THE DUKE.

No! no!

METTERNICH.

Bethink you of your self-distrust!

You--reign? Come, come! You would be pale and wan; One of those timid, introspective kings Who are imprisoned lest they abdicate.

THE DUKE.

No, no!

METTERNICH.

Not yours the energetic brow!

Yours is the brow of languor and of yearning.

THE DUKE.

[_Shaking, pa.s.ses his left hand across his brow._]

My--brow?

METTERNICH.

And drearily your Highness pa.s.ses Over an Austrian brow a Spanish hand!

THE DUKE.

My--hand?

METTERNICH.

Observe the frail and tapering fingers Seen fair and jewelled in long lines of portraits!

THE DUKE.

No!

METTERNICH.

And those eyes through which your ancestors Look forth!

THE DUKE.

The eyes--?

METTERNICH.

Ay! note them well! The eyes Wherein how many eyes we've seen before Dream of the f.a.got, weep for perished squadrons!

Dare you, whose conscience is so sensitive, Ascend the throne of France with eyes like those?

THE DUKE.

Ah! but my Father!--

METTERNICH.

Naught of him is in you!

Search! Search again! Come closer to the light!

He stole our ancient blood to mix with his, That his might grow more ancient. But he stole Only the racial melancholy, and The feebleness, and--

THE DUKE.

I beseech you!

METTERNICH.

Look!

Look in the mirror! You turn pale?

THE DUKE.

Enough!

METTERNICH.

And on your lips you recognize the pout As of a doll, of Marie Antoinette, Her whom your France beheaded; for your Father, While stealing glory, stole mishap as well!

Nay! raise the chandelier!

[_He forces the chandelier into the_ DUKE'S _right hand, and holds him by that wrist_.]

THE DUKE.

I am afraid.

METTERNICH.

You cannot gaze into this gla.s.s at night, But all your race will gibber at your back!

Look--in the gloom--that shade is Mad Johanna, And yonder Thing, that moves so deathly slow, Is the pale sovereign in his crystal coffin.

THE DUKE.

No! 'Tis the radiant pallor of my Father!

METTERNICH.

Yonder, recoiling, Rudolph and his lions!