Francesca Carrara/Chapter 19
CHAPTER XIX.
"'Tis a dark labyrinth the human heart."
Young.
Francesca one evening attended Madame de Mercœur to the small circle allowed entrance to the Queen's dressing-room. The morning had been one of great fatigue, so that but few of the court were admitted; and Anne of Austria herself was in that demi-toilette so favourable to the twilight of beauty. She wore a loose dress of gray silk, edged with black, and fastened with loops of pearl. A portion of her still beautiful hair was parted in two rich auburn bands on her forehead; while the rest was hidden by a long black crape veil, which hung nearly to her feet, and set off the exquisite fairness of her skin, the more striking as she wore no rouge. It was difficult to suppose her the mother of the young man who leant on the back of her chair; for Louis looked as much older than he really was as she looked younger.
It was said of Anne of Austria, after she had been some time Regent, that her misfortunes had been her only attraction;—to them might be added her appearance; it was the very reverse of her character, in the sensitive and changeable complexion, and its long-retained youthfulness. Yet few had grown more old in worldliness and deception—forgetful in friendship, and vindictive in resentment. She had all the faults peculiar to very weak people—faults which are of the meanest order; violent, for it requires strength of mind to curb emotion; obstinate, for with the obstinate opinion is made up of habit and conceit; and cunning for cunning is the genius of the fool. It is difficult to account for the influence acquired over her by Cardinal Mazarin, unless we adopt the belief of their private marriage; for in their connexion there was something of the authority of the husband, but none of the devotion of the lover. His manner to her was abrupt, often harsh; it implied the necessity for yielding. La haute dévotion, to use an untranslatable phrase of the time, to which she was addicted, belonged less to the mistress, whose chains may be regretted and broken, than to the wife, whose repentance comes un peu tard, and who may as well make her obedience matter of conscience. Her conduct, too, after his death, was very like the conduct of those who are always "wonderfully supported;" suited also to her particular situation, in which there was so little need for keeping up the semblance of grief, and in strict accordance with her own paramount selfishness. When those around her thought to pay their court by exaggerating the merits of the deceased, she exclaimed, "Mon Dieu! we must drop the subject—I am sure the King is sick of it; we have really enough to do, without wasting time in useless words." It would be no uncharitable supposition were we to conclude, that newly recovered liberty—that word which always appears so charming—was sufficiently agreeable to afford a widow's consolation.
Francesca—who, like all persons of naturally fine taste that have lived much in solitude, was keenly alive to the charms of manner—fixed her whole attention on the card-table where the queen was playing. She was struck with the grace which made the common courtesies of the game appear like personal compliment, while the caressing air with which she occasionally addressed individuals standing round seemed at once so pleasing and so much in earnest. "How is it possible," thought the young Italian, "that one so fascinating could ever have been neglected by her husband, and the object of hatred to the fierce and insolent faction so recently subdued?"
Her meditation was interrupted by an unusual bustle in the antechamber, when, before the pages could announce her, the Queen of Sweden walked, or rather ran, into the room. Advancing straight to the Queen, she exclaimed, "A thousand congratulations—I have just heard of the taking of Valence, and could not rest till I had rejoiced with you on the success of your arms."
Victory is an agreeable subject, and the visitor and her compliments were equally well received.
"You may give me credit for sincerity," continued she, "as there is some selfishness in it. It hurts one's vanity to be mistaken; and you know I prophesied the success of the fleur-de-lis."
"Valence," observed M. de Nogent, one of the party at the card-table, "was besieged a hundred years since by the French army, but unsuccessfully; the fort has never before been taken, and—"
"And you should have been there," interrupted Christina abruptly, "with your long stories of a hundred years since; I would rather hear them a hundred years hence." Then turning, with a singular change of countenance from harshness to extreme sweetness, to Madame de Mercœur, "I give you joy that your husband should be the first conqueror of this redoubtable Valence."
"I deserve," replied the Duchesse, "some compensation for the anxiety I have endured."
