The collars are correct, the linings faithful,
The tunics, brandenburghs, and forage-caps,
All's there! The painter never had to pause
To get the edgings and the facings right!
The lace is white, the flaps are triple-pointed!--
Oh, friend, whoe'er you are, with folded hands
I thank you, nameless soldier of my father!
I know not how you worked, nor whence you came.
How you found means, here, in our dismal gaol,
To paint these little mannikins for me.
Who is the hero, little wooden army--
Only a hero would have been so childish--
Who is the hero who equipped you thus
That now you smile at me from all your trappings?
Whose was the loving, microscopic brush
Which gave each tiny face its grim mustache,
Stamped cannon cross-wise on each pouch, and gave
Each officer his bugle or grenade?
Take them all out! The table's covered with them.
Here are the skirmishers, the fugle-men,
The Infantry with shoulder-straps of green.
Take them all out! They're little conquerors!
Oh, Prokesch, look! locked in that little box
Lay sleeping all the glorious _Grande Armée_!
Here are the Mamelukes--I recognize
The crimson breast-piece of the Polish Lancers.
Here are the Sappers with their purple breeches,
And here at last, with different colored leggings.
The Grenadiers of the line with waving plumes
Who marched into the battle with white gaiters;
The Conscripts here, with green and pear-shaped tufts.
Who marched to battle with their gaiters black.
Like a poor prisoner, who falls a-dreaming
Of vast and murmuring forests, with a tree
Fashioned of shavings, taken from a doll's house,
I build my Father's Epic with these soldiers.
[Illustration]
[_He moves away from the table._]
Why, yes, from here I cannot see at all
The little rounds of wood that keep them upright!
This army, Prokesch, when you move away
'Tis but the distance makes it look so small!
[_He comes back quickly._]
Place them in line for Wagram and for Eylau!
This naked yatagan shall be the water--
[_He takes a sword from the panoply._]
It is the Danube.
[_He arranges the soldiers._]
Essling! Yonder's Aspern.
Throw out a paper bridge across the steel.
Pass me a mounted Grenadier or two.
PROKESCH.
We want a little hillock.
THE DUKE.
[_Handing him a book._]
The "Memorials."
Here stands Saint Cyr, here Molitor of Bellegarde
And on the bridge--
METTERNICH.
[_Who has come in unperceived and is standing behind
him._]
And on the bridge?
THE DUKE.
The Guards.
METTERNICH.
So all the army's French to-day, it seems!
Where are the Austrians?
THE DUKE.
They've run away.
METTERNICH.
Tut, tut--who daubed them over for you?
THE DUKE.
No one.
METTERNICH.
'Twas you. That's how you spoil the toys we give you.
THE DUKE.
Sir--!
[METTERNICH _rings_--_a_ LACKEY _appears._]
METTERNICH.
[_To the_ LACKEY.]
Take these soldiers; throw them all away.
[_To the_ DUKE.]
I'll send you new ones.
THE DUKE.
I'll not have your new ones!
If I'm a child, my toys shall be a giant's!
METTERNICH.
What gadfly--what Imperial bee has stung you?
THE DUKE.
As irony is little to my liking--
THE LACKEY.
[_Aside to the_ DUKE.]
Silence, my Lord! I'll paint 'em over again.
METTERNICH.
Well, Highness?
THE DUKE.
Nothing. Just a fit of temper.
Forgive me.
[_Aside._]
I've a friend; I can be patient.
METTERNICH.
I came to bring your friend--
THE DUKE.
My friend?
METTERNICH.
Yes; Marshal
Marmont.
THE DUKE.
Oh! Marmont!
METTERNICH.
[_With a look at_ PROKESCH.]
He's among the few
I like to see about you--
PROKESCH.
[_Mutters._]
I should hope so!
METTERNICH.
He's here.
THE DUKE.
Why, let him come!
[METTERNICH _goes out. The_ DUKE _throws himself
wildly on the couch._]
My father! Glory!
The Eagles! The Imperial throne! The purple!
[_Suddenly calm, he offers his hand to_ MARMONT,
_who enters with_ METTERNICH.]
Ah, Marshal Marmont! How are _you_ to-day?
