Francesca Carrara/Chapter 11
CHAPTER XI.
"It is a difficult thing to paint the pleasures of youth; for, after all, the real enjoyment is in being young."
The Duchesse's boudoir was fitted up in a style of luxury utterly different from anything before familiar to the Carraras. They had been accustomed to the extensive halls, the large pictures, the mosaic floors, the marble pillars, whose romantic magnificence belonged to other times. Here the splendour was more adapted to the actual enjoyments of the present day. The walls were hung with blue silk, edged with silver fringe; and the closely-drawn blue velvet curtains swept the ground. On one side was a dressing-table covered with white satin, whose border of flowers, wrought in rich and natural colours, emulated those of April. On it stood a mirror in a frame of curiously cut crystal and silver; and scattered round lay half-open boxes, whose glittering contents were equally precious and fanciful; and flung down carelessly, as if in thoughtless haste, was a diamond carcanet, whose rich gems reflected in every angle the blaze of the two large waxen tapers placed in branches extending from the mirror. Near were two curiously carved cabinets, one in ebony, the other in ivory, from each of which exhaled a delicious perfume. An immense Venetian glass occupied the farther end of the room, and, just opposite, hung a picture of the King. The couches and fauteuils were of crimson damask; and drawn towards the fire was the supper-table. The domestics being dismissed, all gathered round, and Guido's place was beside Mademoiselle Mancini.
"Do," said she, smiling, "let me give you some of these diminutive mushrooms; with what a feeling of triumph I enjoy them! When Mademoiselle was enacting the part of the modern Maid of Orleans, that town supplied the court with provisions; and, a somewhat unheroic employ for the fair Thalestris, she commanded that our future breakfasts, dinners, suppers, &c. should be brought her; among other articles she found some mushrooms, seizing upon which, she threw them aside—'They are too delicate,' exclaimed the Montpensier; 'I will not have the Cardinal eat them!'"
"A very feminine little bit of spite," said the Duc de Mercœur.
"Now why do you say feminine?" exclaimed Francesca; "I think I could remember many small instances of masculine vengeance."
"I observe," rejoined Marie, "we are always blamed; but, after all, Mademoiselle's revenge told. For my part, if I had a lover, I should give him all sorts of nice things to eat. I believe the pleasures of childhood, being translated, means the comfits and confections with which we were regaled. As for myself, I candidly own to being greedy."
"Did not the King," said Madame de Mercœur, "admire your pretty fingers while stripping the grapes the other day?"
"I think," replied Marie, laughing, "that great science, the science of grace, which I consider one of the fine arts, may be displayed in eating a bunch of grapes. First, there is the stalk to be poised in one hand, then the small fingers are to be put in motion while picking the berries of the purple fruit one by one; then a pretty eagerness may be evinced, and a half smile shows at once your teeth and your dimples; and all this without that constant suspicion of display which attends your bending over a lute."
"We must send a fleet to Lisbon on purpose for grapes, my pretty sister," said the Duke.
"Have you heard," continued Marie, "the new version M. de Rochefoucault has given of his celebrated epigram on Madame de Longueville? Joinville was telling it to me to-day."
"And he told me," added the Duchesse, "that the lady, since the death of the Duc de Nemours, has taken to la haute dévotion. By the by, this is the second lover she has lost in a duel; her first, Coligni, was killed by the Duc de Guise."
"Her face," said Guido, "has all the mournful loveliness of one of Coreggio's Magdalens."
"Hush, hush!" said Marie, "we do not allow her beauty; I forewarn you against admitting that a single trace remains."
"You will see the court to great advantage to-morrow," said the Duchesse, addressing Francesca. "We are on the eve of a most delightful fête—we are going to put Amadis of Gaul into rehearsal; the King and the principal nobles will ride at the ring to-morrow. The King himself leads the first band, the Duc de Guise the second, the Duc de Candale—"
"The Duc de Guise," said Mercœur, "is quite my beau ideal of the days of chivalry. His adventures, whether of love or war, seem like the old Provençal ballads; my only marvel is, where in these days he finds his romantic matériel."
