Francesca Carrara/Chapter 14
CHAPTER XIV.
"I loved her; for her sweet familiar face
Brought back my earlier self."
The great fatigue of the day being too much for the delicate state of Madame de Mercœur's health, she soon retired; and early in the evening she and Francesca found themselves, for the first time, tête-à-tête, and without fear of interruption.
The evening was chilly; some fresh wood was heaped on the hearth; they drew the fauteuils closer to the fire and to each other; and felt as if old times and sentiments were come again. Past events and past feelings soon led to present recollections; but, to Francesca's surprise, the Duchesse did not seem to consider their position so perfect in felicity as it appeared to her guest.
"What," exclaimed her youthful friend, "Have you to desire? You have rank, wealth, favour, health, and a husband who loves you, and whom you love, and of whom you may well be proud. I like the Duc de Mercœur so much; and I should have been sorry not to have liked him, Henriette: he is so handsome, so kind, and so silent."
Madame de Mercœur laughed at silence being mentioned as a merit.
"You may laugh," rejoined Francesca; "but you cannot imagine how bewildered I feel by the infinite variety of discourse which is here apparently a daily habit. I am talked out of my wits; I have scarcely recovered the surprise of the ingenious question, before I meet another surprise in the still more ingenious answer. I remember, in the dear old palazzo, and the still dearer pine-woods around, that we have conversed away hours; but, then, think how interesting were the subjects—ourselves. We had the whole future before us; but here it is yesterday, whose sayings and doings are so repeated, as if everything were done that afterwards it might be told."
"The truth is, ma mignonne," replied her companion, "we have nothing else to do—talking is the business of the idle. We do not talk out of the careless gaiety of the heart, which indulges its hopes, or expresses its feelings—we talk for amusement; we are not interested in the doings of others, but we are entertained—always supposing, as the narrator may very well contrive, there is something a little absurd in them. We live together in society—strangers, rivals, and enemies, hiding the envy and hate, which it would be impolitic to exhibit. We care nothing for each other; society could not exist a day now, did the dislike or the indifference rise to the surface. Talking is an ingenious contrivance for hiding all this. An agreeable compliment conceals carelessness; a pointed phrase gives vent to many a suppressed emotion; and we can veil our perfect disregard to what people feel, by a most studied attention to what they say. I can assure you, talking is more than an amusement—it is a necessity."
"Well, I shall do my best to learn what seems to me a profound science; but at present, in my astonishment at many of the questions put to me, I quite forget that it is necessary for me to answer."
"My dearest Francesca, it is very indiscreet ever to be astonished; and an answer is a sort of conversational coin, which you should always have in readiness."
"Well, Henriette, what answer have you to my question—what have you to desire more than you at present possess?"
"Security. Here we are strangers, dependents on that vainest of human reliances, court favour. I have seen my uncle forced into exile by an imperious and ambitious faction;—true, I, perhaps, should not complain; for it proved, if I had needed proof, the disinterestedness of Mercœur's attachment. He followed me into banishment, and married me when the very name of Mazarin was the signal for popular outcry and contumely."
"But, now that the Cardinal's power is more firmly fixed than ever, and yourself so happy in your husband and your home—"
"It is for others that I fear—for my sisters, indulging the most golden hopes, depending on so many chances, and which must make any destiny less brilliant than what they now anticipate, and of which they once so little dreamed, a disappointment hard to be borne."
"Yet what is not within your reasonable expectations? I saw from the gallery the caresses which the queen so publicly lavished upon you all; and, then, the flattering distinction of the king appearing in Marie's colours!"
"Ah! it is on Marie's account that I am most anxious; I know how vain is the delusion she is now cherishing."
"Yet if Louis did love her—"
"Louis," interrupted the Duchesse, "love her!"—it is not in him to love aught but himself. His mother is well aware that she may trust him, or Marie Mancini would have been, ere this, in a convent. The queen encourages his intimacy with us—rejoices even at his preference; for we amuse him, and are less dangerous than any that might carry him away from her immediate care. But she relies, and safely, upon the selfishness of Louis. Let Marie cause him trouble, annoyance, or interfere with the slightest of his interests, and her hope—her happiness—would be sacrificed as things of course. It would never ever enter his mind that they could be consulted."
"But Marie—so shrewd, so penetrating; is it possible that she does not perceive this?"
"You have not lived long enough among us to know the intoxication of vanity. Marie has allowed herself to dwell on one brilliant object till her eyesight is dazzled."
"But cannot you advise—cannot you warn her?"
"Alas, Francesca! we are not now in the pine groves, where we once talked so freely. There is here something in the very air we breathe which precludes confidence. We are sisters no longer; we fancy—ah, how falsely!—that our interests are opposed, and that a favour extended to one is at the expense of the other. Moreover, you must remember, even as children, Marie was ever more resolute than myself; and now, how little would she heed remonstrance of mine!"
"Ah!" replied Francesca, after a moment's silence, somewhat sad in both, "the air of this great city does cause change; a thousand illusions seem to have passed away even from me. I have, I know not why, a vague fear of the future—the future, from which I once hoped so much."
"It must be my care. For the present you remain with me,—you will excite less envy than if placed immediately about the queen, as was at first my wish, and I think you will be happier; I feel that I am so myself. You know not, dear friend, how much of youth and of Italy you bring with you."
How could Francesca answer, but by affectionate thanks?
"One thing more," added the Duchesse: "I have not forgotten Guido: I have thought"—and here she hesitated—"that all young men like change. The Cardinal will visit Bournonville tomorrow, to see his Majesty's picture. Guido will there be presented to him, and receive his commands for Modena; he is to be the bearer of letters to our cousin. His absence will be temporary; so you need not weep at parting with your brother."
Francesca, deeply felt the kindness which so unobtrusively removed Guido, for the present, from the frequent meeting with Mademoiselle Mancini. He was thus spared that, perhaps, worst pang of unrequited affection—that of perpetually coming in contact with its object—caressed, flattered, beloved, brilliant, while you are forgotten, though in sight.
"You know, Francesca," continued her friend, "that you must accustom yourselves to separation, for Paris is nearer England than Rome."
"I have seen Mr. Evelyn since my arrival," replied Francesca.
"That is a disappointment to me! I had arranged so many charming adventures, in which I was to enact the part of the good fairy—settling everything for the happiness of my two lovers. Very provoking of Destiny to have taken the affair into her own hands, without my interference. But you look grave! A lover's quarrel, I hope; I shall be delighted to reconcile you."
"Alas, Henriette! how little are our feelings in our control! I shame to tell you how much mine are altered. I endeavour to persuade myself that it is Evelyn who is changed; but I am forced to confess that the fault is my own."
"Well, after this let no one pretend to be sure they know the heart of another! Why, I would have risked my life on your constancy. You were always so earnest, so grave, so much to be relied upon! I should have thought you would have needed another Petrarch to celebrate your romantic devotion. However, it leaves the field open to me; I shall soon find you another lover in Paris."
"I feel that I am incapable of love—nothing can bring back the illusion of my earlier and happier belief. But, at least, I hold my faith to Mr. Evelyn as sacred as if he still were, what I once deemed he was, the only hope and object of my existence."
"We shall see," said the Duchesse, laughing; "but I am now too tired to enact the part of president in the parliament of love,—we must leave this knotty point for discussion some other night. I own I have my doubts about constancy surviving love; but though your infidelity makes me not quite certain about any thing, yet of one fact I feel tolerably convinced, which is, that in all places, and under all circumstances, I shall love you very dearly, and be as anxious for your happiness as I am at this moment."
Francesca embraced her friend tenderly, and they parted for the night.