What for? THE DUKE. To cast into the pond-- All's vanished. Only circles on the water. PROKESCH. You are depressed, and yet to-night the plot Must come to a head if I may trust the symptoms. These lines were slipped into my hand this morning: [_He takes a note out of his pocket._] "Ask him to be there early, and to wear His uniform beneath a violet cloak." THE DUKE. Oh, 'twere too criminal-- PROKESCH. The note-- THE DUKE. The note Is from a woman anxious not to miss me. I've taken her advice, for I am here Only for love's adventure. PROKESCH. No! THE DUKE. 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.