"Anxiety! nonsense!" exclaimed the Swede; "A man is never in his proper element but when fighting. I am persuaded that war was always meant to be the one great luxury of the human race. War calls out all our good qualities; courage teaches a man to respect himself—and self-respect is at once the beginning and the guarantee of excellence. Besides, a campaign teaches patience, generosity, and exertion. So much for the morale; and as to the enjoyment, pardieu! I can imagine nothing beyond the excitement of leading a charge of cavalry."
"Alas, madam," said the King, smiling, "why cannot I offer you the bâton of a marshal?"
"You cannot lament," returned she, "the impossibility more than I do. What could God mean by sending me into the world a woman?—But let us change this mournful subject—it really affects my feelings."
"I am rejoiced," observed Louis, "that you have recovered from the ennui of Messieurs les Jésuites' tragedy."
"I protest," was her reply, "equally against confession or tragedy from them; their rules are too lax in both."
"You do not seem," said the queen, evidently wishing to change the subject just started, "to have been much pleased with our dramatic representations; but we have not been fortunate—our actors are generally more amusing."
"I suppose so," replied Christina, "As you keep them still. But I see I have interrupted your game; go on, and do not mind me—I should like to have another victory to congratulate you upon."
Crossing the room, she seated herself on one chair, while, drawing another towards her, she placed her feet upon it, and thus stretched out negligently, began talking in a low tone to the King and Mademoiselle Mancini.
Francesca had now an opportunity of observing her more closely, and found that her appearance, if equally singular, was more picturesque than she had heard described. Her dress was odd enough, half-masculine, half-feminine; but it became her. She wore a sort of jacket of bright red camlet, richly braided with gold and silver lace; a fringe of which also hung from her gray petticoat, which was short enough to show her feet and ankles, whose small size was rendered more remarkable by the peculiar-shaped boot. A crimson scarf, flung over one shoulder, adroitly hid the defect in her figure; and round her throat was a neckcloth edged with point lace, and fastened with a crimson riband. She was delicately fair, with an aquiline nose, and a mouth the size of which was forgotten in its white teeth and pleasant smile. She wore a peruke of very fair golden hair; and herein was shown the lurking spirit of female vanity: her own tresses had been very beautiful; in some whim she had had them shaven off, but the colour of the peruke had been most assiduously assorted to them. Her eyes, large, blue, bright, and restless, were her most remarkable feature, perhaps from their constant employ; they seemed perpetually on the watch, and she also had a custom of fixing them with singular intentness on the person to whom she spoke. It was said this habit had somewhat startled the Bishop of Amiens, whom she selected for her confessor; instead of the downcast eyes to which he had been accustomed, the royal penitent, who then knelt at his feet, fixed her clear piercing orbs full on his face, till the good lather was all but stared out of countenance. She was small and slight; and the impression she gave, as she lounged on her two seats, swinging to and fro her black hat and feathers, was of a fair and pretty boy, clever, and somewhat spoiled by indulgence. She commenced her conversation with the King and his companion by saying, "Pray, do not suspend your fleurettes on my account; next to being in love myself, I like to see other people in love. I shall be a charming confidante."
"Too charming," replied Marie, "not to be dangerous."
"Very prettily said, but more pretty than true. Falling in love is quite out of my way. I do not often offer up thanksgivings; but when I do, and turn in my mind what to be grateful about, I always give thanks for my indifference."
"You are selfish in your gratitude," said Louis.
"A very common case. But, truly, I have become too worldly, have too many other things in both head and heart, to find a place for love—it takes up too much room. But this I do say; if there be an intense, overpowering happiness in this world, it is first love, unsullied, unfrittered away by a thousand vain considerations—deep, fervent, and engrossing. Of what avail is a throne, save to share it with a beloved one? One with whom the deck of the frailest bark that ever cut my own stormy seas would be paradise, and without whom the whole wide world is but a desert. Ay, such a love is indeed heaven or hell!" And she flung herself back in her chair, and gave way to one of those fits of absence in which she was accustomed to indulge, with equal disregard of time, place, and company.
