Clench my fist with your hand that I may hold it erect. _(She grasps the sceptre._ THE COMMANDER: Hail to you, Queen! ALL: Hail! THE PRINCESS: Indeed there still is dimly visible Through thickening veils of murky air The procurator of royalty, The ruler of men, the bell-wether of the tribe. I, woman, covered with this sumptuous apparel! Nothing is lacking. The crown is on my head, And the pompous train of the mantle sweeps the earth at my feet. THE COMMANDER: Queen.... THE PRINCESS: Dust and ashes! Why was I born what I am? It is only I. I am the sovereign of a season that is ending. Who calls me queen, unless it be the queen of things that exist no more, Or of the leaves in the instant that they swim in the dusty air? Already the mist submerges the valleys and, through the fog, The Moon shines forth, like a beckoning finger with sharply pointed nail. Lead me.... THE COMMANDER: Where? THE PRINCESS: To your testator, there. _(She approaches the body of the KING._ O dead body, do not refuse this present that I bring you. It is to you that I speak, body! That austere spirit Who inhabited you is now as far removed From you as from me. --Oh, that I had been dowered with that soul! Here, all ungrateful more vainly than the urn of Aquarius empties itself.... --But you! This is ineffable. It is to you that I make this last offering, belovèd dead. --Help me to lower myself. _(She painfully sinks to her knees and kisses him on the lips, then rises._ You tremble, my heart? I was born that I might live. And I die that I may.... _(She dies._ FIRST OFFICER: The Queen is dead. SECOND OFFICER: How her head suddenly drooped beneath the crown! THE COMMANDER: O Queen! O Empress still warm! THIRD OFFICER: Her golden shoes have made Only a rustling in the bed of leaves. _(Pause. The COMMANDER gently and respectfully lays the body of the Queen on the ground._ THE COMMANDER: Three dead Kings! Events most strange! The laws of custom broken, human weakness surmounted, the obstacle of circumstances Dissipated. And our effort, reaching a vain conclusion, Undoes itself like a fold. Place the queen on a shield, clad in her royal robes. We will bear her with us. We must descend. The West, behind the shaggy boughs of sombre pines, Grows pale, and Memnon cries in the mist! Thus a hundred times before us Hyperion will disappear in the clouds Before our rear-most legion will see its flaming buckler sink in the blackness of the sea. _(They raise the body._ Exalt these shining feet which thus adorned to tread the earth no more shall retraverse The people. As for us, we understand how not to be afraid! And if attacked we will show Gums that are formidable yet. _(Retreat, scarcely perceptible in the distance._ Come! Those who go before us already are far away. Forward! Home! To the West! _(They all go out._ FINIS. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tête-D'or, by Paul Claudel