Francesca Carrara/Chapter 36
CHAPTER IX.
"And that should teach us
There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will."
Life has no experience so awful as our first acquaintance with death; it comes upon us—that which we never really believed till we witnessed. It has, as it were, a double knowledge to acquire,—when it visits old age, and when it visits youth. Francesca had once before wept over the sudden severing of all human ties, save the sad and fragile links of memory. She had been equally shocked and grieved by the sudden and violent end of her grandfather; but death is the expected of old age—we anticipate its approach even before we know what it is; the full of years seems but to have fulfilled his destiny. Sorrow is subdued by strong necessity; there is no cause why life should be lengthened for our love; and we feel that the worn and the decrepit do but go down into that grave which had received youth, health, beauty,—all that made existence precious—long before. But when the blow comes down in the fulness of expectation; when the bough is smitten while green, and the flower cut down in its spring; when the young and lovely perish, while the eyes, full of light, were fixed on the future,—then, indeed, is the visitation heavy to bear. Alas for the home which they leave desolate—or the hearth beside which is their vacant place! We ask of destiny, Wherefore has it dealt so harshly by us? Why should our beloved one be chosen for the victim, while length of days is given to so many to whom existence is a void or a burden? "It was too soon to die," is the vain repining of many a fond heart mourning over the early lost. Existence has its ordinary allotment—why should ours be the cruel exception?
Francesca listened to the Duc de Mercœur pacing for hours his solitary apartment, or she watched the sleep of the orphan, trusted utterly to menial hands, and struggled fruitlessly to repress the constant thought,—"Why was not I taken?—what matters my worthless, my neglected being? Husband, child, kindred, friends—I have none of these to regret me: and Guido, poor Guido! ah, we should not have parted for long!"
In the anguish of her loss, Francesca forgot all which that loss was to herself. Grief brings with it somewhat of stupor; and she lived on mechanically from day to day, taking, indeed, no thought of the future, as if her present existence were to last of itself for ever. She was seated in the Duchesse's dressing-room one morning in listless sadness, endeavouring to recall some last word or look of her friend, when a domestic announced that his Eminence the Cardinal Mazarin requested to see her. She started up in surprise; it seemed wonderful now that any one should wish to see her; however, she hastily obeyed the summons.
The apartment into which the Cardinal had been shown was Madame de Mercœur's usual sitting-room; and the marks of recent habitation and present neglect were strangely blended. The curtains had been hurriedly withdrawn to receive the unexpected visitor; and the glad sunshine gave light, but no cheerfulness, to the desolate chamber. The dust destroyed the gloss of the silken draperies, the gilding was already discoloured, and the mirrors, dim and tarnished, threw a coarse shade over the fairest face. Yet, on one table lay the embroidery, hastily thrown aside; but the bright colours were faded, and the silks tangled: on another stood a vase, wherein the Duchesse herself had placed the flowers; the water had long since dried up, and the black and withered stalks were all that remained. Francesca entered unperceived by the Cardinal, who stood gazing on the vacant chair which, the last time he was in this room, had been the seat of his beloved niece. Her shadow fell on the wall, and the Cardinal's attention was instantly aroused; he paused, as if unwilling to give way to any appearance of emotion, and approached his young countrywoman with a kind but calm demeanour; when, gazing upon her face, pale with tears and close confinement,—"My poor child," said he, taking her hand gently, "How ill you look!—we must not allow you to neglect yourself."
Unexpected kindness, though it be but a word or a glance, goes direct to the heart; it did to poor Francesca's,—so lonely, so uncared for, it was doubly sweet. Her lip trembled, she felt the tears gushing up, and dared not trust her voice.
"I am come to talk to you about yourself; sit down:" and he led her to the window.
"You are very good," whispered Francesca.
"I am grateful;" and then, as if unwilling to dwell even in allusion to the past, he continued, "I am commissioned by the Queen to offer you the place of Italian reader; and I assure you the offer was made with many kind expressions of interest. You will enter upon the duties, which are almost nominal, immediately."
