 
 The king 's my son no more. The court is 
 Mazarinist to the core. That man would 
 place his foot upon my breast, in order that my 
 son may laugh ! My friends are all shut out. 
 
 (A pause while she is lost in thought.) 
 
 If Monsieur^ were but two years older ! 
 
 (She reflects more deeply than ever.) 
 
 Or— if . . . 
 
 (Raising her head.) 
 
 These are terrifying thoughts. 
 
 (She enters the adjoining room, preceded by Dame 
 Claude, who has taken the other candlestick.) 
 
 ( A moment of silence. The room is once more empty 
 and dark. Suddenly in the jog-piece at the left, a 
 panel of the wainscoting, in appearance like all the 
 others, turns upon itself, and discloses an entrance 
 which was masked by it. It seems to open upon a 
 narrow stairway. A man in dark clothes ascends, 
 wrapped in a cloak, with a dark lantern in his hand. 
 It is Comte Jean. He enters, leaving the panel opefl" 
 behind him.)
 
 ACT II I—SCENE III 
 
 59 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 COMTE JEAN; afterward THE MASK and ALIX. 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 At last ! 
 
 (He looks about.) 
 
 Ten years ! how many things have taken 
 place ! how many tears I 've shed in this ill- 
 fated room ! Still the same table and the 
 same arm-chair ! Ten years have passed ! ten 
 centuries ! Poor woman ! O, ye walls, save 
 you none know my heart. Alone on earth do 
 I endure the knowledge of the woe I 've suf- 
 fered and the woe I 've wrought ! But I 
 have not the time to weep o'er my own fate. 
 We must make haste. 
 
 (He turns toward the open panel, and leans over the 
 dark staircase.) 
 
 This is the way. Come up. 
 
 (Enters the Mask ^Tapped in a cloak, and with a 
 broad-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes ; 
 Alix accompanies him.) 
 
 THE MASK (throwing hat and cloak upon the floor). 
 I love thee, Alix ! I am free ! Henceforth 
 the world is ours ! 
 
 (To Comte Jean.) 
 Oh ! relieve me from this hideous mask ! 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 At once. 
 
 (He motions to the Mask to sit down, then produces a 
 file from the knapsack, and sets about filing off the 
 padlock.) 
 
 THE MASK. 
 
 At last. — But — where are we? 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 Safe in the keeping of the dead, near God, 
 and far from men. A saintly, kindly shade 
 
 keeps watch upon us here, and an old soldier 
 
 is your guide. 
 
 (Pointing to Alix, who upon entering kneels in silence 
 before a prie-Dieu in the comer of the stage.) 
 
 Yonder 's an angel on her knees. Fear 
 
 naught. 
 
 THE MASK. 
 
 Accept my thanks. 
 
 COMTE JEAN. 
 
 To-morrow we will fly toward the frontier. 
 
 In two days we shall be at Mezieres. Our 
 
 friends will take up arms for us. Meanwhile 
 
 we quietly must pass the night in this deserted 
 
 castle. 
 
 (As he is speaking, he completes the task of filing 
 
 through the lock which at last yields, and the mask 
 
 opens.) 
 
 There ! 
 
 (He removes the mask and places it upon a small 
 table in the corner of the room. ) 
 
 (When the mask is removed, the prisoner stands for a 
 moment as if dazed with happiness, and seems to 
 experience an indescribable joy in breathing freely. 
 He is a handsome youth of about sixteen.) 
 
 THE PRISONER. 
 O God! 
 
 ALIX (gazing at him). 
 
 How beautiful he is ! More beautiful than 
 in my dream ! 
 
 THE PRISONER. 
 
 The shadow which enveloped me, the 
 frightful shadow vanishes. Once more I hold 
 my head erect, proudly exulting in the air 
 and light and in my freedom ! Everything is
 
 6o 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 lovely in my sight ! I would that I could 
 seize and hold each passing object. Alix ! 
 Alix ! now I see with my whole face ! Air ! 
 Air on every side ! Now I can kiss thy hand 
 and go where'er I will ! Is this myself? Can 
 it be true ? How soft the night ! Thy smile 
 intoxicates me and all nature speaks with all 
 its myriad voices to my ravished senses ! Ah ! 
 I see ! I hear ! I breathe ! I live ! Alix ! 
 at last I come forth from the sunless cloud. 
 Oh ! look at me ! I feel that I 'm transfigured ! 
 
 COMTE JEAN (who has not taken his eyes from the 
 prisoner's face, and who seems lost in thought). 
 
 'T is a wonderful resemblance ! 
 
 THE PRISONER (going to the window, and impetu- 
 ously throwing it open). 
 
 Oh ! the starry heaven ! Yes, I was as 
 one dead ! The world 's unveiled to me ! 
 That mask was hell ! Come hither to the 
 window. 
 
 (He leads Alix to the window.) 
 How lovely are the trees ! The whole 
 world smiles and everything doth touch me 
 to the heart ! How soft the breeze ! Oh ! 
 but 't is marvelous ! 
 
 Poor love ! 
 
 ALIX. 
 
 COMTE JEAN (pensively). 
 Now do I understand the mask. 
 
 THE PRISONER (excitedly). 
 My Alix, let us fly ! yes, let us fly together 
 to some blessed land, where we need never 
 fear, where we shall have God's nature to our- 
 selves ! The stars will shine like this — in the 
 blue sky ; the woods will nod their heads, as 
 now, and welcome us with joyful acclama- 
 tions ; we will drink our fill of the pure air, 
 which cools the blood, and we will love each 
 other . . . 
 
 (He falls upon his knees with his arms about Alix's 
 waist. ) 
 
 Thanks be to thee, O God Omnipotent ! 
 
 COMTE JEAN (to the prisoner). 
 
 Time presses. We tiiust needs take heed to 
 our departure. 
 
 (To Alix.) 
 
 Come, madame, you know where be the 
 keys ; and let us go where Tagus waits for us 
 below. 
 
 (To the prisoner.) 
 
 We will return for you. 
 
 (Exeunt Comte Jean and Alix through the panel which 
 closes behind them.) 
 
 (The prisoner, left alone, fixes his eyes ecstatically 
 upon the sky. ) 
 
 THE PRLSONER. 
 
 O glorious sky ! To-morrow I shall proudly 
 walk beneath thy broad expanse. And I 
 shall be like any other man, and I shall 
 pass along the road like all who go their 
 way at liberty, not thinking that sometimes 
 a prisoner doth watch them as they pass ! 
 O bliss ! 
 
 (Footsteps in the gallery at the back of the stage. He 
 turns about in dismay.) 
 
 But I hear steps. 
 
 (He goes to the door at the back and looks out.) 
 
 No, nothing stirs. 
 
 (A light appeai-s in the gallery. He fixes his eyes 
 upon it in terror. ) 
 
 Who is this pale-faced man in the red wind- 
 ing-sheet? — Ah! there are two. — The other 
 is in black. — They come in this direction ! 
 Whither shall I fly ? 
 
 ( He runs to the door by which he entered and tries in 
 v.ain to open it. ) 
 
 This door ? 'T is locked 1
 
 ACT III—SCENE III 
 
 6i 
 
 (He runs to the door at the right. That also resists his 
 efforts. ) 
 
 The other, too ! 
 
 ( He goes behind the screen, which he folds back so 
 that it conceals him.) 
 
 Just Heaven ! 
 
 (Enters the Cardinal, accompanied by Chandenier, 
 captain of his gendarmes. Chandenier carries in onJ 
 hand a large portfolio, and in the other a candela- 
 brum with branches. The Cardinal is leaning upon 
 Chandenier's arm; he looks pale and ill, and coughs 
 at intervals, putting his hand to his breast. He c^sts 
 a glance about the salon and seems surprised to find 
 no one there.)
 
 62 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 THE CARDINAL, CHANDENIER, THE PRISONER (in hiding). 
 
 THE CARDINAL. 
 
 No one here ! Aha ! 
 
 (To Chandenier.) 
 
 I hazard much in coming hither. Place a 
 hundred of my guards about the castle. 
 
 THE PRISONER (peering out from behind the 
 screen). 
 
 Who are these two demons? God in 
 
 heaven ! I am lost ! 
 
 THE CARDINAL. 
 
 How now ! her Majesty did not await my 
 coming. 
 
 CHANDENIER. 
 
 Is she angry ? 
 
 THE CARDINAL. 
 
 Why should we distress ourselves for that ? 
 My friend, in the old days it was a queenly 
 wrath, but now 't is nothing but a vi^oman's 
 shrieks. Remain with thy lieutenant in the 
 corridor, I can conveniently await till morning 
 here the queen's awakening, and work mean- 
 while. 'T is most essential that I speak with 
 her. 'T is well. Place everything upon the 
 table. 
 
 (Chandenier places the candlestick and the portfolio 
 on the table.) 
 
 By the way, to guard against all mishap, 
 
 leave me thy dagger. 
 
 (Chandenier takes the dagger from his belt and obeys, 
 then goes out at a sign from the Cardinal. ) 
 
 THE CARDINAL (playing with the dagger, and 
 trying its edge upon his finger). 
 
 Who can say ? Prudence is the mother of 
 
 security. 
 
 (He places the dagger upon the table.) 
 
 THE PRISONER (who has watched all the proceed- 
 ings with dismay, closing the screen). 
 
 O God ! preserve me ! 
 
 ( As soon as Chandenier has disappeared, the Cardinal 
 takes a small key from his belt and opens the port- 
 folio, the cover of which has a glass on the inner 
 side and becomes a mirror as it is thrown back. 
 The portfolio thus opened forms a desk. In one 
 corner is a writing-case, in the other a jar of rouge 
 with its accessories. A map protrudes from the 
 portfolio. It is a map of Europe. The Cardinal 
 unrolls it, glances at it for a few seconds, then stands 
 erect, coughing.) 
 
 THE CARDINAL (musing). 
 Health is the one thing that eludes my 
 grasp. Power I have, wealth, honor, every- 
 thing save life ! I feel that I am dying. 
 
 (Playing with the dagger.) 
 
 Ah ! how happy was I when I was a mus- 
 keteer ! when I was twenty-five ! 
 (He looks in the mirror.) 
 My face is ghastly. 
 
 (He applies rouge to his cheeks, then looks in the 
 mirror for a moment and falls to musing again.) 
 
 How to bring about this marriage? It will 
 surely fail ! All these affronts will soon repel 
 the king. Oh well ! then we will take another. 
 Charles the Second, pretender to the throne 
 of England ; or the Infant, whom Jolin of
 
 ACT III— SCENE IV 
 
 63 
 
 Portugal, the ruler of the sea, doth through 
 the Holy Father offer me ; or Conti. — We 
 shall see. — 'T would be a bitter pill to swal- 
 low ! But no matter ! I am master, and on 
 me doth everything depend ! 
 
 (Putting his hand to his chest.) 
 
 This pain ! 
 
 (He coughs.) 
 
 I must to work ! To do great deeds is to. 
 
 forget that one must die. 
 
 (He unrolls the map and examines it with profound 
 attention. ) 
 
 No more reverses ! France, securing for 
 herself tranquillity, has tranquillized the world. 
 
 (He leans over the map, then raises his head.) 
 
 The sword is insolent, the robe is jealous, 
 but I have brought everything beneath my 
 yoke. Bordeaux, Toulouse, Rennes, — Paris ! 
 — Paris ! the mighty hydra ! No more raging 
 factions ! no more combats ! 
 
 ( He unfolds a letter.) 
 
 Let us see what has the Emperor to offer. 
 
 (Glancing over the letter.) 
 
 Good. He seeks thus to extinguish every 
 spark. He yields. 
 
 (Looking down upon the map.) 
 
 Pending the fall of Brussels and Besan^on, 
 we will take Brisach, Alsace and the Three 
 Bishoprics. In due time I will carry out my 
 plans, still unrevealed. From Rhine to 
 Pyrenees must France extend. Paris, which 
 may be reached in two or three days' march, 
 is almost, so to speak, on the frontier. It 
 should be in the centre. I will gain my 
 object without noise and without war. 
 (He looks up at the portrait of Cardinal Richelieu.) 
 
 O Richelieu ! We shall in turn have done 
 a mighty work ; he made the king, and I am 
 building France. 
 
 (Turning his eyes upon the map.) 
 
 But naught is done as yet. 
 
 (He rises.) 
 My edifice, more vast than any realm, more 
 perfect than a king, the dream which hath so 
 many nights bedazzled my poor eyes, the map 
 whereon I all my toil have spent, the map 
 which God, before he moulded us from clay, 
 did draw with capes and seas and mountain- 
 chains and streams ; which after Philip Second 
 Richelieu bequeathed to me and which in 
 thought I have completed ; in a word, the 
 work I have in hand to finish, and which now 
 my will directs, is thou, O Europe, whom 
 methinks I see hanging above my head, who 
 dost thyself unfold before my startled gaze, a 
 mammoth arch whereof France is the key- 
 stone ! 
 
 (Returning to the map. ) 
 
 Germany from hour to hour loses heart ; 
 Spain parts with her accretions ; by the peace 
 of Munster France becomes supreme. The 
 lion has turned cat, the Emperor doth fawn on 
 us. The North doth bend its knee but half- 
 way to the ground before the Holy Empire, 
 and turns its face to us. The Elector of 
 Triers alone still hesitates to give in his 
 adhesion to my plan. He is a priest and well 
 along in years. How can I best attack him ? 
 Pardieu ! through the house of Deux-Ponts, to 
 which he belongs. 
 
 ( Musing. ) 
 
 Change the ambassador. — Or bribe some 
 servant. — The Sultan is a boy of twelve, his 
 empire is falling to decay. Each state has its 
 own overhanging wall of rock ; Denmark has 
 Stockholm, Poland, Moscow. I have crushed 
 the Swedes. I hold the Muscovite Grand Duke 
 in leash, and lii^iit his crusade to sending to 
 the Doge an embassy. I keep a watchful eye 
 upon Turin, a ring that oft doth break. — 
 Farnese, Gonzague, and Este, houses that are 
 dying out ! — At Parma the old duke will die 
 a sudden death ; at Mantua a duenna, at
 
 64 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 Modena a mere child ; I am already master, 
 without tumult or commotion. Through their 
 doges the republics all are mine. I hold, for 
 Brutus' virtue grows more human, Genoa 
 through Paoll, Venice through Cornaro. Most 
 discerning land ! — the dagger, but the scaffold 
 never. As for the petty states, we must, 
 despite the diplomats, leave the Dalmatians 
 for a toy Ragusa, Lubeck to the Germans. 
 Thus doth everything proceed as I would have 
 it, all goes well, and naught is doubtful. 
 There are two dark spots, but two, in this 
 fair, azure sky ; Madrid which harbors plotters ; 
 London which resists my will ; Cromwell the 
 lucky madman ; Philip the melancholy fool. 
 — A fig for them ! 
 
 (Looking at the map.) 
 
 But Rome ! . . . 
 
 (Musing.) 
 O city bending 'neatli the weight of years, 
 which speaks but understands not, leans but 
 falls not, so that his mind who looks upon it 
 wavers 'twixt the Tower of Babel and the 
 Tower of Pisa ! 
 
 (Raising his head.) 
 
 Let US on the one hand state the question 
 and on the other hand support our reasoning ! 
 Outside of Europe France has vast appen- 
 dages. France everywhere is on the watch. 
 Strong, fortunate, well-armed, she stamps out 
 as she passes every spark of war. With 
 Kurdistan the Persian would take Candahar 
 from the Great Mogul, and from the Sul- 
 tan Babylon ; but we cried halt. Already, 
 
 from the Tigris to the Ganges, we are sup- 
 planting in the markets the Slavonian and 
 Armenian traders. We are fast becoming 
 masters everywhere : in India we have troops, 
 in China Jesuits. Our engines of war are 
 built in every place ; a never-failing method of 
 securing mastery without a struggle. I am 
 old, crushed by the weight of years, my worst 
 enemies; e'en now I see before me in the 
 darkness, whereunto my steps are slowly 
 tending, something yawning wide, that is 
 much like an open grave. Ah, well ! if the 
 dread hour in very truth draws nigh, when 
 God shall ask me lying in my shroud : " What 
 hast thou done?" lean reply: "O God, 
 the floods did beat upon my head ; when I 
 came on the stage, the tempest raged on every 
 side ; the strife was on betwixt the ideas of 
 the old days and the new ; a fearful strife, as 
 thou dost know ! The first onslaught was 
 made by Louis the Eleventh ; Francois First 
 enlarged the breach, but perished at the work 
 before the giant fell ; the end of the great 
 combat Richelieu did not live to see; those 
 men, who followed one and all their lofty 
 destiny, made war. I have brought peace to 
 
 the whole world !" 
 
 (Rising.) 
 
 Aye ! peace to the whole world ! — oh ! 
 
 dazzling spectacle ! In this thrice sacred work 
 
 each day I steadily press on. The King of 
 
 France is my transcendent tool. Now I have 
 
 done, I stand upon the summit ! No more 
 
 obstacles to overcome ! no reefs to shun !
 
 NOTES 65 
 
 NOTES 
 
 TI/E TWINS {LES JUMEAUX), was originally called LE COMTE JEAN. 
 The manuscript has upon the first page of the first act the date : July 26, iSjc). 
 
 The first act was finished August 8. The second act begun August 10, and finished August 15. The 
 third act was begun August 17. On the last page is this note: Interrupted by illness August 2j. 
 
 ' A quotation from the Cinna of Corneille. 
 
 "^Monsieur was the title given to the brother of a l<ing of France ; in this case the reference is to Philippe, 
 Due d'Orleans, younger brother of Louis XIV. and father of the famous Regent.
 
 66 THE TWINS 
 
 TRANSLATOR'S NOTE TO THE TWINS 
 
 The identity of the famous Man in the Iron Mask has never been established, and must go down to posterity 
 side by side with the authorship of the letters of Junius, as a problem destined never to be solved. Conjectures 
 and theories are about as numerous in the one case as in the other. The various theories concerning the myste- 
 rious personage who is supposed to have been confined so many years under such mysterious circumstances, first 
 at lie Sainte-Marguerite, and afterward at the Bastile, have been several times published in juxtaposition ; they 
 may be found collected in an article usually published with the Crimes Celebres of M. Alexandre Dumas, p4re, 
 and in a more recent work by M. Topin. The theory adopted by Victor Hugo as the basis of the plot of The 
 Twins has always had many adherents. The existence of a twin brother to Louis XIV. was deemed by Voltaire 
 to furnish the solution of the riddle, and that solution was adopted by M. Dumas in the Vicomte de Bragelonne. 
 
 It is impossible to discover why the play was never finished. 
 
 M. Edmond Eire, in his "Victor Hugo apr^s 1830," says: 
 
 " The following explanation was given by Victor Hugo, and reproduced by one of his secretaries, M. Richard 
 Lesclide. 
 
 " The poet, contrary to his usual custom, spoke prematurely of his work. He read some scenes from it at a 
 very small gathering of his most intimate friends, at which Louis Boulanger was present. On the same evening 
 Louis Boulanger, still under the effect of the deep impression the reading made upon him, could not forbear to 
 mention the Master's latest work before a small group of whom Alexandre Dumas piire was one. The latter 
 found the subject to his taste, and, without losing an hour, constructed a romance upon the lines of Hugo's 
 drama ; from TJie Twins he made the Vicomte i/e Bragelonne. 
 
 " Upon learning Louis Boulanger's indiscretion and its results, Victor Hugo flew into a towering rage, and 
 threw the manuscript of T/ie Twins into the fire. ' No,' says Madame Drouet, who was in the poet's study while 
 he told the story to his secretary, ' no, you didn't throw your manuscript into the fire ; you carried it away and 
 stowed it in some corner, where it will be found one day or another.' " 
 
 The only mention of The Twins in the work entitled " Victor Hugo Raconte par un Temoin de sa Vie," is 
 in these words : 
 
 " M. Victor Hugo, after 77/1? Burgraves, abandoned the stage, although he had had a drama almost finished 
 since 1838" (1839). 
 
 " The ' 7tvKo/« ' (witness) says M. Biri, whose very strong antipathy to his subject has been heretofore 
 noticed in these notes, " was careful not to put forward the explanation we have just read. For at that time 
 Alexandre Dumas was still living. They waited until his death before accusing him, not of a simple plagiarism 
 made at his own risk, but of a downright abuse of confidence, a shameful act of treachery." 
 
 The author from whom we quote alleges the fact that the Vicomte de Bragelonne did not appear until 1847 
 [^Les Trois Afousquetaires and Vingt Aus Apris to which it forms the .sequel, being of 1844 and 1845 respectively), 
 as conclusive evidence of the falseness of the charge. 
 
 The Twins was published in 1S89 among the GLtivrcs Inedites of Victor Hugo.
 
 AMY ROBSART
 
 |.i.«''S«P. J! X 
 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^% 
 
 h 
 
 
 
 ^^^Un^uui J.'- ^>tytu^i 
 
 /fltui.cnofi 'ic ■
 
 TflA8aOfl YMA 
 
 V 3H338 HTHUOH TDA 
 
 larijfil 7ijO .13189313 J lo hcS (ifalftuo' ,VltinaT^T)2 bB3rI iriOY Jon o?.\r.^ 
 .bnsci Jon bluo-r/ JcriJ ?.br,^tl 3d} "flo )rio .xiomarri euonjgulli lo ,rijrt^ii3 '(inoH 
 33irja iijo lo aianoiarisq ncrnSjIfnsg ^rfJ }«rf3 fi feJ lyTpcOifiJ^oo boog '(rn ,nobanijH 
 aid (jrj 3viy aiirl JsJ .yboJain ni bsofilq sd riBrri airi) Jsl ; 333nibB3T ni 31b 
 
 In 1828 Victor Hug6"^^W^cLiAM^h,llB^/^'\^^M 'M^lf^'V^fh Marion 
 He Zl??«?.'" ?f'/-^i-^2&fe"^'?if'l?6\''K¥°h?iPa^li?fiT''5^?e?ai'''j^^^ lfl'a"HlHtten one, 
 
 under circumstances wnich are thus related by the author of Victor Htigo Kaconte par un 
 iemoin de sa Vie. .YMA 
 
 !''(lfog*Iorf=3r ^ tl^lft^iefteji^fenja^gfti^, !li^§iS^the%(JjgB}g„d^!^ his father at 
 Blois, Victor. Hugo, alone in]fl^^vgrl^«!9^3irq«;Wif3i ^IMclH%fecfeiS{DFfig9%(4'fPBVP^iai'rying, 
 was seeking in every direction the money which would biing happiness within his reach, 
 M. Soumet proposed to him that they should together write a play based upon one of 
 Walter Scott's novels, Kenilworth. M. Soumet was to arrange the plot, M. Victor Hugo 
 to write the first three acts, and M. Soumet the last two. 
 
 " M. Victor Hugo did his part; but, when M. Soumet read his three acts, he was 
 
 only half satisfied : he did not approve the combination of tragedy and comedy, and he 
 
 wanted to cut out all that was not grave and serious. M. Victor Hugo cited Shakespeare 
 
 as a precedent ; but at that time English actors had not made Shakespeare popular in 
 
 Paris, and M. Soumet claimed that, although his plays were good reading, they would 
 
 not stand the test of representation ; that Hamlet and Othello, moreover, were rather 
 
 sublime efforts, beautiful monstrosities, than chefs-d'oeuvre ; that a play must make its 
 
 choice, to arouse laughter or weeping. The collaborators, being unable to agree, parted 
 
 on the best of terms ; each of them took with him the acts he had written and his 
 
 69
 
 ■:j^s^ 
 
 .AMY R'pBSART 
 
 ACT FOURTH SCENE V 
 
 fLIV.MiETn. 
 
 ^ *\ ' "■ , . 
 
 Raise noi ^ otir licad "9C>"i^¥onilly. Dudley, -Earl nl Leicester. Our father ■ 
 lTetiry'Ki;;lilh, of illustrious merliory, cut offi'the head that ^yonlll iu)t bend.' 
 Himsdun, my good cousin, look to itirhat traB>gentleman pensioners 'ii dur suite 
 are in readiness; let this man be placei in custudv. Let him ijive up his 
 i^yord, and let it be done with all speed ! I liave spoken. 
 
 ^Munsdbii ili.iws liis sword; tlirf i;. iitK-iiicii advance toward I-eieester, wlio;[;uid- calm aj;j 
 ; unmoved. Mi 'ivjwc herself nl the queen's.feet. ! 
 
 AMY. 
 
 i 
 
 No ! no. niadame ! iMei' )■ ! justice ! lie i:^ not guilty ! he i:- n<>i guilty ■! 
 No oile (.an accuse the lioMj l^'ail of Leicester in nuc.^ht ! 
 
 lii-. (mu^^l Ul^ ■ 
 
 //(aneJt/*n ->i
 
 PREFACE 
 
 BY THE EDITORS 
 
 In 1828 Victor Hugo had just completed Cromwell, and was about to write Marion 
 de Lorme. Cromwell was not his first drama ; several years earlier he had written one, 
 under circumstances which are thus related by the author of Victor Hugo Raconte par un 
 temoin Je sa Vie. 
 
 " * * * At the age of nineteen, when, his mother being dead and his father at 
 Blois, Victor Hugo, alone in the world and prevented by his lack of means from marrying, 
 was seeking in every direction the money which would bring happiness within his reach, 
 M. Soumet proposed to him that they should together write a play based upon one of 
 Walter Scott's novels, Kenilworth. M. Soumet was to arrange the plot, M. Victor Hugo 
 to write the first three acts, and M. Soumet the last two. 
 
 " M. Victor Hugo did his part; but, when M. Soumet read his three acts, he was 
 
 only half satisfied : he did not approve the combination of tragedy and comedy, and he 
 
 wanted to cut out all that was not grave and serious. M. Victor Hugo cited Shakespeare 
 
 as a precedent ; but at that time English actors had not made Shakespeare popular in 
 
 Paris, and M. Soumet claimed that, although his plays were good reading, they would 
 
 not stand the test of representation ; that Hamlet and Othello, moreover, were rather 
 
 sublime efforts, beautiful monstrosities, than chefs-d'oeuvre; that a play must make its 
 
 choice, to arouse laughter or weeping. The collaborators, being unable to agree, parted 
 
 on the best of terms ; each of them took with him the acts he had written and his 
 
 69
 
 70 PREFACE 
 
 independence, and completed his play as he chose. M. Souniet produced Emilia, which, 
 when played at the- Theatre-Francais by Mile. Mars, had a sort of half-success. M. Victor 
 Hugo completed his Amy Robsart according to his own ideas, freely mingling comedy and 
 tragedy therein." 
 
 Six years had passed, and M. Hugo had entirely forgotten his first play, wlien the 
 younger of his two brothers-in-law, Paul Foucher, who had a strong inclination for the 
 stage, begged him to let him read it. Alexandre Soumet had mentioned it to him 
 the day before as a singularly interesting piece of work. 
 
 "It startled me a little at the time," said Soumet, "and there are many audacious 
 passages in it which I myself would not venture to father even now; but, as English 
 dramas have succeeded, I don't see why that should not succeed. If I were Victor Hugo 
 I would not throw away a play in which there are some very fine scenes." 
 
 Paul Foucher, after reading the drama, insisted that Victor Hugo should follow 
 Soumet's advice. But Hugo, who had already become famous, did not care to put his 
 name to a play whose subject was borrowed from somebody else. 
 
 "Very well," said Paul Foucher, "if you don't wish to have it produced under your 
 name, let it be produced under mine. You will do me a great service, for such a play 
 will bring my name forward, and throw the stage-doors wide open to me." 
 
 Victor Hugo consented, glad to oblige his brother-in-law, and no less glad perhaps 
 to make this trial of the theatre and the public. 
 
 But the play was not produced as the author wrote it at the age of nineteen. Victor 
 Hugo did to Amy Robsart what he had done to Biig-Jargal, and what he would have 
 done to Cromwell, had not Talma's death prevented its production. He modified and 
 compressed the drama, and did not allow it to be played until he had prepared it for 
 the stage.
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON/E 
 
 DUDLEY, EARL OF LEICESTER 
 
 RICHARD VARNEY 
 
 SIR HUGH ROBSART 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET 
 
 ALASCO 
 
 LORD SUSSEX 
 
 LORD SHREWSBURY 
 
 FOSTER 
 
 ELIZABETH, Queen of England 
 AMY ROBSART 
 JEANNETTE 
 
 LORDS, LADIES, GUARDS, PAGES
 
 
 C-A-MancliQa.ec 
 
 ACT FIRST 
 
 A large Gothic apartment. At the rear, a glass door. At the right, an open window. On the same side, 
 an arm-chair for two persons, surrounded by an earl's and countess's coronets; the feet of the chair are hidden 
 by velvet valances. A table with twisted legs. 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 EARL OF LEICESTER, VARNEY. 
 
 (They enter together, talking. Leicester places a small 
 iron casket on the table. ) 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 Thou 'rt right, Varney, though thy advice 
 tallies not, mayhap, with that my conscience 
 offers. To make known to the queen my 
 secret marriage to Amy Robsart is impossible 
 to-day. Elizabeth doth confer upon me the 
 rare and signal honor of a visit here in my 
 castle of Kenilworth. A few hours hence she 
 will be here, and in her train my rival, rather 
 my enemy, the Earl of Sussex, 'twixt whom 
 and myself it is her purpose to effect a 
 reconciliation. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 In sooth, the virgin-queen, as she is called, 
 doth not with good grace allow that they who 
 aspire to her favor should be more enslaved 
 than she herself is by the laws of love. To 
 confess that neither your heart nor your hand 
 is free would be to give the Earl of Sussex 
 such a great advantage ! 
 
 LEICESTER (interrupting him, impatiently). 
 
 I tell thee, Richard, that I will do what 
 
 thou wouldst have me do, for 't is forced 
 
 upon me by my embarrassing situation. But 
 
 none the less my heart is filled with anxiety 
 
 73
 
 74 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 and sorrow. What is the favor of a queen 
 compared with domestic happiness ? what is 
 disgrace inflicted by Elizabeth beside my 
 Amy's love? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 To hear the Earl of Leicester draw that 
 parallel should be enough to fill my lady's 
 heart with gratitude. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Beloved Amy ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 To hear the Earl of Leicester heave that 
 love-lorn sigh should be enough to make the 
 heart of Sussex swell with hope. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Sussex ! Sussex ! I tell thee I have decided 
 to be silent ! But if the queen should dis- 
 cover without my help that which thou dost 
 prevent me from disclosing to her myself? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Have no fear, my lord. This ruined portion 
 of the castle escapes all prying eyes ; 't is far 
 removed from the new castle, and is supposed 
 
 to be uninhabited and uninhabitable. And, in 
 good sooth, did it not shelter your lordship's 
 mysterious dove, one might say — even though 
 you should leave your crabbed old retainer 
 Foster here — that 't was inhabited by none 
 but owls. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 'T is well; now leave me, Varney. Go 
 and overlook the last preparations for the 
 queen's reception. I must, myself, hold 
 speech with our astrologer. 
 
 VARNEY (feigning surprise). 
 
 Ah ! has my lord caused Alasco to be 
 summoned hither? 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Aye, yesterday. Didst thou not know it ? 
 He 's in the secret chamber above our heads. 
 Send him some refreshment, Varney, while I 
 question him touching a certain person's 
 horoscope. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 Enough, my lord. 
 
 (He bows and exit.)
 
 ACT I— SCENE II 
 
 75 
 
 SCENE 11 
 
 LEICESTER (alone). 
 
 (He slowly approaches one of the windows.) 
 Not a cloud in the sky. Ah ! if 't is true 
 that our destinies are subject to the action of 
 the stars that twinkle above our heads, the 
 revelation of their influence was never more 
 necessary to me than at this moment ; my path 
 on earth is uncertain and hidden ! 
 ( He sits down by the table, opens the iron casket, and 
 
 takes from it a piece of paper covered with cabalistic 
 
 signs. ) 
 
 I can not take my eyes from the mysterious 
 signs drawn by Alasco's hands. But ought I 
 to put faith in their brilliant predictions ? 
 What would England say did she but know 
 that at this hour the noble Earl of Leicester, 
 Elizabeth's all-powerful favorite, is seeking, 
 
 like a child, to read his destiny in the sym- 
 bolical inventions of an astrologer ? Ah ! 
 but is not my weakness shared by all who 
 have cherished in their hearts the loftiest 
 ambition ? Mere commonplace destinies have 
 no horoscope ; but Cssar more than once 
 consulted the prophetesses of Gaul before he 
 passed the Rubicon ! 
 
 (He approaches the wall at the back of the stage, 
 opens a low, masked door, and, after looking 
 uneasily about, calls in a hollow voice : ) 
 
 Alasco ! Demetrius Alasco ! 
 
 (A little old man comes down a dark, narrow staircase, 
 and appears upon the stage. He is dressed in a full 
 gray frock. He has a bald head, white beard and 
 black eyebrows.)
 
 76 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 SCENE 111 
 
 LEICESTER, ALASCO. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 My lord, I am at your service. 
 
 LEICESTER (pointing to the parchment). 
 
 Old man, know'st thou that thou hast here 
 set down most audacious dreams? That night 
 the heavens were cloudless, and thou couldst 
 read them like an open book. The stars — am 
 I not right ? — have not confirmed those rash 
 predictions. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 
 Not so, my son ; I have seen again in your 
 star what it had already disclosed to me. Earl 
 of Leicester, thy ambition is great, but thy 
 fortune will be greater still. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Thou didst then, in very truth, see in the 
 darkness of my destiny . . . 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Must I repeat it ? A throne. And what 
 throne ? The first on earth ! 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Old man, dost thou weigh well thy words ? 
 
 ALASCO. 
 You 'd have the truth, my lord. I know 
 that 't is not always prudent to tell the truth 
 to those who rule the world. 
 
 (At that moment Leicester meets the false, piercing eye 
 of Alasco fixed upon his face. The earl hastily puts 
 his hand to his sword.) 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 Villain ! thou dost deceive me ! By the 
 faith of my ancestors thou 'rt making sport of 
 me. Dearly shalt thou pay me for thy inso- 
 lent raillery. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 
 Nay, he rails not, who has his eyes upon 
 the heavens and his foot upon the tomb ! 
 Hark ye, my son : To-day the April moon is 
 in the great Chaldean arc. I have been fore- 
 warned that on this day your unworthy 
 servitor would be in danger of his life, but 
 that he would come forth therefrom safe and 
 well. I am old, weak and defenseless, and 
 you are young and strong and armed, but I 
 shall have more faith than you in the twofold 
 prediction ; your star lied not, and you will 
 not kill me. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 A proof ! a proof ! Give me the proof that 
 I am not the dupe of an impostor ! 
 
 ALASCO. 
 The proof? 'T is this: that while I fore- 
 tell for you this royal future, I am none the 
 less aware what obstacles the past puts in 
 your way. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 How now ! what obstacles ? What meanest 
 thou ? Who told thee ? 
 
 ALASCO. 
 
 My son, remember that yesterday you 
 caused me to be seized in my secure retreat.
 
 ACT I— SCENE III 
 
 77 
 
 like a wild beast ; that a closed carriage, so 
 tightly closed that none could look within, 
 brought me to this dungeon, isolated from all 
 human habitations ; that no human voice has 
 struck upon my ear for four and twenty hours ; 
 and that, fasting and sleepless, as the cabalistic 
 law prescribes, last night with my unsmiling 
 eyes I studied for you, from this narrow 
 turret, the book that has no pages. Reflect, 
 and say if any human means could have 
 informed me that this ruin is not deserted, as 
 it is supposed to be, but that it has an 
 occupant whom it conceals from all the 
 world. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 My God ! stay ! hold thy peace ! He is 
 right. How can he have found out ? 
 
 AL.\SCO. 
 
 (He takes a parchment from his bosom, and pretends 
 to study it closely.) 
 
 The irregularity of the stellar zones indi- 
 cates that the young woman's birth, though 
 honorable, is below the rank of the noble earl. 
 Nathless the crossing of the lines denotes a 
 lawful marriage, which is kept secret, as the 
 proximity of the nebulous Chormith proves. 
 But this marriage must inevitably be dissolved ; 
 for the young lady's pale star will disappear 
 in the beams of the great Southern comet, 
 ■which draws into its vortex the noble earl's 
 bright star, and represents . . . 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 And represents . . . ? Finish, knave, finish ! 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Your lordship will have it so ? 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 And quickly, I command thee ! 
 
 ALASCO. 
 I am but a feeble old man, and what my 
 mouth says was not conceived in my mind. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Speak then ! wilt thou speak ? 
 
 ALASCO. 
 The great crowned comet represents an 
 ■exalted, sovereign lady, who is to come from 
 the south . . . 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 What says it? Old man, what meaning 
 dost thou conceal 'neath these mysterious 
 words? Tell me, I command thee, who this 
 sovereign lady is ? 
 
 ALASCO. 
 The Earl of Leicester is not unversed in 
 heraldry, and he will recognize her by her 
 crown. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Ye powers of heaven ! 
 
 ALASCO. 
 The sovereign brings hither in her heart a 
 tenderness as yet but ill-defined, which may 
 become more clear and stronger. And per- 
 chance, — What is love beside ambition? A 
 man doth not refuse the hand that gives a 
 sceptre. The lord of this castle is not wont 
 to pause in the career of grandeur . . . 
 
 LEICESTER (bewildered). 
 Enough, old man, enough ! You speak to 
 me of the future, and your voice causes my 
 heart to ache as if it were the voice of my 
 remorse ! 
 
 ALASCO. 
 If your lordship . . . 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Enough, I tell thee !
 
 78 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 (After a pause.) 
 
 Alasco, if thou dost set store by thy life, 
 bear always in mind that, when one has the 
 fortune to know everything, 't is most essen- 
 tial also to know how to hold one's peace. I 
 
 will reward thee generously for thy words, 
 but for thy silence more generously still. 
 
 (He tosses him a purse of gold.) 
 ( Enters Varney, followed by a servant with a basket 
 ill which refreshments can be seen. The servant 
 places the basket on a table, and exit.)
 
 ACT I— SCENE IV 
 
 79 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 LEICESTER, ALA6C0, VARNEY. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 My lord, your orders have been carried out. 
 Kenihvorth Castle is ready to receive her Ma- 
 jesty the Queen. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 'T is well. I go now to make my own 
 preparations. I will return hither, ere long. 
 
 to fulfill a desire which the lady within 
 hath graciously expressed. Do you, Var- 
 ney, have an eye to Alasco's comfort. Show 
 him all the consideration due to his years 
 and his learning. 
 
 (Varney bows. Exit Leicester.)
 
 8o 
 
 AMY ROBSART 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 ALASCO, VARNEY. 
 
 VARNEY (looking at Alasco, with a laugh). 
 Well, thou old child of hell, so my master 
 and thine has become thy dupe ? The royal 
 lion of England is caught in thy toils, eh, 
 fox? 
 
 ALASCO. 
 You might, my son, express yourself with 
 greater dignity. If my learning . . . 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Thy learning 1 Come, throw away the 
 mask with me, who know thy face ! Barest 
 thou say to me that thou hast in very truth 
 read in the stars the surprising revelations 
 that thou didst but now make known to the 
 earl? 
 
 ALASCO. 
 At least, mysterious means . . . 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Yes, yes, a strip of parchment that a sly 
 and active emissary of my own slipped into 
 thy hand last night on thy arrival. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Aha I the youth who whispered to me in 
 the darkness came from thee? Who was he, 
 prithee? His voice was not unknown to me. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 A page the devil sent to take service with 
 me. However, you knew enough to profit by 
 the information he gave you. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Why not ? since it saved me precious time, 
 much more profitably employed in the con- 
 templation of nature's secrets, in the conquest 
 of universal knowledge. One step more, and 
 I shall have penetrated to the inmost recesses 
 of the laboratory of creation, and shall hold 
 in my hands the seeds of gold ! and then, 
 take heed, 't will be my turn to be thy mas- 
 ter, thou insolent favorite's favorite ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 Hoity-toity ! Master Alasco, let us not 
 lose our heads ! I have such faith in your 
 science that, should I forfeit your good-will, 
 I should eat nothing but fresh eggs for three 
 months. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 
 Presumptuous man ! my philters ! my po- 
 tions ! dost think that I would waste them upon 
 thee? Dost think that I would throw away, to 
 save thy miserable life, the sublime quintes- 
 sences of the rarest plants, the purest minerals, 
 wherein so many priceless elements are concen- 
 trated that the whole domain of a Leicester 
 would not pay for one phial? Have no 
 fear, Varney ! although 't is certain that more 
 venom can be extracted from thy body than 
 from any viper's, thou art not worth a drop 
 of one of my poisons. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 That 's the most comforting word that thou 
 hast thus far said to me.
 
 ACT /—SCENE V 
 
 8i 
 
 ALASCO. 
 
 And as for penetrating, without thee, thy 
 master's secrets, had I but chosen to exert 
 myself, the task would have been no more 
 difficult than in the case of thy own secrets, 
 Richard Varney ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 My secrets? 'T is, indeed, no difficult 
 matter to know them : I have none. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 
 Is 't so? And Leicester's clandestine 
 marriage which thou dost so earnestly desire 
 to annul, — is it in his interest, sayest thou ? Is 
 it in order that he may not pause in his glori- 
 ous career? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 Aye, and a little, mayhap, to exchange the 
 livery of a nobleman's squire for the cloak of 
 a king's equerry. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 
 Is it for that alone, subtle Varney ? It 
 was beneath thy roof that the illustrious Earl 
 of Leicester was first presented to fair Amy 
 Robsart ; behind thee he took shelter, when, 
 seeking to seduce her but seduced by her 
 instead, he made fair Amy his wife. In the 
 eyes of old Sir Hugh Robsart the man who 
 carried off his daughter was not Leicester, 
 but Dudley. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 These secrets, O sagacious Alasco, thou 
 didst learn from my own mouth. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 True, but there are others I have read in 
 thine eyes. Thou hast taken the comedy seri- 
 ously, my master ; thou lovest Amy Robsart. 
 
 VARNEY (with a forced laugh). 
 I love her ! Nonsense I 
 
 ALASCO (persisting). 
 
 Thou lovest .\my Robsart ! and, if thou 'rt 
 
 bent upon separating her from the earl, 't is 
 
 in the hope that some day she will cleave to 
 
 the squire. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 Peace ! Who can have told you that ? 
 'T is not the countess; she is far too proud ! 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Thy confusion proves to me that I am not 
 at fault. Suppose the earl should learn how 
 his squire doth abuse his confidence? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Suppose the earl should learn how his 
 astrologer doth play upon his credulity? Go 
 to ! go to ! be guided by me, Alasco, and let 
 us remain good friends ! For both of us it is 
 the safest way. 
 
 (Drawing nearer to him.) 
 
 Listen. Your laboratory at Pelham blazed 
 
 forth one morning like unto one of hell's 
 
 craters. You know that on the estate of 
 
 Cumnor we have one tenfold more valuable, 
 
 where you will find furnaces and starry globes 
 
 left by the former prior, and where you can 
 
 melt, amalgamate, compound, blow, calcine, 
 
 vaporize and volatilize at your sweet will, 
 
 till the green dragon changes to a golden 
 
 goose . . . 
 
 ALASCO. 
 
 Good ! and what commands must I obey 
 to gain possession of so fine a workshop ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Do what I say, and hold thy peace con- 
 cerning what I do. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 So be it. But, first of all, I prithee tell 
 me, am I to be kept long a prisoner in tliis 
 deserted turret? I like not to remain thus all 
 alone at night, with the screech-owls and 
 eai/les.
 
