Francesca Carrara/Chapter 56
CHAPTER XXIX.
"We know not half the mysteries of our being."
"Let it go down to the grave with me; for there, even as this silken curl will perish, in darkness and decay, so will perish all the links that bind me to Marie Mancini. Ah! how well I remember the twilight, when she bade me choose amid the thousand bright auburn ringlets that danced around her brow! It was such an evening as this. The rich colours of the sunset had melted away into the deep purple sky, whose only radiance was where a silvery trembling on the air came from the moon, shining as she is shining now over yonder casement. We were very young then."
And youth it was that gave its own value to that early pledge of vows never to be redeemed—of faith plighted but to be broken. The fragile chain, the braided hair, are the graceful tokens of love's childhood—precious for the sake of the many illusions in which we then held such devout evidence. We grow too stern and too cold for such trifles in after-life. The harsh grasp of reality has been upon the most delicate feelings; trifles "light as air" have become important in their results; and where we do not fear, we now do not care for them, unless it be to ridicule—ridicule, that blight of all that is warm and true, but which was so utterly to the fresh unknown world of the yet undeveloped heart.
The day had been intensely hot, and, in Guido's weak state, it overpowered the little strength which he had left; but towards evening he grew even more feverish, his senses wandered, and strong spasms of pain alone seemed to recall him to his actual existence. The recollection of that interview with Marie Mancini haunted him. He fancied she was coming, would start at the least noise, and asked mournfully if he was to die without seeing her.
Francesca sought every means to soothe him, but in vain. Even her sweet and beloved voice fell unheeded on his ear; and it was late before, quite worn out, he fell into a deep slumber.
There was a strange character of mournful beauty flung over the scene passing in that chamber of death—one that a painter would have chosen when, disappointed with the world, and smitten by some deep sorrow, he seeks refuge in the lovely creations of his art, selecting a melancholy subject, and investing it with the gloom felt within. At the far extremity of the room, placed on a little round table, was a lamp, whose red gleam made a small bright circle on the wall, as if to enhance the darkness which surrounded it. Drawn towards the window was the bed whereon Guido was laid. The curtains were all flung back to admit the air, and the lattices were thrown open to the utmost. The long tendrils and slender leaves of the honeysuckle formed a dark outline, just pencilled on the air, and swayed gently to and fro; for a soft wind agitated the boughs. The moon, directly opposite, flung into the room a long and tremulous line of light, which fell on Guido's face, as he reclined on the pillows which supported his head; he needed the support, for a feeling of suffocation was his constant complaint. It was the face of a statue—so pure, so pale, with the features transparent, like the delicate carving of highly polished marble; the long dark lash resting on the cheek, and the thick curls upon the brow, were the sole likeness to humanity. One emaciated hand lay on the counterpane, the other was held by Francesca, whose profile was seen, like a gentle shadow, bending over him.
The moonlight became more and more clear as the night advanced, and fell more immediately on the countenance of the sleeper, which grew wan even to ghastliness beneath that chill white beam. She felt his hand cold as the tomb within her own, but still it slackened nothing of its rigid grasp. A nameless terror froze the blood at her heart; more than once the scream rose to her lip, and was suppressed—but with what an internal shudder, lest the sleeper might be disturbed! The sleeper!—did he sleep?
Francesca trembled—the damp air seemed difficult to breathe. She strove to pray—no pious words came to her aid; a vague sensation of horror curdled her faculties. She gazed on the wan face, and strove to look around. She could not—it seemed as if to move would reveal some sight too horrible for humanity; yet some extraordinary fascination seemed to rivet her to the place. Affection—watchfulness—sorrow, all were merged in one vague and unutterable sensation of horror.
The moonbeam grew fainter—the corpse-like features became indistinct. She knew her eyes were fixed upon them, but they could not penetrate the awful obscurity. A stupor stole over her; she was conscious, but paralysed; and her eyelids dropped, as if to shut out some fearful object. She still felt that Guido's cold hand clasped her own, and she remained motionless—the fear of disturbing him paramount to every other fear.