MARMONT.
My Lord--!
METTERNICH.
[_Anxious to get_ PROKESCH _away._]
Come, Prokesch, come and see how well
The Duke is lodged.
[_He takes him by the arm and leads him off._]
THE DUKE.
[_After a pause._]
You've told me all you know
About my Father's youth?
MARMONT.
I have.
THE DUKE.
We'll sum it up
You'd call him great?
MARMONT.
Oh, very.
THE DUKE.
But 'twas you
Who helped--
MARMONT.
I helped him to avoid--
THE DUKE.
Disaster?
MARMONT.
Well, he believed so stoutly--
THE DUKE.
In his star?
MARMONT.
We perfectly agree in our conclusions.
THE DUKE.
And I suppose he was, as we were saying--
MARMONT.
He was a General of some importance;
Yet it were hardly fair to call him--
THE DUKE.
Wretch!
MARMONT.
What?
THE DUKE.
Now I've learnt whatever you could teach me,
Whatever memories of him you had,
All that, in spite of you, was splendid in you.
I cast you off: a useless sponge!
MARMONT.
My Lord!
THE DUKE.
Duke of Ragusa, you betrayed him! You!
Ah, yes, I know, when you beheld your comrade
Climbing the throne you all said, "Why not I?"
But you, whom even in the ranks he loved,
And loved so well his men grew discontented,
Created Marshal at the age of thirty--
MARMONT.
No; thirty-five.
THE DUKE.
You, traitor of Essonnes,
The mob has found new uses for your name
And coined a verb "_Raguser_," to betray!
Why do you stand there silent? Answer me.
'Tis not alone Prince Francis Charles, it is
Napoleon the Second speaking to you.
MARMONT.
[_Listening._]
They come--Prince Metternich--I know his voice.
THE DUKE.
Well! you know what to do. Betray us twice!
METTERNICH.
[_Entering with_ PROKESCH.]
Don't interrupt your chat. I'm taking Prokesch
Across the park to see the Roman ruins
Where I propose to give a ball. I am
The last survivor of a crumbling world.
I like the idea of dancing over ruins.
Good-night.
[_He goes out with_ PROKESCH.]
MARMONT.
My Lord, you see I held my peace.
THE DUKE.
It only needed that you should _raguse_.
MARMONT.
Oh, conjugate the verb! I'll take a seat.
THE DUKE.
What!
MARMONT.
I will let you conjugate the verb
Because you were magnificent just now.
THE DUKE.
Sir!
MARMONT.
I have spoken evil of your Father
These fifteen years. I do so still; 'tis true.
Can you not guess I seek to excuse myself?
I never saw your Father after Elba--
If I had seen him I should have returned.
Others betrayed him, thinking to save France;
But these beheld his face again, and fell
Under the spell, as I have fallen to-night.
THE DUKE.
Why, sir?
MARMONT.
I also have beheld his face.
THE DUKE.
How?
MARMONT.
In that frown, and in that haughty gesture;
The sparkling eye! Insult me. I remain.
THE DUKE.
Almost you have atoned if that be true,
Saved me from self-distrust which these exploit.
What? With my gloomy brow and narrow chest--?
MARMONT.
I have beheld him!
THE DUKE.
Dare I hope again?
Dare I forgive you? Why did you betray him?
MARMONT.
My Lord--!
THE DUKE.
Why? You--and others?
MARMONT.
We were weary.
Can you not understand? No peace in Europe.
It's well to conquer, but one wants to live!
Berlin, Vienna, never, never Paris!
Beginning and beginning and beginning,
Again, and yet again as in a nightmare;
Forever and forever in the saddle
Till we were sick of it!
THE LACKEY.
[_Having taken out the wooden soldiers and come back._
What about us?
THE DUKE AND MARMONT.
Eh?
THE LACKEY.
Us, the men, the mean, the rank and file?
Us, tramping broken, wounded, muddy, dying,
Having no hope of duchies or endowments,
Marching along and never getting further,
Too simple and too ignorant to covet
The famous marshal's baton in our knapsacks?
