Francesca Carrara/Chapter 83
CHAPTER XXIV.
"We make ourselves the path wherein we tread."
"Well, all we can do is to amuse ourselves," exclaimed the Comtesse de Soissons, as she leant back in the large arm-chair in her dressing-room that-night. "All my uncle's fine matrimonial projects are vanished into thin air. I see that his Britannic Majesty will not marry Hortense—I see that Hortense will marry Meilleraye. Business before pleasure, I am ready to grant; but when there is none, il faut s'amuser."
"We will do our best," replied Francesca; "but I fear, to use a national proverb, you must take the will for the deed."
"I shall take no such thing," returned Marie; "for here the will and the deed rest with myself, and I am one with whom they always go together."
"You are fortunate."
"Rather say resolved—je veux is life's passport."
"You must not judge of others by yourself; you will surely allow that your own lot in life has been a golden one."
"It is of my own gilding, then. My first design was magnificent, and spoke genius; but it was rashly conceived and rashly executed. Of course it was unsuccessful; but it was not without profit. Your proverb I will answer with another: 'He who aims at being Pope will die Cardinal at least.' I lost the heart of Louis, but I gained the hand of the Comte de Soissons; and a prince of the blood royal, rich and manageable, was no bad beginning for la petite Italienne. Marriage in real life is the very reverse of what it is in romances; we begin where they finish. I felt that a brilliant marriage was but the very commencement of my career. To assist my friends (because, if they hope nothing from you, what have you to hope from them?)—to injure my enemies, for fear is the best preventive—to make a failure useful, if only in its experience, have been my rules. I can recommend them by the best test, success. Shew me any one at our court who possesses my influence. The Queen Mother detests, but she dreads me—my uncle is indifferent, but finds me of use—our new Queen is already a nonentity—and Louis knows that my house is the most agreeable in Paris."
"No one," said Francesca—for good wishes are as useful as any other form of speech when you do not know very well what to say, and her's at least had the merit of being sincere,—"can wish you more success, or more happiness in your success, than I do."
"I believe you," returned the Comtesse, "which is what I would say to few. But really, dear Francesca, I must protest against your extreme sincerity."
"It is my nature," answered the other, with a smile.
"And pray, for what was our nature given us but to change and to control it? I pay truth a much nigher compliment than you do—I hold it too precious to be pressed into the service of every common occasion."
"But I have not your talents," replied Francesca, well aware that argument, when only to be met by ridicule, is fruitless.
"I admire your modesty; but this quality, like the one we were just speaking of, is only useful to ornament our discourse. It is perfectly judicious to profess both. Let us say how modest and how candid we are—let us even lament over an excess in these particulars—let us avow that we often find them in our way—but let us not practise them. People judge us much more by what we say than by what we do. We are taken upon our word."
"Whence I infer that we ought to be very careful of what we say."
"For once we agree—words alike make the destiny of empires and of individuals. Ambition, love, hate, interest, vanity, have words for their engines, and need none more powerful. Language is a fifth element—the one by which all the others are swayed. The king addresses his people, and the heaviest impost is levied with acclamations—the general harangues his troops, and thousands rush upon the smoking cannon and the gleaming bayonets—the lover whispers his mistress, and she forgets even herself for his sake. A word will part friends, and for ever—a word floats down the stream of time when all else has perished: in short, how do we persuade, invent, create, and live, but by words?—they are at once our subjects and our masters. Judicious those who devote at least half their life to their study."
"After all, they are but the outward signs."
"And is not the outside everything in this world?" interrupted Madame de Soissons. "Why, we might take a lesson from the very earth on which we tread. All that is valuable and delightful lies upon its surface."
"You forget 'silver and gold, and heaps of shining stones.'"
"For which miserable wretches dig into its depth, and bring thence for the more fortunate. We might take a lesson from them. Let us penetrate beyond the green and flowery crust, and what do we find?—danger and darkness—that some precious things may be brought up, I grant you, but the seekers perish. I own I have not the interest of others sufficiently at heart to run any such risks. And now let me apply this image to human life. I am well content to take the courtesies, flatteries—falsehoods, if you will—which grow on the external of society. I wish not to dive into the depths of envy, hatred, and malice, that lie below. I never examine but in self-defence."
"I could not," replied Francesca, "be contented with a friend whose thoughts were concealed from me, or with a lover whose feelings I did not at least believe were all laid open to my knowledge."
"But I do not go about the world with such improbable expectations of love and friendship as you do. I expect from my lover, first, flattery; secondly, falsehood. I know I am very charming, but nothing in this world lasts—not even my fascination. In a little while, my dark eyes, my pretty hands, and my white teeth, will become too well known for admiration. We actually do not see what we see often. After a time, he will have heard everything witty I have to say: a repeated epigram is like a broken needle, and has no second point. We shall have exhausted the absurdities of our friends—I shall no longer talk with animation—he will no longer listen with delight—both will feel the necessity of change—and my only object will be to change the first. As to friends, so long as we have mutual interests, our friendship is made for eternity; but let them come in contact, and we have nothing left but wonder how it ever existed."