"In himself," returned Marie; "but I do wonder you can mention him with the Duc de Candale—there is le vrai héros de roman. I admire him, if it were only for his spirited rejection of my cousin Martinozzi's hand."
"She will have cause to thank him," said Mercœur, gravely, "if it be true that it is now asked by the Prince de Conti."
"The Prince de Conti?" exclaimed she, in reply, "impossible! I laugh at the very idea."
"Time will show," said the Duchesse, evidently wishing to change the conversation. "De Joinville tells me"
"It is quite singular," interrupted her husband, "I seem never to hear a piece of news but it is prefaced with 'De Joinville tells me!'"
"Well," continued Madame de Mercœur, "his present intelligence is, that the colours of the Duc de Guise are blue and white, those of the Duc de Candale green and white; but that those worn by his Majesty remain a profound secret."
"Ah!" exclaimed Marie, brightening up from a somewhat sullen silence, "you have not seen my new dress: it is perfect. It ought so to be, for I had his Grace's advice upon the subject."
At this moment a noise was heard, as if of coming guests.
"How is this?" said the Duchesse. "I had given orders that no one should be admitted."
"But we," replied the tallest of two cavaliers who entered muffled up in cloaks, "would only take a denial from your own lips."
"Ah, your Grace," exclaimed Madame de Mercœur, "how easy it is to command when the command can only be obeyed with pleasure!"
"Are you," said the King—for the visitors were Louis himself, and his brother, the Comte d'Artois—and addressing himself more especially to Mademoiselle Mancini, "preparing for the fatigues of to-morrow?"
"Not so," she replied; "but we were closeted to talk over old times with old friends."
Francesca smiled; for it could not but occur to her how little these said old times had been mentioned, the whole conversation having turned exclusively on present topics. Again, she felt there was nothing in common between them; and how painful it is to discover this, when our attachment seems to ourselves a thing of course! This, however, was but a passing thought; for, naturally enough, her whole attention was fixed upon their illustrious visitor. Smilingly repeating his declaration that he was incog.,—a wandering cavalier, who merely thought to sun himself in their bright eyes, and then to depart,—still, while waving the observance of his rank, he yet permitted them to be paid. All knelt as they kissed his hand, and all remained standing while he seated himself in the fauteuil from which the Duchesse had just risen. Discovering, with the quick eye of those accustomed to watch every shade of manner, that Louis, transient as was the glance he flung round, had observed the Italians, Madame de Mercœur said, "We will not intrude upon your Grace our childish reminiscences, but—"
"Nay," interrupted the King, very graciously, for he had noted the singular beauty of Francesca, "I will not allow one of the party to be disturbed, not even little Mignon," patting a small snow-white dog that belonged to Mademoiselle Mancini, whose eyes flashed as she thought that it was her favourite that was thus honoured by the royal notice. She knelt down, to caress it, thus, as if by chance, kneeling beside Louis's chair.
There was a slight family likeness between the brothers, but the resemblance extended no farther. The Comte d'Artois had neither the dignified nor the manly air of his brother—he rather appeared like a pretty-looking girl, so effeminate was he and fair. He had more, too, of the lively bearing of youth, and indulged in a reckless and even noisy gaiety, the very reverse of the other's grave composure.
It was rather odd that those former reminiscences, to which allusion had been made, should in reality become the subject of discourse from the questions of a stranger; yet so it was. Partly from that courtesy which, when it interfered not with his enjoyment, was Louis's great characteristic, he immediately turned the conversation to what he supposed had been the preceding dialogue. There was some curiosity, too, in it; for those who depend much on others for their amusement are always curious, especially when conversation is a great staple of entertainment. People are apt to mistake this, and fancy the attention given to their details is a proof of the interest taken in themselves; it is merely that their auditors are attracted by novelty. Louis had the topics of the hour twisted into every possible shape to amuse him; but he had never thought about his favourites, the Mancinis, having even lived before he knew them: their existence, in his memory, was dated from their arrival in France. Their early days were, therefore, quite delightful, because quite new.