Francesca felt at first too much affected to utter the negative which suggested itself; for an instant she was silent, but the necessity of acknowledgment was imperative.
"I cannot thank you," exclaimed she, after a brief struggle with herself; "if you could know how unutterably grateful I am. But as to the place you offer me, add to your kindness by forgiving my refusal."
Mazarin looked astonished.
"What do you then wish for—what do you expect?" asked be, more coldly.
"Nothing—indeed nothing," interrupted his companion, deeply pained by his altered manner.
"I think you are scarcely aware of the advantages of your post: it places you immediately about the Queen—it gives you every opportunity of pleasing, and I,"—with a slight stress on the words,—"need scarcely tell you the importance of the royal favour. Besides," added he, with a smile, "you cannot fail eventually in securing for yourself a brilliant settlement."
"As much beyond my merits as my wishes," answered Francesca, who had been gradually gaining courage. "Will your Eminence vouchsafe to hear me—the only favour I have to ask?"
"Why, that my curiosity alone would insure; for I cannot understand what can induce a young woman to refuse such honourable protection, or a beautiful one such a prospect."
"Ah, your Grace! I have never been happy in France. I dislike the life I must lead at your"—she hesitated—"gay court. My plan is fixed. When Guido arrives, we will at once return to our native country; we have sufficient independence for our few wishes, and we shall at least be content."
"I do not perceive," thought Mazarin, "one single motive the girl can have for dissimulation;—she must, therefore, be a fool. Still, there is something about her that interests me; and she was poor Henriette's dearest friend."
Then again addressing Francesca, he continued: "You are not well—depressed, too, in spirits; and I can readily believe the very thought of exertion is odious. I shall not, therefore, take an answer now. Give a few hours' calm reflection to my proposal, and send me your decision this evening."
Francesca could only utter her thanks—it had been ungracious to urge her refusal.
"Here you cannot remain," resumed the Cardinal; "but Madame de Soissons is coming to see you, in the hope that for the present you will consider her house your home."
"O no!" cried Francesca, hastily.
The Cardinal looked surprised. "You can scarcely purpose a longer stay under the roof of so young a master? But perhaps"—and this rose from a sudden and secret suspicion—"the Duc de Mercœur may have proposed some more agreeable place?"
"I have not," answered Francesca, quite unconscious of the latent surmise, "seen the Duc since" And she stopped with uncontrollable emotion.
The Cardinal paused too, for his better feelings reproved his momentary injustice. Moreover, he knew the Comtesse too well not to conjecture that many a slight and unkindness might have wounded both the pride and the affection of her former friend. Still, this was an evil beyond his remedy. The Signora de Carrara must bear it as well as she could, and her situation about the Queen would soon place her in perfect independence; while he had the satisfaction of having done all his attachment to Madame de Mercœur suggested, in the shape of kindness to her young and friendless protégée.
"I will trespass on your time no longer," said he, rising; "do not, in a foolish fancy of youthful depression, throw away the fortunes of your future life. I shall expect your answer to-night."
Francesca followed him to the door, offering the thanks she could yet scarcely articulate. The moment the Cardinal was gone, she threw herself into a fauteuil, and wept bitterly. For the first time, the sense of her extreme isolation pressed heavily upon her; she listened to that constant and hollow sound in the air, which tells you at once that you are in the heart of a crowded city.
"Good God!" thought she, "Amid the countless multitudes hurrying around, have not I a single friend?—no, not one! And yet what the Cardinal said is true—here I cannot remain—what right have I to intrude? But where am I to go—to the Comtesse de Soissons?—a cell in their terrible bastile! So false, so unkind, so designing—no, no! dependence on her sufferance—kindness I will not call it—were too bitter. Then this place about the Queen—ah! how little do I desire any such glittering bondage! Why should I lay up for myself so much of future discontent and mortification? O no! this court is well for those who have rank, fortune, and friends; but I, poor, a foreigner, without kindred or connexion—what have I to do here? There was a time when I desired to mix in society, to catch, if possible, its grace and its ease—I deemed that so much worthier should I be of Evelyn's love; but now that is all over. Why should I desire improvement—what, now, is success to me?" And she hid her face in her hands, as if to shut out even from herself the bitter consciousness of despised and misplaced affection. "Yet, something," continued she, rousing herself, "I must do; this"—glancing round the desolate chamber—"is indeed no more my home. Guido will be here in a week's time. Why not for that brief period take up my residence in the Carmelite convent? M. Bournonville will, I am sure, make the arrangement for me."
