The Dramas of Victor Hugo: Mary Tudor, Marion de Lorme, Esmeralda Part 74

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The Dramas of Victor Hugo: Mary Tudor, Marion de Lorme, Esmeralda



The Dramas of Victor Hugo: Mary Tudor, Marion de Lorme, Esmeralda Part 74


Rules he not war And peace, finances, states? Makes he not laws, Edicts, mandates, and ordinances too?


Through treachery he broke the Catholic league; He strikes the house of Austria--friendly To me--to which the Queen belongs.


DUKE DE BELLEGARDE.


Ah, sire, He lets you keep a vivary within The Louvre. You have your share.


THE KING.


Then he intrigues With Denmark.


DUKE DE BELLEGARDE.


But he let you fix the marc Among the jewelers.


THE KING (_whose ill-humor increases_).


He fights with Rome!


DUKE DE BELLEGARDE.


He let you issue an edict, alone, By which a citizen was not allowed To eat more than a crowns worth at a tavern, Een though he wished to.


THE KING.


All the treaties he Concludes in secret.


DUKE DE BELLEGARDE.


Yes; but then you have Your hunting mansion at Planchette.


THE KING.


All--all!


He does it all! All with pet.i.tions rush To him! Im but a shadow to the French!


Is there a single one who comes to me For help?


DUKE DE BELLEGARDE.


Those who have the kings evil come.


[_The anger of The King increases._


THE KING.


He means to give my order to his brother!


I will not have it! I rebel.


DUKE DE BELLEGARDE.


But, sire--


THE KING.


I am disgusted with his people!


DUKE DE BELLEGARDE.


Sire!


THE KING.


His niece, Combalet, leads a model life.


DUKE DE BELLEGARDE.


Tis slander, sire!


THE KING.


Two hundred foot-guards!


DUKE DE BELLEGARDE.


But Only a hundred horse-guards!


THE KING.


What a shame!


DUKE DE BELLEGARDE.


He saves France, sire.


THE KING.


Does he? He d.a.m.ns my soul!


With one arm fights the heathen, with the other He signs a compact with the Huguenots.


[_Whispering to Duke de Bellegarde._ Then, if I dared to count upon my hand The heads--the heads that fall for him at Greve!


All friends of mine! His purple robes are made Of their hearts blood! Tis he who forces me To wear eternal mourning.


DUKE DE BELLEGARDE.


Treats he his own More kindly? Did he spare Saint Preuil?


THE KING.


He has A bitter tenderness, they say, for those He loves. He must love me tremendously!


[_Abruptly, after a pause, folding his arms._







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