Francesca Carrara/Chapter 16
CHAPTER XVI.
"How does the heart deceive itself, and feed upon a future which will never be!"
All arrangements for the morrow's departure were soon completed. The day passed away in that hurry which makes it seem so short, and in the many little cares, so few of which ever answer their purpose, and which yet appear so indispensable to the feminine affection from which they generally emanate. Night came at last, and Bournonville, after much good advice, in which the gouvernante cordially joined—touching the necessity of early going to bed where there was a necessity for early rising—and after many good wishes, left the cousins to themselves. To those who had never before parted for even a day, there was some thing almost terrible in separation. Francesca had rejoiced in the thought of Guido's absence; but it now rose before her, with all its possible perils and evils. Absence, like every other pang, weakens by repetition; the friend who has once returned in safety may return so again—we soon draw precedents from the past. She had to say farewell for the first time, and whatever we do not know, we always exaggerate. They sat together, with clasped hands, till the silence was suddenly broken by Guido, who had been intently watching a small bright flame, which, after having struggled for some time with the smoke around, sunk into darkness.
"Francesca," exclaimed he, "that is my emblem! Did you mark that little blaze, how it has striven, and how it has perished? It had in it the germ of the glorious and the lovely, but it had no open space wherein to expand; the heavy vapour oppressed it—other and brighter flames obscured its weakness—and now it is gone quite out. I see our resemblance. I, too, have in me a gift of power and of loveliness; but it is power that will be subdued, and loveliness that will die undeveloped. I feel around me the iron weight of circumstance—I am oppressed by the heavy vapour of hopelessness—and lo! I go, and my place will be no more seen."
"But that I have no heart for chiding to-night," replied Francesca, "dear Guido, I should blame this weakness, which creates the misfortune it deplores. It is the adverse circumstance that gives the triumph. Were I a man, I should delight in difficulties—I should desire toil, exertion, and obstacles. Let the world be before me, and I would make my way in it. I cannot understand sinking under any shape that adversity could take: I should enjoy the struggle, in my strong belief of the success."
"I cannot force myself into hoping," answered Guido, in the same low and melancholy tone. "Even in my happiest moments, while the grass was crowded with flowers beneath me—the sweet monotony of the running water in mine ear, only broken by the cheerful chant of the grasshopper—the boughs of the chestnut, filled with sunshine, dazzling my eyes, till the golden air seemed thronged with lovely shapes,—even then came pale and mournful shadows, whose white faces looked upon me pityingly. Even then, darkness, but a speck at first, would spread and spread till it overhung the atmosphere; and I would lie doubting, and mournful, and encompassed by night."
"And what was this, my beloved brother, but a vain yielding to unbridled imagination, which, like a spring confined to one spot, collects its pure clear waters, and in at once a beauty and a blessing; but which, allowed to spread abroad in every direction, oozes through the marshy earth, becomes stagnant, and is habited by the loathsome reptile. That which would have been a green haunt, with its fair fountain, is a dreary and useless quagmire. Is it not thus with the mind, Guido?"
He made no reply; and Francesca was too anxious for his taking some rest previous to his journey, to pursue their discourse. The next morning she rose early; but as she bent over Guido's pillow to awaken him, she started to observe how oppressed was his breathing, and how feverish his slumber. "It is evidently the rest of complete exhaustion—sleep won by hours of weary restlessness." She had not the heart to rouse him, and seated herself watchfully beside, while the fear of his being ill when far away made her heart sink with affectionate apprehension. "Yet it is best he should go,"—and, for the first time, the sense of her own utter loneliness, when he should be gone, rose sadly before her.
"Great God!" exclaimed she, stepping softly to the window, which commanded the view of many streets, "to think, amid this multitude of human beings, we have neither kindred nor friends—not one to care for our welfare, not one to rejoice in our joy, not one to sorrow in our sorrow."