 82 
 
 AAfV ROBS ART 
 
 VARNEY. 
 What do 1 hear? The sorcerer doth 
 tremble like a child in solitude and darkness? 
 Thou dost not now make gold, Alasco, and 
 thou hast no fear of robbers. As for the 
 demons, they ought at least to leave thee at 
 peace in this world. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 This world is not the only world ; there is 
 the other ! and last night I saw . . . 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Saw what, in God's name? Thy patron, 
 Satan, with his horns twelve cubits long, and 
 his tail, that makes as many turns upon itself 
 as doth the spiral staircase in the old bell- 
 tower of St. Paul's at London ? 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Joke not, Varney, and speak lower. Yes, 
 last night, at midnight, I saw a spectre. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Dost thou take me for Leicester, Alasco ? 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Speak low, I tell thee ! Varney, I had, of 
 late, a pupil, a disciple . . . 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Aye, a confederate. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Pray hold thy peace ! He was a strange 
 being, capricious and mischievous; as clever 
 as a demon and agile as a sylph ; more like a 
 child than like a man, and much more like an 
 imp than either. His name was Flibberti- 
 gibbet. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 An impish name, in truth. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 He had an inquisitive eye and a keen mind ; 
 he mastered certain of my secrets . . . 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Rash youth ! 
 
 ALASCO. 
 I was compelled to part with him. I left 
 Pelham, leaving my laboratory, my alembics 
 and my furnace at his disposal. But I did not 
 forget to leave a keg of powder hidden in a 
 secret compartment of the furnace ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Ingenious negligence ! 
 
 ALASCO. 
 I learned two days later of the explosion 
 of the laboratory. My poor pupil surely met 
 his death therein. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 At all events thy poor pupil carried thy 
 secrets with him to the grave. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Aye, but he brings them back again ! 
 Varney, 't was he, his phantom, that appeared 
 to me last night beneath the arched roof of 
 this turret ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Can it be so ? What said he to thee ? 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Fearful things ; things that hell, death and 
 he alone could know. He reproached me, 
 with a bitter laugh, for what he called his 
 murder. I was half senseless with fright. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 And in what shape did Flibbertigibbet's 
 shade appear to thee ? 
 
 ALASCO. 
 In the shape of a young flame-colored devil, 
 with something at the end of his black horns 
 that gave forth a phosphorescent gleam in the 
 moonlight.
 
 ACT I—SCENE V 
 
 83 
 
 VARNEY (aside). 
 It must have been my shatter-brained little 
 clown ! 
 
 ALASCO. 
 
 What say you, Richard, to this strange 
 
 vision ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 But was it not rather dream than vision ? 
 
 ALASCO (shaking his head). 
 Nay, Varney, nay ! the infernal powers take 
 a hand in our affairs. Let us beware ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 One reason more, my friend, why we should 
 work in unison ! Alasco, 't is not within my 
 power to set thee free at once; but I may 
 indirectly advise Leicester so to do. Give me 
 thine aid, and I will give thee mine. The 
 
 earl will soon return and must not find us 
 together. Faithfully observe our compact, 
 and I will do the same. Is 't agreed ? 
 
 Agreed. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 
 (They shake hands.) 
 
 VARNEY. 
 • With this, farewell, my dear Alasco ! 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 The devil take thee, vile poisoner ! 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Farewell, dear Varney, till we meet again ! 
 
 (Aside.) 
 The lightning strike thee down, infernal 
 villain ! 
 
 (Exit Varney.)
 
 84 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 SCENE VI 
 
 ALASCO, alone; afterward FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 The fellow hath no conscience ; he believes 
 in naught but hell ! 
 
 (Suddenly a piercing voice calls him from without. ) 
 
 THE VOICE. 
 Doboobius ! 
 
 ALASCO (starting back). 
 
 My God, who calls me b)' that name ? 
 
 THE VOICE. 
 Dr. Doboobius ! 
 
 ALASCO. 
 O Heaven ! 't is the name under which I 
 was proscribed! And again 't is Flibberti- 
 gibbet's voice ! 
 
 THE VOICE. 
 'T is Flibbertigibbet himself. 
 
 ALASCO (hiding his face in his hands). 
 How now ! in broad daylight ! Oh ! mercy ! 
 mercy ! 
 
 THE VOICE. 
 
 Mercy? On one condition. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Name it ! speak ! what wouldst thou have ? 
 
 (Flibbertigibbet leaps through the open window and 
 appears; flame-colored devil's costume.) 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET (pointing to the basket of 
 provisions). 
 
 What would I have? — I 'd have a bit of 
 yonder bread and a cup of yonder wine. 
 
 ALASCO (raising his head in amazement). 
 What language for a shade ! 
 
 (He watches Flibbertigibbet, who has opened the 
 basket, and taken therefrom a bottle and a piece of 
 bread, which he attacks with great avidity. ) 
 
 Why then thou art not dead ? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET (eating). 
 In sooth am I, of hunger and thirst. 
 
 ALASCO (touching him). 
 Why, poor Flibbertigibbet is really alive . 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 'T is not thy fault, eh, my kind master? 
 And I would have liked nothing better than 
 to take my turn and frighten thee to death. 
 But 't is well nigh eighteen hours since the 
 spectre ate, and his young appetite could wait 
 no longer. Everybody must live, even ghosts. 
 
 ALASCO (aside). 
 Living ! — I am not sure that I did not prefer 
 
 him as a ghost ! 
 
 (Aloud.) 
 
 So thou didst escape the explosion? By 
 what miracle? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 'T was by no miracle at all, but by my wit. 
 I knew enough to discover your mine, dear 
 master, and when it blew up I took good care 
 to be out of doors. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 I swear to you, my child . . .
 
 ACT I— SCENE VI 
 
 85 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Oh ! drop your oaths ; I know you. 
 What 's more, I know your secrets ; and 
 therefore you fear nie — and I do not fear 
 you. 
 
 ALASCO (aside). 
 Accursed little scoundrel ! 
 
 (Aloud.) 
 
 Dear Flibbertigibbet, let us leave the past 
 behind ! I do assure thee that I rejoice 
 sincerely to find thee still alive. But answer 
 my questions. How cam'st thou here ? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 I am here ostensibly to assist your accom- 
 plice Varney's villainous designs upon the 
 mysterious lady who lives in concealment here. 
 Varney ! another man whose schemes I am 
 beginning to fathom. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 But tell me, why this extraordinary dis- 
 guise ? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 The sorcerer's trade was too dangerous. I 
 became an actor. I belong to the troop that 
 is to take part in the entertainment given by 
 the Earl of Leicester to the queen. I play 
 the devils and the imps in the masquerades of 
 Shakespeare and Marlowe, and I wear the 
 costume of my part to distinguish myself from 
 the noblemen. 
 
 ALASCO (aside). 
 
 Monkey ! 
 
 (Aloud.) 
 And art thou content with thy new pro- 
 fession ? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 Hum-! none too well ! I'm deadly sick of 
 forever repeating the same phrases and mak- 
 ing the same wry faces. I am naturally 
 
 inquisitive, and I love to be free. I would 
 like to play a real part and be concerned in a 
 real intrigue. I scent one hereabout, which 
 seems to me mysterious enough, and most 
 interesting ; and for that reason I did not 
 reject your Varney's offers, although I 
 promised myself to take no further part 
 therein than suited my fancy. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Wilt thou then return to me? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Why not ? But with the same reservations 
 and precautions, I warn you. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 As you choose. I should be glad to know 
 more than Varney is pleased to tell me touch- 
 ing the mysterious lady, as you name her, and 
 touching my lord Leicester. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Oh, yes ! to help you in your horoscopes. 
 I understand. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 The earl and the lady will be here anon. 
 If thou couldst . . . 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Hear what they say, and repeat it to you ? 
 Magnificent ! For my part I shall be charmed 
 to listen to the dialogue between the falcon 
 and the dove. 
 
 ALASCO (looking about). 
 
 We must find some nock to conceal thee in. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 Aha! a lordly settle that looks as if 
 't were placed there for the purpose.
 
 86 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Well, hasten, I hear some one coming. 
 
 (He assists Flibbertigibbet to crawl under the great 
 arm-chair.) 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 If they could but surprise him there and 
 
 hang him to the castle eaves ! Ah ! what a 
 
 happy riddance ! 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET (under the chair). 
 
 Some one comes. Away with you, Dr. 
 
 Doboobius. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 
 Call me not by that name. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 Oho ! the serpent has taken on a new skin. 
 (Alasco goes back into the turret.)
 
 ACT I—SCENE VII 
 
 87 
 
 SCENE VII 
 
 LEICESTER (wrapped in a cloak), AMY, FLIBBERTIGIBBET (hiding). 
 
 (The countess enters, leaning on the earl's arm.) 
 
 AMY. 
 How kind you are, my dear lord, to have 
 kept your promise, to have yielded to my 
 whim, and come hither, before presenting 
 yourself to the queen, to show yourself to 
 your poor hermit in your princely costume ! 
 Allow me to remove your cloak with my own 
 hands. 
 
 LEICESTER (smiling). 
 
 So you are like all other women. Amy? 
 
 Silk, diamonds and feathers are more to 
 
 them than the man whom they adorn. 
 
 (He makes a feeble show of resistance as the countess 
 removes his cloak and exposes him to view, dressed 
 in court costume and wearing all his orders. He is 
 dressed all in white, with white silk stockings, 
 white satin doublet, white leather belt embroidered 
 with silver, white velvet mantle, embroidered with 
 silver and decorated with the insignia of the 
 Garter. ) 
 
 AMY. 
 Amy has proved to you, methinks, dear 
 earl, that she cannot more dearly love the 
 great personage whom this brilliant costume 
 adorns, than the stranger who came to her in 
 the woods of Devon, clad in a plain brown 
 cloak, announcing his approach by a blast 
 upon his hunting horn. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Dear love, thou sayest truly. 
 
 AMY. 
 Now, my lord, sit you there, as one before 
 whom all others should bend the knee. 
 
 (She leads the earl to the great chair of state. lie 
 takes his seat thereon. ) 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 And do thou come and take thy jjlace 
 beside me. 
 
 AMY (seating herself upon a cushion in front of him). 
 
 I am here. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 Thy place is by my side. 
 
 AMY. 
 Nay, at thy feet. Leave rne here, my dear 
 lord; 't is better so, and I am happy here. 
 (Gazing at him.) 
 
 How handsome, how magnificent you are 
 in this guise, my lord ! What is this einbroid- 
 ered strap about your knee ? 
 
 LEICESTER (smiling). 
 That embroidered strap, as thou dost call 
 it, is the Garter, which the king himself is 
 proud to wear. See, this is the star belong- 
 ing to it, and this the George, the jewel of 
 the Order. Thou hast heard the tale of how 
 King Edward and Lady Salisbury . . . 
 
 AMY (smiling and lowering her eyes). 
 Yes, I know. I know that King Edward 
 made of a lady's garter the first decoration of 
 an English knight.
 
 88 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 I had the honor to receive this order with 
 the Duke of Norfolk, the Marquis of North- 
 ampton and the Duke of Rutland. My rank 
 was less exalted than that of those three noble 
 lords, but must not he who would rise begin 
 at the lowest rung of the ladder ? 
 
 AMY. 
 And what is this lovely collar, of such 
 superb workmanship, with the jewel like a 
 sheep hanging in the air? 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 'T is the insignia of a venerable order, 
 which formerly pertained to the house of 
 Burgundy, the Order of the Golden Fleece. 
 Most valuable prerogatives are attached to 
 it; the King of Spain himself, the heir 
 of the Burgundian family, may not sit in 
 judgment upon a knight of the Order, with- 
 out the presence and assent of the Grand 
 Chapter. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 And to what country does this other brill- 
 iant collar belong? 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 'T is the Order of Saint Andrew, re-estab- 
 lished by James, the last king of Scotland. 
 It was conferred on me at the time 't was 
 thought the young dowager of France and 
 Scotland, ill-fated Mary Stuart, would not 
 decline to marry an English baron. But is it 
 not far better to be a free English nobleman 
 than to share with a woman that unhappy 
 mountain kingdom of the North ? 
 
 AMY. 
 
 I think as does my noble Leicester. For 
 my own part, I would always have preferred 
 the hand of Dudley to that of any monarch 
 in the world. 
 
 Alas! 
 
 LEICESTER (aside). 
 
 AMY. 
 
 What troubles thee, my lord? Think'st 
 thou that a queen's love would be more ardent 
 and more tender than thy Amy's? 
 
 LEICESTER (kissing her on the brow). 
 No, oh no ! and nothing, nothing shall 
 tear thee from my arms, my wife ! my best 
 beloved wife ! 
 
 AMY. 
 
 Aye, thy wife. The child of an obscure 
 country gentleman is held in lawful embrace 
 upon that glorious breast, laden with the 
 insignia of all the renowned chivalric orders of 
 Europe. But when shall I be thy wife in the 
 sight of all the world as I am in God's sight 
 and thine? 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 As soon as it can possibly be, dear child. 
 (He rises.) 
 
 But now I have gratified thy wish, and 
 despite the happiness it affords me to be with 
 thee, I must say farewell. 
 
 AMY. 
 One moment, my dear lord, one moment 
 more ! When I ask thee to own me as thy 
 wife before the world, thou dost not, I trust, 
 accuse me in thy heart of empty pride and vain- 
 glory. And yet how could I not be proud to 
 be acknowledged as the lawful spouse of the 
 most illustrious of English noblemen ? But 
 I think more than all else, Dudley, of my 
 unhappy father. What is he saying at this 
 moment? What is he doing? What misery 
 for him the day he rose without receiving at 
 his waking his child's accustomed kiss ! Poor 
 father ! Did he think, could he have thought 
 that it was Varney, your squire, who seduced 
 me and abducted me ? Ah ! that thought is 
 unendurable to me ! He knows thee not, my
 
 ACT I— SCENE VII 
 
 89 
 
 Leicester, and if, in his thoughts, he could 
 never look down to Varney's level to seek 
 his daughter's husband, he could no more 
 look up to thine. My best-beloved, release me 
 from my oath, allow me at least to hasten to 
 him, to undeceive him, to restore to the old 
 man his cherished daughter, and to restore 
 her to him as the spouse of the renowned 
 Earl of Leicester. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Some day, yes, some day. Amy, this wish 
 also shall be gratified. Believe me, thou 
 canst not long more ardently than I for that 
 day. What happiness, when I can comfort 
 thy father's declining years, and, casting aside 
 all the weariness and anxiety of ambition, 
 pass all my days at thy feet, at the feet of the 
 most adorable and most adored of women ! 
 But alas ! we must still wait and be content 
 with hoping. 
 
 AMY. 
 But why? what obstacle prevents this union 
 which you say that you desire, and which 
 divine and human laws alike enjoin upon us? 
 Ah ! if you did desire it, even a little, no 
 one would dare oppose it ; for never would a 
 greater power have aided a more righteous 
 cause. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 'T is easy for you to speak thus. Amy! 
 you do not know the court, the requirements 
 of rank, the duties of high ofifice ! and you 
 make this request upon the very day when I 
 proposed to urge you to keep more carefully 
 concealed than ever. Know yo\i not that 
 to-day, within the hour, I receive the queen 
 here in this castle? 
 
 AMY. 
 
 The queen ? Even so ; what better oppor- 
 tunity to announce your marriage to her? 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 What do you say, unhappy child ? Know 
 you naught of the capriciousncss and evanes- 
 cence of the royal favor? That announce- 
 ment would destroy us both. Trust to me, 
 beloved Amy. Hapijier days will come, and 
 if they come not, I shall know how to hasten 
 them. Meanwhile, disturb not our farewell 
 .by a request which thine own interest forbids 
 me to grant. 
 
 ( He rises to embrace Amy and pushes back the chair, 
 which rolls suddenly away and leaves Flibbertigibbet 
 in full view.) 
 
 LEICESTER (spying Flibbertigibbet). 
 
 What 's this? 
 
 (He extricates himself from the astonished Amy's 
 arms, and rushes upon the imp. ) 
 
 What doth this villain here? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET (boldly raising his head). 
 
 My gracious lord, I have been, as you see, 
 assisting, like the jealous Odragonal, at the 
 interview between handsome Meriandre and 
 lovely Indamira. I have been listening. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 So ? in that case thou hast listened at the 
 expense of thine ears ! 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 'T is likely. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 What art thou ? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 What you choose. A dead man or a liv- 
 ing. Dead, if such be your dagger's good 
 pleasure; if not, a living man, and one who 
 prefers the end of a good meal to the begin- 
 ning of a quarrel. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Insolent clown ! Thou 'rt playing with 
 the rope of thy gallows.
 
 9° 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET, 
 For lack of means to cut it. 
 
 LEICESTER (intensely excited). 
 'T is some emissary of Lord Sussex and 
 my enemies. Go ; thy audacity shall be so 
 punished as to make all thy fellows tremble. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 They are few. My lord earl, you can do 
 with me either of three things at your choice : 
 hang me, as a thief, to the highest tree in the 
 forest ; nail me to the great gate of the castle 
 as a spy ; or, as a sorcerer send me to hell at 
 the stake. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 Such effrontery is seldom seen ! But I 
 must know who placed him there. Hark ye, 
 villain : thou hast deserved all of those punish- 
 ments and more beside. But thou mayest escape 
 them and obtain mercy by telling me whose 
 vile tool thou art. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 To save my life? that would be cowardice ! 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 I can do more for thee than give thee life. 
 Doubtless thou 'rt paid to ply this trade of 
 spy : tell me how much, and if thou dost add 
 thereto tlie name of thy employer, I will give 
 thee the sum that thou art promised a hun- 
 dred times over. Reveal this base intrigue 
 to me. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 To make my fortune? that would be des- 
 picable. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 What ! threats and promises have no effect 
 on thee. Mayhap force will exert more 
 influence. Who concealed thee here? tell 
 me ! if not . . . 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 I care as little whether I tell you it, or hold 
 my tongue, as for the seven burners of the 
 wonderful lamp ; and, if you had assumed a 
 different tone with me, I should, in all likeli- 
 hood, have answered you, for he who put me 
 in this wretched plight is a vile schemer whom 
 I should have been overjoyed to punish. But, 
 O high and mighty lord, as my only way of 
 maintaining an advantage over you is to 
 hold my tongue, I do not see why I should 
 abandon it. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 Ah ! this is too much ! 
 
 (He draws his dagger. ) 
 Traitor, thou shalt die ! 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Good ! in that case the secret dies with 
 me. 
 
 AMY (dinging to the earl's arm in terror). 
 
 My lord ! my Dudley ! what would you do? 
 End our sweet lovers' converse with a murder ! 
 
 LEICESTER (with raised dagger). 
 Aye, so that it may not end with a more 
 ominous catastrophe. 
 
 AMY. 
 Oh ! mercy for the poor wretch, my lord ! 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET (aside). 
 She is adorable ! 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Nay, Amy, deter me not ! the villain is a 
 
 spy! 
 
 AMY. 
 
 Not so, my lord ! Observe his absurd 
 costume. 'T is some clown, or at the worst 
 a madman. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 Even so, defend me, noble lady ! There 's 
 kinship between you and me ; I am as mad as 
 the moon, and you as beautiful as the sun.
 
 ACT I— SCENE VII 
 
 91 
 
 AMY (smiling). 
 
 You see that he is mad ! Fie, fie, my lord ! 
 would you strike down this poor, defenseless 
 wretch, under your Amy's eyes ? I claim from 
 your chivalry the lady's privilege. Grant me 
 this poor life. Go to ! go to ! 
 
 (She takes the dagger from tlie earl's hands, while he 
 looks at her with a smile and makes only a feeble 
 resistance. ) 
 
 Give me that naughty dagger, my lord, and 
 
 let it no longer occupy a place close to a 
 
 heart that is all mine. 
 
 (She throws the dagger through the open window.) 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET (aside). 
 A naughty dagger ! Zounds ! a real Toledo 
 blade, inlaid with gold. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 Amy, you are a child ! by sparing his life 
 it may be that you imperil yours and my 
 own. 
 
 AMY (eagerly). 
 Believe it not ! an act of clemency could 
 not bring evil fortune. And more, how can 
 the eagle's fate depend upon . . . 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 The bat. Allow me to .-ielect the animal 
 
 myself. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 ■ Come, good my lord, pray let it not be said 
 
 that you refused me everything to-day. 
 
 (Leicester embraces her. She turns hastily to the imp.) 
 
 Thou hast thy pardon. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 Yes, knave, but not thy liberty. I must 
 
 make sure of thee while I discover who thou 
 
 art. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 You see, fair sir ; a devil ; but a poor devil 
 
 and a good devil. 
 
 LEICESTER (calling). 
 What ho ! Foster ! Varney ! Jeannette !
 
 92 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 SCENE Vlll 
 
 The Same: VARNEY, FOSTER (in velvet doublet and yellow stockings), JEANNETTE. They rush 
 
 tuinultuously upon the stage. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 What is my lord's W\\\ ? 
 
 (He spies Flibbertigibbet. — Aside.) 
 
 My little traitor of an actor ! What does it 
 
 mean ? 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 Foster ! you do your duty over-negligently. 
 
 Who gave this fellow leave to enter here? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Nay, scold not the clown, my lord, I came 
 in as we devils do, through the key-hole. 
 
 VARNEY (aside). 
 I breathe again ! he hath not sold me ! 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Let this harlequin be consigned to the 
 prison of the castle. 
 
 FOSTER. 
 To the dungeons, my lord ; I understand. 
 Whence comest thou, thou red-haired devil? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET (with a laugh as he glances at 
 the keeper's costume). 
 
 From the marshes,- — where I have learned 
 
 the art of snaring geese with great yellow 
 
 paws. 
 
 (Foster shakes his finger at him threateningly.) 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 Let him be kept in close confinement. Let 
 
 him have communication with no one, but let 
 
 him lack nothing, and let no harm come to 
 
 him. Begone. 
 
 (Varney and Foster attempt to put their hands upon 
 Flibbertigibbet. He draws back . ) 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 One moment, masters. 
 
 ( He goes to Amy and kneels at her feet. ) 
 You are so good that you could well dis- 
 pense with being so beautiful. The imp owes 
 you his life, my lady ; he hopes to pay his 
 debt to you. 
 
 (Varney and Foster drag him off the stage.) 
 
 AMY. 
 You see that he 's more mad than wicked. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 Ah me ! I have a vague foreboding of I 
 
 know not what. The solitude of this abode 
 
 of thine has been disturbed. 'T is the black 
 
 cloud, the presage of the coming storin. 
 
 Farewell, Amy. I leave thee with Jeannette. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 Shall I see you again to-day, my lord ? 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 The duties the queen's presence imposes on 
 
 me will not permit it. But on the morrow, 
 
 when thou dost hear the great bell of the 
 
 castle ring to announce Elizabeth's return to 
 
 her apartments, I will avail myself of that 
 
 brief respite. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 The queen is fortunate, indeed ! She has 
 you by her side more than your wife. 
 (Leicester sighs profoundly, kisses her, leaves her, and 
 returns.) 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! 
 
 (Exit Leicester. )
 
 ACT I— SCENE IX 
 
 93 
 
 SCENE IX 
 
 AMY, JEANNETTE. 
 
 JEANNETTE. 
 Oh ! my lady, if you only knew ! 
 
 AMY. 
 Knew what ? 
 
 JEANNETTE. 
 In the other part of the castle there is a 
 great uproar and a crowd of men and horses ; 
 there 's music on all sides; they 're making 
 ready for great festivities and we sha' n't see 
 them ; they say the queen is coming, and we 
 sha' n't see her. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 I know all that. In these festivities 't is 
 
 not the queen that I would like to be at liberty 
 
 to see. 
 
 JEANNETTE. 
 
 You know ? Ah ! then perhaps my lady 
 also knows . . . 
 
 AMY. 
 What more ? 
 
 JEANNETTE. 
 Who the old man may be, who seems, like 
 you, to care but little for the festivities, but 
 confines himself to prowling constantly about 
 this castle. 
 
 AMY (hastily). 
 
 What say you ? what old man ? 
 
 JEANNETTE. 
 A tall old man with a white beard, and very 
 venerable ; often he may be seen walking upon 
 the hill that overlooks this ruin. He sits 
 among the bushes and hides his face in his 
 hands, or lifts it and looks toward the tower 
 like a hunter waiting for a bird to rise. 
 
 AMY. 
 Does no one know who the old man is ? 
 whence he comes ? or what his purpose? 
 
 JEANNETTE. 
 No. Foster fears that it may be a spy of 
 Lord Sussex, and has considered whether he 
 should not adopt some expeditious means of 
 getting rid of him. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 Jeannette, upon thy head, prevent him from 
 annoying this old man ! Tell me, where can 
 I see him ? 
 
 JEANNETTE (looking toward the open window). 
 Ah ! look, look, my lady ! there he is yon- 
 der, just passing over the brow of the hill ! 
 
 AMY (looking out). 
 
 God in heaven ! it is ii>y father !
 
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 (.ymA bic'wo) qgja e ioJcl all) SCENE I 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Yes, my lord, yes, my dear host, ii must be 
 so ! This day, this very hour you must be 
 reconciled to Lord Sussex. Forget noc that 
 it is the pretext given for our visit to i^enil- 
 worth. 'T is also the pretext of this private 
 audience which I did gladly grant you. And 
 so, 't is said ; reconciliation. 
 
 LEICESTER (bowing). 
 Your Majesty . . . 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 'T is well. Enough. 'T is all I ask. Now 
 let us talk of other things. Know you, my 
 lord, that this domain of yours is in naught 
 
 inferior to our domain of Windsor ? And the 
 reception we have met with at your hands is 
 worthy of a duke, aye, worthy — of a king. 
 
 LEICESTER (aside). 
 A king ! 
 
 (Aloud, and bowing low.) 
 
 All that your Majesty doth deign to honor 
 with an indulgent glance I owe your Majesty, 
 and, when I lay it at your feet, I bui do honor 
 to you with your own gifts ! 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 What say you ! to me, my lortl, d > you owe 
 all that I admire in this castle, all that I am 
 almost tempted to covet? 
 
 95
 
 A^\\ ROBSA. T 
 
 ACT FIFTH SCENE V 
 
 . VARNEY. 
 Ihc c|lled me slave ! I hate her. 
 
 (Half drawing his il Tger. ) 
 Whet one reflects that with one inch of tliis steel in that disdainful' hearth 
 na^t would henceforth obstruct the course u! so many l)rilliant destinies ! . . . 
 
 ( 1 Ic Ukes a step toward Amy.) 
 
 ALASCC ^,^t-l.llln■. llllil 1. 
 
 ^*;i?ey ' Varney ! a dayger-thrust ! E , ryoiic imH know that it was tlioii. 
 
 X. 
 
 w 
 
 //Ci7m^u»%
 
 Morran Se Tours juv. 
 
 Y7.^l,^^47y'/^./ A^ ^^-S-rrw^ //. //^.y//- 
 
 GA.Manchon ac 
 
 ACT SECOND 
 
 THE GREAT HALL OF KENILWORTH CASTLE 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 ELIZABETH, LEICESTER. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Yes, my lord, yes, my dear host, it must be 
 so ! This day, this very hour you must be 
 reconciled to Lord Sussex. Forget not that 
 it is the pretext given for our visit to Kenil- 
 worth. 'T is also the pretext of this private 
 audience which I did gladly grant you. And 
 so, 't is said ; reconciliation. 
 
 LEICESTER (bowing). 
 Your Majesty . . . 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 'T is well. Enough. 'T is all I ask. Now 
 let us talk of other things. Know you, my 
 lord, that this domain of yours is in naught 
 
 inferior to our domain of Windsor? And the 
 reception we have met with at your hands is 
 worthy of a duke, aye, worthy — of a king. 
 
 LEICESTER (aside). 
 A king ! 
 
 (Aloud, and bowing low.) 
 
 All that your Majesty doth deign to honor 
 with an indulgent glance I owe your Majesty, 
 and, when I lay it at your feet, I but do honor 
 to you with your own gifts ! 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 What say you ! to me, my lord, do you owe 
 
 all that I admire in this castle, all that I am 
 
 almost tempted to covet? 
 
 95
 
 96 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 The thing that Leicester is tempted to 
 covet, madame, is not that of which he may 
 claim to be the owner. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 What then, my lord? doth not all here 
 belong to you ? 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Doth all belong to me, madame ? . . . 
 
 ELIZABETH (smiling). 
 
 My lord, there 's something of audacity 
 mingled with your respect. Even at this 
 moment when you bend your head so hum- 
 bly, meseems your thoughts are soaring high. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 Have I been so unfortunate as to offend 
 your Majesty? 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 I said not that, Leicester. But when you 
 have within your hands all that man can 
 desire, — titles, wealth, honors, — when every- 
 thing about this castle attests your power, I 
 fain would know to what this insatiable ambi- 
 tion can still aspire. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 My ambition ! — How little doth your 
 Majesty know Leicester's heart ! Take from 
 your unworthy servitor his castles, his earl's 
 coronet, his peer's robe, strip him of all thou 
 hast bestowed upon him ; leave naught to 
 Dudley, once more an impecunious nobleman, 
 save his father's sword and the old donjon of 
 his ancestors, and his heart will still retain, in 
 exile and oblivion, the same gratitude and 
 love to his queen. 
 
 ELIZABETH (aside). 
 
 Love ! 
 
 (Aloud.) 
 
 Yes, yes, I see how deeply moved you are, 
 and I am touched to see it. Dudley, across 
 that brow where naught but joy should shine, 
 methinks I sometimes see a cloud of sadness 
 pass. What 's the matter? Why not lay bare 
 your heart to me ? Am I your enemy ? 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Li truth, madame, I have a secret. — Such 
 gracious kindness ought perhaps to make me 
 bold . . . 
 
 ELIZABETH (softly). 
 You do not finish, Leicester. Can it be 
 that you dread to have me guess your secret ? 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 I dread, madame . . . 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Go to ; it might be guessed, and still you 
 might have naught to dread. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Ah ! your Majesty ! . . . 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 The name whereby you now address me, 
 recalls me to myself. Alas ! the queen doth 
 now and then forget herself and remember 
 only that she is a woman. Were I, like other 
 women, free to consult my heart, mayhap I 
 then . . . 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Madame ! . . . 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 But no, that cannot be for me. Elizabeth 
 of England must be the wife and mother of 
 none but her people.
 
 ACT II— SCENE I 
 
 97 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 I have at least lost naught of the queen's 
 priceless favor ? 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 Nay, Leicester, nay ! far otherwise ! Me- 
 thinks we were talking of your superb estate. 
 Why, prithee, do you not wish me to visit the 
 ruined donjon which makes so imposing an 
 effect, from afar, in the park ? 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 The ruins, madame, are deserted, and 
 
 almost inaccessible. 
 
 (The door at the rear of the stage opens. An usher 
 appears and stops on the threshold.) 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 How now? who dares intrude upon us with- 
 out an order ?
 
 98 
 
 AA/V ROBS ART 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 ELIZABETH, LEICESTER, AN USHER. 
 
 THE USHER (bowing low). 
 I do but follow your Majesty's instructions. 
 Your Majesty bade me introduce, before the 
 reception of the two noble earls, an aged 
 gentleman for whom my Lord of Sussex craved 
 audience with your Majesty. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Ah yes! I did in truth promise Lord 
 Sussex. 'T is some old officer who fought 
 under him and who has some grievance to lay 
 before me. 
 
 LEICESTER (smiling). 
 A grievance ! — Against me, doubtless. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 Sussex dare not. But I must needs receive 
 
 this gentleman. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 Madame, I will withdraw. 
 
 ELIZABETH (with a smile). 
 
 Go! 
 
 (She gives him her hand to kiss. Leicester bows and 
 exit. — To the usher. ) 
 
 Admit the gentleman. 
 
 (Exit the usher.)
 
 ACT II— SCENE III 
 
 99 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 ELIZABETH; afterward SIR HUGH ROBSART. 
 
 ELIZABETH (alone). 
 Why am I queen ? The daughter of Henry 
 the Eighth, the wife of Dudley ! That can 
 not be. Ah ! but he is so great, so noble ! 
 his glance so tender and so proud ! But to 
 marry him would be to abdicate ! What do 
 I say ? is it not really he who reigns? 
 
 (The door at the rear opens. Sir Hugh, in deep 
 mourning, rushes forward and throws himself at the 
 queen's feet.) 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 Justice, madame ! justice ! 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 Rise, sir. You approach your queen some- 
 what too boldly. 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 
 Nay, I will not leave your feet until you 
 have heard me. Your Majesty will not refuse 
 me the powerful, the last resource remaining 
 to me. You will not turn aside from an old 
 man, a former servitor, who shed his blood 
 for you, an outraged father who comes before 
 the Virgin-Queen to claim his daughter, 
 abducted and seduced. 
 
 ELIZABETH (more mildly). 
 Your daughter has been abducted ? Rise, 
 rise ! Your daughter has been abducted ? 
 Who, I pray to know, dares abduct maidens 
 in this kingdom of England, which God and 
 his saints protect? Your name? 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 Hugh Robsart, of Templeton. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Are you descended from that Roger Rob- 
 sart who fought so valiantly for our grand- 
 father King Henry the Seventh, on the field 
 
 of Stoke ? 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 
 Yes, madame, and I myself — Lord Sussex 
 will confirm me — have fought faithfully in 
 your Majesty's cause. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Speak then in all confidence ; and doubt 
 not that we are as impartial a dispenser of 
 justice as thou art loyal subject. 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 I had but one daughter, madame, and an 
 old man whose days are numbered may right- 
 fully rest all his joy and pride in his only 
 daughter. But, madame, a vile seducer made 
 his way as a friend into my retirement ; he 
 set his serpent's tongue at work, and my 
 daughter. Amy Robsart, followed him. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 In very truth I pity you. We, who are 
 crowned queen, know not how any woman 
 can allow herself to be beguiled by man's 
 seductive arts ; but 't w-ould seem that it is 
 possible, since 't is your story. What is the 
 seducer's name, sir knight ? 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 He is — madame, he is a man who hath a 
 powerful protector.
 
 lOO 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 Even so, is his protection more powerful 
 than ours ? 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 
 Forgive me, madame ! I am but little 
 
 wonted to the language of courts, and know 
 
 not what weight is there attached to words. 
 
 This ravisher is a squire of the Earl of 
 
 Leicester. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 Of Leicester ! The purest man in England 
 hath a seducer in his household ! The knavish 
 squire's name ? 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 
 The cur who follows maidens' skirts and 
 shuns men's swords is one Richard Varney. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Richard Varney. 'T is well. And Amy 
 Robsart, is it not? What hath he done with 
 your daughter? 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 Alas ! madame, she is here, even here, I 
 have seen her at a window of the ruined 
 donjon at the end of the park. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 What ! Lord Leicester told me that that 
 ruin was uninhabited. Are you sure of what 
 you say? You have not tried to make your 
 way into the donjon ? 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 The door was locked. Doubtless, it is 
 because the donjon is supposed to be deserted 
 that the villain Varney hath concealed my 
 poor Amy there. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 Old man, we will look to it that you 
 
 have justice done. By God's death ! we are 
 
 the mother and the born protectress of all 
 
 English maidens. A base-born squire defile 
 
 the heiress of an honorable baronet ! Lord 
 
 Leicester will be beside himself when he hath 
 
 knowledge of this outrageous deed. We 
 
 promise you, sir knight, our influence with 
 
 him against this Varney, whose power you 
 
 fear. IVIean while — 
 
 (She goes to a table and affixes her seal to a sheet of 
 parchment. ) 
 
 take this safe-conduct, at sight of which all 
 doors will be thrown open to you, and assure 
 yourself whether your daughter is in truth in 
 yonder donjon. I now dismiss you, for the 
 court waits to be admitted. 
 
 (She strikes a bell. The usher appears.) 
 Attend this gentleman, and admit the two 
 lords with their retinues. 
 
 (Sir Hugh Robsart bows, and goes ofif through a door 
 at the side. The great door at the rear of the stage 
 is thrown open to give admission to the whole court.)
 
 ACT n— SCENE IV 
 
 lOI 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 ELIZABETH, LEICESTER, VARNEY, SUSSEX, SHREWSBURY, LORDS and LADIES, BISHOPS, 
 OFFICERS OF THE QUEEN'S HOUSEHOLD; KNIGHTS, PAGES and GUARDS of the suites 
 of the two earls. 
 
 (The two earls enter at the same moment through the 
 great door, which is thrown wide open ; they salute 
 the queen and tal^e their places, with their retainers, 
 each on one side of the stage. The centre is occupied 
 by the queen's suite.) 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 My lords, what means this ? We summon 
 you hither to bring about a reconciliation 
 betwixt you, and lo ! you stand asunder in 
 our very presence ! Come forward both and 
 join your hands, which hatred should not sever 
 when my service demands that they be united. 
 (The two earls bow and remain silent in their places.) 
 
 Ratcliffe, Earl of Sussex, Dudley, Earl of 
 Leicester, do you hear us ? A\'hat means this 
 immobility ? What means this silence ? Will 
 neither of you take the first step? 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Madame . . . 
 
 (Aside.) 
 A clownish soldier ! 
 
 SUSSEX (aside). 
 A dandified upstart ! 
 
 (.Moud.) 
 Your Majesty . . . 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 I know that I am called by that title, and 
 because I am so called you will obey me, 
 noble earls. 
 
 (To Leicester.) 
 Dudley, you are the younger, and he is 
 your guest ; 't is your place to forestall him. 
 
 (To Sussex.) 
 
 My Lord of Sussex, to give me pleasure you 
 would fly to battle, and yet you draw back 
 before a reconciliation ! 
 
 SUSSEX (without moving). 
 Madame, I should be overjoyed would Lord 
 Leicester but deign to say wherein I have 
 insulted him ; for naught have I said or done 
 that I am not ready to uphold, on foot or in 
 the saddle. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 And I, too, under her Majesty's good 
 pleasure, have been ever ready to justify iny 
 acts and words as fully as any man who bears 
 the name of Ratcliffe. 
 
 (Tlie two earls eye each other haughtily.) 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 My lords of Sussex and of Leicester, which 
 of you two doth long to test the flavor of our 
 bread in our Tower of London ? Of one of 
 you we are the guest ; but, by God's death ! 
 it well may be that one of you will be our 
 guest ere long. For the last time, obey and 
 grasp each other's hand with cordiality. 
 
 (In an imperious tone.) 
 
 Earl of Sussex, I beseech you.
 
 I02 
 
 AAIV ROBS ART 
 
 (In a soft voice.) 
 Lord Leicester, i command you. 
 
 (The two earls gaze at each other in silence, hesitating 
 still, but at last draw near each other and shake 
 hands.) 
 
 LEICESTER (bowing). 
 My Lord of Sussex, 't is with unfeigned 
 
 joy . . . 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 Traitor, who sets spies upon me beneath 
 my own roof ! 
 
 SUSSEX (bowing). 
 
 My Lord of Leicester, I am most happy . . . 
 (Aside.) 
 
 A felon who surrounds himself with poisoners 
 and cut-throats ! 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 'T is well ! Now lay aside your jealousies 
 and your resentment ! Henceforth let my two 
 most faithful servitors be two warm friends as 
 well. My Lord of Leicester, it is our purpose 
 to signalize this visit with which we honor 
 you, by such promotion as you choose to ask. 
 Whom among your officers deem you most 
 worthy of the title of knight? 
 
 SUSSEX (in an undertone to Shrewsbury). 
 You '11 see that she '11 not think of mine ! 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 In this connection, my Lord of Leicester, is 
 there not among your squires, one Richard — 
 Richard — what is his name? 
 
 VARNEY (eagerly, in an undertone, to Leicester). 
 
 My lord, doubtless the queen refers to me. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 If I may venture to assist your Majesty's 
 memory, is it not Richard Varney? 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 'T is so. My lord, what think you of this 
 Varney ? 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 Madame, he is a faithful servant of his 
 master, a devoted subject of your Majesty. 
 His merit and his zeal are worthy of a higher 
 rank than his, and if . . . 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Is he in presence ? 
 
 VARNEY (eagerly). 
 At her Majesty's feet. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 In that case, my lord, I am happy to unde- 
 ceive you concerning a vile knave and traitor 
 who casts a blot upon your noble household. 
 This hypocrite, whose worth you vaunt with 
 such good faith, is nothing more nor less 
 than a foul ravisher. Would you believe that 
 he hath dared to defile and abduct the daugh- 
 ter of a worthy gentleman, Sir Hugh Robsart? 
 
 LEICESTER (with an exclamation of dismay). 
 
 What do I hear? Great God, madame ! 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 Ah ! the spy sent hither by Sussex ! 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 I share your wrath, and will augment it to 
 a higher pitch by giving you to know that the 
 arrant knave hath been so bold as to conceal 
 his victim in this house where you to-day 
 receive your queen. 
 
 LEICESTER (in consternation). 
 
 Just Heaven ! madame, believe . . . 
 
 (Aside.) 
 I am lost. 
 
 SUSSEX (in an undertone to Shrewsbury). 
 
 What means this? Leicester is deathly 
 pale ! 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 My lord, you seem confused !
 
 ACT II— SCENE IV 
 
 [03 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 In very truth, madame, I must confess . . . 
 
 VARNEY. 
 (He kneels, clasps his hands and hangs his head.) 
 Your Majesty . . . 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 What hast thou to say ? Dost thou avow 
 thy crime? Didst thou abduct this maiden? 
 Is she or is she not in hiding here? Answer. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 Villain ! 
 
 (He is about to hurl himself upon Varney.) 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 My lord, with your permission, we will 
 
 inquire into this affair alone. We have not 
 
 yet concluded our examination of your officer. 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 How deeply moved he is ! 
 
 (Aloud to Varney.) 
 Did thy master, the Earl of Leicester, 
 know of this intrigue? Tell me the truth, 
 whosoever be the head on which it falls, and 
 have no fear. Thy head is under our safe- 
 guard. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 Your Majesty would know the truth? This 
 is the whole truth, as Heaven sees me; all 
 this was by my master's fault. 
 
 LEICESTER (aside). 
 The traitor ! 
 
 (Aloud.) 
 
 Thou perjured knave ! what dost thou dare 
 to say ? 
 
 ELIZABETH (with eyes inflamed with rage). 
 Peace, my lord ! Finish thy tale, Varney ! 
 None commands here save myself. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 And I will obey you against all, madame. 
 But I would fain confide my master's business 
 to no ears but your own. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Serpent, to betray me at your ease. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Thy master's business? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Even so, madame ; craving your Majesty's 
 pardon for my boldness I will entreat you to 
 accord me a moment's secret audience. I 
 could offer my august sovereign an explana- 
 tion which would be satisfactory to her per- 
 chance, but whereby the honor of a most 
 respectable family might suffer, were it made 
 in public. These are delicate matters. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 I grant thy request ; but if thou seekest to 
 deceive me too, by the soul of my royal father 
 King Henry the Eighth the good people of 
 London shall behold thee on the gallows. 
 Leave us alone an instant. 
 
 LEICESTER (aside). 
 
 I am lost. 
 
 (All withdraw, save A'amey.)
 
 I04 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 ELIZABETH, VARNEY; AN USHER at the door at the rear of the stage. 
 
