And I wear a flower!

THE DUKE.

[_Seeing the conspirators enter._]

Those shadows--?

MARMONT.

Friends.

THE DUKE.

[_Turning._]

Marmont?

MARMONT.

Good luck, my Lord!

THE DUKE.

Why do the others stand so far away?

MARMONT.

Because they fear they may disturb your Highness,
And, Sire, you are already Emperor!

THE DUKE.

The word strikes strangely on my wondering ear--
The Emperor! What Emperor is here?
This youth of twenty on the throne?
As through a casement now myself I see
Pass down the shouting street; 'tis good to be
Young, and the first Napoleon's son!
All Notre Dame invades my dreaming soul,
I see the incense, hear the organ roll,
A nation offers up a prayer!
God! what great causes may be served by kings!
How they can love! Achieve what righteous things!
Prokesch, the Future shows too fair!
O France, who with thy blood didst write our name,
With happy days I will repay the fame;
I come, triumphant in my pride.
Sun on my flags; the air with shouts is rent.
The Champs Elysees, with their chestnut scent,
Waft me fair welcome as I ride.

FLAMBEAU.

The women stand on chairs to see your face,
Each the fair symbol of Parisian grace,
The guns in wreaths of flowers are dressed;
Fierce Paris madly hails your sovereignship.

THE DUKE.

It were like kissing France upon the lip
If Paris took me to her breast.

FLAMBEAU.

And you will hear the sufferer's complaint;
Do you not feel your hand already faint
Signing so many an amnesty?

THE DUKE.

The lies they've told me make the truth more dear,
Oh, Freedom, Freedom, thou hast nought to fear
From one so late from bonds set free!
What can I do to foster noble aims?
Treviso, Montebello, these are names
Their sons inherit without fear,
But other names are glorious, and since
My Father would have made Corneille a Prince
I'll make our Victor Hugo Peer!
I'll do--I'll do--I'll be the poor man's shield!
The heroic savour, rising from this field,
Gives me a foretaste of my home;
Wagram! 'Twas well I hither came to drain
The stirrup-cup upon thy glorious plain!
Oh, my beloved France!--I come--!
Ah--!

FLAMBEAU.

What is it?

THE DUKE.

Nothing.

PROKESCH.

You are suffering!

THE DUKE.

Yes, to the marrow, but a gallop cures me.