Francesca Carrara/Chapter 20

by Letitia Elizabeth Landon

CHAPTER XX.

"Si vous eussiez vécu du temps de Gabrielle
Je ne sais pas ce qu'on eût dit de vous,
Mais on n'aurait point parlé d'elle."
⁠Voltaire.

The next morning Francesca received a letter from Guido, the first she had ever possessed. Even in our time, when they are so many in number—things of morning, noon, and night occurrence—a letter is a delight. We never hear the postman's knock without a vague sort of hope that it is for us. A letter, too, is one of the few mysteries that yet remain—a small and a transitory one, but still a mystery, though but of a moment. We have to open it. If these are a pleasure even now, what must they have been when an epistle was an event in a life, and when rarely any but a beloved hand traced the characters?

"I have such a happiness in store for you," said Madame de Mercœur; "now do guess."

"Guido!—what have you to tell me of him?"

"Ah, now, how came you to think of him at once? But I have not the heart to disappoint those eager eyes—so take it;" and from a packet by her pillow she took the letter and gave it her.

Francesca felt choked—the tears rose—she tried to thank the Duchesse, but her voice was gone; she kissed her, by way of gratitude, and left the room—she could not bear to read the letter but by herself. Shutting herself in, she opened the scroll, and read it hastily to the end—then began it over again, but slowly this time, as if she feared to lose a word. Again she commenced it, but stopped suddenly; and the tears, which had hitherto only stood in her eyes, now dropped thick and fast upon the paper. There was something unsatisfactory in its contents—they were too brief and too abrupt; Guido said nothing of his own health, or his own feelings—and what did his sister care for else?—what to her were the Duke, the Duchess, or even Modena itself? nay, she felt very disrespectfully towards the Madonna, which he described as divine.

"How very unkind!" exclaimed she; "He knows how anxious I am about him, and he tells me nothing—he may be ill or well for aught he says about it." She turned the paper over to see if any little corner had escaped her notice, but she had read it far too carefully. "How differently I should have written to him! and yet, poor Guido, I fear he is unwell—hurried evidently, and he will have the more to say when we meet;" and once more she read the paragraph mentioning his speedy return.

Francesca's was a grievance of which most of her sex have to complain; a man's letter is always the most unsatisfactory thing in the world. There are none of those minute details which are such a solace to feminine anxiety; the mere fact of writing always seems sufficient to content a masculine conscience. Guido, therefore, was guilty of no uncommon failing; and could Francesca have looked into the heart whose emotions were so ill depicted on that brief scroll, she would have seen how tender was the affection which clung to her image, as the only object beloved—the one light of a dreaming and melancholy existence. But for her sake, he would not have returned to France; for his absence had made his own country seem lovelier than ever. His earlier visions returned upon him; his despondency, which, amid realities, had become embittered by mortifications, here took the tone of poetry, and but shewed itself in the deeper sense with which he lingered beside the ruined temple, or gathered the wild flowers, and took a fanciful pleasure in seeing them wither.

The imagination shuns to reveal its workings, unless it can clothe them in some lovely and palpable shape, and create into existence the high romance, the mournful song, the animated canvass, or the carved marble; pride then comes to the aid of the gifted one, and says, "Lo! these are the fruits of those hours the busier worldlings deem given but to idle fantasies!" But Guido knew that his summer idlesse had been idlesse indeed. He expected so much from himself, that he believed Francesca must expect something too—and he had nothing to tell her; and this inward consciousness she so little suspected, contributed much towards the constrained tone of the letter.

Gradually it gave its possessor more pleasure. Francesca smiled at what she now termed unreasonable sensitiveness, and began to reckon how long it must be before her brother's return. Moreover, the very mention of Italy brought to her all the most cheerful recollections of her childhood. She recalled the old hall, with its storied frescoes—the woods, where so many mornings had passed so happily away—the little river, where they used to launch their light boats, made of the green rushes which grew beside; she recalled the blithe chirp of the cicala in the fragrant grass—and the gleam of the fire-flies, glittering by twilight amid the boughs of the myrtle. "Ah!" exclaimed she, "we will soon return thither, and be happy again!"

Francesca forgot that she must take back with her an altered heart. Her hand fell by chance on her lute, which lay near—it gave forth a sweet but hollow sound, as if the wind had swept over it, and, almost unconsciously, her fingers ran over the notes of an old familiar air; she started, for it seemed almost like a reproach, it had been such a favourite of Evelyn's. The recollection at once dissipated her pleasant reverie: "Alas!" she exclaimed, "is it he or I that is changed?"

