Francesca Carrara/Chapter 10
CHAPTER X.
"There seemed to me no achievement of which I was not capable, and of which I was not ambitious. In imagination I shook thrones and founded empires."—Contarini Fleming.
Our inexperienced travellers could scarcely believe, the next day, that Paris was the same city which they had seen on their first arrival,—full of barricades, armed groups, defiance, and discontents.
A bright sunny morning ushered the public entrance of the King, triumphant as if La Fronde had never existed. White flags waved from the windows; flowers were flung down in profusion; not a voice was raised but in huzzas—not a hand but in applause. Preceded by the richly caparisoned guards, care had been taken to give them the appearance of an escort necessary to dignity—but not to security. Mounted on a snow-white horse, whose trappings of scarlet and gold swept the ground, and whose curvetting served but to show the graceful management of the rider; his purple velvet cloak fastened with jewels, and his whole garb glittering with worked silver, the young monarch might well win and fix the eye. Never was king more skilled in the science of his high place than Louis; he was well aware of the power of the pomp that dazzles, and the state that awes—well did he know how to excite the enthusiasm which he only seemed to permit. He acknowledged the acclamations of the multitude, now by a wave of the hand scarce amounting to a sign, and now by a slight inclination of the head, which just bent the light plumes of his hat. But when he passed the statue of Henri Quatre he uncovered, and the sun shone full on his bright and falling curls, which fell like light on each side of his young but grave and noble countenance.
The people rent the air with their shouts,—it was as if he thus publicly pledged himself to follow the example of his popular predecessor. He passed on, followed by a brilliant train; and, long before night, old grievances, parliaments, Mazarin, and all, were merged in eulogiums on the young sovereign. Events followed each other rapidly: De Retz—the popular, the beloved—was arrested, without so much as a crowd in the streets; and thus ended the celebrated league his ambition had fomented, his spirit animated, and his genius maintained. Years of exile and privation followed ere the return of the bold agitator was permitted. To those who have sympathised in the energy and daring of earlier life, it seems marvellous to hear him mentioned in the gentle language of one of Madame de Sevigné's letters, where he is spoken of as a peculiarly mild and gentlemanlike old man, especially kind to the young, whose society he seemed to enjoy.
Mazarin immediately resumed his former power; and Bournonville early one morning announced, not only the return of Madame de Mercœur to Paris, but also that he had communicated to her who were his guests. Almost before he had delivered his message, the Duchesse's carriage arrived, with a brief but affectionate note, entreating the immediate presence of her earliest friends. They soon reached the hotel, whose thronged courtyard told how many were the courtiers to the minister's nieces.
Francesca and Guido, accustomed to be their own heralds in the lonely Italian palace, were startled by the sudden contrast of the many domestics and the numberless visitors who choked up the passages and the ante-room. The chamber into which they were ushered was filled with people; but both the Duchesse and Marie came forward and received them with every mark of kindness and affection. But Francesca's eye was quick to remark that Mademoiselle Mancini's manner to Guido was wholly changed. Some emotion was perceptible—a hurried voice, a slight tremor, a heightened colour; but these signs were instantly checked, and her air indicated a degree of superiority, even patronage, very different to the simple and warm welcome of her sister. So many guests thronged the apartment, that exclusive attention to any was out of the question; and after a hasty presentation to the Duc de Mercœur, the strangers were inevitably left much to themselves.
Francesca gazed round, as we gaze in some half-waking dream, of whose illusion we seem aware, and yet partake. The glittering crowd, whose high-sounding names ever and anon reached her ear—the magnificent room—the splendour of the dresses—the diamonds shining amid the elaborately curled tresses she had been accustomed to see in their native darkness, their summer ornament the half-blown rose, and their winter-wreath the myrtle-branch—all oppressed her with the sense of change. She saw at once how wide a gulf had opened between herself and her early friends, and she felt that they never again could be what they had been to each other. There might be benefit on one side, and obligation on the other; but their reciprocity of affection, their mutual exchange of small kindnesses—those strongest rivets of common attachment—were no more.
Guido's thoughts were very different to his cousin's: he partook not in her depression—his eye was caught by the scene before him, its novelty excited his imagination, and he was wrapt in the happiness of again seeing Marie. He was strong, too, in the conscious superiority of talent—that first hope of genius, as yet unchecked by circumstances, and unbroken by experience. He leant by the window, half alive to the gorgeous picture which moved around him, and half lost in delicious dreams of all the splendid impossibilities which he was to achieve.
