tales of two people 51

tales of two people 51

Duc. I thought life done. I was wrong a thousand times!

 

Marquise. I cried when you----

 

Duc. Ah, if I beg them to torture me---- Would that atone?

 

Marquise. They found me crying. Think of the humiliation!

 

Duc. Oh, I must have a talk with a priest--after all I must! (_She turns

away with a sob and then a gasping laugh._) Ay, that’s life, dearest

Marquise--and perhaps it’s the other thing too.

 

Marquise. I care less now, Louis.

 

Duc. Give me your hand a minute. Yes, it’s warmer now. And the

rouge--why, madame, I swear the rouge is utterly superfluous! Shall we

throw it to the mob? It’s their favourite colour. I’ll leave it in the

cart--when they turn on one another, some hero may be glad of it.

Margot, dear Margot, are you cold? I thought you shivered as your arm

touched mine.

 

Marquise. (_Low._) No. I’m--I’m just a little afraid, Louis.

 

Duc. Oh no, no, no--Margot, no. You’re cold. Or--(_Smiling._) Come,

flatter me. Say it’s agitation--say it’s joy. Come, Margot, say that!

 

Marquise. (_Drawing nearer._) They didn’t know what they were doing when

they sent me with you.

 

Duc. The ignorance of the fellows is extraordinary.

 

Marquise. Because--everybody knew.

 

Duc. Alas, I was never too discreet! (_More shouts are heard. The Guard

in charge of the tumbril cries “Ready? We’re the last.”_) Hum! For

to-day, I suppose he means! (_He looks at her; her lips are moving. He

takes off his hat and stands bareheaded. The movement of her lips ceases

and she turns to him. He smiles._) I think you can have little need of

prayer.

 

Marquise. You say that? You?

 

Duc. Yes, I say that, Margot. (_They are at the foot of the scaffold

now._) As for me--well, I have always followed the fashion--and prayers

are not the fashion now. I was bitten by M. de Voltaire. By the way,

perhaps he’s had something to do with this--and we made him the fashion!

How whimsical! (_The National Guard turns and points his finger towards

the scaffold._) What? Oh, at your service, monsieur. (_He turns to the_

MARQUISE, _smiling_.) I must leave you--this time in love.

 

Marquise. (_Stretching out her hands._) Let me go first.

 

Duc. On my soul, I couldn’t! (_Softly._) The way is dark, let me show it

you.

 

Marquise. Louis, Louis!

 

Duc. And now--look now towards the river. Pray--towards the river! I

want you to remember me at my best. And--Margot--you mustn’t--you

mustn’t want the rouge. Your hand’s warm--still warm.

 

Marquise. (_Vehemently._) I will go first. I--I can’t see you--I will go

first.

 

Duc. Your will is my law always. (_She turns to descend._) It has been

pleasant to come with you.

 

Marquise. It was--easier--to come with you.

 

Duc. I am forgiven, Margot?

 

Marquise. Louis, dear Louis! (_He raises her hand to his lips. She goes.

He stands bareheaded, facing the scaffold while she suffers. Then he

puts his hat on and mounts the scaffold. They carry past him the basket

containing her head. A priest holds a crucifix before him. He starts and

bows to the priest._)

 

Duc. I beg your pardon, father, but--I knew the lady very well. She died

bravely, eh? _Pardon?_ Think how we have lived as well as how we die?

Yes, yes; most just and--er--apposite. Die truly penitent? Ah yes, yes.

Forgive me--I’m not master of my time. (_He bows and turns to the

executioner and his assistants._) Don’t keep me waiting. My desire is

to follow Madame la Marquise. What? “The woman died well!” God save

us--the woman! Well, as you please. Shall we say---- (_He places himself

beneath the knife._) Shall we say--Margot? Nobody was ever like Margot.

(_Smiles, then looks up._) Well? Oh, you wait for me. Good! _Messieurs,

allez!_

 

 

 

 

THE RIDDLE OF COUNTESS RUNA

 

 

 

 

I

 

 

Having reduced the rest of his kingdom to obedience in three arduous

campaigns, King Stanislas sat himself down with a great army before the

strong place of Or, which was held against him by Runa, daughter of

Count Theobald the Fierce. For Countess Runa said that since her father

had paid neither obedience nor tribute to the King’s father for fifty

years, neither would she pay obedience or tribute to the King, nor would

she open the city gates to him save at her own time and by her own will.

So the King came and enveloped the city on all sides, so that none could

pass in or out, and sent his heralds to Countess Runa demanding

surrender; in default of which he would storm the ramparts, sack the

city, and lay the citadel level with the earth, in such wise that men

should not remember the place where it had been.

 

Sitting on her high chair, beneath the painted window through which the

sun struck athwart her fair hair, Runa heard the message.

 

“Tell the King--for a king he is, though no king of mine--that we are

well armed and have knights of fame with us. Tell him that we are

provisioned for more months than he shall reign years, and that we will

tire him sooner than he can starve us.”

 

She ceased speaking, and the principal herald, bowing low, asked: “Is

that all the message?”

 

“No, there is more. Tell him that the daughter of Count Theobald the

Fierce rules in the city of Or.”

 

Bowing again, the principal herald asked: “Is that all the message?”

 

Runa sat silent for a minute. Then she said: “No, there is more. Tell

the King that he must carry the citadel before he can pass the

ramparts.”

 

The principal herald frowned, then smiled and said: “But with deference,

madam, how can that be? For the citadel is high on a rock, and the city

lies round it below, and again round the city lie the ramparts. How,

then, shall the King carry the citadel before----?”

 

Runa raised her brows in weariness.

 

“Your speech is as long as your siege will be,” she said. “You are a

mouthpiece, Sir Herald, not an interpreter. Begone, and say to the King

what I have given you to say.”

 

So the heralds returned to King Stanislas and gave him Runa’s answer;

but the King, in his wrath, listened more to the first part of it than

to the last, and assaulted the ramparts fiercely for three days. But

Runa’s men rolled his men back with loss and in confusion, for they were

in good heart because of the message Runa had sent. “For,” they said,

“our Countess has bidden the King perform what is impossible before she

will yield the city; and as we trusted Theobald the father, so we trust

the daughter Runa.”

 

After his three assaults had failed, King Stanislas waited in quiet for

a month, drawing his cordon yet more closely round the city. Then he

sent again to the Countess, saying that he would spend the first half of

his reign outside the walls of Or, provided he could spend the second

half of it inside the same; yet if she would yield now, she should have

his favour and all her wealth; but if she would not yield, she must

await starvation and sack and the extremity of his anger. To which

summons she answered only: “Tell the King that he must carry the citadel

before he can pass the ramparts.” And she would say no more to the

heralds.

 

“A plague on her!” cried Stanislas. “A plague on the woman and her

insolent riddles! Of what appearance is she? I have never seen her.”

 

“As the sun for beauty and the moon for dignity,” said the principal

herald, whose occupation naturally bred eloquence.

 

“Stuff!” said King Stanislas very crossly.

 

The herald bowed, but with an offended air.

 

“Does she seem sane?” asked Stanislas.

 

“Perfectly sane, sire,” answered the herald. “Although, as your Majesty

deigns to intimate, the purport of her message is certainly not such as

might reasonably be expected from a lady presumably endowed with----”

 

“I am ready for the next audience,” said King Stanislas to his Chamberlain.