"I thank you for the name of friend, which you bestow upon me," said Francesca.
"Why, my addressing these remarks to you is the greatest possible compliment. You are in duty bound to suppose they do not include you. The stronger the rule, the more flattering the exception; and the truth is, Francesca, I do indeed make you an exception. I think better of you than I do of myself—and that, too, without hating you. My liking for you is grounded on divers reasons— all so good that one alone would be cause sufficient. First, our friendship began at that early time when alone it is unalloyed and sincere; secondly"—and here, in spite of her vivacity, Marie's voice trembled—"you are associated with the only being in the world I ever really loved; and thirdly, I have I behaved exceedingly ill to you, and, consequently, feel it quite magnanimous not to hate you, which is the established rule on such occasions."
"Pray, continue your magnanimity."
"It is my full intention; and as friends make a point of being as disagreeable as possible, I shall at once begin with that last extremity—giving advice. Now, tell me, Francesca, what use do you intend making of the many advantages which surround you at this moment?"
"I see no advantages. Ah! Marie, you are little aware of my many drawbacks. My father, though he has avowed me, has no affection for a child whose very existence he knew not for many years."
"And of what earthly consequence is it whether he love you or not? You are not the less his acknowledged and only child, heiress of this noble domain, very beautiful, and, if well managed, with half England at your feet."
"I am sure I should not know what to do with a quarter."
"I believe you; but do try and learn. It is obvious that the Duke of Buckingham is come down with a full intention of laying siege to la belle héritière."
"It is a matter of perfect indifference to me."
The Comtesse gazed at her earnestly for a moment, and Francesca coloured deeply. Quite misinterpreting the blush, she went on eagerly. "I really have some hopes of you. While your king is unmarried, you do quite right to look at nothing under royalty. Charles is not mother and minister ridden, like Louis. I remarked how much he was struck by your appearance. I entreat your future majesty to remember, that I now predict the success of an attempt."
"Which will never be made," exclaimed Francesca. "There is nothing more absurd than refusing what never will be offered; but I would not marry Charles Stuart if he had the crown of the world, instead of England's, at his disposal."
"And why not? unless you are planet-struck by the Duke of Buckingham. Never, my dear, allow your fancy to interfere with your interest."
"So little notice did I take of the Duke, that I should not know him again."
Madame de Soissons leant back in her chair thoughtfully. "She knows England better than I do. Perhaps these demi-sauvages may stand upon their dignity as much as Louis himself; and the coronet is what the crown is not—attainable." Then pursuing the thread of her thoughts, she said aloud, "But, Francesca, you will surely accept his Grace? What can you hope for more?"
"Much, much more—a heart for which my own will be given in exchange. I would not marry the man I did not love for all the wealth of the east, and for the united honours of France and England."
"Love!" ejaculated the Comtesse; "And so throw away the chances of a life upon a month of honey!—I say a month, which is allowing a latitude tenderness never took. Love! why that is cheating yourself into marriage, as they cheat the children—a little sugar at first, to conceal the nauseous draught which follows. You will find that, at the very best, marriage is a state which requires all sorts of resources to make it even endurable; but to marry for love aggravates the evil—it adds contrast to its other disappointments. Far better to make up your mind to the worst, and say at once, I know that weariness is the regular matrimonial feeling; but that may be alleviated by a splendid house, magnificent fêtes—by influence in society, jewels, laces, a lap-dog, and half-a-dozen lovers."
"I will be content with one," replied Francesca.
"Don't marry him, then. Marrying for love is like putting from shore to dwell in the morning palace the fay Morgana builds at daybreak on the coast of Naples. Fair and far the glistening halls extend, and the shining gardens seem filled with fruit and flowers; but the wind gets up, the glittering pinnacles melt into the cloudy sky, the haunted terraces vanish, and the golden chimera, born of sunshine and vapour, is no more. Suddenly you find yourself in a little wretched boat, rocked by the waves into sea-sickness, scorched by the hot noon, tossed about by a rough breeze, and left to weep or curse your fate as may best suit your peculiar disposition."
"But you say nothing about your companion in the boat?"
"Because I look upon him as a nonentity. But though I have your interest at heart, I have also my own complexion: we may dream of conquests to-night, but we shall not make them to-morrow, if 'we look pale and weary with long watching,'—so adieu!"
Francesca took the hint and her taper, not sorry to retire; for she found her resolution inadequate to ask the question which hovered on her lips, whether Marie had seen Mr. Evelyn in Paris, No sooner had she reached her apartment, than she began to reproach her own indecision. Ah! no questions are so difficult to ask as those which the heart deeply and dearly treasures! When alone, we shape them into a thousand forms—imagine every possible occasion for asking them—say them over to ourselves, as if there were a charm in the sound; but the time comes, and they die unheard upon the lip,—we have not resolution to ask them.