She started from her seat, and sent a message to him. Fortunately the page found him able to obey the summons immediately, which he did with the more readiness as Francesca was a great favourite, and one who, during Madame de Mercœur's life-time, had seized many opportunities of conferring those slight obligations which are often more gratefully remembered than more important and therefore oppressive favours. He was flattered by her consulting him—he was delighted to be employed on any body's business but his own; and in less than an hour he had been to the convent, seen the gouvernante, and settled every thing for Francesca's reception that very evening, when he also offered his services to conduct her thither,—an offer thankfully accepted.
Her preparations were soon completed; and after looking rather than taking an affectionate farewell of the sleeping child, she wrote a few lines of thanks to the Duc de Mercœur—to request a parting interview appeared to her an unnecessary recalling of remembrances too painful. The letter to the Cardinal took more time to write: it was so difficult to express her deep gratitude for the favour she nevertheless rejected! But the more she reflected on the offer, the more she revolted from its acceptance; and her refusal was at last committed to paper. She sealed the packets, gave directions for their delivery, and went to wait in the reception-room till Bournonville's arrival.
She felt a melancholy satisfaction in gazing for the last time on a scene so indelibly impressed with Madame de Mercœur's image. How many instances of her sweet and gentle temper rose so touchingly to memory! A noise was heard in the antechamber; but before Francesca, who believed it was Bournonville, could rise, Madame de Soissons had entered. "Quite at home, I perceive," said she; "I should have called before, but that I never thought of finding you here still."
"Whither did you think I was gone?" exclaimed Francesca.
"Oh! nowhere. I know young widowers require consolation. Pray, how is the Duc de Mercœur?"
One woman instantly penetrates the drift of another; the allusion, which from the Cardinal was lost, was understood at once coming from his niece. Francesca coloured, but only from indignation. "I should think his sister must know best," was her cold reply.
"Oh! I really have no talents for soothing solitude, neither do I pretend to your powers of attraction. However, sorry as I am to interfere with so interesting and Christian a duty as consoling the afflicted, I am come to entreat that you will favour my poor house with your company."
"I deeply feel," answered Francesca, "the honour of Madame de Soissons' invitation, which it is, however, out of my power to accept."
"Nonsense! Are you aware that the Duc de Mercœur joins his regiment the day after tomorrow?"
"I do not comprehend what the Duc de Mercœur's joining his regiment has to do with me."
"Why, you cannot stay here—you have nowhere else to go—so you must come to me."
"I thank you; but, for the short period of my residence in Paris, I have decided on staying at the Carmelite convent."
The Comtesse de Soissons stood silent with surprise. She had come to the Hôtel de Vendôme out of temper, from two reasons; first, because her conscience reproached her with her unkind neglect of her early friend; and, secondly, she was angry that her uncle should be the person to remind her of it. She had, moreover, a vague jealousy of the influence Francesca might obtain in the royal household. Any thing but temper would have been disarmed by the other's pale and languid appearance; but Marie could subdue, rule, and manage others, not her own mood. Still, the declaration of the intended sojourn and departure astonished her out of her full resolve of annoying, she cared not how. "Have you not seen my uncle?" was her first question.
"I have," replied Francesca; "And am most grateful for his kindness, but cannot accept it, I wish for nothing but to leave France as soon as possible."
"But surely;" exclaimed Marie, relenting in her secret soul, "you can stay with me till you do?"
"I prefer the quiet of the convent; and Guido will soon be here."
