That's all.

PROKESCH.

But then--the plot?

THE DUKE.

Oh, 'twere too criminal,
Dear country, made of sunshine and of laughter,
To raise upon the high seat of thy glory
A child of night, misfortune, and the Escurial!
What if, when I were seated there, the past,
Plunging its yellow hands into my soul,
With hideous claws unearthed some ancestor:
Some Rudolph or some Philip? Ah! I dread
Lest at the humming of Imperial bees
The monster sleeping in me should awake.

PROKESCH.

[_Laughing._]

Prince, this is madness!

THE DUKE.

[_With a shudder and a look which makes_ PROKESCH
_start back with horror._]

Madness! Do you think so?

PROKESCH.

Good heavens!

THE DUKE.

Buried in their fastnesses,
Cowering in Bohemia or Castile,
Each had his madness. What is mine to be?
Come! We'll decide! You see I am resigned.
'Tis time to choose--and I have choice enough:
My thoughtful forebears left a catalogue!
Shall I be melomaniac or astrologer?
Catch birds, bend o'er alembics, mumble prayers?

PROKESCH.

Too well I see what Metternich has done!

THE DUKE.

Grandfather, shall I carry on your great
Herbarium, where the hellebore is missing?
Or shall I, living, play at being dead?
Which ancestor will godfather 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 passionate 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 lust 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 devo