Nothing at first frames such false estimates as an imaginative temperament. It finds the power of creation so easy, the path it fashions so actual, that no marvel for a time hope is its own security, and the fancied world appears the true copy of the real. How much of disappointment—what a bitter draining of the cup of mortification to the dregs—does it take, to sober down the ardour, and chain the winged thoughts of a mind so constituted! Let any, now perhaps staid with care, and grave with many sorrows, but who once indulged in the romance born of enthusiasm and ignorance—let them recall the visions in which their youth delighted, while they smile at their folly, or sigh over their sweetness. Moreover, the lover and the friend ask very different foundations for their confidence. The one invests all things with the poetry with which himself is imbued; the other, of necessity, examines into their truth. Again—love cares not for distinctions; but friendship cannot exist without equality.
Francesca, too, was suffering under the embarrassment of singularity. Alive only to the happiness of again meeting her friends, she had not thought of her own appearance; and she was painfully aware that her Italian costume was a complete contrast to the garb of the other ladies present. She caught many looks directed towards her, but all of curiosity—none of interest. She heard the groups laughing and talking around, but not one voice addressed to her. Good heavens! the isolation of a crowd—that bitter blending of solitude and shame, when you fancy every one that passes casts on you an invidious or scornful glance, and yet are perfectly aware that they do not care—scarcely know—whether you are a human being like themselves! It is in vain to say this is over-sensitiveness; weakness though it be, it is very universal.
Francesca would have rejoiced only to see a face she had ever seen before,—when, as if to show the folly of wishes, one appeared. It was the Chevalier de Joinville, the cavalier who accompanied D'Argenteuil the night when forcible possession was taken of Bournonville's house. He remained for some minutes opposite the young Italian, with that fixed yet impertinent gaze which it is equally impossible to escape or to endure. Her evident annoyance, however, appeared to produce no other effect upon him than a desire to increase it by addressing her:
"I am happy to see," said he, approaching her, "that the bloom of la signora is not affected by her late vigil."
Now, if there be one thing in the world more provokingly insolent than another, it is a personal compliment from a stranger, whom you consider to have not even the right of speaking to you. Francesca was too new to society to possess the art of seeming neither to hear, see, nor understand, excepting what it is your own good pleasure so to do; she therefore replied by a slight bend and a deepened blush.
"Our English cavalier has left Paris on a bootless errand; for the news arrived this morning, that the daughter of the pious regicide is married to some young nobleman, whose name I have forgotten. Has Mr. Evelyn your permission for any length of absence?"
Now, this was really too much: Francesca felt at once enraged and powerless. How is that impertinence to be checked, to which silence is no rebuke; and which, yet, is your only method of marking your displeasure?
But a thoroughly unselfish temper is singularly alive to the feelings of others. While Marie Mancini, engrossed by the amusement of the minute, had no attention to give beyond the gay converse of the group around her, Madame de Mercœur had never quite lost sight of the stranger. She had observed the whole of De Joinville's manner. Perhaps, too, a little pride might blend with her kindness: she had been too much accustomed to homage to tolerate for a moment the young courtier's supercilious manner to one whom she protected. Advancing to where Francesca stood, she took her arm, and said, in a tone of affectionate familiarity, "Cara amica mia,—I love to speak to you in our native language, though, do you know, I have somewhat lost its practice,—how have you formed acquaintance with one so dangerous as the Chevalier de Joinville,—are you aware that you have risked your peace of mind for ever?"
"Nay," replied Francesca, laughing; for, like a true woman, she saw her vantage-ground, and instantly took it; "it were hard that misfortune should be punished like a fault. Never was there a more involuntary acquaintance—it was made by force of arms. Monsieur was one of the party who entered M. Bournonville's house the night my brother and myself arrived."
"Ah! our little Corregio," answered the Duchesse, "told us somewhat of this; but with his usual prudence, would not name the cavaliers. Now, Monsieur le Frondeur, what faith may we place in the devotion you have just been professing to my sister and to myself?"
Joinville bit his lip; but instantly recovering himself, replied, "Pardon me if the feeling born of your presence did not exist previous to such influence; and, as a pledge of forgiveness, introduce me to your friend, who seems rather to resent than appreciate the ready memory of admiration."
The chevalier's manner was now completely altered; and Francesca wondered within herself that he could be so amusing, as he exerted himself to describe the various visitors who flitted to and fro. And yet, when he withdrew, she blamed herself for being amused—so completely had it been at the expense of others. But ill-nature is inevitable in those who "season their discourse with personal talk". De Joinville only aimed at being entertaining; and what is there entertaining about people in general, but their faults, follies, and peculiarities, served up with the sauce piquant of epigrammatic epithet and of ludicrous inference?
At length the crowded apartment gradually cleared. Drawing Francesca's arm within her own, the Duchesse gave orders that no more visitors were to be admitted; and the little party adjourned to sup in an adjacent room.