What about us, who marched through every weather,
Sweating but fearless, shivering without trembling,
Kept on our feel by trumpet-calls, by fever,
And by the songs we sang through conquered countries?
Us upon whom for seventeen years--just think!--
The knapsack, sabre, turn-screw, flint, and gun,
Beside the burden of an empty belly,
Made the sweet weight of five and fifty pounds?
Us, who wore bearskins in the burning tropics
And marched bareheaded through the snows of Russia,
Who trotted casually from Spain to Austria?
Us who, to free our travel-weary legs,
Like carrots from the slough of miry roads,
Often with both hands had to lug them out?
Us, who, not having jujubes for our coughs,
Took day-long foot-baths in the freezing Danube?
Who just had leisure when some officer
Came riding up, and gayly cried "To arms!
The enemy is on us! Drive him back!"
To eat a slice of rook--and raw at that,
Or quickly mix a delicate ice-cream
With melted snow and a dead horse's blood?
Us, who--
THE DUKE.
At last!
THE LACKEY.
At night had little fear
Of bullets, but a holy dread of waking
Cannibals; us--
THE DUKE.
At last--!
THE LACKEY.
Who marched and fought
Fasting, and only stopped--
THE DUKE.
At last I see one!
THE LACKEY.
To fight--and then stopped fighting, four to one,
Only to march; and stopped again to fight!
Marching and fighting, naked, starved, but merry--
Don't you suppose we, too, were sick of it?
MARMONT.
But--
THE LACKEY.
Though we owed him precious little thanks,
Nevertheless 'twas we whose hearts were true,
While you were ambling at the King's right hand.
In short, your Highness, in the great canteen,
Where souls are fed on glory, he may find
[_Pointing to_ MARMONT.]
His laurels are not worth our small potatoes.
MARMONT.
Who is this Lackey with the veteran's growl?
THE LACKEY.
John Seraph Peter Flambeau, called Flambart--
"The glowing coal"--ex-sergeant grenadier.
Mamma from Picardy; Papa a Breton.
Joined at fourteen, two Germinal, year Three.
Baptised, Marengo; got my corporal's stripes
The fifteenth Fructidor, year Twelve. Silk hose
And sergeant's cane, steeped in my tears of joy.
July fourteenth, year Eighteen hundred and nine,
At Schönbrunn, for the Guards were here to serve
The sacred person of your Majesty.
Sixteen years' service, seen sixteen campaigns,
Fought Austerlitz, fought Eylau, Somo-Siera,
Eckmühl, Essling, Wagram, Smolensk, and so forth.
Thirty-two feats of arms, a lot of wounds,
And only fought for glory and dry bread.
MARMONT.
Surely you will not listen to him thus?
THE DUKE.
No, sir, I will not listen thus, but standing!
MARMONT.
My Lord!
THE DUKE.
For in the volume whose sublime
Chapters are headed with proud capitals
You are the titles and you catch the eye;
But these--these are the thousand little letters--
You're nought, without the black and humble army
That goes to make a page of history.
Oh, my brave Flambeau, painter of my soldiers,
To think while you were near me all this month,
I only looked upon you as a spy.
FLAMBEAU.
Oh, our acquaintance dates much further back!
THE DUKE.
How so?
FLAMBEAU.
Can't you recall me?
THE DUKE.
Not at all.
FLAMBEAU.
One Thursday in the garden of Saint Cloud
Marshal Duroc stood with a maid-in-waiting,
Watching your Highness at his nurse's breast--
Its whiteness, I remember, startled me.
Marshal Duroc exclaimed, "Come here!" I came.
But there were lots of things to make me nervous:
The Imperial child, the gorgeous rosy sleeves
The Maid of honor wore, Duroc, the breast--
In short, the tuft was shivering on my bearskin;
So much so that your Highness noticed it.
You gazed upon it pensively: what was it?
And while you hailed it with a milky laugh
You seemed uncertain which to admire the more
About this moving scarlet miracle:
Its motion, or the fact that it was scarlet.
Suddenly, while I stooped, your little hands
Began lo pull the precious tuft about.
Seeing my plight, the Marshal cried severely,
"Don't interfere"--I didn't interfere;
But having sunk upon my knees I heard
The nurse, the marshal, and the lady laughing.
