Francesca Carrara/Chapter 35
CHAPTER VIII.
"Near and more near
They bent, with pale inquiry and close ear:
Her eyes were shut,—no motion—not a breath,—
The gentle sufferer was at peace in death."
Leigh Hunt.
"The very image of his mother,"—"but with his father's eyes,"—"A perfect picture." Such were the usual run of exclamations that greeted the little Marquis de Mercœur. Fortunate it is for the tranquillity of the new-born infant, if he have any turn for philosophy, that he understands none of the nonsense consecrated by old usage to the commencement of existence. The birth of an heir seems a sort of security taken of fate,
"For the old honours of some ancient line;"
and the young heir of the illustrious house De Mercœur was received with due joy and reverence. The satin curtains of the cradle were heavy with the many quarterings of the broidered arms, and were put aside by no less a hand than that of Anne of Austria, who, gazing on the speck of humanity enveloped in cambric and lace, pronounced that it "was a most promising child."
Her Majesty is not the only person who has decided on unseen merit. The mother was as well as possible; and perhaps that week there was as much hope and happiness in the Hôtel Vendôme as under any other roof in Paris.
The christening was to be unique in its splendour, and the Duchesse had fallen asleep during its details. There had been a slight shower, when suddenly the sun shone out, as it shines in that bright uncertainty which precedes another rain, and Francesca, fearing that the light should fall on Madame de Mercœur's face, rose to draw the curtain. She was not sleeping, for her eyes were open; and as her companion approached, they looked up with a strange and earnest expression. Francesca went to the bedside, and asked, in a gentle whisper, "Did she want any thing?" No answer was returned, but the features still wore the same appearance. She took the Duchesse's hand; but when she loosed her hold, it fell quite powerless on the bed. Again she spoke, and aloud; but there was no answer. Seriously alarmed, she called to the attendants, one of whom was instantly sent for the physician. He was scarcely five minutes in arriving; but these five minutes seemed an age. A slight change came over even his guarded countenance, as he looked upon his patient. He withdrew without uttering a word, and Francesca followed him to the ante-chamber.
"Young lady, there is no hope; one side of the Duchesse is struck with palsy; she retains her senses, and will, most probably, to the last; but she cannot live through the night."
"Good God!" exclaimed Francesca; "and the Duc de Mercœur left Paris this morning!" For a moment all command over herself was lost, and she sank on a seat, sick and faint with sudden agony.
"You must not give way to your feelings, at least now," said the physician, kindly taking her hand. "Madame is sensible, and you seem to be the only near friend about her. Go you to her room, while I send to the Cardinal, and summon my colleagues."
Francesca wrung her hands in suppressed anguish, and seated herself by the bed-side; it was evident, from the look of gratitude, that her friend recognised her; and she never afterwards moved from her sad watch beside the dying sufferer.
The physician soon returned, with two others. After a few minutes of silent observation, they retired to the adjacent apartment, for the purpose of consultation: it was evidently but nominal; there was no power on earth that could close the grave now yawning for the young, the lovely, the beloved, and, but an hour since, the seemingly healthy Duchesse de Mercœur.
A thousand confused images arose in mournful succession as Francesca bent over that melancholy pillow. Who could tell the husband, who had that morning left her with no other anxiety but that gentle solicitude inseparable from love,—who could tell him that his idolised wife had breathed her last—and not in his arms? Who, in after years, could supply a mother's place to the bereaved child, in whom affection's sweetest fountain must remain for ever unstirred? There was something inexpressibly painful in the monotonous nursery song with which the ancient nurse was mechanically soothing its unconscious sleep.
A momentary restlessness in the features of the Duchesse induced Francesca to attempt altering her position; and with the aid of the attendants, this was soon accomplished; but observing that Henriette followed her with an anxious gaze, she seated herself on the bed, and supported her head with her arm, so that she could watch the slightest change. Madame de Mercœur looked up with a faint smile; her lips moved, yet no sound was audible; but Francesca felt the pressure of her hand returned.
It was a strange instance of the contrasts wherewith Fate delights to mock her toy and prey—the human race—to mark the opposite scenes of that night. The Duchesse de Mercœur lay palsy-stricken on her death-bed; while her husband was full of his occupation, exerting his utmost powers of persuasion in a secret and difficult negotiation with the Duc d'Orleans,—one of those intrigues whose successes are such certain steps in the ladder of ambition. Madame de Soissons was full of triumph, to find that Louis admitted readily her plea of unbounded devotion to his lightest wish, as full excuse for somewhat of duplicity practised towards, not only Francesca, but himself. He was to sup with her that evening, and it would not be her fault if the young Italian was missed, as she had assembled every various attraction of wit, youth, and beauty. Her supper would be brilliant, while her sister was dying.
