Francesca Carrara/Chapter 27
CHAPTER XXVII.
"'Tis a hard lesson for the heart to learn,
That it can give itself, but give in vain."
Francesca hurried through the winding paths that led unperceived to the chateau, and, once safe in the solitude of her own chamber, gave way to the choking tears she sought not to repress; and yet she felt it a relief to look back to the event of the past evening. She no longer reproached herself for the change of her feelings towards Evelyn—how completely was it justified! her growing dislike had been, as it were, a natural warning—the good revolting unconsciously from the bad. Then her cheek burned, and her brow darkened, when she recalled the imputation he had cast upon her; shame, in the first instance, had been merged in surprise and anger—shame can never be the first feeling of the innocent; but even the falsest accusation brings the burning and bitter blush, to think that such can even have been imagined. To this was added deep humiliation; for Francesca's worst mortification was to remember that she had loved him. How had her ingenuous and trusting affection been requited! Deeply within her inmost soul Francesca felt that thus she could never love again.
It is no "romantic phantasy," no "eternal constancy," no "dying for love," no "blighted affection,"—phrases so strangely misunderstood, and still more strangely misapplied,—no vain dreaming sentiment, when I say, deeply is that woman to be pitied whose first attachment has been ill requited. The qualities most natural to youth are at once destroyed;—suspicion takes the place of confidence, reserve of reliance, distrust instead of that ready belief in all that was good and beautiful. Knowledge has come to her too soon—knowledge of evil, unqualified by the general charities which longer experience infallibly brings; but her age has lent its own freshness to this first great emotion; it becomes unconsciously a criterion, and the judgment is harsh, because the remembrance is bitter. Another affection may, and in nine cases out of ten does, supersede the first; and it is well that it should,—the daily contentment of life, the household happiness of hourly duty and hourly love, are not to be offered up in vain sacrifice to the unpitying past. But not the less at the time did the disappointment appear too heavy, not the less cruel was its influence over the mind; the ideal of love is gone for ever—its poetry a dream, its fairy-land a departed vision.
Francesca felt as if life had suddenly lost its interest; yet it was not the lover that she regretted, but the love. Never more could the future be one vague but delicious hope; never more could she turn away disbelieving from the tale of treachery and inconstancy; never more take refuge in the depths of her own imagination, and find comfort in her own belief of perfect love.
Her taper sinking in the socket, warned her how late, or rather how early, it was; for a shadowy light made the chamber dimly visible. She drew back the heavy curtain, and in came the bright sunshine, and the cool fresh air. Below lay the garden, where arches of gathered flowers drooped, discoloured and withered, beside the fresh growth on the natural bough. Most of the lamps were extinct, but they glittered golden in the morning light, and in some few a pale white flame yet struggled with day. As she left the window, the mirror opposite caught her eye—that mirror which she had left the evening before radiant with the graceful aids of dress. She started back at the contrast; her hair was dishevelled, and pushed from the forehead in tangled masses, while the wreath added to the unseemliness by the contrast of finery; her face was wan, and the eyes red and heavy with watching, to say nothing of tears; while the parched lip had not a vestige of colour. Her dress, too, had lost its freshness, and its gaiety, the bare neck and arms, were strangely at variance with the broad daylight and quiet morning. The very first glance suggested the propriety of going to bed. Leaning for a few minutes at the open casement, she breathed the pure and sweet air, which at once revived and soothed her; then, closing the curtains, she retired to rest, and, thoroughly worn out, body and mind, was soon asleep.
There are few but must recollect the first awakening after any event; the unconscious rousing, the gradual remembrance that something unusual has occurred, the half reluctance to recall it, till suddenly it flashes full upon your mind, and you start up in astonishment at even your momentary oblivion. One part was indeed disagreeable to Francesca—the necessity which existed of telling Madame de Mercœur: not but what she was certain of the most affectionate sympathy; but it was painful to be the herald of her own mortification, and the disgrace of him who, at least, had been her lover. Still the disclosure was inevitable—she would be obliged to explain the cessation of intercourse between Evelyn and herself; and even without that, she owed confidence to Madame de Mercœur's kindness.
The account was received with more regret and surprise than she had expected; the Duchesse could scarcely listen for her own exclamations—all the while begging Francesca to go on. Suddenly she started from her seat, for the Duke entered the room: passing her hand through his arm, she made him sit down in the fauteuil, while in the same breath she told Francesca to tell her story, and at the same time went on telling it for her, only interrupted by the angry or contemptuous ejaculations of her husband.
"Mademoiselle da Carrara," said he, when the narrative was ended, "I never heard of a more gratuitous insult—of a more unmerited calumny; allow me at least to say, that your friends feel that it is offered to themselves. But now let us dismiss so worthless a subject. We will find you a better cavalier in our belle France." So saying, he rose to depart; while a most painful suspicion, suggested by the sudden paleness of the Duchesse, arose in Francesca's mind; and yet to give it words, should she be mistaken, would be cruelly embarrassing.