And when I rose the grass was strewn with red:
As for my tuft, that was a beardless wire.
"I'll sign an order," said Duroc, "for two."
Back to my quarters then I strutted radiant;
"You there! hulloa!" exclaimed the Adjutant,
"Who's plucked you?" And I cried: "The King of Rome!"
And that is how one Thursday morn I met
Your Majesty. Your Highness has developed.
THE DUKE.
No, not developed: that is why I grieve.
My "Majesty" has shrivelled to my "Highness."
MARMONT.
[_To_ FLAMBEAU.]
But since the Empire fell, what have you done?
FLAMBEAU.
I think I've acted like a decent beggar.
I know Fournier and Solignac. In May
Eighteen-sixteen Didier and Sarlovèze
Conspire and fail. I see the child Miard
Perish, and David the old man, and weep;
They'd have beheaded me, but I am missing.
Good. I come back to Paris with an alias;
I smash a footstool on a royal guard
Because he'd trodden on my favorite corn.
I take the chair at noisy drinking bouts,
Spend thirty pence a month. I nurse a hope
That in the Var that Other still may land.
I swagger in a Bonapartist hat
And call whoever stares at me a vampire.
I fight some thirty duels. I conspire
At Béziers; fail. They'd have beheaded me,
But I am missing. Good. I join at once
The plot at Lyons. All are seized. I fly.
They'd have beheaded me, but I am missing.
So I come back to Paris, where, by chance,
I find myself mixed up in the Bazaar plot.
Lefèvre-Desnouettes is in America.
I join him there. "What's up, my General?"
Says I. Says he, "Come back." We start; we're wrecked.
My General's drowned, but I know how to swim;
And so I swim, bewailing Desnouettes.
Good. Very good. Sun--azure waves--and sea-mews.
A ship. They fish me up. I land in time
To be among the plotters of Saumur.
We fail again. They'd have beheaded me,
But I am missing. So I make for Greece,
To rub the rust off, thrashing dirty Turks.
One morning in July I'm back in France.
I see them heaping paving stones. I help.
I fight. At night the tricolor is hoisted.
Instead of the while banner of the King,
But as I think there still is something lacking
To crown the point of that disloyal staff;
You know--the golden thing that beats its wings.
I leave, to plot in the Romagna. Fail.
A relative of yours--
THE DUKE.
Named?
FLAMBEAU.
Camerata--
Makes me her fencing master--
THE DUKE.
Ah!
FLAMBEAU.
In Tuscany.
So we conspire with singlestick and rapier.
Next there's a post of danger vacant here;
They give me forged credentials; here I am.
I'm here; but every day I see the Countess,
For I have found the cave your Highness dug
With your preceptor Colin in the garden
To play at little Robinson. All right!
I hide in it. I find it has two openings:
This in an ant-heap; that, a bed of nettles.
I wait. Your cousin brings her sketch-book, and
There in the shadow of the Roman thingummies,
She on her camp-stool, I amid the mud,
She looking like an English tourist sketching,
I whispering from my cavern like a prompter,
We plan the means to make you Emperor.
THE DUKE.
And for such loyalty, so long maintained,
What do you ask of me?
FLAMBEAU.
Just pull my ear.
THE DUKE.
What?
FLAMBEAU.
As your Father used to when we'd pleased him.
THE DUKE.
But I--
FLAMBEAU.
I'm waiting. Come. The thumb and index.
[THE DUKE _pulls his ear._]
That's not the way to pull an ear, my Lord!
You don't know how: you're much too gentlemanly.
THE DUKE.
Ah, do you think so?
MARMONT.
Clumsy thing to say!
FLAMBEAU.
Well, in a French Prince that's but half a fault.
THE DUKE.
But can you see I'm French in these surroundings?
FLAMBEAU.
Yes, you don't match. It's rich; it's heavy.
MARMONT.
What!
Can you see that?
FLAMBEAU.
My brother's an upholsterer.
He works in Paris for Fontaine and Percier--
They try to imitate us here; but, Lord!
They've got a curious kind of Louis-Quinze!
I'm not an expert, but I've got an eye.