 (The queen sits down ; Varney is still on his knees.) 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 Rise, and speak. What hast thou to say in 
 
 thy defense? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 I agree, niadame, that niy crime would be a 
 heinous one, had I, taking undue advantage 
 of a young girl's weakness, seduced her, 
 abducted and dishonored her, as your glori- 
 ous Majesty doth do me the injustice to 
 believe. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 What is thy meaning, Richard Varney? 
 Am I not well informed ? Is some other than 
 thyself the culprit ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Not so. The queen is well informed, but 
 not informed of everything. Miss Robsart is 
 not dishonored ; unless it be dishonoring to 
 be the wife of one of my lord the Earl of 
 Leicester's squires. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 What ! thou hast married her? This Arny 
 Robsart is tliy lawful wife? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 She is my lawful wife. That is the truth, 
 so please your Majesty. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Beware that thou dost not deceive me, 
 sirrah ! If thou hast married her, why charge 
 
 the noble earl? What dost thou imptite to 
 
 him? Perchance he doth know naught of 
 
 this ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 Naught doth he know, in very truth, 
 
 madame. But, I repeat, he is the cause of 
 
 all. I. pray your Majesty to be yourself the 
 
 judge. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 Say on ! I listen. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 Long since, the noble earl, the honor of 
 the Court of England, renounced all thought 
 of marriage. Some secret care, whereof no 
 one dares seek to know the cause, leads him 
 to shun all women. 'T is said that my 
 unhappy master . . . Must I, madame, repeat 
 what people say ? 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 Speak ! speak ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 'T is said that, deep-hidden in his heart, 
 my lord cherishes a profound passion, of 
 which the object is so far above him that he 
 may not even hope. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 What say you? methinks tliere are no 
 women to whom the noble earl might not 
 fearlessly aspire. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 Alas ! your Majesty must know that there 
 is one above him.
 
 ACT II— SCENE V 
 
 105 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 What say you ? What do your words 
 intend ? 1 understand you not, \'arney. 
 VARNEY. 
 In this connection all conjectures are over- 
 bold. Often, when he believes no eye is on 
 him, my poor master kisses a lock of hair. 
 I must needs raise my eyes very high to see 
 
 the like. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 Enough ! enough ! And you were saying 
 that your master . . , 
 
 VARNEY. 
 My lord, so utterly absorbed is he by this 
 passion that possesses him, will listen to no 
 word of marriage for himself, nor even for 
 any of his household. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Poor, noble earl ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 And that is why, having fallen madly in 
 love with Amy Robsart, I deemed it my duty, 
 madame, to conceal our marriage, in order 
 that I might not be congratulated by my lord. 
 Therefore I was right in saying that every- 
 thing about this mystery and my apparent 
 crime is chargeable to my master. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 His fault is not so serious ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 I did but await a favorable opi)ortunity to 
 disclose my secret to him, and if your Majesty 
 will deign to say a word to him in my behalf; 
 I doubt not that he will grant me his forgive- 
 ness, by retaining me in my position, and 
 leaving me my wife. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Yes, since Amy Robsart is your wife, 
 Varney, I take upon myself to calm your 
 master's ire. 
 
 VARNEY (bowing). 
 Madame, my gratitude . . . 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 And we will look to it that Sir Hugh shall 
 have no cause to blush for his son-in-law. 
 
 VARNEY (bowing lower than before). 
 
 Your Majesty's kindness overwhelms me. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 No, Varney, I am well content with the 
 explanation you have given me. Usher, let 
 the doors be once more thrown open.
 
 io6 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 SCENE VI 
 
 ELIZABETH, VARNEY, LEICESTER, SUSSEX, THE WHOLE COURT. 
 
 ELIZABETH (after a moment's silence). 
 
 Earl of Leicester, give me your sword. 
 
 LEICESTER (aside). 
 First the sword, and then the head. 
 
 SUSSEX (in an undertone to Shrewsbury). 
 Can this mean disgrace ? 
 
 (Leicester detaches his sword, and hands it to the 
 queen on bended knee.) 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Richard Varney, come hither and kneel 
 down. 
 
 (Varney obeys. She draws the sword from its sheath. 
 General surprise among the company and emotion 
 among the ladies.) 
 
 LEICESTER (aside). 
 What is her purpose ? 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 (She looks at the sword with satisfaction.) 
 Had I been born a man, none of my ances- 
 tors have loved as I would love the gleam of 
 a good sword. I love to gaze on weapons 
 close at hand. Had I been endowed with 
 beauty, in mirrors such as this I should have 
 taken pleasure in looking at myself. Richard 
 Varney, in the name of God and Saint George 
 we dub you knight. 
 
 (She strikes him on the shoulder with the flat of the 
 sword.) 
 
 Be faithful, brave and happy. Rise, Sir 
 Richard Varney. 
 
 (Great astonishment in the assemblage.) 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 How now ! Doth she reward Varney's 
 treason before punishing mine ? 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 The ceremony of the golden spurs and 
 other essential formalities will take place 
 to-morrow in the chapel. Varney, this is the 
 beginning of your fortune, but learn to mod- 
 erate your aspirations; methinks 't is that 
 mad-cap Shakespeare who speaks of ' ' vaulting 
 ambition that o'erleaps itself." Go. 
 
 (Varney bows to the ground. The queen turns to 
 Leicester.) 
 
 Good lack, my Lord of Leicester, I pray 
 you smooth your troubled brow. The evil 
 that was done hath been repaired. 
 
 LEICESTER (aside). 
 What can he have said ? 
 (Aloud.) 
 
 I know not even yet . . . 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Yes, my lord, your motives were misunder- 
 stood; but the honor of your noble house 
 hath not been tarnished. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Madame, I cannot understand . . . 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Have patience. But, first of all, your 
 promise to confer a favor on me?
 
 ACT II— SCENE VI 
 
 107 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 To ask it is to confer a favor upon me. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Ah well, my lord, then 't is agreed that you 
 will pardon your squire Varney, who, unbe- 
 known to you, hath married Amy Robsart. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 He ! Amy Robsart ! 
 
 (Shaking his fist at Vamey.) 
 Caitiff ! 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Restrain your wrath, my lord, since he was 
 so insane as to fall in love with her, and so 
 wicked as to kidnap her, we may not blame 
 him for having made her his lawful spouse. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Insolent knave ! didst thou dare ? 
 
 VARNEY (hanging his head). 
 My lord and master, there was no other way 
 but this to avert a great disaster, to save what 
 was lost. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 I cannot contain myself. This temerity, 
 Varney, thou shalt pay dearly for. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 My lord, you promised us his pardon. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 But, madame ! such an affront ! 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 The affront he put upon Sir Hugh Robsart 
 was far more grievous. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 No, madame, no ! I must tell you all. 
 Alas ! you do not know . . . 
 
 VARNEY (hurriedly). 
 
 Her Majesty knows all, my lord. She knows 
 of your invincible repugnance to marriage, 
 repugnance so great that you cannot endure 
 the thought of it even among your retainers. 
 She knows that your heart cherishes a mysteri- 
 ous passion. 
 
 ELIZABETH (hastily). 
 • Be silent, Varney ! 
 
 (Approaching Leicester. — In an undertone.) 
 My lord, do you deny this secret passion 
 which he hath the audacity to impute to you? 
 (Leicester is about to speak.) 
 
 Silence ! I understand you and I pity you : 
 but be prudent, dear Dudley ! 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Madame, such gracious kindness . . . 
 
 (.\side.) 
 
 O torture ! 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 My lord, we will leave Varney to complete 
 his justification in your sight. Sir Richard 
 Varney, it is our pleasure that your wife, .'\my 
 Robsart, be presented at our reception to-day. 
 
 LEICESTER (aside). 
 
 Great God ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 Your Majesty shall be obeyed. So great 
 condescension honors my vi'ife and myself. 
 
 LEICESTER (aside). 
 
 Insolent ! 
 
 SUSSEX (in an undertone to Shrewsbuiy). 
 He 's higher in favor now than ever ! 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Come, my Lord of Sussex, come gentlemen 
 all, and enjoy with us the diversions the noble 
 earl's courtesy hath prepared for us.
 
 io8 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 SCENE VII 
 
 LEICESTER, VARNEY. 
 
 LEICESTER (indignantly). 
 What hast thou done, thou knave? To 
 think that my beloved Amy should be deemed 
 by all the court to be thy wife ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 I am indeed guilty, my lord, guilty of 
 unreasoning devotion ! For whose sake did 
 I risk that bold declaration? Who was on 
 the verge of ruin ? Who was in need of 
 rescue? Was it I, a poor, obscure servant, 
 who, as I possess nothing, have nothing to 
 lose ? 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 Enough of your intentions ; need you have 
 gone so far as to say that she was your wife ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Should I have let it be believed that my 
 lady was my mistress ? 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Nay, surely not ! but you must — you should 
 have . . . 
 
 VARNEY. 
 What, my lord ? 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Better the direst danger than an insult. It 
 would have been far better to discover the 
 whole truth. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Such was not the meaning written in your 
 furious glance when you believed that 't was 
 
 my purpose to denounce you. Discover every- 
 thing ! Overthrow, with a single word, the 
 most exalted destiny in Europe, fell the 
 spreading oak that casts its shadow over 
 England, reduce to the condition of a paltry 
 country gentleman the renowned Earl of 
 Leicester, who appoints generals, distributes 
 peerages and bishoprics, convokes and dis- 
 solves Parliaments, the young and glorious 
 minister for whom the ballads of the day 
 predict an august union ! Pardon me, my 
 lord, I confess that I had not the courage — or 
 the cowardice — for that. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Ah 1, but is grandeur, after all, to be com- 
 pared with happiness ? Rather than abandon 
 my life to the struggles and perils of power, 
 should I not do better, a hundred times better, 
 to live as thou sayest, a quiet country gentle- 
 man at the feet of my beloved wife ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Quiet ? pardon me ; I said not quiet, my 
 lord. Beware ! As I was talking with the 
 queen, when the suspicion dawned upon her 
 that the young girl's seducer might be one 
 greater than myself, I saw the jealous fury of 
 the woman who loves becloud her brow. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 What word was that thou saidst? 
 think that she doth love me, Richard ? 
 
 Dost
 
 ACT II— SCENE VII 
 
 109 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Aye, she doth love you ! she loves you to 
 the point that she would forget everything, 
 sacrifice everything, and crush whatever lies 
 in her patli. And a less powerful will than 
 hers has been known to shatter less fragile 
 bonds than yours. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 She loves me ! Thinkst thou that she doth 
 really love me ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 I saw naught but her anger, but you saw her 
 joy a moment since. And now seek out tiie 
 daughter of King Henry the Eighth, who loves 
 you and believes that she is loved by you ; 
 make known to her your vulgar marriage just 
 at the moment when she has it in mind, may- 
 hap, to offer you her royal hand ; make known 
 to this queen, when she dreams of making you 
 a king, that there is a Countess of Leicester ; 
 go, my lord, and tell Elizabeth Tudor that 
 she has a rival, go — and I tell you that you 
 risk your own head, and not your head alone, 
 but first of all and more than all, another 
 and a well-beloved head. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 Amy ! my Amy in danger ! Enough, 
 Varney. Thou art right. What thou didst 
 was well done ! 
 
 VARNEY (aside). 
 At last ! I have him now. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 We must save Amy, Varney ! she must be 
 thought to be — what thou didst tell the queen. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Even so ! but do not forget that my lady's 
 consent is essential for that. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 What sayest thou ? why so ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Your lordship heard the queen. It is her 
 will that my pretended wife be presented to 
 her to-day. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 'T is true. God !— oh ! God ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Think you that my lady can overcome her 
 repugnance to bear my name for a short time ? 
 She is Sir Hugh Robsart's daughter, but I am 
 now Sir Richard Varney. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 It matters not ; she is Lady Leicester ! and 
 as proud in her virtue as Elizabeth of England 
 in her power ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Then let us say no more about it ; there 's 
 nothing to be done. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 But we are lost, Varney ! she is lost ! Do 
 not abandon me ! Advise me, guide me. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Eh ! what can I do, my lord ? Is it I who 
 have authority and influence over my lady ? 
 Have I the power to convince or the right to 
 command her ? 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 She loves me too dearly to allow herself to 
 be persuaded, and I love her too dearly to 
 adopt the tone of a master. 
 
 VARNEY (folding his arms). 
 
 Well, let us then await the effect of the 
 queen's wrath. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 Nay, nay ! I must save her at any price. 
 Hark ye, Varney : spare me a painful and 
 impossible scene with Amy. Speak to her 
 in my name.
 
 no 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Useless. She would not believe me. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Thou canst at least make the trial. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Waste time when the affair is urgent ! 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Suppose I were to give thee a word for her 
 in writing ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 It must be imperative and decisive ! I 
 must have full powers. 
 
 LEICESTER (after hesitating a moment for the last 
 time). 
 
 Ah well, SO be it. 
 
 (He goes to the table and writes a few words, then 
 hands the note to Varney.) 
 
 Will that suffice ? 
 
 VARNEY (after reading it). 
 
 Yes, my lord. We must, however, provide 
 against the possibility of her refusing to appear 
 before the queen, in spite of everything. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 What should we do in that case? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 There would be but one resource ; to take 
 my lady, with or against her will, to your 
 
 estate of Cumnor, and to inform the queen 
 that my wife is seriously ill. 
 (Aside.) 
 That is within Alasco's domain. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Violence ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 For her own good. 
 
 AN USHER (entering). 
 Her Majesty desires the attendance of my 
 Lord Leicester. 
 
 (At a sign from Leicester, he withdraws.) 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Well, Varney, I intrust her and myself to 
 thy fidelity. I go to wait upon the queen. 
 Oh ! what a plight is mine, betwixt two 
 women, one of whom has all the power, the 
 other all the rights ! 
 
 (Exit Leicester.) 
 
 VARNEY (alone). 
 A plight the more lamentable, my master, 
 in that you are at once weak and ambitious ! 
 ( Reading the letter again.) 
 " Amy, believe whatever Richard Varney 
 says to you. All that he does, he does at my 
 desire and by my command." 
 
 Ah ! scornful Mistress Amy Robsart, now 
 thou 'rt mine !
 
 Moppftu -le Tours inv. 
 
 ■^'/^V'V'"-" ■ -f 
 
 G A-M.xncbon ac 
 
 ACT THIRD 
 
 The same stage-setting as in the first act. 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 VARNEY, ALASCO. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 We are drawing near our goal, Alasco ; one 
 effort more and we shall have a king for 
 master. You say that this Flibbertigibbet 
 may be of use to us ? In truth, yesterday he 
 did not betray me. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 If you need some one for your expedition 
 who is young, active and intelligent . . . 
 
 VARNEY. 
 'T is simply a matter of kidnapping a 
 person who is in our way, and taking her 
 hence to Cumnor secretly. But who will be 
 our surety for your pupil ? 
 
 ALASCO. 
 He is at this moment under the axe, as they 
 say, and will be overjoyed to extricate him- 
 self from his embarrassing plight at any price. 
 He is so cunning, however, that« it may be 
 that he is out of prison even while I speak to 
 
 you. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 No, no, the prison is stronger than he is 
 
 clever. It has but one issue and that issue 
 
 gives upon the dungeon gallery ; so that, if I 
 
 chose to rid myself of your disciple, instead 
 
 of closing the door I would open it, having 
 
 first taken the precaution to draw back the 
 
 bolt of the trap-door, and I would very
 
 112 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 quickly send him down to terrify the vaults of 
 the donjon by a perpendicular visit. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 That is well! but how gain access to him? 
 In thy presence the earl forbade Foster to 
 allow him to hold communication with any 
 person, and his cell, thou sayest, has but one 
 door. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 Aye, but one visible door. But, hark ye, 
 there's another, masked like this one, which 
 communicates by a secret passageway with 
 the same turret that serves thee for a labora- 
 tory. I alone know all the turns and wind- 
 ings of this castle. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Even as Beelzebub alone knows all the 
 turns and windings of thy heart. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 It may be so. Here is the key of the 
 masked door of which I spoke to thee. Go 
 thou and visit Flibbertigibbet, lay before him 
 our propositions; if he accepts them, enroll 
 the devil's imp in our service; if he refuses, 
 take advantage of thy visit to mix with his 
 flask of water . . . 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Enough ! enough ! Is that all ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Not yet. I have kept the most important 
 till the end. Thou must prepare forthwith a 
 soporific draught, a potion which, when admin- 
 istered to a woman, for example, will send 
 her off to sleep instanter, so deep a sleep that 
 
 she may be driven in a carriage all night long 
 without awaking, and therefore without shriek- 
 ing or resisting. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 I understand. For whom is this draught 
 intended ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Ask the stars. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Must we stop at sleep ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Old poisoner ! I order thee to brew a 
 harmless draught, dost understand ? harmless ! 
 Dost know the meaning of the word ? 
 
 ALASCO. 
 'T is well. And so it is not necessary to 
 attack the house of hfe? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Look to it that thou dost not, on thine own 
 poor hovel ! If thy concoction is not as 
 inoffensive as a glass of water, I swear upon 
 my soul that I will make thee suffer as many 
 deaths as thou hast hairs upon thy head. Old 
 spectre, dost thou laugh ? 
 
 ALASCO (removing his cap). 
 
 Assuredly. Why should I tremble at thy 
 threat? My head is bald, and thou dost 
 swear upon thy soul. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 I hear steps in the corridor. Come now 
 
 and mix thy soporific potion, harmless, above 
 
 all things, thou devil's apothecary ! I will 
 
 go with thee to point out the secret passage. 
 
 (He pushes him out through the masked door, passes 
 through after him, and closes the door.)
 
 ACT I //—SCENE // 
 
 "3 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 AMY, with a jewel-case in her hand, JEANNETTE, carrying a pelisse which she throws over the back 
 
 of a chau-: afterward, FOSTER. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 Come, Jeannette, this window opens toward 
 
 the new castle, and methinks tliat I shall 
 
 sooner hear from here the great bell ring, 
 
 announcing the earl's coming. Let us finish 
 
 my toilette. My necklace, my bracelets. 
 
 (Jeannette takes the bracelets and necklace from the 
 casket, and fastens them about her mistress's arms 
 and neck.) 
 
 JEANNETTE. 
 
 These pearls are very white; but this arm 
 
 is whiter still than they. Nathless, they are 
 
 magnificent ! I am sure that each of them is 
 
 worth more than . . . 
 
 AMY. 
 Fie ! Jeannette ! all the galleons of Portugal 
 would not pay for them ; he gave them to me ! 
 
 JEANNETTE. 
 My lady is very lovely thus ! 
 
 AMY. 
 May he think as thou dost, child ! Alas ! if I 
 once had some little beauty, it has undergone 
 
 harsh tests. My poor eyes have wept many a 
 
 tear since I left my father. My father ! 
 
 When I think that he is here, that he is near 
 
 me ! Ah ! then I am afraid, and long to see 
 
 him. 
 
 (Enters Foster.) 
 
 Why is Foster here ? 
 
 FOSTER. 
 I come to announce a visitor for my lady. 
 
 AMY. 
 A visitor for me, good Foster ! You forget 
 your orders ; that I am not permitted to leave 
 the castle and no person is permitted to enter. 
 
 FOSTER. 
 True, my lady, but the visitor presents this 
 
 passport. 
 
 (He hands Amy a parchment.) 
 
 AMY (casting her eyes upon it). 
 
 A passport from the queen ! Foster, admit 
 him. There is no door in England that must 
 not open before that bit of parchment. 
 
 (Foster opens the door. Enters Sir Hugh Robsart.)
 
 114 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 The Same: SIR HUGH ROBSART. 
 
 (Sir Hugh pauses on the threshold. Amy utters a 
 shriek.) 
 
 AMY. 
 O God ! my father ! 
 (At a sign from her, Foster and Jeannette go out.) 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 Aye, God and your father. Your father, 
 who stands here before you, and God who led 
 him hither. 
 
 (Amy rises and runs to him; he draws bacli.) 
 
 AMY (stopping). 
 Father ! 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 Madame. I Ivnow not if that is the title 
 by which you should be called. 
 
 AMY. 
 Ah ! what stern words ! Call me your 
 daughter. You are still my father. 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 Your judge. Amy. 
 
 AMY. 
 Oh ! do not freeze me with that look ! If 
 you but knew . . . 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 Knew what ? go on ! I will not condemn 
 you without hearing you. 
 
 AMY. 
 And I have taken an oath ; I cannot speak. 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 
 Alas ! do I not already know a portion of 
 
 the truth ? Did you not leave your father to 
 
 follow your seducer. Lord Leicester's squire, 
 
 to this place ? 
 
 AMY. 
 
 Father, you are wrong ! appearances . . . 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 Appearances ! Look upon my mourning 
 garb, and look upon your festal garb, are 
 these appearances ? Tell me, as whose mistress 
 are you here? 
 
 AMY (raising her head). 
 Father ! I am married. 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 Married ! to whom ? 
 
 AMY. 
 
 To whom ! Ah ! that name may not yet 
 
 issue from my mouth. I have promised — I 
 
 have sworn . . . 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 
 I doubt the existence of a husband whose 
 
 wife cannot pronounce his name before her 
 
 father. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 In the old days you would have believed 
 
 my first word . . . 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 Aye, in the old days. 
 
 (The great bell rings.)
 
 ACT III— SCENE III 
 
 "5 
 
 AMY. 
 Ah ! the great bell ! at last ! He soon will 
 
 come. 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 
 Who soon will come ? 
 
 AMY. 
 The man who is my husband, father. 
 Listen. I may not name him to you, but you 
 may see him. Know you the face of any of 
 the noblemen of Elizabeth's court ? 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 I have frequented courts less than camps. I 
 know, however, several of those gentlemen, ' 
 the Earl of Sussex and the Duke of Rutland, 
 Lord Shrewsbury . . . 
 
 AMY. 
 Are those all ? 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 I saw also this morning the young Mar- 
 quis of Northampton — and I was near for- 
 getting the lord of this castle of Kenilworth, 
 
 the queen's favorite minister, your seducer's 
 master. Lord Leicester. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 (She leads Sir Hugh to the glass door opening on the 
 gallery at the back of the st.ige. ) 
 
 Come, father, withdraw to the gallery ; he 
 whom you will soon see enter this room is 
 your Amy's noble and honored husband. 
 
 SIR HUGH (in a milder tone). 
 One must yield to your whims, my child. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 You will not regret it, father. One last 
 word. I am about to have an interview with 
 my husband, wherein secrets may be mentioned 
 that it would be a crime for me to betray. 
 Promise me therefore so to place yourself that 
 you can see everything, but hear nothing. 
 Will you promise ? 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 You have my knightly word. 
 
 (He enters the gallery.)
 
 ii6 
 
 AMY ROBSART 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 AMY ; afterward VARNEY. 
 
 AMY (alone). 
 
 It may be that I do wrong thus to evade my 
 husband's strict injunctions. I will myself 
 entreat his forgiveness. He will understand 
 that I could not let my father suffer longer. 
 Ah ! 't is he. 
 
 (Running to the door.) 
 
 My Dudley ! . . . 
 
 FOSTER (announcing). 
 Sir Richard Varney. 
 
 (lie withdraws. Enters Varney.) 
 
 AMY (in surprise). 
 You, Master Varney! What means the 
 title by which you were announced ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 'T is the title conferred upon me by her 
 Majesty this very day. 
 
 AMY. 
 Aha ! My compliments. But what brings 
 
 you here? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 My master's express command, my lady. 
 
 AMY. 
 'T was your master himself whom I 
 e.\pected. 
 
 VARNEY (presenting the note). 
 He bade me hand you this. 
 
 AMY (sorrowfully). 
 He will not rome ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Important duties — his enforced attendance 
 on the queen. 
 
 AMY (after reading the letter). 
 I see, sir, that my lord has intrusted you 
 with some message to me. Speak, I am list- 
 ening. Well, what keeps you silent? 
 
 VARNEY (feigning confusion). 
 Because — I do not know — what I have to 
 say may wound my lady. 
 AMY. 
 Nothing that comes from my lord can 
 wound me. Speak, Master Varney. 
 
 VARNEY (aside). 
 She will not deign to call me Sir Richard 
 
 once. 
 
 (Aloud.) 
 
 I am instructed, raadame, to prepare you 
 for a sad change of fortune. 
 
 AMY. 
 What mean you ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 My lady must know with what irresistible 
 power the will of the august queen who holds 
 England beneath her sceptre is executed. 
 
 AMY. 
 Doubtless, and what Englishman is not 
 proud to obey our glorious Elizabeth, who 
 hath made a vow, in face of all her people, to 
 live and die a virgin queen?
 
 ACT III— SCENE IV 
 
 117 
 
 VARNEY. 
 If that twofold title is necessary to com- 
 mand your respect, my lady, your admiration 
 for the queen will soon have occasion to be 
 diminished by half. There is talk of her 
 Majesty's marriage as likely to take place ere 
 
 long. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 In truth, there have been princes of Spain 
 and France in the lists, methinks. Hath not 
 King Philip been suggested ? the Duke of 
 Anjou ? or is it the Duke of Alen^on? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Your ladyship's information is not of the 
 most accurate. The queen who might choose 
 at will among the most splendid royal crowns 
 of Europe, has deigned to cast her eyes upon 
 one of her own subjects. 
 
 AMY. 
 How say you? The Duke of Lincoln, 
 
 perchance ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 He is a Catholic. 
 
 AMY. 
 Can it be the Duke of Limerick ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 An Irishman ! 
 
 AMY. 
 
 I see no other, in that case, save the Duke 
 of Rutland. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 He is married. — True, that would be no 
 obstacle. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 How dare you, sirrah? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 'T is a sad truth in politics, my lady. 
 Crowned heads are not subject to the com- 
 mon law, and marriages that embarrass 
 thrones are broken. 
 
 AMY. 
 How so ? the throne is but the throne, and 
 marriage is the altar. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Ah ! but the altar . . . 
 
 AMY. 
 Besides, what matters the queen's marriage 
 
 to me ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 More than you think, my lady. However, 
 Lord Rutland is not the person concerned. 
 Among all our English nobles, not even with 
 a ducal crown does the queen contemplate 
 uniting her own, but with a plain earl's 
 coronet. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 My God ! what lies hidden behind these 
 ominous words? You come to tell me of a 
 change of fortune. The queen 's at Kenil- 
 worth. My husband keeps high festival for 
 her ; he is iier favorite — can it be ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 It can be, madame . . . 
 
 AMY. 
 Just Heaven ! Dudley, noble-hearted Dud- 
 ley, deceive me and desert me ! he, a noble- 
 man ! a peer of England ! 'T is impossible ! 
 You lie ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 I have said nothing, madame . . . 
 
 AMY. 
 No, but you have implied everything. 
 Whom are you now betraying ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 I said that my words would wound my lady. 
 Ah ! this errand is too painful for me, and I 
 retire. 
 
 AMY (detaining him). 
 No, Stay ! I fain would know . . .
 
 iiS 
 
 AA/y ROBS ART 
 
 VARNEY. 
 I have already said too much ; my master 
 did not give me warrant to disclose the whole 
 — far otherwise ! 
 
 AMY. 
 
 What was it that he wished to hide from me? 
 Speak, I bid you, speak ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Well — the queen — loves the earl. 
 
 AMY (overwhelmed). 
 
 She loves him ! And he ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 He, madame? What would you have? 
 England desires the marriage, France upholds 
 it, Spain offers no objection. The people 
 sing of it in their ballads, the astrologers read 
 it in the heavens, the courtiers in the queen's 
 eyes, and the queen . . . 
 
 AMY. 
 And the queen ? finish — in Leicester's eyes. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 - I have not spoken of my lord. 
 
 AMY. 
 But I do speak of him ! What thinks the 
 earl, what doth he ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 What thinks he? That God only knows. 
 What doth he ? As yet he hardly knows him- 
 self. And yet a queen's love, a queen who can 
 make a king ! the necessity of mounting ever 
 when one has placed his foot on the first rung 
 of ambition's ladder ! to lose all or to win all ! 
 the throne or the abyss ! And then can one 
 refuse to share a bed surmounted by a royal 
 
 canopy ? 
 
 AMY. 
 
 I understand ! 
 
 (She falls, utterly crushed, upon a chair.) 
 
 Embarrassing marriages, you say, are 
 broken ? Ah ! Leicester, why this sacrilege ? 
 Wherefore offend thy God by a divorce, 
 and men by perjury? Thinkst thou that I 
 could survive the loss of thy love ? Go to ! 
 leave death to do thy work ! thy ambition 
 will not long await thy freedom ! 
 
 VARNEY (aside). 
 The affair 's well under way ! 
 
 AMY (rising as if impelled by a sudden thought). 
 
 Oh ! but I think only of myself, what of 
 my father ? I think only of my love ! What of 
 my honor ? I thought to restore to my father 
 his daughter, proud and happy, beloved and 
 respected by her husband. I shall restore her 
 to him, so it seems, abandoned like a mistress, 
 dismissed like a maid-servant, having not been 
 acknowledged as a lawful wife for a single day, 
 a single hour ! 
 
 ( Hiding her head in her hands.) 
 
 O shame ! 
 
 VARNEY ( with feigned timidity). 
 
 If I might venture a word, I would suggest 
 to my lady that she may cease to be Countess 
 of Leicester, and still be a lawful wife. 
 
 AMY (gazing at him in astonishment). 
 How so ? I understand you not, sir. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 At the moment when the Earl of Leicester, 
 drawn irresistibly into the path of ambition, 
 abandons for the pomps and vanities of the 
 throne, a treasure far above all earthly thrones, 
 — if at that moment, madame, a man should 
 come to you, a man less brilliant, but more 
 faithful, who, instead of an illustrious title 
 with a clandestine marriage, should propose 
 to you, with an honorable name, a union to 
 be proclaimed aloud and proudly ; if that 
 man . . .
 
 ACT 1 1 I—SCENE IV 
 
 119 
 
 AMY (interrupting him and struggling to contain 
 herself). 
 
 Pardon me ! methinks 't is of yourself you 
 speak, Master Varney ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Even so, 't is of myself, madame ; of myself 
 who, instead of the selfish and inconstant 
 heart which now doth turn from you, dare lay 
 at your feet a deep, devoted love ; of myself, 
 who would prefer one of your glances to all 
 the smiles of all the queens on earth. 
 
 AMY. 
 You propose to me to become Mistress 
 Varney ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 No, my Lady Varney ! such is the title 
 which Sir Richard's wife will bear, no longer 
 an earl's squire, but a free English knight. 
 
 AMY. 
 Even so, my change of name and of con- 
 dition seems not to me to be so simple and so 
 easy of accomplishment. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 It happens, on the contrary, that in the 
 eyes of many, in the eyes of your father 
 himself, I a:ii even now supposed to be the 
 happy man to whom your heart is given. 
 Pending the final celebration of our marriage, 
 suffer the appearance to continue to anticipate 
 the reality. Permit me to-day, at this very 
 hour, to present you to her Majesty as my 
 lawful wife. Consent that, by that name . . . 
 
 AMY (bursting out). 
 
 Enough ! ah ! at length thou hast thrown 
 
 off the mask, Richard Varney ! So this is 
 
 where thou wouldst lead me by thy wiles ! 
 
 Thou makest Leicester to appear faithless. 
 
 that thou mayest make me faithless too ! 
 Thank God I saw the snare in time ! The 
 desertion that you threaten is a lie ! this talk 
 of marriage with the queen foul slander ! Oh ! 
 what bliss ! O my noble Dudley, pardon me 
 for having for an instant lent an ear to this 
 vile knave's impostures ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 You do not then put faith in the note 
 written and signed by my lord's hand? 
 
 AMY. 
 I believe that thy treachery is twofold and 
 that thou dost deceive us both. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 " All that he does, he does at my desire 
 and by my command," says the earl. His 
 desire is that, for his welfare and your own, I 
 present you to the queen as my wife. 
 
 AMY. 
 Silence, impostor ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Beware ! his command is that if you obey 
 not, I shall have recourse to a more violent 
 and awful means . . . 
 
 AMY. 
 Hold your peace, slave ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Ah ! 't is too much ! you do not fear to 
 change my love to hatred ! 
 
 ( Advancing upon her. ) 
 You forget that we 're alone, and that 
 you 're in my power. 
 
 AMY (in terror). 
 Help, help, father !
 
 I20 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 VARNEY (laughing). 
 Your father ? ha ! ha ! think you that your 
 voice will reach from Kenilworth to Tem- 
 pleton ? 
 
 AMY. 
 
 Father! father! 
 
 SIR HUGH (appearing at the door). 
 I am here. 
 
 VARNEY (dumfounded). 
 Sir Hugh Robsart !
 
 ACT / J I—SCENE V 
 
 121 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 The Same : SIR HUGH ROBSART. 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 I come at your call, my daughter. But, in 
 truth, there was little need of so much caution 
 and mystery to show me your husband ! 
 
 AMY. 
 You are strangely misinformed, father. This 
 man is not my husband. 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 Not your husband ! Body and blood ! 
 Doth he refuse? 
 
 VARNEY (eagerly). 
 Refuse ! Sir, it would be my greatest joy 
 and honor to call your daughter my wife. The 
 obstacle and the refusal come not from me. 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 What! come they from you, Amy? You 
 ought . . . 
 
 AMY. 
 Father, a single word . . . 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 Do not interrupt your father ! Assuredly I 
 should have preferred, for the old Robsart 
 race, alliance with a family of more ancient 
 lineage. But Sir Richard Varney hath been 
 but now dubbed knight. Moreover he is like 
 to rise higher still, through the favor of his 
 master, the all-powerful Earl of Leicester, 
 
 who, mayhap to-morrow, will be the spouse of 
 
 Elizabeth and King of England. 
 
 AMY. 
 My God! what say you? Leicester? are 
 you sure ? 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 Knew you it not? 1 did but repeat what 
 universal rumor says. 
 
 AMY (staggering). 
 
 Then 't was true ! Dudley ! O my God ! 
 
 ( She falls upon a chair. ) 
 SIR HUGH (running to her). 
 
 My child ! she has lost consciousness ! 
 
 VARNEY (calling). 
 Foster ! Jeannette ! 
 
 (Enters Jeannette hurriedly.) 
 See, your mistress is ill. 
 
 JEANNETTE (runnmg to Amy's side). 
 My lady ! 
 
 (She puts a flask of salts to her nose.) 
 
 VARNEY (to Sir Hugh). 
 
 Leave her to grow calm. Sir Hugh. Her 
 mind is ill at ease. Your presence agitates 
 and excites her. 
 
 SIR HUGH. 
 
 But, to leave her thus !
 
 122 
 
 AMY ROBSART 
 
 VARNEY. 
 You shall return, my respected father, when 
 she is in better case to talk with you. 
 
 SIR HUGH (with a loving glance at Amy). 
 My poor child ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 I go with you. 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 I must find Alasco. 
 
 (Exeunt .Sir Hugh and Varney.)
 
 ACT III— SCENE VI 
 
 123 
 
 SCENE VI 
 
 AMY, JEANNETTE. 
 
 JEANNETTE. 
 
 My lady ! my dear mistress ! Ah ! she opens 
 her eyes. 
 
 AMY (looking about the room). 
 Father ! Where is he ? 
 
 JEANNETTE. 
 He will return, my lady. Are you better? 
 
 AMY. 
 
 Yes, my child, yes, I am quite well. But 
 for the moment, leave me, Jeannette. I must 
 be alone. 
 
 (Removing her necklace and bracelets.) 
 
 But Stay, take away these jewels ; they are 
 too heavy for me. 
 
 JEANNETTE (after replacing the jewels in the 
 casket). 
 
 My lady need but call for me. I shall be 
 
 near at hand. 
 
 (E.xit Jeannette.) 
 
 AMY. 
 
 (She remains for some time without speaking or mov- 
 ing, turning her eyes restlessly from side to side.) 
 
 Is it true indeed that I am not dreaming ? 
 Then what Varney said to me is possible ! 
 then 't is true ! Dudley's crime was confirmed 
 by my own father's voice ! Alas ! henceforth 
 I am of so little importance in the world, my 
 
 proper place therein so little dreamed of, that 
 people will speak before me of what tears my 
 heart, as if it were an indifferent or even 
 pleasant subject ! And so, to-morrow, yes, 
 perhaps to-morrow, unless death doth visit 
 Kenihvorth meanwhile, there will no longer 
 be a Lord or Lady Leicester ! He will be 
 King of England, and I ! . . . 
 
 (Jeannette enters with a silver goblet on a salver.) 
 
 JEANNETTE. 
 Madame — my lady ! 
 
 AMY (turning suddenly around). 
 
 What do you want ? leave me ! 
 
 (She recognizes Jeannette and continues gently.) 
 
 Ah ! 't is thou, Jeannette ! forgive me . . . 
 
 JEANNETTE. 
 
 How kind you are, madame, — too kind to 
 be so unhappy ! 
 
 AMY. 
 
 Ah ! yes, most unhappy, dear child ! But 
 what hast thou there? 
 
 JEANNETTE. 
 
 A soothing draught that Foster handed me 
 for you, to give you a little rest after all your 
 suffering.
 
 124 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 AMY. 
 
 Rest, Jeannette ! there is no rest for me 
 
 save in the tomb. But place it on the table, 
 
 and go. 
 
 JEANNETTE. 
 
 My lady will drink it ? , 
 
 AMY. 
 Yes, I will drink it. Go, go, my child. 
 
 JEANNETTE (aside). 
 How pale she is for a countess ! 
 
 (She places the salver on the table near Amy, and exit.)
 
 ACT III— SCENE VII 
 
 125 
 
 SCENE VII 
 
 AMY; afterward FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 AMY (alone). 
 A simple mind to think that wounds at the 
 heart can be healed with bodily remedies, 
 that despair is naught but a disease, and that 
 sleep can be made to visit eyes that cannot 
 even weep ! To what end should I drink this 
 potion ? And yet, shall I disregard the 
 attentions of these kind servants who prepared 
 it for me, and said to one another: "This 
 will do our poor mistress good!" There are 
 now but these two hearts in all the world that 
 care for me, none but this seneschal and 
 serving-maid who have compassion on the 
 Countess of Leicester. As they choose to 
 take this trouble for me, I ought at least to 
 recognize it. I will drink. 
 
 (She takes the goblet and puts it to her lips.) 
 
 A VOICE (asifinsidethe wall). 
 Drink not ! 
 
 AMY (checking herself). 
 
 Who speaks ? 
 
 (Alasco's door opens, and gives passage to Flibberti- 
 gibbet, who, at one bound, stands in front of the 
 countess. ) 
 
 I, noble lady. Drink not ! 
 
 AMY (astounded). 
 You ! who are you ? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Do you not recognize the poor devil's imp 
 whose life you saved ? 
 
 AMY. 
 Ah ! 't is you ! But were you not in prison? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Yes, in the Mervyn tower, the tower of the 
 dungeons, behind the bolts of a ghastly cell, 
 reached by a most disquieting corridor, the 
 floor of which sounds ominously hollow. 
 
 AMY. 
 You have succeeded in escaping? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 I doubt if I could have performed that 
 miracle, despite my impish agility. I was 
 released by an old devil whose earthly name 's 
 Alasco. A secret passage, cut in the wall, led 
 from my cell to his laboratory. Oh ! but 
 't was not kindness of heart that led dear Alasco 
 to set me free. He made his conditions. I 
 was intrusted with the delicate mission of 
 carrying you away from here while sleeping. 
 Sleeping what sort of sleep? I cannot say. I 
 was able to distinguish a few words of a 
 hurried colloquy betwixt your Varney and my 
 Alasco. Varney came to fetch a draught 
 ordered by Lord Leicester and to be given to 
 Lady Leicester. That draught is here. 
 
 AMY. 
 Of what is it composed ? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 There can be no mistake. It comes from 
 Alasco's kitchen ; it is poison !
 
 126 
 
 AAIV ROBSART 
 
 AMY. 
 Poison ! And Leicester sends it to me? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 'T was he wlio ordered it to be compounded 
 for you. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 My God, forgive me ! 
 
 (She seizes the goblet and puts it quiclily to her lips.) 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET (seizing her arm). 
 What are you doing, madame? 'T is 
 poison, I tell you ! Did you not hear me ? 
 
 AMY. 
 
 Surely I heard ; but since 't is Leicester 
 
 who sends the poison to me I must needs 
 
 drink it. 
 
 (She puts the goblet to her lips once more; Flibberti- 
 gibbet snatches it from her.) 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 No ! you saved my life, 't is my turn now ! 
 To the devil with this devil's brew ! 
 
 (He throws the goblet on the floor.) 
 
 You will see that within the hour this floor 
 will be as black as if it had been scorched by 
 Cerberus's triple breath. 
 
 AMY (fixing her eyes upon the spilled liquid). 
 What have you done ? what will become of 
 me now that I have no poison ? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 What will become of you, my noble young 
 lady ? By Shakespeare ! betwixt a husband 
 who poisons you by way of divorce, and a 
 Varney who covets you, there is but one 
 course sanctioned by immemorial usage in all 
 tragedies, comedies and pantomimes : flight. 
 
 AMY. 
 Why should I fly ? and whither should I fly ? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Good lack ! have you not somewhere a 
 family ? a brother ? or a father ? 
 
 AMY. 
 My father ! Yes, you are right, my father ! 
 Ah ! now I conceive that I am released from 
 my oath ! I will tell my father all ! I will 
 die, justified at least, and forgiven. Let us 
 fly, yes, let us fly ! But, how? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Why, through this window, which is but one 
 floor above the trees in the park. Yesterday 
 I wished to terrify Alasco and so I hid a ladder 
 in the shrubbery yonder . . . 
 
 (Leaning out of the window.) 
 
 It is Still there. I will assist you to climb 
 down. Mere child's play, madame ! 
 
 AMY. 
 Let us be gone ! I long to find my father ! 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Stay ! have you forgotten nothing ? 
 (He takes the pelisse that lies upon a chair.) 
 This pelisse . . . 
 
 ( Looking on the table. ) 
 What is this parchment? A passport from 
 the queen ! Divine goodness ! let us not 
 neglect this precious God-send ! 
 
 (He bestows the parchment in his breast.) 
 
 Now come, come, madame ! 
 
 AMY. 
 
 God be my guide ! 
 
 ( Flibbertigibbet assists her to climb through the 
 window.)
 
 Uoreau de Tours inv 
 
 i^^^Ki^ 
 
 ACT FOURTH 
 
 The park of Kenilworth. At the back, in the distance, the roofs of the new castle can be seen 
 
 through the trees. 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 AMY, FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 (The latter comes running upon the stage.) 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Your flight 's discovered, madame. Alasco 
 and Foster are searching the woods for yoii. 
 Luckily one is old, the other slow, and this 
 rough, densely wooded corner of the park is 
 marvelously adapted for the game of hide- 
 and-seek. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 We must inquire — ascertain where I can 
 find my father. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 If I could but leave you alone an instant I 
 would soon find a way to bring Sir Hugh 
 Robsart to you. But, hush ! some one is 
 coming yonder ! God ! the Earl of Leicester 
 with his worthy squire ! 
 
 AMY (bitterly'). 
 Leicester and Varney ! alas, the two con- 
 spirators ! 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 Come, madame, come ! All is lost if they 
 should see you ! 
 
 (He draws her into a thicket at the left.) 
 127
 
 128 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 LEICESTER, VARNEY. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Speak quickly ! The queen is even now 
 finishing her walk around the lake. I am in 
 haste to join her. 
 
 VARNEY (intensely excited). 
 My lord is my witness that I had given the 
 queen to understand that my wife, being quite 
 ill, was not in a condition to be presented to 
 her. At the same moment word was sent to 
 me that she had fled ! My lord, 't is more 
 than resistance, 't is downright rebellion. 
 