She felt the grasp relax, and started at once from the shuddering torpor which had oppressed her. It had been upon her longer than she deemed, for the chill white light of coming daybreak was glimmering through the lattice. Guido was rousing, too, but he was convulsed with some fierce agony; his teeth were set, the veins rose upon his temples, and the dews hung upon his brow.
Francesca raised his head tenderly, and endeavoured to make him swallow a few drops of a medicine that stood by. Her care was successful, and at last he revived. His eyes opened, wide and wandering, and filled with a strange, unnatural light; while his features relaxed from their ghastly contraction, but wore still a wild and unusual expression.
"I have seen her!" he muttered, in a faint tone; "we shall never meet again. Farewell, Marie, for ever!"
"Dearest Guido," whispered Francesca, "do not agitate yourself. Your sleep seems to have done you little good."
He drank from the cup which she put to his lips, and sunk back on the pillow, pale and exhausted, but so composed, that she allowed Lucy, who just then entered the room, to watch by Guido during her customary short absence.
We, too, will leave them, and, passing beyond seas, record a strange scene that took place at the Hotel de Soissons that night.
It was even later than usual when the Comtesse quitted a brilliant réunion of all that was gayest in the royal circle, elate with the glittering triumph of gratified vanity, and reading in such success the sure prognostic of more solidly successful ambition. Restless and excited, she could not retire to sleep; but her hair once unbound from its knots of pearls, and a loose wrapping dress thrown round her, she dismissed her attendants, and, drawing a little writing-table to her fauteuil, prepared to exhaust some of her gaiety in letter-writing. She had a thousand flattering and lively things to say, and she was now in the mood for them.
This is a pleasant hour in human existence—the hour after some unusually agreeable fête—agreeable from its homage to yourself; just enough fatigued for languor, but not for weariness—enough to make you enjoy the loosened hair, the careless robe, and the indolent arm chair; while the spirits are still in a state of excitement, the tones of the music, or yet more musical words, still floating in your ear; your own light replies yet living on the memory, and the fancy animated by their vivid recollection.
In such a mood the Comtesse de Soissons drew towards her the fragrant scrolls on which she intended to record a thousand graceful flatteries, all to forward the same object—her own interest. "Nay!" exclaimed she, flinging down the pen, "that seems scarcely earnest enough! Praise should be given unguardedly and eagerly—rather as it were a relief to express one's feeling—"
The sentence died unfinished on her lips. She started from her seat, for, directly opposite to her stood Guido da Carrara, pale, sad, but with his large dark eyes fixed upon her, with that deep expression of tenderness, once so familiar to her sight, but now wild and melancholy—ay, and something fearful, in their gaze. Marie's cheek blanched as she looked upon him. She strove to scream, but in vain; all her former love—the only real feeling which she had ever known—beat passionately within her heart; a gush of unutterable tenderness, strangely mixed with vague terror, arose upon her mind. Still he stood, pale, sorrowful, and motionless, while Marie found every other feeling gradually lost in terror. The air grew chill around, and her knees trembled beneath her weight.
"Guido!" she exclaimed, in a voice choked with emotion, "for God's sake, speak!"
Still the figure moved not—spoke not—but continued to fix upon her the same look of reproach and love. All the gentle scenes of their youth seemed to grow present before her; she felt that she had never loved but him, and that all other hopes and ties were but as a vain dream.
"I care not if I die!" exclaimed she, impetuously; "let my head rest but once again on that heart once so dearly mine!"
Marie sprang forwards. She attempted to clasp the hands of her visitor, but her hands closed on the empty air. She staggered as with a blow; again she met that mournful face turned towards her, but even as she looked it melted into air. She glanced hurriedly round, but Guido was gone!—yet the door remained closed. She shrieked his name, but all was still as the grave. She threw a searching glance round the chamber, but in the effort sank senseless on the ground.