Francesca Carrara/Chapter 80
CHAPTER XXI.
"You're very welcome."
Shakespeare.
The change which had so suddenly elevated Charles Stuart to the throne of his ancestors, and, from a poor, wandering, and powerless exile, made him one of Europe's most powerful monarchs, had taken the various courts where he had sojourned, neglected, if not contemned, completely by surprise. None saw the error more clearly than Mazarin; and none, therefore, were more prompt to repair it; while no one could be less troubled with any false delicacy which might suggest that the change was somewhat barefaced, nor so little deterred by any scruples lest the interested motives should be too apparent. Laughing openly and secretly at the principles which he called prejudices—very good for the many, but never meant for the few—flattery and bribery were the two great levers by which mankind were to be moved; and if these failed, why, it must be set down, not to him, but to Fate.
"Would to St. Peter," he sometimes exclaimed, "that the offices of priest and prophet had been united, as of old, in my person! My niece would now be Queen of that island, whose worst fault is that it never knows its own mind, and whose politics are as uncertain as its climate. France would now have an ally, instead of an enemy that has hitherto been a thorn in her side. Well, well, who can foresee the impossible?—and impossible it appeared to all rational calculation that these raving fanatics should suddenly veer round, and become as mad on loyalty as they were on doctrine. We must do what we can; beauty and gold can still accomplish much, or his recent majesty has strangely altered."
To form a strict alliance between the cabinets of Paris and London—which meant, that he should influence both,—to induce Charles to marry the loveliest of his nieces, Hortense—thus making a common interest between them, were now the great objects with the Cardinal; and the present visit was of his projecting. The Queen Mother, Henriette, was strongly in the French interest. Nothing ever seems to have taught her the character of the English nation; and at this very time she considered an alliance with France as Charles's best security for remaining on what she thought his most uncertain throne. The marriage, too, met her approval; the dower offered was enormous; and she was, moreover, influenced by the present flattery of the Mazarin family; and intending, as she did, to fix her residence in France, there might be a little private wish to conciliate, on her part, the powers that were. There was another motive, too, the most powerful of all—she was devotedly attached to the young princess, her only daughter; and the lure held out, of her marriage with Monsieur, was the strongest inducement to secure her warmest efforts in a cause likely to promote a project so dear to her hopes. Madame de Soissons attended her, for the Cardinal thought he could trust her talents for intrigue. Moreover, her going was a sufficient reason for Hortense accompanying her; and Mazarin hoped as much from her beautiful face as from all the other potent reasons with which he had charged his negotiators.
In the Queen Mother's suite was Lord Craven, one of those most devoted lovers who sometimes illumine the page of history with an episode which seems taken from the olden chronicles of chivalry. It is the fate of some women to inspire those deep yet picturesque attachments, which, amid all the ordinary prose of life, need to be well authenticated to be believed. Henriette was one of these;—poetry records nothing more ideal than the passion with which she inspired Lord Craven, who sought the Holy Land to forget the too lovely queen, and only returned to his own to risk his life in her service. Even now, faded by age, but still more by sorrow, Lord Craven esteemed existence but given to be spent in her service—his time, his wealth, were lavished for her sake. We need only add the name of the Chevalier de Joinville, as Francesca's old acquaintance, and leave the rest unmentioned.
The whole party left Dieppe early, and a favourable wind soon carried them across the Channel. Yet they had to pass the Isle of Wight, which held Carisbrook Castle,—that melancholy prison which Charles I. only left for that drearier cell which was but the passage to the scaffold. Lord Craven, however, contrived that they should be in the cabin when the island appeared in sight.
The Queen knew nothing of the environs, and it was dusk when they landed. Lord Avonleigh was in anxious attendance—carriages were ready for the whole suite—lamps and torches were soon kindled—and they arrived at his residence about midnight. It had a noble effect, as a hundred attendants, each with torch in hand, lined the avenue, whose yet leafless boughs were dark with night if not with foliage. The red glare on their path but made more beautiful the silvery moonlight, which rested unbroken on the park around, across which bounded the deer, roused from their quiet sleep by the unwonted intrusion on the silent night. A blaze of fireworks kindled the whole atmosphere, while the stately battlements shone distinct as at noon, when the Queen alighted; and at the foot of the flight of steps which led to the hall, Francesca was in waiting at the head of the female attendants. She knelt while her father presented her.
"Nay!" exclaimed Henriette, "I cannot allow homage where I would only receive kindness."
Lord Avonleigh accepted the gracious speech with a due return of acknowledgment. They passed on, and his daughter was left to do the honours of welcome to the other guests. The light of the illuminated arch raised above fell direct on her face; and, attired in the splendour which suited her own rank and the occasion, never perhaps had she appeared to greater advantage. Her long black hair was left, according to the fashion then prevalent—the more prevalent from the complete contrast which it offered to the close cap and banded tresses of the Puritans—to flow in rich masses down her neck, only knotted by strings of diamonds, while a bandeau of the same precious stones crossed her forehead. Her robe was of violet satin, embroidered in black and silver; her stomacher shone with brilliants set in jet; and in one hand she held a fan formed of black feathers, confined in the middle with a diamond star.