The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Bournonville, looking half haste, half consternation. "Signora, what shall I do—what will you do? I cannot accompany you to the Carmelite convent. You know the beautiful Italian greyhound his Eminence gave Mademoiselle? It has been dangerously ill—it is now recovering, and her Highness cannot rest till she has its picture. I alone, she is graciously pleased to say, can give that immortality to the Cardinal's gift which his kindness deserves. Even if Fido perish, its image will live in her memory, and on canvass. She has sent for me three times."
"If, Francesca," said Madame de Soissons, in an altered tone, "you determine on going to the Carmelite convent, at least let me take you there."
Francesca saw at a glance the change in her companion's humour. "Why should we part unkindly?" crossed her mind, and she accepted the offer. Bournouville hurried off, and the carriage was ordered to the convent.
By no uncommon transition, Marie was now sincerely desirous of Francesca's company. She laughed herself into amiability by her ludicrous description of the conventual discipline; and when she took leave of her companion, it was with the utmost kindness, and a promise to come soon and see her,—a promise she never fulfilled. Neither interest nor amusement drew her to the convent; the momentary impulse of feeling was past, and she as much forgot Francesca as if she had never existed.
By one individual, the sister Louise, Francesca was most affectionately welcomed; and how grateful did she feel for those few whispered words! We know not the worth of kindness till we have known its want. For days she had wearied with unuttered thoughts, pined with unshared feelings. Heavens! the relief, to say nothing of the gratification, of sympathy! The human heart was never made for solitude; thoughts were meant to be expressed, feelings meant to be partaken. Neglect and suppression are, indeed, the cold and lonely process which turns them into stone.
A few days after, Francesca was summoned to the parlour, where to her surprise, she found the Duc de Mercœur. He was altered more than she could have thought possible in so short an interval. "I could not," said he, "leave Paris without expressing my sense of all your kindness."
"My kindness!" exclaimed Francesca, "who owe so much to you"—and yours, she was going to add, but the words died upon her lips. A painful silence ensued—her presence recalled the sense of his loss so freshly to Mercœur's mind, that he could not command his voice. In the hope of rousing him by awakening some more grateful thought, she asked of his child.
"Do not name it!" answered he, passionately. "God forgive me! I cannot yet bear its name. But for its ill-starred birth, Henriette might now be living. What is there in that unconscious infant to replace its mother?"
"Many years, I trust, of consolation and affection. Cherish the poor child in your youth, that he may be a comfort to your old age. Think, too, how Henriette would have loved him, were it but for its likeness to yourself."
The Duc shuddered; and then, as if desirous of changing the conversation, asked her how long she intended remaining in the Carmelite convent.
"Till Guido's return; and then we shall go to Italy."
"I am too wretched to wish you well. I feel as if some cruel fatality were on all I love. I must, however, say, it would give even me pleasure to serve you; but this, I trust, need scarcely be said."
"Indeed not," replied Francesca; "and most cherished will be the remembrances I shall take with me from France."
Again the conversation sunk into silence, and the Duc de Mercœur seemed to have forgotten the presence of his companion. His loss was too recent to find comfort in those tender and sacred recollections with which time invests the dead. At last, rising abruptly from his seat, he turned to bid Francesca farewell; a few sad but kind words, and his step was on the threshold, when he drew forth a small packet, which he placed in her hand: "You will value this—keep it for her sake."
The heavy portals closed after him, and Francesca, hurrying to her cell, could not refrain from tears. "A little while," thought she, "And I shall have left Paris for ever! It is but a few months since we arrived here, full of eagerness and hope, expecting—we should have been puzzled to say what, but some thing of greater felicity than we had ever known. How little of time— how much of life, has passed since then! How changed I am!—how much I have seen depart! My love for Evelyn—but I will not dwell upon that; even here my cheek burns to think I could have placed my heart's dearest trust in such an unworthy idol. I disdain not him, but myself, that I could ever have loved him. But that I am glad to be thus well aware of his perfidious meanness, how I should regret that we ever left Italy!—we were happier there. Poor Henriette! how little did I dream we came hither only to see you die! Ah! it is bitter to part with all that life held so precious. Methinks death were better than life, but for their sorrow whom we leave behind. None would have been left to sorrow for me—yes, Guido, but not long;"—and the ghastly apprehension which had of late so haunted her, made her pale with imaginary fear. But the presence of death surrounds all things for a while with its own terror, and the loss of one friend seems to forebode the loss of another.