The young King looked tenderly at Mademoiselle Mancini, who gave him a glance quite as tender in return—not, however, unobserved. His mother had been for some time past a displeased spectator of a predilection which might become dangerous. With her usual dissimulation, she refrained from evincing any outward sign of uneasiness, and, beckoning Madame de Mercœur, apparently made some request. Madame de Mercœur crossed the room to Francesca, and informed her that the Queen had heard of her musical skill, and wished herself to judge of a voice that had been so extolled.
Such a request was a command, though one she felt inclined, had it been possible, to disobey. Her vanity had been too little called forth for her to rejoice in display; she was too indifferent to her audience to have any anxiety about pleasing them—and she was perfectly aware of her own powers. Moreover, she was actuated by a feeling between indignation and disdain at being thus called on to minister to their pleasure who would never dream of contributing to hers. Still, her lute was brought; and, with the first tone awakened from the strings, she grew timid, as if she only then noted how much the attention of the circle was fixed upon her. At first her voice was tremulous and low, but it soon asserted its delicious power. Rich, deep, and melancholy, it was one of those which appeal even more to the heart than to the ear—one of those which, by some subtle spell—music's best secret—seem to call up every sad and sweet thought which memory has garnered for years.
Everyone was surprised, or rather touched, into warm expressions of delight. The Queen's quick eye glanced from Louis, who stood in fixed attention, to the singer, who, far more confused by the praise than the exertion, rose from the kneeling position, whose very humility had in it such grace, with that rich flushed colour, so lovely in a face usually pale, and with downcast eyes, whose darkness was only indicated by the black and curled eyelash.
"How very lovely!" said the Queen, in a whisper, but loud enough for her son to hear, who now approached, and took himself the lute from Francesca. Christina, first indulging in a quick and instantly suppressed smile, addressed a few words, more kind even than flattering, to the singer; and Francesca, who an hour before had been as much neglected as the old fauteuil by which she had leant half concealed, was now the centre of a little circle of admirers and flatterers. Young, and a woman, it would be too much to suppose that it was very disagreeable to her.
"I think," said Anne to Madame de Mercœur, "we must obtain your protégée's services for our intended masque; however, I shall leave that to you young people to settle," turning to Louis as she spoke.
The Swedish Queen saw at once that the day for civility to Mademoiselle Mancini was over, at least in the royal mother's presence, and that she had lost some ground by her incautious encouragement; besides, the King's ready and obvious admiration did not say much for his stability.
"He is too young to be trusted," thought she; "it takes half a dozen fantasies to prepare the way for une grande passion. Madame la Mère at present"
Christina drew to the card-table, and, lolling upon it with her usual indifference, began to watch the progress of the game, which was now resumed. Suddenly she snatched up the Queen's hand, and, holding it by the wrist, let the light fall upon it, as if it had been a toy she wished to examine. "Ah, mon Dieu! how perfect! Talk of the works of art as the standard of ideal beauty—look at this work of nature. I consider my voyage from Rome amply repaid by the sight of the most lovely object in the world. In my country they would say you had the hand of a water-sprite—white as the earliest snow. And you have been gathering roses, I see,"—turning the little palm, so that the delicate pink inside became visible.
"Flatterer!" exclaimed the Queen, and holding up the said hand in a menacing attitude, but with no appearance of displeasure.
Christina snatched both hands, kissed them, and, without further farewell, walked out of the room, half-singing Scarron's celebrated lines—
"Elle avoit au bout de ses manches
Une paire de mains si blanches,
Que j'eu voudrois être souffleté."
She left her character behind her,—character which usually has the fate of King Pelias, namely, that of being torn to pieces by its dearest friends. The Swedish Queen, however, escaped wonderfully well. She had outraged every rule of the court, mocked their proprieties, and infringed their decorums; yet they talked of her genius, and called her la Reine philosophique. Well—audacity, oddity, and flattery, are the three graces which make their way in modern society.