Francesca Carrara/Chapter 12
CHAPTER XII.
"Incessant in the games your strength display;
Contest, ye brave! the honours of the day."
Odyssey.
It was a boast of Napoleon, that the very weather owned the influence of his auspicious star—his triumphal entry, his procession, or his fête, were always marked by sunshine. The clouds were equally complimentary to Louis XIV.; no sky could be brighter than that of the morning which ushered in the festival; and when Francesca took her place on a temporary gallery erected for the occasion, the coup d'œil more than realised the descriptions in the old romances. The ground appointed for the course was the open space between the Palais Royal and the dwelling of the English Queen; a palisade marked the career; and at one end, just below the gallery where Francesca sat, hung the ring, suspended from an arch ornamented with laurel, and in the centre the royal arms of France. Beside stood seneschals, the appointed witnesses of the ensuing games. At the other extremity were the gardens, now in the full beauty of summer foliage; and from Francesca's seat being at the extremity, and the gallery being a little curved, she commanded a panoramic sweep of the whole scene.
Windows, balconies were alike crowded; but the most striking group was on the terrace in the centre. Seated in an arm-chair, covered with cloth of gold, was the Queen; her robe was of black velvet, edged with the richest sable; and the diadem at the back of her head confined the folds of a long black Cyprus veil. Her mourning now was but a ceremonious habit; nay, some said it was persevered in for the contrast, so becoming, of the dark garment with her still dazzlingly fair skin and bright hair—yet it caught the eye mournfully; those sombre robes were the only indications that life had one loss, one sorrow, or one change. Madame de Mercœur and her sister stood on either side; and, leaning on the back of the chair, was the Cardinal, looking both inattentive and weary, and taking no part in the conversation going on around him. Behind was a brilliant group of ladies and nobles.
Suddenly a flourish of trumpets arose upon the air; and, emerging from the middle avenue, came a gallant company, to borrow a phrase from those old romances whose picturesque descriptions the present actors were emulating. Two stately elms formed a natural arch, from beneath whose waving boughs swept the band belonging to the King.
Francesca marked at the first glance that their colours were white and scarlet; and then she noted that Marie Mancini wore a dress of white damask, looped up and garnished with scarlet ribands. "The embroidery on the gloves," thought she, "was no chance selection."
The gay procession advanced. First came fourteen pages, wearing fanciful costumes of silver tissue and scarlet; they bore the long lances, and the devices of the knights who followed them. Then came six trumpeters, blowing a brave challenge, each note swelling more proudly than its predecessor. Then came the squire, who marshalled the King's own pages, twelve in number, the last two of whom carried the royal lance, and the royal scutcheon, on which was emblazoned a rising sun, with the motto—
"Ne piu, ne pari."
No superior, nor yet an equal.
Next rode the camp marshal, unmasked, and in his usual costume. Then followed the young monarch and his chevaliers, dressed after the Roman fashion—the cuirass of gold, the robes of frosted silver, the brodequins wrought with gold and silver mixed; and the casques were of silver, with white plumes tipped with scarlet. All were masked; but the King was easily distinguished by his snowy charger, whose mane was fantastically knitted with scarlet ribands. Together they rode round the circle, bending as they passed the Queen till the feathers swept the shining necks of their steeds. Again came the bold challenge of the trumpets, and the troop of the Duc de Guise appeared, marshalled in the same order, but garbed in blue and silver. Their leader's romantic temperature showed itself in one peculiarity; his horse, black as night when the summer's tempest is on the sky, was led behind by two gigantic Moors, who by sign and word subdued the beautiful and fiery animal to the slow step of the procession. Trappings and housings there were none; and the slight silken bridle, which looked like a fragile thread, needed indeed a skilful hand if meant to control the noble creature. A page of singular, almost feminine beauty, whose delicate complexion suited well the delicate colours of his azure cap and plume, bore the graceful flattery of the Duke's ingenious device. It represented a funeral pile, from whose embers a phœnix was rising, animated by the sun, whose light was its life. Beneath was inscribed in golden letters,—
"Qu'importa que matou, se resucitan?"
What matters his destroying, if he revives?