"Ruel," exclaimed the youthful monarch, interrupting their description of how, in the myrtle and ilex woods, they used to recite Tasso and act his scenes, "Ruel will be the very place for it; we must get up a ballet there, with characters from your favourite poet; I will be Rinaldo, De Guise shall be Tancred, you," turning to Mademoiselle Mancini, "Armida, and"
"We will keep Clorinda for the northern Amazon about to visit us," interrupted his brother; "she will understand the character."
"Nay," replied Louis, with a half smile, "but the ballet shall be one of the fêtes we meditate in her honour. Demi-savage as the Swede is, of course royalty must be royally entertained."
"Such a description," said Marie, "as I heard to-day! I understand that she wears a sword, and a buff waistcoat for a boddice—military hat, boots, and sash—gloves she disdains; and that her peruke would do honour to Marshal Turenne himself."
"I hear," added Madame de Mercœur, "that she is awfully clever, speaks eight languages, and would put the Academy and the Sorbonne united to shame."
"Ah!" exclaimed the Comte d'Artois, who had been sitting for some minutes apparently quite absorbed in meditation, "I have imagined such an exquisite costume for Tancred! No, no; you shall not anticipate my intention."
"But we are forgetting, in our future plans, the fête of to-morrow. Mercœur," said the King, "summon the page who waits in the ante-chamber."
The boy was called, and, dropping on his knee, presented a small coffer, which, as it opened, diffused a strong but delicious fragrance. It contained those delicate gloves for which Spain was then so famous.
"Will you not wear these to-morrow?" said the King, offering one pair to Madame de Merœur; then, turning to her sister, he added, "I only hope yours are small enough for those mignon hands."
Francesca observed that the gloves given to the Duchesse were embroidered in white and silver; but those of Mademoiselle Mancini were worked with scarlet and gold, and fastened by a scarlet cord round the wrist. The party immediately broke up, as all were to rise early the following morning.
It was long before Francesca slept; we are so much the creatures of habit, that any great change has the effect of a moral chill. We dread the future, unless it comes upon us imperceptibly;—whenever we anticipate, unless under some strong excitement of joy, we always fear. There are so many dangers, so many disappointments, and so many sorrows, ready to beset the human path, that we cannot but expect some at least to fall to our lot. The truth is, the young Italian was in a state of the utmost depression; and those subtle emotions we call being in good or bad spirits are utterly beyond our control. The weight of one sad thought pressed upon every other; she at once saw the hopelessness of Guido's attachment, and fancied she understood Marie's inconstancy by her own altered feelings. She, who knew him with the entire knowledge of perfect affection, knew well what the effect would be—wretchedness, the most complete, the most lasting, and the most irrevocable. Could it be the Mancinis—the impoverished and forgotten inhabitants of the desolate palace by the pine-wood—who were now the glittering idols of a court, favourites of Europe's most powerful monarch, and whose intercourse with them was one of the most unrestrained familiarity?—witness his visit of that very evening. Again and again she marvelled what were Marie Mancini's expectations—unbounded, she could well suppose. Generally speaking, we are incredulous of the good fortune of our friends, and, even though loving them, undervalue their qualities; the success of our greatest intimates takes us by surprise. But this was a singular instance; the change in her former companions' position had burst so suddenly upon Francesca, that she was more inclined to exaggerate than to diminish its extent. The very difference she felt between herself and them—she a stranger, friendless but for their kindness, in a foreign land—made the contrast more forcible; and she at last fell asleep, with the vision before her eyes of the Cardinal's triumphant niece—a crowned queen!