Without waiting to decide, she suddenly remembered that Madame de Mercœur would marvel at her long absence, and hastened to join her. She was risen, and seated before her glass, while her woman was arranging her long fair hair. The Chevalier de Joinville leant opposite; Evelyn, with a true English man's habit, was fastening and unfastening a little enamelled box, which he had taken up under plea of admiring her portrait on the lid; and, seated on the arm of a fauteuil, instead of the chair itself, was the Queen of Sweden, talking with great rapidity.

"Well, finding remonstrance vain, and tired with urging that to-day was a very particular fast indeed, the King endeavoured to snatch from Monsieur the atrocious bouillon, with its still more atrocious meat. The Duke of Anjou resisted; but finding his brother strongest, fairly flung plate and all into his face. Our pious Louis laughed at first; but Mademoiselle Mancini making it matter of personal dignity, he grew angry, and said, 'That but for the Queen's presence, he would have turned Monsieur out of the room.' Meat and temper being lost alike, la bonne Maman interfered, but in vain; and the Duke sought his chamber in high dudgeon. Ah, the blessings of Providence will certainly rest upon a monarch so pious."

The rest of the party were too prudent to comment; and Madame de Mercœur asked Christina if Mademoiselle was as beautiful as she was allowed to be.

"Even in exile?" said Evelyn.

"Superb!" replied the Queen, after having given the speaker a look, as much as to say, 'I take your sarcasm;' "tall—fair,—a fitting Bellona for the Prince of Condé. The comedy of the League ought to have ended in their marriage. Vraiment, Mademoiselle has exerted herself for an establishment. She was devout for the Emperor. I heard that she left off powder, patches, and rouge, for a month when his third consort died, and he grew religious—whether out of grief or gratitude, I never heard; then she grew factious, for the sake of your own King, and thought to strew the way to the altar with straws*^[1] instead of flowers. I applaud her spirit in fighting for a crown."

"I marvel," interrupted De Joinville, "At such a sentiment from your Majesty."

"Poor child!" replied she, bursting into one of her abrupt but musical laughs, "where can you have lived, not to know we never care for what we have?—But to return to Mademoiselle; her pride unabated, though I heard that your uncle declared, that the shot she fired from the Bastile killed her husband. Pray did he say so?"

"Really, your Majesty," answered Madame de Mercœur, "seems too well acquainted with all our affairs to ask any questions of me."

"Especially such as you do not deem fitting to answer. Pitying Mademoiselle's seclusion, I did my best to entertain her, and, by way of news, told her that her former lover, the King of England, was talked of for Mademoiselle de Longueville. Diable! but her eyes flashed fire. 'I owe it, Madame, to myself to disbelieve the story; convinced that no one, who had ever once raised his hopes to myself, could stoop to Mademoiselle de Longueville.'"

"Now, by St. George!" interrupted Evelyn, "the daughter of Henri Quatre was ready enough to marry his grandfather; and, let the present madness of our islands pass away, and the daughter of the Duke of Orleans may repent her disdain, or rather her miscalculation."

"Circumstances are everything," rocking her heavy seat backwards and forwards.

"I have been busy this morning," continued De Joinville, "consoling beauty in distress and in debt. Madame de Chatillion and Fouquet have quarrelled!"

"What! he, the most devoted and most despairing of lovers, who talked in the same breath of her charms and her cruelty—who accumulated wealth but to lavish it on an idol!" exclaimed Madame de Mercœur; "why, at the last fair, taste was of no use, for everything pretty had been selected beforehand. They said, Madame first went round to choose, and l'Abbé followed to buy; and the various presents were sent in as mysteriously as fairy gifts." "But the Abbé is an inglorious successor," remarked Christina, "to the Prince of Condé, to your English King—both of whom wore the chains of this triumphant beauty."

"Circumstances are everything, as your Majesty has just observed," replied De Joinville; "the Condé is absent, the King poor; Fouquet is present, and rich, and, what is more, generous. Besides, he helped her out of one of those adventures in which her folly—she calls it ambition—is perpetually involving her. Madame de Chatillion was threatened with a lettre de cachet, for her suspected correspondence with Monsieur le Prince, and Monsieur l'Abbé took upon himself the responsibility, answered for her loyalty, and made his house her prison or her palace."

"I never saw a house more splendidly furnished," observed Christina; "he gave me a collation; and there I saw Madame de Chatillion glittering with gems; her diamond earrings alone might have lighted up the room. She showed me her portrait, written by herself. I only remember what she states of her mouth, which, she says, was not only beautiful and red, but had a thousand little natural airs and graces not to be found in any other mouth. Oh, I must not forget her figure, which, she assured the reader, was the best-made and the finest that could be seen: nothing could be more regular, more graceful, or more easy. Certainly it is pleasant to appreciate one's own perfections; it puts one on good terms with others, by first being on such with ourselves. But now for the quarrel."

