The Goddess of Reason 6
THE HUNTSMAN (_within_)
Hilloa!—Hilloa!
SÉRAPHINE
We’re caught!
YVETTE
The terrace there! Behind the stone woman!
[_They cross the garden to the terrace._
SÉRAPHINE (_She stops abruptly and points to the table_)
Bread!
THE HUNTSMAN (_nearer_)
Hilloa!—Hilloa!
[YVETTE _and_ SÉRAPHINE _turn from the table and
hide behind the tall, ivy-draped pedestal of the
statue_. GRÉGOIRE _looks up from his paper and sees
them_.
_Enter_ RAÔUL THE HUNTSMAN.
THE HUNTSMAN
This way they came!
GRÉGOIRE (_jerking his thumb over his shoulder_)
Down yonder path!—plump to the woods again!
THE HUNTSMAN
The Hussars from Auray have twenty rogues!
GRÉGOIRE
Indeed!
THE HUNTSMAN
These two and my bag’s full!
[_Exit_ THE HUNTSMAN.
GRÉGOIRE
Diable!
[_He reads aloud._
_Weary at last of intolerable wrong,
The peasants of Goy in Normandy rose
And burned the château. Who questions their right?_
[_He folds his paper._
Saint Yves! this stone is much harder than Goy!
[_He looks fixedly at the statue and raises his voice._
Ma’m’selle who would smile at the trump of doom,
I think that all the village will be hanged!
And at its head that brown young witch they call
Yvette—
_Reënter_ DE VARDES _and_ THE MARQUISE.
DE VARDES (_to_ GRÉGOIRE)
Begone!
[_Exit_ GRÉGOIRE. DE VARDES _and_ THE MARQUISE
_rest beside the statue_, YVETTE _listening_.
Why, what’s a soldier for?
But pity me, pity me, belle Marquise!
Since pity is so sweet!
THE MARQUISE
I’m sure it is
A fearful wound!
DE VARDES
A fearful wound indeed!
But ‘tis not in the arm!
THE MARQUISE
No, monsieur?
DE VARDES
No!
The heart! I swear that it is bleeding fast!
And I have naught wherewith to stanch the wound.
Your kerchief—
THE MARQUISE
Just a piece of lace!
DE VARDES
‘Twill serve.
THE MARQUISE (_giving her handkerchief_)
Well, there!—Now tell me of last night.
DE VARDES
Last night!
Why, all this tintamarre was but a dream,
Fanfare of fairy trumpets while we slept.
A night it was for love-in-idleness,
And fragrant thoughts and airy phantasy!
There was no moon, but Venus shone as bright;
The honeysuckle blew its tiny horn
To tell the rose a moth was coming by.
_Clarice-Marie!_ sang all the nightingales,
Or would have sung were nightingales abroad!
_Hush, hush!_ the little waves kept whispering.
The ivy at your window still was peeping;
You lay in dreams, that gold curl on your breast!
THE MARQUISE
No, no! You cheat me not, monsieur! Last night
I did not sleep!
DE VARDES
Nor I!
THE MARQUISE
Miserable brigands!
DE VARDES
No, not brigands! Just wretched flesh and blood.
THE MARQUISE
You pity them?
DE VARDES
Ay.
THE MARQUISE
Were I a seigneur,
Lord of Morbec—
DE VARDES
Were I a poor fisher,
Sailing at sunrise home from the islands,
Over the sea, and all my heart singing!
And you were a herd girl slender and sweet,
With the gold of your hair beneath your cap,
And you kept the cows and you were my _douce_,
And you waved your hand from the green cliff head
When the sun and I came up from the sea!—
And there was a seigneur so great and grim
Who walked in his garden and said aloud,
“How many fish has he taken for me?
Which of her cows shall I keep for myself?
I leave him enough to pay for the Mass
The day he is drowned, and the girl shall have
The range of the hills for her one poor cow!
Why should the fisher fret, the herd girl weep?
There is no reason in a serf’s dull heart!
I might have taken all. It is my right!”
La belle Marquise, what would the herd girl do?
And should the fisher suffer and say naught?
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