 LEICESTER (pensively). 
 I cannot look upon this resistance as a 
 crime, Varney; 't would be to make a crime 
 of her love. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 The countess risks, my lord, involving you 
 in a falsehood . . . 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 She remains firm in her straightforward 
 
 loyalty. That is the path that I should follow, 
 
 Varney, and not the one whereinto thou dost 
 
 lead me. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 This path leads to grandeur and supreine 
 power. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 But by the way of treachery and falsehood. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Zounds ! my lord, 't is now too late to 
 recede. Elizabeth, blinded less by you than 
 
 by herself, has abandoned herself to her pas- 
 sion with a recklessness which permits you 
 to indulge what hopes you please, but which 
 should make you fear the worst. When her 
 eyes were opened, 't would be a terrible 
 awakening. Imagine the possible results of 
 an insulted woman's wrath, when that woman 
 is a queen. Beware ! not only your worldly 
 goods and honors are at stake, but your life. 
 And the countess is no more free from danger 
 than yourself. The queen may spare the 
 man she loves ; but would she spare the rival 
 she detests ? 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 'T is because of Amy's peril that I now 
 draw back. I must at any hazard defend her 
 and preserve her. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 And how ! One does not wage war with 
 his queen ! 
 
 LEICESTER (reflecting). 
 Therefore will I not attempt it. But 
 to-morrow, perhaps to-night, the queen will 
 have taken leave of Kenilworth. And then . . . 
 
 VARNEY (in dismay). 
 
 Great God ! My lord cannot think of 
 leaving England ! my lord will not throw 
 to the winds in exile his hopes of the most 
 brilliant fortune ever dreamed of by mortal 
 man !
 
 ACT IV— SCENE II 
 
 129 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 A fortune upon which yours depends, eh, 
 Master Varney? But I rely upon your 
 
 devotion ... 
 
 VARNEY. 
 My lord ! . . . 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 Enough ! let your people search for the 
 countess ! Not to carry her away, but so that 
 
 1 may speak with her. Come, let us join the 
 queen. 
 
 (K.\it Leicester.) 
 
 VARNEY (following him, aside). 
 If he leaves the country, I am a ruined 
 man ! If he sees the countess again, I am a 
 dead man ! 
 
 (He overtakes Leicester.)
 
 I30 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET, AMY; afterward VARNEY. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 ( lie emerges from the thicket and looks after Leicester 
 and Varney. ) 
 
 There they go. Come, my lady ; you can 
 safely come forth from your citadel of shrub- 
 bery ; but look well to your lovely eyes, for I 
 have never seen branches more inclined to 
 caress one's eyelids with their thorns. 
 
 (Amy appears.) 
 AMY. 
 To think that I must hide from Leicester as 
 from an enemy. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 And I go now to find for you your natural 
 
 protector against that enemy, your father. 
 
 See, conceal yourself yonder at the corner of 
 
 the fountain, whence you may at need return 
 
 to the thicket. 
 
 (He leads her to the spot indicated. Varney reappears 
 at the back of the stage.) 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Methought I caught a glimpse of the knave 
 Flibbertigibbet. 
 
 (Spying Amy.) 
 
 Oho ! the countess ! What should I do ! 
 
 Suppose I venture to — ? 'T would be a bold 
 
 stroke ! But my audacity has met with success 
 
 hitherto, and, in my present plight, I must risk 
 
 everything to save everything. 
 
 (He retires.) 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET (to Amy). 
 Await me here, my lady ; within the quarter 
 I will be here again with Sir Hugh Robsart. 
 
 ( Exit Flibbertigibbet. ) 
 AMY (alone). 
 I abandoned my father to go with my hus- 
 band, and lo ! to-day I have but the one 
 thought, to leave my husband and rejoin my 
 father. O Leicester ! can it be that after thou 
 didst seek to force me to become thy servant's 
 wife in name, thou hast sought to poison me? 
 Alas ! he who is capable of dastard deeds is 
 capable of crime. Where is he, the great earl, 
 the noble Dudley ? All is over ! In my heart 
 no longer lives one spark of love for him ; 
 scorn has poured water on it all. I do not 
 even hate him. 
 
 (She has seated herself upon the base of a statue beside 
 the fountain. Enters the queen. )
 
 ACT IV— SCENE IV 
 
 131 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 AMY, ELIZABETH. 
 
 ELIZABETH (reading a note). 
 What means this mysterious scroll? "Let 
 the queen betake herself alone to the fountain 
 of Neptune." This is the place. 
 (Discovering Amy.) 
 What woman is this ? 
 
 AMY. 
 The queen ! O Heaven ! the queen ! it is 
 
 the queen ! 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 How now ! Woman, what do you here? 
 
 AMY. 
 Your Majesty — I was but passing by, I will 
 
 retire. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 Nay, speak. You seem in trouble and like 
 to swoon. Be not alarmed, maiden, you are 
 before your queen. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 'T is for that reason that I tremble, madame. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Be not alarmed, I say ! Have you some 
 favor to ask at our hands ? 
 
 AMY. 
 Madame ! Ah ! yes, I ask your protection, 
 madame. 
 
 (She falls on her knees at the queen's feet.) 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Every maiden in our realm hath an 
 tmdoubted right thereto, if she deserve it. 
 
 Rise, and collect your thoughts. Who are 
 you? Wherefore and wherein can our pro- 
 tection be of use to you ? 
 
 AMY. 
 Madame — what can I say ? I know not . . . 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 This much resembles madness. 'T is not 
 our wont to ask a question twice without 
 reply. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 I beseech you — I implore your Majesty. 
 Deign to command that my father be given 
 back to me. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 Good lack ! first I must know your father. 
 Who are you ? who is he ? 
 
 AMY. 
 I am Amy, Sir Hugh Robsart's daughter. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Robsart ! By my soul, for two days past I 
 have heard naught but of that family. The 
 father asks me for his daughter, the daughter 
 asks me for her father. You do not tell me 
 yet all that you are. You are married ? 
 
 AMY. 
 Married ! O God ! you know ? Yes, 
 madame, it is true — forgive, oh! forgive 
 me ! In the name of your glorious crown, 
 pardon !
 
 132 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Forgive you, my child ? Why, what have I 
 to forgive? 'T is your father's business, whom 
 you have deceived. You see, I know your wliole 
 story ; your blush confirms it. You allowed 
 yourself to be seduced and kidnapped . . . 
 
 AMY (proudly). 
 True, madame ; but he who seduced and 
 kidnapped me, has married me. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 Even so ; I know that you have repaired 
 
 your error by marrying your seducer, Varney 
 
 the squire. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 Varney ! oh ! no, madame, no ; as there is 
 a heaven above our heads, I am not the vile 
 creature you deem me ! I am not the despica- 
 ble Varney's wife. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 How now? What means this? Woman, 
 
 meseems one hath not need to tear the words 
 
 from you, when the subject suits your whim ! 
 
 (As if speaking to herself.) 
 
 Whose plaything am I now? Some degrad- 
 ing mystery is hidden here. 
 (Aloud.) 
 Amy Robsart, 't was in the presence of 
 the noble Earl of Leicester, his master, that 
 Varney declared himself thy husband. 
 
 AMY (sorrowfully). 
 In the earl's presence ! 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Aye ! but prithee tell me whom thou hast 
 married ? By the sun that shines upon us I 
 will know whose mistress or whose wife thou 
 art. Come ! speak, and quickly, for thou 
 wouldst incur less risk in playing with a lioness, 
 than in deceiving Elizabeth of England. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 Ask the Earl of Leicester ; he knows the 
 truth. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 Leicester! the Earl of Leicester ! Woman, 
 thou doth slander him ! Who set thee on to 
 utter that hateful lie? Who hath suborned 
 thee to insult the noblest nobleman, the most 
 loyal gentleman within this realm ? Come 
 instantly with me. But here he comes him- 
 self in search of us. 
 
 (Raising her voice.) 
 This way ! this way ! Even were he dearer 
 to us than our right hand, thou shouldst be 
 confronted with him; thou shalt be heard in 
 his presence, that I may know what man or 
 woman in England is so bereft of sense as to 
 lie to the daughter of King Henry Eighth !
 
 ACT IV— SCENE V 
 
 ^11 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 AMY, ELIZABETH, LEICESTER, VARNEY, THE WHOLE COURT. 
 
 (Elizabeth has her eyes fixed upon Leicester. Amy is 
 pale as death and almost fainting.) 
 
 LEICESTER (aside, with a gesture of dismay). 
 Heaven ! Amy with the queen ! 
 
 ELIZABETH (aside). 
 How pale he grows ! 
 
 (Aloud.) 
 My Lord of Leicester, know you this 
 woman ? 
 
 LEICESTER (in a low tone). 
 Madame . . . 
 
 ELIZABETH (more forcibly). 
 
 My Lord of Leicester, know you this 
 
 woman ? 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 Will the queen deign to give me leave to 
 
 explain . . . 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 Is it I whom you have dared deceive? 
 
 L your benefactress, your trusting and too 
 
 weak sovereign ? Your confusion seems to 
 
 avow your treachery. If there be aught 
 
 sacred on this earth, I swear by that, disloyal 
 
 earl, your perfidy shall be fitly rewarded ! 
 
 LEICESTER (abashed). 
 I have not purposed to deceive you, madame. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 Is it so? Ah! my lord, methinks your 
 head is in as great peril now as ever was your 
 father's. 
 
 AMY (aside). 
 
 O God ! 
 
 LEICESTER (drawing himself up, and speaking in 
 a firm voice). 
 
 My head, O queen, can fall only upon the 
 
 sentence of my peers. At the bar of the 
 
 imperial English Parliament I will plead my 
 
 cause, and not before a princess who thus 
 
 rewards my faithful services. Your Majesty's 
 
 sceptre is not a fairy wand wherewith to build 
 
 my scaffold in a single day. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 My lords, who stand about me, you have 
 heard ! Meseems we are defied and set at 
 naught even in the castle which this pre- 
 sumptuous man owes to our royal generosity ! 
 My Lord Shrewsbury, as Earl-marshal of 
 England you will proceed against this rebel 
 for high treason. 
 
 AMY (aside). 
 
 Just Heaven ! I knew not that I loved him 
 still so dearly ! 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 Raise not your head so proudly, Dudley, 
 Earl of Leicester. Our father Henry Eighth, 
 of illustrious memory, cut off the heads that 
 would not bend. Hunsdon, my good cousin, 
 look to it that the gentlemen pensioners of 
 our suite are in readiness ; let this man be 
 placed in custody. Let him give up his 
 sword, and let it be done with all speed ! I 
 have spoken. 
 ( Hunsdon dr.iws his sword ; three gentlemen advance 
 
 toward Leicester, who stands calm and unmoved. 
 
 Amy throws herself at the queen's feet. )
 
 134 
 
 AAfV ROBS ART 
 
 AMY. 
 No ! no, madame ! Mercy ! justice ! He 
 is not guilty ! he is not guilty ! No one can 
 accuse the noble Earl of Leicester in aught ! 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 By my soul, ray child, this is amazing ! Did 
 not you yourself accuse him but now ? Did 
 you slander him, pray ? 
 
 AMY. 
 Did I accuse him, madame? Oh ! if I did 
 accuse him, assuredly I slandered him. I 
 alone deserve your wrath. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 Beware, mad creature that you are ! Said 
 
 you not a moment since that I had but to 
 
 question the earl, that he knew your whole 
 
 story? 
 
 AMY. 
 
 I know not what I said, madame ; my life 
 
 was threatened, I was misled, my mind was 
 
 confused . . . 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 Who is your husband or your lover, Amy 
 Robsart, if, as you declared but now, you are 
 not Varney's wife ! 
 
 LEICESTER (coming forward). 
 I must make my confession to your 
 
 Majesty . . . 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 My lord, allow this woman to speak. 
 AMY. 
 
 Madame ! 
 
 O Heaven ! 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 (Aloud.) 
 Yes, madame, I am Varney's wife ! 
 
 LEICESTER (aside). 
 Too generous Amy ! Ah me ! if, by sacri- 
 ficing myself, I need not sacrifice her with 
 me ! . . . 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 So you confess, young woman, that all the 
 confusion you have witnessed was born of 
 your impudent falsehoods and your absurd 
 impostures ? You confess that you came 
 hither to tarnish the illustrious Earl of 
 Leicester's fame, and ruin him in our esteem ? 
 
 AMY. 
 I needs must confess it. 
 
 LEICESTER (aside). 
 Ah ! her devotion tears my heart ! 
 
 (Aloud.) 
 Will your Majesty now deign to hear me ? 
 
 ELIZABETH (smiling upon him). 
 One moment still, dear noble earl ; we 
 pray you, let us have the joy of seeing your 
 innocence declare itself. Your enemies have 
 set this unhappy creature upon you. Let us 
 question her. 
 
 VARNEY (stepping forward). 
 
 Madame, she is not so guilty as she seems 
 
 to your Majesty to be ! I hoped that her 
 
 malady might have remained concealed. But 
 
 the queen must have noticed that her mind 
 
 wanders. 
 
 LEICESTER (aside). 
 Caitiff! 
 
 AMY (aside). 
 
 I must carry out the sacrifice even to the 
 
 end. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 In truth. Sir Richard Varney, I incline 
 rather to the belief that your master's enemies 
 have made use of your wife as an instrument 
 to weaken what they have but strengthened. 
 This evening we take our leave of Kenilworth ; 
 we will leave orders. Awaiting our final 
 determination, let this woman be consigned 
 to the prison in the tower. Lord Hunsdon, 
 this prisoner is in your keeping. Let her be
 
 ACT IV— SCENE V 
 
 135 
 
 closely watched, and give order that no per- 
 son—no person, even were it the lord of this 
 castle — hold communication with her unless 
 he be provided with a safe-conduct, signed by 
 our own hand. You hear, my lord. 
 
 (Lord Ilunsdon bows. Amy is led away.) 
 
 LEICESTER (aside). 
 O misery ! my beloved Amy 1 
 
 AMY. 
 If I die now, at least 't will be for him 1
 
 ACT FIFTH 
 
 Interior of the round tower of the dungeons. Old Norman style of architecture. Above the walls can 
 be seen the base of the interior cone of the roof. At the centre of the back of the stage an iron door. At 
 the right of this door a small barred window. At the left a couch. A great beam, which supjjorts the roof, 
 runs from side to side of the tower overhead. 
 
 SCENE 1 
 
 AMY (alone). 
 
 (She is sitting on the couch, pale, and with disheveled 
 hair.) 
 
 The sacrifice is consummated ! I know not 
 how it is that, through the sin of loving, I 
 have become almost a State criminal. The 
 queen 's my rival ! the queen ! and doubtless 
 her wrath will not have fallen on me to no 
 purpose. To-day, a prison ; to-morrow — 
 Dudley ! they say that thou wouldst take my 
 life. I much prefer to forestall thee and to 
 give it thee. For thee the throne, for me 
 the tomb. I go, and thou 'It remain with 
 
 this Elizabeth, who is a queen. O fearful 
 thought ! that while she trembles in thy arms, 
 I shall be lying on the solitary ice-cold pillow 
 of the sepulchre ! O agony ! how keen and 
 heart-rending is jealousy when one is soon 
 to die ! 
 
 (She hides her face in her hands and weeps. At this 
 moment a door in the wall at the right, concealed 
 by the carving, turns noiselessly on its hinges to 
 admit Flibbertigibbet, then closes as noiselessly. 
 Flibbertigibbet walks slowly forward a few steps 
 and stands in front of Amy, who has not raised her 
 eyes.)
 
 138 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 AMY, FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 AMY. (She does not see Flibbertigibbet. ) 
 Is not this dungeon death? Am I not 
 already cast out from the world of the living? 
 Wliere is the ear that can hear my voice ? 
 Where is the hand that can reach out and 
 touch my hand ? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET (without changing his position). 
 
 Here. 
 
 AMY. 
 Who 'sthat? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Flibbertigibbet, at your service. 
 
 AMY. 
 You ! Pray, are you in truth a sorcerer or 
 devil's imp that you can make your way to 
 this impenetrable dungeon, without, may God 
 forgive you, the door being opened? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Unhappily God has nothing of that sort to 
 forgive me, noble lady. 
 
 AMY. 
 But tell me how you did come in? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 As you will go out, my lady. 
 
 AMY. 
 I cannot understand . . . 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 'T is very simple. 
 (He points with his finger to the maslied door.) 
 Yonder is a door. 
 
 AMY. 
 Is it so? And whither does it lead? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 I have already told you ; it leads, by a secret 
 staircase, to Alasco's laboratory, and thence 
 to the large room whence you have escaped 
 once already, and whence, thanks to God or 
 the devil, you will escape a second time. But 
 let us make haste ! I know not by what lucky 
 chance old Alasco was not in his laboratory. 
 He may soon return, and our expedition would 
 become difficult. Come, come, madame. 
 
 (He talies a step toward the secret door) 
 AMY. 
 I thank thee, my poor friend, but cannot 
 follow thee. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 What say you ? 
 
 AMY. 
 
 Fly quickly. If thou shouldst be surprised 
 
 here . . . 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 My safety is of mighty consequence ! But 
 you? 
 
 AMY. 
 
 I remain. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET (stamping on the floor). 
 Look you ! do you think that I came here 
 simply to go away as I came ? Do you think 
 that I will leave you in this damp, cold 
 dungeon, with the owls and bats, spiders 
 around your bed, and jailers at your door,
 
 ACT V—SCENE II 
 
 139 
 
 while there is pure, free air without, and 
 fields, woods and streams? If you propose 
 to allow yourself to die in this dungeon, you 
 should not have saved my life. Come ! 
 follow me ! follow me ! 
 
 AMY. 
 
 I cannot, my poor friend. Am I not con- 
 demned to death by him to whom my breath 
 and my life belong ? If I had my liberty, 
 what should I do with my life? Is not 
 Dudley faithless? Did not Dudley seek to 
 poison me? Did not Dudley abandon me 
 to his Varney? Is not Dudley to marry 
 Elizabeth? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 La, la, la ! that is all old, madame. The 
 scene has changed. Your Dudley is not 
 faithless, he did not seek to poison you, he 
 did not abandon you to his squire Satan- 
 Varney, and, far from thinking of marrying 
 the queen, he is at this moment planning an 
 act of high treason against her. I mean your 
 rescue. 
 
 AMY (clasping her hands). 
 Can it be ? Dost thou say truly ? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 'T was Varney alone who invented it all, 
 planned it all, did it all — he alone is answer- 
 able for everything ! 
 
 AMY. 
 Ah ! that is what I thought at first ! O my 
 Dudley, how guilty I have been toward thee. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Nor is that all. Your father knows of your 
 marriage ; he has become reconciled to your 
 husband ; they are at this moment together 
 concerting measures to save you ; they are, it 
 may be, waiting for you without. Do you 
 choose still to remain ? Do you wish to make 
 them wait in vain? 
 
 AMY. 
 Oh ! no ! haste ! haste ! make haste to take 
 me to my lord ! to my father ! 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 At last ! The bolt is drawn ! Let us not 
 waste a second ! follow me. 
 
 ( He runs to the masked door, and tries to open it, but 
 it resists. He tries again, but to no purpose. He 
 cannot even shake the door. He returns in blank 
 
 ■ dismay to Amy, who watches him, trembUng with 
 anxiety.) 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 Locked ! the door is locked and bolted on 
 
 the outer side ! Alasco and Varney have 
 
 returned. That empty room above was but a 
 
 snare ! 
 
 AMY. 
 
 So you are lost with me for having tried to 
 save me. Unhappy creature that I am 1 ray 
 evil fortune is contagious. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 In God's name say na more to me of 
 myself! I have naught to lose ! 'T is you 
 who lose everything ! 
 
 AMY. 
 Yes, I have fallen back into the darkness of 
 my dungeon ! The last ray of hope is blotted 
 out. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET (drawing himself up). 
 
 The last ? not so, dear noble lady ! We 
 
 must never despair. Your husband and your 
 
 father are at this very moment seeking to 
 
 effect your rescue. If one could but look 
 
 from yonder window ! 
 
 (He places a wooden stool beneath the window, and 
 stands on tip-toe upon it, trying to look out. ) 
 
 The sun is sinking behind the trees in the 
 park. We have not a half hour of daylight. 
 Ah ! what do I see down yonder in the 
 gathering twilight. Two men wrapped in 
 cloaks. They walk toward the tower. They
 
 140 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 pause at the foot of the wall. They measure 
 
 its height with their eyes. Madame, my 
 
 lady, 't is they. 
 
 AMY. 
 Who? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Your father and your husband ! 
 
 AMY. 
 My father ! my husband ! Are you not 
 mistaken ? Let me look ! 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET (jumping down from the stool). 
 Look, madame. 
 
 AMY (taking his place at the window). 
 
 Ah ! God ! yes, there he is ! 'T is he, my 
 
 Dudley ! Ah ! how hard it is to see betwixt 
 
 these bars ! 
 
 (Calhng.) 
 
 Father ! my lord ! 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 The tower is too high for them to hear you. 
 But wave your handkerchief; perchance they 
 will see that. 
 
 (Amy waves her handkerchief outside the bars.) 
 AMY. 
 
 Yes, yes, they have spied it ! They raise 
 their hats. 
 
 (Piteously.) 
 But I see them and they cannot see me ! 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 No matter ! they are warned, and they will 
 soon set you free. 
 
 AMY (shaking her head). 
 Set me free ! 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Assuredly. What doors would not fly open 
 before the lord of this castle? He has the 
 power and he has the gold. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 But those will not suffice to-day. He will 
 
 not enter this tower. You do not know, thou 
 
 dost not know, my poor friend, what orders 
 
 the queen gave. No one can enter here, no 
 
 one. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 What ! not even the Earl of Leicester, the 
 all-powerful minister ? 
 
 AMY. 
 He, least of all. No one will enter here, I 
 tell thee, unless he have a safe-conduct signed 
 by the queen's hand. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Excellent ! In that case, what we need is 
 the queen's safe-conduct? 
 
 AMY. 
 
 Surely. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET (taking a parchment from his 
 pocket). 
 
 Here it is, madame. 
 
 AMY (taking the parchment). 
 What ! the queen's signature ! This is 
 downright magic ! 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Nay, forethought. I found this talisman 
 upon your table yesterday. 
 
 AMY. 
 Ah ! yes, I remember. My father's safe- 
 conduct. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 I did well not to forget it as he did. And 
 now, madame, quickly wave your handkerchief 
 once more, and throw this parchment down 
 to your rescuers. 
 
 AMY (waving lier handkerchief). 
 They see my signal. 
 
 (She throws down the parchment.) 
 God guide its flight !
 
 ACT F— SCENE II 
 
 141 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Follow it with your eyes. What becomes 
 
 of it? 
 
 AMY. 
 
 It falls. It twists and turns. Now 't is 
 
 among the tree-tops. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 God grant it do not lodge there ! 
 
 AMY. 
 No, it falls. At last 't is on the ground, 
 before them. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Have they it ? 
 
 They have it ! 
 
 AMY. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 We are saved ! 
 
 AMY. 
 
 My Dudley kisses the paper. He signals to 
 me. Now they both bend their steps toward 
 the postern gate. The corner of the wall steals 
 them from me, 1 no longer see them. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 'T is but to see them soon again, and nearer 
 at hand, noble lady. 
 
 AMY (leaving the window). 
 God be praised ! 
 
 (.She glances at her disordered dress.) 
 He is coming. In what plight am I to 
 receive him? Hair in disorder, my dress all 
 awry . . . 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Most promising sign ! sadness gives place to 
 coquetry ! But methinks I hear steps. 
 
 (He listens at the iron door.) 
 
 'T is the step of more than one. Why in 
 God's name does the floor of the corridor 
 give forth such a hollow sound ? 
 
 (A key is heard in the lock.) 
 
 They 're opening the door, madame ! 
 (The iron door opens. Enter Sir Hugh and Leicester.)
 
 143 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 The Same: LEICESTER, SIR HUGH. 
 
 AMY (throwing herself into Leicester's arms). 
 My lord ! 
 
 LEICESTER (straining her to his heart). 
 My best beloved ! 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 She was as pale as a corpse, and now she 's 
 as rosy as a bride. These maids change color 
 more often and more quickly than the star 
 Aldebaran. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Well mightst thou look coldly on me, Amy. 
 How shall I ever undo the wrong I did thee? 
 Oh ! forgive me ! 
 
 AMY (still in his arms). 
 Ah ! 't is from thee, my dear and noble lord, 
 that all forgiveness must proceed. Of what 
 did I dare suspect thee? 
 
 (To Sir Hugh.) 
 And, father, have you too forgiven me ? do 
 you forgive me ? 
 
 SIR HUGH (throwing his arms about them both). 
 My daughter ! — my child ! 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Bethink you that the door stands open : 
 why do we delay ? 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 He is right, time is precious. Listen, my 
 beloved ; all is prepared for thy flight and 
 mine. An hour hence a carriage will await 
 
 us in the wood. Sure friends, Strathallan and 
 the Earl of Fife, will cover our flight. A brig, 
 ready to make sail for Flanders, will receive 
 us on the coast ; and ere the dawti we shall 
 be sailing away toward happiness, both set 
 free, thou from thy prison, I from the court. 
 
 AMY. 
 How now, my lord ! for me you will 
 abandon honor, rank, favor, fortune, and the 
 glorious stage where Europe gazes admiringly 
 upon you ? What sacrifices for a poor 
 woman ! 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 That poor woman, as thou namest her, has 
 made many a harder sacrifice for me. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 You condemn yourself to exile ! 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 Art not thou my country ? 
 
 AMY. 
 But, Dudley, thou dost renounce everything. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Nothing at all, for thou art everything to 
 
 Dudley. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 Who knows ? perchance a throne ! 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 A throne? Nay, something tells me that, 
 when I leave the queen to go with thee, I
 
 ACT V— SCENE III 
 
 143 
 
 renounce naught save the chance of ascend- 
 ing, some fine morning, not the steps of a 
 throne, but the ladder of a scaffold. 
 
 SIR liUUII. 
 My lord, do not forget that at this hour this 
 imperious queen awaits your coming. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 True ; we must leave thee, dearest wife. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 What ! do you not take me with you ? 
 LEICESTER. 
 
 Nay, not yet. An hour hence the queen 
 will have left Kenilworth behind. At this 
 moment her retinue still throngs the castle, 
 and thy flight would be impossible. I go to 
 hold her stirrup ; as soon as she has taken her 
 departure, I will return. Kenilworth will be 
 deserted, and, under cover of the darkness, I 
 will carry thee away from this ghastly dungeon. 
 
 AMY (smiling). 
 'T will be the second time that you have 
 carried me away, my lord — Ah ! pardon me, 
 father ! 
 
 LEICESTER (to Flibbertigibbet). 
 Do thou go with us, devil's imp ; I need thy 
 assistance to put everything in readiness while 
 I am in attendance on the queen. 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 At your service, my lord. 
 
 AMY. 
 Must I remain alone ? 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 An hour at the most, my dearest love. 
 
 AMY (clingingto his neck). 
 Do you remember, my lord, that in the 
 early days of our love the blast of your horn 
 told me of your presence in the Devon woods ? 
 To-night, you must make known your return 
 to me in the same way. 
 
 I promise. 
 Farewell. 
 
 Farewell. 
 
 (They embrace. 
 
 LEICESTER. 
 Be happy and have no fear. 
 
 AMY. 
 
 Exit the earl, with Sir Hugh and 
 Flibbertigibbet. )
 
 144 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 AMY (alone). 
 
 Farewell ! — there 's something most impres- 
 sive in that word ; it is as if one were resigned 
 to an eternal parting ! 
 
 (She sits upon the bed and muses.) 
 They are gone ; I can no longer hear their 
 steps. Once more I am alone. I know not 
 why sad thoughts return and fill my mind. 
 Am I not, shall I not soon be hajipy? Shall 
 I not soon be free — free to see and hear him — 
 free to love him ? My head and body are 
 worn out ; the varying emotions of this day 
 have overpowered me. Would it not be well 
 
 to take a little rest before setting out upon 
 
 this journey. 
 
 ( .She lies down upon the bed. ) 
 
 This journey that 's to lead me to perfect 
 
 bliss ! 
 
 (Gradually her voice becomes weaker, and her mind 
 seems to grow dull.) 
 
 O my Dudley ! what a blessed future ! 
 
 Exile, but exile where thou wilt be; some 
 
 sequestered retreat ; long days with thee, 
 
 beside thee ; a life of love and freedom from 
 
 all care. God grant it 's not a dream ! 
 
 (She sleeps.)
 
 ACT V— SCENE V 
 
 145 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 VARNEV, ALASCO. 
 
 (As Amy falls asleep, the masked door is partly 
 opened ; Varney thrusts his head in and makes sure 
 that the countess is asleep ; then he enters, leading 
 Alasco by the hand ; the latter follows him with 
 apparent impatience.) 
 
 VARNEY. 
 She is asleep ! 
 
 (To Alasco.) 
 Zounds, man, come ! come quickly ! 
 
 ALASCO (placing a lighted copper lamp upon a stool). 
 Why do you thus drag me about after you ? 
 My time is not so cheap that I can waste it 
 listening at doors in your coinpany. I was 
 engaged upon a task of supreme importance. 
 I have three retorts upon the furnace, filled 
 with a substance of such dangerous properties, 
 that the least drop falling in the fire would 
 overturn this tower. 
 
 VARNEV. 
 Alasco, didst thou hear? 
 
 ALASCO. 
 I did not listen. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 The Earl of Leicester means to fly, to fly 
 with his wife ! and a few hours hence, if his 
 purpose be accomplished, the favorite will be 
 an exile, and the favorite's squire will fall 
 from the height he has attained, a hundred 
 times lower than the point at which he began 
 to ascend ! 
 
 ALASCO. 
 
 What matters it to me ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 What matters it to thee? The exile's 
 property will be confiscated, and the domain 
 of Cumnor will undergo a like fate with the 
 rest. Farewell to thy laboratory, thy work- 
 shop, thy pharinacy of philters, thy poison 
 kitchen ! Thou seest that it matters to thee ! 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Even so ! What is the source of all these 
 woes of thine? The flight of this bird. Go 
 warn Elizabeth, and the cage will not open. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Better than that ! 't will open to receive the 
 earl. Elizabeth will send him to consummate 
 his nuptials with Amy upon the scaffold. And 
 what shall I have gained by that ? 
 
 ALASCO. 
 
 The queen will hold you dear for having 
 
 undeceived her. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 Hold me dear ? she will hold me in horror 
 
 rather ! If I were not punished for my good 
 
 ofliices, the best I could expect would be to be 
 
 forgotten. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 
 Then do not tell her that 't was the earl 
 who planned his wife's escape. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 In that case he remains powerful and a 
 favorite, and, sooner or later, under one
 
 V 
 
 146 
 
 AMY ROBSART 
 
 J 
 
 pretext or another, his vengeance will fall 
 upon me. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Well, if all ways are bad . . . 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Not all ! 
 
 (He draws near Alasco and lowers liis voice.) 
 
 Alasco, if fate should strike this woman 
 down, this Amy, who leads the earl into so 
 many acts of madness ; if she should dis- 
 appear from the world ; if she should die — a 
 natural death, — what think you would become 
 of Leicester ? 
 
 ALASCO. 
 
 He would forget her. He would remain 
 the fortunateminister, the all-powerful favorite, 
 the great earl who gives festivals and spectacles 
 to queens. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 And we, Alasco, should follow in his train, 
 in peace, rising as he rose, and finding our- 
 selves earls or barons on the day when he 
 awoke a king. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 
 As thou sayest, — Baron Varney, Prince 
 Demetrius Alasco ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Thus the only obstacle between ourselves 
 and fortune is this woman's life. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 And how dost thou propose to overcome 
 that obstacle ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 Remove it. 
 
 ALASCO (with a gesture of dismay). 
 
 Oho ! I thought that thou didst love this 
 woman ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 She called me slave ! I hate her. 
 
 (Half drawing his dagger.) 
 
 When one reflects that with one inch of this 
 steel in that disdainful heart, naught would 
 henceforth obstruct the course of so many 
 brilliant destinies ! . . . 
 
 (He takes a step toward Amy.) 
 
 ALASCO (stopping him). 
 
 Varney ! Varney ! a dagger-thrust I Every- 
 one will know that it was thou. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Thou 'rt right. But hast thou not — hast 
 thou not some eli.xir, some poison of which 
 one dies as soon as one doth breathe it ? 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Poison ! they 'II say that it was I. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Then what are we to do ? 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Whatever pleases thee. I do not choose to 
 have a hand in the affair. A woman ! a 
 sleeping woman ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Thou 'rt a coward ! 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Moreover, I have already told thee that my 
 furnaces await me. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Thou 'rt a fool ! 
 
 (He seems to reflect for a few instants.) 
 What 's to be done ? What 's to be done ? 
 A natural death? Nothing that will leave a 
 trace of my handiwork? 
 
 (Striking his forehead.) 
 Ah ! now 1 have it ! Is not this tower the 
 tower of the dungeons? Alasco, in the floor 
 of the narrow corridor that gives access to 
 this dungeon there is a trap-door, just in front 
 of yonder threshold.
 
 ACT V— SCENE V 
 
 147 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Well? 
 
 VAKNEY. 
 
 One need but touch a spring, and the sup- 
 ports which hold the trap-door are thrown 
 aside. It then remains in place by virtue of 
 the adhering force of the surrounding planks, 
 and there is nothing whereby the eye can 
 detect the change ; but the slightest pressure is 
 enough to hurl it down into the abyss it covers. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Well ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 'T is a fearful abyss. The fall is from the 
 
 summit of this turret down to the lowest 
 
 vaults of the castle. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Well? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 The earl has left the door ajar. Wait for 
 
 me one moment. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 
 Where goest thou ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 I go to press the spring which removes the 
 supports of the trap-door. 
 
 (He goes out through the iron door, which has 
 remained open, and half closes it so as to conceal 
 the corridor.) 
 
 ALASCO (alone). 
 What infernal scheme has he in mind ? 
 And my elixirs are evaporating overhead ! 
 Well, Varney? 
 
 VARNEY (returning). 
 'T is done. Now, woe to him who puts his 
 foot upon that trap ! though he were light- 
 footed as a sylph, he would go down with it 
 
 into the depths. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 
 Varney, thou dost not intend to take the 
 
 prisoner and cast her into yonder pit ? 
 
 VARNEY (with a bitter smile). 
 Fie ! what brutality ! I shall not lay hand 
 upon the prisoner. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 In that case, I fail to comprehend. 
 
 VARNEY (lowering his voice). 
 Didst thou not hear the carl promise his 
 wife to announce his return by a blast upon 
 his horn ? 
 
 ALASCO. 
 So. What then ? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 What then ? When the captive hears the 
 blast upon the horn thinkest thou that, seeing 
 yon door open, she will have patience to 
 wait until her husband shall have joined her 
 here ? Thinkst thou she will resist the pleasure 
 of embracing him a few moments sooner? 
 Thinkst thou that she will hesitate to run to 
 meet him ? And if she doth in her excite- 
 ment cross the threshold, if the rotten sup- 
 jiorts of the trap-door give way beneath her, 
 if she falls — Why, what can I do? Shall I 
 have been to blame? 'T would be a sad 
 mischance. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 
 To find in her love a means of putting her 
 to death ! Varney, thou wouldst boil the 
 lamb in its mother's milk ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Now, let us withdraw. The earl must soon 
 return. Go back, if thou wilt, to thy infernal 
 chemistry. I remain on guard behind the 
 masked door. 
 
 ( They go out together through the secret door. )
 
 148 
 
 AMY ROBSART 
 
 SCENE VI 
 
 AMY (alone). 
 
 (Profound silence reigns in the dungeon, which is but 
 dimly lighted by the copper lamp which Alasco has 
 left, forgotten, upon the stool. After some moments 
 of silence, the clear note of a horn is heard without. 
 Amy wakes with a start. ) 
 
 What sound was that ? was it not the horn 
 
 in the distance ? 
 
 (She listens.) 
 
 Nothing but the wind whistHng in the crevices 
 of the wall. Perchance 't was that awoke me. 
 So much the better ! I had a fearful dream. 
 
 (The horn is heard again.) 
 But no, I was not mistaken, 't is the horn in 
 truth ; 't is the signal. 
 
 (She runs to the window.) 
 
 Torches, horses and armed men. Yes, there 
 is my Dudley ! He dismounts, he assists my 
 
 father to dismount. How noble he is, my 
 Dudley ! Ah ! that door was left ajar ; I will 
 rtm to meet him, and spare him the necessity 
 of coming to this dungeon. 
 
 (She wraps herself in her Veil and Tcneels.) 
 
 O my God, to thy keeping do I now com- 
 mend myself. 
 
 (The horn is heard a third time.) 
 
 Dudley, I am thine ! 
 
 (She takes the lamp from the stool, pushes the door 
 open and disappears. As the door swings back 
 a piercing shriek is heard and a great noise like that 
 made by the falling of a heavy piece of timber. At 
 the sound the little door is half opened, and Vamey 
 appears, pale and trembling.)
 
 ACT V— SCENE VII 
 
 149 
 
 SCENE VII 
 
 VARNEY (alone). 
 
 (He enters slowly and with a bewildered air. ) 
 
 Is it over? Yes, I heard the noise. No 
 one here. 'T is done. Ah! well, 't is finished ! 
 Can it be that thou 'rt afraid, Varney? 
 
 (With a ghastly sneering laugh.) 
 
 The lamb has fallen into the wolf's den, is 
 that a reason why thou shouldst tremble ? If 
 I were to aro and look ? 
 
 ( lie n-alks toward the door, then recoils and walks 
 back.) 
 
 Look — to what end? I heard, and that 's 
 enough. Rejoice, Richard Varney ! from this 
 hour dates thy fortune ! 
 
 ( Suddenly a great uproar is heard behind the masked 
 door. It is thrown violently open, admitting a flick- 
 ering red light, and Alasco, pale as death, rushes 
 with a shriek of horror upon the stage. )
 
 15° 
 
 AMY ROBS ART 
 
 SCENE VIII 
 
 VARNEY, ALASCO. 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Ah me ! woe ! woe ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Alasco ! in God's name what 's the matter? 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Malediction on us ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 What sayest thou ? 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Varney, my alembic has exploded, the 
 tower 's half in ruins, and the castle on fire ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 What sayest thou, villain ? The castle is on 
 fire? 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Look! 
 
 (The glare becomes higher and brighter. A sound 
 like the hissing of flames can be heard outside.) 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Great God ! 
 
 ALASCO. 
 We have no time to lose. The conflagra- 
 tion makes rapid progress. Let us fly ! 
 
 Let us fly ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 
 ( They run to the iron door. Alasco pushes it open and 
 recoils in horror before the yawning gulf outside. ) 
 
 ALASCO. 
 Demon ! what is this yawning pit? 
 
 VARNEY. 
 The trap ! 
 
 ALASCO. 
 
 A chasm not to be crossed ! Flight, rescue, 
 both impossible. On that side fire, on this 
 the chasm. Die ! we must die ! 
 
 VARNEY. 
 'T is thy fault, poisoner ! 
 
 ALASCO. 
 'T is thine, assassin ! 
 
 VARNEY (pointing to the flames). 
 Who caused yon fire ? 
 
 ALASCO (pointing to the open trap). 
 
 Who opened yon deep hole ? 
 
 (The fire gains ground, the flame comes in through the 
 masked door, the roof crumbles, the walls sway and 
 tremble, and a shower of sparks begins to rain down 
 from the top of the tower. At this juncture Flibberti- 
 gibbet passes through an opening in the roof, and 
 appears standing on the transverse timber. )
 
 ACT V— SCENE IX 
 
 LSI 
 
 SCENE IX 
 
 VARNEY, ALASCO, FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 
 Varney ! 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Alasco ! 
 
 VARNEY (raising his head). 
 Who calls us? Is it hell? 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Hell is content to await your coming. Do 
 not reproach each other ! I caused the explo- 
 sion of the alembic. 'T is I who punish you. 
 
 VARNEY. 
 Ah ! cursed devil's imp ! 
 
 FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
 Demons of that sweet angel ! follow her 
 into the yawning pit. You will not follow 
 her beyond it ! 
 
 ( He disappears through an opening in the roof, which 
 falls in and buries Varney and Alasco.)
 
 152 AMY ROBSART 
 
 NOTE TO AMY ROBSART 
 
 Amy Robsart was acted February 13, 1S2.S, at the Odeon, under the management of M. Sauvage. 
 
 We read in Victor Hugo Raconti, etc.: 
 
 " It was agreed that Victor Hugo's name should not be pronounced ; but some chance phrase or some 
 indiscretion betrayed him, and the manager, overjoyed, lost no time in spreading the report that the drama was 
 written by the author of Cro/mvell. Victor Hugo remonstrated in vain ; the manager, seeing that the name 
 was a drawing card, continued to cry it from the house-tops. 
 
 "The play was much hissed. M. Victor Hugo, who was very glad to give away a success, did not 
 wish to give away a failure ..." 
 
 Without actually declaring himself to be the autlior of tlie play, he assumed the responsibility for the 
 passages that were hissed in the following letter to the newspapers ; 
 
 " P.^Kis, 14 February, 1828. 
 " To the Editor : 
 
 " Since the success of Amy Robsart, the first essay of a young poet whose fortune is dearer to me than my 
 own, has met with such bitter opposition, I hasten to declare that I am not altogether a stranger to the work. 
 There are, in the drama, some passages, some fragments of scenes, which were written by me, and I ought to 
 say that they are the passages which were, perhaps, most loudly hissed. 
 
 " I beg you, monsieur, to publish this statement in your journal to-morrow, and to accept, etc., 
 
 " Victor Hugo. 
 
 " P. S. — The author has withdrawn the play." 
 
 The play was a complete failure and was performed but once.
 
 TORQUEMADA
 
 PART FIRST 
 
 FROM MONK TO POPE
 
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 OWT THAS 
 
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 DRAMATIS PERSON/E 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 DON SANCHO DE SALINAS 
 
 DONNA ROSA D'ORTHEZ 
 
 GIL, MARQUIS DE FUENTEL 
 
 KING FERDINAND 
 
 POPE ALEXANDER VI 
 
 FRANCIS DE PAUL 
 
 GUCHO, a clown 
 
 THE PRIOR 
 
 BISHOP OF SEO DE URGEL 
 
 MONKS, SOLDIERS
 
 
 ACT FIRST 
 
 THE IN PACE 
 
 Catalonia. Among the mountains on the frontier. The Lateran monastery, a convent of the order of 
 St. Augustine and of the discipline of St. Ruf. 
 
 The old cemetery of the convent. General appearance of an uncultivated garden. The time is April. 
 Bright sunshine and flowers in bloom. Crosses and tombs in the grass and under the trees. Ground dotted with 
 graves. At the back of the stage the monastery wall, very high, but falling in ruins. An enormous breach 
 extends nearly to the ground, and gives access to the open country. Close beside a huge square fragment of the 
 wall stands an iron cross, planted on a grave. 
 
 Another very high cross, with the mystic gilded triangle, stands at the top of a flight of stone steps, and 
 overlooks the whole cemetery. 
 
 In the foreground, even with the ground, a square opening, surrounded by flat stones on a level with the 
 top of the grass. At one side a long flagstone, apparently intended to cover the opening. In the opening can 
 be seen the topmost steps of a narrow stone staircase which leads down into the hole. It is a sepulchre, the 
 lid of which has been removed, disclosing the interior. The long flagstone is the lid. 
 