"Madame de Chatillion," answered the Chevalier, "in the first halcyon hours which her smiles created for l'Abbé, had resigned to him some letters of M. le Prince; she also, in due time, favoured him with divers addressed to himself. These precious epistles were placed in certain caskets, and treasured like—really, my experience affords me nothing sufficiently precious for a likeness. One fine morning, when l'Abbé Fouquet was in the country, she goes to his house; the servants, knowing her authority was absolute with their master, supposed it was to be equally absolute with themselves, and admitted her to his cabinet. Once there, she makes good use of her time, and retakes all those said letters; considering, perhaps, that what is said may be unsaid, but what is written remains in evidence against you."

"Love-letters are very foolish things," muttered Christina.

"L'Abbé returned," pursued the Chevalier, "And at once missed his caskets, and next heard of his visitor. In despair, he rushed into Madame Chatillion's presence, and said every thing that could be said by a man very angry and very much in love. Words were followed by actions: he vented his rage on the magnificent mirrors, till the floor was covered with shattered glass, every fragment adding to his misery, by another reflection of Madame's beautiful face. He went away at last, threatening to send and take away furniture, plate, and jewels,—all being gifts of his own. Madame de Chatillion acted upon the threat, took down hangings, &c., and removed to Madame de St. Chaumont. This is the tragedy:—now for the farce.

"While staying with Madame de Porcinne, in the Convent de la Miséricorde, Madame de Chatillion was amazed by the appearance of l'Abbé and his mother in the parlour."

"Ah," cried Christina, "I remember the old lady—simple, kind-hearted, and evidently quite astonished by everybody and everything."

"'What,' said la belle dédaigneuse, 'do I see?—dares this man appear in my presence?' The Abbé's answer was couched in the most approved terms of love and remorse,—his despair quite touched the hearts of the three old ladies. ' Remember,' remonstrated Madame de Porcinne to the angry beauty, 'that you are a Christian, and that you should lay down all your animosities at the foot of the cross.' 'In the name of Jesus!' exclaimed the Provençal Mère de la Miséricorde, for even her feelings were affected, 'look upon him with pity.' The poor old mother next took up the petition: 'Madame, I implore, on my knees, that my son may just haunt your footsteps.' Neither l'Abbé nor his three old women succeeded in softening the angry goddess. It is, however, rumoured, that certain offerings at her shrine have since had considerable effect, and he is now beginning to hope that, perhaps, he may again be suffered in Madame de Chatillion's sight."

Other visitors entering interrupted the thread of the discourse; and Evelyn took the opportunity of approaching Francesca, who was seated in a window, a little behind the others. "I congratulate you," said he.

"Ah, I am so happy!" was her reply, supposing that he alluded to Guido's letter, and without giving herself time to consider that it was impossible for him to know of its arrival.

"You are not aware of the effect you produced!"

"What do you mean?" ejaculated his listener, in the utmost astonishment.

"Nonsense! Do you think," replied he, "that I have been the last to hear of the beautiful Italian and her lute?"

"I thought," said Francesca, "you were speaking of the letter I have this morning had from Guido."

"Pshaw!—what is a letter compared to your last night's triumph? Joinville told me you had never looked more lovely, and that Louis never moved his eyes from your face the whole time you were singing."

"Very pleasant to be stared out of countenance!" returned she, colouring.

"I would have Mademoiselle Mancini look to her chains," said Evelyn.

Francesca remained silent, from vexation and anger; and he continued:—

"But I must say farewell now. Lord Craven is to ride by the wood; and, even if it should be observed, our meeting will seem accidental,—I wish for no appearance of connexion with his party, for that would end all my plans. Ah! my fair Italian; what with their anxiety and your cruelty, I have enough on my hands!"

Francesca saw him depart with that profound depression of spirits which usually followed their interviews. She was vexed at the want of sympathy which he showed with her joy or her affection,—he had not even thought of inquiring after Guido. It seemed so very unkind! Then she was mortified at his ready allusion to the admiration she had excited,—surely he ought not to have been pleased by it. A lover owes his mistress a little jealousy. Indifference to the homage she receives may show reliance, but it is a bad compliment. She was roused from her reverie by a hand laid upon her arm; she looked up and saw the Swedish Queen.

"A cold look at parting, and a sad brow afterwards, are bad signs. You know the old fable—there is little profit in leaving the substance for the shadow."

Francesca only looked her surprise.

"Some shadows," continued Christina, "Are enough to dazzle such young sight as yours; yet I warn you of trusting to them."

"I have little," said Francesca, and her eyes filled with tears, for there was a kindness in the speaker's voice, which, in her present depressed mood, touched her powerfully, "to trust in, save Heaven!"

"Poor child!" returned her companion; "why did you leave Italy?"

"Ah, you may well warn me of trusting to shadows! why, indeed, did we leave it?"