As she spoke, her heart reproached her with Henriette's kindness—still, it was kindness only; how many hopes, fears, and cares, would she have, in which Madame de Mercœur could have no share! "Guido has made me fanciful. I am unthankful for the good which has really fallen to our share. Henriette is very, very kind—how glad I ought to be of such powerful protection! And my brother—this journey will do him good; the sight of our own dear Italy will be inspiration to him—again he will feel the excitement of praise, and he will return eager and hopeful." Yet, as she kissed his brow to waken him, she left her tears upon his cheek.
The bustle of a departure suspends everything but itself; and it was not till Guido rode out of the court-yard, that Francesca remembered, or fancied she remembered, a thousand things that yet remained to say. Fortunately for her, Bournonville was too much occupied to administer more than a word of consolation in passing; and she remained in the window-seat, watching the gateway through which he rode, as if she every moment expected him to return.
Suddenly she started from her seat, the bell rung, and a horseman entered; the dark-grey colour of the horse made her heart beat; but in an instant she saw that the rider was too tall to be Guido. He dismounted, and dropped the cloak which had hitherto concealed his face, and showed the countenance of Evelyn.
Francesca sunk back. "And do I feel no happier that he is returned?" But it was in vain to persuade herself that she was glad. Her hand was extended readily to him when he entered, but it was cold and trembling; however, he seemed perfectly satisfied, and was eloquent in his praises of her improved beauty in the French costume.
"I find here all loyalty and festivity. What a charming example for England to follow!"
"The scene yesterday was splendid."
"Did you venture out in the crowd to see it?" asked the visitor.
"I was not so bold; but, thanks to the Duchesse de Mercœur's kindness, witnessed the whole from the gallery of the palace."
"You have, then, seen your old friends the Mancinis?"
"I am residing with Madame de Mercœur; and only remained here last night, that I might see Guido set off. He is charged with a commission of the Cardinal's in Modena."
"Residing with Madame de Mercœur! you could not be more agreeably placed," replied Evelyn; yet the expression of his face belied his words. Meeting Francesca's eye, he added, "for your own sake—for mine, I must regret aught that places ceremony or distance between us."
She was saved the trouble of a reply, by the announcement of Madame de Mercœur's coach, sent to fetch her; and as Evelyn handed her in, he said, "I shall wait upon you this evening. Mazarin's fair nieces hold almost a court, and I will find some one to present me, for your sweet sake."
Francesca could only say something indistinctly about pleasure, &c.; and the ponderous machine rolled off at a rate little calculated to disturb any meditation in which she might please to indulge.
Evelyn's train of thought was far the most agreeable of the two. "If I had for a moment," thought he, "renounced my old belief in luck, I should resume its worship with all possible speed. Mark now what Fortune has done for me; well does she deserve my entire trust. Meeting the pretty Italian was enough in itself; and now she promises to be as serviceable as she is charming. Without money, our enterprise must fall to the ground. All hope of obtaining it from the Pope through De Retz is at end—that negotiation has been most judiciously kept out of sight. Well, we must turn to Mazarin. I hear much of the influence his nieces possess; let me try what it can do for us. I must not expect a great deal from Francesca: shy, proud, and cold, her very beautiful face will never be of half the use it ought to be. Why, in her place, I should dispute the heart of the young king with the Mancini. By the by, a little flattery will not be ill bestowed in that quarter, if she possess the power with Louis which is usually ascribed to her. Puppet though he be, in the hands of his mamma and her minister, his good pleasure would go for something, Ay, give us but a small present supply, and a hope of future assistance—which, if we succeeded, it would be policy to accord—and I wager my head, that the fire we should kindle in the west of England would soon spread over the whole island."