 As the curtain rises the prior of the convent in the garb of an Augustinian monk is upon the stage. At the 
 back of the stage an old monk, in the garb of a Dominican, is walking slowly across, bending his knee at each 
 cross that he passes. He disappears and the prior remains alone. 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 THE PRIOR OF THE CONVENT; afterward, A MAN. 
 
 (The prior is bald, with a circle of gray hair and a 
 white beard ; frock of coarse dark cloth. He scruti- 
 nizes the wall, and wanders pensively about among 
 the tombs. ) 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 
 Convent in ruins. Brambles and under- 
 
 brush. What havoc time, th' old renegade, 
 doth work in sacred places. 
 
 (He examines the breach in the wall.) 
 A breach through which a novice might 
 escape. 'T would seem that the old wall is 
 
 159
 
 i6o 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 weary from having stood erect too long, and 
 grudges further service. It doth our privi- 
 leges much resemble, for they are crumbling 
 too, alas ! They have their rust, they have 
 their breaches. The sacred branch doth 
 wither in our hands. The popes wax slothful 
 in the struggle. Ah ! within our walls to-day 
 the princes are at home ; they hover, like the 
 eagle's shadow, threateningly above our heads. 
 An end of discipline, an end of charters and 
 of regulations. Lower we bend and lower 
 every day for fear of stripes ; we have no 
 certainty that we have not among us court 
 intrigues and villainies. They force us to 
 bring up their little highnesses in secret and 
 promiscuously, both girls and boys ; bastards, 
 perchance, who knows? and we obey. 
 ( He pauses before the open tomb.) 
 If ever any act of justice is performed in 
 our community, 't is on one of ourselves. 
 (He gazes at the wall.) 
 
 Our old Structure is tottering like ourselves, 
 and Christ is bleeding, and we know that, in 
 darkness and in shame, more and more help- 
 lessly, we grope about. 
 
 (Enters, through the breach in the wall, a man wrapped 
 in a cloak with his hat pulled over his eyes. He 
 pauses, standing on the heap of ruins near the breach. 
 The prior espies him.) 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 Begone, sirrah ! 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 Nay. 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 Away with you ! Know, clown, that this is 
 holy ground. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Even so ? 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 
 A famous cloister. 
 
 THE MAN. 
 Pish! 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 
 By day, no one comes hither save the monks 
 
 alone ; by night, the shades of the departed 
 
 in their shrouds. For him who enters here 
 
 there is no mercy. The axe if he be duke, 
 
 the rope if he be peasant. None save they 
 
 who are of the convent may come within 
 
 these walls. Beware ! Aroynt thee, knave ! 
 
 (With a haughty laugh.) 
 
 Unless thou art the king ! 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 I am he. 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 
 You, the king ! 
 
 THE MAN. 
 So am I called. 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 What proof have I thereof? 
 
 THE MAN. 
 
 This. 
 
 (He waves his hand. A troop of armed men appears 
 in the breach. The king points out the prior to the 
 soldiers. ) 
 
 Hang that man. 
 
 (The soldiers pour in through the breach. They sur- 
 round the prior. With them enter the Marquis de 
 Fuentel and Gucho. The marquis is a gray-bearded 
 man in a rich Alcantara suit. Gucho, a dwarf, 
 dressed in black, with a cap and bells. He has a 
 fool's bauble in each hand, a figure of a man in gold, 
 and one of a woman in copper.)
 
 PART I. ACT I— THE IN PACE 
 
 i6i 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 THE PRIOR, THE KING, MARQUIS DE FUENTEL, GUCHO, THE KING'S ESCORT. 
 
 THE PRIOR (falling on his knees). 
 Mercy, raonsenor ! 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 So be it — on condition. What art tliou in 
 
 this convent? 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 Prior. 
 
 THE KING. 
 Hark ye. Thou 'It keep me posted touch- 
 ing everything that conies to pass here. The 
 gibbet, if thou liest ; if thou sayest true, thy 
 pardon. 
 
 (He leaves the prior in the midst of the soldiers, and 
 approaches the Manjuis de Fuentel at the front of 
 the stage.) 
 
 Let US begin by saying our prayers. Marquis. 
 
 (He tosses his cloak to a servant behind him, and 
 appears in a modest .\lcantara suit with a huge rosary 
 at his side. He tells his beads silently for a few 
 moments. Then he turns again to the marquis.) 
 
 The queen is far away and I exist. To be 
 alone is bHss. To be a widower would be still 
 better. I laugh for joy. 
 
 GUCHO ( sitting on the ground with Iiis two baubles 
 in his arms against the corner of a tomb. Aside). 
 
 The world doth weep. 
 
 THE KING (to the marquis). 
 
 I have my reasons, thou wilt know them 
 
 soon, for coming to inspect this convent close 
 
 at hand. Come. 
 
 (He motions to him to follow him a little apart, near 
 the tomb against which Gucho is crouching. ) 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 I listen to the king. 
 
 GUCHO (aside). 
 I listen to the wind which whispers to me 
 overhead the things you do. 
 
 THE KING (to the marquis). 
 I wish thy counsel upon certain secret 
 
 matters. 
 
 GUCHO (aside). 
 
 Bah ! provided that I eat and sleep, why all 
 is well. 
 
 THE MARQUIS (to the king). 
 
 Shall we send Gucho hence ? 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 No. He doth naught understand. 
 
 (To Gucho.) 
 Lie there. 
 
 (Gucho makes himself as sm.iU as possible in the 
 shadow behind the king. The king draws near tlie 
 marquis.) 
 
 Marcpiis, I love women beyond measure. 
 The thing that pleases me in thee is that thy 
 morals are unmentionable, or were. Later, 
 old fellow, thou didst turn pious. That is 
 well. That too doth please me. Man's worth 
 depends upon his faith, for that alone can 
 wash away our sins. 
 
 ( He makes the sign of the cross. ) 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 This convent, whereof the king doth pur- 
 pose to keep watch upon the practices, is
 
 1 62 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 under the control of two superiors, one at 
 
 Cahors, one at Ghent. 
 
 THE KING. 
 Thou art reputed to have been a monster of 
 intrigue. So art thou still. 'T is said that 
 women, pretty women too, in former days did 
 foolish things for thee, good man. That thou 
 wert once a page, a charming boy ; that seems 
 impossible, but, in good sooth, why so ? The 
 morning smiles, and still the day is dark ; 
 that 's often seen. Knowst thou that there 's 
 a pretty anecdote concerning a young court 
 attendant, said to have been thou? Hast thou 
 ever called thyself Goivona ? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 No. Wherefore ? 
 
 THE KING. 
 To hide thyself, 't is said, by craft and 
 fraud, and for a love-affair with a fair princess. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Never ! 
 
 THE KING. 
 I was told the whole long story of a dull- 
 witted king to whom thou gav'st an heir. 
 But the authorities are not agreed touching 
 the country. In all likelihood 't is pure 
 invention. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 
 Nothing more. You have made me a mar- 
 quis and they seek to do me evil in your sight. 
 
 THE KING. 
 And they are right. But 't is my rule, 
 whether they say what 's false or wliat is true, 
 to hold myself above what man invents. 
 Naught reaches me, for I am king. Thy 
 origin, midst lackeys, aye, and clowns, thy 
 low, base, slippery beginnings suit my whim. 
 No one can say with certainty, not even thine 
 own self, who was thy father. I do admire 
 thee for that thou dost so cunningly hide thy 
 
 identity while living in the public eye. The 
 cormorant's nest, the hole where lurks the 
 basilisk, are the fit starting-points of a life like 
 thine, erratic, wandering, enslaved. I have 
 made thee count and marquis, grandee of 
 Castile ; a mass of worthless dignities, well- 
 earned but ill-gotten. To act by cunning, or 
 at need by force, is easy for thee ; thou 
 wouldst hold thine own with a whole council, 
 aye, or turn them out of doors e'en though 
 the devil were among them. Thou canst be 
 bold, and yet lose not thy subtlety. Though 
 made to crawl, thou dost defy the tempest. 
 If need be thou wouldst risk thy life for some 
 rash stroke, and, old as thou art, wouldst dravir 
 thy sword therefor. Thou givest evil counsel, 
 but dost not follow it. It is thy faculty to be 
 of nothing innocent, of nothing guilty, and 
 I esteem thee capable of anything, even of 
 loving. 'T is common rumor that thou didst 
 rise from serving-man to bandit, from bandit 
 to courtier. For my own part, I laugh as I 
 look on at thy manoeuvring. It pleases me to 
 .see thee twine thyself about the serpents. 
 Thy schemes, which thou dost quietly, and 
 with a pensive air, concoct, a sort of floating 
 web that loses itself in the darkness, thy wit, 
 thy talents, thy good fortune, and the mire 
 wherein thou wallowest, all tend to make of 
 thee a creature strange to contemplate, a 
 shuddering, ungrateful thing, whose services I 
 love to have at my command. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 O king, the Tagus, the Ebro and the Gua- 
 dalquivir are yours ; your iVIajesty hath added 
 Naples to Castile, and the French king is van- 
 quished in the jousting ; Africa doth fear my 
 king, whose shadow oftentimes ere now hath 
 met the sun rising o'er .\lgiers ; Sos was your 
 birth-place, so near to Navarre that you have 
 a just claim upon her, and I avouch that you
 
 PART I. ACT I— THE IN PACE 
 
 163 
 
 were rightful master of that kingdom while 
 you lay sleeping in your cradle, for never was 
 king born for nothing ; though a Catholic 
 king, you have set foot upon the church 
 wherein rei)ublican ideas are taking root; the 
 pope, for fear of thee, doth quake before the 
 king, and his church-bell is hushed before 
 your loud alarum. Your flags wave from 
 Etna to the shores of Hindostan, and with 
 you is Gonzah'o de Cordova. Moreover, you 
 win battles single-handed. Young as you 
 are, you tower above other monarchs like a 
 patriarch, and when a priest would take an 
 oar in any of your galleys, with faltering 
 speech Rome hastens to explain away its 
 wrath. O conqueror of Toro, mighty king ! 
 All words seem weak and paltry in your pres- 
 ence, and die upon my lips. My lord, I am 
 devoted to your interests. 
 
 THE KING. 
 'T is false. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Your Highness . . . 
 
 THE KING. 
 Spare me your wearisome chatter of devo- 
 tion, my dear friend. To thee I am a mystery, 
 to me thou art by no means clear as glass. I 
 play the generous prince and thou the saint, 
 but in our hearts we both are filled with gall 
 against each other. I execrate the slave, thou 
 dost detest the king ; thou wouldst assassinate 
 me if thou couldst, and I mayhap will have 
 thy head shorn off some day. We are good 
 friends, save that. 
 
 (The marquis opens his mouth to protest.) 
 Waste not thy words, thou courtier. Thou 
 hatest me, and I hate thee. In my case 't is 
 my gloomy nature, in thine thy wicked aspira- 
 tions. And each of us doth keep his spectre 
 in his heart. 
 
 (The marquis again makes a motion, which is repressed 
 by the king.) 
 
 We have a just appreciation each of the other. 
 Each of us hath a dark window in his breast, 
 through which we see each other's evil hearts. 
 I laugh to scorn thy love and thy devotion, 
 thou old traitor. Until the day when thou 
 canst no more gold extract from me, so long 
 as thine own interest, the surest of all bonds, 
 unites us, marquis, I will employ thee to give 
 counsel to me, knowing that thou wilt serve 
 me better, the more depraved thou art. Off 
 with thy mask ! and off with mine ! I like it 
 better so. In very truth, this insult which no 
 man dares offer me, I, marquis, offer every- 
 one. Surely I can no less than be outspoken, 
 having knaves for witnesses. And if the 
 prince, whom truth like a wild deer doth 
 shun, hath it not in his ear, then shall he have 
 it in his mouth, and thou with thy vile stam- 
 mering tongue shalt witness bear that I, 
 the king, am frank of speech, and thou, the 
 lackey, liest. Now let us talk. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 
 But 
 
 THE KING. 
 What a weary burden to be king ! To be 
 a young man, full of hasty impulses, of hatred 
 and of turbulence, an active, ardent, efferves- 
 cent, mocking creature, with a whole hurri- 
 cane of passions in one's heart ; to be a 
 strange, inexplicable mixture of blood and 
 fire and powder and caprice, most like unto 
 a sheaf of thunderbolts ; to long to try one's 
 hand at everything, to seize upon and pervert 
 everything ; to thirst for the possession of a 
 woman ; to hunger for a pleasure ; never to 
 look upon a maid, a heart, a tempting prey, a 
 scene of wild confusion, without shuddering 
 with the fierce need of biting at it ; to feel 
 one's self from head to foot the man of flesh,
 
 164 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 and without respite, in the darkness of a 
 gorgeous hell, to listen palefaced to a voice 
 that says: "Be thou a phantom!" To be 
 not e'en a king ! God save the mark ! to be 
 a kingdom ! To feel a ghastly medley of cities 
 and of states replacing one's will, one's 
 instincts and desires ; and towers, walls and 
 provinces involved in endless intricacies in 
 one's bowels ; to say as one looks at the map : 
 lo ! that is I ! Girona is my heel and Alcala 
 my head ! To see ever increasing in one's 
 mind, each day more base and despicable, 
 an appetite that seems a thirst for empire ; to 
 feel cold rivers flowing over one ; to see wide 
 oceans with their dreary waste of waters 
 isolating one from all mankind ; to have the 
 sense of being suffocated 'neath a wave of 
 flame, and to look on, dull-eyed, while the 
 whole world is poured as through a sieve into 
 one's heart ! And then, my wife, that monster 
 of inflexibility ! I am her slave by day, 
 her galley-slave by night. Omnipotent and 
 melancholy, side by side we sit, alone and 
 friendless in a ray of light — a light that shines 
 but dimly, 't is so high above our heads. We 
 shiver as we touch each other's hands. God 
 places on a barren, tragic eminence, far above 
 Aragon, Algarva, Jaen, Burgos, Leon, and 
 Castile, two insects, masks, formidable nonen- 
 tities, the king, the queen ; she stands for 
 dread and I for terror. Ah! certes it would be 
 pleasant to be king ; who can say otherwise? 
 Had not the tyrant tyranny forever on his 
 back ! But to be always looking on, to lead 
 a life of feigning, two effigies of pallor and 
 of silence ; never to laugh or weep. Urraca 
 lives in her, in me Alonzo 's born again. The 
 marble man and the bronze woman ! Prone 
 in the dust the peoples worship us ; while 
 they do bless ns here below, we feel that 
 we 're accursed ; the incense floats up trem- 
 blingly toward us, and in the smoke the idol 
 
 Ferdinand and the idol Isabella are hopelessly 
 confused. Our twin thrones mingle their efful- 
 gence, we see each other indistinctly at each 
 other's side, and when we speak, the tomb 
 doth ope its door. In sooth, I am not sure 
 that she 's not dead. She is a corpse as much 
 as she 's a despot, and I am like to freeze her 
 when our fingers meet upon the sce[)tre, as if 
 God with a fillet bound her mummy's hand 
 to the hand of a skeleton. And yet I am 
 alive ! This pompous phantom is not I, no ! 
 no ! And so, whene'er I can, from all these 
 grandeurs that do weigh so heavily upon us I 
 escape, I sally forth from out my kingly shell, 
 and, like the dragon that doth rear his head 
 aloft in the bright sun, I feel the marvelous 
 glow of the awakening ! Mad as the cyclone, 
 as the howling tempest, I, the gloomy prisoner 
 of the throne, steal forth, distracted with 
 excitement ! Freed from my yoke I rush 
 through misery and happiness, my only aim 
 to be an animal; trampling upon my royal 
 cloak, my heart attuned to vice and ribald 
 songs and midnight revelry, and I, the king, 
 the prisoner, the martyr, watching my lust 
 wax greater, and my talons grow ; woman and 
 her chastity, the bishop with his cross arouse 
 my anger ; I am fierce, frantic, joyous ; and 
 the man whose blood is boiling in my veins, 
 flame mixed with slime, takes his revenge for 
 having been a ghost by turning demon I 
 ( Pensively. ) 
 
 Only to become a shade and phantom once 
 again to-morrow. 
 
 (To the m.irquis. ) 
 The mind of the colossus is impenetrable 
 to the atom, wherefore thou dost not under- 
 stand how I display myself thus shamelessly 
 before these men ; but I do know that one 
 and all, when I lay bare my thoughts, tremble 
 the more, the more I play the cynic, and 
 't is my keenest joy, as I stand laughing here
 
 PART I. ACT I— THE IN PACE 
 
 165 
 
 amongst them, to make them all the viler by 
 confessing my own hideousness, and as 1 thus 
 break through all equilibrium, all respect and 
 all restraint, I, who was naught but king, feel 
 a free man ! Thou dost not comprehend me, 
 and thy fear grows more intense. 'T is well. 
 To-morrow when thou meetest my cold glance 
 once more, thou 'It quake with fear, doubting 
 thy senses, taking for a dream the drunken 
 frenzy in which I now am plunged before 
 thee — a glowing furnace wherein my past, my 
 lofty rank, my sceptre burn and seethe beneath 
 thine eyes, and whence 1 shall emerge a lump 
 of ice ! 
 
 (He again takes his rosary in his hand.) 
 
 Now let us conclude our prayers. 
 
 GUCHO (aside, looking askance at the king). 
 
 Go ! pray. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 Then will I question yonder monk. 
 
 (He begins to tell his beads.) 
 GUCHO (aside, as he watches him). 
 
 What mummery ! To such an end will this 
 
 king come. A merciless impostor, he believes 
 
 in naught, but, — such is the chaos of his 
 
 unenlightened soul ! when he repeats a pater 
 
 he becomes an imbecile. He then bows down 
 
 before the pope and looks with holy awe upon 
 
 a council. Even while he runs amuck among 
 
 the priests he fears them ; he feels that he 's 
 
 but dust beneath the feet of yonder haughty 
 
 saunterer. 
 
 (Crossing himself.) 
 
 So be it ! He 's a libertine, a liar and a 
 
 cheat, deceitful, cruel, obscene, atheistic — and 
 
 Catholic. And, more 's the pity, in the years 
 
 to come, he '11 be known by that name. 
 
 (The king replaces his rosary.it his belt and motions 
 to the prior to approach. ) 
 
 THE KING (to the prior). 
 Come hither. 
 
 (The prior comes forward witli his hands folded across 
 his breast, and his eyes cast down.) 
 
 If hai)ly frankness should be lacking in thy 
 
 answers, look to thyself ! 
 
 (The prior bows, ) 
 
 Beware. Now tell the truth. 
 
 (The prior bows again.) 
 
 (A few moments earlier the old monk in the Domini- 
 can's frock has reappeared at the back of the stage. 
 He walks along, with eyes cast down, heedless of 
 everything, and occupied solely in saluting all the 
 crosses on the tombs he passes. He seems to be 
 mumbling prayers. The king's attention is attracted 
 by him and he points him out to the prior. ) 
 
 And first of all, who is yon monk with 
 haggard face, dressed not as thou art, who 
 beads his knee before each cross he passes ? 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 He is a madman. 
 
 THE KING. 
 But how pale he is ! 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 
 He fasts and watches. He wears his strength 
 away. He speaks in a loud voice ! He walks 
 in the bright sunlight with bare head. He 
 raves and rambles in his speech. He dreams 
 of going to confront the popes, and telling 
 them their duty on his knees. We should 
 keep silence when he passes by. He is not of 
 our order. In this cloister he is under sur- 
 veillance. 'T is customary to immure thus in 
 our convents all the restless priests, the learned 
 men, the dreamers who might preach about 
 the country doctrines unpleasing to our church 
 of Spain. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 What form of madness hath he ? 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 
 Visions of flame, hell, Satan. He hath 
 been here but a short while.
 
 i66 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 THE KING. 
 He is quite old. 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 Methinks he hath not long to live. 
 
 (The monk passes out of sight without noticing 
 anyone. ) 
 
 flUCHO (aside, contemplating his baubles). 
 I have two baubles. One of gold ; the 
 other copper. One is named Evil and the 
 other Good. And I love both of them alike. 
 I have no aim in life. 
 
 (He gazes at the turf upon the graves.) 
 Here flowers, there dried leaves. 
 
 THE KING (to the prior). 
 The morals of your convents, monk, are 
 much relaxed. 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 My lord . . . 
 
 THE KING. 
 Women are often seen within these walls. 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 A convent of the Ursulines is close at hand ; 
 they are the sheep of our pasture ; we are . . . 
 
 THE KING. 
 Goats tending sheep. 
 
 THE PRIOR (bowing). 
 My lord . . . 
 
 GUCHO (aside). 
 Every male convent acts as confessor to 
 the nearest female convent, commits the sin, 
 and then gives absolution -with paternity, and 
 holding sway in its omnipotence over those 
 yielding hearts, deprives them of their virtue, 
 then restores their innocence. A pleasing 
 miracle. Secret of the confessional. 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 O king, the sons of Levi, Sion's daugh- 
 ters ... 
 
 THE KING. 
 Mate well together. But I must needs be 
 stern. Be sure that Rome shall know of it. 
 
 THE PRIOR (bowing). 
 My lord ... 
 
 GUCHO (aside). 
 When at their cloister gate, where Jesus no 
 more reigns, the little pagan god Dan Cupid 
 comes a-knocking. Pope Sixtus, having two 
 daughters by a strumpet, cannot scold if they 
 do set the gate ajar. 
 
 THE KING (to the prior). 
 Rome is prepared to punish and the times 
 seem ripe. 
 
 (Gazing fixedly at the prior.) 
 The Bishop of Seo de Urgel is within your 
 walls ; I have been so informed. 
 
 ( The prior bows. ) 
 And with full power to chastise. 
 
 THE PRIOR (with a reverence). 
 In matters of dogma only, good my lord, 
 and to extenninate or conquer heresies. No 
 more than that. 
 
 THE MARQUIS (in an undertone to the king). 
 Your eyes are famous scouts. 
 
 THE KING (in an undertone to the marquis). 
 
 I love to see. 
 
 ( The king's eye is attracted by the yawning opening in 
 the ground a few feet away.) 
 
 What is this, monk ? 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 
 A tomb. An oi)en tomb. 
 
 Open ! 
 Yes, king. 
 For whom ? 
 
 THE KING. 
 THE PRIOR. 
 THE KING.
 
 PART I. ACT I— THE IN PACE 
 
 167 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 
 When a man is to fall, God only knows. 
 
 THK KING. 
 For whom is yonder tomb ? 
 
 (The prior says nothing. The king persists.) 
 Speak instantly, I bid thee ; answer me ! 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 
 I cannot say. It doth await an occupant. 
 
 ( After a pause. ) 
 
 Perchance it is for me. Or e'en for you. 
 
 THE M.\RQUIS (in the king's ear). 
 
 When there 's a feeling in a convent that a 
 monk therein doth rise above the level of the 
 order, whether in evil works or in well-doing, 
 he is suppressed. 
 
 THE KING (in an undertone). 
 In sooth, 't is a wise course to kill him. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Nay. The church abhorreth blood. Sire, 
 they simply bury him. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 I understand. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 
 This is a lonely spot. Cry out, no one will 
 
 hear ; resist, there are no passers-by. 
 
 ( Pointing to the liole wherein one can see the begin- 
 ning of a staircase, and then to the flagstone near by. ) 
 
 They force the man down step by step, and 
 when he 's at the bottom, then they set yon 
 stone in place above his head and darkness 
 fills his eyes for evermore ; his fellow-men, 
 the woods, the water and the wind and sky 
 are all above that pall. And, living . . . 
 
 THE KING. 
 He is dead. Yes, 't is a simple plan. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 He dies if he so choose. The church has 
 shed no blood. 
 
 (The king nods approvingly.) 
 
 THE KING (aloud, looking toward the garden of the 
 cloister). 
 
 Whate'er this monk may say in that con- 
 nection, women . . . 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 Do not come within our walls. 
 
 THE KING (to the marquis). 
 
 How he doth lie ! I see one now ! 
 
 (He gazes into the garden, and continues.) 
 And by her side a charming beardless youth, 
 almost a child, bright-eyed and slender . . . 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 King, she is a princess. 
 
 THE KING. 
 And the youth ? 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 A prince, O king. 
 
 THE KING (in an undertone to the marquis). 
 
 I have done well to come. 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 
 The statute Magnates . . . 
 
 (Saluting the king. ) 
 
 We are the subjects of the Viscount 
 
 d'Orthez . . . 
 
 THE KING. 
 And mine. 
 
 THE PRIOR (resuming). 
 
 Permits us to receive a royal highness. 
 
 THE KING. 
 Two it seems. A male and female. 
 
 THE PRIOR (bowing in the direction in which the 
 king's finger is pointing). 
 
 A countess !
 
 1 68 
 
 rOROUEMADA 
 
 THE MARQUIS (in an undertone to the king). 
 
 Like the King of France, who is a bishop 
 elsewhere, Viscount d'Orthez, Dax and 
 Cahors is at the same time clerk and layman, 
 being a prince ; and while he 's always fight- 
 ing over yonder in his province, shouting ; 
 " Forward, my gallant veterans ! forward, my 
 guards!" he is a cardinal-deacon and abbot 
 of this convent. 
 
 THE KING (with a laugh). 
 A man of war in France and of the church 
 in Spain. 
 
 THE MARQUIS (pointing off the stage to the two 
 persons the l;ing has spied). 
 
 And if yon gallant finds his idol here, 't is 
 he who places these two hearts beside each 
 other midst the flowers and shade to carry out 
 some project of his own. 
 
 THE KING (seriously). 
 
 Some project? Nay. I see his aim. A 
 
 marriage. 
 
 (To the prior. ) 
 
 How long since came they here ? 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 When they were children. 
 
 THE KING (to the marquis). 
 Then have they grown to manhood and to 
 womanhood here in this cloister's stifling 
 
 atmosphere ? 
 
 ( To the prior. ) 
 Tlieir names? 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 The girl is Rosa d'Orthez. 
 
 THE KING. 
 And the youth ? 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 Don Sancho de Salinas. 
 
 (The marquis starts. He gazes eagerly in the direction 
 in which the king has espied the pair.) 
 
 THE KING (more seriously than ever). 
 She will inherit Orthez, and he, Burgos. 
 
 THE PRIOR (with a gesture of assent). 
 
 His rights extend even to the Tagus. 
 
 THE MARQUIS (aside). 
 Sancho de Salinas ! Burgos! Can it be? 
 
 THE KING (to the prior). 
 Go on. Yes, this is all contrived in secret. 
 This Sancho is my cousin. But I thought 
 that branch extinct. 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 Don Sancho is kept here in hiding. He 
 was sent hither to be reared, and by his side 
 was placed the viscount's niece. 
 
 THE MARQUIS (aside). 
 And I believed they were all dead. What 
 a discovery ! What thought is this that comes 
 into my mind ? This child in hiding here is 
 he, beyond a doubt. I feel my bowels yearn 
 for him. This is most unexpected. 
 
 THE KING (to the marquis). 
 
 This sequestered convent is well chosen. 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 The children are betrothed and soon will be 
 made man and wife. They both descend from 
 the same ancestor, a saint whose name we here 
 invoke; his son, Loup Centulle, was Duke of 
 Gascony ; then Luke, King of Bigorre, and 
 John, King of Bareges, Viscount Peter, Gascoa 
 
 Fifth . . . 
 
 THE KING. 
 Be brief. 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 
 The Viscount-cardinal, who resigns to-day, 
 doth order that, so far as possible, we keep 
 them out of sight in this secluded corner of 
 the cloister. 
 
 THE MARQUIS (aside). 
 Sancho !
 
 PART I. ACT I— THE IN PACE 
 
 169 
 
 THE KING (pointing to the young man, who cannot 
 be seen by the audience). 
 
 He is a comely stripling. Look ! 
 
 (The marquis looks, with something like terror, in the 
 direction indicated by the king. ) 
 
 THE PRIOR (also looking in the same direction). 
 
 He is entitled to a guard of fifty hidalgoes 
 commanded by an abbot. When he comes 
 to church he sits in the king's gallery, and 
 Peiiacerrada 's his capital. But, as he seems 
 to have been born beneath a fatal shadow, no 
 person save myself, the prior of this monas- 
 tery, knows that he is a royal prince and heir 
 to a great name. He knows it not himself, 
 and, for the same cause, the viscount's niece, 
 the Infanta Donna Rosa, doth not know that 
 she 's a princess. The viscount stands in 
 dread of someone. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 God ! even so of me ! the king ! I well 
 might be indignant at this game. 
 
 (To the prior, with his eyes still turned in the same 
 direction. ) 
 
 They wear gowns made of serge like yours ? 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 They both were consecrated to the Virgin ; 
 otherwise we could not keep them at the con- 
 vent. Furthermore they both have ta'en their 
 vows as novices before the chapter. 
 
 THE KING. 
 He is almost a monk and she almost a nun. 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 E'en so ; but they will have the dispensation 
 ne'er refused to princes, and may marry. 
 
 THE KING (to the marquis). 
 I am the wolf, I find my way into the fold, 
 and I can upset everything. 
 
 (Pensively, aside.) 
 
 But no. 'T'aiih, Cardinal Orthez, thou dost 
 do my work for me, thou old gray-bearded 
 devil, who didst cause these angels to be 
 reared together ! Children, adore each other 
 with the most tender love. This plot against 
 myself I turn to mine own ends. Let Rosa 
 marry Sancho ! Aye, that plays my game. 
 By marrying thy niece to my young cousin, 
 viscount, it is thy purpose to steal Burgos 
 from me with Salinas. Good ! I '11 give thee 
 a free hand. Our claims are equal, too. I, 
 who, like thyself, am grudging of my worldly 
 goods, promise myself to take Navarre from 
 thee with Orthez. I hold thee through her, 
 and thou hold'st me through him. And so, 
 this marriage may take place. 'T is well. 
 To-day the marriage ; to-morrow the attack. 
 
 (Looking into the garden.) 
 Th' Infanta is a lovely child. 
 
 (Pensively.) 
 The surest way to reign triumphantly is to 
 employ in one's own interest, pretending to 
 be half asleep the while, the surreptitious toils 
 your enemy has laid. The plot thus turned 
 aside enters your service ; he would have slain 
 you but his arm doth swerve and harmlessly 
 slip by ; the stupid dagger strikes the very 
 spot where you would have it, and your mur- 
 derer becomes your slave. 
 
 (Turning toward the garden. ) 
 
 What are they saying ? Let us try to hear. 
 
 (He walks toward the back of the stage, and disap- 
 pears among the trees.) 
 
 GUCHO (aside, looking after the king). 
 Spy! 
 
 (As soon as the king has left the stage, the marquis 
 beckons imperiously to the prior to come to him.)
 
 170 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 The Same, except the king: THE MARQUIS and THE PRIOR standing togetlier, apart from the rest, 
 
 near the front of the stage. 
 
 Priest ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 
 THE PRIOR (approaching him submissively). 
 
 Your servant. 
 
 ( He makes a profound reverence. ) 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Thou didst not tell the king all that there 
 is to tell. 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 God is the Lord. The priest may not dis- 
 close those things he learns in the confessional. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Pure fiction ! Paul the Second has declared 
 that everything may be disclosed in cases of 
 great gravity. Woe, woe to thee if thou 
 defiest me ! The king is but my arm ; tell 
 everything to me ! 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 But swear that, if I yield to you, you 'II 
 not betray my confidence. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 I swear. Nay, look you. I '11 do more; 
 J '11 give thee a gold hat for thy madonna, 
 worth a hundred marks, and six great silver 
 chandeliers of equal value. 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 
 You shall know everything. 
 
 (Lowering his voice. ) 
 
 When you and I were young, monsenor, 
 Donna Sancha of Portugal, that Donna 
 
 Sancha for whom we pray in our fast days, 
 wife of the King of Burgos, presented him with 
 a male child whom she had had by a young 
 page, Gorvona. The king, holding his wife 
 in high esteem, believed himself the father, 
 and the bastard enjoyed the rights and privi- 
 leges of legitimacy. He inherited the throne 
 and everything appurtenant thereto, then 
 married and then died, leaving a son, who, 
 as was universally supposed, died suddenly 
 while very young. This supposititious death 
 was an abduction by the cardinal-viscount, 
 who caused the little King Don Sancho to be 
 seized and hid away in this fief of Navarre. 
 
 THE MARQUIS (aside). 
 
 I guessed as much. 
 
 ( Looking off the stage while the prior is mumbling his 
 prayers. ) 
 
 He is my child ! the son of my own son ! I 
 dare not even yet believe it. I feel something 
 springing into life within me, which I knew 
 not I possessed — a heart. O blessed lightning 
 stroke! O unforeseen and overwhelming 
 shock ! I, who have done naught but hate, 
 now love. My son ! to be a father makes me 
 delirious with joy. Now 't is worth while to 
 live. O rapture ! I have snapped my grind- 
 ing chain asunder. I have lived for evil, 
 henceforth I will live for good. My sinful 
 conscience wandered like the she-wolf. I 
 believed that everything was lost. And now.
 
 PART 1. ACT I— THE IN PACE 
 
 171 
 
 Heaven ! I find it all again ! I am a father, 
 and a grandfather ! Henceforth I can look 
 upward with a smile to the pure, radiant 
 heights, can cast a furtive glance up at the 
 pinnacle whereon that lily, born of this vile 
 clay, will grow to manhood, and can say: 
 "He is my son ! " and live again in him! 
 
 1 '11 make the trial. I feel this child with all 
 his radiant youth shine through the mist that 
 shrouds my life, and that his pure young heart 
 hath taken firm possession of my villainous 
 old heart, so that I now have to watch over 
 me a store of innocence within nie, which 
 will be my guide and counselor ; I am another 
 man, I weep and I adore, and see the sun 
 arise upon my darkness ! Mine is that glori- 
 ous light ! mine that untutored youth ! O 
 God, mysterious and unknown, art thou in 
 truth a clement .God ? I, who have guided 
 this king's footsteps as he trampled on his 
 victims, brightening his gloom and playing 
 the courtier to his crimes, now feel a soft hand 
 lightening the burden of my evil deeds. 
 Ah me! at last I breathe again, I, ghastly 
 burden-bearer that I am, do raise my head, 
 filled with remorse, alas ! and look toward 
 heaven and breathe its bracing air I I am no 
 more alone. I live, I love, bewildered by 
 my joy ! Alas! as I have none but him, so 
 he hath none but me. What frightful chasms 
 yawn before him ! pitfalls w-ithout number I 
 Aye, but I watch over him. 
 
 (Pensively.) 
 
 For him the light, for me the shadow. Let 
 
 me remain beneath this cloak, which veils my 
 
 head. The father once surmised, the child is 
 
 lost. 
 
 (He turns again to the prior.) 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 I have monsenor's oath of secrecy. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Be not alarmed. When is Don Sancho to 
 go hence? 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 
 The child rci)uted to be dead is now a man. 
 Monsenor the viscount-abbot doth make use 
 of him for his own purposes, and will pro- 
 claim him count, prince, royal highness, 
 king, when he hath made of him his niece's 
 husband. 
 
 (He casts a glance behind. The king reappears at tlie 
 
 back of the stage.) 
 The king ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 The king ! 
 
 (Aside, speaking to himself.) 
 
 Old man, look well to it that thou con- 
 
 cealest from this king the heart that hath so 
 
 unexpectedly sprung into life within thy 
 
 breast. 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 
 Protect us, God forbid that aught should 
 anger him ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS (aside). 
 
 Come, thou comedian, resume thy dastard's 
 mask, insensible to hatred, insult or affront, 
 and summon back thy fawning smile to thy 
 mendacious brow. 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 Monsenor hath promised most entire 
 secrecy. 
 
 THE MARQUIS (aside). 
 
 Assuredly I have ! 
 
 ('I'o the prior.) 
 Fear naught.
 
 172 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 The Same: THE KING. 
 
 THE KING (aside). 
 To peer into half-opened hearts is most 
 diverting to me. 
 
 (He looks back in tlie direction whence he came.) 
 
 Here they come. Let us be off. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 
 On what have you, their lord and king, 
 
 decided ? 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 To make them happy. I propose that they 
 shall marry. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 
 Subtle policy. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 Spain step by step and stone by stone is 
 crumbling away. This marriage serves my 
 purposes. 'T is my intent to lend a hand to 
 Cardinal d'Orthez, to gratify his aspirations, 
 and, marquis, I shall have Dax and Bayonne 
 ere long. 
 
 THE MARQUIS (aside.) 
 Dilate, O my old savage, gloomy heart ! 
 
 My child will be a king ! 
 
 (At a sign from the king his escort and all his retinue 
 go out through the gap in the wall. The prior 
 approaches the king and bows, his arms crossed upon 
 his breast.) 
 
 THE KING (to the prior). 
 
 I have not been in this place. 
 
 THE PRIOR (bowing). 
 O king . . . 
 
 THE KING. 
 And thou hast never seen me. 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 Poor and naked I. The lowly monk . . . 
 
 THE KING. 
 Upon this convent I shall keep an eye. 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 And you will find your Highness's com- 
 mands obeyed. 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 A curse upon thee, king ! 
 
 THE KING. 
 Thy master is in France. 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 Even so, your Highness. 
 
 THE KING. 
 But the Bishop of Seo de Urgel is your guest. 
 
 THE PRIOR. 
 We have the honor of a visit from a bishop. 
 
 THE KING. 
 He must know nothing of all this. 
 ( Don Sancho and Donna Rosa appear at the back of 
 the stage. They pay no heed to what is taking 
 place. The king calls the marquis's attention to 
 them and then walks toward the breach.) 
 
 (To the marquis.) 
 Come quickly ! 
 
 (To the prior.) 
 
 If 't is thy wish to live, be silent. 
 
 (To the marquis.) 
 
 Come. 
 
 (Exit the king. Gucho follows him.) 
 
 THE MARQUIS (gazing at Don Sancho). 
 
 How beautiful he is ! My darling boy ! 
 
 (Exit.)
 
 PART I. ACT I— THE IN PACK 
 
 ^11 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 D(iN SANCUO, DUNNA ROSA. 
 
 (Don Sancho and Donna Rosa, both in the garb of 
 novices, he with the white frock, she with the white 
 veil, run back and forth and play among the trees. 
 She is sixteen and he seventeen. They chase each 
 other and play at hide and seek, joyous and laughing. 
 Rosa tries to catch butterflies. Sancho plucks flowers. 
 He makes up a nosegay and holds it in his hand.) 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 Come this way. See, the air is filled with 
 butterflies. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 
 I love the roses quite as well. 
 
 ( He gathers some eglantine, adds it to his nosegay and 
 looks about. ) 
 
 Oh ! I am wild with joy to see so many lovely 
 things ! 
 
 DONNA ROSA (gazing admiringly at a butterfly). 
 See this one flying among the rushes ! 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 All is life and perfume ! 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 Let us divide our treasures. For you the 
 flowers, for me the butterflies. 
 
 DON SANCHO (looking upward). 
 
 Something immeasurably sweet and pleasant 
 
 is taking place above us. 
 
 ( He plucks flowers for his nosegay while Donna Rosa 
 runs after the butterflies. He gazes at her.) 
 
 Rosa! 
 
 DONNA ROSA (turning and looking at the flowers 
 Sancho holds in his hand). 
 
 Senor, for whom is your bouquet ? 
 
 Guess. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 
 'T is for me. 
 
 ( She returns to the butterflies and tries to catch them. 
 They elude her, and she grows angry. She speaks 
 to them. ) 
 
 I think you pretty, and you fly from me ! 
 Why do you so ? 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 They lose their color, Rosa, if thou touchest 
 
 them. 
 
 (Musing, as he watches the butterflies.) 
 
 One seems to see sweet kisses wandering 
 about in search of lips. 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 They find them. Tiiey 're the flowers. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 Then, Rosa, since you are a flower ! 
 
 (He takes her in his arms. .She struggles, but he kisses 
 her.) 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 
 Sefior, that 's very naughty of you. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 
 But we 're to be married. 
 
 (Donna Rosa looks after a butterfly. She keeps her 
 eye upon it. It lights upon a flower.) 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 
 It lights. Let 's catch it. 
 
 (She steals softly toward it.) 
 
 (To Don Sancho.) 
 Come.
 
 174 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 DON SANCHO (following her very close). 
 
 Hush ! 
 
 (Don Sancho's lips meet Donna Rosa's, and the butter- 
 fly flies away.) 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 Ah ! silly boy ! thou couldst not catch the 
 butterfly ! 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 
 No, but I caught the kiss. 
 
 DONNA ROSA (gazing at the butterflies as they fly 
 back to the flowers). 
 
 See how they come and lay their homage 
 at their lady's feet ! Ah ! now they fly away, 
 the faithless little fellows ! 
 
 (She follows their flight.) 
 
 Why, I prithee, do they fly so far, so high ! 
 
 what lovely wings ! 
 
 (Don Sancho creeps gently up behind and kisses her. 
 She pushes him away. ) 
 
 A kiss before we 're married ! Never ! I'll 
 
 not have it. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 
 Then give it back to me. 
 
 No. 
 Yes. 
 
 DONNA ROSA (smiling). 
 DON SANCHO. 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 
 But — I do love thee ! 
 
 (They embrace. They sit down side by side upon a 
 tomb. She lays her head upon his shoulder. Both, 
 as if in a trance, dreamily follow the butterflies with 
 their eyes. ) 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 Oh ! how vast and sweet is Nature ! Let 
 me explain to thee. In winter the dull sky 
 lets fall upon the earth a cold, white shroud ; 
 but, when comes April once again, the flowers 
 are born, the days grow longer ; then the 
 happy earth sends back to the bright sky which 
 shelters it, its flakes of snow in guise of snow- 
 white butterflies; mourning is laid aside for 
 
 festal garb, and all the broad expanse of space 
 is azure blue, and joy flies upward tremblingly 
 to God. Thence comes this whirl of wings 
 from out the darkness. 'Neath the boundless 
 sky, God opens hearts innumerable, and fills 
 them all with ecstasy and radiance. And 
 none says nay to him and none denies him. 
 For all he does is good ! 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 Ah well ! I love thee. 
 
 DON SANCHO (excitedly). 
 Rosa! 
 
 (He strains her to his breast. A butterfly passes. 
 Donna Rosa extricates herself from his embrace, and 
 runs after it.) 
 
 Oil ! how beautiful he is ! Come ! let us 
 catch him ! Come ! 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 
 God sows the charms of spring to charm 
 
 thine eyes. 
 
 (The butterfly lights upon a bush.) 
 
 DONNA ROSA (putting forth her hand to seize it). 
 Let 's make no noise. 
 
 (The butterfly flies away.) 
 
 How tiresome ! He 's flown away. 
 (She follows the butterfly. Don Sancho follows her.) 
 
 He '& in the lily now. 
 
 (The butterfly flies still farther away.) 
 Good, in the clematis. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 Our hearts have always lived, since we were 
 little children, side by side. My wife ! 
 
 (The butterfly flies farther on.) 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 He sees me ! 
 
 (The butterfly lights upon the eglantine. .She tries to 
 catch it and puts out her hand, then quickly draws it 
 back again.) 
 
 Ah ! the naughty rosebush pricked my 
 fin£;ers !
 
 PART I. ACT I— THE IN PACE 
 
 175 
 
 DON SANCUO. 
 Those roses ! they would drink the blood of 
 angels ! 
 
 (The monk dressed as a Dominican appears under the 
 trees among the tombs. He does not see them, but 
 Donna Rosa espies him.) 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 
 Oh ! there 's the old monk who acts so 
 
 strangely. That man terrifies me. Let us go. 
 