The Cardinal, as he stood beside the Queen's chair that night, during the performance of the ballet, would seem to have drawn around himself a charmed circle of prosperity; he was the real sovereign of that gorgeous court—wealth and power were in his right hand; and his enemies—where were they?—who now was bold enough to call himself Mazarin's enemy?—all was submission, varnished by flattery. Some passing allusion on the stage was adroitly turned into a personal compliment, and the whole audience marked their perception by their applause. Just then one of his suite entered, and whispered a few words;—the Cardinal became deadly pale; he muttered some hurried and inaudible apology, and rushed from the box. He attempted to open the door of the first carriage he saw—his hand trembled too much. The servants, seeing a stranger, were about to repulse him, when some one recognised him. He was assisted in, and they drove with all speed to the Hôtel Vendôme.
Rapidly he passed through the silent and lonely chambers, till he reached one, the most silent of all. For her sake who was suffering there, he paused to repress his emotion; but his step was unsteady, and his face ghastly, as he approached the bed. His niece knew him instantly; and a gleam of joy passed over her countenance, too beautiful for sickness or death. The fever which consumed her gave a deep colour to her cheeks—a flashing light to her eyes; while the disordered braids of her rich auburn hair lay like dark gold round her white brow and throat.
"My darling—my own sweet child! speak to me!" She smiled; but though the lips moved, not the faintest whisper was heard.
Still he gazed earnestly upon her; a joyous and deceitful incredulity sprang up within his heart. He drew the physician aside.
"Is there no hope in that bright and blooming face?"
"None," was the low, but decided answer.
Mazarin again approached the bed, but the effort was too much; he bowed his face down, and wept like a child.
Francesca, who still maintained her watch by the pillow, saw, by Madame de Mercœur's face, that she observed her uncle's distress—the large tears gathered on her own eyelids.
"For her sake," whispered Francesca, "I pray your Grace's composure."
The Cardinal had not been aware of her presence till that instant. He rose, walked across the room, and, drawing a chair forwards, seated himself, with one of Henriette's hands in his own.
"We will watch together," said he.
Madame de Mercœur looked from one to the other with a grateful and affectionate gaze, and again reclined with closed eyes on Francesca's shoulder. How long did that silent and dreary night appear! At last the dim tapers grew pale before the warm red light that came in gleams through the curtained windows.
"Give us air!" exclaimed Francesca; "she is faint;" for the drops stood on the Duchesse's forehead, while a low gurgling sound in the throat indicated some inward struggle. But again she sunk, reposed, in Francesca's arms.
"Holy Virgin! the hand I hold is cold and stiff!" said Mazarin, starting.
An aged attendant drew nigh, and looked on,—"Mademoiselle, it is a corpse you are embracing!"
Sick, faint, and weary, for the first time Francesca relaxed her support. The woman laid the Duchesse back upon her pillow.
"It cannot be!" cried her uncle, gazing upon her features, whose fevered colour still lingered.
"Bring a looking-glass!"
They brought a little mirror, one which had often reflected the smiles of the living—it now reflected the fixed image of the dead. The eyelid had closed for ever; the crystal gave back the yet red lip, the still rose-touched cheek; but it gave them back unstained—no breath, as in former times, came from life to sully life's image. The mirror placed before the mouth was clear as at first. The silence was sacred no longer. Whose ear now could be disturbed by the voice of lamentation and of weeping?
A woman's office is always to support and to console; and Francesca was roused from her own stupor of sorrow by the Cardinal's agony of regret. It was needful to perform the last offices of the dead; to fasten the dropping mouth, to straighten the convulsed limbs; but still Mazarin knelt by his dearest relative, and wasted on the inanimate ear his passionate entreaties, that his most beloved child would not leave him desolate in his old age. Francesca took his hand, and led him to the next room; exhausted by grief, he submitted to her gentle control like an infant. He asked for a glass of water, but the medical attendant gave it him with a strong opiate: he was scarcely conscious when led, or rather carried, to his carriage. At that moment a horseman galloped, as if for life or death, into the yard. Francesca's heart misgave her—it was the Duc de Mercœur. In an instant he had reached the Duchesse's chamber—they had just finished laying her out.