L'Aiglon - LightNovelsOnl.com
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'Tis she!
Not long ago I met her in Vienna, Wrapped in a cloak. She swiftly kissed my hand And fled, exclaiming, Haven't I the right To greet the Emperor's son who is my master?
She is a Bonaparte! We are alike!-- Ay, but her hair is dark; not fair like mine.
MARIA LOUISA.
We'll try them on in there. Come, follow me.
Only Parisians, Franz, know how to fit us.
THE DUKE.
Yes, mother.
MARIA LOUISA.
Don't you love Parisian taste?
THE DUKE.
It's very true they dress you well in Paris.
[MARIA LOUISA, SCARAMPI, _and the_ FITTER _go into_ MARIA LOUISA'S _apartment with the things they are to try on._]
THE DUKE.
Now! Who are you, sir?
THE TAILOR.
I? A nameless atom.
Weary of life in mean and paltry times, Of smoking pipes and dreaming of ideals.
Who am I? How do I know? That's my trouble.
Am I at all?--It's very hard to "be."
I study Victor Hugo; spout his odes-- I tell you this, because this sort of thing Is all contemporary youth. I spend Extravagant fortunes in acquiring boredom.
I am an artist, Highness, and Young France.
Also I'm carbonaro at your service.
And as I'm always bored I wear red waistcoats, And that amuses me. At tying neck-cloths I once was very good indeed. That's why They sent me here to-day to play the tailor.
I'll add, to make the picture quite complete, That I'm a liberal and a king-devourer.
My life and dagger are at your command.
THE DUKE.
I like you, sir, although your talk is crazy.
THE YOUNG MAN.
You must not judge me by my whirling words; The itch of notoriety consumes me, But the disease beneath is very real, And makes me seek forgetfulness in danger.
THE DUKE.
Disease?
THE YOUNG MAN.
A shuddering disgust.
THE DUKE.
Your soul Heavy with foiled ambitions?
THE YOUNG MAN.
Dull disquiet--
THE DUKE.
Morbid enjoyment of our sufferings, And pride in showing off our pallid brows?
THE YOUNG MAN.
My Lord!
THE DUKE.
Contempt for those who live content?
THE YOUNG MAN.
My Lord!
THE DUKE.
And doubt?
THE YOUNG MAN.
In what mysterious volume Has one so young learnt all the human heart?
For that is what I feel.
THE DUKE.
Give me your hand!
For, as a sapling, friend, which is transplanted, Feels all the forest in its ignorant veins, And suffers when its distant mates are hurt, So I, who knew you not, here, all alone, Felt the distemper stirring in my blood Which at this moment blights the youth of France.
THE YOUNG MAN.
Rather I think our malady is yours, For whence upon you falls this giant robe?
Child, whom beforehand they have robbed of glory, Pale Prince, so pale against your sable suit, Why are you pale, my Prince?
THE DUKE.