[_He lifts up a chair._]
Just look how finnicking this wood-work is.
[_He puts it down and looks at it._]
But then the tapestry! What taste! what mystery!
It sings. It laughs. It crushes all the room.
Why? Don't you know? Why, these are Gobelins!
How plain it is that cunning craftsmen made them.
This taste, this elegance swears with the rest--
And you my Lord, were also made in France!
MALMONT.
He must go back.
FLAMBEAU.
And on the Cross of Honor
Once more engrave a little Emperor.
THE DUKE.
Whom have they put there now?
FLAMBEAU.
Henry the Fourth--
Well, damn it all, it had to be a fighter!
But, _basta_! How Napoleon must laugh
To wear King Henry's mask upon his face!
Haven't you ever seen the cross?
THE DUKE.
In shops.
FLAMBEAU.
My Lord, it must be seen upon a breast.
Here on the cloth, a gout of ardent blood,
Which fell, and falling turned to burnished gold
And to enamel with an edge of green;
'Twas like a jewel pouring from a wound.
THE DUKE.
It must have looked magnificent, my friend.
Here on your bosom.
FLAMBEAU.
I?--I never had it.
THE DUKE.
What! After all your modest heroism?
FLAMBEAU.
One had to do far greater deeds to win it.
THE DUKE.
You made no claim?
FLAMBEAU.
The Little Corporal
Didn't bestow it; so I hadn't earned it.
THE DUKE.
Then I, who have no power, no throne, no title,
I, who am but a memory in a phantom,
That Duke of Reichstadt who with helpless grief
Can only wander under Austrian trees,
Carving an N upon their mossy trunks,
Wayfarer, only noticed when I cough;
Who have no longer even the little piece
Of watered silk so scarlet in my cradle;
I, on whose woes they vainly lavish stars,
Who only wear two crosses, not the One!
I, exiled, prisoner, sick, who may not ride
Along the front of pompous regiments
Scattering stars among my heroes; yet
I hope--I think--the son of such a father--
Into whose hands a firmament was given--
I think, in spite of shadows and dead days,
A little of the star clings to my fingers:--
John Seraph Peter Flambeau, I adorn you!
FLAMBEAU.
You!
THE DUKE.
Oh, this ribbon is not real.
FLAMBEAU.
The real
Is that we weep in taking. I have wept.
MARMONT.
Besides, it must be legalized in Paris.
THE DUKE.
But how to get to Paris?
FLAMBEAU.
Pack your trunk.
THE DUKE.
Alas!
FLAMBEAU.
No more "Alas." To-day's the Ninth,
And if you'd like to be on the Pont-Neuf
The Thirtieth--you'll be there if you like--
Come to the ball to-morrow given by Nepomuk.
THE DUKE AND MARMONT.
By whom?
FLAMBEAU.
Prince Metternich (Clement Lothair
Wenceslas Nepomuk). Come. No more "Alas!"
MARMONT.
You utter dangerous secrets in my presence!
FLAMBEAU.
You'll not betray a plot in which you share.
THE DUKE.
Not Marmont!
MARMONT.
Yes, I'm with you.
[_To_ FLAMBEAU.]
All the same
You didn't use much flattery to win me;
You gave me quite a warm reception.
FLAMBEAU.
Yes;
And won a warm reception for myself.
MARMONT.
Very imprudent.
FLAMBEAU.
True, but then my failing
Is ever overdoing things a little.
I always add a trifle to my orders
And wear a rose-bud when I go to battle:
My little joke.
MARMONT.
So if the Camerata
Cares to employ me--
THE DUKE.
No! not Marmont!
FLAMBEAU.
Pooh!
Let him redeem himself!
THE DUKE.
No!
MARMONT.
I have lists
Carefully made, of all the malcontents;
Maison, the French Ambassador, is my friend.
FLAMBEAU.
Oh, he can serve us.
THE DUKE.
Compromises! No!
I'll not let Marmont consecrate himself!
MARMONT.
When you are crowned, my Lord, I will obey you.
Meanwhile I'll go at once to General Maison.
[MARMONT _goes out._]
FLAMBEAU.