It was some time before she opened the packet given her by the Duc de Mercœur. On breaking the seal, she found that it contained a small miniature of the Duchesse, surrounded with large pearls, and suspended to an exquisite Venetian chain, with links fragile as those of life.
It is a singular sensation the first time that we see the portrait of a friend after death. There is something of mockery in the very pleasure that it brings. The face, which we know to be mouldering in the dust, looks upon us, fresh with hues of health; there are the jewels, and the robe round the graceful form, now decaying in its shroud. Why should the work of man's hand outlast that of his Maker's?—why should we have the semblance of life, whose breathing reality is no more? We are not half thankful enough for the forgetfulness inherent even in our affections: did the first agony continue in all its keenness, who could endure to live?
But the emotion exhausts itself—the presence of our grief grows fainter; other thoughts force themselves upon the mind—other hopes involuntarily arise; and grief is forgotten rather than consoled. But the memory remains, though in a darkened cell of the heart; though no longer a perpetual shadow, the dead are fondly and mournfully recalled. Then how dear is any token of their former existence! The coloured ivory which bears their features is more precious than fine gold; and we take comfort in the calm and fixed smile which is now the semblance under which the beloved face rises upon the mind.
But Francesca was yet in the first bitterness of her loss; and she gazed upon the smiling and blooming countenance almost reproachfully. Days passed on, each in expectation of Guido, who yet did not arrive. How wearily they passed! Francesca found that she had indeed taken that first step across youth's threshold which tells that its first freshness has perished. She was no longer so easily amused as she had been—that certain sign of the weary change which experience is working within us. During her former stay in the convent, the unbroken and buoyant spirits of the girl threw their own charm over all; she was either entertained or interested by all she saw; even her very melancholy had its own peculiar enjoyment. Now there was so much that was tiresome—the folly, the ignorance, the monotony of the place, were so much more conspicuous; the solitude of the garden had lost its poetry. She could no longer surround herself with a thousand vague but delicious dreams; painful realities broke in upon imaginations whose spell was gone; for she had learned to anticipate the future from the past.
The pleasure of seeing Mademoiselle Epernon over, she found there was indeed a gulf between them—they had not a thought in common. The Sœur Louise was growing every hour more mystic and abstracted. The picturesque—for there was much in this early renunciation of the world, in the avowed sentiment, in the costume, in the situation, which that word only can express—once grown familiar, Francesca saw not a little to deprecate and regret in those vain fervours, and round of useless penances. One useful lesson then sowed its first seeds within her mind—that, even more than pleasure, or sentiment, or reflection, life requires to be filled with active duties. Time hung heavily on her hands; at last she began to wish that even Madame de Soissons would redeem her promise of coming to see her; but she never came.
It is a mortifying conviction to arrive at, that of being utterly forgotten even by those to whom we are indifferent. Francesca had of late been much nattered and caressed, and was somewhat unprepared for this complete oblivion. Once or twice she thought, would the Cardinal renew his offer? Could she have looked over the records of Mazarin's memory, she would have found herself almost completely obliterated from them. Under the impulse of strong and unusual feeling, he had been anxious to serve her: he marvelled at the extreme folly of a refusal—perhaps regretted afterwards that he had given himself any trouble; and there the matter and his recollection of it ended. As for Madame de Soissons, immersed in a round of gaieties, and petty intrigues for still pettier objects, she knew she had behaved unkindly to her former friend, and therefore dismissed her image, as she would have done any other unpleasant thought. Louis had discovered that Mademoiselle la Motte had eyes almost as bright, and much kinder than those of the young Italian. And as for the common run of acquaintance, who ever expects to be remembered by them?
At last Francesca was summoned to the parlour. She waited to make no inquiry—she felt sure who it was; and in a minute found herself clasped in her brother's affectionate embrace.