All took the courtly insinuation, for the Guise had but lately been restored to royal favour. A third call of the trumpets announced the approach of the Duc de Candale from the avenue on the left. The livery of his company was forest green and gold; but perhaps he himself most attracted Francesca's attention. He had not yet put on his plumed casque, which a page on foot at his side carried; and he held his mask in his hand. It was one of those faces—so pale, yet so beautiful, with large melancholy blue eyes, and profusion of fair golden hair—with that ethereal seeming, whose associations are not of this earth—one of those that we unconsciously connect with early death. The presage here was prophecy;—a little while, and that youthful and brilliant head found its pillow in the grave. After riding round the circle, the three companies drew up in a line before the narrow space which led to the point where the ring hung.
"Ah!" exclaimed Madame de Brie, the old lady to whose care Francesca had been especially consigned by Madame de Mercœur, "these troubles of La Fronde have sadly scattered the beauties which surrounded the throne. You should have seen the court ten years ago."
"To me," replied Francesca, "the scene appears as if it could not be surpassed; but, then, I have seen nothing of the kind before."
"True, true, my dear; experience is everything—you are no judge till you begin to compare. You, if it had been only to form your taste, should have seen the beauties of the earlier period of the regency. There was the queen herself; fifteen years have somewhat palled the red and white of a complexion which in its day was unparalleled. Then there was the Duchesse de Longueville, whose languid loveliness was that of the lily—the flower sacred to her house; Madame de Montbazou, stately and dark-eyed like Juno, conjuring every heart by one look of her splendid face; or Madame de Chatillion, the very queen of smiles, and with a fascination even beyond her beauty. They might at least recall Mademoiselle de Montpensier—proud, but so fair, like the young queen of Palmyra."
Madame de Brie had quite forgotten that fifteen years ago she had been equally eloquent in favour of fifteen years before. Well, memory is a very comfortable thing, usually adapting itself to the prejudices of the present.
Fortunately, the commencement of the games prevented Francesca from being quite overpowered by the envy of beauties that had been. It was a commencement worth the chivalric magnificence of Louis's after-reign—the scene in those gardens! The fine old trees in the distance, so rich in shadow, while the foreground was in broad sunshine—the long green alleys, along which rode an occasional horseman, breathing his courser—the terraces, crowded with the young, the gorgeously arrayed, and the beautiful—the youthful cavaliers, darting at full gallop down the narrow palisade—the burst from the trumpets, that noblest of music, as each competitor dashed at the ring,—altogether formed a pageant in which Amadis of Gaul might have taken a part before the eyes of the peerless Oriana.
As yet none had been successful, and now the three leaders, were all that remained. Their precedence had been determined by lot and the Duc de Candale was the first. He dashed forward—his long lance touched the ring—it trembled; but at that very moment his horse started—he passed, and the quivering ring remained swinging to and fro. Francesca, whose position enabled her to discern the slightest movement, could not divest herself of a suspicion that the start of the horse had been provoked by the rider. The Duc de Guise came next; he made but one bound from the slender palfrey on which he rode at first, to the noble charger that stood beside, pawing the ground, as if disdainful of rest. On he darted with the speed of hope, and his lance bore the ring off triumphantly; but while turning to salute the fair spectators on his right, the prize, carelessly balanced, fell to the ground; and again Francesca thought that the failure was intentional. The young King now clapped spurs to his white steed, which had stood champing with impatience till his bit was covered with foam. A loud shout arose from the spectators—Louis had carried off the ring; and, balancing it gracefully on his lance, he rode round the circle; the second time he stopped before the Queen, and laid the prize at her feet. Two pages advanced; one took the spear, the other laid hand on the bridle, and Louis sprang to the ground; then, ascending to where Anne of Austria was seated, knelt before her. At the signal, Marie de Mancini took his casque, and his mother flung over his neck a silver chain, to which hung a star of rubies, and, in the style of the old romaunt, bade him name the Queen of the Festival. Louis rose, and taking his casque from Marie, offered her the red rose, which was to mark sovereignty for the day. Her first glance was one of triumph—her next was one of mingled admiration and gratitude for Louis; and, accepting his offered hand, they led the way to the banquet prepared in the Palais Orion,—a favourite garden-house, where they often had collations when the party was but small, which was the case to-day. The Queen-mother did not dine with them; and only those nobles who were of the three bands, and twenty-four ladies. The banquet was gay but brief, as preparations had been made for dancing. Mademoiselle Mancini was led forth by Louis, who entertained all with the chivalric gallantry suited to his assumed character. The next dance she declined, under pretext of fatigue—she had no attention to give to another partner, and Louis's last words were to engage her hand again; and truly she required rest, for every effort had been exerted to amuse her royal listener.