That venerable rascal's in the right.
THE DUKE.
So be it, then! I'll come. But where's the proof
That France still feels herself my Father's widow?
Oh, Flambeau, time has passed; the ancient love
These worthy people bore us must have died.
FLAMBEAU.
Their love of you, my Lord? Why that's immortal!
[_He takes from about his person the various articles
mentioned in the following scene._]
THE DUKE.
Why, Flambeau, what is that?
FLAMBEAU.
A pair of braces.
THE DUKE.
Have you gone mad?
FLAMBEAU.
Just look and see what's on 'em!
THE DUKE.
My portrait!
FLAMBEAU.
Worn by quite a decent class.
THE DUKE.
But Flambeau--
FLAMBEAU.
Will you take a pinch of snuff?
THE DUKE.
I--
FLAMBEAU.
On the box a little curly head.
THE DUKE.
'Tis I!
FLAMBEAU.
And what about this handkerchief?
Eh! Not so bad, the little King of Rome?
THE DUKE.
But--
FLAMBEAU.
Colored print to paste upon your walls.
THE DUKE.
Again! on horseback!
FLAMBEAU.
Yes, and caracolling.
How d'you like this pipe?
THE DUKE.
But tell me, Flambeau--
FLAMBEAU.
You cannot say they haven't drawn you handsome!
THE DUKE.
I--
FLAMBEAU.
A cockade, to tease the government.
THE DUKE.
What's that?
FLAMBEAU.
A medal. Trivial fancy goods.
THE DUKE.
Still I?
FLAMBEAU.
Still you. Look here, what words are ground
Upon this tumbler?
THE DUKE.
"Francis, Duke of Reichstadt."
FLAMBEAU.
Of course you can't get on without a plate--
THE DUKE.
A plate?
FLAMBEAU.
A knife, a napkin-ring, an egg-cup.
They've made you look so happy on the egg-cup!
The table's laid, my Lord: my Lord is served!
THE DUKE.
[_With increasing emotion._]
Flambeau--
FLAMBEAU.
On everything. Here's a cravat
In which you're woven riding in the clouds;
And playing cards of which you're Ace of Spades--
THE DUKE.
Flambeau!
FLAMBEAU.
And Almanacs--
THE DUKE.
Flambeau!
FLAMBEAU.
And everything!
THE DUKE.
Flambeau!
FLAMBEAU.
What, weeping? Take this handkerchief
And dry your eyes upon the King of Rome!
[_He kneels by the_ DUKE'S _side and wipes his eyes
with the handkerchief._]
I bid you strike the iron while it's hot:
You've got the people and you've got the Marshals,
The King, the King himself, is only King
On one condition: that he's Bonapartist.
Vainly the Gallic cockerel spreads his wings
That, from a distance, he may seem an eagle.
We Frenchmen cannot breathe inglorious air;
The crown must slip from off a pear-shaped head.
The youth of France will rally to your side
Merrily shouting songs of Béranger--
The street has shuddered and the pavement trembled,
And Schönbrunn's not so pretty as Versailles!
THE DUKE.
I will accept.
[_Military music is heard._]
Ha!
FLAMBEAU.
[_At the window._]
In the Court of honor
The trumpets of the Guard. The Emperor
Is coming home.
THE DUKE.
My grandfather! My promise!
[_To_ FLAMBEAU.]
No; before accepting--
FLAMBEAU.
Damn it!
THE DUKE.
Listen!
I must make one attempt with him; but if
When you are here on guard to-night, you see
Something--that you're not used to seeing here--
It is a signal! I will fly.
FLAMBEAU.
Latude!
What will the signal be?
THE DUKE.
You'll see.
FLAMBEAU.
But if--
[_An officer of the Noble Guard enters._]
THE OFFICER.
My Lord--
FLAMBEAU.
[_Taking stock of him._]
The beggars! Aren't they gorgeous swells!
THE DUKE.
Well?
THE OFFICER.
As the Emperor passed, they came and said,
"O Sire, this is the one day in the week
Whereon your Majesty receives his subjects;
Many have come from far--" "I'd thought of it,"
Replied the Emperor, smiling; "and I hope
To see them. I'm at Schönbrunn as a grandfather,
I shall be with the Duke from five to six:
Let all my children be beside my grandson."