 (They go out in the direction of the clumps of trees. 
 The monk comes slowly forward as if oblivious of 
 everything. Night is beginning to fall.)
 
 176 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 SCENE VI 
 
 THE M(JNK (alone). 
 
 On one side the earth, sin-laden home of 
 man, — princes all reeking with abominable 
 crimes, unlearned learned men and unwise 
 wise men, lust and pride and frantic blas- 
 phemy, Sennacherib the murderer and lying 
 Delilah, heretics, Waldenses, Jews, Mozara- 
 bians and Zoroastrians, and pale-faced delvers 
 into algebraic ciphers, — all, great and small 
 alike, defiling the baptismal symbol, groping 
 here and there, denying Jesus, doing evil, — 
 all, pope, bishop, minister and king: and, on 
 the other side, the immeasurable, awful flame ! 
 Here man, forgetting, living, eating, sleep- 
 ing, — there the awesome depths of the vast 
 seething pit of hell ! O thou abandoned 
 human creature ! O twofold basis of our 
 dreary destiny ! Life, death. To laugh for 
 one brief hour and never weep ! Vision of 
 hell ! Deep caves and lofty mountain-tops ; 
 live embers in the depths and burning sulphur 
 on the summits. Crater with a thousand 
 mouths ! the yawning outlet of the fiery gulf! 
 Beneath the infinite avenger, the poor wretch 
 doomed to infinite perdition ! Joy is one half, 
 mourning the other half. The fire luirns. I 
 hear loud shrieks: "My son! my mother! 
 mercy !" — and I see a vain chimera, hope, 
 reduced to ashes. Eyes and faces vanish, then 
 return, haggard to look upon in the deep 
 chafing-dish ; upon the living skulls the 
 melted lead falls, drop by drop. A spectre 
 worhl. It tortures and it suffers torture ; its 
 
 vault is that which lies beneath the grewsorae 
 cemeteries, studded with fiery specks as are 
 the heavens at night, — a hideous ceiling, 
 pierced with graves without regard to order, 
 whence a never-ending shower of souls pours 
 into the abyss, and there they writhe in agony, 
 beyond God's pardon, amid the burning 
 coals. Darkness, and sobbing. A mournful 
 wind comes sighing through the openings and 
 fans the flames that ceaselessly do intertwine 
 their fiery tongues in fierce embrace ; the 
 red-hot, gushing lava fills the hollow porticoes ; 
 and heaven never speaks ! And hell speaks 
 ever I And everyone who, upon earth, 
 through vice or sloth, hath used his time 
 unprofitably, hath taken a false step in the 
 excitement of delirium, hath gone astray, 
 faltered or sinned, whoever hath, though for 
 an instant only, wavered in well-doing, is 
 there ! Nemesis ! Fathomless abyss ! To doubt 
 it is impossible. What have we here before 
 our eyes? Hell visible. Its pestilential breath 
 assails our nostrils. Belial's hearthstone rears 
 aloft its ghastly chimney, with its acrid, ruddy 
 vapors of the vat, into our atmosphere. 
 Vesuvius. Cheerless Stromboli. And vEtna. 
 Hecla in the north. If not of this, of what 
 is one to think ? We have this mystery con- 
 fronting us, yawning beneath our feet, and 
 spitting flame and death and darkness. We 
 may lean over if we will and look within. At 
 night we can espy the damned, the burning.
 
 PART I. ACT I— THE IN PACE 
 
 177 
 
 rolling about in vortices like showers of sparks, 
 flying and falling back, their wings scorched 
 by the flames. Alas ! no means of exit, no 
 escape. Return, liack to your dungeons 
 walled with red-hot coals. Once more become 
 the billows of the horrible chaotic sea of 
 flame. Above you Satan laughs, monster of 
 infamy ! They writhe and scpiirm, fearful to 
 look upon, gnawed at on every side, live 
 brands, a ghastly mass of flame and smoke, 
 scattered throughout the cheerless vast ex- 
 panse. The fiery serpents lick their shape- 
 less hands; the oil doth eat them, the lead 
 drinks their blood, the boiling pitch dissolves 
 their flesh ; their eyes are absolutely and 
 forever blind ; and in their endless raving, 
 through all the gaping holes that make their 
 bodies veritable sieves, are heard but these 
 two awe-inspiring words: "Never! For- 
 ever ! " My God ! who will have pity? I ! 
 I come to save mankind. Aye, amnestied 
 mankind ; the idea fills my soul. Within me 
 love sublime is crying to be heard, and I will 
 set abyss against abyss. Dominic conceived 
 the plan, and I will execute it. Hell ! How 
 to hurl down that lid of iron ? How, O 
 Rome, O Jesus, on that awful slope to stay 
 the fall of man ? I have found the way. 
 Indeed Saint Paul did point it out. The 
 eagle — therein lies his proud enjoyment of 
 his lofty flight — sees everything ; his eyes are 
 dazzled by the things that he describes. What 
 must we have that hell's gates may be closed, 
 and heaven's open thrown? The stake. Hell 
 must be cauterized ; eternity be won by tell- 
 ing means. One gleam of pain annuls innu- 
 merable torments. The burning earth will 
 quench the sombre fires of hell. Hell for 
 one hour on earth destroys the power of an 
 everlasting conflagration. Sin is consumed 
 with the vile carnal rag, and from the flame 
 the soul emerges, pure and radiant, for water 
 
 laves the body, fire the soul. The body is 
 but dust, the soul is light; and fire, which 
 follows the celestial chariot and twines its arms 
 around the axle-tree, alone can purify the soul, 
 being of the same essence as itself. To thee 
 I '11 sacrifice the body, O immortal soul ! 
 What father would an instant hesitate? What 
 mother seeing her poor child suspended 'twixt 
 the consecrated jjyre and the awful flames of 
 hell, would not accept the exchange that doth 
 exterminate a demon, recreate an angel? 
 Yes, that is the true meaning of the word 
 Redemption. Immortal Zion, deathless 
 Gomorrha, no one can transfer one ray of joy 
 from her who shines refulgent in the heavens 
 to her who burns in hell ; but God permits us 
 to redeem the future ! No more legions of 
 the damned ! the torch divine comes forth to 
 bless. But time is short ! Alas ! the evil in 
 the world grows worse ; a second time the 
 bleeding Christ is dying ; all is wickedness 
 and crime, and everything is crumbling to 
 ruin. From hour to hour the deadly tree of 
 sin puts forth a branch, which God draws 
 upward to himself, but Eve, alas ! doth bend 
 it till it reach the lips of man ! Faith is no 
 more ! Backsliding Jews, monks faithless to 
 their vows, Franciscan mendicants, nuns who 
 allow their hair to grow — this one tears down 
 a cross, that one defiles the host. Faith dies, 
 by error strangled, as the lily by the nettle. 
 The pope is on his knees. To whom ? To 
 God? Not so. To man. He bends the 
 knee to Cjssar. Rome, ere long, subject to 
 earthly kings, will be the handmaiden of 
 Nineveh. One step more and the world is 
 lost. But I have come and here am I. I 
 bring with me a fervent faith. With thought- 
 ful brow I come, to fan the saving fire of the 
 stake. O earth, I come to redeem the human 
 soul by human flesh. I bring salvation and 
 the healing balm. Glory to God ! to all men
 
 178 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 joy ! The heart, the hard and stony heart 
 will melt. I will encompass the whole world 
 with funeral pyres, my lips will utter the deep 
 cry of Genesis: "Let there be light ! " and 
 straight the blazing furnace will shine forth ! 
 I will sow flames and firebrands and burning 
 coals, and gleams of light, and everywhere, 
 above earth's greatest cities, I will kindle the 
 supreme auto-da-fe, celestial, joyous, living ! 
 O mankind, I love thee ! 
 
 (He raises his eyes heavenward, with clasped hands 
 and lips parted, in an ecstasy of contemplation. 
 Behind him, from the outskirts of a sort of thicket 
 at the farther end of the cemetery, emerges a monk, 
 ■with his arms crossed upon his breast and his hood 
 pulled down over his face. Then from another part 
 
 of the thicket, another monk, and then another. 
 These monks, who wear the typical garb of Augus- 
 tinians, take their places in silence some little dis- 
 tance behind the Dominican, who does not see them. 
 Other monks come forth one after another in the 
 same way, in silence, and take their places beside the 
 first comers. AH have their arms crossed upon their 
 breasts, and their hoods lowered. No face can be 
 seen. In a short time a semicircle is formed behind 
 the Dominican. The semicircle parts in the middle, 
 and a bishop between two archdeacons comes out 
 from behind the trees, with his cope over his shoulders, 
 crozier in hand and mitre on his head. It is the 
 Bishop of Seo de Urgel. He walks slowly forward 
 followed by the prior, who, alone of all the monks, 
 has his hood raised. The bishop, without speaking, 
 takes his stand in the centre of the semicircle of 
 monks, which closes behind him. The Dominican 
 has seen nothing of what has taken place. It grows 
 darker and darker.)
 
 PART I. ACT I— THE IN PACE 
 
 179 
 
 SCENE VII 
 
 THE DOMINICAN, THE BISHOP OF SEO DE URGEL, THE PRIOR, MONKS. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 Be ye my witnesses that I, John, Bishop of 
 Sec de Urgel, am now about to sit in judg- 
 ment on this man before us, good or bad be 
 he, and first of all to question him ; for the 
 law gives us license to chastise, but orders 
 that we first give warning to the culprit. 
 
 (The monk has turned about. He gravely looks from 
 one to another of the assemblage. He does not 
 seem to be disturbed. He looks at the bishop.) 
 
 Who art thou ? 
 
 THE MONK. 
 
 A friar of the order of Dominic. 
 
 Thy name ? 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 
 THE MONK. 
 
 Torquemada. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 
 'T is said that in thy infancy the devil did 
 possess thee, and that thou art beset by visions 
 of disaster. Is it true ? 
 
 THE MONK. 
 Before my eyes the real presence becomes 
 
 a living truth. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 Moonshine ! 
 
 THE MONK. 
 
 Content yourself with saying 't is a vision. 
 
 I see God. 
 
 (Fixing his eyes upon the mystic golden triangle at 
 the top of the tall cross. ) 
 
 O Lord, what wouldst thou that we priests 
 should do in face of thy eternal radiance? 
 
 To see the law, simple and awe-inspiring, and 
 to see naught beside, is terrible to think upon. 
 But what am I to do ? 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 'T is said — do you make answer — that in 
 thy view we learned doctors err in that we do 
 abhor the impious man as we abhor wild 
 beasts. 
 
 THE MONK. 
 In truth, lord bishop, you do err therein. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 Earthworm ! 
 
 THE MONK. 
 
 The impious man we needs must love and 
 
 save. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 
 'T is said that thou art lured by a false 
 dogma that led the Lombard Didier astray, 
 and that, according to thy dreams or thy false 
 principles, hell's fire is scattered and extin- 
 guished by the stake ; so that the flame sends 
 dead men's souls to heaven, and that to save 
 the soul the body must be burned. 
 
 THE MONK. 
 Such is the truth. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 
 A grievous error doth possess thy mind. 
 
 Sin, that pernicious tree, hath error for its 
 
 root. 
 
 THE MONK. 
 
 The soul loathes contact with the body, 
 
 wretched man. To burn, that is to purify.
 
 i8o 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 
 A frightful doctrine. 
 
 THE MONK. 
 THE BISHOP. 
 
 Nay. 
 And false. 
 
 THE MONK. 
 'T is true. And I propose to make my acts 
 conform thereto. 
 
 Viper ! 
 
 I so believe. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 THE MONK. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 
 If thou dost not retract, beware ! I do 
 
 enjoin thee to repent, and to renounce thy 
 
 false belief. 
 
 THE MONK. 
 
 Humble I am, nor can I lie, and I will not 
 
 . retract. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 Perversity ! 
 
 THE MONK. 
 
 The Council of the Lateran is on my side, 
 and Innocent the Third. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 If thou art docile, thou mayest claim what- 
 e'er thou wilt, but, as a rebel, naught. Thine 
 error may give forth a baleful light, my son, 
 a schism may result therefrom. So beat thy 
 breast and say : "I am at fault." 
 
 THE MONK. 
 Nay, I am right. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 Renounce thy doctrine. Bruno of Angers, 
 seeking to be great, repented. 
 
 THE MONK. 
 I seek not to be great, but to remain the 
 humble creature that I am. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 Proud man ! 
 
 THE MONK. 
 Nay, but a true believer. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 What is thy purpose ? 
 
 THE MONK. 
 I shall go to Rome, barefooted, to give 
 warning to the Holy Father. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 He it was who ordered me to try thee, dog ! 
 
 THE MONK. 
 The barking of the dog awakes the shep- 
 herd. I will awake the pope. He can but 
 listen to me. 
 
 THE BISHOP (to tlie monks, pointing to the 
 Dominican). 
 
 This man, my sons, is fierce as any tiger. 
 
 THE MONK. 
 Aye, because his heart is tender. What 
 says Saint Paul? " Faith burns by charity." 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 Thou dost pervert the meaning of a text 
 inopportunely quoted. Pope Sixtus Fourth, a 
 pope whom the whole world reveres, would 
 have the altar less inexorable and the faith 
 less stern. Indulgence is in him akin to 
 sanctity. It is his purpose to arm truth with 
 gentleness. The inquisition tends to milder 
 methods. When the pope doth raise his 
 hand, it is to bless far more than to chastise. 
 One rarely sees to-day a smoking pyre. 
 
 THE MONK. 
 I am appalled by such misrule. The flames 
 of hell wax fiercer and soar higher as the 
 flames sink around the stake. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 Poor darkened soul ! What is thy purpose, 
 pray?
 
 PART I. ACT I— THE IN PACE 
 
 i8i 
 
 THE MONK. 
 I 
 
 To save the world. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 
 And how? 
 
 THE MONK. 
 
 By fire. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 
 Beware that ill-timed remedy. 
 
 THE MONK. 
 The doctor 's not the master of the remedy. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 But tell me, pray, what thou hopest ? 
 
 THE MONK. 
 To triumph with God's help. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 Ah ! we shall see. 
 
 (He points to the opening in the ground.) 
 
 Go in. 
 
 THE MONK. 
 
 What is this cave ? 
 
 The tomb. 
 
 'T is well. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 
 THE MONK. 
 
 (He walks toward the hole.) 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 Stay. Still there is time. 
 
 THE MONK (walking toward the hole). 
 
 Introlbo. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 Reflect. 
 
 THE MONK (with his eyes fixed on the sky). 
 O God, smite thou thy priest and prophet, 
 and may thy blessed will be done. 
 
 (He pauses on the brink of the opening.) 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 Thou owest obedience to thy bishop. A 
 head that holds itself erect within the cloister 
 walls is an affront. The church is bound in 
 
 duty to consign the man who doth disturb her 
 peace to everlasting night. 
 
 THE MONK (standing on the brink of the opening). 
 
 Amen. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 
 Obey. I call upon thee to obey. 
 
 THE MONK. 
 I will not. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 Descend one step. 
 
 (The monk puts his foot into the opening and descends 
 the first step.) 
 
 In the name of Christ, recant. 
 
 THE MONK. 
 I will not. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 Down. 
 
 (The monk descends the second step. ) 
 Abjure. 
 
 THE MONK. 
 I will not. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 Down. 
 
 (The monk descends the third step.) 
 I am thy bishop and thy judge. Retract 
 thy false and barbarous doctrine. 
 
 THE MONK. 
 'T is the true doctrine. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 
 Yield to me. 
 
 THE MONK. 
 
 I will not. 
 
 Down. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 
 (The monk descends. His body from his waist down 
 is hidden. The bishop steps toward him and draws 
 near the opening. He calls the monk's attention to 
 the contents of the tomb. ) 
 
 Thou seest yon jug of water and yon loaf 
 of barley bread. The curtain between thee and 
 the bright light of day is to be drawn forever.
 
 l82 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 Everything, the stars, the dawn, will vanish 
 from thy sight. 
 
 THE MONK. 
 So be it. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 Down. 
 
 (The monk descends. Only bis head is above the 
 ground.) 
 
 Think once again. Herein thy life, without 
 
 a breath of air, will go out like a torch. 
 
 Hunger and thirst. 'T is horrible to die. 
 
 THE MONK. 
 'T is beautiful. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 Down. 
 
 (The monk disappears in the hole.) 
 
 THE MONK'S VOICE. 
 
 I am at the bottom. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 
 Put the stone in place above him. 
 
 THE MONK'S VOICE. 
 Do so. 
 
 (At a sign from the bishop two monks push the flag- 
 stone over the opening. Just before it is entirely closed 
 they pause, leaving a narrow aperture. The bishop 
 leans over the aperture. ) 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 By Jesus Christ ! by Saint Peter's ring ! A 
 moment hence 't will be too late. Darkness 
 awaits thee. Dost tliou not retract ? 
 
 THE MONK'S VOICE. 
 
 No. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 Thou hast but a moment more. Renounce 
 thy mad and headstrong fallacies. Recant. 
 
 THE MONK'S VOICE. 
 
 I will not. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 
 Then go in peace ! 
 
 (The two monks push the flagstone in place, and the 
 sepulchre is closed.) 
 
 My brethren, let us pray. 
 
 (The monks all clasp their hands. They form in pro- 
 cession, two by two, and march slowly off' the stage, 
 the bishop bringing up the rear. They disappear 
 among the trees. They can be heard chanting 
 prayers for the dead. Their voices grow fainter and 
 fainter. ) 
 
 VOICES OF THE MONKS (in the distance). 
 De profiindis ad te clamavi Domine. 
 
 THE VOICE (in the tomb). 
 
 Have pity. Lord, upon this wretched world ! 
 
 VOICES OF THE MONKS. 
 Libera nos. 
 
 THE VOICE (in the tomb). 
 My God, deliver me ! 
 
 (Enter Don Sancho and Donna Rosa.)
 
 PART I. ACT I— THE IN PACE 
 
 183 
 
 SCENE VIII 
 
 THE MONK in the tomb, DON SANCHO, DONNA ROSA. 
 
 (Don Sancho and Donna Rosa come out from the 
 thicket, and stop under the last trees. They look at 
 each other and at the solitude about them. A 
 momentary silence. It is almost dark.) 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 Our hearts are one, for we have loved since 
 we were children, and my hand seeks thine ; 
 I cannot say if I do draw thee after me, or if 
 I follow thee. Rosa, our lives are wrapped in 
 mystery. Sometimes I dream about it. Here, 
 in this convent, we have been brought up 
 together. Knowest thou who we are ? Why 
 are we thus confined? But I care not, so 
 long as I may love thee. I am the knight and 
 thou the lady. Why I speak to thee about my 
 heart, I cannot say ; my heart 's thy breath, 
 the fiery breath of heaven ; it issues from thy 
 mouth and glistens in thine eyes. I have no 
 heart when thou 'rt not by my side. Thy veil 
 is in the way. A kiss. 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 
 No. 
 
 (She lets him take it, then leans on his arm and points 
 to the sky.) 
 See that star. 
 
 (They both gaze at the sky in rapture. ) 
 
 THE VOICE (in the tomb). 
 
 O Lord ! have mercy on this earth ! 
 
 VOICES OF THE MONKS (in the distance). 
 Ite, pax sepulcris .' 
 
 THE VOICE (in the tomb). 
 Mercy ! 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 Hearest thou singing ? 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 No, but I hear cries. 
 
 VOICES OF THE MONKS. 
 (They grow fainter and fainter in the distance.) 
 Onus grave super caput. 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 Hark, they are singing. Night is more 
 solemn with voices singing in the darkness. 
 The chant is the joy-offering to Heaven above. 
 All earthly creatures love. Let us love. 
 
 VOICES OF THE MONKS. 
 Miserere ! 
 
 THE VOICE (in the tomb). 
 Miserere ! 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 No. 'T is a cry. Some one is calling. I 
 was right. Whence comes the cry ? 
 
 DONNA ROS.^. 
 
 'T is from the chapel. 'T is the evening 
 
 hymn. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 Not so. 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 
 The darkness and the evening mist deceive 
 
 one. 
 
 THE VOICE (in the tomb). 
 
 Jesus !
 
 1 84 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 DON SANCHO (spying the stone that covers the 
 tomb). 
 
 'T is there! 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 I am afraid. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 Some one is underneath ! 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 A dead man speaks ! 
 
 THE VOICE (in the tomb). 
 O God ! O Father ! 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 'Neath that stone a living man is buried. 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 Go not near. A ghost, a ghastly face, a 
 dead man will come up, I tell you ! 
 
 DON SANCHO (ahnost roughly). 
 Help me ! 
 
 (He kneels and tries to move the stone. She kneels 
 beside Iiim and also tries to raise it. He tmiis to her 
 with a smile.) 
 
 If 't is some poor wretch condemned to 
 die, let him receive his pardon at thy hands ! 
 
 ( He leans over the stone. ) 
 
 Is 't here that some one speaks ? 
 
 THE VOICE (in the tomb). 
 Is some one passing ? Help ! 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 Patience. 
 
 (They unite in an effort to raise the flagstone.) 
 
 Nothing we do will swerve or move this 
 
 stone. Oh ! for a crow-bar ! 
 
 (He spies the iron cross on a tomb near the wall 
 close by.) 
 
 Ah ! that cross ! 
 
 ( He rises and walks toward the cross.) 
 
 DONNA ROSA (detaining him). 
 Beware ! 
 
 DON SANCHO (gazing at the tomb). 
 Poor man ! 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 I fear to see thee touch that cross, a holy 
 thing. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 'T will be more holy having saved a life. 
 I take it down and Jesus smiles approvingly 
 
 upon me. 
 
 (He uproots the iron cross.) 
 
 DONNA ROSA (crossing herself). 
 O crux, ave / 
 
 DON SANCHO (examining the cross in his hands). 
 
 A solid iron bar. Now, for a stone. 
 
 ( He rolls a block of stone close up to the tomb and 
 uses it for a fulcrum for his crow-bar. He inserts the 
 end of the shaft of the cross under the stone, and 
 both together seek to pry it up. ) 
 
 Ah ! death is loth to have his eyes reopened. 
 'T is a hard task. 
 
 (They pause to take breath.) 
 
 A convent 's a strange place. Dark deeds 
 are sometimes done in convents. 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 God ! I tremble. 
 
 DON SANCHO (bearing his weight upon the 
 crow-bar). 
 
 'T is a very heavy stone. 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 It yields. It moves aside. 
 
 (The stone begins to move.) 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 Once more. Help me a little. 
 
 (Rosa presses down upon the crow-bar. Sancho pushes 
 the stone. The tomb is opened. )
 
 PART I. ACT I— THE IN PACE 
 
 185 
 
 DONNA ROSA (clapping her hands). 
 Good! 
 
 DON SANCHO (peering into the dark hole). 
 
 Oh ! what a fearful cave, filled with dense 
 
 vapor ! 
 
 (The monk slowly emerges from the opening. He 
 looks intently at Don Sancho and Donna Rosa.) 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 A living man ! Why 't is that same old 
 monk ! How fortunate that we were by to 
 hear ! 
 
 THE MONK. 
 You saved my life. I swear, my children, 
 to repay you.
 
 ACT SECOND 
 
 THE THREE PRIESTS 
 
 Italy. 
 
 The summit of a mountain. A hermit's cave. In the background the entrance, looking out into space. 
 
 On the ground, in a corner, a straw pallet. In the opposite corner a low altar, whereon is a human skull. 
 In a hollow in the rocky wall is a jug of water, some black bread and a wooden plate on which are apples and 
 chestnuts. Stones for seats and a larger one for a table. 
 
 Horizon of forests, mountain-sides intersected by ravines, and precipices. In the distance a mountain 
 torrent. In the mist the bell-tower of a monastery. 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 FRANCIS DE PAUL (alone). 
 
 (He is on his knees praying. He breaks off and rises. 
 He listens. Without, a medley of horns and trumpets 
 and barking dogs is heard.) 
 
 What do I hear? I must mistake. It is 
 the bell. 
 
 (He listens.) 
 
 No, 't is the horn. The horn resounding 
 from rock to rock ! 
 
 (He listens.) 
 Sometimes the torrent seems a multitude of 
 voices, broken by the wind and mingled with 
 the noises of the woods. 
 
 (He listens.) 
 No. 'T is the hunt. 
 
 (He looks without.) 
 
 Before the hunting pack, the blare of trumpets 
 
 and the tally-ho, the mystery-haunted wood 
 
 takes fright, and man becomes a demon to 
 
 the hunted beast. 
 
 (He listens. The sound of the hunt becomes more 
 and more distinct. ) 
 
 'T is a burning shame ! Since Simon and 
 
 Dorothea, the hermit with the wolf hath shared 
 
 187
 
 1 88 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 his den in this blessed solitude, the Holy 
 Father's consecrate demesne; beneath the 
 brotherhood of the thick branches, love doth 
 reign, and man and nature are at peace. No 
 mortal, be he prince or king, hath right, this 
 cloud-capped mountain being subject to the 
 Roman tiara, to bring dogs, horns and loud 
 outcries to this primeval forest. 
 
 (The barking recedes. The noise of the hunt goes 
 and comes, ceases and begins anew. ) 
 
 The pope alone might do it. Nor can he, 
 for he hunts naught but souls. No, even the 
 most infamous of sacrilegists would not come 
 to shed blood in this holy place, and terrify 
 the birds of heaven, who are God's. And yet 
 some one doth venture ; who is this rash mortal ? 
 
 (An aged monk, staff in hand, his feet covered with 
 dust, appears at the entrance of the cave. He 
 wears the cape of a pilgrim over his Dominican's 
 frock. It is Torquemada. He stops in the entrance. 
 His beard is gray, Francis de Paul's white.)
 
 PART I. ACT II— THE THREE PRIESTS 
 
 189 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 FRANCIS DE PAUL, TORQUEMADA. 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 Hail to thee, old man and father ! 
 
 FRANCIS DE PAUL. 
 Brother, hail. 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 Dost thou permit me to abide a moment 
 here for rest ? 
 
 FRANCIS DE PAUL. 
 Enter, my brother. 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 I am scorched and chilled ; the fever and 
 the burning sun devour me ; I journey, and I 
 come, an humble passer-by, beneath thy roof, 
 O holy patriarch, I am o'erspent. I say: 
 Lama Sabacthani ! Hail ! Blessed be tliou, 
 O priest. 
 
 FRANCIS DE PAUL. 
 My blessing on you, friend. 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 I, also, am a priest. 
 
 FRANCIS DE PAUL. 
 And may God guide your steps ! 'T is 
 well. It is your right to say or not to say 
 whence you have come and whither you are 
 going, for all steps come from the dawn, and 
 all are going on to death. What you are, 
 stranger, that we also are. My son, the 
 infinite doth weigh alike on all mankind, and 
 the same journey is by every mortal taken. 
 Our feet are in the tomb, our knees are at the 
 altar. 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 I come from the whole Universe, I go to 
 the one City. I am on my way to Rome. 
 
 FRANCIS DE PAUL. 
 To Rome ? 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 Aye, base and lowly creature that I am, I 
 have my task allotted and the time has come. 
 At hazard I set out, barefooted ; I have 
 journeyed on through sand and snow. My 
 supplication has already reached the Holy See, 
 for I know Alexander Sixth. 
 
 FRANCIS DE PAUL. 
 How now ! the newly chosen pope ? 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 He is a Spaniard like myself. We knew 
 each other at Valentia. His name is Borgia. 
 But who art thou, priest of this unhewn 
 chapel, thou venerable man whom God hath 
 led into this solitude ? Thy name ? 
 
 FRANCIS DE PAUL. 
 Francis de Paul. And yours ? 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 Torquemada. 
 
 ( He steps back with respect. ) 
 Francis de Paul ! a saint. 
 
 FRANCIS DE PAUL. 
 
 Not so.
 
 190 
 
 TOR QUE MA DA 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 Thou utterest oracles ! 
 
 FRANCIS DE PAUL. 
 Not so. 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 
 But thou dost miracles perform, my father, 
 so 't is said. 
 
 FRANCIS DE PAUL. 
 
 I see them. Every morn the dawn doth 
 
 turn the running waters silver-white, the great 
 
 sun rises for the little birds, the universal 
 
 table for the hungry is set forth in field and 
 
 forest, and life fills the darkness, and the 
 
 flowers open, and the vast blue sky is glorious 
 
 to behold ; but 't is not I who do these things, 
 
 but God. 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 
 My father, Jesus brings us face to face, and 
 I, the seer, would speak with thee, the apostle ; 
 listen. Hast thou not sometimes thought 
 upon the pope, him of the tiara, that whited 
 sepulchre, and hast thou not said in thine own 
 heart that mayhap some unknown and humble 
 pilgrim is, in contrast to the false pontiff, the 
 true priest, and that, though he remain, from 
 sense of duty, prostrate at the feet of Christ's 
 proud vicar raised to the throne by chance, 
 this thoughtful stranger bears within his 
 breast the true heart of the Church, of which 
 the other wears the paltry diadem? What 
 wouldst thou say if this heaven-sent unknown, 
 this leader of the faith, were I? 
 
 FRANCIS DE PAUL. 
 The pope, God's man, doth reign. There 
 are not two Romes. 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 No one is God's man if he be not man- 
 kind's man first of all. That man am I. Hell 
 and its everlasting gloom await the world. I 
 am the bloody-handed healer. With calm 
 face, he saves mankind, and seems a terrible 
 
 oppressor. An awe-inspiring form I throw 
 myself into the work that pity doth enjoin 
 upon me, — pity in fearful guise, but true and 
 efficacious ; love is the abyss wherein I plunge. 
 
 FRANCIS DE PAUL. 
 1 do not understand you. Let us pray. 
 
 (He kneels before the altar.) 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 One day, 't was long ago, when I was 
 young, and had but for a brief space worn this 
 frock, I saw, — 't was at Segovia in the Holy 
 Cross, — a globe whereon was drawn the world 
 with all the states ; rivers and forests ; the 
 whole earth ; a mass of empires, provinces 
 and cities ; snow-capped mountains, island- 
 dotted oceans ; all the boundless depths 
 wherein the vast, swarming human race moves 
 to and fro tuinultuously in the darkness. 
 Father, thou knovvest that there is no emperor, 
 idolater or Christian, who holds not in his 
 hand a globe ; and I have had that vision, the 
 whole universe, beneath my eyes; each nation 
 and each zone ; Europe and Africa ; the 
 Indies, where the dawn is born; I said: "I 
 must become the master." And I said: "I 
 must acquire dominion over all that vast 
 expanse for Jesus, who hath often called me in 
 my dreams. Earth I must take and give it 
 back to Heaven." Yes, father, the terrestrial 
 sphere, with all its kingdoms, all its wars and 
 conflicts, turbulence and terror and confusion, 
 is my globe, — now dost thou understand ? 
 
 FRANCIS DE PAUL (rising and placing a finger 
 on the skull). 
 
 This is my sphere. This relic of a ship- 
 wrecked, foundered destiny; the contempla- 
 tion of this riddle ; the shadow that eternity 
 projects upon this pensive thing of naught ; 
 this skull protruding from the human maelstrom 
 like a reef; these teeth, which still retain their 
 smile, as in their infancy, after the eye has
 
 PART I. ACT II— THE THREE PRIESTS 
 
 191 
 
 lost its light ; this frightful mask which we 
 all have beneath our brows; this insect that 
 knows what we do not know; this fragment 
 with full knowledge touching the unknown 
 end ; to feel my soul laid bare beneath that 
 stony glance, to think, dream and grow old, 
 live less and less, with those two black, 
 unchanging holes for witnesses of my decay, — 
 to pray, and contemplate this nothingness, this 
 dust, this silence, listening in the shadow to 
 my prayer — 't is all I have ; and 't is enough. 
 
 TORQUEMADA (aside). 
 A light breaks in upon my mind while 
 listening to him. Many years ago did Con- 
 stantine, who was well worthy of the throne, 
 see the labaruni in the air. 
 
 (Looking toward the skull. ) 
 
 And I now see this sign ! And by it I will 
 conquer, as did Constantine. This holy 
 hermit points out to my dazzled eyes the other 
 form of truth, the other light of Christianity. 
 Yes, I will keep my spliere and take his from 
 him ! so that the reef may indicate the harbor, 
 and life have death for oriflamme ! 
 (To Francis de Paul.) 
 
 Hark ye. Dominic did not well under- 
 stand the sacred flame. It is sublime unless 
 it be inglorious. Dominic would punish, I 
 would save. The flames about the stake are 
 quenched, I will rekindle them. Now dost 
 thou understand ? 
 
 I do. 
 
 FRANCIS DE PAUL. 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 It is my aim to kindle upon earth the 
 vast and salutary conflagration. Father, no 
 better thing than this was ever dreamed of. 
 In my darkness I hear Jesus say to me : " Go 
 on ! go on ! the end thou aim'st at will absolve 
 thee if thou dost attain it !" I go on ! 
 ( Francis de Paul places the bread, the wooden platter 
 
 and the jug of water on the large stone which he 
 
 uses for a table. ) 
 
 FRANCIS DE PAUL. 
 Here are cold water, bread and chestnuts. 
 Drink till your thirst be quenched, and eat 
 your fill. As for your schemes, whereof I see 
 the end, before the flames arise from your first 
 funeral pyre, I will pray God for you, that he 
 may strike you down ; for better far for you 
 and the whole human race, would your death 
 be, my son, than such a step on such a road ! 
 
 TORQUEMADA (aside). 
 O pitiful enfeebling of a mind in solitude ! 
 This poor saint hath not understood. 
 
 FRANCIS DE PAUL. 
 Man is on earth to love his fellow creatures. 
 He is the brother and the friend. If he kill 
 one poor ant he should know why. God of 
 the human mind hath made a w-ing outspread 
 over creation, and man may not proscribe 
 one living thing, 'mongst the green branches, 
 in the grass, or in the sea or air. To man 
 freedom to work, the tree-top to the bird, and 
 peace to all. No chains. No cage. If man 's 
 an executioner, God is but a tyrant. The 
 Gospel hath the cross, the Alkoran the sword. 
 Let us resolve all evil, all mourning, and all 
 gloom into rich blessings for this wretched 
 earth. Who smites may err. So let us never 
 smite. My son, the scaffold is a formidable 
 challenge. Let us leave death to God. Have 
 recourse to the tomb ? What insolent auda- 
 city ! The child, the dove, the flower, the 
 fruit, the woman — everything is sacred, every- 
 thing is blessed ; and when by day and night, 
 musing, I pour forth from the mountain-top 
 my prayers into the vast expanse below, I feel 
 the consciousness of this infinity of love stir- 
 ring within my breast. The pope is pope, 
 we must revere him. Ah ! my son, always to 
 hope and always to forgive, to smite not, to 
 pronounce no sentence, to repent if one com- 
 mits a sin, to pray, to worship and have faith —
 
 192 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 such is the law. 'T is my law. He is saved 
 who keeps it. 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 Thyself alone thou savest ! But, old man, 
 what of the others? Ah ! father, the unend- 
 ing fall of souls, by night and day, at every 
 instant, into hell, the fatal pit of hell, the 
 black, immeasurable pit! and into endless 
 flame and horror! Thou dost save thyself, 
 ah, yes ! But what, I prithee, dost thou with 
 thy fellow men ? Thou livest peacefully, eat- 
 ing thy walnuts and thy apples, like Anselm 
 or Pacomo in the Libyan desert, and the 
 world should be content with that ! and all is 
 well ! and nothing is to be deplored ! Hell, 
 darkness, souls of the accursed, what are all 
 these, provided thou art left to meditate in 
 peace, alone, with thy straw pallet and thy 
 jug of water! But 't is living like a child 
 and not like an old, gray-haired man ! Thou 
 hast not in thine heart, as the Creator hath, a 
 father's love, formidable and sacred ! And is 
 the human family of no account? Why one 
 bestows some care upon his ox ! one physics a 
 sick dog ! And mankind is in danger ! Hast 
 thou then no bowels of compassion? Thou 
 livest here beneath the sky as if thou wert 
 between four walls. Dost thou not feel that 
 thou art bound by ties innumerable to execra- 
 ble, blasphemous, repulsive man, who drags 
 behind him everywhere he goes, in cavern 
 depths, on mountain tops, his misery, which 
 
 sheds his crimes along the way? No one of 
 all these widespread evils touches thee 1 What ! 
 when thou seest living men pass by, thou dost 
 not feel that by thy soul thou art akin to all 
 these ghastly phantoms? Ah ! thou dost fold 
 thy hands ! thou chantest psalms ! thou goest 
 and comest from the altar to the cross, from 
 yonder block of stone to yonder bit of wood I 
 'T is isolation! Now, when everything is 
 falling, crumbling, perishing, duty is manifold, 
 old man ! Duty in numberless, implacable, 
 unpleasant forms is like a black and shapeless 
 swarm of insects in the conscience! Duty 
 tears you from the cloister, from the solitude, 
 and cries to you: " Help ! think of the help- 
 less multitudes ! think of the human race I 
 slumberno more ! be up and doing ! Heaven! 
 those little children to be burned forever! 
 All these men and women, young and old, to 
 be hurled down among the howling Sodoms ! 
 Run ! save these souls accursed, and drive 
 them back by force to Paradise ! Old man, 
 for that are we upon the earth. Thy law is 
 light ; my law is mystery. Thou 'rt naught 
 but hope, I am salvation. I lend a helping 
 hand to God." 
 
 (Some moments earlier a man has appeared at the 
 entrance of the cave. He also is old and gray- 
 bearded. He has a boar spear in his hand and at 
 his neck a cross with three branches. He is dressed 
 in a hunting suit of gold brocade, and a tall cap of 
 gold with three circles of pearls. He has a horn at 
 his belt. He has heard Francis de Paul's last words 
 and all of Torquemada's. He bursts out laughing. 
 Francis de Paul and Torqueraada turn.)
 
 PART I. ACT II— THE THREE PRIESTS 
 
 193 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 The Same : THE HUNTER. 
 
 THE HUNTER. 
 By my faith, my sons, all my musicians 
 would not afford me more diversion than you 
 do. I listened to you with great pleasure. 
 You are two idiots. I was below upon the 
 hill-side, hunting, and I left my dogs and 
 snares and springes there, and said : " I '11 go 
 and see the good old man up yonder." Here 
 I am. Ah ! you have entertained me much ! 
 But, in good sooth, living would be a dreary 
 business, if 't were as you say. 
 
 (He walks forward, folds his arms, and looks them in 
 the face.) 
 
 God — if there be a God, he opens not his 
 mouth — assuredly, in making man, produced 
 a brainless masterpiece. But the progression 
 from earth-worm to viper, viper to dragon, 
 and dragon to the devil, is fine indeed. 
 
 ( He takes a step toward Torquemada. ) 
 
 I know thee, Torquemada. Begone. Return 
 to thine own land. I have received thy sup- 
 plication. I do grant it. Go, my son. Thine 
 idea is a noble one. I laugh at it. Return 
 to Spain and do whate'er thou wilt. I give 
 my nephews all the goods and chattels of the 
 Jews. My sons, )ou wondered why man is 
 upon the earth. I '11 tell you in two words. 
 Wherefore conceal the truth? To enjoy, that 
 is to live. My friends, I see nothing beyond 
 this world, and in this world myself Where'er 
 he looks each man sees some one word that 
 shines through every obstacle. 
 
 (To Francis de Paul.) 
 With you, the word is, pray; with me it is, 
 enjoy. 
 
 TORQUEMADA (looking from one to the other of his 
 companions). 
 
 Two forms of the same selfishness. 
 
 THE HUNTER. 
 Chance kneaded dust and opportunity 
 together ; man is the resulting compound. 
 Now, as I myself, like you, am naught but 
 common clay, I should be mad indeed to 
 falter and go slow when joy is swift of foot, 
 and not to take a hasty bite at pleasure in the 
 dark, and not to taste of everything, since 
 everything is fleeting ! Before all to be happy. 
 I make use of that which men call crime and 
 that which men call vice. Incest — mere prej- 
 udice. Murder — an expedient. I honor 
 scruples by dismissing them. Think you that, 
 if my daughter 's lovely, I will be slow to fall 
 in love with her ? Go to ! I should be a poor 
 fool. I must exist. Go ask the hawk, the 
 eagle or gerfalcon, whether the flesh he digs 
 his talons in is lawful prey, or if he knows 
 from what nest it came forth. Because you 
 wear a black frock or a white, you deem your- 
 self in duty bound to be inept and trembling, 
 and cast down your eyes before the offer of 
 unbounded happiness the mad world puts 
 before you. Let us then show our wisdom. 
 Let us seize the opportunity. Death has no
 
 194 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 sequel, therefore let us live ! The ball-room 
 crumbles and becomes the catacomb. The 
 wise man's soul goes dancing to the tomb. 
 Serve up my banquet. If it demands to-day 
 a seasoning of poison for another, so be it. 
 What care I for the death of others? I have 
 life. I am a greedy, huge, insatiable hunger, 
 and the world to nie is fruit to be devoured. 
 
 Death, I would forget thee. God, I would 
 know naught of thee. Living, I am in haste 
 and happy always ; dead, I escape ! 
 
 FRANCIS DE PAUL (to l^quemada). 
 Who is this renegade ? 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 The pope, my father.
 
 PART SECOND 
 
 TORQUEMADA
 
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 ACT SECOND 
 
 T(n<QUEMAI)A. 
 —Tr'Tppy day, <) joy, O glory! Now the awe-insinring^ and majestic 
 clemencv" soars hea^■.. nward in flame ! Deliverance forever ' Ce absolved, ye 
 damned i___;UK .tula- on earth extinguishes the flau.es of hell beneath. 
 
 (He I'll 'Us ;U ilie-'^y. 
 Q,^ , ^jgfg^,^i a healing balm upon the ghastly wound of darkness. Para- 
 dte was suffer.ng. and heaven had that ulcer rn .ts sWe, a blaz>ng. l>loody hell ; 
 I poured the kindlier, healing llame upon th.s blaz.ng hell, and u. the boundless 
 azure I can see the scar. 
 
 i/i.,.-^. ....
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON/E 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 DON SANCHO 
 
 DONNA ROSA 
 
 MARQUIS DE FUENTEL 
 
 KING FERDINAND 
 
 QUEEN ISABELLA 
 
 GUCHO 
 
 BISHOP OF SEO DE URGEL 
 
 THE KING'S CHAPLAIN 
 
 MOSES-BEN-HABIB, Chief Rabbi 
 
 DUKE D'ALAVA 
 
 AN USHER 
 
 SOLDIERS, PAGES, MONKS, 
 JEWS, BLACK AND WHITE PENITENTS
 
 ACT FIRST 
 
 The royal patio ( Condes-reyes) in the cloister-palace of the Liana at Burgos. 
 
 A square court-yard surrounded by a galleiy with trefoil arches. The front of the stage forms one side of 
 this gallery. The court-yard has two great public gates (one gate at each end of the court-yard) opposite each 
 other, opening into the city streets. The gallery in the foreground ends on the left in a closed folding-door at 
 the top of a flight of three steps. On the left it communicates with a portico, which forms a sort of secluded 
 nook. Near the portico, upon a platform, is a tall iron chair, covered with heraldic emblems and crowned with 
 a representation of the pinnacle of the Temple, which is surmounted by a sword, point upward. 
 
 Under the portico can be seen two priests, standing like statues, who seem to have been stationed there to 
 guard a casket that lies on the floor. 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 DON SANCHO, MARQUIS DE FUENTEL ; afterward, GUCHO. 
 