"Because there was a lover in the case. Well, well; he is a handsome and noble-looking cavalier. Do not quarrel with him again, because he is jealous that others beside himself think you have a bright blush and a sweet voice."

Giving her a good-humoured smile, Christina moved away, to Francesca's great relief. What could she say to so complete a misconception? The chamber was by this time cleared of visitors, and she was about to thank Madame de Mercœur for her letter, when Mademoiselle Mancini entered. Without saluting either, she flung herself into a chair, and exclaimed, "I suppose, Henriette, you are well aware of the fine marriage about to take place?"

"I know of none," answered Madame de Mercœur.

"Oh, then my uncle has kept you equally in the dark; but the Queen this morning congratulated me—me, forsooth!—of the approaching alliance between Mademoiselle Martinozzi and the Prince de Conti. She showed me the pearls she meant for a wedding present."

"A splendid match for our pretty cousin! Well, she is a sweet creature; and I rejoice in her good fortune."

"You do?" exclaimed Marie, her cheek flushing with anger; "very kind, very sisterly, indeed! No consideration for my interest!"

"How does it affect you, but advantageously?—such an alliance is an honour to our whole family."

"Surely I am as well fitted to be Princesse de Conti as my cousin?"

"And the gentleman's choice is to go for nothing? You remember the Prince always greatly admired Mademoiselle Martinozzi."

"The Cardinal has taught you your lesson:—I meet with the same unkindness from you all; but if he does not attend to my interest from affection, he may from weariness of my complaints, and of them I promise him the full benefit."

"For shame, Marie!—think how very kind he is to us!"

"To you, I presume you mean."

"For pity's sake, let us drop the subject; and do tell us all about the quarrel between the King and the Duke of Anjou."

"I have nothing to tell, but that it is ridiculous for Louis to be so absolutely governed by his mother as he is. He hears with her ears, and sees with her eyes—I suppose, he will soon eat with her mouth!"

"Do not look so angry, Marie; it quite spoils your pretty face."

"I do not care how I look; and if you have nothing more pleasant to say, I wish you good morning."

"Nay, now, don't run away; we shall find something more agreeable, if you will but have patience."

"Indeed, I should not have come in at all, but that the Queen requested I would give the plan of the masque to la Signora Carrara, and remind her of her engagement." So saying, she threw the roll of paper on the table, and left the room.

"I am so delighted at the fancy which the Queen has taken to my little Francesca," said the Duchesse, kindly. "You must look your best at the masque. There is an old picture of my uncle's, whose costume will suit you exactly—we will go and study it."

Madame de Mercœur was one of those who are happy in their amiability. Gentle and kind, rather than acute or strong in feeling, she relied upon the affection she inspired, because she had no exaggerated estimate within to whose test she applied it; the expression she witnessed came up to her expectation. Hence she was confiding and unsuspicious. She could comprehend the under motives of an action, when explained; but she would never have penetrated them without such explanation. This extreme goodness and simplicity of character made Henriette her uncle's favourite. None but worldly people appreciate simplicity. He felt safe with her, and he believed in her attachment, because he saw that it was natural to her to love.

Liking Francesca warmly herself, it seemed the most natural thing in the world that others should like her too. It never would have entered into her head, that the Queen hourly saw, with more and more suspicion, her sister's influence increasing, and that she calculated on Francesca's attraction as a passing lure to Louis. The friendless Italian was a much safer person than the niece of the all-powerful minister, whose ambition would not stop but at the throne. Francesca might be allowed to detach him from Mademoiselle Mancini, and could then be easily flung aside. The King's devotion was the next engine to be brought into play; and the Queen felt sure that his conscience was still sufficiently tender for alarm.

But Marie was too dangerous; for though the very lilies of France would blush at such an alliance, still it was possible; and Anne of Austria was too false herself to place any reliance on the Cardinal's professions, that he would be the first to oppose such a union. The temptation of the crown for his niece seemed too great to be resisted; and the Queen thought it but prudent to diminish it as much as she could. Francesca's beauty caught her attention; it could not he better employed than in diverting Louis from Mademoiselle Mancini; and that once effected, there was a convent ready for her, and her own authority and his confessor for the King. Marie, too, would be piqued by the prospect of her cousin's brilliant marriage; and let her hopes be once turned towards a similar establishment, and no unnecessary delay should ensue in finding one for her.

There is a story somewhere of an eastern king, whose delight it was to assemble his subjects in a glittering hall, where they were crowned with roses, and drank the purple wine from cups of gold; but beneath them were caverns and chains. Suddenly, the floor gave way, and the guests were precipitated into the darkness below, there to meditate at leisure over their former blind enjoyment. Human life is just such a tyrant—the pleasure hides the pain; but not long—soon, very soon, are we precipitated into the depths of experience and regret!

1. * straws were the badge of the Leaguers.