Madame de Soissons and Lord Craven were the first of the company, and she stepped forward to receive them with the grave courtesy necessary; but her eye rested on the face of the Comtesse with a glance of recognition.
"Mon Dieu! is it possible?" exclaimed her visitor.
"Yes—how much I have to tell you!" whispered she, as she advanced to receive the others.
Astonishment was never more legibly written than in the Chevalier de Joinville's countenance when Francesca's smile confirmed her identity. He made no remark, but followed to the banqueting-room, which had been prepared with the utmost splendour. A canopy of crimson velvet, heavy with a deep fringe of gold, was placed over the dais, where the Queen was standing, having refused to sit till her young hostess appeared; and then she made Francesca take her place at her side.
"Surely we have met before?" said she, in a low tone, the first moment that Lord Avonleigh's attention was forced to his other guests.
"Yes, your Grace," replied Francesca, "At Compeigne."
"Believe me, I have not forgotten your kindness," whispered Henriette. "Alas! our service has indeed been fatal. Would to God that you were not the only one to whom gratitude can now be shown!"
Francesca could not control her embarrassment. She perceived immediately that the Queen alluded to Francis Evelyn and to their supposed attachment.
"I have been placed," said she at last, rallying her faculties, "all my life in most peculiar circumstances. One favour I will dare to implore of your Grace—silence."
"Poor child!" said the Queen, pressing her hand in token of assent.
Here, to Francesca's great relief, the conversation was interrupted; for her father held the royal notice too precious to be engrossed even by his own daughter.
I remember reading a story, where some royal dowager—utterly powerless, be it observed—resides in a small tranquil town, where she believes the golden age to be very respectably represented. Suddenly the calm current of their ordinary existence is disturbed by a visit from the reigning monarch; all the little, mean, and malevolent passions—vices, we should rather say—engendered of vanity and vexation of spirit, rise at once to the surface of the troubled waters—troubled by the demon of ambition; and the poor princess is left in mute dismay, to wonder what has become of the humility, the independence, and the content which she had so rashly eulogised.
Francesca was in much the same position with regard to her father. Accustomed to see him irritable and indifferent, she could scarcely believe the courtier, full of flattery and empressement, who seemed to consider himself and household but created for the Queen Henriette's pleasure.
Yet the banquet went off heavily. In the minds of some, now for the first time during many years treading their native shore, the past predominated; it was impossible to fix the thoughts on anything but the dark record of blood, suffering, crime, and death, written on the last few years. Others, again—Madame de Soissons and the Chevalier de Joinville, usually the most entertaining of the company—were silent, fairly overpowered by intense curiosity; and the rest were tired to death.
All were rejoiced when the Queen rose, and, pleading extreme fatigue, entreated her host's permission to retire. Francesca attended her to her chamber, received the most flattering thanks and compliments on her reception, but was not permitted to remain.
The Queen embraced her, saying, "If we may judge of the exertion by the effect, we are sure our young hostess must need rest. We lay our royal commands upon her, that she take it as soon as possible."
Francesca expressed her deep sense of her Grace's kind consideration, and left the chamber; but rest was the farthest thing in the world from her thoughts. She was impatient to speak to the Comtesse de Soissons, for the ties of an old friendship are not easily broken; and her very sight brought back a thousand remembrances of their joyful childhood, and their once confiding youth, which effectually pleaded the cause of reconciliation.
With her first touch at the door of the dressing-room it was opened. Marie seemed to have divined the intended visit,—the one felt that she was forgiven, and the other that such forgiveness was welcome. The attendants were dismissed; and each, drawing a huge armchair to the blazing hearth, began eagerly to question and reply. A few words gave the general outline of Francesca's history, and Marie was warm in her congratulations.
"A véritable princesse de roman! I must give Madame de Scuderi the story on my return. Dearest Francesca, you are situated as you ought to be; you look your rank. You were superbe as you received us at the entrance. We want nothing but a hero to complete the romance."
Francesca shook her head mournfully, and the conversation flagged a little. Marie seemed to hesitate with some question, which she yet shrunk from asking. At length, holding up her handkerchief, as if to screen her face from the fire, but more to screen it from her companion, she said, in a low uncertain tone, "I do not see him here; has Guido returned to Italy?"
"Italy!" replied Francesca, sadly; "do you not know that he died a few months after our arrival in England?"
She started from her seat in dismay at the violent effects which her words produced. Marie sprang to her feet, the hair streamed back from her forehead, the dew stood upon her temples, the eyes dilated with a wild unnatural glare, while every tinge of colour perished on lip and cheek. Some inarticulate words died upon her tongue, and the next moment she sank insensible at Francesca's side.
It was long before the united efforts of her attendants could rouse her from that stony trance; and when at length she opened her eyes, their expression was wandering, and her words unconnected. In despair, the leech was summoned; and, saying something about excited nerves and over-fatigue, he administered a sleeping draught; and Francesca never left the Comtesse till she saw her sunk in a profound slumber.
"Strange," thought she, "How love and ambition have struggled for empire in that divided heart! How this passion of sorrow would have soothed Guido, could he have believed how keenly his loss would be felt! The love which was restrained for the living defies control when aroused for the dead."