"It must not go unpunished," exclaimed the Duchesse, as if answering to her own thoughts. "Yes, mine is the best plan; I will instantly go to my uncle, and ask him for a lettre de cachet. Solitary imprisonment in the Bastile will be the very thing for Mr. Evelyn."
"I think," replied Francesca, "that to give me pain is the farthest in the world from your wishes; and yet what could be more painful to me than anything like revenge on Mr. Evelyn?"
"Good Heavens!" interrupted Madame de Mercœur, "you cannot retain one spark of affection for him?"
"Indeed I do not. I speak from motives of pure selfishness. I wish, now, nothing of or from Mr, Evelyn but forgetfulness. I disdain his miserable conduct too much to resent it; and the only proof my friends can give me of sympathy in my feelings, is to show how unworthy they consider it to be of notice."
"Ah, but Francesca, a few months' solitary meditation would be of such infinite service to le perfide! it would bring him to his senses— perhaps to your feet again; and the pleasure of rejection would be something."
"To me less than nothing. No, dear Henriette, I never wish to see or hear of Mr. Evelyn again; it is sufficient mortification to think that I ever could have loved him. Besides, may I add, that I have my own little vanity on the occasion, and its suggestions whisper perfect discretion. Confidence, entire confidence, I owed to your friendship; but I am not bound to extend that confidence. A subject like the present must be annoying in the months of indifferent people; their comments, whether of wonder or pity, would be intolerable. Any notice of Mr. Evelyn's conduct must excite them, and from such I do entreat to be spared."
"Rely upon me that it shall not be talked of," replied the Duke. "And now, Henriette," addressing his wife, "do let us praise her. In such a case I should have expected tears, faintings, and a most ready acceptance of your kind offer of the Bastile."
"Now, see the selfishness!" exclaimed Madame de Mercœur, laughing; "He is charmed with you because you have given him no trouble—he has not had even to offer you a glass of water. But I do say you are a dear creature, and quite worthy to be one of those much-enduring heroines of your line, on whose merits it so delighted your poor old grandfather to dwell."
"And when I remember," said Francesca, "the stiff red and blue figures he used to exhibit, the saints and my forefathers forgive me for saying, the blessed Virgin keep me from the resemblance!"
"But see what it is," cried the Duchesse, "to enact the part of confidante! I am actually forgetting, and you too, Francesca, the important duties of the toilette. Come, come, we must make haste; for in a little while I expect to be overwhelmed with congratulations on the success of my charming fête; and you must prepare for not a few compliments on your own appearance—and, indeed, I never saw you look better."
So saying, the little knot broke up; Francesca greatly relieved to think the disclosure was made.
The following evening was the one previous to their meditated return to Paris—a resolution somewhat suddenly taken, in consequence of the King's intention to visit Sedan, and inspect the proceedings of the army. Among the visitors who crowded in to express their regret that Compiegne, still so beautiful, was about to be deserted, was the Chevalier de Joinville. He took the earliest opportunity of addressing Francesca—who, in spite of herself, could not help blushing as she saw him approach, partly, it must be owned, from apprehension. He had usually contrived to say or to imply something disagreeable, and now he had such an opening.
She was pleasantly mistaken. His manner was respectful, and even kind, as he said, "I cannot depart for Sedan without entreating Mademoiselle la Carrara's forgiveness."
"A forgiveness most readily granted, did she know what there was to forgive."
"An unjust opinion. Is the offence quite unpardonable?"
"If concerning myself, I can assure you it is already forgotten."
"That is to say, you do not care what my opinion is, was, or may be."
"That is a very sweeping assertion," replied Francesca, hesitating, for the best reason in the world—because she really did not know what to say.
"Now," continued the Chevalier, "I feel sufficiently sorry for past injustice to be very desirous of both explanation and amendment. Mr. Evelyn"
"Perhaps," interrupted Francesca, "you will allow me to speak, and, in so doing, put an end for ever to a very painful subject. I have myself not a remark to make on Mr. Evelyn's conduct—and I wish to hear none. I owed it to Madame de Mercœur's kindness to have no concealments from her;—the explanation given, the subject will not again pass my lips. On yourself I can have no claim but for that general courtesy which I think authorises me to request that here the topic may be dropped."
"You are right; and, I can assure you, my own remembrance is too disagreeable to dwell upon. But it is a gratification to have friends; and I must be permitted to tell you how warmly the Duc de Mercœur took up your cause."
Francesca's anxious look now betrayed her attention.
"He called on me this morning to request me to be the bearer of a challenge to Mr. Evelyn."
