Lucile [36]
That you then deign'd to hope--
LUCILE.
Yes! to hope I could feel, And could give to you, that without which all else given Were but to deceive, and to injure you even:-- A heart free from thoughts of another. Say, then, Do you blame that one hope?
LUVOIS.
O Lucile! "Say again," She resumed, gazing down, and with faltering tone, "Do you blame me that, when I at last had to own To my heart that the hope it had cherish'd was o'er, And forever, I said to you then, 'Hope no more'? I myself hoped no more!" With but ill-suppressed wrath The Duke answer'd . . . "What, then! he recrosses your path, This man, and you have but to see him, despite Of his troth to another, to take back that light Worthless heart to your own, which he wrong'd years ago!" Lucile faintly, brokenly murmur'd . . . "No! no! 'Tis not that--but alas!--but I cannot conceal That I have not forgotten the past--but I feel That I cannot accept all these gifts on your part,-- In return for what . . . ah, Duke, what is it? . . . a heart Which is only a ruin!" With words warm and wild, "Though a ruin it be, trust me yet to rebuild And restore it," Luvois cried; "though ruin'd it be, Since so dear is that ruin, ah, yield it to me!" He approach'd her. She shrank back. The grief in her eyes Answer'd, "No!" An emotion more fierce seem'd to rise And to break into flame, as though fired by the light Of that look, in his heart. He exclaim'd, "Am I right? You reject ME! Accept HIM?" "I have not done so," She said firmly. He hoarsely resumed, "Not yet--no! But can you with accents as firm promise me That you will not accept him?" "Accept? Is he free? Free to offer?" she said. "You evade me, Lucile," He replied; "ah, you will not avow what you feel! He might make himself free? Oh, you blush--turn away! Dare you openly look in my face, lady, say! While you deign to reply to one question from me? I may hope not, you tell me: but tell me, may he? What! silent? I alter my question. If quite Freed in faith from this troth, might he hope then?" He might," She said softly.
VI.
Those two whisper'd words, in his breast, As he heard them, in one maddening moment releast All that's evil and fierce in man's nature, to crush And extinguish in man all that's good. In the rush Of wild jealousy, all the fierce passions that waste And darken and devastate intellect, chased From its realm human reason. The wild animal In the bosom of man was set free. And of all Human passions the fiercest, fierce jealousy, fierce As the fire, and more wild than the whirlwind, to pierce And to rend, rush'd upon him; fierce jealousy, swell'd By all passions bred from it, and ever impell'd To involve all things else in the anguish within it, And on others inflict its own pangs! At that minute What pass'd through his mind, who shall say? who may tell The dark thoughts of man's heart, which the red glare of hell Can illumine alone? He stared wildly around That lone place, so lonely! That silence! no sound Reach'd that room, through the dark evening air, save drear Drip and roar of the cataract ceaseless and near! It was midnight all round on the weird silent weather; Deep midnight in him! They two,--alone and together, Himself and that woman defenceless before him! The triumph and bliss of his rival flash'd o'er him. The abyss of his own black despair seem'd to ope At his feet, with that awful exclusion of hope Which Dante read over the city of doom. All the Tarquin pass'd into his soul in the gloom, And uttering words he dared never recall, Words of insult and menace, he thunder'd down all The brew'd storm-cloud within him: its flashes scorch'd blind His own senses. His spirit was driven on the wind Of
LUCILE.
Yes! to hope I could feel, And could give to you, that without which all else given Were but to deceive, and to injure you even:-- A heart free from thoughts of another. Say, then, Do you blame that one hope?
LUVOIS.
O Lucile! "Say again," She resumed, gazing down, and with faltering tone, "Do you blame me that, when I at last had to own To my heart that the hope it had cherish'd was o'er, And forever, I said to you then, 'Hope no more'? I myself hoped no more!" With but ill-suppressed wrath The Duke answer'd . . . "What, then! he recrosses your path, This man, and you have but to see him, despite Of his troth to another, to take back that light Worthless heart to your own, which he wrong'd years ago!" Lucile faintly, brokenly murmur'd . . . "No! no! 'Tis not that--but alas!--but I cannot conceal That I have not forgotten the past--but I feel That I cannot accept all these gifts on your part,-- In return for what . . . ah, Duke, what is it? . . . a heart Which is only a ruin!" With words warm and wild, "Though a ruin it be, trust me yet to rebuild And restore it," Luvois cried; "though ruin'd it be, Since so dear is that ruin, ah, yield it to me!" He approach'd her. She shrank back. The grief in her eyes Answer'd, "No!" An emotion more fierce seem'd to rise And to break into flame, as though fired by the light Of that look, in his heart. He exclaim'd, "Am I right? You reject ME! Accept HIM?" "I have not done so," She said firmly. He hoarsely resumed, "Not yet--no! But can you with accents as firm promise me That you will not accept him?" "Accept? Is he free? Free to offer?" she said. "You evade me, Lucile," He replied; "ah, you will not avow what you feel! He might make himself free? Oh, you blush--turn away! Dare you openly look in my face, lady, say! While you deign to reply to one question from me? I may hope not, you tell me: but tell me, may he? What! silent? I alter my question. If quite Freed in faith from this troth, might he hope then?" He might," She said softly.
VI.
Those two whisper'd words, in his breast, As he heard them, in one maddening moment releast All that's evil and fierce in man's nature, to crush And extinguish in man all that's good. In the rush Of wild jealousy, all the fierce passions that waste And darken and devastate intellect, chased From its realm human reason. The wild animal In the bosom of man was set free. And of all Human passions the fiercest, fierce jealousy, fierce As the fire, and more wild than the whirlwind, to pierce And to rend, rush'd upon him; fierce jealousy, swell'd By all passions bred from it, and ever impell'd To involve all things else in the anguish within it, And on others inflict its own pangs! At that minute What pass'd through his mind, who shall say? who may tell The dark thoughts of man's heart, which the red glare of hell Can illumine alone? He stared wildly around That lone place, so lonely! That silence! no sound Reach'd that room, through the dark evening air, save drear Drip and roar of the cataract ceaseless and near! It was midnight all round on the weird silent weather; Deep midnight in him! They two,--alone and together, Himself and that woman defenceless before him! The triumph and bliss of his rival flash'd o'er him. The abyss of his own black despair seem'd to ope At his feet, with that awful exclusion of hope Which Dante read over the city of doom. All the Tarquin pass'd into his soul in the gloom, And uttering words he dared never recall, Words of insult and menace, he thunder'd down all The brew'd storm-cloud within him: its flashes scorch'd blind His own senses. His spirit was driven on the wind Of