Francesca Carrara/Chapter 6
CHAPTER VI.
"Get rich—honestly, if you can—but, at any rate, get rich."
Useful Advice.
"Oh! Francesca, such news!" exclaimed Marie Mancini, bounding into the old hall, and followed, though at a slower pace, by her sister; "come, put aside your embroidery, and congratulate us. My father's scruples have yielded to my uncle's wishes, nay, commands, and we depart at once for France."
"Alas!" replied Francesca, "you can scarce expect me to rejoice over an event which will part us so utterly!"
"Not so," interrupted the gentle voice of Henrietta; "you must join us; the Cardinal's letters are full of kindness—he seems anxious to indulge our least wishes—surely he will not deny us our earliest and dearest friend. Think, too, what his patronage may effect for Guido!"
"And what the young nobles of France may say to your dark eyes!" added Marie.
"Is it true," said Guido, who had just entered, "that you are about to leave Italy—and us?"
"Yes," answered Marie, "we are like the knights of old, about to go forth and conquer."
She paused, for she felt rebuked by the earnest and melancholy gaze of the young sculptor. Marie loved him as much as it was in her nature to love—more than she suspected herself. It was with a flushed cheek and glittering eye that she let him draw her towards the window, while she listened to a passion pleaded with all the fervour of the South, and made beautiful by an imagination which turned all it touched to poetry. True it is that the innate buoyancy of the as yet unbroken spirit soon rebounds from the pressure of sorrow; nevertheless, it is in youth that sorrow is most keenly felt. Time, of which so little has been measured, seems so very long—we soon learn the worldly lesson, that friends are easily replaced, and still more easily forgotten. We become accustomed to change—we grow hardened to regret—and in after-years look back with surprise, nay, even disdain, at the poignant grief with which we first parted from our early companions. We never again form those open, eager, and confiding attachments.
It was late in the autumn when the Mancinis departed; and drearily did the ensuing months pass with Francesca and Guido. The season, too, added its gloom. In our northern climes we have comfort and even gaiety with winter; there the cheerful fireside and the hospitality of Christmas make that period a sort of rallying point for the year. But where summer forms so large a portion of the enjoyment of the people—where all the habits are those of a warm climate, where all ordinary avocations of life are carried on in the open air, a long and severe winter is tedious indeed. The first letter they received was from Marie; their next was from Henrietta, who earnestly advised their coming to Paris. This was rendered impossible by the fixed attachment of their grandfather to his present residence, whose habits of seclusion were become more engrossing than ever.
"I sometimes believe," said Guido, as, one cold, raw evening they sat beside the hearth, illumined by the red glare of the burning pine-boughs, "that the thing we call happiness, exists not. Its desire is implanted in our hearts, its promise dazzles our eyes; but its reality is unknown. I look back to each moment I have experienced of enjoyment—how was it ever mingled with fever and with fear! I remember hearing, that in the East the clear and azure waters seem to flow before the weary and parched traveller; yet a little further, and on he urges his weary way, but in vain—the fair stream is a delusion. Even thus happiness is the mirage which leads us over the desert of life, ever fated to end in deceit and disappointment. Young, beautiful, and innocent, are you happy, Francesca?"
She turned her face towards him, silently—it was glittering with tears.
"And what is it that we want? Wealth!" continued the youth; "had I possessed but a portion of my house's heritage, I should not be forced to picture to myself Marie but as surrounded by the gay flatterers of a foreign court. And you, Francesca—need you have feared the English noble's denial, could the bride have brought gold instead of a true and loving heart?"
"You are right!" exclaimed the aged Carrara, who had, un-perceived, been a witness to their discourse; "gold is the earthly deity, to whom is intrusted the destinies of humanity. It is power, it is pleasure, it is love; for even affection may be bought by gratitude. What can a king give to his bravest but wealth? How can the lover surround the loved with the lovely but with wealth? Nay, will it not," added he, with a scarce perceptible sneer, "buy even salvation from our holy church? There is only one thing on earth more glorious, and that is science; science, which can master the subtle spirit, and force it to enter even the most worthless substances. It is now before me; the toil of a life is near its completion; how mightily will one moment repay the vigils of years! Ay, my children, be wild, be uncurbed in your wishes; little dream ye how near you are to their fulfilment!"
The old man's pale face gleamed with excitement, his wan cheek was flushed, his eyes kindled with fire, and his step was buoyant, like that of youth, as he ascended the winding staircase which led to his solitary tower. The young are easily carried away by whatever appeals to their imagination; and the cousins now began to build golden and aërial castles, with a vivacity the reaction of their previous despondency.
"Holy mother! what is that?" ejaculated Francesca, as an explosion, like a clap of thunder bursting directly over the palace, shook the very ground beneath their feet. Both sprang to the door; but the night, though cold, was clear, the moon shone large and bright in the deep blue sky; and all again was profound silence, when Guido exclaimed—
"Surely that is a most unusual light from the turret!"
The windows of the tower were illuminated with a sudden blaze, where usually glimmered but one solitary spark. Both rushed towards the staircase, down which, like waves, rolled the eddying smoke; fortunately, there were large gaps in the dilapidated walls, or they never could have made their way. The last flight of steps was lighted from the open door, which the shock had forced from its hinges. A large clear flame, but evidently subsiding, arose on the hearth; various vessels and instruments, mostly broken, were scattered round; and thrown with his face on the floor lay their grandfather. Guido caught him up in his arms, and bore him to the lower chamber, where the noise had assembled their two servants. The features still wore their expression of eagerness and triumph—but set and rigid, for life had departed from them for ever.
The danger of the palace was too imminent for neglect; and leaving the body, beside which Francesca was kneeling, Guido again ascended the steps of the tower; but the smoke had nearly dispersed, the blaze on the hearth was flickering and faint, while the pale moonlight shone quietly into that room of disappointment and death, as it had a thousand times shone on its lonely and deluding pursuits. Again he descended; and the same reddening pine-boughs that had lit his own and Francesca's countenance, in all the animation of their late discourse, now lighted the ghastly features of the dead.