Francesca Carrara/Chapter 13
CHAPTER XIII.
"Love is an offering of the whole heart, madam—
A sacrifice of all that poor life hath;
And he who gives his all, whate'er that be,
Gives greatly, and deserveth no one's scorn."
Barry Cornwall.
The tremulous pressure of Louis's hand yet vibrating through every pulse of her own—his last whispered words yet musical in her ear, Marie hastily turned into one of the more shaded walks, where the boughs, trained to meet overhead, and the trellis-work on either side thick with creeping and odoriferous shrubs, shut out all view but its own green and winding path. Her cheek was flushed, her eyes danced in light, and a frequent smile passed like sudden sunshine over her face; vanity, in that moment of triumph, had all the strength of a passion,—its enthusiasm—its imagination; everything seemed possible—the future rose palpable before her. Her eager and buoyant step became more stately, as if already in the presence of her court; already she granted favours, and requited injuries—for assuredly forgiveness formed no part of her creed. She even put aside the boughs with somewhat of an air of condescension.
"My first struggle," thought she, "must be against the influence of his mother. Gratitude! we owe none to Anne of Austria! We are just the puppets she destines for the amusement of her son—toys to guard against graver thoughts—the ornaments of the chariot, while she guides the reins. Fickle—unloving, is there one about her whom she would not sacrifice to her interests—ay, even to her whims? Holy Madonna! but I do respect my uncle's genius when it has so controlled our false and wilful Queen;—I may chance to save him some future trouble."
It is singular the charm that youth flings over both its exaggeration and its selfishness—perhaps they are pardoned for their very unconsciousness. Its expectations are unreasonable; but they are entertained in such good faith, that we first envy and then excuse the state of mind which admits them, and forgive their present folly, from our conviction of their coming disappointment. It is our own sense of superiority—the conscious superiority of knowledge, dear bought by experience, that makes us thus charitable. In youth, too, selfishness is divested of its most obnoxious part— its calculation; it seems thoughtlessness—again we pity, pardon, and fancy that amendment which never comes.
There is something amiable in even believing in our good feelings, but it is an amiability whose loveliness is even less lasting than that of the complexion. Marie passed along—she had arrived at an especially pleasant part of her reverie—she was arranging her future household.
"I will be lenient," thought she, "to Mesdames les Frondeurs; they will be glad to get back on any terms, and their high birth will be an answer to the many who may urge claims on the plea of having known me now. My sisters had better marry foreign princes—it would be mortifying to see them forced to yield precedence to any. As for Henriette, that cannot be helped;—an embassy will be the thing for Mercœur."
How many more places might have been distributed by her incipient majesty it is impossible to say, for the thread of her meditation was broken by the sudden termination of the path. It ended in one of those beautiful little nooks, which, girdled in by shade, are yet full of sunshine; the branches close the sides, but the clear sky is overhead. In the midst of a circular plot of grass was a small fountain; a nymph knelt amid the waters, and a little trickling stream fell from the urn by her side with a low and musical murmur. Even the small space of this fountain was a divided empire; the farther side was clear and glittering with the golden daylight, but the nearer one lay dark in shadow, for a large sombre branch hung directly over it. The very gloom made it the better mirror; and Marie started as she saw her face reflected side by side with that of the statue. For a moment she smiled at the contrast of her own head, with its ribands and its waving feathers, beside the simply-wreathed hair of the marble figure. But even as she looked, another thought arose in her mind. The nymph was so like one that had been a favourite in Guido's studio—a world of early fancies, of tender recollections, were called up by the resemblance. She thought of the deep and earnest love, which had seemed to her like folly amid more worldly scenes; she thought of their wanderings by twilight, with the rosy sunset dying away amid the thick-leaved pines:—she turned, and saw Guido by her side. Admitted by the influence of Bournonville into the royal gardens, he had wandered round, and by chance followed the very path which Marie had taken.
"My beloved Marie!" exclaimed her unsuspecting lover, "this is happiness! Ah! if you knew how chilled, how constrained I have felt by the forms and the crowds by which we have been surrounded—how I have pined for a moment to tell you how dearly during absence I have cherished your image—how beautiful you seemed when I saw you again!—how beautiful you are, even in this strange and unfamiliar dress," added he, following the direction of her eyes towards the fountain.
She allowed him to retain the hand which he had taken—it was but for an instant. The momentary softening of her heart was gone, and she felt as if she could reason him out of love, even as she had reasoned herself. She was strong in what would be the universal opinion; it would be an act of insanity to allow a girlish preference to interfere with her present brilliant hopes—it would be folly, nay, presumption, on his part, to talk more of love; still, she would act kindly by him—she would impress upon him the impossibility of constancy, and make the necessity of change obvious to his own conviction.
At first her words were hurried and confused; and the young Italian, though startled from his fond security, might still ask, had he, could he, have heard aright? But as Marie spoke, her voice grew firm, her anticipations gave strength to her resolves, and she really avoided all difficulty by speaking the truth.
"I do not," continued she, "talk about my uncle's displeasure, or the obstacles which it would entail—I talk to you of myself. I own I am changed—I cannot help it; nature never intended me for a heroine of a romance. I despise poverty—I dislike trouble—I enjoy the luxury which surrounds me—I delight in the homage—and I look to my future husband for more settled wealth and more assured rank. Of all that I most prize, you can offer me nothing; and I confess love to be insufficient for my happiness. You and Francesca will ever be to me my dear and my early friends. You"
"Say no more as a last grace!" interrupted Guido, passionately—"I ask it at your hands. I see it—I feel it all,—your place, and my own folly. May the holy Madonna keep you from—from ever suspecting the pain of knowing that in one little moment life can lose every hope."
He sprung so rapidly down the opposite path, that Marie almost asked, had she really seen him? But she heard the quick steps passing along the gravel-walk; she listened to their echo with anxiety, even tenderness; all became silent, and her heart filled with sorrow for the anguish she had inflicted. She felt the value of entire affection—the contrast forced itself, of love the deep and true, compared with the falsehood and the selfishness by which she was surrounded. A little while, and the warm and kindly feelings of long ago came back, and she sat down beside the fountain and wept bitterly.