May they come up?
THE DUKE.
Yes! open all the doors!
[_The_ OFFICER _goes out._]
THE DUKE.
[_To_ FLAMBEAU.]
Now quickly make a bundle of these treasures.
I'll look at them at leisure in my room.
FLAMBEAU.
I make the bundle in the handkerchief.
But tell me what the signal is to be.
THE DUKE.
Oh, never fear! you will not fail to know it.
But--do you hear them? That's the Austrian Hymn.
FLAMBEAU.
My word! It isn't worth the Marseillaise!
THE DUKE.
The Marseillaise--well? have you tied the ends?
My father used to say it wore mustachios.
FLAMBEAU.
Their blessed national hymn has scented whiskers.
THE DUKE.
It wouldn't be bad fun to enter France,
Thus, with my bundle on my back, on foot.
FLAMBEAU.
How cheerful and how funny you can be!
This is the first time I have seen you so.
THE DUKE.
What? Rather young and merry? Thank you, Flambeau.
CURTAIN.
[Illustration: decoration of two eagles with an orb between]
[Illustration: decoration of an eagle with wings spread wide and a crown
above its head]
THE THIRD ACT
_Scene: The same as in the previous act._
_A miscellaneous crowd of men, women and children are discovered on the
rising of the curtain. They are being placed in order by an_ OFFICER.
THE OFFICER.
Line up. Be quiet. Boy, behave yourself.
The Emperor enters here; so leave a passage.
You, giant Highlander, don't scrape your feet.
A MAN.
Will he pass here?
THE OFFICER.
Yes; and he'll take your papers.
Hold your petitions so that he can see them.
No tedious twaddle--Ah!--and you're forbidden
To kneel when he comes in.
A WOMAN.
Forbidden or not,
That won't prevent us--
[_The_ EMPEROR _enters quite simply, without being
announced. All the people, in spite of the warning,
fall on their knees._]
THE EMPEROR.
Rise, my children, rise.
[_He passes from one to the other, taking their
papers. To a_ WOMAN.]
Your pension's doubled.
THE WOMAN.
Sire!
THE EMPEROR.
[_To a_ MAN.]
What? What? A team
Of oxen? That's expensive!--Granted.
THE MAN.
Father!
THE EMPEROR.
[_Reading another paper._]
Granted.
A WOMAN.
Father Franz--
THE EMPEROR.
What, you? All well
At home?
THE WOMAN.
Oh, so-so.
THE EMPEROR.
Well, old woman? Well?
THE OLD WOMAN.
Why, don't you see, the wind has killed my chickens.
THE EMPEROR.
Granted.--A vocalist?
THE VOCALIST.
I yodle.
THE EMPEROR.
Come
And yodle to the Court at Baden.
THE CHAMBERLAIN.
Name?
THE VOCALIST.
Schnauser.
THE EMPEROR.
A Highlander?
THE HIGHLANDER.
Out yonder
My home is, on the mountains, in the skies.
I want to be a cabman in Vienna.
THE EMPEROR.
Well, so you shall.
[_Taking another paper._]
A wealthy husbandman
Begs Franz to give him back his daughter's love
Which a Bohemian glass-blower has stolen.
[_Handing back the paper._]
You'll wed your child to her Bohemian lover.
THE HUSBANDMAN.
But--
THE EMPEROR.
I'll endow him.
THE CHAMBERLAIN.
Name?
THE HUSBANDMAN.
Johannes Schmoll.
I kiss your hands.
THE EMPEROR.
[_Taking another paper._]
"A shepherd of the Tyrol,
A friendless orphan, robbed of all his land,
Driven from his homestead by his father's foes,
Yearns for his native woods and skies"--how touching!--
"And his paternal meadow." 'Tis restored.
THE CHAMBERLAIN.
What is the shepherd's name, who asks for help?
THE SHEPHERD.
The Duke of Reichstadt! And the meadow's France!
THE EMPEROR.
[_To the_ PETITIONERS.]
Begone!
[_All go._]
What's this?
THE DUKE.