"Good God!" exclaimed Francesca.
"You need not look so pale; Mr. Evelyn is half-way to Holland by this time—a fact which was my answer. Mercœur then bade me to be silent for once in my life. I promised, and, what is more, intend faithfully to perform."
Observing that his companion smiled, he went on,—
"And you do not consider this communication any great proof of my discretion? On the contrary, it is its seal. I could not help gratifying you by telling you what sincere friends you had; and myself, by entreating permission to remain at least in their outward rank."
What answer but a gracious one could be made to such a speech? And the Chevalier with obvious discontent, obeyed Mademoiselle Mancini's signal, who wanted to ask some question respecting the royal departure, on which he was to be an attendant.
Francesca remained, rather marvelling in her own mind at the change in De Joinville. With all her recently acquired experience in society, she scarcely arrived at the right conclusion. The truth was, her last words to Evelyn had done her great service with the Chevalier, who was charmed to hear her say, that it was no preference that had ensured her fidelity. No man likes to hear that any woman is in love with his friend—it seems a sort of personal affront to himself; and, without being épris with Francesca, De Joinville admired her quite enough to have an undefined resentment at her favour to another. And here we cannot but note the less selfish nature of woman. In nine cases out of ten, a girl is delighted in her companions' conquests—to be the confidante is almost equal to having the lover her own. This, we grant, is confined to the very young, and perhaps they may consider it as an augury; still, this mere satisfaction in confidence is a purely feminine feeling. Besides, to do De Joinville justice, he felt, too, a degree of kindly compunction for the former harsh judgment entertained of one who so little deserved it; and—for there is no such thing in the human mind as an unmixed sensation—he was struck both with the spirit with which she resented, and the proud humility with which she forgave the affront.
The idea of the parting so near gave rather more than usual animation to the circle. The visit to the camp—the hope of meeting with the enemy, were but stirring excitements; all were too young, too happy, too prosperous, for fear. The room was crowded and warm, and, stepping from the window, Francesca leant on the balustrade which looked on the garden below, silvered over by the quiet moonlight.
"I hope," said a voice by her side, "your absent brother will not engross all your orisons."
"No one will offer them more fervently than I shall do for your Grace's success," said Francesca, who instantly recognised her royal companion. A minute's silence ensued—the young Italian always required encouragement to converse; and Louis was struck by the beauty of her profile, whose pure and sculptured features seemed so much more than fair in the soft clear radiance.
A burst of laughter now came from the chamber.
"How this perpetual gaiety," exclaimed Louis, "jars upon the ear! Good Heaven! is farewell to be said so gladly? I sometimes start when I think upon the hollowness of all that surrounds me. I often wish my eye had the power of searching the inmost depths of the bosoms whose watchword is my name."
"And amid, perhaps, some disappointments, how many hearts would you not find faithful and devoted to your Majesty!"
"I wish but for one."
Francesca looked down and blushed,—first at the earnest gaze of Louis's face; and, secondly, but still deeper, at her own folly in having individualised a general expression.
"It were against all rules, whether of history or romance—whether I look to my grandfather Henri Quatre, or to the less veracious chronicles of Scuderi, and copy Oroondates—to depart without some favour." So saying he took a little bunch of white violets from her hand, and then raised the hand itself; after a moment's half-hesitation, he kissed it and left her side.
Francesca was at first surprised at the youthful monarch's gallantry; but her thoughts soon wandered to other subjects—for thoughts usually wander when neither vanity nor interest fix them.
"I have news for you!" exclaimed Madame do Mercœur, when they retired for the night; "Marie is going to be married, in another week she will be Countess of Soissons. A splendid fortune—the blood royal,—I think even her expectations must be satisfied."
"I hope she will be happy," said Francesca. "But what will the king say?"
"Whatever his mother pleases—the present visit to the camp is, I suppose, by way of consolation. Perhaps, though, it has been kept so quiet, to prevent interference: we never understand the value of things, hearts included, till we are about to lose them. I was not aware of the alliance till this afternoon. My uncle's presents, I hear, are magnificent."
The image of Guido naturally arose in his sister's mind—how would this marriage affect him? Surely it were best, if any vain and unavowed hope—unavowed even to himself—lurked in his dreams, that it should be utterly destroyed. "Alas, my brother!" thought she, "we are alike in this—each must part from the first idol which the heart set up; and each, too, with a deep sense of its unworthiness, and a late, sad knowledge of the falsehood of our early creed!"
A stronger affection seemed born of the conviction. Each was yet left to the other—Italy still remained; and Francesca fell asleep, and dreamed of returning to all the hopes, pleasures, and scenes of her childhood.
END OF VOL. I.
LONDON:
J. MOYES, CASTLE STREET, LEICESTER SQUARE.