 (Don Sancho is dressed in cloth of gold. He has a 
 sword at his side.) 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 Why, 't is a dream ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Nay, 't is reality. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 I am a prince ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Aye, King of Burgos. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 I! 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 In this fair province you are the first after 
 the king, Don Ferdinand. 
 
 (He kisses Don Sancho's hand.) 
 Yes, everything is yours, fortune and 
 
 grandeur. 
 
 199
 
 200 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 And Donna Rosa is to be my wife. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 An hour hence. They are now putting on 
 her crown, making the chapel ready, and 
 beginning to say prayers for you. The Bishop 
 of Seo de Urgel is to marry you. And I am 
 to put everything in order for the ceremony. 
 The king imposed that duty on me. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 You, our good genius ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Donna Rosa, while the lights are being 
 placed upon the altar, awaits you in the 
 cloister, and I, Gil de Fuentel, am to throw 
 the door open for your Highness, so that, in 
 accordance with the ancient custom, you may 
 go seek your bride and bring her hither to do 
 homage to the master and to give thanks to 
 him. The king would speak with you before 
 your wedding. Such is his command. He 
 will be in this gallery. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 I would prefer to go straight to the church. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 You must obey, monsenor. He will say : 
 "I do consent." Moreover, 't is the ancient 
 custom, your crown being feudatory to his 
 own. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 So be it. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 You must resign yourself to bow to lawful 
 customs. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 And my father . . . ? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Was Jorge, Infant of Burgos. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 And my grandfather is . . . 
 
 THE MARQUIS (aside). 
 Myself ! 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 The king, who was the Infant's father. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 You will have a long reign and a prosper- 
 ous . . . Allow me to be your guide. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 
 With my eyes closed. I know not why, 
 
 but I believe that you do love me. 'T is not 
 
 long that I have known you. One day you 
 
 came hither with an order — oh ! I was afraid 
 
 at first — to take myself and Rosa from our old 
 
 convent to the master. When we arrived I 
 
 was afraid, it seemed as if we were his prey. 
 
 At last we are to marry, and my heart o'erflows 
 
 with joy, and by your side I feel that I am 
 
 safe. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 
 Rely on me. I wish to bring about your 
 
 happiness, and I commend your sacred head 
 
 to God. If you were ill, upon a bed of 
 
 suffering, and if, as formerly for Jean, the 
 
 Comte de Retz, 't were necessary for you to 
 
 drink blood, my veins I 'd open for sheer 
 
 delight to see you born again with my heart's 
 
 blood, while I was dying ! O my prince, my 
 
 king, my lord ! 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 My child ! 
 (Enters Gucho. He hears the marquis's last words.) 
 
 GUCHO (aside, watching the marquis). 
 Ah ! what a kindly air ! What a triumphant 
 air ! But what 's the odds ! I have no wish 
 to know aught of their mystery. I stand 
 apart from all mankind ; and were I able to 
 prevent all evil or to cause unmeasured good 
 on earth by moving but one finger, I would
 
 PART II— ACT I 
 
 20 1 
 
 not do it. I crawl upon the ground, I watch 
 
 what others do, and I am useless. Such is 
 
 my function. 
 
 ( Enters a company of the African guard of the King 
 of Castile, with their captain, the Duke d'Alava, at 
 their head.) 
 
 THE MARQUIS (to Don Sancho). 
 Beneath this peristyle the king will pres- 
 ently await monsenor. 
 
 ( He ascends the fliglit of steps and throws open the 
 folding doors leading into the interior of the palace 
 cloister. He motions to Don Sancho to follow him.) 
 
 Enter, my prince. 
 
 (He espies the soldiers and calls Don Sancho's 
 
 attention to them.) 
 
 This guard is here to do you honor. 
 
 (He continues to talk as Don .Sancho mounts the steps.) 
 
 When you hear the clarions, your Highness 
 will return, leading the countess hither to the 
 king, and you will both kneel at his feet. 
 
 (He glances outside the gallery.) 
 
 Aha ! here comes the king ! 
 
 ( Don Sancho passes through the door and the marquis 
 follows him. The door closes behind them.) 
 
 (Enters the king, followed by his chaplain.)
 
 202 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 THE KING, GUCHO, DUKE D'ALAVA, THE KING'S CHAPLAIN. 
 
 THE KING (to the Duke d'Alava). 
 Come hither, duke. 
 
 (The duke draws near the king.) 
 
 When I do take this collar from my neck 
 to place it upon his . . . 
 
 THE DUKE. 
 
 I listen, sire. 
 
 THE KING (glancing at the guards). 
 They are at hand. 'T is well. 
 
 (To the duke.) 
 When you do hear me say : "I dub thee 
 knight. From this day forth, reign and may 
 God be with thee ! " then, duke, you will all 
 draw your swords behind his back, and kill 
 him. 
 
 THE DUKE. 
 Sire, it is enough. 
 
 GUCHO (aside, pressing his baubles against his heart). 
 My dolls are in less jeopardy than men. 
 
 (The chaplain puts his mouth to the king's ear, and 
 points to the casket guarded by the two priests who 
 stand under the portico.) 
 
 THE CHAPLAIN (in an undertone to the king). 
 There are the sackcloth garments. They 
 are all ready, as your Highness ordered. 
 
 THE KING. 
 I doubt if they will serve. No matter. 
 
 ( Pointing to the portico. ) 
 Wait beneath the arch. 
 
 (The chaplain joins the two priests under the portico. 
 The king turns to the captain of tlie guards.) 
 
 Thou, duke, be ready. 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 I propose, be the event whate'er it may, to 
 
 have at hand a choice of means to put an 
 
 end to it. 
 
 (The door at the top of the steps re-opens, and closes 
 after the Marquis de Fuentel has passed through. 
 He descends the steps slowly. The king has 
 noticed the iron chair and is examining it. )
 
 PART II— ACT I 
 
 203 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 The Same: THE MARQUIS. 
 
 THE MARQUIS (aside). 
 An hour hence he will be married, count 
 and prince ! Each passing moment is a step 
 for him from darkness upward to the light. 
 But one more step, and he becomes an august, 
 happy potentate ! Oh ! how the guileless 
 child doth beam upon the despicable grand- 
 father ! I weep, bewildered by the joy of 
 which my wicked, humble, desolate old heart 
 is capable, O gracious God ! 
 
 THE KING (turning). 
 Ah ! marquis, is it thou ? 
 
 THE MARQUIS (bowing). 
 My lord king . . . 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 I am very glad to speak with thee. 
 
 (He points to the old iron chair.) 
 
 What is that chair? and why that sword 
 
 above it ? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 
 That is the throne, O king, whereon your 
 
 ancestor Don Gaicia once sat; the sword is 
 
 placed upon the pinnacle as representative of 
 
 royalty. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 In good sooth, in this realm of mine I am 
 
 the source of life and death. 
 
 GUCHO (to the king). 
 King, you are both. 
 
 (Some moments before a procession has marched into 
 the square court yard from the gate at the right, head- 
 ing for the gate at the left. There are two files of i 
 
 penitents, one white, one black. They march slowly 
 across the stage witli their hoods pulled down. The 
 white penitents wear black hoods and vuc versa. 
 The hoods have holes for the eyes. At the head of 
 the two files a black penitent with a black hood 
 carries a black banner upon which is a skull and 
 crossbones, all white. The procession passes across 
 the stage slowly and silently. Gucho calls the king's 
 attention to the banner. ) 
 
 THE KING (to Gucho). 
 Ah yes ! that crawling monk ! 
 
 GUCHO. 
 
 Agreed. Crawling, but great. Everyone 
 
 doth tremble before Torqueniada ; even 
 
 yourself. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 
 One seems, when looking on that banner, 
 to smell the smoking flesh and burning 
 branches. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 Whither go yonder fellows, marquis? 
 
 GUCHO. 
 They go to fetch those who are to be 
 burned upon the public square. Suppose you 
 are an humble citizen ; without your knowl- 
 edge you are implicated in some ghastly 
 intrigue ; or mayhap some day, in your o^vn 
 house, you thoughtlessly have said some 
 foolish thing ; almost before the fatal words 
 have left your lips, they have flown away in 
 haste to the Holy Office, there to fall noise- 
 lessly into the cruel ear ever open in the 
 darkness. Thereupon yon banner with its
 
 204 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 two files of phantoms issues from the gloomy 
 cloister, and the procession starts. It passes 
 slowly through the throngs of people, over- 
 turning everything that lies before it. Noth- 
 ing stays its course. The people fly as soon 
 as it appears. These men are tht familiars of 
 the Inquisition, and other men prostrate 
 themselves before them ; for they know this 
 vision is a hand stretched out to seize some 
 man in his own home. It goes throughout 
 the city, 
 
 (Pointing to the banner and the two files of men who 
 are passing across the stage. ) 
 
 as at this moment, the banner always march- 
 ing at the head. By day or night, without a 
 word, without a chant, it goes straight onward 
 to its destination, mute and awe-inspiring. 
 You are sitting tranquilly at home, mayhap at 
 table, laughing and chattering, plucking flowers 
 in the garden, kissing your children, suddenly 
 you see that death's head coming toward you 
 in the gathering dusk. How many people 
 burned ! no one to-day can say the number. 
 Whoever sees that banner drawing near to 
 him is lost. 
 
 (The procession and the banner disappear through the 
 great gate opposite to that by which they entered.) 
 
 THE MARQUIS (in an undertone to the liing). 
 
 The king doth give the clergy over much 
 support. Torquemada, God save the mark ! 
 hath his cabal at Rome, speaks to the pope, 
 
 prepares a bull, and that 's enough; the king 
 is overshadowed ! and his benignant, daz- 
 zling, radiant power ceases to give light ! 
 This monk is a usurper. In a few years he 
 hath placed his base-born head upon a level 
 with the head that wears a crown. 
 
 (The liing is so absorbed in thought that he apparently 
 pays no heed to tlie marquis's words.) 
 
 (In an undertone to Gucho. ) 
 
 He doth not listen. 
 
 GUCHO (in an undertone to the marquis). 
 
 'T is because he hath his mind on other 
 
 matters. 
 
 ( The king raises his head, dismisses all the bystanders 
 to the back of the stage with a glance, and motions 
 to the marquis to come to him. He leads him to 
 the front of the stage so that no one can hear what 
 he has to say to him. Gucho watches them.) 
 
 THE KING (to the marquis). 
 
 I have always followed thy advice with 
 
 profit; I esteem it far above all other men's 
 
 and listen to it. Marquis, I would consult 
 
 thee touching an affair which must be carried 
 
 through in haste, here on this very spot. 
 
 (The king notices Gucho, who has remained behind 
 the platform on which the iron chair stands. He 
 waves him back. Gucho walks away.) 
 
 GUCHO (aside, glancing at the king and the marquis). 
 
 What 's going to happen now ? young tiger 
 and old cat !
 
 PART IT— ACT I 
 
 205 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 THE KING, THE MARQUIS, alone at the front of the stage. The guards are in the background out of 
 
 hearing. 
 
 THE KING. 
 I will abide by thy advice. I know its 
 wisdom. 
 
 THE MARQUIS (aside). 
 I know what that means. Your Highness 
 will do just precisely what I tell you not to do. 
 
 THE KING. 
 In politics does everything go on as thou 
 wouldst have it? What seest thou, who art so 
 versed in intrigue — what seest thou in Europe 
 that seems durable ? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 A dike. You are that dike. You alone do 
 stand erect. All other powers grovel at the 
 feet of France, who waxes greater day by day ; 
 my lord, at one point only are you vulnerable, 
 — Navarre ; there your frontier is undefended. 
 'T is most fortunate that, long before our- 
 selves, you saw the danger, found the remedy, 
 and snatched the Infant Sancho from the car- 
 dinal and that old petty princeling Orthez, 
 until at last the scales incline toward you. 
 You have the power, Sancho has the right. 
 You are the colossus, he the fulcrum of your 
 leVer. As the eagle holds the eaglet in its 
 claws, so you hold him. The only man on 
 earth whose life is necessary to your fortune 
 is Don Sancho. While he lives, France is in 
 check. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 He necessary ! he alone is necessary to me ? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 He with the Infanta Donna Rosa. 
 
 THE KING. 
 And thou sayest 't is to my interest that 
 Sancho lives ? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Aye, most assuredly. 
 
 THE KING. 
 Well, when that door is presently thrown 
 open, he will be killed upon this spot. 
 
 (The marquis seems paralyzed with terror.) 
 
 This Rosa pleases me. Never did haughtier 
 features wear a modest smile, never did maiden 
 show a happier conjunction of gleaming eye 
 and fascinating voice ; she looks at one with 
 an expression that 's inhuman in its sweet- 
 ness ; she has tiny feet that I could easily hold 
 in my hand ; she trembles at the slightest 
 provocation, and is the lovelier thereby. Since 
 I, the king, esteem her channing, Sancho 's 
 in the way. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 'T is true. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 I know that interests of state would have 
 
 the master not yield to his inclinations. What 
 
 is the fitting course for me to take? This 
 
 caprice hath not come upon me suddenly. 
 
 One wavers long the while a fire kindles. 
 
 Think'st thou I have not struggled ? I said 
 
 in my own mind, — for, mark you, I have not
 
 2o6 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 failed to make this wearisome comparison : 
 "Deuce take me! she 's a pretty creature! 
 true, but this marriage is a thing to be 
 desired, for I must have Navarre, without 
 which I have no frontier at all. So, love, be 
 coy I But oh I what eyes ! and what a velvet 
 skin ! what grace ! Ah ! king, stop there ! 
 Wouldst thou for the first petticoat that passes 
 lose in one day the fruit of ten years' fight- 
 ing? Look across yonder mountains. The 
 King of France is laughing at the King of 
 Spain. Go to, Sancho and Rosa must be 
 wed. The Durance and the Adour ours, our 
 frontier is complete. We will display the 
 genius of an astute and crafty politician, — let 
 them wed I 't is said." But no! what yoke 
 so hard to bear as ours when we see her 
 given over to another's arms ; I will not brook 
 it. Down with my rival ! I will take her 
 from him. Am I a slave, and are my sceptres 
 masters of my acts ? Am I to tear my heart 
 to tatters just because a parcel of crowned 
 spies upon the Seine or Rhine or Tiber have 
 their eyes upon me, watching for the hour 
 when my ambition may be caught a-napping? 
 To be a great king is a heavy burden. The 
 heart takes its revenge. It grieves me to be 
 forced to slay this Sancho, and to slay him 
 here, by his own fireside ; but we are not 
 born to be bored to death. Pray, is it my 
 fault that this girl is beautiful ? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 In truth 't is not your fault. 
 
 THE KING. 
 Queen Isabella wearies me, beyond descrip- 
 tion. I must have another wife. Zounds, 
 man, I have a right to love ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 The lion 's hungry. 
 
 THE KING. 
 Hark. I love, therefore I hate. I think 
 upon their childhood side by side in that 
 secluded cloister, she and her charms, and 
 he with his audacity — the grass, the green 
 fields and the darkness, and the kisses that the 
 saucy rascal stole ! Don Sancho ! Ah ! I am 
 jealous of him ! and I give my jealousy free 
 rein I It pleases me to count the fierce pulsa- 
 tions of keen hatred in my heart, drunken with 
 rage ; I love to feel the shuddering sensation 
 creep up to my hair ! To hate is good. To 
 hold one's enemy and crush him and trample 
 him beneath one's feet, — I foam with joy at 
 the mere thought. I am the yawning chasm, 
 overjoyed to swallow up the soaring fish-hawk. 
 I feel my pulses tremble with the longing to 
 exterminate. A foolish man is he who seeks 
 to throw me off the scent ! I brook no 
 obstacle. I have Don Sancho here and I will 
 be revenged ! Revenged for what ? Because 
 he is beloved. Because he is well-favored. I, 
 the man who live alone, whose mouth is 
 closed, have a fierce tempest in my heart, and 
 numberless opposing currents. Murder is my 
 friend ; Cain is my brother ; and while my 
 bearing is grave, cold and indolent, I feel my 
 will bursting all bounds, as the volcano, lying 
 cold beneath its snowy blanket, feels the lava 
 rising to its mouth in glowing waves. He 
 who should seek to soften me would make me 
 roar the louder ; the attempt to soothe my 
 wrath would drive me mad. Marquis, I would 
 crush God himself! There are two ways to 
 put the Infant out of sight. 
 
 THE MARQUIS (aside). 
 Two ways ! 
 
 THE KING. 
 One sad to think upon, the cloister; the 
 other, swift and certain death. The cloister ? 
 Yes. The tomb however is the surest. It
 
 PART II— ACT I 
 
 207 
 
 hears naught. It's dejiths are trustworthy. 
 It's door is heavy. The cloister 's dumb, the 
 tomb is deaf. The tomb has this advantage 
 that no one conies forth from it. The cloister 
 is a changeless circle, drawn by a ghastly 
 compass. No one ever turns therein. Don 
 Sancho there would see his fair locks turned 
 to gray, and he would grow to be an old, old 
 man, a prisoner in those gloomy precincts. I 
 can choose between them. I prefer that he 
 should die. What thinkest thou ? 
 
 THE M.\RQUIS. 
 That you are right. 
 
 THE KING. 
 What say you ? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Sire, let him die. 
 
 THE KING (aside). 
 What was that fable some one whispered to 
 me, that Sancho was his son ? ft is not true ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 I argue as you do. 
 
 THE KING (aside). 
 What lies are breathed in a king's ears ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS (watching him narrowly). 
 I go with you. 
 
 THE KING. 
 So thy advice is that he die ? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 
 It is. 
 
 THE KING (.iside). 
 Ha ! this is dubious. Just now he swore 
 that this Don Sancho was most necessary to 
 me, and that he must live for the advantage 
 of my realm. With Sancho's death my claim 
 ujion Navarre expires. I have on one side 
 France, the empire on the other. 
 
 ( Looking askance at ihe marquis. ) 
 Whither does he seek to lead me? He has 
 some scheme, the traitor. 
 
 (Aloud.) 
 'T would be pleasant to devour Sancho all 
 at once, but what if I should nibble at him? 
 To have him in a cloister is to have him 
 always 'twi,xt my teeth. Suppose I keep him 
 there, that I may watch him languish, droop, 
 and suffer all the torments of the damned, a 
 dull-eyed, stupid cur? A slow revenge delights 
 the soul. What thinkest thou ? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Why choose the crooked path ? Sire, go 
 straightway to your end. Smite, kill. 
 
 THE KING (aside). 
 
 The villain ! Hitherto, in all our interviews, 
 he was for Don Sancho. He forgets, but I 
 remember. 
 
 (Glancing at the marquis, who is watching him.) 
 
 Double face, whereon I catch a sudden 
 gleam ! What reason hath he thus to spur my 
 hatred on ? The deuce ! how quickly he 
 became of my opinion ! 
 
 (Aloud.) 
 
 Blood . . . 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 The bloody kings are they who are best 
 served. Kill. 
 
 THE KING (aside). 
 
 He is sold to France ! the beggar ! 
 
 (.-Vloud.) 
 
 But thousaidst to me: " Sancho is your hope. 
 
 He is essential to you ; while he lives peace is 
 
 assured on the frontier." 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 I was mistaken. You are great. No one is 
 necessary to you. Nay, not even God. Kill.
 
 2o8 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 Thy advice I feel is most sincerely given. 
 But reflect. The people, a vile horde of 
 mendicants, are ill-disposed to politics and its 
 expedients ; the rabble, quickly moved to 
 pity, grieve when a breast is pierced by a 
 sword-thrust or two. They mourn for the 
 departed, more especially if he were a well- 
 favored youth. They weep for me when I am 
 in my coffin, forget me when I am in prison. 
 Ah ! my friend, we must beware of too bold 
 strokes. Sancho is young. The taste for 
 tragedy is dying out. Many good people 
 would be greatly pleased to have him under- 
 going a mild species of confinement in a 
 convent. Mildness is so delectable ! When 
 he is once in durance in the cloister, can he 
 escape ? Not so. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 
 The tomb 's the surer guardian. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 But murder 
 
 THE MARQUIS (pointing to the palace). 
 These walls are well accustomed to it. 
 
 THE KING (aside). 
 Traitor ! 
 
 (Aloud.) 
 Marquis, what is thy last word ? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Kill. 
 
 (Fanfare of trumpets.) 
 
 Ah ! the clarions ! here they come ! 
 
 (Tlie door of the palace is thiown wide open. Don 
 Sancho and Donna Rosa, hand in hand, appear at 
 the top of the steps. Donna Rosa in a dress of 
 silver lace with the crown of pearls on her head. 
 Don Sancho with an earl's hat, surmounted by the 
 alumbrado plume, a combination of feathers and 
 jewels. At their right is the Bishop of Seo de Urgel, 
 with the mitre on his head. Behind thera lords and 
 ladies, and priests in embroidered copes.)
 
 PART II— ACT I 
 
 209 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 The Same: DON SANCHO, DONNA ROSA, BISHOP OF SEC DE URGEL. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 
 Ferdinand, King of Castile, this man, Don 
 
 Sancho, weds tliis maiden, Donna Rosa, 
 
 both descended from the Gothic kings, she 
 
 lady of Orthez, he Count of Burgos; if 't is 
 
 your pleasure, O my master, I propose to join 
 
 their hands in matrimony. And Sancho, 
 
 led by the priest, comes to your feet, bringing 
 
 his wife to you and offering you his faithful 
 
 homage, for he is count and you are king. 
 
 ( Don Sancho and Donna Rosa descend the steps and 
 kneel before the king. The Duke d'Alava takes a 
 step forward. The Marquis de Fuentel watches with 
 bated breath.) 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 
 I lay all my possessions, sire, at your feet. 
 
 THE KING (gazing sternly at the bishop). . 
 What madness is this, bishop ! thou, a 
 priest, dost join a nun in holy wedlock with a 
 monk. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 
 My lord and king ! . . . 
 
 THE KING. 
 Knowest thdu not that they have ta'en the 
 vows ? And dar'st thou consummate this 
 ghastly sacrilege, unfearing? 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 
 Sire! . . 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 A frock for this man ! a veil for this 
 
 woman ! 
 
 (The chaplain and the priests come out from under the 
 portico. One of the priests has a black veil in 
 his hands, the other a frock of coarse sackcloth. One 
 priest throws the veil over Donna Rosa, the other 
 puts the frock upon Don Sancho. His face dis- 
 appears behind the hood and Donna Rosa's behind the 
 veil. The soldiers surround them. They tear Don 
 Sancho's sword from his belt. The king makes a 
 violent gesture.) 
 
 Away with both of them. Each to a 
 
 convent ! 
 
 DON SANCHO (struggling under the hood). 
 Your Majesty ! 
 
 THE KING (to the priests). 
 You '11 answer to me for this man. 
 
 THE MARQUIS (breathing freely). 
 Alive ! 
 
 ( The priests and soldiers lead Don Sancho away in one 
 direction and Donna Rosa in the other.) 
 
 THE KING (in an undertone to the marquis). 
 
 I '11 find a way to lay my hand on her again. 
 Sometimes, thou knowest, a woman comes 
 forth from a cloister. 
 
 THE MARQUIS (aside). 
 Aye, and sometimes a man !
 
 - .',..,,/ /.„<^<^„„^ ,„ igfl/J 
 
 ACT SECOND 
 
 An apartment in the old Moorish palace at Seville. This palace looked out upon the Tablada where the 
 Quemadero was located. 
 
 The apartment is the council hall. The back of the apartment is on a level with a gallery with small 
 Arabian columns, which looks out of doors, and is closed by an immense curtain. At the left a long table, at 
 the ends of which are two high chairs surmounted by royal crowns ; the chairs are just alike. On the same 
 side, a low, narrow door, concealed by the hangings, leading to divers secret stairways and passages. On the 
 opposite side, the right, in a jog-piece which extends to the gallery at the back, large folding-doors at the top of 
 a flight of three steps. 
 
 The table is covered with a cloth on which are embroidered the arms of Aragon and Castile. 
 
 In the middle of the table, on a great silver salver, are thirty piles of gold pieces, — high, thick piles — 
 forming a massive, square block of gold in the middle of the salver. 
 
 Upon the table a silver-gilt writing case, parchment, vellum, wax and seals. Gilded and painted pen-holders 
 in the holes of the inkstand. 
 
 Near the table a credence with drawers. 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 MARQUIS DE FUENTEL, MOSES-BEN-HABIB, C/wt/j^aW;. They enter together through the secret door. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Money, money, more money ! 
 
 (The rabbi points to the salver filled with crowns in 
 the middle of the table. The marquis examines 
 the pile of gold. ) 
 
 Very good. 
 
 THE CHIEF RABBI. 
 Thirty piles, each of a thousand golden 
 rowns. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 A trusty agent.
 
 212 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 THE CHIEF RABBI. 
 Isabella is a miser. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 And Ferdinand a spendthrift. Truth dwells 
 at tlie bottom of a well, and intrigue in 
 a gold mine. One may obtain by gifts 
 permission from the mighty ones of earth to 
 live. In order to escape the king, the judge 
 who cozens you, the prince, the priest, a poor 
 man must be rich. All kings are beggars. 
 We must supply their needs with lavish hand. 
 
 (To the rabbi.) 
 Go, Jew. Return by the same secret stair- 
 case. For the king is close upon my heels. 
 
 THE CHIEF RABBI. 
 Monsefior, since there still is time, I do 
 beseech you, save the Jewish people. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 The danger is most urgent. 
 (Dismissing him.) 
 
 Go. 
 
 THE CHIEF RABBI. 
 
 I count upon you. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 
 Count upon thy cash. 
 
 THE CHIEF RABBI. 
 Will not the poor, despairing multitude 
 who weep without be presently permitted to 
 come hither and to kneel before the king and 
 queen ? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 So be it. But, for the moment, go. 
 
 THE CHIEF RABBI. 
 O day of woe ! if the king come not to our 
 aid, one hundred aged Jews are to be burned 
 in this good city, even here, in Seville ; and 
 the remainder of the chosen people will be 
 driven forth, alas ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS (pensively). 
 Yes, everything 's in readiness for the 
 auto-da-fe, announced so long ago. 
 
 THE CHIEF RABBI. 
 And is it true that the king leaves Seville 
 to-night ? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Yes. For a day. He will return to-morrow. 
 The charter of King Tulgas, our oldest code 
 of laws, provides that the king pass the mor- 
 row of an execution, praying with the queen 
 at the convent in the town of Triana. 
 
 THE CHIEF RABBI. 
 They would not have the task of praying 
 for the dead, did they not kill. Monsefior, 
 try to save us. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 
 Speak lower, and be gone. 
 
 (The rabbi bows to the ground and goes out through 
 the door in the hangings, which closes behind him.) 
 
 THE MARQUIS (looking at the door through which 
 the Jew passed), 
 
 'T is not thy Jew's hide, nor the hides of 
 
 all thy chosen people, that cause my anguish 
 
 and my zeal, and drive me on to venture 
 
 everything. Alas ! I shudder when I hear 
 
 the ghastly knell of the auto-da-fe. Don 
 
 Sancho 's in a monastery, refusing to become 
 
 a monk, refractory and obstinate. They may 
 
 at any moment toss him in the flames. I 
 
 tremble. Ah ! that awful cloister ! I must 
 
 tear him from it ! How ? 
 
 (The great door at the back is thrown open. Enters 
 the king, followed by Gucho. Both wings of the 
 door close as soon as the king has passed through. ) 
 
 (The king is in the full dress costume of the Order of 
 Alcantara, with the sinople cross embroidered in 
 emeralds on the cloak. He wears a green velvet 
 hat without a plume, surmounted by the royal 
 crown.) 
 
 (Gucho crouches behind one of the arm-chairs.)
 
 PART II— ACT II 
 
 213 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 THE MARQUIS, THE KING, GUCIIO. 
 
 (The king seems to be deeply absorbed in thought, and 
 to pay no heed to his surroundings. ) 
 
 THE KING (aside). 
 'T were better to do nothing roughly. I 
 prefer that way. 
 
 THE MARQUIS (to the king with a reverence). 
 
 A great catastrophe is imminent to-day. 
 
 If 't is permitted by the king. 
 
 (The king raises his head. The marquis points toward 
 the square which is hidden by the curtain of the 
 gallery at the back of the stage.) 
 
 A grand auto-da-fe. A swarm of peoi)le 
 burned alive. At the same time an edict of 
 expulsion of the Jews. A whole race stolen 
 by a monk from Castile's king. 
 
 THE KING. 
 A worthless horde expelled, a hissing stake, 
 is that thy great catastrophe? 
 (He spies the salver laden with gold on the table.) 
 Aha! more money? 
 
 (To the marquis.) 
 And from whom ? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 The Jews. 
 
 THE KING. 
 How much ? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Thirty thousand golden crowns, which in 
 the name of thirty cities they do offer you. 
 
 THE KING. 
 'T is well. What do they ask? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 
 That they may be left undisturbed. 
 
 THE KING. 
 'T is overmuch. I cannot leave men undis- 
 turbed for being Jews. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 I pray that your kind heart will deign to 
 accept this gold which a whole loyal people 
 lays at the feet of Ferdinand and Isabella. 
 They implore the king their master to prevent 
 the burning of a hundred of their number at 
 the stake to-day. 
 
 THE KING. 
 'T is overmuch. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 To burn a hundred ? 
 
 THE KING. 
 No. To pray me to prevent an auto-da-fi. 
 My wife is preaching to me, and the pope. 
 Both are forever by my side, most urgent for 
 harsh measures. I must let them burn a few 
 poor devils. Otherwise I shall know no 
 peace. What news? What do folk say ? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Oh ! naught of consequence. Kt Cordova, 
 Tudela, Saragossa, men are being burned. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 And then ?
 
 214 
 
 TOROUEMADA 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Count Requesen's, one day when he was 
 drunk, swore by the saints. Sire, the Inquisi- 
 tion, heedless of his rank, condemned him to 
 be burned to death in his own city, in 
 Gerone ; and, as no servant had denounced 
 him, the whole household of the count 
 accused of blasphemy were tortured with the 
 burning brand, and every mortal perished at 
 the stake, even to the fool. 
 
 (Giicho jumps as if suddenly awakened.) 
 
 GUCHO (aside). 
 I will become instanter a familiar of the 
 Inquisition ! Fever and pestilence ! And I 
 will enter on the functions of the post ! 
 Damnation ! to be burned alive is not my 
 business. 
 
 THE KING (looking at the pile of gold). 
 Fruit of one bleeding of the Jews. They 're 
 an auriferous trilie. 
 
 GUCHO (aside). 
 'T is quite enough for me to see the others 
 roast. 
 
 THE MARQUIS (to the king). 
 
 The Hebrews . . . 
 
 THE KING. 
 Say the Jews ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 The Jews, sire, an industrious and numer- 
 ous race, most humbly pray the king to toler- 
 ate them here in Spain, and to revoke the 
 edict that doth exile them, and not be moved 
 to wrath to see them at his feet. 
 
 THE KING. 
 What more do they desire? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 To die where their forefathers died. To 
 abide in their own land, and I do offer you 
 their ransom, sire. Take it. 
 
 THE KING. 
 If the queen consents, I will consent. Let 
 her be summoned. 
 
 (At a sign from the king, Gucho goes to the door at 
 the back of the stage and opens it. An official of 
 the palace appears in the opening. Gucho speaks to 
 him in a low tone. The officer bows and retires. 
 The door closes and Gucho returns to his post 
 beside the chair.) 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 King, the Jews will pass their lives in bless- 
 ing you. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 I want their money, not their prayers. 
 Their blessings are an insult to me. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 King, your fathers were well pleased to have 
 the Jews for subjects. When they are driven 
 out, 't is one less people in the realm. 
 
 THE KING (imperiously). 
 
 Enough ! As if a people were of any con- 
 sequence ! A maiden is the subject of my 
 thoughts! Ah! since I placed those bars 
 betwixt her and myself, I cannot sleep, I 
 think of her incessantly, she must be mine. 
 Go to ! I am more passionately in love with 
 Rosa than I ever was, and you must come and 
 talk to me of politics ! I'm all for love. 
 What of Don Sancho ? Is he yet a monk ? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Not yet. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 The scaffold waits for him if he doth still 
 
 refuse. He shall not live. I placed them 
 
 both in convents in the city where I dwell, 
 
 that I might have them always 'neath my 
 
 hand. The little one at the Assumption, he 
 
 behind the gratings of the convent of Saint 
 
 Anthony, wherein Don Jayme the Red, my 
 
 ancestor, did once immure his wayward son. 
 
 Don Sancho shall turn priest, and I will have 
 
 the maiden. I shall soon deliver Rosa.
 
 PART II— ACT II 
 
 215 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 What of the late decree concerning con- 
 vents ? 
 
 THE KING (insuqjrise). 
 
 The late decree ? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Whoever, were it your royal self, dares go 
 into a cloister to lay hand on any person 
 whomsoever therein being, is declared an out- 
 law, traitor, faithless to his God, anathema, 
 and parricide. 
 
 THE KING. 
 Is 't so? 
 
 (Gazing fixedly at the marquis.) 
 I enter where I choose, and I am king 
 where'er I go. The moment is at hand when 
 I propose to set free the Infanta. Rosa shall 
 be mine ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 
 Ah ! you will have to do with . . . 
 
 THE KING. 
 Have to do with whom ? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Why . . . 
 
 THE KING. 
 Tell me. Speak. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 With Torquemada. 
 
 THE KING. 
 I, the king ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 And he, the grand inquisitor ! 
 
 THE KING. 
 God save the mark ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Your Majesty, the church in him is incar- 
 nate. If he is angry . . . 
 
 THE KING. 
 Well ? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 'l"he church doth easily lay hold, but most 
 unwillingly lets go. He is inquisitor. It is 
 his duty to look to it that each convent has its 
 complement of inmates. Not a nun nor 
 monk is there whom fraud or force can tear 
 away from him ! He prowls about the cloister, 
 sire, showing his teeth, snapping at everyone 
 like a wild beast, and all these lambs are 
 guarded by a wolf. The king, if he be wise, 
 will not attack the i)riest. Sire, Torquemada 
 stands across your path. He holds the king 
 in check, whatever you may do. 
 
 THE KING. 
 'T is naucrht to me. He is a man to bribe. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 
 Try. 
 
 THE KING. 
 If it pleases me to crush this monk . . . 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Try, sire. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 I can lavish on him everything that man 
 
 desires, and the haughtiest have always bowed 
 
 before me. First of all, to bring a priest to 
 
 reason, we have — women. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 He is old. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 Then there are dignities, the mitre, a 
 diocese, a grandeeship, a title, honors and the 
 purple. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 
 It is his purpose to remain a monk. 
 
 Money. 
 
 THE KING. 
 s 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Sire, it is his purpose to remain a poor 
 man.
 
 3l6 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 THE KING (thoughtfully). 
 True it is that, humble, old and indigent, 
 this man is powerful. 
 
 (He folds his arms and reflects.) 
 To have this threatening, omnipotent pov- 
 erty equal to myself, casting a shadow on my 
 throne, nay, seated by my side ! This fellow 
 always on a level with the king ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 And even higher ! 
 
 THE KING. 
 No ! no ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Women, honors, money have no power. 
 None of those methods is available to rid 
 yourself of this gray-bearded monk. 
 
 THE KING. 
 I will find others then. Dost understand ? 
 
 eh? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 
 No. What may they be ? 
 
 THE KING. 
 The true means. Dost thou understand 
 
 me? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 No. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 The old priest Arbuez — why not revive this 
 method ? — was stabbed upon the very altar 
 
 steps. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 
 That had but ill success. They made of 
 him Saint Arbuez. And that was all. You 
 reign and you distribute at your pleasure 
 titles, wealth and blows of the headsman's 
 axe. But with its tongues of fire the church 
 doth seize the hand that threatens it. By 
 persecuting it you build it up. The priests 
 have this strange quality, that, if you kill 
 them, they are the more alive. Nothing can 
 
 wipe them out. From a heap of dead priests a 
 ghost is born, it is the priest. Their blood 's 
 immortal and their bones prolific. We crush 
 them while they live, invoke them when 
 they 're dead. Ah ! king, you persecute the 
 church. It extricates itself with palm-leaves, 
 chanting, tears and martyrdom. Strike down 
 these cloistered serpents, drunk with gall, and 
 massacre them. Good. Now raise your eyes 
 to heaven; see, 't is full of saints — saints of 
 your making, sire. Clasp your hands, fall on 
 your knees. For my part I admire the church, 
 for be she slave or queen, she always has the 
 latest word. Her minions swarm on earth and 
 swarm in heaven. You crush her as a worm 
 and she is born again a brilliant star. 
 
 THE KING (in a depressed tone). 
 She is the disease and I the patient. Thou 
 sayest true. Set Rome at naught ! Men have 
 repented having done it. I must be resigned. 
 
 THE MARQUIS (aside). 
 How he doth change his mind ! With him 
 the danger lies in this, that one must needs 
 advise the contrary in order to persuade him 
 to do aught, and urge him toward the south 
 that he may go tov^'ard the north. And this 
 time he has faith in me. The devil ! how my 
 stratagem hath gone astray ! The tortuous 
 path which I thought best to use is good for 
 naught. Now I will go straight to my purpose. 
 I will change my tactics. 
 
 (Aloud.) 
 
 Ah ! you have allowed the tonsured knave, 
 the monk, to grow in stature, and he now has 
 reached a towering height. 
 
 THE KING (musing). 
 This Torquemada . . . 
 
 THE M.\RQUIS. 
 Holds Spain in his grasp. He is the real 
 pope. Wherever you so much as touch your
 
 PART II— ACT II 
 
 217 
 
 nail, he lays his paw. He takes your place. 
 Your Majesty, the time has passed when you, 
 whenever it seemed good to you, selecting 
 your own time, could enter any convent with 
 a threat, and force the greedy church to loose 
 its hold. In those days you could hang an 
 abbot. Now, meddle not with him. Ah ! 
 this monk is most embarrassing. Your 
 gallows ! lay a hand upon the priest ! let him 
 come on ! Your power to punish has every- 
 thing to fear from his ; and certes he would 
 laugh to see you ]3lace your wooden gallows 
 near the flames about his stake. 'T is an 
 unequal duel. The whole earth, sire, is this 
 monk's. As one sets fire to quick-burning 
 hay, so doth his torch go running everywhere, 
 and change to ashes living men. The awe- 
 struck palaces have a conventual air. The 
 clergy puts forth sprouts on every side and 
 grows as swiftly as the nettle. Everyone bows 
 down to the base eyebrows of a frowning 
 monk. Let him escape who can. The proud 
 men grovel, and the bold men tremble. What 
 is being done from Cadiz to Tortosa, and 
 from one end of the kingdom to the other ? 
 Denunciation. Marquis Alfonzo and the 
 Prince of Viano, your cousins, are in chains, 
 and sire, that bloodthirsty knave has taken by 
 the throat the Infant of Tudela. Years ago, 
 under the reign of Don Ramiro, or of Donna 
 Leonora, every Spanish city was a scene of 
 gayetyand animation ; the bells rang out over 
 a dancing, joyous people. But to-day there is 
 no sound. No merry laughter. No more 
 luxury. A bouquet is an object of suspicion. 
 Terror, dread and lamentation everywhere, 
 and the vast Spanish realm is like the dreary 
 aftermath of a great festival. O king, your 
 forests are made into scaffolds, and the sup- 
 ply of wood ere long will fail. True crimes 
 and false crimes are confused, and anything 's 
 enough to send one to the stake. For having 
 
 seen a certain person passing, you are his con- 
 federate. The son betrays his father, and the 
 father his son. Whoever accidentally knocks 
 down a crucifix, is burned alive. A word, a 
 gesture are rank heresy. Tliis hateful monk 
 has taken Jesus in a frenzy. Everything 's a 
 crime. To muse, to swear by Solomon, to 
 have the air of talking with the devil 'neath 
 one's breath, to bite one's nails, to go bare- 
 footed on a day of fast, to wed a wife too 
 youthful or too old, to turn a dead man's face 
 toward the wall, to fail to shun all those who 
 wear a leathern thong about their waists, to 
 use a tablecloth upon a Sabbath day, to drive 
 his ox or ass forth from the barn on Christ- 
 mas day, to use the name of God more fre- 
 quently than that of Jesus, or to lie in hiding, 
 each of these is cause for sending men and 
 women to the stake. To follow a dead body 
 to the grave, repeating verses as you go, to 
 sit and weep in darkness or behind a door, to 
 watch, from a secluded, quiet spot, the rising 
 of the first star of the night, are just so many 
 crimes, O king, the fire gleams, ascends, 
 consumes, and the broad sky above your head 
 grows ruddier and more ruddy, sire, with the 
 light of that empurpled dawn. Your subjects' 
 blood is drained from you. feoon you will 
 have no soldiers left for war. Ere long — 
 surely it cannot be the king doth realize it, 
 for the king could with a word prevent it all, 
 but no ! ere long, the Holy Office will have 
 consigned all Spain to prison, and even now 
 the people have well-nigh forgotten you. 
 
 (He points to the gallery at the back of the stage 
 and the curtain drawn across it. Gucho listens 
 attentively.) 
 
 This very day, O king, beneath your win- 
 dow here, the stake, a fiery mass above a 
 heap of red-hot embers, will pursue its purify- 
 ing work, and there, beneath the himgry eyes 
 of the confessor, women clad in flames will
 
 2l8 
 
 TOROUEMADA 
 
 writhe in agony. At the four corners stand 
 four statues, four black prophetesses facing 
 the four winds of heaven, built of hollow 
 stone, and filled with living men. You '11 
 hear the roaring of those hideous colossi, and 
 see the flickering flames come pouring from 
 their mouths ; and nothing save those giants 
 will remain ; your people, haggard-eyed and 
 all agape with fear, will see all Spain, your 
 kingdoms and yourself go up in smoke around 
 those four appalling phantoms. For all light 
 proceeds from the vile Quemadero. And you 
 disappear, O king, in the shadow of the 
 executioner. 
 
 (The king sinks upon a folding-chair, as if over- 
 whelmed. ) 
 
 THE KING. 
 All this is to the profit of the church. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 
 And to the ruin of the throne. Castile is 
 covered o'er with charnel-houses, and in the 
 distance terror utters piercing shrieks. 
 ( Approaching the king. ) 
 
 In vain you struggle. You are taken. Over 
 Spain is spread a sombre web, through which 
 God can be seen, a dimly shining star; a 
 frowning net-work, woven upon earth by Satan 
 who drew the fibres one by one from great 
 Jehovah's side ; a snare wherein tlie wretched 
 human mind is lorn to shreds; a sort of vast 
 rose-window of an immeasurable church, 
 where hell-fire gleams on the great altar ; 
 there are horror, deathly fright and darkness ; 
 and the world stares aghast at the grim monster 
 gnawing at its vitals; it thinks of Baal of old 
 who strangled it ; to grow is an abuse, to 
 think a crime ; a man is bold to live, and 
 merely to exist is perilous. And in the centre 
 of the web we see the priest, the spider with 
 the fly, the king. 
 
 (The king hangs his head. The marquis watches him 
 and continues.) 
 