Let those who have passed their childhood and youth together, and then separated for the first time—a long and weary separation,—let them imagine the happiness of meeting again.
"Francesca, dearest, you are pale!" exclaimed Guido when the first confusion of joy was past.
Francesca started—she had forgotten almost to look on Guido's face. Slowly, as if she were collecting her courage, she gazed upon him, more in fear than in hope. Ah! her foreboding was right; he looked ill, very ill—but so beautiful! The eyes were larger and brighter than ever, but sunk deeper in the socket; the skin was clear with unnatural whiteness; while on the cheek burnt a rich unvarying crimson. Only the lip was pale. The hand she clasped in hers was feverish, and she could feel the quick throbbing of the veins.
Hiding her face on his shoulder, that he might observe no change of countenance, she was silent for a few minutes—minutes of mental prayer and resolve. Then, though the tears glittered on her long black eyelashes, her voice was steady, and her look almost cheerful. She answered his anxious inquiry: "And yet I am very well in health; but, oh! I have so longed for your return!"
"Are you strong enough to take the place of nurse?"
She looked at him, pale with apprehension.
"My own sister, what have I said to make you lose the little colour you had? It is a stranger you must nurse. But I have a long, long story to tell you;" and they sat down together in the window.
We will shorten a narrative which with them was lengthened and interrupted by repeated exclamations of joy. Every thing else was merged in the happiness of seeing each other again; it was impossible, however their pity might be excited, to fix attention wholly on the affairs of a stranger. Guido had joined company with this Englishman at a lonely inn, where many suspicious appearances warned the traveller to be on his guard. They had afterwards, finding that their road was the same, travelled together.
"I cannot tell you," continued Guido, "the interest he took in my history, though, Heaven knows! I had little to tell him; and there was something in his habitually sad frame of mind, and a vein of eloquence, striking though gloomy, that harmonised with my own mood. When within scarce a day's journey of Paris, I observed he could scarce!y sit his horse; his illness increased rapidly; and it was with the greatest difficulty that we reached the city. When we arrived at the inn, I saw at once that so noisy a place was ill fitting for an invalid. Late as it was, I went to Bournonville's, and with his aid took a lodging in a house near his own, and engaged a sister of Margaretta's, to attend upon us. Thither was Richard Arden conveyed. For some time he was insensible; from that he awoke in a delirious state: the physician whom we summoned said he was in a high fever. All night Katerina and I watched alternately, though, I shame to say, I slept more than I watched; and, having first ascertained that there was no change, I came directly hither."
"I have few preparations to make, and but little leave-taking," replied Francesca; "I shall be ready in half an hour."
"I will allow you rather a longer space," said Guido; "for I must wait on his Eminence, in executing whose commissions I have been completely successful."
Francesca said truly that a little time would suffice to make ready for her departure. The ceremony of leave-taking with the Abbess was a mere ceremony; and the nuns were like children—all engrossed in preparations for the fête of St. Geneviève. Their only regret was, that Mademoiselle Carrara would taste none of the conserves and the pastry they were so busily concocting.
The coolness of Sister Louise's farewell wounded her the most. The heart of the young devotee had gradually weaned itself from all earthly affections; in her eyes their indulgence was a weakness, if not a crime, and their utter sacrifice the most acceptable that could be offered up in the sight of Heaven. Spiritual pride came in support of spiritual exaltation. Louise felt raised above her species; a voice had spoken within her inmost soul, whose revealings were vouchsafed but to the chosen few; and what had been indifference, was now disdain.
This species of mystical misanthropy is, of all states of mind, the least accessible to the affections. It distrusts them as human, dreads them as perishable, and despises them as degrading; and their renouncement, at first so bitter, soon becomes a triumph. Francesca felt the indifference by which she was surrounded overpowering in its depression. If it be sad to go where there is no welcome, it is equally sad to part where there is no farewell. Hopes and regrets are the sweetest links of existence—we pine to attach and be attached; and Francesca felt both angry and ashamed that the tears should stand in her eyes, while parting from those who cared so little at parting with her.