eavy.

MARMONT.

What!
Can you see that?

FLAMBEAU.

My brother's an upholsterer.
He works in Paris for Fontaine and Percier--
They try to imitate us here; but, Lord!
They've got a curious kind of Louis-Quinze!
I'm not an expert, but I've got an eye.

[_He lifts up a chair._]

Just look how finnicking this wood-work is.

[_He puts it down and looks at it._]

But then the tapestry! What taste! what mystery!
It sings. It laughs. It crushes all the room.
Why? Don't you know? Why, these are Gobelins!
How plain it is that cunning craftsmen made them.
This taste, this elegance swears with the rest--
And you my Lord, were also made in France!

MALMONT.

He must go back.

FLAMBEAU.

And on the Cross of Honor
Once more engrave a little Emperor.

THE DUKE.

Whom have they put there now?

FLAMBEAU.

Henry the Fourth--
Well, damn it all, it had to be a fighter!
But, _basta_! How Napoleon must laugh
To wear King Henry's mask upon his face!
Haven't you ever seen the cross?

THE DUKE.

In shops.

FLAMBEAU.

My Lord, it must be seen upon a breast.
Here on the cloth, a gout of ardent blood,
Which fell, and falling turned to burnished gold
And to enamel with an edge of green;
'Twas like a jewel pouring from a wound.

THE DUKE.

It must have looked magnificent, my friend.
Here on your bosom.

FLAMBEAU.

I?--I never had it.

THE DUKE.

What! After all your modest heroism?

FLAMBEAU.

One had to do far greater deeds to win it.

THE DUKE.

You made no claim?

FLAMBEAU.

The Little Corporal
Didn't bestow it; so I hadn't earned it.

THE DUKE.

Then I, who have no power, no throne, no title,
I, who am but a memory in a phantom,
That Duke of Reichstadt who with helpless grief
Can only wander under Austrian trees,
Carving an N upon their mossy trunks,
Wayfarer, only noticed when I cough;
Who have no longer even the little piece
Of watered silk so scarlet in my cradle;
I, on whose woes they vainly lavish stars,
Who only wear two crosses, not the One!
I, exiled, prisoner, sick, who may not ride
Along the front of pompous regiments
Scattering stars among my heroes; yet
I hope--I think--the son of such a father--
Into whose hands a firmament was given--
I think, in spite of shadows and dead