 Certes, it is a subject of surprise and terror 
 that this wretched skein of cloisters, regula- 
 tions, dogmas, vows, could make a web to 
 catch an eagle in. But it is done. The 
 eagle 's taken. At this moment his wing is 
 barely fluttering in the mesh. In front of 
 you the missal and the gospel and the Bible 
 rear their heads, and 't is no longer possible 
 for you to carry out your will ; you dare not 
 love ; nor do you dare to reign. The kings 
 of old, as hard and stubborn as their moun- 
 tains, long bearded as their forests, were of 
 sterner stuff. The present, far more than the 
 past, is vile as dust. A king allows a woman 
 to enslave him, and in the kindness of his 
 heart crawls in the dust, nor even tries to 
 roar. There is no longer aught upon the 
 earth except one monk. This monk — Oh ! 
 how doth the child dare be born? — this monk 
 is king, he has you 'neath his sandals. You, 
 the king ! He turns his key upon the human 
 heart ; he is above the bishop and above the 
 abbess, in the deacon's eyes and in the nun's. 
 He conies, the law slinks out of sight, the 
 sceptre bends even as a slender reed, the 
 sword is terrified. A stupefying glare shoots 
 from his piercing eyes; his arm is universal 
 empire, and man his target, and as he stoops, 
 the frowning spy of God, to watch the world, 
 his shadow covers everything. 
 
 (Looking the king in the face.) 
 
 Hereafter history will say : " That was the 
 age of fire. That was a time of darkness and 
 of slavery. What was its product? ashes. 
 To the sword of Pelagus, the fork to stir the 
 embers of the stake succeeded. What was 
 the king's name? 'T was Torquemada." 
 
 THE KING (rising). 
 Marquis, thou liest in thy throat ! His 
 name is Ferdinand, and neither monk nor
 
 PART ri—ACT IT 
 
 219 
 
 pope of Rome can make it other than it is, or 
 say that I, the tiger and the lion, am not 
 king ! And I will prove with headless bodies 
 what I say. Go thou, collect a party of 
 armed men, march straightway to the con- 
 vent of th' Assinnption, seize the Infanta, 
 trample out all op[)Osition ; such is my 
 pleasure ! I propose that everyone shall bow 
 and cringe and slink away as if my face 
 appeared before them unexpectedly ! Here is 
 the written order. 
 
 (He goes to the table, takes a pen and a sheet of 
 parchment, and writes rapidly.) 
 
 -"In the law's name, submit. That which 
 the marquis does is done by the king's com- 
 mand." 
 
 (He signs and hands the parchment to the marquis.) 
 If anyone resists, then smite, strike down, 
 burn, crush, exterminate, and then pass on, 
 and look to it that, on the spot where once 
 that cursed convent stood, there be not pres- 
 ently one living being, or one stone upon 
 
 another ! 
 
 (Gncho listens with renewed attention.) 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 If some monk . . . ? 
 
 THE KING. 
 To death with him ! 
 
 THE M.A.RQUIS. 
 Or .soldier . . . ? 
 
 THE KING. 
 Cast him into prison. Take a hundred cut- 
 throats of my Moorish guard. 'T will be 
 enough to force a cloister. 
 
 THE MARQUIS (aside). 
 
 Aye, or even two. 
 
 (Aloud.) 
 
 Although proceeding from the king, this is 
 
 a bold venture. 
 
 THE KING. 
 Go. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 W'lien the Infanta 's in my hands, I must 
 conceal her. 
 
 THE KING. 
 Surely. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Where? 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 In my private park, a lonely and secluded 
 spot. Thou knowest it? I leave Seville 
 to-night. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 
 I know it. For one day. 
 
 THE KING. 
 I go to Triana. On my return I wish to 
 find the Infanta . . . 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 In the private park. 
 
 THE KING. 
 There I am master. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 But the key? 
 (The king goes to the credence and opens a drawer.) 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 1 have two keys, for I alone go thither. 
 
 (He takes two keys from the drawer, and hands one of 
 them to the marquis.) 
 
 One of them I give to thee. 
 
 ( He replaces the other key in the drawer, which he 
 closes. Gucho, the king's hack being turned, crawls 
 under the credence, opens the drawer and takes out 
 the key. ) 
 
 GUCHO (aside). 
 
 1 take the other. 
 
 (He closes the drawer and puts the key in his pocket.) 
 
 THE KING. 
 Ah, yes ! these monks are powerful ! Ah, 
 yes ! these priests are miglity, too ! And 
 Torquemada reigns ! We '11 see.
 
 230 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 THE VOICE OF AN USHER (outside, announcing 
 tlie queen). 
 
 Her Majesty, the queen. 
 
 (Enters tlie queen, in black jet, tlie royal tiara on her 
 head. She makes a profound reverence to the king, 
 who replies with a low bow, without removing his 
 hat.) 
 
 (The queen goes to one of the arm-chairs at the end of 
 the table and seats herself therein ; after which she 
 remains motionless as if she neither saw nor heard 
 anything. ) 
 
 (The king and queen both have rosaries hanging at 
 their waists.) 
 
 THE KING (in an undertone to the marquis). 
 
 Be prompt. Speed is the first essential of 
 
 success. Go, marquis. Do what I bid thee. 
 
 (Enters the Duke d'Alava. He walks toward the 
 king.) 
 
 What is thy errand, Duke d'Alava? 
 
 DUKE D'ALAVA. 
 The deputies of the Jews who have been 
 banished from your realm crave leave, sire 
 and madanie, to throw themselves at your 
 Majesties' feet. 
 
 THE KING. 
 Admit them. 
 
 (Exit the duke.) 
 (In an undertone to the marquis.) 
 Hasten now, and seize the Infanta. Go at 
 once to the Assumption convent. 
 
 THE MARQUIS (aside). 
 Then to Saint Anthony's. 
 
 Begone ! 
 But . . . 
 What? 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 ? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Suppose the Grand Inquisitor . 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 That monk ! He is the earthworm, I the 
 
 dragon. 
 
 ( He waves his hand imperiously to the marquis. The 
 marquis bows and goes out by the secret door in the 
 hangings. The king takes his seat in the unoccupied 
 chair, opposite the queen. ) 
 
 (Enter the Jews.)
 
 PART II— ACT II 
 
 221 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 THE KING, THE QUEEN, THE JEWS. 
 
 (Through the door at the back, which is thrown wide 
 open, pours in a frightened, half-clad multitude 
 between two rows of halberdiers and pikemea. They 
 are the Jew deputies, men, women and children, all 
 coveFed with dirt and dressed in rags, barefooted, 
 with the rope around their necks ; some are mutilated 
 and crippled by torture and drag themselves along on 
 their stumps or on crutches ; others, whose eyes have 
 been put out, are led by children. At their head is 
 the Chief Rabbi, Moses- Ben- Habib. All have the 
 yellow shield over their tattered garments. ) 
 
 (At some little distance from the table the rabbi halts 
 
 and kneels. All those behind him follow his example. 
 
 The older men beat their heads upon the floor. ) 
 (Neither the king nor queen looks at them. Their 
 
 eyes seem to be gazing abstractedly over all their 
 
 heads.) 
 
 MOSES-BEN-HABIB (kneeling). 
 Your Majesties of Aragon, and of Castile, — 
 king, queen ! our master and our mistress, we, 
 your trembling subjects, are in sore distress ; 
 barefooted, ropes about our necks, we pray to 
 God and you ; and, living in death's shadow, 
 some of us being doomed to die by fire, and 
 all the poor remainder, wornen and old men, 
 being hunted from the realm, we bring our 
 plaint to you, O king and queen, beneath the 
 all-seeing eye of Him who sits in heaven. 
 Your Majesties, your edicts pour upon us in 
 hot haste, we weep, our fathers' bones do 
 quiver, and the peaceful sepulchre doth trem- 
 ble at your deeds. Have pity. Ours are 
 faithful and submissive hearts ; we live retired 
 in our modest houses, humble and alone ; our 
 laws are strict and simple, so that a child 
 might write thein down. The Jew doth never 
 
 sing and never laugh. Tribute we pay, how- 
 ever great the sum. Men kick us as we lie 
 upon the ground ; we're like the clothing of a 
 murdered man. Glory to God ! But must it 
 be that, with the new-born babe, the nursing 
 infant and the child but newly weaned, naked, 
 driving his 0-\ and dog and goat before him, 
 Israel must fly, and scatter to all quarters of 
 the earth ? That we shall cease to be a nation 
 to become mere wanderers? Nay, king, drive 
 us not forth with pikes, and God will throw 
 the golden gates of heaven open to you. 
 Have compassion on us. We are crushed. 
 We shall no more behold our trees and fields 
 of grain ! The mother's breasts will cease to 
 give forth milk ! The wild beasts in the woods 
 live with their mates in peace, the birds sleep 
 tranquilly beneath the waving branches, and 
 the roe is left to nurse her little ones un- 
 troubled : pray permit us to live likewise, in 
 our caverns, 'neath our wretched roofs, almost 
 like prisons, and we almost slaves, but near 
 our fathers' ashes ; deign to suffer us beneath 
 your feet which we bathe with our tears ! Ah 
 me ! what misery to be dispersed in far off 
 lands ! Permit us still to drink at our own 
 springs and live among our fields, and you will 
 prosper ! Woe is me ! we wring our hands in 
 our despair ! O king, spare us the agony of 
 banishment, of bitter, endless, everlasting 
 solitude! Leave us our native land, our 
 native sky ! The bread whereon one weeps
 
 223 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 while eating it is clianged to gall. If we are 
 ashes, be not you the wind. 
 
 (Pointing to the gold upon the table.) 
 
 Behold our ransom. Vouchsafe to accept it. 
 O protect us, king and queen. See our 
 despair. Stretch out your wings above us, not 
 as evil angels, but as kind and tender-hearted 
 angels, for the black wing and the white wing 
 cast not the same shadow. Oh, revoke your 
 edict. We implore you by your consecrated 
 ancestors, as grand as lions, by the tonibs of 
 all the kings and queens, deep minds, and 
 filled with radiant light ; we place our hearts, 
 O rulers of your fellow-men, our prayers, our 
 lamentation in the hands of your Infanta, of 
 the child Joanna, as fresh and innocent as 
 the wild strawberry whereon the bee doth 
 light. King, queen, have pity ! 
 
 (A moment of silence. Ferdinand and Isabella remain 
 absolutely motionless, they do not even turn their 
 eyes. The Duke d'Alava, who stands with drawn 
 sword in front of the table, touches the chief rabbi 
 on the shoulder with the flat of his sword. The 
 rabbi rises to his feet and he and all the Jews retire 
 with bent heads, walliing backward. The guards 
 form in line and hustle them off the stage. The door 
 remains open after they have gone. ) 
 
 (The king motions to the Duke d'Alava, who goes 
 to him.) 
 
 THE KING (to the duke). 
 The queen and I desire to consult in private 
 touching the decree. If anyone comes hither, 
 though it were a prince, arrest him, duke ! I 
 will cut off the head of any man who dares to 
 enter. Close the door and guard the corridor. 
 
 (The duke lowers his sword, bows, puts up his sword 
 and retires. The door closes. The king and queen 
 remain alone.) 
 
 (During this scene Gucho has disappeared under the 
 table where he is hiding. )
 
 PART II— ACT II 
 
 223 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 THE KING, THE QUEEN; GUCHO, under the table. 
 
 (The king and queen gaze earnestly at each other with- 
 out speaking. Absolute silence. At last the queen 
 lowers her eyes and looks at the money on the 
 table.) 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 
 Thirty thousand golden marks. 
 
 THE KING. 
 Thirty thousand golden marks. 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 
 But they 're a race accursed, who watch the 
 
 planets. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 Thirty thousand golden marks make six 
 hundred thousand piasters, which make twenty 
 million sequins. 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 Sequins ? 
 
 THE KING. 
 Sequins, which, when changed to African 
 bezants, would make the wherewithal to 
 freight a galley ! 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 True, but the Jew doth make himself invisi- 
 ble, and light himself by setting fire to a dead 
 child's fingers. 
 
 THE KING. 
 Doubtless. 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 It would fill a galley ? 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 To the brim. 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 With bezants? 
 
 THE KING. 
 Aye, with bezants. And we should have 
 twice the weight in silver douros. 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 
 My mind is ill at ease. My lord, let us 
 
 repeat a pater. 
 
 ( She takes her rosary. A pause. The king touches the 
 piles of gold and moves them about.) 
 
 THE KING (under his breath). 
 
 With this gold I could prosecute the war at 
 Boabdil with ease. 
 
 THE QUEEN (still telling her beads). 
 My lord, should I die first, give me your 
 oath that you will not remarry. 
 
 THE KING (under his breath). 
 With this gold the war at Boabdil . . . 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 Say, will you swear ? 
 
 THE KING. 
 Swear what ? Of course. 
 
 (Pensively.) 
 
 This gold would all the cost defray, yes, all. 
 
 And I should have Grenada, — a bright pearl 
 
 for our diadem. 
 
 (The queen, having finished her prayer, lays her rosary 
 on the table.)
 
 224 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 My lord, let us e'en take the gold, and none 
 
 the less expel the Jews, whom I cannot accept 
 
 as subjects. 
 
 (The king raises his head. The queen repeats.) 
 Let US expel the Jews and keep their money. 
 
 THE KING. 
 I had thought upon it. But that course 
 might well discourage others. 
 
 THE QUEEN (looking at the gold). 
 
 Thirty thousand golden crowns ! in your 
 hands . . . 
 
 THE KING. 
 Nay, in yours. 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 Could we ask more ? 
 
 THE KING. 
 Anon. 
 
 ( He handles the piles of gold.) 
 
 I could retake Grenada from the base-born 
 
 bastard Moor. We might allow the Jews to 
 
 stay but drive away the Moors. 
 
 THE QUEEN (hesitating). 
 True. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 'T is the law of compensation. 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 A choice between two Sodoms. 
 
 THE KING. 
 Do we accept the money ? 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 THE KING. 
 
 (He takes a pen, and writes upon a piece of vellum, 
 consulting the queen with a glance.) 
 
 'T is well. First, the edict is revoked, that 
 banishes that flock of miscreants, the Jews, 
 and separates them from the Spanish people ; 
 next the auto-da-fe appointed for to-day for- 
 bidden to take place ; lastly, an order to release 
 all the Jew prisoners. 
 
 (The king signs, pushes the vellum toward the queen 
 and passes the pen to her. ) 
 
 THE QUEEN (taking the pen). 
 
 'T is said. 
 
 (As the queen is about to sign the great door opens 
 noisily.) 
 
 (The king and queen turn about in amazement.) 
 
 (Gucho puts out his head.) 
 
 (Torquemada appears in the doorway at the top of the 
 steps, in his Dominican's frock, an iron crucifix in 
 his hand. )
 
 PART II— ACT // 
 
 225 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 THE KINO, THE QUEEN, TORQUEMADA. 
 
 (Torquemada looks neither at the king nor the queen. 
 He has his eyes fixed upon the crucifix.) 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 For thirty silver pieces Judas sold thee. 
 This king and queen are on the point of 
 selling thee for thirty thousand golden crowns. 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 Great Heaven ! 
 
 TORQUEMADA (throwing the crucifix upon the piles 
 of crowns). 
 
 Come, Jews, and take him ! 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 Father ! 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 
 Trinm])h, Jews ! as it is written ! for this 
 king and queen deliver Jesus Christ to you. 
 
 My father \ 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 
 TORQUEMADA (looking them both in the face). 
 Be accursed, O king ! Be thou accursed, 
 O queen ! 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 Mercy ! 
 
 TORQUEMADA (stretching his arm over their heads ). 
 
 To your knees ! 
 
 (The queen falls on her knees. The king hesitates, 
 shuddering. ) 
 
 Both ! 
 
 (The king falls on his knees.) 
 (Pointing to Isabella.) 
 Here the queen. 
 
 (Pointing to Ferdinand.) 
 And there the king. A heap of gold between. 
 Ah ! you are king and queen ! 
 
 (He seizes the crucifix and raises it above his head.) 
 Behold your God. I take you in tlie act. 
 Bow down and kiss the ground. 
 
 (The queen prostrates herself.) 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 Mercy ! 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 
 O horror ! 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 
 Father, give us absolution ! 
 
 TORQUEMAD.\. 
 Monstrotis insolence ! And so — 't is thy 
 reign. Antichrist ! — the Jews are to be recon- 
 ciled, the auto-da-fe proscribed. The saving 
 stake will not be set alight. These sovereigns, 
 forsooth, say no. And so this wretched toy, 
 the sceptre, dares to touch the cross ! This 
 knave, an earthly prince, dares to be deaf to 
 what the Christ hath said ! 'T is time that I 
 should speak to you and warn you. The Holy 
 Office hath full power over you. From its 
 decrees the pope alone 's e-xemjit, but kings 
 are not. While you are sleeping, while you 
 sit at meat, at any hour our banner hath the 
 right to enter your abode, bringing its stern 
 and melancholy message. The kings, false 
 gods, have ever much employed the thunder, 
 and Heaven loves them not. Your laws,
 
 226 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 O princes, are the vain and empty ones, and 
 ours the true. We are the wheat and you the 
 tares. Some day the scythe will come to mow 
 the mighty harvest ! Kings, we undergo your 
 yoke, but we denounce you. Day after day 
 we cast your names into the dark abode of 
 mystery, where secret, solitary punishment 
 awaits you ! With dead kings' skulls are the 
 dark places paved. Aha ! you think that you 
 are strong because your camps are filled with 
 soldiers and your ports with sails. God medi- 
 tates, keen-eyed, among the stars. So tremble ! 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 Mercy ! 
 
 THE KING (rising). 
 Sir Inquisitor, the king and queen, with 
 contrite hearts and making full profession of 
 their faith, do purpose to repair the ill they 
 were about to do. The Jews shall be expelled, 
 and, father, we permit you and the Holy 
 Office, and your consecrated priests to light 
 the fires instantly. 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 
 Dost think that I have waited ? 
 
 (He descends the three steps, goes to the gallery at 
 the back of the stage and violently pulls the curtain 
 aside. ) 
 
 Look. 
 
 (Night is beginning to fall. Beyond the gallery at the 
 back of the stage, a large space entirely open, can 
 be seen the square of the Trablada filled with people. 
 In the centre of the square is the Quemadero, a 
 huge structure bristling with flames and filled with 
 piles of fagots and Jpright posts, and with victims 
 in san benitos, who can be indistinctly seen through 
 the smoke. Large vessels filled with pitch and tar 
 are attached to the tops of the posts, and empty 
 themselves in fiery streams upon the heads of the 
 sufferers. Women stripped naked by the flame are 
 burning, tied to iron stakes. Loud shrieks are heard. 
 At the four corners of the Quemadero are seen the 
 four gigantic statues, called the Four Evangelists, 
 reddened by the glare. They have holes and cracks 
 through which heads are frantically thrust and wav- 
 ing arms which seem like living fire-brands. Torture 
 and fire everywhere. ) 
 
 (The king and queen look on aghast. Gucho, under 
 the table, stretches his neck and tries to see. Tor- 
 quemada feasts his eyes contemplatively upon the 
 Quemadero.) 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 O happy day, O joy, O glory ! Now the 
 awe-inspiring and majestic clemency soars 
 heavenward in flame ! Deliverance forever ! 
 Be absolved, ye damned ! The stake on 
 earth extinguishes the flames of hell beneath. 
 Be blessed, O thou by whom the soul ascends 
 to happiness, thou stake, the glory of the fire 
 whereof hell is the shame, the path that leads 
 to the resplendent road, the gate of Paradise 
 reopened to the human race, sweet, ardent 
 pity ceaselessly caressing, mysterious redemp- 
 tion of the slaves of darkness, auto-da-fe ! 
 Forgiveness, grace, light, fire, life, bedazzling 
 glory of the face of God ! Oh ! the deathless 
 parting and the souls redeemed ! Jews, 
 unbelievers, sinners, O my cherished flock, 
 with a brief period of torture here you 
 purchase happiness unending ; men are 
 accursed no more, and exile is unknown. 
 Salvation is secured to all in heaven. Love 
 awakes, and this its triumph, this its miracle ! 
 What ecstasy ! to go by the straight path to 
 heaven ! to fall not by the wayside ! 
 
 (Shrieks from the flames.) 
 Hear you Satan roar to see them fly ? May 
 the eternal monster weep forever in the eternal 
 slough ! With mine own hands I closed the 
 huge red door. Oh ! how he gnashed his 
 teeth when I made fast the two grim wings 
 thereof. Forever, never ! Frowning darkly, 
 he remained behind the gloomy wall. 
 
 (He looks at the sky.) 
 Oh ! I have poured a healing balm upon 
 the ghastly wound of darkness. Paradise was 
 suffering, and heaven had that ulcer in its side, 
 a blazing, bloody hell ; I poured the kindlier, 
 healing flame upon this blazing hell, and in
 
 PART II— ACT II 
 
 227 
 
 the boundless azure I can see the scar. It was 
 the wound in thy dear side, O Christ ! 
 Hosanna ! the wound that seemed incurable is 
 cured. No more hell-fire. 'T is quenched. 
 The springs of sorrow have run dry. 
 ( He looks at the Quemadero. ) 
 
 O rubies of the furnace ! living embers ! 
 precious stones. Blaze, fire-brands ! burn, 
 coals ! hiss on, O sovereign fire ! shine forth, 
 O pyre, gorgeous casket filled with sparks 
 soon to become bright stars ! Souls issue 
 from their bodies as from behind a veil, and 
 happiness emerges from the bath of torture ! 
 Splendor ! fiery magnificence ! cascades of 
 flame ! Satan, my foe, what sayest thou? 
 (In an ecstasy of excitement.) 
 
 O fire, that dost purge away all evil stains 
 with thy fierce flame ! A supreme transfigura- 
 tion ! act of faith ! We both are 'neath God's 
 eyes, Satan and I. Fork-bearers both. Both 
 rulers of the flames. He luring mortals to 
 destruction, I redeeming souls ; both execu- 
 tioners, using like means, whereby he peoples 
 hell, I heaven, whereby he doth evil, I do 
 good ; he 's in the sewer, I am in the temple. 
 And the flickering shadows gaze upon us from 
 the tomb. 
 
 ( He turns toward the victims. ) 
 
 Ah ! but for me you had been lost, my well- 
 beloved ! The pool of fire purifies you while 
 it burns. You curse me for the moment, 
 children ! but, ere long, when you are con- 
 scious what you have escaped, then you 
 
 will thank me ; for I have smitten even as 
 Michael the Archangel ; the white seraphim, 
 leaning to look into the sulphurous pit, revile 
 the hideous abortion in its depths ; your roars 
 of hatred, when they reach the light, will 
 change to stammering amazement, ending in 
 hymns of love ! Ah me ! how have I suffered 
 to see you in the torture-chamber, shrieking, 
 ■weeping, writhing in the brazen vise's jaws, 
 seared by the red-hot iron ! Freed at last ! 
 depart ! fly upward ! enter into Paradise ! 
 
 (He stoops as if looking beneath the ground.) 
 
 No, thou shalt have no more immortal souls ! 
 
 (He stands erect.) 
 God grants us the support we asked, and 
 man is rescued from the pit of hell. Begone, 
 begone ! off" through the scorching darkness 
 and the great winged flames, the smoke 
 departing wafts on high the living spirit saved 
 from the dead flesh ! All human crime of the 
 old days is purged away ; one had his venial 
 fault, another had his sin, but, fault or sin, 
 each soul had its own monster in itself, dim- 
 ming its light and gnawing at its wing ; the 
 angel fell a victim to the devil. Now, the 
 flames are everywhere, and the divine and 
 glorious heritage is parceled out in Jesus' 
 presence in the bright light of the tomb. Ye 
 dragons, fall as ashes to the grounds; fly 
 heavenward, ye doves! You, who were in 
 the grasp of hell, are free, free, free ! Ascend 
 from darkness to the light of day. Put on 
 thine immortality 1
 
 ACT THIRD 
 
 It is night. 
 
 A terrace of the private park, Huerto del Rey, at Seville. 
 
 The terrace is of great width ; at the right and left are avenues of trees. At the back of the stage the 
 terrace ends at a staircase, of which the steps cannot be seen ; it gives access to the terrace from the garden 
 below. The staircase runs the whole length of the terrace. Those persons who ascend it show their heads 
 first, then their bodies, etc., until they reach the level of the terrace. 
 
 On the terrace there is a marble bench. 
 
 The garden beyond the terrace is in darkness. Mountains in the background. Solitude. 
 
 The moon rises during the act. 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 TORQUEMADA, GUCHO. 
 
 (They enter from the avenue of trees at the right, Gucho 
 acting as guide to Torquemada. Gucho holds his 
 two baubles against his breast with one hand, and 
 with the other hands a key to Torquemada.) 
 
 GUCHO. 
 Vouchsafe, monsenor, to remember that 
 't is I who hand to you the key of the king's 
 private park, I, Gucho, fool to the said king, 
 our lord. What crime 's to be committed 
 here? I cannot say. I do not know myself. 
 
 Methinks 't is better that you should be here 
 to see with your own eyes all that takes place. 
 The sacred privileges of the convent are 
 involved, likewise a maiden, whom the king 
 would take by force, although she has been, 
 by her family, betrothed to her young cousin ; 
 thus much and no more do I know of this 
 wicked plot. I am the king's fool. My duty 
 is to make him laugh. 
 
 (Torquemada takes the key.) 
 229
 
 230 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 Denunciation is a shameful thing; but to 
 be roasted is far worse. My choice is made. 
 Good-night. I am not blessed with the good 
 luck to shine in an auto-da-fe. I '11 shine as 
 a keen blade, not as a candle. Question. 
 At this hour with whom do I keep faith ? 
 Myself. And that 's enough. You idiot, who 
 fancied me a hero, a bold, slashing, wayward 
 spark, a martyr craving death, were much 
 mistaken. What will happen here? I wash 
 my paws of it. If I should burn, the king 
 would remain cold. This worthy graybeard 
 here has but to raise his finger and you '11 see 
 his Majesty fall flat upon his belly. Therefore 
 I denounce. What matter ! I must think of 
 me and no one else, deuce take it ! I with- 
 draw my finger from the pie. And I am off. 
 
 TORQUEMADA (gazing at the key, aside). 
 This king hath hardly been absolved ere 
 he begins again. A bad man and a coward. 
 
 (Gucho has gone to the further side of the terrace. He 
 glances down into the dark garden.) 
 
 GUCHO (aside). 
 Yonder I see a group beneath a tree. 
 Methinks they mean to come up hither by the 
 inarble staircase. There are three ! Why 
 three ? But never mind that why, let me 
 escape scot-free, and everything may go to 
 pieces after me ! 
 
 TORQUEMADA (aside, looking toward the garden). 
 This is the private park. The hiding place 
 of vice. 
 (He walks slowly into the avenue of trees at the left.) 
 
 GUCHO (aside, looking toward the stairs). 
 
 They come. Let us be off. 
 
 (He goes out as he came on. The Marquis de Fuentel 
 comes first up the stairs, followed by Don Sancho 
 and Donna Rosa in novices' costumes as in the first 
 act. The marquis leads the way, with his finger on 
 his lips, looking cautiously about.)
 
 PART II— ACT HI 
 
 231 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 MARQUIS DE FUENTEL, DON SANCHO, DONNA ROSA. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Your novice costumes would be dangerous, 
 if it were light. But this is a deserted spot, 
 't is dark and no one sees us. Ah ! my God ! 
 you 're free at last. No one suspects that you 
 are here ; I took a less direct road than the 
 usual one and no one followed me ; I sent away 
 the people who went with me to the convent, 
 but as yet nothing is done, and I am fearful. 
 We must at once procure horses and clothing, 
 then take flight. We have until to-morrow 
 only to consider. 
 
 (Looking into the solitary avenues.) 
 
 I have made the gate secure. There is no 
 risk. The king alone can enter here, and he 
 is absent. 
 
 (To Don Sancho. ) 
 Prince, raadame, rely on me. The diffi- 
 culties to be overcome ere I can hope to liber- 
 ate you from this place are most appalling, 
 but I am determined, and I feel my strength 
 wax greater in the face of danger. My whole 
 life is dedicated to you. The convent left 
 behind, that is the first step ; the second to 
 leave Spain behind. I lack not an inventive 
 mind, but how, alas ! are we to pass the French 
 frontier? This Torquemada is on guard, he 
 has all Spain within his grasp, and rises higher 
 as the king sinks lower. I have forced two 
 convents. Soon the Grand Inquisitor will be 
 upon my track. As yet no one disturbs us here. 
 
 But we must find another hiding-place ere 
 dawn. The king may come. Ah! what to do? 
 Where find some one who will consent to 
 shelter you and save you ? We must have 
 recourse to some monk. They are omni]jotent. 
 I go to seek the man we need. But they are 
 traitors. Now and then a priest sells those 
 who 've purchased him. How ardently I 
 wish that you were safe in France. I have 
 another reason for anxiety, concerning which 
 I cannot hold my peace ; 't is this : this 
 private park, secluded as it is, is near the 
 palace of the Holy Office — so near, in truth, 
 that its wall is adjacent to the prison wall. I 
 leave you for a moment. To fly or die 
 together ? Even so ! I go to seek a place of 
 shelter. Ah ! I am afraid. However, now 
 you are alive. My blessing on you. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 We owe all to you ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 Ah ! my poor outcasts, we must find some 
 method to elude pursuit. Await me here. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 How shall we thank you ? Tell us that. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. 
 By being happy. 
 
 (Exit by the same ro.ad that Gucho followed.)
 
 232 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 DON SANCHO, DONNA ROSA. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 Ah me ! 1 fear I know not what. To see 
 thee once again is heaven. But to tremble 
 for thee — O what misery ! 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 God reunites us, God will rescue us. 
 
 (She gazes at him ecstatically.) 
 
 I love thee ! 
 
 (They throw themselves madly into each other's arms.) 
 
 DON SANCHO (gazing into the darkness overhead). 
 Oh ! will not some blest angel come from 
 yon distant, starry sky and shield thee in the 
 shadow of his wings ? Are there no angels 
 left in heaven, or have the angels lost their 
 wings, alas? 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 We have a friend, dear, faithful man ! 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 Alas ! he is himself in deadly fear. 
 Danger 's on every side. 
 
 (Torquemada appears, standing in the shadow of the 
 trees. He hears these last words. He looks and 
 listens. He gazes at Don Sancho and Donna Rosa 
 in the half-light with increasing surprise. Neither 
 of them sees him. Don Sancho takes Donna Rosa's 
 hand and raises his eyes to heaven.) 
 
 Oh ! who will come and offer thee protec- 
 tion ? 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 I. 
 
 (Both turn in utter amazement.)
 
 PART II— ACT III 
 
 233 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 DON SANCHO, DONNA ROSA, TORQUEMADA. 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 I recognize you. 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 'T is the old monk ! 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 I am the man, condemned to death by 
 Sodom, smitten by Gomorrha, to whom you, 
 two stranger children, did bear aid. I was 
 entombed alive, and you did come to me. 
 You set me free. You are the dove and eagle 
 who released me from the sepulchre. To you 
 I owe it that I now look upon the light of day. 
 Ah yes ! you saved me, now 't is my turn ! 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 'T is the old monk ! 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 I see by your serge frocks that you are con- 
 secrated to the Virgin, both. I find you as 
 you were when I first saw you. I was not 
 alive, nor was I dead ; you came to me, as it 
 were two angels, from on high ; you saved 
 my life. God, by strange roads, once more 
 leads me across your path to-day. You call 
 for help and I stretch out my hand. God 
 stations Dominic above Peter the Second, 
 myself above that wicked monarch, Ferdinand, 
 to watch them. I pass by and hear your call. 
 You seem in peril. Are you prisoners ? What 
 succor do you need? God places in my hand 
 the means of entering this palace, this unhal- 
 lowed den, to serve some purpose of his own ; 
 
 I find you here in trouble and am not sur- 
 prised thereat, for step by step God leads us 
 both. You came to me when I was in the 
 tomb. Now, captives both, you tremble in 
 this baleful spot. I come. Without my suc- 
 cor you would die. Without yours I was lost. 
 Your coming I did not foresee, and mine is 
 unforeseen. How came you there? How 
 come I here? Your coming was a miracle, 
 mine is a prodigy. God knoweth what he 
 doeth. 
 
 DON SANCHO (to Donna Rosa). 
 Yes, 't is he ! 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 Fear not, for I am here beside you. I sus- 
 pect some trap. Recluse and monk I am, 
 but I know men. I love you, and I will 
 defend you e'en against the king himself. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 Pray, do you stand beside the king ? 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 Above. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 Who are you, in God's name? 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 Naught in myself. Everything through 
 Christ. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 Your name ?
 
 234 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 
 My name 's Deliverance. I am he who 
 
 looks through the transparent earth and sees 
 
 the yawning hell beyond ; my gaze pursues the 
 
 frightened, haggard demons, and I see, below, 
 
 the pit we must avoid, the sullen flames, and 
 
 in my hand I hold the urn with which to put 
 
 them out. But tell me, pray, the names you 
 
 bear. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 
 Mine, Sancho, Infant of Burgos. 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 
 Mine, Rosa, Infanta of Orthez. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 We are betrothed. 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 Methinks you have as yet taken no vows 
 save those from which a dispensation sets you 
 free. But tell me how it comes about that 
 you are here ? 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 
 The king by force consigned me to the 
 
 convent. So it was with her. We both have 
 
 fled. 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 
 You must needs pay a fine. The king will 
 pay more dearly, his sin being greater far. 
 It is a crime to make a royal prison of God's 
 cloister, and no person may be forced to 
 enter there against his will. You both are 
 free. Hope, Rosa, Sancho, hope ! What 
 other wish have you ? 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 To wed, my father. 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 
 So be it. I myself will join your hands in 
 
 matrimony. 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 
 O, monsenor ! 
 
 (She attempts to throw herself at his feet, but he, with 
 a gesture, forbids it.) 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 Heaven to the dead, and to the living hap- 
 piness ; such are the gifts I bring, and, calm 
 and humble, in one hand I hold a torch, a 
 palm branch in the other. Be ye happy ! 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 Day of joy ! I know not why, but, stand- 
 ing by your side, I cease to fear the king. 
 If I feared anyone 't would be yourself. You 
 come to us like a strange providence. I feel 
 that you are powerful and to be feared. 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 Even as Rachel who saw Jacob and espoused 
 him, Rosa, you shall wed with Sancho, and 
 the grace divine will foil the projects of the 
 king, which I suspect. Yes, I will save you 
 both. Rely upon it. 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 Oh ! whoe'er you be, priest, bishop, thanks ! 
 My father, be thou blessed. It was a joyful 
 hour, O upright and holy man, when God 
 permitted us to hear your cries coming from 
 the tomb ! 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 How well I do remember it, as if I still 
 were there ; it was a lovely April evening ; 
 I was plucking roses, and she chasing butter- 
 flies; the words we whispered to each other 
 mingled with the last rays of the sun ; night 
 fell, and suddenly I heard a cry, 't was like a 
 dying man's appeal for help; I saw a stone, I 
 listened . . . 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 And thou saidst : " A man is buried here ! 
 Come, let us save him !" But the stone, alas! 
 was much too heavy. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 But there was an iron cross near by, my 
 Rosa . . .
 
 PART II— ACT III 
 
 235 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 Thou didst tear it from the ground. 
 
 (Torqiicraadci makes a horrified gesture.) 
 
 DON .SANCUO. 
 Even so, I took the cross, and certes 't was 
 a serviceable crow-bar ; thanks to it the tomb 
 was opened, and you came forth alive. 
 
 TORQUEMADA (aside). 
 
 O Heaven, they are damned ! 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 The while I raised the stone she bore upon 
 the lever, and with our united strength we 
 threw your prison open. 
 
 TORQUEMADA (aside). 
 Ah ! a cross torn from the ground ! O 
 monstrous sacrilege ! Beneath their feet the 
 fire, the everlasting fire burns ! they are with- 
 out the pale. Great God ! Behold they 
 have emerged from Calvary's protecting 
 shadow ! Wretched creatures ! 'T is not 
 
 with the king that they have now to deal, 
 but God ! 
 
 (To Don Sancho and Donna Rosa.) 
 This iron lever, are you sure that 't was a 
 cross ? 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 
 Most sure ; it stood amidst the dry grass at 
 the foot of the old wall ; I took it in my hands. 
 
 TORQUEMADA (aside). 
 A cross torn from its place ! A cross ! No 
 matter. I will save them. — In another way ! 
 (Me waves his hand to them in farewell.) 
 I will return anon. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 We have no friends, we have no place of 
 refuge in this hour of gloom. Our only hope, 
 monsenor, is in you. 
 
 TORQUEMADA. 
 Fear not. Yes, I will save you. 
 
 (Exit by the staircase at the back of the stage. He 
 passes slowly out of sight as he descends.)
 
 236 
 
 TORQUEMADA 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 DON SANCUO, UONNA ROSA. 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 Let us return thanks on our knees. Help 
 from on high ! The Lord performs a miracle 
 for us. How swiftly hope returns ! is it not 
 true, Don Sancho ? And how eagerly we 
 grasp at any branch, however frail. The man 
 whose life we saved is in this place and saves 
 us in his turn ! Yes, I have faith, I hope. 
 Am I not right? What thinkest thou? 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 Aye, surely ! hope, my angel ! He owes us 
 his life and gives us ours. Ah! my heart is 
 overflowing ; I am like a drunken man. 
 (He draws her to his side.) 
 Come ! come ! at last let us breathe freely ! 
 Oh ! I feel the shadow of the seraph's wing 
 upon our brows after so many cruel blows. 
 An open hand is 'twixt us and the stars. 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 Yes, 't is the hand of God, who shelters us. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 Oh ! tell me, hearest thou not the singing of 
 the heavenly choir draw near? 
 
 (Pointing to tlie park and the clumps of trees.) 
 All nature thrills with sweetest music. 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 When we thus do meet again, all that we 
 long to say comes rushing to our lips at once, 
 — the past, the present, all that we have 
 
 suffered, wished or thought, the many sleep- 
 less nights we 've passed, God and his bound- 
 less pity, and the wickedness of man. At 
 last the heart o'erflows. We say: "I love 
 thee;" and we realize that all is said. My 
 dear, I have wept bitter tears ! When hope 
 had vanished, when I found myself immured 
 in that dark cloister, when I saw the thread 
 that linked our destinies together broken, our 
 hearts torn asunder, and the king's projects 
 vaguely outlined, — horror ! I felt that I was 
 strong, invincible, affectionate and proud, 
 and many times I wished that I were dead. 
 
 (The light of the moon begins to soften the dark 
 lines of the horizon, ) 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 And I, — didst thou but know ! But, Rosa, 
 let us put it all away. The heart alone is 
 living, love alone is on its feet. All else is 
 falling to decay and dying. But we are to be 
 wed, yes, wed and saved ! I place my trust 
 in yonder priest. He but restores what he 
 received from us. Come, let us live and love ! 
 See the moon rising o'er the mountain-tops, 
 the streams, the forests filled with one great 
 throlibing heart ; and all this loveliness is of 
 God's clemency, my Rosa. All the sweetness 
 nature lavishes upon thislovely spot commands 
 us to have faith, and proves that God exists. 
 So fear no more, my dearest, innocent, half- 
 trembling heart ! Grief is the lily, hope the 
 dew. Grief oi)ens its white flower, God weeps
 
 PART II~ACT III 
 
 237 
 
 in sympathy on high, and hope is in his tears. 
 
 Our sorrows and our cries of woe moved him 
 
 to pity. Unknown guardians watch over us. 
 
 I see about us shadows who assist us. Wliat 
 
 can I say to thee ? I love thee ! We are 
 
 victors and the perfect peace of the deep 
 
 azure vault of heaven steals into our hearts. 
 
 So let us hope ! 
 
 DONN.V ROSA. 
 
 Ah ! yes, I feel that some one soon will set 
 
 us free. I hope. To hope is to be born 
 
 again. 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 
 To love 's to live. 
 
 DONNA ROSA. 
 What had I in my mind? Ah, yes! I 
 wished to tell thee that I love thee ! 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 Then come near to me. 
 
 ( She approaches him. ) 
 
 Come closer. 
 
 (She obeys. They both sink upon the bench, Donna 
 Rosa in Don Sancho's arms.) 
 
 DONNA ROS.\ (gazing into his face). 
 O Don Sancho ! O my king ! how lovely 
 is thy face ! 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 
 My Rosa, soon we shall belong, forever, each 
 to the other. Rosa mine, how true it is that 
 God comes when you pray to him ! Oh ! 
 dost thou realize the meaning of that word 
 
 celestial, marriedt Beauty, chastity, thy 
 sacred body and thy blessed flesh, — O God 1 
 the dreams I dreamed within the cloister 
 walls! O God! the ardent longings of my 
 sleepless nights ! To be thy spouse ! to seize 
 the angel as she flees in shy confusion ! 
 Every instant to be by thy side, to see thee, 
 and to say to thee by day and night the words 
 that tell of bliss ineffable; to hear thee, 
 trembling shyly, say them o'er to me, and kiss 
 them on thy smiling lips ! to have no other 
 burden and no duty save to live in Paradise ! 
 And soon, who knows? — nay Rosa, do not 
 blush ! — to see a tiny creature pressing his 
 dear little hands against thy lovely breast, — 
 I, still the lover, he the master ! And to hear 
 him lisping with his lips so honey-sweet the 
 dear word : ' ' Mother ! ' ' 
 
 DONNA ROSA (with an adoring glance). 
 O my best beloved, he will call thee : 
 "Father!" too. 
 
 (During their ecstasy, the top of a black banner 
 appears at the back of the stage, behind and below 
 the top of the staircase. The banner slowly ascends. 
 At last the whole of it can be seen. In the centre 
 is a skull, with two cross-bones, white upon a black 
 ground. It comes nearer. Don Sancho and Donna 
 Rosa turn about and stand as if petrified. The ban- 
 ner continues to ascend. The hood of the banner 
 bearer comes in sight, and at his right and left the 
 hoods of two lines of penitents, black and white.) 
 
 DON SANCHO. 
 
 O Heaven !
 
 238 TOR Q U EM AD A 
 
 NOTE TO TORQUEMADA 
 
 On the first page of the author's manuscript are these words : 
 
 " Begun May I, 1869, while L' Homme Qui Rit was going through the press." 
 
 At the head of the second act of the first part, The Three Priests: 
 
 " As this act, which is necessary to the development of the idea, is likely to be suppressed if the play is 
 performed, I number it separately." 
 
 This act must have been written after the others, as it bears on the first page the date, July ist. 
 
 Act I. of the second part is said to have been begun May 20th and finished May 2Sth. Act II. begun 
 June 1st, finished June l6th. Act III. begun June l6th. 
 
 At the foot of the last page we read : 
 
 "June 21, 1869. Forty years ago, in tliis same month of June (1829), I was writing Marion Je Lorme." 
 
 The author began to write a preface to Torqiiemada, but seems never to have completed it. The following 
 fragment is all that has ever been discovered : 
 
 " Wlien a man who left his mark upon institutions and events disappeared without disclosing the secret of his 
 conscience, and has continued to be an enigma to historians, — have the philosopher and the poet the right to 
 search for that secret ? have they the right to proffer an explanation ? have they the right to interpret it for 
 themselves ? 
 
 " The author thinks that he has. Hence TorquemaJa. 
 
 " The opinions of historians on the subject of Torquemada are not in accord. In the eyes of some he is a 
 blood-thirsty creature, by nature an executioner ; in the eyes of others a visionary, an executioner by compassion. 
 
 " Of these two opinions the author has chosen that one which seemed to him the more philosophical from 
 the human standpoint, and the most dramatic from the literary standpoint. 
 
 " Moreover, in the Torquemada of this drama, the visionary become executioner, there is nothing which is 
 irreconcilable with possible reality."
 
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