Francesca Carrara/Chapter 81
CHAPTER XXII.
"'Tis not alone
The human being's pride that peoples space
With pride and mystical predominance."
Coleridge.
It was early the next morning when Francesca was awakened by the curtains of her bed being put aside, and the red light of morning fell on the pale countenance of Madame de Soissons.
"Francesca, dearest!" said she, in a hollow and constrained voice, "I have a favour to implore. Lead me to Guido's grave; my soul cannot rest in peace till I have knelt and prayed beside it."
"Marie," exclaimed Francesca, gradually recalling the events of the preceding evening, "you are in no fit state to meet more agitation. Some other time."
"Now, now!" interrupted the Comtesse, impatiently. "All is quiet in the Castle. I entreat you to accompany me. I know how strange you must think my conduct; but there—there I will tell you all."
Francesca made no further opposition; and conducting Marie down a small winding staircase, which led to the garden, they soon found themselves in the open air. They had to traverse a portion of the park, after which they entered the forest, on whose branches the hawthorn blossom was just beginning to break, while the first pale gold was peeping forth on the fern. At the rapid and excited pace with which Marie walked, they soon arrived at the churchyard.
"There!" whispered Francesca, pointing to the lowly mound which sheltered the last sleep of the once impassioned and now quiet tenant.
Marie spoke not, but throwing herself on the ground, bowed her head upon the wild flowers. But though her face was hidden, not so were the convulsive sobs which shook her whole frame.
For a time Francesca turned away and wept; all her own sorrow came back fresh upon her heart as she thought how sweet during life would have been that affection so vain and so violent after death!
Marie's tears ceased at length from absolute exhaustion; and allowing Francesca to raise her from the earth, they sat down together beside the grave.
"Do you think he has forgiven me?" said the Comtesse, suddenly: "methinks all looks so calm and so lovely, that earth has no wrong that might not here be forgotten." And she almost spoke truth; for beautiful was the mingled repose and animation of the scene.
It was yet very early, and the crimson flush of daybreak still lingered in some of the floating clouds. A silvery haze veiled the more distant landscape—melting, however, fast before the sunbeams, which were filled with that clear yet gentle light which belongs only to the first few hours of day. Deep yet soft shadows fell from every tree; but the sun shone full on the old church, turning the narrow panes of its glittering windows into molten and wavy gold; and kindling the clustering ivy, till every broad and smooth leaf was a mirror silvered with the dew. The air was musical with the singing of innumerable birds, the fragrance of the first violets came upon the wind, and the last primroses spread their pale beauty over Guido's tomb.
"It was on the third day ofthat Guido died," said Marie.
"How ever did you know so accurately?" exclaimed Francesca, astonished; "I thought you said last night you were till then unacquainted with my bitter, my heavy loss?"
"I knew not of his death till I came to England; but now I,—but you will mock me—yet surely not here. I will tell you all. That night I saw Guido as distinctly as I see you—you, in this open daylight, and before blessed heaven. I was alone, when I saw his sad and reproachful eyes, his pale and beautiful countenance, grow as it were on the air. A strange horror came over me, and I fainted; but the recollection is as actual as any other circumstance of my existence. Shall I tell you the truth? The first awe passed away—I firmly believed that, by some inscrutable means, he had gained access, and deemed it best to preserve strict silence on the subject; but now I know it was no living form that passed before me!" And again Marie hid her face in her hands, while Francesca was too oppressed to speak: she remembered the terror that had been upon her previous to Guide's death.
"We will not talk of it," she whispered, in a faint voice; "there are mysteries on which it is not good to dwell. I feel deep within my inmost heart, that now his rest is dreamless and unbroken."
For a little while longer they sat in silence, when suddenly the Comtesse, whose burst of passionate agony had subsided into almost unconscious weeping, snatched up a handful of the wild flowers on the grave—they were wet with her tears.
"What a weak, inconsistent fool am I! The sun in a few hours will dry all traces of this heart-wrung moisture from the glistening leaves; and so will the glare of my busier life efface the traces of this emotion from my own memory—at least, if remembered during an occasional sad and lonely hour, I shall not be the less immersed in the pleasures, the interests, the thousand small hopes and fears of the day."
"It avails little," answered Francesca, "to dwell upon the past,"
"You are right," interrupted Marie; "the present is every thing."
"Nay," returned the other, "I meant not to make so sweeping an assertion."
"But I did," continued Madame de Soissons. "Of the past, to be very candid, I am a little ashamed. The future is but a chance; but the present—let me be amused, flattered, successful in ninety-nine out of my hundred projects—(I need an occasional stimulus)—and I shall get through life as pleasantly, or rather more so, than most persons. Let us forget this morning. I was wrong in yielding to an impulse, which is quite contrary to my system. It is a great mistake, cultivating what are called feelings. Encourage your vanities, your follies, your wishes, and you lay up perpetual sources of delight in their gratification. But feeling! why cherish the serpent that will sting, and the fire that will consume—dreaming of a return which is never made, and of some impossible happiness which never comes?"
"And yet," replied Francesca, "there is that in the deep or the lofty feeling that redeems itself. I cannot waste the precious thoughts of my solitude on objects which are utterly unworthy—the petty triumph or the transient amusement."
"Oh!" cried the Comtesse, laughing, "I cry you mercy, if you come to the romantic imaginings of which solitude is the inexhaustible mother. I know that my own is the very worst company I can be in, and I therefore fly from it as much as possible."
"We shall never agree," replied Francesca. "The life in which you are involved would weary me to death."
"Nevertheless," exclaimed Madame de Soissons, "you must bear it for the next week, during which we intend to trespass on your hospitality. There will be time enough for your king to have his head turned by my pretty sister, and for you to develope the incipient inclination of De Joinville, who will find his former admiration of the beautiful Italian greatly revived by discovering her to be the heiress of 'a certain fair castle.' Her Grace and Lord Craven will offer and accept les hommages, like the stately lovers of the good old days; and I—why, where there are human beings I can never lack entertainment. But let us return home. I have taken up too much of my hostess's time; and the toilette is one of those imperative duties whose neglect few circumstances can extenuate, and none justify."
She passed her arm through her friend's, and led her from the churchyard. As the little gate swung after them, she started and looked back. For the last time, she caught sight of Guido's grave. She turned hastily away, and walked rapidly down the path, which led to the forest; but she walked in silence; and though her face was averted, Francesca could occasionally see the tears glistening as the sunshine touched her cheek.