[_Aside to the_ DUKE, _while_ METTERNICH _rings again_.] I will seek my cavern. THE DUKE. But I-- FLAMBEAU. The ball to-morrow! THE DUKE. Are you mad? FLAMBEAU. You'll find me. THE DUKE. Quiet! [FLAMBEAU _goes out by the window._] METTERNICH. If he'd only break His neck--He's singing! THE DUKE. [_On the balcony._] Hush! FLAMBEAU'S VOICE. My little joke! [_A shot is heard._] THE DUKE. Missed! METTERNICH. With what ease he finds his way about. THE DUKE. He knows it; he has been here once before. METTERNICH. [_To the_ LACKEYS _who show themselves at the door._] Too late. Begone. I do not need your help. [_The_ LACKEYS _disappear._] THE DUKE. And not a word of this to the police! METTERNICH. I never raise a laugh against myself. What's the importance of a veteran's joke? You're not Napoleon? THE DUKE. Who has settled that? METTERNICH. You have his hat, perhaps, but not his head! THE DUKE. Ah, yes, an epigram to damp my ardor. 'Tis not the pin-prick this time, 'tis the lash That drives me headlong toward the wildest dreams. I've not the head, you say? How do you know? METTERNICH. [_Takes the candelabrum in his hand and leads the_ DUKE _to the cheval glass._] How do I know? Just glance into this mirror. Look at the sullen sadness of your face, The grim betrayal of your fair complexion, This crushing golden hair--I bid you look! THE DUKE. [_Struggling to get out of his grasp._] No! METTERNICH. You're environed with a fatal mist! THE DUKE. No! METTERNICH. Though you know it not, 'tis Germany, 'Tis Spain, for ages dormant in your blood, Make you so haughty, sorrowful, and charming. 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, passes his left hand across his brow._] My--brow? METTERNICH. And drearily your Highness passes 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 fagot, 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.