L'Aiglon - LightNovelsOnl.com
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Grandfather, shall I carry on your great Herbarium, where the h.e.l.lebore is missing?
Or shall I, living, play at being dead?
Which ancestor will G.o.dfather my madness?
The living-dead, the alchemist, or bigot?
You see, they took their madness rather sadly, But mingled perfumes make a novel scent; My brain, mixed of these gloomy brains, may start Some pretty little madness of its own.
Come! What shall my peculiar madness be?
By heavens! My instincts, conquered till to-day, Make it quite simple: I'll be mad with love!
I'll love and love, and crush, with bitter hate, This Austrian lip under a pa.s.sionate kiss!
PROKESCH.
Prince!
THE DUKE.
As Don Juan I am all my race!
Snarer of hearts, astrologer of eyes; I'll have herbaria full of blighted names, And the philosopher's stone I seek is love!
PROKESCH.
My Lord!
THE DUKE.
Why, if you think of it, dear friend, Napoleon's son, Don Juan, is strict logic.
The soul's the same: ever dissatisfied; The same unceasing l.u.s.t of victory.
Oh splendid blood another has corrupted, Who, striving to be Caesar, was not able; Thy energy is not all dead within me.
A misbegotten Caesar is Don Juan!
Yes, 'tis another way of conquering; Thus I shall know that fever of the heart Which Byron tells us kills whom it devours; And 'tis a way of being still my father.
Napoleon or Don Juan!--They're decision, The magic will, and the seductive grace.
When to retake a great unfaithful land, Calm and alone, sure of himself and her, The adventurer landed in the Gulf of Juan, He felt Don Juan's thrill; and when Don Juan p.r.i.c.ked a new conquest in his list of loves, Did he not feel the pride of Bonaparte?
And, after all, who knows whether 'tis greater To conquer worlds, or be a moment loved?
So be it? 'Tis well the legend closes thus, And that _this_ conqueror is the other's son.
I'm the fair shadow of the dusky hero, And, as he conquered nations, one by one, So will I conquer women, one by one.
Moonbeams shall be my sun of Austerlitz!
PROKESCH.
Ah, silence! for your irony's too bitter.
THE DUKE.
Oh, yes; I know. I hear the spectres crying-- Blue-coated spectres torn along the whirlwind-- "Well? What about the Imperial tale of triumph?
Our toil? our wounds? our glory?--What about The snow, the blood, the history, the dead We left on all the fields of victory?
What will you do with these?"--I'll charm the ladies!
It's fine, among the people in the Prater, To ride a horse that cost three thousand florins, Which one can christen Jena. Austerlitz Is a sure bait to catch a fair coquette.
PROKESCH.
You'll never have the heart to use it thus.
THE DUKE.
Why, yes; why, yes, my friend. And in my scarf-- For 'tis a thing looks well upon a lover-- I'll wear a dainty eaglet for a pin.
There's music!--Now, O Caesar's son, you're but Mozart's Don Juan! Nay, not even Mozart's!
Strauss's! I'll waltz; for now I must become Charming and useless: Austrian fancy-goods!
My aunt?--Why--!
PROKESCH.
Oh, not that!
THE DUKE.
I want to see--
[PROKESCH _goes out_.]
THE DUKE.
How deep the linden's perfume is to-night.
THE ARCHd.u.c.h.eSS.
Notice my salver. I'm so proud of it.
THE DUKE.
You represent?
THE ARCHd.u.c.h.eSS.
The "Chocolate-girl," the famous Picture in Dresden.
THE DUKE.
[_Affectedly._] Cha'ming. But your chocolate Must be a nuisance.
THE ARCHd.u.c.h.eSS.
No.
THE DUKE.
Do put it down.
THE ARCHd.u.c.h.eSS.
Well, Franz? A little bit in love with life?