The great popularity of the Stuarts—certainly more allied to personal causes than we can at present calculate—is a curious fact. It was not one of those feelings drawn from hoar antiquity, when habit has become religion. No—their ascension to the throne was of recent occurrence. Neither were they grafted into the heart by that enthusiasm which, more than all others, dazzles and delights, viz., military renown. No victories, no conquests, excited the imagination, and confounded their's and the glory of England together. Their reigns had been most pacific, and their few warlike attempts unsuccessful; and yet what devotion and attachment they inspired!—fortune, liberty, and life, were yielded, and joyfully, in their cause. Wrongs were forgiven; violated privileges and outraged laws forgotten; and nothing but the still mightier spirit of fanaticism could have been opposed with any success to the spirit of loyalty. It was Charles's bigotry that cost him his crown. If he had given up the bishops, uncurled his hair, and spoken through his nose, he might have been an absolute monarch in all but name. As it was, he contrived to die a martyr, and to be mourned with a degree of personal affection which one, now-a-days, scarcely expects from the nearest and dearest friends.
Evelyn was but one of many. Reckless, loving pleasure and ease; with much of worldly wealth and aggrandisement to tempt him on the other side of the question; yet was he heart and soul devoted to the Stuarts—prepared to sacrifice his own enjoyment, risk his life; in short, to be all but actually disinterested; and, indeed, his only drawback to that, was his cordial hatred to the Roundheads.
It may easily be supposed, with these motives, that he was an early visitor that evening at Madame de Mercœur's, where his reception was most gracious. For a brief while he forgot all his intended flatteries of the Mancinis, in his admiration of Francesca's beauty.
The appearance of your lover—known to be such—among your intimate friends, is embarrassing enough to any girl, who anticipates their remarks, and foresees their railleries. To Francesca, little accustomed to strangers, and, moreover, embarrassed and anxious in herself, it was enough to give the brilliant colour that reddened her cheek, and added to the light of her large black eyes—the more striking from the white powdered hair—whereas, in general, they were shaded by the dark tresses now so differently adorned. She was, perhaps, more strictly beautiful with her statue-like head in its own native darkness; but use is everything, and fashion still more. Besides, Evelyn was accustomed to associate an idea of distinction with a certain mode of dress. Francesca's peculiar and high-bred air—so easy to feel, so difficult to define—flattered his prejudice for rank, at that time so broadly marked.
But their conversation was soon interrupted; for Mademoiselle Mancini, who had her own motives for the attention, came across the room, exclaiming, "Since you do not remember me—"
"Nay," answered Evelyn, "it is I who wait upon your memory."
"Ah, I thought you were going to make the usual remark, that really I am so improved since I left Italy—"
"Pardon me," interrupted Evelyn; "this usual remark is not mine. I own I can see no improvement—perhaps it was impossible."
"Seriously"—this was said with a very gracious smile—"I am truly glad to see you; it is something not to have lost your head in England. But, now, do tell us all your adventures; and remember, we expect you to be very amusing."
This "we" might have been rendered "I;" for Marie soon contrived to engross the young cavalier's attention. The truth was, that Louis's attraction towards her had proceeded far enough for jealousy; he had more than once questioned her with evident pique about the attentions she received from many of the aspirants either to her or to her uncle's favour. She deemed it injudicious to encourage any; and yet the time often hung heavily on her hands. Now, Evelyn was a perfectly safe person, and yet both handsome and entertaining; moreover, evidently well inclined to offer that incense in which she delighted. She might amuse herself with him, and yet have ready the unobjectionable answer of, "An old friend, known ages ago in Italy—when he was, as he is now, a very devoted slave of my pretty friend the Signora Carrara." This reply effecting a double purpose; for Marie had not been too well pleased the other evening with Louis's glance of admiration at this said pretty friend. It was as well to let him know that the ground was pre-occupied; and the king was quite young enough to be deterred by a rival.
The conversation on both sides proceeded with so much animation, that neither had a word for Francesca. She sat silent and lonely; left to ruminate at her leisure on the solitude of society. She had around her gay converse, in which she had no share; and laughter, in which she was little tempted to join. She observed every face, and still more minutely, every dress in the room; and, despite what philosophers say of its charm, found the task of observation very tiresome—she would have preferred a little participation. She could just hear the voices of Marie and Evelyn, without being able to distinguish what they said; but could perceive that they were amused, which she was not. Now, one may be very well content to renounce a lover; but it a very disagreeable to have him taken away.